The Sword of the South - eARC

by David Weber

  The hradani only grunted, and Wencit chuckled softly.

  “The problem was that our Bahzell, as you may have noticed, is sometimes a bit on the impulsive side, and it was much worse then. You may not believe it, Kenhodan, but he’s actually mellowed quite a bit over the years I’ve known him. At the time, however, that mellowing process hadn’t really taken hold yet, I’m afraid. So he basically he informed Tellian that no one had ever taught him how to surrender. Hradani can be a bit stubborn, you know.”

  Kenhodan felt his lips quiver but managed to restrain the smile as Bahzell snorted in disgust and busied himself unnecessarily adjusting one of the pack horses’ load.

  “So what…what happened?” Kenhodan asked just a bit unsteadily.

  “Well, Tellian was a wind rider, you know, and so was his sword companion, Hathan Shieldarm. Now, there was a stubborn man!”

  “And as fine a man as Tellian,” Bahzell said over his shoulder. He never looked away from the pack horse, but his voice was dead serious, and Wencit nodded.

  “Indeed he was,” he said. “Up to that moment, though, Hathan had probably been as staunch a dyed-in-the-wool anti-hradani bigot as you could hope to find. He was as honest as he was stubborn, though, and he climbed down from his courser and told Bahzell that if he didn’t know how to surrender, he’d teach him. Which he did…by surrendering to Bahzell. At which point Tellian surrendered his entire force to Bahzell, as well.”

  “He did what?” Kenhodan blinked. Brandark’s description hadn’t included all of those details, and he looked at Bahzell in disbelief. “At eighty-to-one odds?!” Wencit nodded solemnly, and Kenhodan shook his head. “And how did the rest of his men take it?”

  “Some of them were a bit…irked,” Wencit said with the air of a man seeking exactly the right verb. “Mind you, they got over it eventually. In fact, most of them decided—in the end, not immediately—that it was hilarious. They’re all mad, you know.”

  “Mad they may be,” Bahzell growled, “but they’re also after being the finest horsemen as the gods ever put on earth!”

  “And that they truly are,” Wencit agreed. “As Bahzell has better reason than most to know. Their regular warhorses are the finest light and medium cavalry mounts in the world, and no mere horse can compare to a courser.”

  “I was under the impression that coursers are horses,” Kenhodan said.

  “Aye?” Bahzell turned and cocked his ears at the red-haired man. “And would you be saying Blanchrach and yonder tabby—” he flicked his head at the ragamuffin cat in charge of ridding Fradenhelm’s stable of rats “—are both cats?”

  “Well…”

  “He’s right about that, Kenhodan,” Wencit said. “Coursers are every bit as intelligent as any of the Races of Man. That’s something most non-Sothōii seem to find it a bit difficult to grasp, but every Sothōii ever born knows the truth down deep in his bones, and the wind riders are the elite of the Sothōii cavalry.”

  “How does someone become a wind rider?” Kenhodan asked curiously, and Bahzell snorted again, very softly this time.

  “If a courser’s after choosing to bear you, then it’s a wind rider you are, lad. And if the coursers don’t choose to bear you, there’s no power on earth as could make you one.”

  There was something about the hradani’s tone, something that spoke to the heart, even if Kenhodan didn’t understand the message.

  “There’s no bond closer in all the world than that ’twixt courser and rider,” Bahzell went on. “Heart and soul, mind and life—all either of them are after being, all poured out together. That’s what makes a wind rider, and there’s naught but death can break that bond.”

  “So they truly can speak to each other?” Kenhodan asked, and Bahzell nodded.

  “Aye, but only to each other, not to another courser or another rider. Still, there’s signals—calls, you might be calling them—as every wind rider and courser recognize.”

  “What sort of ‘calls’?” Kenhodan asked curiously.

  Bahzell glanced at him, then grinned and closed his eyes. His mouth opened, and the sound which came from him startled Kenhodan to his feet, knowing he would remember it even if he forgot everything else he’d ever heard. It was wild and fierce, a wordless cry that mingled wind and the dusty beat of hooves with the whistle of a stallion defending his mares. Glamhandro’s head rose high and proud as he nickered a fierce reply, but Kenhodan stared at Bahzell, amazed the hradani could make such a sound.

