Oath of Swords-ARC

by David Weber

  He got a grip on the hawser and hauled himself cautiously up it. A cathead thrust out above him, and he hooked an elbow around it, then curled his body up to get his knees over it. He crouched there a moment, catching his breath, listening to the trickling splash as water dribbled back into the bay from his skin, then shoved his head cautiously over the rail.

  There was no one in sight, but he heard a fiddle and what sounded like an accordion, and what he'd thought was just an anchor light was also the gleam of light from the scuttles of a low, midships deckhouse. More light glowed from an open companion, and his ears flattened at the realization that some, at least, of the crew was awake. He had no special desire to harm anyone if he could help it, but they wouldn't have any way of knowing he sought peaceable conversation, now would they? That was why he'd hoped to surprise them asleep in their berths, but it seemed he was going to have to do things the hard way.

  He sighed and stood, balancing on the cathead, then stepped across to the deck. His bare feet made no sound, and he started towards the companion. If he could come down it and block access to the deck, then—

  "Here, now! What're you doing creeping about my ship?"

  The sharp, crisp voice was behind him, and he spun like a cat, one hand going to his dagger.

  "Ah, now! None of that!" the voice said even more sharply, and Bahzell swallowed an oath. There had been men on deck; he simply hadn't seen them because they were so small they'd been hidden behind the deckhouse. Now five halflings stood facing him, and each of them held a drawn shortsword as if he knew what to do with it.

  He stepped back against the rail, taking his hand carefully from his dagger, and his eyes narrowed. He'd seen several halflings since leaving Navahk, but none as big as these fellows. They might be little more than half his own height, but they were a good foot or more taller than the only other ones he'd met, and there was nothing hesitant about them. They seemed confident of their ability to deal with him, and the one who'd spoken cocked his head, then spat over the side.

  "Ha!" The spokesman wore the golden trident badge of a worshiper of Korthrala. Now he surveyed the towering, naked, soaking wet intruder on his foredeck and tweaked a handlebar mustache with such superb panache Bahzell's lips twitched despite himself. "You've picked the wrong ship tonight, friend," the halfling said with obvious satisfaction. "I think we'll just feed you back to the fishes and be done with it."

  "Now, now. Let's not be doing anything hasty," Bahzell rumbled back.

  "Oh, we won't be hasty, friend!" The halfling smiled unpleasantly and nodded to his fellows, who split up into pairs to come at Bahzell from both sides. "But you might want to nip back over the side right sharp."

  "And here was I, thinking as how halflings were such cautious folk, and all," Bahzell replied, still keeping his hand away from his dagger.

  "Not Marfang Island halflings." The spokesman kept his eyes fixed on Bahzell, but his lip curled. "We can get downright nasty, so if I were you, I'd be back over that rail double quick."

  "Marfang Island, is it?" Bahzell murmured, and his ears cocked. He'd heard of Marfang Island halflings. They were said to be a breed apart from their fellows—taller, stronger, and noted for a personal courage that verged all too often on rashness. Even the Wild Wash hradani who lived across the channel from their island home had learned to treat them with cautious respect, despite their size advantage. More to the point this night, the Marfang Islanders were also the finest seamen Norfressa bred, despite their small stature, and they hated the Purple Lords with a passion for their interference with free trade.

  "Aye, it is," the halfling agreed. "And the rail's still waiting for you," he added pointedly.

  "You've guts enough for five wee, tiny fellows with knives, I'll grant that," Bahzell said easily, and the halfling gave a crack of laughter.

  "Maybe so, but there are four of us, and you've naught but a knife yourself, longshanks!"

  "Do I now?" Bahzell murmured, and raised his empty right hand with a brief, silent prayer that he'd understood Tomânak correctly that night in the Shipwood. The halflings stopped, suddenly wary, and he drew a deep breath.

  "Come!" he bellowed, and the halflings jumped back in surprise at the sheer volume of his shout—then jumped back again, with unseemly haste, as five feet of gleaming steel snapped into existence in his hand and an empty scabbard thumped the deck at his feet.

  "Well now! It did work," Bahzell observed. He put both hands on his hilt but lowered the tip of the blade to touch the deck unthreateningly and smiled at the spokesman. "I'm thinking I've a bit more than a knife now, friend," he pointed out genially, and the halfling swallowed.

  "How . . . how did—?" He stopped and shook himself, then cleared his throat. "Who in Korthrala's name are you, and what d'you want?" he demanded.

