Oath of Swords-ARC

by David Weber

  Forty men rolled out of their blankets, snatching for weapons, leaping to their feet in horror as the horde of hradani erupted into their midst. There was no time to don armor; those who'd shed their mail for the night were forced to let it lie, and their vulnerability filled them with its own panic.

  A man dodged frantically, scrambling to evade Bahzell, but there was no time for that, either. The Horse Stealer's massive blade whistled, and his victim went down, screaming as his guts spilled out in a cloud of steam. Brandark thundered past, leaning from the saddle, longsword sweeping like a scythe. A raised blade sought desperately to block the stroke, but its wielder's arm flew in a spray of blood, and he shrieked as the Bloody Sword rode him down. The shrieks cut off with sickening suddenness under trained, iron-shod hooves, and the warhorse pivoted, spurning the body as Brandark reined it around to split the skull of a fleeing foe. Another enemy, this one braver, helmetless but clad in chain mail, leapt to engage Bahzell, and the Horse Stealer smashed him into bloody ruin with a single mighty stroke.

  Steel clashed all around him, and even through the Rage and the fury of battle a corner of his mind marveled at the depth of Wencit's illusion. His phantom allies couldn't actually harm anyone—that would have been against the Strictures—but that was the only thing they couldn't do. The men who engaged them "felt" and "heard" their own blows go home against armor or shield. They knew—didn't just think, but knew—they were locked in mortal combat with real enemies, and Bahzell and Brandark rampaged through them like dire cats. The hradani were the only ones in that entire mad melee who knew the truth. They were unhampered by any confusion as to who could kill them and who couldn't, and they forged straight for the knot of figures beside the fire.

  Two unarmed men leapt to their feet in almost comical disbelief, but they were wizards. Even through the cacophony of shouts and shrieks and clashing steel, Bahzell heard one of them scream a curse as he recognized the illusory horde for what it was. The man's head darted from side to side, seeking the real attackers he knew had to be present, and his hand went up as Bahzell crashed through his panicked retainers. Light flashed on his palm, and the Horse Stealer felt something tug at him even as he kicked a guardsman in the belly and lopped his head as he went down. But the wizard behind that spell was no Wencit of Rum. The elemental fury of the Rage brushed his spell aside, and both wizards stumbled back as Bahzell vaulted over the body of his latest victim towards them.

  Steel glinted as one of their men whirled towards a slender, blanket-wrapped figure beside the fire. Zarantha didn't stir as the blade went up. She simply lay there, watching it rise, seeing it sweep down. She fought desperately against the spell which held her motionless, but there was no escape. She couldn't even scream—and then a gory thunderbolt swept up beneath the descending blade. It smashed the death stroke aside, and the man who'd tried to kill her screamed as Bahzell cut his legs from under him.

  Bahzell straddled Zarantha's motionless body. Two more guards came at him, and he snarled with the terrible glory of the Rage as he smashed them back. Brandark's horse reared, trampling another victim, forehooves crashing down like the War God's mace, and the Bloody Sword lashed out with a backhand blow that flung a body aside in a gout of blood. All around them, men threw aside weapons, turned their backs, fled madly into the snow. Half a dozen of them thought of their horses and ran desperately for the picket line, but Brandark was on their heels. He rode two of them down and scattered the rest, and Bahzell hacked aside the last guardsman foolhardy enough to come at him.

  The Horse Stealer whirled on the wizards, blade hissing as he drove a furious slash at the nearer one, but their retainers' deaths had bought them a few precious seconds. Sparks showered and flashed as Bahzell's blade slammed into an unseen barrier and rebounded, and the wizard behind that barrier spat a curse and raised both hands—not at the hradani, this time, but at Zarantha.

  Bahzell flung himself between those hands and their target. He had no idea if his Rage would protect another from a spell, or even guard him against death magic, but it was the only defense he could give Zarantha. He went to his knees, snarling up at the wizard, covering her with his own body, and the wizard bared his teeth in triumph as he brought both hands down in a convulsive, throwing gesture.

