The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  * * *

  Her patron shared her doubts. He didn’t like her dispositions, yet he could offer no better, and he understood her reasoning, especially—he smiled despite his own inner tension—where the stone golems were concerned. It was really a pity he hadn’t considered doing exactly that, he reflected. But however reasonable the deployment of her remaining forces might appear, he was far from confident it was good enough. For all he knew, Wencit had a fifth or even a sixth way to the cavern, hidden exactly as the wall-breaching spell had been and only waiting for his command.

  Most frustrating of all was the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing he could do. He could no more defend Wulfra—assuming he’d wanted to—than he could attack Wencit directly. That meant only the spell hidden in the cavern itself could prevent the wild eyed wizard from regaining the sword, and given the appalling proof of how badly he’d been fooled by Wencit this far, the cat-eyed wizard no longer regarded even that as more than a hope.

  Yet his fear was even stronger than his frustration. It became more plain by the second that Wencit moved with certainty where he could only grope, because the unpalatable truth was that he had no idea at all what Wencit was really doing. The one thing he did know was that whatever it was, it had to be deeper and far more carefully planned than the simple recovery of a useless sword! That was a thought fit to frighten anyone, given the sword in question, and if the Council—and the cat-eyed wizard himself—could be that ignorant of Wencit’s intentions in this, might they not be equally ignorant in other matters?

  He snarled a curse and hunched closer to his crystal. The flaming stone limned his face in fire as he sought his enemy once more, but the fleeting scenes in the orb refused to yield the information he needed.

  * * *

  Kenhodan leaned against the wall, panting, feeling every single one of the aches and pains which lingered in the wake of Bahzell’s healing. The Eye of the Needle lay far behind as he wiped away sweat and looked at Wencit.

  “I hope—” he puffed “—it isn’t much farther.”

  “Not much,” Wencit replied, and Kenhodan regarded him almost resentfully. The old wizard was breathing hard but showed very little other outward signs of exertion, and Kenhodan wondered how much of his apparent endurance was supplied by wild magic? He hoped he himself would be in as good a shape when he was old. Tomanāk! He wished he was in such good shape now!

  “Good.” His throat felt raw. “Think we’ve outrun whatever it was?”

  “That, or else it stayed to eat graumau.” Wencit shrugged.

  “Good,” Kenhodan repeated, and slid down the wall.

  He sat there, taking a moment to catch his breath. His sight was as clear through the pitch darkness as if the sun shone here in the depths of the maze, and he was grateful. Unfortunately, the fact that he could see clearly didn’t make what he saw any better, and his jaw tightened as he glanced at Chernion.

  She looked terrible. Her pain-wrung face was like wet, curdled ashes, and she was clearly on the point of collapse. But she stood against the wall, supporting her weight on his bow stave, swaying yet stubbornly on her feet while her closed eyes cut bruised ovals under her brows. Kenhodan didn’t understand how she managed it.

  Wencit was in much better shape despite his age, yet he, too, settled to the stone floor and sat with weary gratitude. In fact, only Bahzell seemed relatively fresh. Sweat beaded his face and his huge chest swelled rhythmically, but he exuded a sense of fitness and power.

  “I’m done in for the moment,” Kenhodan admitted with a sigh. “I need to rest—and so does Elrytha.”

  “I can give a few minutes warning before an attack,” Wencit said. “But we can’t stay in one place long without being spotted.”

  “I know, I know,” Kenhodan agreed, and massaged his aching legs while his heart slowed and he tried to calculate how far they’d come. He waved his hand and Bahzell squatted beside him, his sword across his thighs. The glittering blue corona which had touched the hradani when they entered the maze had dimmed, almost disappeared, yet Kenhodan knew it would flare back to life the instant Bahzell required it.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking as we’ve done well so far. You and Elrytha have been after bearing the brunt, but I’ll not begrudge it. I’ll be having my chance soon enough. We’ll have a belly full of it, all of us, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You feel it, too, then?”