  "As to that, my name is Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum, and I've need of your ship."

  "Prince of—?" the halfling began incredulously, only to stop with a bark of laughter. "Aye, of course you're a prince! What else could you be?" He ran his eyes back over the naked hradani and tweaked his mustache once more. Bahzell's ears flicked in amusement at his tone, but there was no more give in his eyes than in the halfling's, and he nodded.

  "That I am, friend, and a champion of Tomânak ." All five halflings looked at one another in disbelief, and Bahzell's voice hardened. "I'd not be laughing at that, were I you, for I'm not in the mood." He raised the tip of his sword slightly, and the spokesman held out a restraining hand as his fellows bristled in instant response.

  "Not yet, lads," he said, his eyes still locked with Bahzell's. More feet scampered up the companion as his crew belowdecks realized something was happening, but neither he nor Bahzell turned their heads. They faced each other in the darkness, and then the halfling looked pointedly at Bahzell's sword and raised an eyebrow. The Horse Stealer turned it slightly, letting the light catch the symbols of Tomânak etched deep into the steel, and the halfling nodded and lowered his own blade.

  "Well, then, Bahzell Bahnakson," he said dryly, "my name's Evark, and I'm master of this ship. If you need her, I'm the man you have to talk to about it, so suppose you tell me why I should waste time listening?"

  "I've no mind to be rude," Bahzell replied politely, "but I'm thinking this—" he twitched his sword "—might be one reason."

  "It might," Evark allowed. "You might even be able to carve us all up into fish food with it, though I doubt Tomânak would approve. But that would still leave you a little problem, friend—unless you've got a spare crew tucked away?"

  Bahzell chuckled and leaned back, propping his weight on his sword.

  "You've a way about you, Evark, indeed you do. Very well, then, if it's a reason you're wanting, d'you think we could be keeping our swords out of each other long enough for me to give you one?" He twitched his heavy purse so that it jingled, and added, "You've my word you'll not lose by listening."

  "Oh, I suppose we might." Evark beckoned his crewmen back and sat on the roof of the deckhouse, his own sword across his thighs, and grinned at Bahzell. "Assuming, of course, that you understand we'll still chop you into dog meat if it's not a reason we like."

  Brandark sat huddled in a blanket beside the piled heap of driftwood and stared morosely out to sea. The night lay in ashes about him, a hint of gray tinged the eastern horizon, and he chewed the inside of his lip.

  Bahzell should have been back by now, assuming his lunatic plan had worked, and worry gnawed at the Bloody Sword. The whole idea was crazy, and he was bitterly aware why Bahzell had hatched it. He touched his bandaged leg and swore. The sheer joy of realizing it was going to heal after all had been so great he'd almost been able to forget what his continuing incapacity implied, but he could no longer pretend. Without him to look after, Bahzell could have played catch-as-catch-can with the cavalry patrols; with someone who could barely ride, much less walk, that was impossible. Which was why Bahzell had hit upon the notion of somehow hiring—or stealing—a ship. The id
ea had a sort of elegant simplicity, but only an idiot would think a hunted fugitive could sneak into the Purple Lords' very capital, get aboard a ship, and—

  His thoughts broke off as something flashed in the darkness. It blinked again, then burned steadily—a tiny pinprick of light, spilling reflections of itself across the sea. Brandark stared at it incredulously, unable to believe in it, and then he was fumbling madly for his tinderbox.

  A brilliant arm of sun heaved itself drippingly out of the sea just as the launch came gliding in. There was something strange about the boat, and it had taken Brandark several seconds to realize what it was. That enormous shape in the bows had to be Bahzell, but the oarsmen looked like children beside him, and the Bloody Sword shook his head in fresh disbelief as he saw the glint of ivory horns and realized they were halflings.

  The boat slid up on the beach, and Bahzell—wearing sword and dagger but otherwise naked as the day he was born—leapt over the side and heaved it higher on the sand.

  "I see there's some benefits to bringing along someone your size after all!" a voice called from the stern sheets, and Bahzell grinned.

  "You've a sharp tongue for so small a fellow, Evark!" he replied. The fiercely mustachioed halfling laughed, and then Bahzell was bounding through the surf to clasp Brandark on both shoulders. "And you, little man! Don't be telling me you weren't feeling just a mite anxious."

  "Me? Anxious?" Brandark heard the huskiness in his own voice and cleared his throat. "Nonsense!" he said more strongly. "Everyone knows Horse Stealers are born to be hanged. What could have happened to you on a simple little job like this?"