  It was an amazement that became confusion as a whistling scream answered from a closed box stall in the gloomy darkness at the rear of the stable, beyond the lanterns’ illumination. Bahzell spun toward the sound in shock, and it came again, louder and fiercer. The hradani launched himself at the stall like a thrown spear as pride and fury whistled from it yet again, followed by the savage beat of steel-shod hooves on wood. The stall’s closed door shuddered under the pounding, but its heavy timbers held, and Bahzell reached for the latch. It was padlocked tight, and he caught the lock in one hand. His wrist twisted, metal spanged and cracked explosively, and he tossed the shattered lock aside and flung open the door.

  “Phrobus!”

  That shrill, whistling cry of fury sounded a fourth time, and Bahzell snatched the hook knife from his belt and vanished into the stall. Kenhodan heard the heavy blade thunk against the heavy timbers once, twice—a third time—and then a horse prouder than morning burst from the enclosure, trailing half a dozen heavy, severed leads from a halter which had galled angry welts across a coat of gleaming black. He must have stood at least twenty hands—seven feet at the shoulder, his head towering even over Bahzell—and his eyes were fierce and dark, touched with gold under the lanterns.

  Bahzell followed him from the stall, hook knife still in his hand, and the stallion wheeled to face him. He glided closer to the hradani, hooves moving delicately, each stride like newborn grace, and Bahzell sheathed the knife and raised his right hand. He extended it in front of him in an oddly formal gesture of salute, and the stallion reached out and touched it with his nose.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Kenhodan breathed in Wencit’s ear.

  “If you think it’s a courser,” the wizard replied softly.

  “Aye.” Bahzell heard them and turned, and his ears were flat to his skull, his eyes hard. “Born on the Wind Plain, and nigh on two thousand leagues from home and herd, and he’d not have come this far without his wind brother. And that—” his deep, rumbling voice went harder than his eyes “—makes me wonder.”

  Kenhodan suddenly realized that Fradenhelm was creeping for a side door and moved to intercept him. The stable master squealed and broke for the main entrance, but Bahzell caught him in three strides. His massive hand closed on the nape of the scrawny neck like a steel viper, and the little man squealed again, even louder than before, as the hradani snatched him high at arm’s length and held his toes a foot from the straw strewn floor.

  “And why might it be,” Bahzell asked gently, “as you weren’t after mentioning this courser to me?”

  “I-I-I—” the horsetrader gobbled in terror. Bahzell shook him gently, and he squealed again. “H-he’s sold! I-I’m just h-holding him for the buyer!”

  “I’d not be wishful for you to lie to me,” Bahzell said softly. “It’s angry I’ve been known to grow when someone’s after lying to me, and when I’m angry, I’ve been known to act hasty, friend.”

  His fingers tightened, and Fradenhelm’s face twisted in pain.

  “No, I’d not like to think you’d be so foolish as to be trying to lie to a champion of Tomanāk, Fradenhelm. There’s never a Sothōii born as would try to sell a courser. They’d die first—aye, and so would the courser! I’ve no notion—yet—how it was as he found himself in that stall, but that’s a thing I will know before all’s done, and this I know already. However he came to be here, there’s not a fool in all the world as would trust you with such as he! What’s stolen once can be stolen twice, not but what you
know that already. Now—once more—why was it you weren’t after telling me?”

  “I-I told you! It’s the truth!”

  “No, you lied.” Bahzell’s free hand gripped Fradenhelm’s left forearm. “They say as how hradani are barbarians, little man, and some tales tell true. I’m wondering how it is you’d like going through life with one arm.”

  “I told you the truth!” the horsetrader whimpered.

  “It’s many a year I’ve known you for a thief,” Bahzell said softly, almost caressingly, “but I was never after taking you for a fool…until now.”

  The hradani’s fingers tightened, and Fradenhelm shrieked. Kenhodan stepped towards them, appalled by the expression on his friend’s merciless face, but Wencit’s tiny headshake stopped him.

  Kenhodan watched in something like horror as Bahzell tightened his grip and Fradenhelm writhed. He screamed again, setting horses neighing and stamping, but Bahzell’s eyes never flickered. Tighter his hand clamped, like a vise of steel. Kenhodan knew what had to happen, but the snap of breaking bone and Fradenhelm’s howl of agony made his stomach muscles jump.

