The Sword of the South - eARC

by David Weber

  It was a pity, in a way. Wulfra smiled as she gazed at the assassin. Chernion truly was as capable as they said, and the assassin had already struck down two of Fallona’s better generals for Wulfra, though the dog brothers didn’t know she was the one who’d hired them. The contract had been negotiated in the name of Ranalf of Carchon, since Wulfra was of no mind to risk her saintly public image just yet. It would be a shame if the assassin’s steel was unequal to this task, but even that could be useful, for Bahzell and Wencit were bound to kill at least a few dog brothers along the way. If that happened, the Guild would be more determined than ever to kill them in return, for assassins had no friends. They took care of their own, because it was bad business for dead dog brothers to go unavenged. It was largely fear of inevitable retribution which made brave men hesitate to face them.

  Yes, Chernion might yet be a winning card. If not…at least the assassin amused her. She enjoyed her link to Chernion’s mind, even knowing Chernion would risk anything to destroy her if the assassin ever became aware that link existed. Chernion had secrets, and the Guildmaster had killed repeatedly to hide them. It might be dangerous to know them, but Wulfra was willing to risk that.

  She did so enjoy being on the inside.

  * * *

  “I thought you said there was a trail.”

  Kenhodan’s tone was both pointed and sour as he eyed the river. Like the White Water, the Snowborn was high with snowmelt, and the road arrowed out into its waters on a broad causeway that melded with a many-arched bridge. Foam boiled through those arches, fretting at the constriction in brawling rage, but the stonework rose like a fortress, throwing back the current in angry ruffles of yellow and brown lace while the river growled its anger.

  Day had come, such as it was. There was no sun; clouds shouldered one another in solid, lumpy charcoal billows and misty rain dusted down. The desolate sight of the flooded river glowered at them in the barren gray light.

  “Aye, and a trail there is!” Bahzell raised his voice over the bone-numbing roar. “I was never saying as it was easy to reach!”

  “Easy isn’t all that important, as long as it’s possible! Is it?”

  “And would I’ve been after bringing you this way if it wasn’t?”

  Kenhodan shivered doubtfully. Trees drifted on the current, swirling slowly end for end while water heaved and foamed through broken limbs and roots. The swollen river rose ten feet up oaks and ash trees growing well back from its nominal bank; farther out, the willows along the “shore” were barely visible humps of foam. Two of the bridge’s arches were packed with jams of wreckage, but it stood like a cliff, its piers founded firmly in the riverbed. The stonework bore the scars of combat, yet it faced the battle undaunted.

  “Show me!” he shouted dubiously.

  “Would it happen you see that oak?” Bahzell pointed upstream, and Kenhodan nodded. “It’s thirty or forty feet beyond it our trail lies. All we’re after needing is to swim the horses from here to there, d’you see?”

  “You’re joking!” Kenhodan was stunned. “It must be a hundred yards! Look at that current! How are we supposed to swim that far—much less the pack horses?”

  Bahzell glanced at the weary horses and smiled as the gray gelding raised his head. The pack horse was tired and unsure of what was about to be demanded, but he was willing—though that might change when he confronted the river.

  “I’m thinking Wencit will be just fine!” Bahzell shouted over the river. “And so will I. His beauty’s strong enough to be towing him ─ and me, too, come to that ─ and we’ll tie one of the pack horse’s leads to his saddle, as well. You and Glamhandro can be coming behind with the other!”

  “Brilliant! And what about the current?”

  “And what current might that be?” Bahzell pointed smugly into the blowing spray. “The causeway’s solid as a Dwarvenhame dam, Kenhodan! The only current’s after being out in the middle; along the downstream sides it’s smooth as a Saramanthan duck pond!”

  “A duck pond!” Kenhodan snorted.

  He glowered at the river a moment longer, then shook his head and climbed down to rearrange his equipment. It still sounded insane, but Bahzell was probably right about the current. He hoped so, anyway.

