Oath of Swords-ARC

by David Weber

  "All right," he said after a moment, "I can see that. But they'll know that's what we did and just cast up and down the shore from where the trail disappeared."

  "So they will, but they'll not be finding us unless they search every islet they come across, now will they?"

  Brandark rubbed his ear harder, then nodded.

  "All right," he conceded. "As long as we don't do anything to call attention to ourselves, they'll probably assume we kept on going. Gods know only a lunatic wouldn't keep running! But we're short on provisions, Bahzell, and I don't see any sign of fresh water. We can't stay here long."

  "No more will we have to. Give me another few hours, and I'll be off with the dark to fetch back a ship for us."

  Brandark's jaw dropped. He stared at his friend without speaking for over a minute, then shook his head slowly.

  "The man's mad. Stark, staring mad! Where d'you think you're going to find a ship, you idiot?"

  "Why, as to that, I'm thinking there's ships and to spare down to Bortalik Bay," Bahzell said cheerfully, "and we've still that nice, fat purse Yithar was after leaving us. With that, all I need do is nip down and, ah, hire one of them."

  Bahzell dumped the last armload of driftwood on the heap and regarded it with a proprietary air. He'd chosen the site for the bonfire-to-be with care, then spent over an hour heaping sand into a high wall to improve it. The island's low spine and his piled barrier would prevent anyone ashore from seeing it, but once lit, it should be visible for miles from seaward.

  Brandark had sat propped against his saddle, strumming experimentally on his balalaika while he worked. The Bloody Sword's maimed left hand made chording difficult, and he seemed to be concentrating on that to the exclusion of all else—until Bahzell dusted his palms with an air of finality.

  "You do realize just how stupid this is, don't you?" he said then, never looking up from the bridge of his instrument.

  "Well, no one was ever after calling me smart." Bahzell crossed to the tethered mule and horse to free their leads from the picket lines and grinned at Brandark's caustic snort. "And stupid or no, I've yet to hear a better idea from you."

  "I've done my part by trying to talk you out of this. I don't have the energy to think up better ideas on top of that."

  "And here I thought you such a clever lad!" Bahzell gathered the animals' reins and headed down the beach into the wash of the surf. Water filled his worn, leaky boots instantly, but he ignored it. He was still damp from wading out to the island in the first place, and it was no part of his plan to leave visible tracks along any of the islet's shoreline.

  "You'll never be able to do it—not alone," Brandark said more seriously.

  "I'm thinking you're wrong, and wrong or no, it's a notion worth trying. We've little chance of outrunning them all afoot, and they'll not be expecting such as this."

  "Maybe that just indicates how much smarter than you they are!" Brandark growled, eyes still fixed on his balalaika.

  "It may that," Bahzell agreed, listening to the grumbling breath of the sea, "but smarter or no, it's time I was gone. Don't you go drifting off to sleep, now!"

  "Don't worry about me, you lunatic. Just watch your own backside, and—" Brandark looked up at last, his eyes unwontedly serious in the twilight "—good luck."

  Bahzell nodded, raised one hand in a half wave, and waded further out into the surf.

  It had been dead low water when they crossed to the island; by the time Bahzell reached the mainland once more, the flood tide was sending hissing waves high up the beach. A newly risen moon spilled silver light over the sand, and he looked back over his shoulder in satisfaction as he led the unsaddled horse and mule clear of the water. His and Brandark's earlier tracks had already been eaten by the tide, leaving no sign that anyone had detoured to the island, and he moved rapidly along between the surf and the high-tide mark for the better part of a mile before he climbed higher up on the beach. If any tracker did cast along the shoreline for his trail, they should find exactly what he wanted them to: the same prints of one pair of boots, one horse, and one mule, with nothing to suggest that at least one of their quarry was no longer in front of them. He hoped no one would ever see those tracks at all, but if they did, he'd at least gotten Brandark safely out of it, and he'd left all their remaining provisions with the Bloody Sword. They should last him for a week or so, if he was careful with his water. By then, any pursuit should have moved on to other areas and his leg should be recovered enough to give him an excellent chance of making it back to the Empire of the Spear on his own.

  Not, Bahzell reminded himself, that there would be any reason for Brandark to do any such thing . . . assuming, of course, that his plan worked.

  He urged the animals up the beach into the lee of the high dunes to avoid silhouetting himself against the moon-silvered sea and jogged eastward.

  Bahzell had gone perhaps a league when his head jerked up, and he frowned. His ears pricked, trying to identify the sound which had cut even through the grumble of the surf, and then he blinked in disbelief. The high, fierce cry of a hunting falcon came yet again, and he wheeled away from the sea as a black shape swept across the star-strewn sky.

  An instant of cold panic touched his heart, yet there was too little time to feel it fully. There was no way a falcon should be on the wing so late at night, and even less reason for the bird to launch itself towards him like a lodestone to steel. Instinct screamed warning at the unnaturalness of its appearance, but another instinct brought his right arm flashing up to guard his face as the fierce-beaked predator shot straight into it. His muscles tensed against the rending attack of powerful talons, but it never came. Instead, those lethal claws struck his wrist and closed with impossible gentleness.