  Bahzell released the broken arm, visibly bent in the middle. He gripped Fradenhelm’s other arm…and smiled.

  “All right!” the horsetrader shrieked as Bahzell touched him. He sobbed in terror and pain as the hradani released him contemptuously to huddle in a beaten ball. Kenhodan smelled his terror, and he couldn’t blame him. For the first time, Kenhodan realized that Bahzell was truly hradani, whatever else he might be.

  “Quickly, Fradenhelm,” Bahzell said quietly.

  “It was…was the wizard. They told me…told me he’d pass through. They said—they said they’d pay…pay five hundred kormaks if I told them w-when he got here.…”

  “And the courser?” Kenhodan barely recognized Bahzell’s icy voice.

  “The…the courser?” Fradenhelm cradled his broken arm, whimpering as he looked into Bahzell’s stony face.

  “This is a courser.” Bahzell spoke tonelessly, as if reciting an indictment, and his rustic accent had completely vanished. “No wind rider will abandon his courser, and no more will a courser abandon his rider. They’ll die first. So tell me, Fradenhelm—how did you get this courser?!”

  “I-I—” Fradenhelm stuttered helplessly at the whiplash question. “I don’t know! Please, Bahzell! They brought him here! They said he’d be good bait to…trap you—”

  His gobbling voice broke off in a fresh howl of pain as Bahzell backhanded him. The hradani grabbed the front of his apron and yanked him to his feet, and the hook knife whispered evilly from its sheath.

  “Hear me, Fradenhelm. You can play Hirahim’s game with the local magistrates whenever you choose, but your life is mine now, little man. This courser came here with a wind rider. I’ve no idea how you got him fastened in that stall in the first place, but this I do know—you’d never have done it unless his rider was dead first. And that means someone—and it may have been you—killed a wind rider in this stable. But that wasn’t wise, d’you see, because I’m a wind rider. I don’t like people who kill my brothers, and himself doesn’t like those who do murder in the dark. So there’s no least reason in the world for me to leave your throat uncut. You’d best be thinking of a reason, and you’d best come up with it fast.”

  The keen edge of the hook knife touched the side of Fradenhelm’s neck delicately.

  “It wasn’t me!” Fradenhelm shrieked. “It was them! They asked after you, and he wanted to know why! They killed him, and one of them darted the courser with a blowgun. I don’t know what they used on him—I swear I don’t!—but it left him as meek as a kitten. They…they made me put him in the stall. It wasn’t my idea! I told them it was madness! I warned them the wind riders would find out! But it was done. It was already done, I tell you! I was supposed to get rid of him, but I couldn’t. He’s worth too much—the Purple Lords would pay a fortune for a courser! I didn’t even know who they were, or why they were hunting you—not at first! I swear! On my father’s life I swear it!”

  “You never met your father,” Bahzell said coldly, “but that’s neither here nor there. Tell it quick and tell it true, Fradenhelm, and it might be you’ll live another hour. Who’s this ‘they’ you keep yammering about?”

  “Chernion,” Fradenhelm whispered ashenly. “It…was Chernion.”

  Bahzell’s lips tightened and he dropped the horsetrader with a thud, then snatched up a blanket and saddle. He turned to the coal black courser, holding up the blanket, and the courser dipped its head, touching its nose to it and then turning broadside to help the hradani throw it across his back.

  “Who’s Chernion?” Kenhodan demanded, dazed by events, as the saddle followed the blanket.

  “Better to ask what he is,” Wencit said grimly.

  “Don’t you start any damned word games with me now!” Kenhodan snapped.

  “Start—Oh, I see.” Wencit chuckled humorlessly. “I meant that the important thing is his trade. He’s the master of the Assassins Guild.”

  “Assassins Guild?! They’re outlawed!”

  “And would you be telling me what that matters?” Bahzell tossed over his shoulder as he tightened the saddle’s girth. “I’m thinking corsairs are after being outlawed, as well, but it’s in my mind as how you’ll meet them now and again. What’s after mattering is that someone’s set the best assassin of them all on us—and I’m thinking as how he’ll be here soon.”

