Kethry pulled herself to her feet and half-stumbled to the entrance. “If you come in the Name of the Powers of Light, enter freely,” she croaked, “If not, be you gone.”
The thing bowed its head gravely, and padded into the circle. There it stood, looking first at Kethry, then at Tarma; deliberately, measuringly.
I bond to you, said a deep voice in the back of Tarma’s head.
Once again she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Li‘sa’eer!” she choked, backing a few paces away from the thing. “What?”
I bond to you, warrior. We are alike, we two; both warriors for the Light, both—celibate—The voice in her head had a feeling of amusement about the choice of the last word. It is fit we be soul-bonded. Besides, Lady of Power—he turned to look at Kethry, —you do not need me. You have the spirit-sword. But you—he turned his huge eyes back to Tarma,—YOU need me.
“She‘enedra,” Tarma said tightly, keeping a firm grip on her nerves, “What in hell am I supposed to do? He says he wants me!”
“Oh, my Lady Bright—what a bloody mess! It could only happen to me! Give in,” Kethry staggered to her bedroll and half-collapsed into it, laughing weakly. “A day and a night of spell-casting, and what happens? My familiar decides he’d rather bond to my partner! Lady Bright—if it weren’t so damned funny I think I’d kill you both!”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
You could try talking to me.
Tarma gulped, and approached the beast cautiously. It sat at its ease, tongue lolling out in a kind of grin. She could sense his amusement at her apprehension in the back of her mind. Curiously, that seemed to make her fear vanish.
“Well,” she said at last, after several long moments of trying to think of something appropriate. “I’m Tarma.”
And I—am Warrl. The creature lay down on the pavement, and cocked its head to one side. Its—no, his; it might have been a “neuter” but there was a distinctly masculine feeling to him—his eyes caught the moonlight and reflected greenishly.
“I’m not quite sure what I should do about you,” she confessed. “I mean I’m no mage—what’s the next move?”
You might start by offering me something to eat, Warrl said, I’ve come a long way, and I’m hungry. Do I smell meat-bars? There was something in his mental sending that was so like a child begging for a sweet that Tarma had to laugh.
“You do, my friend,” she replied, rising to get one for him. “And if you like them as much as I dislike them, I have the feeling we’re going to suit each other very well indeed!”
Six
They were fortunate; almost as soon as they emerged from the Pelagirs, they were able to find a short-term job as escorts. A scrawny, middle-aged man sought them at their inn within hours of when they had posted themselves at the Mercenaries’ Guild and paid their fees.
“You’ll be providing protection for my new bride,” their employer, an hereditary knight who didn’t look capable of lifting his ancestral blade, much less using it, told Tarma. “I will be remaining here for a month or more to consolidate my interests with Darthela’s father, but I wish her to make the journey to Fromish now, before winter weather sets in.”
“Are we to be the only guards?” Tarma asked, a little doubtfully. She shifted on the wooden bench uncomfortably, and wished Kethry was here instead of visiting the tiny White Winds enclave she’d ferreted out. She could have used the sorceress’ quick wits right now.
“I’m afraid so,” he replied with a sheepish smile. “To be brutally frank, Swordlady, my house is in rather impoverished condition at the moment. I couldn’t afford to take any of my servants away from the harvesting to serve as guards for her, and I can’t afford to hire more than the two of you. And before you ask, my bride’s retinue is confined to one handmaiden. Her dower is to be in things less tangible, but ultimately more profitable, than immediate cash.”
Tarma decided that she liked him. The smile had been genuine, and his frankness with a pair of hirelings rather touching.
Of course, she thought wryly, that could just be to convince us that the fair Darthela won’t have much with her worth stealing.
“I’ll tell you what we can do to narrow the odds against us a bit,” Tarma offered. “I can arrange to set out a little later than you asked us, so that we’re about half a day behind that spice-trader. Anybody looking for booty is likely to go for him and miss us.”
“But what about wild beasts?” he asked, looking concerned. “Won’t they have been attracted to the campsites by the trader’s leavings?”