  Light glared and hissed between his clenched fists, spitting towards Bahzell like evil green lightning, but it never struck. Something flashed in its path—a brilliant blue disk, brighter even than the lightning—and the hissing light-snake shattered like glass.

  The wizard staggered back in disbelief, then jerked his head around as another horseman rode slowly forward. The rider's eyes flamed brighter than the camp's fire, and the sword in his hand glittered with the same blue light that had shielded Bahzell and Zarantha. The surviving dog brothers vanished into the howling snow and the last guardsmen yelped in panic and cast down their weapons at the sight, and the wizard who'd tried to kill Zarantha seemed to shrink in on himself. He and his fellow stood rooted to the ground, faces whiter than the blizzard, and Wencit stopped his horse. He dismounted with slow, graceful precision, and sheathed his sword, never taking his wildfire gaze from his enemies.

  "My name," he didn't raise his voice, but it carried crisp and clear and coldly formal through the howl of the wind in a dialect unheard in Norfressa in centuries, "is Wencit of Rum, and by my paramount authority as Lord of the Council of Ottovar I judge thee guilty of offense against the Strictures. Wouldst thou defend thyselves, or must I slay thee where thou standest?"

  One of the wizards whimpered, but the Carnadosan priest who'd tried to kill Zarantha was made of sterner stuff. He wasted no time on words; his right hand darted to his belt, snatching out a short, thick wand, and brought it up in a darting arc at Wencit.

  The wild wizard raised his own hand almost negligently, and the wand exploded in a shower of smoking fragments. The wizard howled and seized his right wrist in his left hand, shaking it frantically as a curl of flame rose from his palm, and Wencit nodded.

  "So be it." His voice held an executioner's dispassion, and he pointed a finger at his writhing foe. "As thou hast chosen, so shalt thou answer."

  A spear of light—the same wildfire light as his eyes—leapt from his finger, and the priest screamed as it struck his chest. His spine arched, convulsing in agony, and the wildfire crawled up inside him. It spewed from his shrieking mouth in a tide of brilliance, glaring and pulsing with the rhythm of his wildly racing heart, and then he collapsed in upon himself like a figure of straw in the heart of a furnace. Smoke poured up from his crumpling body in a stinking tide, whipped and shredded by the wind, and when it cleared only a smoldering heap of ash remained.

  The second wizard fell to his knees, mouth working soundlessly as he raised his hands in piteous supplication, but Wencit's face was colder than the storm. His hand swung, his finger pointed, a second shaft of light lanced out from it, and his victim shrieked like a soul in hell as he blazed.

  Bahzell crouched on his knees, still shielding Zarantha, and even through the Rage he felt a stab of pure, atavistic terror as he stared at Wencit. Wind roared across the hollow, roofing it in a boiling cauldron of white, and the wild wizard loomed against it like a figure out of Kontovar's most terrifying myths. He lowered his hand slowly while the smoke of his enemies streamed up to whip away on the gale, and his words carried with that same, impossible clarity through the blizzard's bellow.

  "By their works I knew them, by the Strictures I judged, and by my oath I acted," he said softly, and turned away at last.

  Chapter Thirty

  There was no dawn. The storm howled on, roaring like an enraged giant, and Bahzell sat beside the fire and watched their prisoners.

  There were eleven of them: six Carnadosan guardsmen and five dog brothers. One assassin would die soon; all four of his fellows and two of the guardsmen were wounded, and cold hatred urged the Horse Stealer to cut all their throats. But the aftertaste of the Rage was poison on his tongue, copper-bright with too
much blood, too much exaltation in its shedding. Even if it hadn't been, these men had surrendered; if he killed them now, it would be in cold blood—murder, not battle—and Bahzell Bahnakson was no dog brother.