  Bahzell's breath hissed out of him in a deep, shuddering gasp, but his relief was far from total. He lowered his arm slowly, cautiously, extending it well away from him, and the bird mantled as it shifted its weight to balance on his wrist. It cocked its head, small, round eyes bright with reflected moonlight, and Bahzell swallowed. He wore no falconer's gauntlet, but the bird still gripped with those gentle talons, and then its beak opened.

  "Hello, Bahzell." The Horse Stealer twitched again, muscles tensing to jump back. His ears flattened, but then he made himself stand very still, for he recognized the voice issuing from that dangerous, hooked beak. It was Zarantha's! He stared at the falcon and licked his lips, aware that he must look like a total idiot, then opened his mouth to reply, but the falcon spoke again before he could.

  "I asked Wencit for a favor," Zarantha's voice went on, "and Father agreed to give up his prize falcon for it. Wencit promises it will find you, but I'm afraid not even he can guarantee it will ever come home again afterward. Father was a bit upset by that, but I guess he thinks getting his daughter back is worth a few sacrifices."

  Despite himself, Bahzell grinned as he heard the familiar, laughing wickedness in Zarantha's voice. It was even more welcome—and precious—as he recalled her wan, wounded look on the morning they parted, and the falcon flapped its wings again, shifting from foot to foot as if it shared her laughter.

  "At any rate, Wencit got me safely home, dear friend," Zarantha went on more seriously. "He tells me his gramerhain suggests that you and Brandark won't be able to visit us after all—this time, at least—so I wanted you to know you don't have to worry about me anymore. I've heard from Tothas, as well. He and Rekah are indeed well, and they should be home within a few weeks, too. Thank you, my friend. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. If we never meet again, know that I will never forget all you and Brandark did for us."

  The voice paused for a moment, then changed. It was no longer Zarantha's, but a man's, deep and measured.

  "I know little of sorcery, Bahzell Bahnakson and Brandark Brandarkson, but if Wencit is correct and you ever hear this message, know that Caswal of Jash,n stands eternally in your debt. I repeat my daughter's invitation, and beg you to visit us here, if ever it should be possible, and
I name you Bahzell and Brandark of Jash,n, sept to Jash,n. If ever I, or any man of Jash,n may serve you or yours, send word. And if the gods decree we shall never meet, know that wherever you may go, you are blood of our blood and bone of our bone, my friends."

  Duke Jash,n's voice ceased, and the bird stood silent for another moment while Bahzell stared at it. Then Zarantha spoke a final time, and her voice was soft.

  "And so our journey ends at last, dearest of friends and now my brothers. My life and the lives of those dear to me were your gift, and I give you now the only gift I can across the miles between us: my love. May it go with you always, and may the Gods of Light keep and guard you both as you kept and guarded me. Farewell, Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum. Farewell Brandark. Remember us."

  Bahzell blinked eyes that burned with sudden, unexpected tears. The falcon lingered on his wrist, gaze still fixed upon him, and he drew a deep breath.

  "Farewell, Zarantha of Jash,n," he whispered, and the bird threw back its head with another high, fierce cry. And then, suddenly, it launched itself like an arrow from the string and vanished into the stars, and only the sigh of the wind and the rumble of the surf breathed in the night.

  The trip took longer than Bahzell had expected, but it was without further incident, for there were few decent anchorages between Falan Bay and Bortalik, and the merchant princes who ruled the city of Bortalik protected their position. No other ports were permitted along their coastline. Even fishing villages were almost unheard of and existed only on sufferance. Bortalik tolerated them within a few leagues of the city itself, where the city's customs agents could police them, but none were allowed to dabble in trade. More than one fishing port had been burned out—by landing parties from merchantmen, as well as warships—if the city merchants so much as suspected it of smuggling. And so, ironically in a land whose enormous wealth depended upon its control of seaborne trade, this entire vast sweep of coast was almost empty.

  Almost, but not quite. The moon was well into the west when Bahzell rounded a headland and found himself abruptly facing a good-sized village at last. There were few lights, ashore or afloat, and he frowned at the fishing boats drawn up on the beach or nestled alongside the rickety-looking wharves.

  The animals blew gratefully as he squatted on his heels, gazing at the boats and pondering his options. It was tempting, but, after several moments' consideration, he shook his head. He was no seaman, yet those vessels looked too flimsy to his landsman's eye. Most of them were little more than glorified rowboats or small, single-masted craft. No, he needed something bigger and better suited to deep water . . . but that didn't mean the village was useless to him.

  He led the horse and mule inland, eyes sweeping the dark. This might be a fishing village, but somewhere there had to be a—

  Ah! He grinned to himself as he found the small, stonewalled pasture. It held perhaps a dozen cattle and runty horses, and he made his way around to a gate in the low wall. The night was undisturbed by so much as a barking dog as he eased the gate open and turned his own animals quietly into the pasture. They stood for a moment, gazing back at him curiously, then shook their heads and trotted over to the pasture's other inhabitants, and Bahzell chuckled as he closed the gate behind them.

