The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  The crafty old devil was priming the assassin to turn on Wulfra!

  The cat-eyed wizard chuckled in admiration. It was a small thing, but it showed Wencit hadn’t lost his touch. It would be easy for him to “let slip” sufficient information to alert Chernion to the trap link. After that, Chernion’s plans for the baroness became a foregone conclusion. But the important point was that he’d decided to risk Wulfra’s attack as the price of neutralizing her hired killers. It followed, then, that it was feasible to let Wulfra try. Wencit obviously expected her to, and it would never do to disappoint him.

  This was a chance to redeem the madwind fiasco, if it was done properly. The attack had to be one Wencit couldn’t defeat without using the wild magic, but it must also be one Wulfra was theoretically capable of launching on her own. Something she could do herself if she had the nerve. Hmmm…

  There was such an attack. Wulfra would never try it on her own, but she might be induced to with the promise of assistance. And whether it worked or not, it would give him immense pleasure to see it tried.

  He threw his eyes back into Wulfra’s crystal and studied her taut face, savoring the fear which kept her impatience in seemly check. Dear Wulfra! It would be such a pity when she died.

  “Forgive the delay, my dear,” he purred. “It was necessary to evolve the proper strategy, you know, but you’re quite correct. We must attack, and a delightful plan’s occurred to me. Here’s what I propose we do…

  * * *

  Evening found Bahzell leading them into the lower East Walls. The road wound between steep shoulders, climbing ever upward at a sharp angle. The air was noticeably colder, and Kenhodan shivered under his rain-heavy poncho.

  “You wouldn’t have another cave handy, Elrytha?” he asked hopefully.

  “No.” Chernion’s teeth chattered, and even her jaunty feather looked miserable. “The nearest shelter I know’s a hostel, still some leagues away.”

  “It’s afraid of that I was,” Bahzell said sourly, sniffing the air. “We’ve little option but to be finding some shelter, Wencit. I’m thinking there’s snow in this air.”

  “Snow?” Kenhodan was startled. “This late in the spring?”

  “The Bloody Hand’s right,” Chernion said. “The year’s still young, and even in summer it takes little to turn rain into snow in the East Walls.”

  “Aye, snow treacherous as a dog brother’s heart,” Bahzell muttered. He craned his neck to examine the slopes. “We’ve no very promising campsite here, either.”

  “No,” Chernion agreed, looking about her, then pointed with a dripping arm. “What about those trees? We might shelter under them.”

  “That’s after being a nasty slope,” Bahzell said.

  “True. But unless you see something better, it looks like our best chance. Or would you rather sleep in the ditch, Bloody Hand?”

  “I’m thinking as all I said was that it’s no easy climb to yonder trees,” Bahzell said mildly. “We’d best be taking it slow and careful.”

  “All the more reason to get started,” Kenhodan said unhappily. “It’ll be dark in a few minutes, and then we will be in trouble.”

  “Follow me, then,” Bahzell grunted, “but mind the footing! We’ve no time to be after scraping ourselves off the paving.”

  The climb wasn’t quite that bad, but it was bad enough. Even Bahzell and Wencit had to dismount, and they had to lead the horses. In fact, they had to throw their weight onto the horse’s leads more than once to get them past particularly treacherous spots, but in the end, everyone scrambled up before darkness fell.

  The trees were a mixed collection of gnarled oak and evergreen, and Kenhodan and Bahzell used axes to lop poles for a rough lean-to while Chernion and the wizard cared for the horses. The hradani dumped the cut poles at Wencit’s feet, then frowned as Kenhodan dropped wearily to sit on a rough boulder.

  “No lollygagging, lad! We’ve the horses and coursers to shelter, too.”

  “More cutting?”

  “Unless you’re after wanting Glamhandro to hate you come morning.”

  “All right. All right! I’m coming!”

  Kenhodan groused all the way back into the trees, and Chernion grinned as the axes rang once more. She and the wizard were weaving lopped off boughs through the lean-to’s pole frame, and she looked up to see him smiling at her.