  Thirteen bodies lay piled beyond the fire's warmth, frozen and stiff. The dead wizards' remaining henchmen had fled into the shrieking blizzard, most without cloaks, some without even boots. Few would survive the storm, and bleak satisfaction filled Bahzell at the thought as he looked at Zarantha.

  She lay across the fire from him, closed eyes like bruised wounds in her stark, white face as she slept with her head on Wencit's thigh. Her captors had been careful not to abuse her physically, for they'd wanted her strong and fit for sacrifice, and she was tough, Zarantha of Jash,n. Yet the horror of what she'd endured—of riding obediently to what she knew was hideous death, a prisoner in her own body—had marked her . . . and the compulsion that had held her so had survived her captors' deaths.

  Wencit's face had been grim as he bent over her, and Bahzell had knelt behind her, supporting her shoulders against his knee as the wizard's eyes flamed and the cleansing fire of his wizardry burned deep inside her. Bahzell had felt Zarantha's terrible shudders as that sorcery warred with the noisome, clinging shroud about her soul, heard her teeth-clenched groan of agony as the compulsion frayed and tore under the power of Wencit's will, and he'd gathered her in his arms as she sobbed explosively against his mailed chest when the spell broke. He'd smoothed her black hair, murmured to her, held her like a child, and she'd clung to him, burying her face against him.

  That had been almost enough to send him raging amidst the prisoners, murder or no, but it hadn't. He'd only held her, and thought no less of her as she wept, for hradani knew the horror of helplessness in the hands of wizards.

  She'd mastered her tears more quickly than he would have believed possible. She'd drawn the discipline of the magi about her and pushed herself back to smile at him, her white cheeks wet.

  "And so I owe you my life again, Bahzell Bahnakson," she'd said, voice wavering with the aftershock of her tearing sobs. "Oh, Bahzell, Bahzell! What god sent you and Brandark to me, and how can I ever prove worthy of you?"

  "Hush, lass," he'd growled, and patted her roughly, awkward and uncomfortable as a stripling before the glow in her eyes. "You've no call to be 'worthy' of such as us!"

  "Oh, but I do—both of you." She'd reached out a hand to Brandark, and the Bloody Sword had squeezed it gently. "I lied to you, and tricked you into this, and still you came for me."

  "Huh!" Brandark had snorted. "It was no more than a leisurely jog for longshanks here! Now, I, on the other hand—!"

  Zarantha had answered with a gurgle of tearful laughter, but she'd shaken her head until Bahzell cupped her face in one huge hand and turned it back to him.

  "Lass, you never lied. Less than the full truth, aye, but were you thinking the two of us stupid enough not to be guessing you'd reason for it?" Her lips had trembled, and he'd touched her hair once more. "Tothas told us what it was, and I'll not fault your thinking—no, nor your judgment, either."

  "Tothas!" she'd gasped, her eyes darting suddenly about, wide with fresh, sudden dread as she noted her armsman's absence. "Is he—?!"

  "Tothas is well," Bahzell had said firmly. "He'd not the strength for a run like this, so we left him safe enough in Dunsahnta to watch over Rekah. It's half-mad with worry over you he was, but he'd sense enough to know this was best left to us, and he sent his love with us."

  "Rekah is alive?!" Incredulous joy had flickered in her shadowed eyes. "They told me she was dead!"

  "Aye, well, as to that, I've no doubt they thought she was, but she was alive enough when last we saw her, and I'm thinking we left her in the hands of a healer who's kept her so."

  "So you did, and so she is," Wencit had said. Bahzell turned his head, eyebrows raised, and the wild wizard smiled. "I try to keep abreast of things," he'd explained gruffly, "and Tothas and Rekah are just fine. In fact, the commander of Dunsahnta's military district arrived there four days ago, and he's been cleaning out the late baron's friends ever since."

  Zarantha had closed her eyes and sagged against Bahzell once more. "You answer my prayers yet again," she'd murmured. "Dear friend, I can never repay you for all you've done."