  He rechecked the pack saddles, lashing each item individually to the frames, then fastened the gray gelding’s lead rope to Glamhandro’s saddle. He checked his bow carefully, sealed his extra string in the oiled leather case to protect it, and fastened the quiver to his saddle, trying to keep his arrows’ fletching high enough to stay dry. Then he stripped off his sword and tied it behind the cantle. Finally, he dragged off his boots, and the causeway was chill and wet under his stocking feet as he tied them to the pack frame, as well. Last but far from least, he checked the fastenings of his harp’s case and hoped Brandark would never hear how was about to abuse the magnificent instrument.

  Bahzell and Wencit had made their own preparations by the time he was finished. Wencit and Kenhodan retained only their daggers, and Bahzell had stripped to his arming doublet and bundled his hauberk and breastplate into an untidy package behind the courser’s saddle. Kenhodan grinned as they all stood bootless in the ankle-deep mud, and he wondered how many had ever seen Wencit of Rūm look so ridiculous.

  “Ready?!” Bahzell’s shout cut across the river’s roar.

  “As close to it as I’ll ever be, anyway,” Kenhodan replied glumly. Wencit merely nodded.

  Bahzell roped the wizard’s left wrist to the courser’s saddle, fastened the second pack horse’s lead to it, as well, then reached up and gripped the saddle horn in his right hand. Water licked against the causeway six feet below its crest, and Kenhodan hoped there was no undertow…or underbrush.

  “The slope’s steep as the price of grain in Vonderland, but the footing’s firm!” Bahzell said loudly. “It’s after being faced with stone, but grown with grass. Just take it slow and steady! Glamhandro will tell you when he’s ready to swim, and the gray will be after following him!”

  Kenhodan nodded and watched Wencit and Bahzell slip over the edge. The courser showed no hesitation as he stepped almost gaily over the side and picked his mincing way down the slope more gracefully than the sliding, slipping hradani and wizard, but the pack horse was unhappy. He planted his feet and refused to budge until the courser turned his head with an admonishing whinny, as if chiding a fainthearted companion. The pack horse’s ears shifted. Then he tossed his head in unmistakable assent and followed.

  The courser trumpeted approval and sprang into the water, the pack horse following with a rush. Bahzell released his grip on the courser’s saddle horn and launched out with a powerful breaststroke, and the courser and pack horse followed in his wake. Kenhodan watched anxiously for a moment, then sighed with relief as all of them rode the rippled flood easily.

  Than it was his turn. He hesitated a moment, feeling absurdly like the pack horse. He was willing, but he couldn’t avoid a qualm. Then Glamhandro nosed him so impatiently he almost stumbled, and Kenhodan looked back in astonishment and burst into laughter as the stallion snorted and tossed his head impatiently. Urged on by his horse! Thank Tomanāk Bahzell was too busy swimming to have witnessed Glamhandro’s prodding.

  “All right, then! Let’s go!” he said, and stepped off the road.

  The footing was better than he’d feared. Over the years, a thick skin of sod had covered the ancient stonework, and the thick roots offered purchase in the slippery mud if he took it slowly. The gray pack horse was hesitant—it refused to budge until Glamhandro nipped it sharply—but it kept its feet as both horses finally eased into the river behind him.

  The water was bitterly cold, and Kenhodan’s teeth chattered the moment his toes touched it. Snowborn! He shuddered. The river deserved its name! He struck out, side stroking along the stream side of the horses, pacing them to prevent them from straying out into the current.

  Glamhandro needed no encouragement. His neck cut the water like a ship’s prow, and the
pack horse kept up with him, though it clearly had less liking for the challenge than he. The gelding rolled its eyes and swam with a painful, lunging motion, but the stallion’s eyes were bright as he fought the river. Personally, even though he had to admit Bahzell had been right about the current, Kenhodan could hardly fault the pack horse for its unhappiness.

  By the time they reached the oak, only Glamhandro and the courser seemed in the least cheerful. Kenhodan himself was much the worse for wear, shivering uncontrollably, but Glamhandro appeared to have thrived on the trip. He and the courser touched noses cheerfully, apparently amused by everyone else’s misery, but even Bahzell was less ebullient than usual, breathing hard as he leaned against the courser’s side.