  She looked away immediately, wondering what had amused him. Then she recalled her own grin and stiffened internally in shock. This was an assignment—nothing more! She had no business regarding her trail companions as anything but targets! She took herself sternly to task and concentrated on the job before her as the lean-to formed under their hands.

  Bahzell and Kenhodan returned to build a second, much larger shelter for the horses and coursers. It would provide overhead cover, at least, but it would scarcely offer the sort of protection a proper stable would have given. Wet spits of snow licked out of the rain as they worked, and the hradani shook his head.

  “I’m hoping as this is a light fall we’re after having, lad.”

  “How heavy can it be?” Kenhodan asked, holding up one hand and watching flakes melt on his palm.

  “Heavy enough. It’s no pity at all, at all, the East Walls have, and it’s more than one merchant caravan’s been wiped out by late snow.”

  “This far down?”

  “As to that, no—but it’s higher up for us yet, now isn’t it? And the assassins close behind if we’re after having to linger.”

  “You think we’ll have to move on in the morning, then?”

  “If we can, aye, but it’s no sure thing as we’ll be able to. That slope was after being hard with only rain; we’ll likely find it ice tomorrow.”

  “Well, if we can’t get down, assassins can’t get up.”

  “Aye. But if they’re after guessing where we’ve gone, what’s to keep their bowmen from sitting there and feathering us like geese when we do come down?”

  “Nothing, damn you. Why do you bring up things like this at bedtime?”

  Bahzell chuckled and went on laying branches over the lean-to, and Kenhodan joined him, his face icy in the rain. More flakes fell like wet ghosts, and their breath plumed densely as the temperature dropped.

  “There, now! Right and tight for our friends!”

  They led the horses under the rough roof, and none of them seemed inclined to roam. The well-rugged packhorses and Chernion’s mare crowded close to Glamhandro, with Walsharno and Byrchalka shielding all four of the “lesser cousins” with their own bodies. Kenhodan threw handfuls of grain on a flat rock and frowned.

  “Three or four nights of this will use up the grain, Bahzell.”

  “Aye, but once down the hill, we’re no more than two days from South Keep. We can be after laying in fodder there.”

  “But first we have to get there,” Kenhodan pointed out.

  “The price of adventure, lad! Let’s go see if those two layabouts have been after kindling a fire for us.”

  But Wencit allowed no fire, and Bahzell accepted his decision after only a brief discussion. Kenhodan sighed unhappily and crouched against the tree supporting the back of their hut. Blankets closed the open side, and their body heat took off the worst of the chill, but it was still cold and wet as he dragged a stick of jerky from his pack and gnawed disconsolately.

  “Lovely weather,” Bahzell commented genially after a moment.

  “You can have my share,” Kenhodan grunted sourly.

  “My thanks, but my own share’s after being quite enough.” Bahzell turned to Chernion. “What weather word have you, Elrytha?”

  “I’m not sure.” Chernion waved the knife she was using to reduce dried meat to chewable proportions. “The wind’s still in the east, so it could push this past us tonight. But if it shifts west, it may snow from here to South Keep with us.”

  “Ah, me!” Bahzell sighed. “I’m wondering what it is I might’ve done to upset Chemalka so.”

  “Even if it passes, i
t could bury the road,” Chernion said thoughtfully, “and spring snows can be heavy.

  “Well, snow or no, we’ll be needing watches,” Bahzell yawned, “so I’ll be after taking first turn.”

  “I’ll take second watch,” Kenhodan offered.

  “Well enough.” Bahzell donned his poncho once more and rose, checking his sword. “Best keep your steel close tonight. I’m after smelling something nasty.”

  “What? Besides the weather, that is?” Wencit asked.

  “As to that, I’m thinking you’re the wizard.” Bahzell shrugged. “When himself’s after giving me second sight, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Many thanks,” Wencit grunted, shaking his damp poncho into a bed.

  Bahzell grinned and vanished into the thickening snow. Kenhodan heard the rattle of sweet, too, and sighed resignedly as he rolled himself in his own blankets, his sword close to hand.

  Chernion wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and placed her sword in easy reach. She respected the Bloody Hand’s instincts, but she also knew—as he couldn’t—that there was no threat from the Guild. Which meant it must be something else. Could it be Wulfra?