  “Lad, it’s a champion of Tomanāk I’ve been for well-nigh ninety years.” Bahzell smiled grimly. “Himself’s not in the way of leading his champions about by the hand, but he’s not so very fond of leaving us in the dark, either. I’ve no more notion than you of exactly what it is we’re likely to be facing, but I’ve no doubt at all, at all, as it’ll be more than nasty enough to be going on with.”

  “I thought so. Wencit, how much farther is it now?”

  “Perhaps five hundred yards.” Wencit’s eyes glowed through the darkness. “It’s all twists and turns and hairpins up to the last eighty yards or so. Then the passage widens before it narrows again to enter the heart of the maze.”

  “I see.” Kenhodan massaged his sweaty forehead. “Then she’ll hit us there—unless she’s likely to wait until we’re on top of her?”

  “No.” Wencit smiled unpleasantly. “I don’t think she’ll do that.”

  “I thought not,” Kenhodan murmured. “All right, Bahzell. Wencit will have to worry about the rear from now on, because I think both of us need to be up front. None of us can guess what it’ll be, but I think we can count on it’s being the nastiest thing Wulfra still has to throw at us. That means we’d best have both of us ready to meet it.”

  “Aye.” Bahzell tested his sword with a thumb, and his smile was as unpleasant as Wencit’s had been. “It’s widows we’ll make this day, lad!”

  “Assuming whatever it is has a wife,” Kenhodan said dryly.

  “To be sure.” Bahzell tilted his ears impudently. “It was only a manner of speaking, after all.”

  * * *

  Wulfra wanted to pace. Or to curse. Or to kick the wall. Anything but to hunch over the crystal till her eyes burned. But she dared not look away.

  They should have arrived by now, especially by either of the shorter ways, and she was sorely tempted to recall her northern and southern guards. But it would be just like Wencit to give her time for second thoughts, time to redeploy her forces, so he could stroll in through the gate she’d left unguarded.

  * * *

  “Careful, lad!”

  The flat of Bahzell’s blade pressed Kenhodan’s chest and the faint blue nimbus about the hradani flickered brighter.

  “What?” Kenhodan’s answering question was equally soft.

  “There’s something foul ahead through yonder arch, but it’s damned I am if I’m after knowing what.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Kenhodan said after a careful scrutiny.

  “And no more do I, but I’ve a hradani’s nose, and it’s more than enough times I’ve smelled the stink of death.”

  “That’s what you’re smelling now?”

  “Aye, and something worse. Something I’ve not smelled before, but it’s after having the touch of Krahana about it somehow.”

  “You think Wulfra’s been able to summon some of Krahana’s servants?” Kenhodan didn’t like that thought at all, and it showed, but Bahzell shook his head.

  “No, lad. If she’d anything of that sort, himself would have been after telling me plain that she did. There’s none of the Dark Gods as have taken a direct hand in this. But that’s not to be saying such as Wulfra would be having any scruples about necromancy, now is it?”

  Kenhodan pondered. If Wencit was right, that arch ought to lead into the wider space immediately before their destination, so there probably was an ambush on the other side of it. And if Bahzell was right, the ambush in question was likely to be even more deadly than he’d feared.

  “Any idea how we migh
t creep up on whatever it is?”

  “No,” Bahzell’s voice was almost appallingly calm.

  “None at all?” Kenhodan asked wistfully.

  “Not on how to creep up on ’em, no. But it’s an idea or two I have as to what we ought to do.”

  Large teeth showed in a tight smile, and Kenhodan shook his head in resignation. Then he unsheathed Gwynna’s dagger and nodded to Bahzell.

  “Tomanāk!”

  The hradani’s bellow hurled them around the bend like javelins, and Kenhodan’s bare feet slapped stone while spell-sharpened eyes probed the dark for foes.

  He found them.

  Human-shaped but not human, their enemies towered over them. Grossly obese, they stood over a foot taller than Bahzell and spiked maces hung from hands like shovels. Their eyes were empty, untouched by hate or pity, and their stench wafted from them—reeking of death and filth compounded in some queasy corner of hell. Two of them held shuttered lanterns, covers ready to be snatched aside to blind to their prey when they surprised.