  “Next time let’s face the assassins,” Kenhodan panted. “At least we’ll die dry!”

  He wiped his face and coughed. Half the Snowborn seemed to have found its way down his throat, but Bahzell found the breath for a fair imitation of his normal laugh as he wrung river water from his warrior’s braid.

  “At least we’ve thrown them off,” Kenhodan went on, looking back over the flood with a sort of miserable complacency.

  “Not if they know we came this way.”

  Kenhodan turned at the sound of Wencit’s voice, only to find the wizard once more booted. As Kenhodan looked at him, the wizard settled back into his poncho, as well, and began making sharp prodding gestures.

  “Come, come! Let’s not stand around admiring our own cleverness! They can’t be many hours behind.”

  “So? How’ll they follow us past that?” Kenhodan waved at the river.

  “The same way we did,” Wencit said. “Or dry shod, if they want to leave the high road two miles back.”

  “What?!” Kenhodan straightened in outrage. “You mean we could’ve avoided swimming that—that—!”

  Words failed him.

  “Aye.” Bahzell had already squirmed back into his hauberk and buckled his breastplate. Now he nodded as he pulled his boots on. “That we could have, but the trail’s after twisting like a broken-backed snake betwixt here and there. It’s nigh on three times farther, and we’d’ve moved slower, too. We’re after leaving them further behind by this, and it’s possible they may miss us entirely, though I’d not bet on it.”

  “Well you might’ve told me!” Kenhodan retorted.

  “No, lad, this time I couldn’t be doing that,” Bahzell disagreed solemnly as he watched Kenhodan stamp into his own boots and buckle his sword belt.

  “And why not?” the red-haired man demanded.

  “Because you’re after being too smart and stubborn.” Bahzell grinned. “You’d never have agreed to swim if you’d known as how you had a choice!”

  He and Wencit were still roaring with laughter as they squelched off down the sodden trail.

  * * *

  Chernion reached the Bridge of Eloham at midday and drew up to regard the flood sourly. The water’s fruitless assault on the bridge seemed to mirror the assassins’ efforts to catch their prey, mocking them.

  “Let’s move on,” their leader sighed finally, shifting in the saddle. The strain of so many mounted hours was beginning to tell even on Chernion.

  They clattered onto the bridge, the horses wincing at the vibration in the stone. Storm wrack and flotsam left by the Snowborn’s wrath covered the road in places, proving the torrent was less than it had been. The pavement was clouded with drifts of fine sand and pools of water, and the misting rain was so fine it scarcely dimpled the puddles.

  Chernion neared the center of the bridge and suddenly stopped. One hand rose sharply in command, and the others halted instantly. Some seemed puzzled, but all had worked with Chernion before and waited patiently for the reason to unfold.

  “What is it?” Rosper finally asked softly.

  “We’ve lost them,” Chernion replied calmly.

  “Lost them? How? We found their last rest stop not a quarter-mile back! How can we lose them in the middle of a Sharnā-damned bridge?”

  “Because they never crossed it, Rosper.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look for yourself, Brother. This entire span’s covered with sand. Where are their hoof marks?”

  “Wh—” Rosper leaned from the saddle and looked carefully. Smooth sand smiled blandly back at him. “Could rain have washed them away?”

  “It’s not heavy enough,” Chernion replied.

  “Agreed.” Rosper nodded curtly. “But where have they gone, then? There’s no other road for them, Chernion.”

  “No?” Chernion eyed him thoughtfully. “I’ve said from the start that the Bloody Hand has some plan, and it seems I was correct. Consider: we’ve become so certain they’re on the road before us that we almost failed to notice they’d left it. No, Rosper. There is another way.”

  “Very well, I agree. But where is it?”

  “Let’s see.”

  Chernion wheeled and rode back along the bridge, and dark-cloaked assassins crowded aside and then fell in behind. Chernion rejected the north side of the road—leaving in that direction would only have mired their targets in the mud of the White Water and pinned them between the two rivers. Bahzell would never be that generous, so he must have gone south along some unknown path the Guildmaster didn’t really care to follow.