  It was a foolish client who intruded into Guild operations, but it seemed Wulfra had done so, and all this talk of sending death spells down a trap link was enough to make anyone uneasy. Yet Chernion lacked enough information for reasonable deductions or planning, so she suppressed her fears ruthlessly and drifted quickly into sleep.

  Kenhodan already slept fitfully, but Wencit was awake, his glowing eyes spangling the darkness. He listened to the night and the sleet, then rolled his blankets tighter. His eyes slitted thoughtfully. Then they closed, and his face relaxed.

  * * *

  Wulfra eyed her notes doubtfully. The spell wasn’t quite beyond her power, but there was always a risk in pushing the art to one’s limits. That was particularly true for this spell, but the chance to simultaneously kill her enemy and touch such rarefied heights with the support of her sponsor was too compelling to refuse.

  She studied her apparatus in the circular spell area that covered half the top of the main keep. It centered on a metal brazier, its iron gleaming fitfully with the minor supporting spells already stored in it, and a small beaker of thick blood, the last gift of her three gypsy captives.

  She would have preferred to work by daylight, but the more powerful parts of the dark art had an affinity for night. By its nature, the dark art relied on shortcuts barred to white wizards (as represented by her vial of blood), but there were other considerations. Night’s lower energy level was apt for certain of the darkest manipulations, and she also needed darkness to hide the nature of her summoning. Not only had what she planned already involved an act of murder, but it was designed to accomplish yet more murders—not to mention treason against certain ancient treaties.

  She drew a deep breath and relaxed, settling her mind into the twisting lines of the incantation. She must pronounce each word precisely to key the phonetics which unlocked the portion of the art wand wizards dared touch, and this spell verged dangerously near to the well of wild magic which no sorceress could control. If she made the slightest slip, the wild magic would seek to enter her, and she lacked the talent to control it. It would destroy her in the blink of a blazing eye.

  She ran through the spell mentally once more, and the discipline of years came to her aid. Her nerves studied, and it was time.

  She gestured, splayed fingers throwing something immaterial at the brazier, and red flame billowed, sparks dancing on its crest. She stepped close with a black-winged sculpture in her right hand and the beaker of blood in her left. She moved the sculpture through the edge of the flame, and the wax began to change.

  Hard, red light limned her face as her lips moved, forming each word carefully. Power rose about her, wrapped tighter with every phrase, and the statuette grew heavy, tugging at her hand, humming with stored energy as its surface grew hotter and hotter. By the end of the first canto, Wulfra was sealed in the hollow heart of a mystic hurricane.

  She hesitated a moment as the brazier’s flames billowed up, impaling the night sky. The sheer power she’d summoned was frightening, but her hesitation was brief, and she lifted the beaker of virgin blood and poured it over the humming, half-molten sculpture. Human blood mingled with wax, smoking, changing it—imbuing it with the dread presence of death. Wulfra’s lips firmed, and she hurled the writhing statue into the brazier’s heart and spoke three words of power into the hushed night.

  The sculpture screamed as flame engulfed it. For just an instant, the entire keep trembled to that scream, and Wulfra held herself rigid in exalted terror as a black arrow of sorcery coalesced from empty air. It plunged into the heaving flames after the squirming statute, and a fan of brilliance spewed from the brazier. A flash incinerated everything within twenty feet—except for Wulfra and her notes. A sullen red pillar licked up, and her eyes ached with its fury. Tall as the keep it rose, twice as tall, and its brilliance dyed the clouds and dripped back like clotted blood.

  Watchful eyes widened in terror in cottages beyond the castle as its walls and towers loomed black against the crimson tide. Lips muttered prayers and hands made signs against evil…and still the brilliance rose, cresting finally half a thousand feet above the keep until a ball of flame ripped free from its top and streaked off through the heavens to light the sky like an angry dawn.