  But the prey had surprised them. Bahzell’s war cry echoed with all the fury of his lungs and the blue nimbus of Tomanāk flared suddenly brilliant against the darkness, and if the golems weren’t surprised, Wulfra was. To control them, she must occupy their minds, see through their eyes, hear through their ears. The shout blasted through her from twenty pairs of ears, that terrifying blue glare struck her through twenty sets of eyes, and Bahzell and Kenhodan were upon her before she could recover.

  The grotesque front rank hefted their clubs and crouched forward to strike, but they were fatally slow. Twin thunderbolts of steel slashed the blackness, biting deep, and two heads thudded to the stony floor.

  “Shekarū, Herrik!”

  Kenhodan screamed the half-familiar war cry as he and Bahzell spun into their foes like the arms of a single warrior, but the golems were silent—silent as they struck, and silent as they died. They dwarfed Kenhodan, but his speed and skill surpassed them. He slid among them like a shadow, entangling them in their fellows as he killed them.

  Bahzell was too large to follow into the golem’s midst. Instead, he planted his boots in the blood of his first victim and his eyes glittered with the same blue light that wrapped itself about his limbs. His teeth were bared in a wide, savage grin, for this wider stretch gave him fighting room at last and Tomanāk had sent him foes that needed killing. His left hand moved improbably, flipping the hook knife back into its sheath to free both hands for his sword as Wulfra fed her golems into the screaming circle of his steel. Blood flew in salty spray as he took the head from one and twisted his wrists, slashing back in a figure eight to take an arm from another, like a child plucking thistles.

  Kenhodan dodged a mace and darted inside it to open the attacker’s throat before the golem could straighten. Blood pulsed, but the golem ignored it and reached for him with its free hand. Steel severed its wrist and a bare foot slammed its belly, staggering it back into the hulking shape behind it. Both crashed to the floor, and Kenhodan drove his blade through the unwounded one’s throat, severing windpipe and spinal column in the same thrust.

  Wulfra fought to control the battle, but her efforts were in vain. She needed light, but while she ordered one golem to smash a lantern into a blazing pool of oil, she couldn’t direct others in combat. Even when she turned her full attention to the battle, it was impossible to manage enough awkward sets of limbs. One, possibly even two, she could manipulate as easily as her own body, but twenty were too many. Her enemies moved through them like wraiths of steel and shadow, reaping a red harvest while she flailed at them.

  Steam hung in a tunnel floored in blood, and Kenhodan skidded as he engaged another mace. He drove the bludgeon wide, daggered his attacker’s heart, and hooked his foot behind its leg, toppling the mortally wounded monster. Air hissed, and he ducked under another fiercely driven mace and slammed steel through its wielder’s belly. It folded over the wound, and he recovered, then hacked the following creature’s neck dispassionately as a gamekeeper. He and Bahzell moved deeper into the press—dodging, striking, shielding one another. Their salvation was trained speed and motion, and their foes fell away in blood.

  Wulfra couldn’t credit the carnage. She’d known them for warriors without peer, but she’d never guessed how far they outstripped her golems. The creatures were strong and quick, but they were handicapped by divided control and her own lack of weapon skill. Her fear grew, hampering her further as it manifested in jerkier motion and wilder blows. Her mind began to retreat, but discipline forced her back, and her lips thinned. If she couldn’t direct her full numbers, she’d direct one or two of them fully.

  Kenhodan sensed a change without identifying it. His mind was focused on survival, not analysis, yet the change was fundamental, forcing itself upon him. The golems were no longer attacking. They stood immobile, ignoring him as he struck. His killing was delayed only by the need to let each body fall, and for a moment he thought it was victory. But then the truth dawned: the mind animating his foes had withdrawn to concentrate on Bahzell.

  The change surprised the hradani, as well. The golem before him went abruptly inert, but the one to his left took on a sudden cunning and speed none of the others had shown. A mace scythed too savagely to avoid, peeling away his helmet and grazing his skull, and lights flashed before his eyes. Reflex evaded the backswing as he thrust through the golem, but the creature only grunted, ignoring the yard of steel in its belly to slam its mace into his right thigh. Bone snapped, the sound ugly as Bahzell was hurled aside by the blow. His sword flew from his grip, and he bounced twice, skittering across the floor on his back as a third golem raised its mace to crush his skull.