  They were well off the bridge when Chernion’s dark eyes spied the marks of stockinged feet and hooves on the downslope of the causeway. They were faint, but they were there, and they went straight into the river.

  The assassin sighted thoughtfully along their course, and dark eyes lit on a huge oak that loomed like a giant among halflings. The bushy brows quirked. Sloppy of the Bloody Hand, the Guildmaster mused.

  “There. They swam to that tree for some reason. Send one of your men to confirm it.”

  “And if the Bloody Hand’s waiting with a bow?” Rosper asked.

  “No fear of that,” Chernion said dryly. “The range is barely a hundred yards. If the Bloody Hand were there with a bow, we’d have bodies to prove it by now.”

  “He might wait until we’re strung out crossing over.”

  “No. He knows I’ll send a scout, and that without a satisfactory report, I won’t follow. He’s gone on.”

  “But why? Why leave the road here, this way, instead of a dozen miles back?”

  “Because he knows a trail,” Chernion said patiently, “and he doesn’t care if we follow him, or he would’ve hidden these marks. I don’t know where it leads, but there’s no other crossing to the east bank of the Snowborn short of South Bridge. He’s gone west into the Forest of Hev.”

  “So they’re still bound for Sindor after all!”

  “Of course. It was only a question of their route all along.” Rosper flushed as Chernion forbore to recall their earlier discussion. “As I feared, he knows the land better than we do. I only regret letting him lead me so far from the straight way to Sindor, or I might have met him outside its gates.”

  “But we’re here now,” Rosper said diffidently. “What should we do?”

  Chernion glanced at the Craftmaster from the corner of one dark eye. Rosper was chastened, but was he chastened enough? On the other hand, Chernion had no wish to lead dog brothers personally after Bahzell—not in the woods, and not when he obviously knew precisely where he was going.

  “Send to that tree to see if there is indeed a trail,” Chernion said finally, and a volunteer plunged into the water, carrying one end of a coiled rope. If there was a trail, the rope would aid those who followed—and Chernion knew someone had to follow. There was no alternative.

  The swimmer crawled ashore by the tree and clung to the bank, gasping. After a moment he vanished into the dense undergrowth, only to emerge ten minutes later and wave his arms vigorously in the semaphore of the dog brothers.

  “So.” Chernion plucked a thoughtful lower lip. “They’ve taken a path we don’t know, headed we don’t know where, to take we know not how long to reach Sindor. I’m afraid we have to split
our forces, Rosper.

  “You’ll take seven brothers and follow them, marking if they turn aside. The four others and I will go to Losun, then south to Sindor. We can buy horses at each step, so we can leave you all of our extra mounts and still make good time. Meanwhile, you’ll strike if the opportunity offers. But remember, Rosper: your main duty is to follow. Attack only if you can find a way to use your skills and deny them theirs.

  “If we don’t meet on the road, send word to the Windhawk in Sindor, but stay on their heels wherever they go. Don’t let them vanish again. The Bloody Hand’s cunning, and if he breaks clear, we may never find him again.”

  “Yes, Chernion!” Rosper slapped his chest in salute and grinned. “You won’t wait long for us in Sindor. We’ll bury them in the Forest of Hev.”

  “Be wary, Brother,” Chernion responded coolly, saluting in reply.

  “There are only three of them!”

  “And only eight of you,” Chernion replied. “Be wary, I said. The Bloody Hand is a champion of Tomanāk, and this isn’t the first time, or even the second, the Guild’s hunted him. We failed to take him before, and each attempt cost the Guild dearly. Never doubt that all he asks is to meet any three dog brothers sword-to-sword! You’ve served the Guild well, Rosper. It would grieve me if I had to spend precious time selecting a new southern master, so heed me!”

  “Very well.” Rosper nodded. “I’ll be wary and cautious alike.”

  “Clean killing, then, Rosper.”

  “Clean killing, Chernion.”

  They exchanged salutes once more and went their different ways. Chernion and four others pelted across the bridge, using their mounts mercilessly, while Rosper and his seven took up the sloppy, slippery, slithering pursuit among the trees of the Forest of Hev.