  Unless he missed his guess, the owner of that pasture was unlikely to mention the sudden arrival of two big, strong, healthy, and expensive animals to anyone. Indeed, he might go to some lengths to hide his unexpected gifts, which would suit Bahzell fine. Even if he did report them to the authorities, Bahzell should be long gone by the time those authorities figured out where they'd come from, and he felt better leaving them to someone's care. They'd served him and Brandark well, and the thought of simply abandoning them hadn't set well with him.

  He started off once more, and, divested of the animals, he made better time. He jogged past two more villages—their existence welcome signs that he was nearing his destination—and the moon was still well above the horizon when he finally spied the dull glint of high walls before him.

  Bortalik dozed under the moon. Bahzell made his way out onto a rocky point and leaned back against a boulder, catching his breath while he gazed across a wide arm of Bortalik Bay at the sleeping city. Watch lights dotted the curtain wall and crowned the countless towers that ribbed its length, and more lights were smears of brightness along the wharves that lined its foot. There was activity at dockside even this late at night, and masts and rigging rose in a black lace forest against the light. Other vessels dotted the bay, lying to anchors or buoys, and, despite himself, Bahzell felt a trace of wonder at the sheer size of the port.

  The northern hradani tribes knew little more about the Purple Lords than the Purple Lords knew about them, but even they had heard of Bortalik Bay, and Zarantha and Tothas had told him far more. Bortalik was the undisputed queen of the southern coast and determined to remain so. The enormous bay was not simply a superb natural anchorage; it also controlled the entire delta of the mighty Spear River and, with it, all trade that moved up the Spear or any of its tributaries. It was an advantage the Purple Lords used ruthlessly, and the power it gave them was obvious as Bahzell looked out upon their city.

  He shook himself after a moment and turned his eyes away from the city walls and back out over the bay, searching for what he needed. Not too small, he thought, but not too big, either, and well away from the docks. Surely, among all that shipping, there must be—

  His eyes settled on a single vessel, and he rubbed his chin. The twin-masted schooner was further from shore than he'd hoped, but aside from that it seemed perfect. The anchor light on its foredeck burned like a lonely star, for there was nothing else within a hundred yards of it, and even in the uncertain moonlight it looked low, sleek, and fast. Best of all, it was little larger than one of Kilthan's riverboats, which suggested a reasonably small crew.

  He studied it a moment longer, then nodded once.

  There was no surf within the confines of the sheltered bay, but water washed and surged rhythmically as Bahzell laid aside his baldric and unbuckled his weapon harness. He'd left his arbalest and scale mail with Brandark, for he'd known this moment was coming, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as he methodically stripped to the skin. He belted his dagger and a fat, jingling purse back about his naked waist, then laid his sheathed sword atop his discarded boots and clothing with a final pat he hoped looked less dubious than it felt. Part of him wanted to ask Tomânak if this whole notion was truly a good idea, but the rest of him dug in stubborn toes and refused the temptation. A man couldn't just go about asking "May I?" every time he had to make a decision, he told himself. Of course, he was relying heavily on what Tomânak had told him about his sword, but even so—

  He snorted and shook himself, ears half-flattened in amusement. Either it worked, or it didn't, and standing here thinking of excuses to delay the inevitable wouldn't change the final outcome! He grinned crookedly at the thought and waded out into the bay.

  The bottom dropped off more sharply than he'd expected. It was going to be a longer swim than he'd planned, but a broken, drifting spar bumped up against him, as if to compensate, and he seized it gratefully. He was no fish, and the spar's added buoyancy was welcome as he kicked his way across the bay. There was enough noise in the night to hide most sounds, yet there was no point taking chances, and he tried—not entirely successfully—to avoid splashes. It was a long, tiring swim; the bay was colder than he'd anticipated when he was only wading through the surf; and he was acutely aware that he was a land animal. He sensed the empty water between him and the bottom, how easily it could suck him under, and found himself thinking about sharks. Or octopuses—they ate people, too, didn't they? And even if they didn't, the gods only knew what else might be hiding just under the water, circling him, waiting . . . .

  He pushed the thought firmly away. People swam in the sea all the time, and they'd hardly do that if something pounced on anyone who tried! Of course, that didn't mean nothing ever pounced, and—
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br />   He looked up and inhaled in deep, heartfelt relief as he saw his destination close ahead. He kicked more strongly, and his ears twitched in amusement at his own eagerness to reach it. For all he knew, that vessel's entire crew had seen him coming and was lined up behind the bulwark to knock him on the head, but it didn't matter. The company of his thoughts on the swim out left him impatient to confront them even so.

  He reached the schooner's side and swam along it as quietly as he could. It was flush-decked, with a low sheer and a freeboard of no more than six or seven feet, yet that was high enough to make things difficult for a man in the water. He was confident that he could lunge high enough to get his fingers over the rail, but not without an appalling amount of noise, and he continued forward until he reached the flared bow. The bowsprit was a long, graceful lance, reaching out above his head, but the anchor cable plunged into the water beside him, and he laid a hand on the thick hawser. He craned his neck, peering up to where it curved over the anchor bits. It looked far more promising than trying to heave himself bodily over the side, and he nodded in satisfaction and shoved the broken spar away.