Tarma’s estimation of him rose a notch. She had been picturing him as so likely to have his nose in a book all the time that he had little notion of the realities of the road.
“Wild beasts are the one problem we won’t have,” she replied. “You’re getting a bargain, you know—you aren’t actually getting two guards, you’re getting three.”
At her unspoken call, Warrl inched out from under the bar where he’d been drowsing, stretched lazily, and opened enormous jaws in a yawn big enough to take in a whole melon. Sir Skolte regarded the kyree with astonishment and a little alarm.
“Bright Lord of Hosts!” he exclaimed, inching away a little. “What is that?”
“My partner calls him a kyree, and his name is Warrl.”
“A Pelagir Hills kyree? No wonder you aren’t worried about beasts!” The knight rubbed a hand across his balding pate, and looked relieved. “I am favored by your acquaintance, Sirrah Warrl. And grateful for your services.”
Warrl nodded graciously and returned to his resting place beneath the bar. This close to the Hills, the innmaster and his help were fairly familiar with the kyree kind—and when Warrl had helped to break up a bar-fight within moments of the trio’s arrival, he had earned their gratitude and a place of honor. And no few spiced sausages while he rested there.
Tarma was pleased with the knight’s ready acceptance of her companion, and finalized the transaction with him then and there. By the time Kethry returned, she had already taken care of supplies for the next day.
They appeared at the house of the bride’s father precisely at noon the next day, ready to go. Sir Skolte met them at the gate—which was something of a surprise to Kethry.
“I—rather expected you would send a servant to wait for us,” Kethry told him, covering her confusion quickly, but not so quickly that Tarma didn’t spot it.
“Darthela has been insisting that I ‘properly introduce’ you,” he replied, a rather wry smile on his thin lips. “That isn’t the sort of thing one leaves to a servant. I confess that she has been most eager to meet you.”
Tarma caught her partner’s quizzical glance and shrugged.
The odd comment was explained when they finally met the fair young bride; she entered the room all flutters and coquettishness, which affectations she dropped as soon as she saw that her escorts were female. She made no effort to hide her disappointment, and left “to pack” within moments.
“Now I see why you hired us instead of that pair of Barengians,” Tarma couldn’t help but say, stifling laughter.
Sir Skolte shrugged eloquently. “I won’t deny I’m a bit of a disappointment for her,” he replied cynically. “But beggars can’t be choosers. She’s the sixth in a set of seven daughters, and her father was so pleased at being able to make trade bargains with me in lieu of dower that he almost threw her at me. Fortunately, my servants are all uglier than I am.”
The look in his eye told Tarma that Darthela was going to have to be a great deal cleverer than she appeared to be if she intended to cuckold this fellow.
But then again ...
“Tell me, are folk around here acquainted with the tale of ‘Bloody Carthar’s Fourteen Wives?’ Or ‘Meralis and the Werebeast?’ ”
He shook his head. “I would say I know most of the tales we hear in these parts by heart, and those don’t sound familiar.”
“Then we’ll see if we can’t incline Darthela’
s mind a bit more in an appropriate direction,” Kethry said, taking her cue from the two stories Tarma had mentioned. “We’ll be a week in traveling, and stories around the campfire are always welcome, no?”
“What—oh, I see!” Sir Skolte began to laugh heartily. “Now, more than ever, I am very glad to have met you! Ladies, if you are ever looking for work again, I shall give you the highest recommendations—especially to aging men with pretty young wives!”
That took them from Lythecare to Fromish, on the eastbound roads. In Fromish they ran into old friends—Ikan and Justin.
“Hey-la! Look who we have here!” Tarma would have known that voice in a mob; in the half-empty tavern it was as welcome as a word from the tents.
She leapt up from her seat to catch Justin’s forearm in a welcoming clasp. And not more than a pace behind him came Ikan.
They got themselves sorted out, and the two new-comers gave their orders to the serving boy before settling at Tarma’s table.