  "No, and there's no cause you should," he'd said, letting her rest in his arms. "I told you before, lass; a man looks after his own in this world."

  Bahzell's mind returned to the present, and he looked back at Zarantha. He hadn't wanted to relinquish her to Wencit when she dozed off, but however little he knew of sorcery, he'd recognized Wencit's expression. The wild wizard was worried, and Bahzell had sensed a sort of unseen probing, as if Wencit's mind delved deep inside Zarantha's, seeking for wounds yet unhealed. Now he cleared his throat, and the wizard looked up at him.

  "I'm thinking you're not so satisfied about her as you'd like," the hradani said, and Wencit sighed.

  "Not yet. In time, she'll recover fully, I think, but she'll need care—and watching—till she heals."

  "Ah?" Bahzell cocked his ears.

  "They raped her, Bahzell. Not physically, but inside her mind, and she's a mage." Wencit shook his head, face tight with anger. "She knew what they were doing, which made it still worse. She's . . . open to them. Vulnerable. And if they get the chance to strike her again, it won't be to control, but to kill."

  "Can you be stopping them?" the Horse Stealer demanded flatly.

  "I can, but I'll have to keep her under my eye to shield her. And all I can really do about the damage is hold it where it is—keep it from growing any worse—until we get her someplace safe and familiar, where I can use past associations to help her rebuild her defenses. That means either a mage academy or Jash,n itself, and getting her to either of those places won't be easy."

  "Why not?" Brandark asked across the fire.

  "Carnadosa has more followers in Norfressa than most people dream is possible," Wencit replied. "They dare not draw attention to themselves, but they're always with us. The Dark Gods promise their followers a great deal, and the lust for power cuts deep . . . especially in wizards." He smiled bleakly at the two hradani. "For those who can, the need—the hunger—to wield the art is too terrible to resist. In a sense, it's our own Rage. It drives us with a power and passion I doubt anyone but a hradani could truly understand."

  Bahzell sat motionless for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He'd never considered it in those terms, yet it made sense, and Wencit nodded back as he saw the understanding on the Horse Stealer's face.

  "Ottovar and Gwynytha understood that when they forged the Strictures," the wild wizard said. "A wizard must use his powers, for there's a glory—a splendor—in the art no one can resist. You can kill a wizard, but you can no more forbid him the use of the art than you could forbid the winter, so Ottovar and Gwynytha channeled and confined it, instead. They created a code to prevent the abuse of the art, yet by its very nature that code is eternally in conflict with temptations every wizard faces. The mere fact that it forbids them the unbridled use of their powers would make many resent and hate it, but there's more to it than that, for the study of sorcery is a perilous one, and the restrictions of the Strictures make it more so."

  "Why?" Brandark asked.

  "Because a wizard becomes a nexus of power when he plies his art. What he can accomplish depends directly upon the amount of energy he applies to the task, and he must place himself at the focus of the energies he wields. It requires years of study to develop the technique and strength of will to handle truly powerful concentrations, especially of the types of energy the Strictures allow a wizard to tap. If a wizard's attention wavers at a critical moment, the power will turn on him in an eyeblink, but blood magic and black sorcery are far easier to manipulate than the wizardry the Strictures allow. A white wizard must stretch to the limits of his ability to command the power for complex, high-level applications; a black wizard requires less strength of will because the nature of the
power he uses makes it easer to control. That's why the dark art is so seductive, and it gives black wizards certain advantages. They deny the Strictures and pervert the art, and most of them are weaker than white wizards in the sense that they seldom fully develop their potential. They can achieve less with a given amount of power because their technique is more, well, lazy. Yet because the energy they tap is more susceptible to control, they can hold their own against inherently more powerful wizards bound by the Strictures—and if a white wizard resorts to expediency to match them, he becomes the very thing he fights, just as a warrior who breaks Tomânak 's Code reduces himself to the level of a Churnazh or Harnak."