  And then the flames died. The pillar of light vanished in soot and smoke and the smell of burning blood, and Wulfra shuddered in the ecstatic aftermath of power, hugging herself and leaning against the battlements. Her breasts heaved with exultation and she strained her eyes northeast to watch the Scarthū Hills absorb her fire. The spell was cast, and well cast; she was certain. The summons was set, and she must await her answer and hope her control spells were set equally well.

  She allowed herself a tight smile, for she was certain her spells would hold her new servant—a servant such as no wizard had known since the Fall! She hugged her triumph tight and never noticed the chill night breeze.

  * * *

  Far to the north, Wencit’s glowing eyes opened briefly and rested on the branches which barred his southern view. He didn’t move, nor did his expression alter. After a moment, his eyes closed once more.

  * * *

  Kenhodan yawned and awoke unwillingly. His eyes felt dry and sandy, and the cold seemed to have congealed his bones as he elbowed himself up and lifted a corner of the door blankets on a white, silent world.

  He shook his head in disgust as fresh white feathers whispered out of the pewter sky. He’d known it would look like this when he turned in, but the confirmation’s teeth were colder than he’d hoped. He pulled the blanket about himself like a cloak and stepped out into the morning.

  Thick whiteness cocooned every surface, marred here and there by boot prints. His and Bahzell’s were mere dimples, but Chernion’s were deep and clear. She stood with her back to the lean-to, but the squeak of his boots brought her around to face him. Her breath plumed in the falling snow and flakes of white silvered her green beret. She smiled, and her teeth and eyes flashed in her frost-flushed face.

  “Good morning,” Kenhodan said, scratching his stubbled jaw.

  He considered shaving in cold water, then put the notion aside with a shudder. It was hard, on a morning like this, not to envy the fact that hradani had no facial hair. Bahzell never had to face cold steel and icy water in a grim, snowy dawn. And now that he considered it, a beard like Wencit’s had a certain attraction under the circumstances.

  “Greetings,” Chernion replied. “I don’t like the snow, Kenhodan.”

  “I don’t either.” He slid a boot through a drift, and ice slithered under his heel. “You think it’s going to fall all day?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She nodded. “The wind died without moving it, and I think the flakes are bigger. It may be twice this deep by tomorrow.”

  “At least the sleet’s stoppe
d.”

  “Which is precious little comfort when there’s already ice underfoot.”

  “True.” He surveyed the white desert and shrugged. “I’d better wake the others, I suppose.”

  “A moment, Kenhodan.”

  Her quick words stopped him, and he glanced at her with raised eyebrows. She hesitated as he stood like a tall, broad-shouldered ghost in the snow. Her instinct was to push for information while she had him alone, but should she risk it? Flashing thoughts assessed risk and opportunity and reached decision.

  “Forgive me,” she said, touching his forearm, “and don’t feel you have to answer. But I’ve noticed that for all your joking with the Bloody Hand, you’re sad. Perhaps the saddest man I’ve ever met. Why is that?”

  Kenhodan looked at her for a long, level moment. He hadn’t pictured himself as “sad,” yet her words forced him to consider the possibility. All too often, he knew, a jester wept inside, hiding his tears in laughter as Wencit often did. Was he the same?

  “I’m not sad, Elrytha,” he said finally. “Just thoughtful.”

  “Thoughtful? Why?” She watched him coolly, and he shrugged uneasily.

  “I’m just…lost. You see, I have no memory. It was taken from me and sometimes I…miss it.”

  “Taken? By wizardry?” Her voice was hushed.

  “I suppose.” He felt restless and exposed. “I don’t really know.”

  Chernion gazed at him, her mind racing, sensing his reluctance to speak further of it. She’d already learned more than she’d hoped, and she must not alienate him. Yet of all the frustrating bits and pieces she had to put together somehow, Kenhodan interested her most. Who was he? Where did he come from? He was perhaps the deadliest fighter she’d ever met—more so even than the Bloody Hand, in many ways—but where had he gained his skill? And why was he so important to the wizard?

  And now this. Amnesia? How had it happened…and why? Of one thing, at least, she was certain; it was no simple accident. No, his lost identity was the key to all the other questions about him which burned in her brain. Somehow she knew that as she recalled her first impression of bloodshed and innocence.