“Well, what brings you ladies to these benighted parts?” Ikan asked, shaking hair out of his guileless eyes. “Last we saw, you were headed south.”
“Looking for work,” Tarma replied shortly. “We did get home but ... well, we decided, what with one thing and another, to go professional. Even got our Guild tags.” She pulled the thong holding the little copper medal out of her tunic to display it for them.
“I thought you two didn’t work in winter,” Kethry said in puzzlement.
“It isn’t winter yet, at least not according to our employers. Last caravan of the season. Say—we might be able to do each other a favor, though.” Justin eyed the two women with speculation. “You say you’re Guild members now? Lord and Lady, the Luck is with us, for certain!”
“Why?”
“We’ve got two guards down with flux—and it does not look good. We want out of here before the snows close in, but we daren’t go shorthanded and I don’t trust the scum that’s been turning up, hoping to get hired on in their places. But you two—”
“Three,” Tarma corrected, as Warrl shambled out of the kitchen where he’d been enjoying meat scraps and the antics of the innkeeper’s two children.
“Hey-la! A kyree!” Ikan exclaimed in delight. “Even better!”
“Shieldbrother,” Justin lounged back in his chair with an air of complete satisfaction, “I will never doubt your conjuring of the Luck again. And tonight the drink’s on me!”
The nervous jewel merchants were only too pleased to find replacements that could be vouched for by their most trusted guard-chiefs. They were even happier when they learned that one of the two was Shin‘a’in and the other a mage. Kethry more than earned her pay on that trip, preventing a thief mage from substituting bespelled glass for the rubies and sapphires they had just traded for.
They left the merchants before they returned to Mornedealth, Kethry not particularly wanting to revisit quite yet. Ikan and Justin did their best to persuade them otherwise, but to no avail.
“You could stay at the Broken Sword. Tarma could keep drilling us like she did last year,” Justin coaxed. “And Cat would dearly love to see you. She’s set herself up as a weapons merchant.”
“No ... I want things to cool down a little more,” Kethry said. “And frankly, we need to earn ourselves a reputation and a pretty good stake, and we won’t do that sitting around in Mornedealth all winter.”
“You,” Ikan put in, a speculative gleam in his eyes, “have got more in mind than earning the kind of cozy docket we have. Am I right, or no?”
“You’re right,” Tarma admitted.
“So? What’ve you got in mind?”
“Schools—or rather a school, with both of us teaching what we’re best at.”
“You’ll need more than a good stake and a rep—you’ll need property. Some kind of big building, stables, maybe a real indoor training area—and a good library, warded research areas, and neighbors who aren’t too fussy about what you conjure.”
“Gods, I hadn’t thought that far, but you’re right,” Tarma said with chagrin. “Sounds as if what we want is on the order of a manor house.”
“Which means you’d better start thinking in terms of working for a noble with property to grant once you get that rep. A crowned head would be best.” Justin looked at both of them soberly. “That’s not as unlikely as you might think; a combination like you two is rare even among men; sword and magic in concert are worth any ten straight swordsmen, however good. Add to it that you’re female—think about it. Say you’ve got a monarch needing bodyguards; who’d check out his doxy and her servant? There’s a lot of ways you could parlay yourself into becoming landed, and Keth’s already ennobled.”
“But for now ...” Kethry said.
“For now you’ve got to earn that rep. Just bear in mind that what you’re going after is far from impossible.”
“Can we—ask you for advice now and again?” Kethry asked. “Justin, you sound to me as if you’ve figured some of this out for yourselves.”
“He did,” his partner grinned. “Or rather, we did. But we decided that it was too big a field for the two of us to hope to plow. So we settled for making ourselves indispensable to the Jewel Merchants’ Guild. Fact is, we’ve also been keeping our eyes out for somebody like you two. We aren’t going to be young forever, and we figured on talking somebody into taking us on at their new school as instructors before we got so old our bones creaked every time we lunged.” He winked at Kethry.