  “True. So we’d best leave even sooner,” Wencit agreed.

  Bahzell nodded curtly and reached up to unbuckle the heavy halter. He hurled it away from him with an ugly expression, then bowed to the courser.

  “Will you bear him, Wind Brother?” he asked quietly, and the stallion looked back at him for a heartbeat, then bent his head in an unmistakable nod of agreement.

  “My thanks, and Walsharno’s as well,” Bahzell said, and turned to Wencit. “I’m thinking you’ve found the mount you were after needing, Wencit.”

  “I thank you for the trust and the honor.” Wencit’s voice was deep and measured, and he held out his hand in the same gesture Bahzell had used. The stallion touched it with his nose, and Wencit bowed.

  The courser started walking toward the open door. Bahzell gathered up the pack horses’ lead reins and followed, and Kenhodan shook himself and began leading Glamhandro in the hradani’s wake.

  “What about—?” He jutted his chin at Fradenhelm.

  “What about him?” Wencit asked. “What more harm can he do? Does he know where we are bound, or why? All he can tell them is that Bahzell’s with us, and they know that already, or they wouldn’t have murdered the wind rider. Leave him be.”

  “Aye.” Bahzell paused in the open doorway and looked down coldly. “We’ve had our dealings, Fradenhelm, and it’s once or twice you’ve done me a good turn. I’m remembering that now, and you’d best be grateful. Aye, and be thankful you’re a crawling dog, for well I know as you couldn’t kill a wind rider even from behind. But mark me, little man. If ever I see you again, I’ll not break your arms; I’ll rip them off and feed you the stumps!”

  The hradani glared at the horsetrader, and Kenhodan knew he meant it. Bahzell waited for an answer, but Fradenhelm only curled more tightly and moaned. The hradani snarled in disgust and pushed through the door.

  Clouds had settled lower, and the air was moist with river mist. Kenhodan sniffed. The promised rain was close, the air was raw and chill, and breeze swirled about him, stirring his hair as he leaned against Glamhandro. Wencit swung into the courser’s saddle with a curious formality, and the huge black stallion accepted him, stamping briskly, eager to be off.

  “Which way, Wencit?” Bahzell asked.

  “East. Make for the Morfintan High Road. Perhaps that will throw them off.”

  “East it is, then. Mount up, Kenhodan!” Bahzell’s deep bellow was rich with laughter. “We’ve some running to do.”

  Kenhodan swung up on Glamhandro, and the big gray sidled s
ideways beneath him. He felt muscles tighten as his thighs gripped the strong barrel, and in that moment, he was a centaur. Elation pounded in his throat, and his head whirled with the staccato pace of the last few minutes.

  “What about you?” he asked, looking across at Bahzell, whose head was only a little lower than his own even with Glamhandro under him.

  “There’s never a horse born as can run a Horse Stealer into the ground, lad!” Bahzell laughed. “A courser, now—he might be after doing it, but it won’t be happening soon, and I’ve a suspicion I’ll not be stuck afoot long. You just be worrying about your own saddle sores and leave the boot leather to me!”

  “Whatever you say.” Kenhodan shook his head, and Bahzell laughed again.

  “Lead us, Bahzell,” Wencit said, and the hradani nodded sharply. Then he turned, impossibly quick—impossibly graceful—for someone of his towering inches and Kenhodan blinked as he disappeared out of the stable yard’s front gate at a dead run with the startled packhorses lunging into motion to keep up with him.

  The red-haired man looked across at Wencit for a moment, and then—as one—Glamhandro and the courser shot forward, steel shoes sparking on the cobbles in a battering of hooves.

  The night swallowed them, and they were gone. The sound of their horses died on the moaning breeze.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Road to Morfintan

  The sound of hooves had long faded and the moon blinked and vanished in a bank of black and silver cloud as the smell of rain grew stronger. The flooded river’s rush was a low, grumbling rush, underpinning the night, and the breeze swirled mist under the stable lantern while the sign creaked.

  A dozen figures in black leather slipped through the mist. No blazon marred their black garb, and the feeble light seemed to sink into them and vanish. A concealing hood covered each face and soft buskins slithered noiselessly over the paving. The wind made more noise than they.