  Kenhodan saw it even as he cut down yet another of Wuldra’s creatures, but the falling monster blocked him away from his friend as the mace began its downstroke.

  Agony pounded Bahzell, but he was a champion of Tomanāk, and he drew his experience about him like armor. He ignored the grating anguish in his thigh and his left hand slapped the hilt of his hook knife. He drew and threw in a single motion, and the knife flashed past the falling mace to drive through the bridge of the golem’s nose and into its brain, severing Wulfra’s link to it. The whistling bludgeon continued its plunge, but it was an inert mass, without guidance or control.

  It nearly sufficed anyway.

  Bahzell hurled himself aside, rolling away from the blow while his broken thigh screamed agony. Spikes shattered stone beside him, and one crashed into his shoulder blade, crushing bone through mail and throwing him aside once more. He slammed the wall with a grunt and lay limp as yet another golem loomed above him.

  But Wulfra was just too late. Kenhodan vaulted a fallen body and his sword smashed the attacker’s spine. He straddled Bahzell, levering the monster aside, and spun to face the rest of the pack as it fell mutely into death.

  Stone guarded his back, and Wulfra could come at him only from the front. She could no longer confuse him by shifting from mind to mind, and no single golem could withstand the red lightning of his borrowed blade. Oxygen burned his lungs and his muscles ached, but Wulfra wasn’t wise enough to wear him down. She strove to crush him, instead, and after only brief moments of singing steel and spattering blood, it was over.

  Kenhodan dashed pink sweat from his face, watching the tumbled bodies lest one might be only feigning death. But they were all truly dead, and he dropped to his knee beside his friend.

  “Bahzell!”

  “Calmly, lad!” Bahzell gasped. “I’ve taken hurt before. I’ll live.”

  “I know,” Kenhodan lied, “but how long are you going to lie idle?”

  “A spell, I’m thinking,” Bahzell said, his dark face tight with pain, and his ears wiggled feebly. “That as doesn’t kill off hradani outright’s unlikely to be after killing him at all, and we heal fast, but not that fast.”

  He tried to sit up and gasped as broken bone ends ground together, and Kenhodan lifted him gently.

  “If you’
d be so very kind as to be straightening my leg?” Bahzell asked in a pain-tightened voice.

  Kenhodan did, his hands gentle as a lover’s. Fresh sweat coated Bahzell’s jerking face anyway, but he made no sound.

  “Better. Much better!” He smiled more naturally once the leg had been straightened and raised his sound arm. “My thanks for my life, Sword Brother.”

  “I have to bring you home in one piece or Leeana will never forgive me,” Kenhodan said, clasping his arm firmly.

  “Ah, now, she’d not hold it against you if it was after being my time. But it wasn’t, thanks to Tomanāk and you.”

  “Shut up,” Kenhodan told him. “I think they must’ve hit your head. Something certainly rattled that pea-sized brain of yours.”

  Bahzell turned his head as Wencit suddenly appeared.

  “Will you be listening at him abuse me, Wencit?! Here and I was so careful to be leaving Brandark behind, but not a bit of good did it to me in the end at all, at all! It’s a hard life a champion of Tomanāk’s after living!”

  “Especially for champions with heads made out of solid bone,” Wencit said tartly. He knelt and whistled with dismay. “I warned you you might not enjoy this trip.”

  “Aye, and I’ve never understood it, such a pleasant time as we’ve had and all. You’re after getting old, Wencit! It’s a fine rough and tumble it was.”

  “Perhaps, but you’ve been tumbled out of it. We can’t move you quickly, and quickness is what we need now.”

  “Leave me my sword,” Bahzell said calmly.

  “We can do better than that.” Wencit smiled. “The Border Warden will stay with you while Kenhodan and I finish what we came to do.”

  “Just a minute, Wizard!” Chernion broke in. “I’ve come this far, and I want to see the end of it!”

  “You may want what you wish to…Elrytha.” Wencit’s gleaming eyes pinned her. “But whatever you want, you wouldn’t survive it.”

  “But—”