Tarma stared. “You really think we have a chance of pulling this off?”
“More than a chance, nomad—I’d lay money on it. I’m sure enough that I haven’t even tried luring your lovely little partner into my bed—I don’t make love to prospective employers.”
“Well!” Tarma was plainly startled. “I will be damned ...”
“I hope not,” Justin chuckled, “or I’ll have to find another set of prospects!”
They got a commission with another caravan to act as guards—courtesy of their friends. On their way they detoured briefly when Need called them to rid a town of a monster, a singularly fruitless effort, for the monster was slain by a would-be “hero” the very day they arrived.
After that they skirmished with banditti and a magician’s half-trained ex-apprentice who thought robbing caravans was an easier task than memorizing spells. Kethry “slapped his hands,” as she put it, and left him with a geas to build walls for the temple of Sun-Lord Resoden until he should learn better.
When the caravan was safely gotten home, they found an elderly mage of the Blue Mountains school who wanted some physical protection as he returned to his patron, and was delighted with the bonus of having a sorceress of a different discipline to converse with.
During these journeys Tarma and Warrl were learning to integrate themselves as a fighting team; somewhat to Tarma’s amazement, her other-worldly teachers were inclined to include him whenever he chose. After her initial shock—and, to some extent, dismay—she had discovered that they did have a greatl deal in common, especially in attitudes. He was, perhaps, a bit more cynical than she was, but he was also older. He never would admit exactly how old he was; when Tarma persisted, he seized one of her hands in his powerful jaws and mind-sent, My years are enough, mindmate, to suffice. She never asked again.
But now they had fallen on dry times; they had wound up on the estate of Viscount Hathkel, with no one needing their particular talents and no cities nearby. The money they had earned must now be at least partially spent in provisioning them to someplace where they were likelier to find work.
That was the plan, anyway—until Need woke from her apparent slumbers with a vengeance.
Tarma goaded her gray Shin‘a’in warsteed into another burst of speed, urging her on with hand and voice (though not spur—never spur; that would have been an insult the battlesteed would not tolerate) as if she were pursued by the Jackals of Darkness. It had been more than long enough since she had first become Kal‘enedral for her hair
to have regrown—now her long, ebony braids streamed behind her; close enough to catch one of them rode Kethry. Kethry’s own mare was a scant half a length after her herd-sister.
Need had left Kethry almost completely alone save for that one prod almost from the time they’d left the Liha‘irden camp. Both of them had nearly forgotten just what bearing her could mean. They had been reminded this morning, when Need had woken Kethry almost before the sun rose, and had been driving the sorceress (and so her blood-oath sister as well) in this direction all day. At first it had been a simple pull, as she had often felt before. Tarma had teased, and Kethry had grumbled; then they had packed up their camp and headed for the source. Kethry had even had time enough to summon a creature of the Ethereal Plane to scout and serve as a set of clairvoyant “eyes” for them. But the call had grown more urgent as the hours passed, not less so—increasing to the point where by midafternoon it was actually causing Kethry severe mental pain, pain that even Tarma was subject to, through the oath-bond. That was when they got Warrl up onto the special carry-pad they’d rigged for him behind Tarma’s saddle, and prepared to make some speed. They urged their horses first into a fast walk, then a trot, then as sunset neared, into a full gallop. By then Kethry was near-blind with mental anguish, and no longer capable of even directing their Ethereal ally, much less questioning it.
Need would not be denied in this; Moonsong k‘Vala, the Hawkbrother Adept they had met, had told them nothing less than the truth. Kethry was soul-bonded to the sword, just as surely as Tarma was bonded to her Goddess or Warrl to Tarma. Kethry was recalling now with some misgiving that Moonsong had also said that she had not yet found the limit to which it would bind itself to her—and if this experience was any indication of the future, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
All that was of any importance at the moment was that there was a woman within Need’s sensing range in grave peril—peril of her life, by the way the blade was driving Kethry. And they had no choice but to answer the call.
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