  He waved at the boat as Evark jumped onto the beach and stumped up to them. The halfling captain propped his hands on his hips and peered up at the two hradani, then shook his head.

  "Hanged, is it? Well, he came near enough to it, I suppose. But what's a man to do when an idiot with more sword than brain climbs over the side of his ship in the middle of the night?"

  "Here, now! It's hard enough when one of you is after calling me names!"

  Evark ignored Bahzell and thrust out a hand to Brandark. "So, you're the bard, are you?" he said gruffly.

  "Ah, no." Brandark grasped the proffered hand with a smile. "I'd like to be one, but I've been told I lack the voice for it."

  "Do you, now? Well, never mind. From what your friend tells me, the two of you managed to piss off half the Purple Lord army, and that's recommendation enough to anyone who's ever had to deal with 'em! Besides, Korthrala wouldn't like me anymore if I left one of Scale Balancer's lot to fend for himself, and if Tomânak 's crazy enough to take on a hradani champion, who am I to argue with him?"

  "Ah, the tongue of him!" Bahzell mourned, then laid a hand on the captain's shoulder. "Brandark, be known to Evark of Marfang Island, master of the Wind Dancer, who's after being kind enough to offer us a ride."

  "But I'll not change my schedule for you, mind!" Evark said gruffly. "I'm bound straight to Belhadan with a cargo of Wakuo dates. They won't keep long, so it's to Belhadan you'll go if you ship along with me. Aye, and you'll pull your weight aboard, too!"

  "Belhadan?" Brandark laughed. "D'you know, I suddenly have an absolutely overwhelming desire to see Belhadan. Where is it?"

  "You'll find out, my lad," Evark assured him. Several more of his men swarmed ashore and began gathering up the hradani's sparse gear, and the captain made a shooing gesture at the launch. "Get aboard, get aboard! Your friend's been freezing his arse long enough—we'd best get him back to Wind Dancer and into some clothes before something he'll miss freezes off!"

  "Aye, I'll be going along with that." Bahzell grinned at Evark and slipped an arm around Brandark to help him hobble to the boat. "It's a terrible temper he has for such a wee little fellow," he told the Bloody Sword, "but he's a head on his shoulders for all that."

  "And a good thing, too," Evark snorted, chivvying his passengers across the beach. "Korthrala knows the pair of you need looking after if even half of what you've told me is true, longshanks! Damn me for a Purple Lord if I know which of you's the bigger idiot—you, for getting yourself into this, or this other fathom of fish bait for following you!"

  "Oh, it's Bahzell, hands down," Brandark assured him as the Horse Stealer half-lifted him over the gunwale and settled him on a thwart. One of Evark's men handed him his balalaika with a grin, the other halflings scrambled back aboard, and Bahzell heaved the launch off the beach and crawled over the stem as they backed oars to slide away from the island.

  The bonfire still burned, pale and smoky in the growing, golden light, and Brandark gazed back at it and shook his head again at the breakneck speed with which everything had changed. They were going to live after all.

  "So, I'm the bigger idiot, am I?" Bahzell growled as the launch curtsied across the water. "And where would you be without me, hey?"

  "Snug in bed in Navahk—and hating every minute of it," Brandark said, and Evark snorted behind him.

  "Well, you're a long way from Navahk—wherever it is—" the captain observed, putting the tiller over to steer for his ship "—and I can hardly wait till I put the two of you ashore in Belhadan! Korthrala, the Axemen will have a fit! Still," he squinted into the sun, his voice more thoughtful, "I doubt you'd've made it this far if you couldn't land on your feet."

  "Oh, we'll be fine," Brandark said, turning on the thwart to sit facing him. "Assuming, of course, that Bahzell doesn't find something else to come all over noble about."

  "Noble, is he? Him?" Evark gave a crack of laughter. "Now somehow I don't think that's the very word I'd use to describe him!"

  "Oh, but he is!" Brandark assured the captain. "Nobler than you could possibly guess."

  "Here! That's enough of that!" Bahzell protested while the entire boat's crew chortled.

  "Don't let his modesty fool you," Brandark said earnestly, a wicked gleam in his eye. "He's too shy to brag on himself, but I know. In fact, why don't I just entertain you with a song on the way back to your ship, Captain?"

  "Oh, no, you don't!" Bahzell made a grab for the balalaika, but he couldn't reach far enough past the oarsmen, and Brandark settled the instrument in his lap with a seraphic smile.

  "It's just a little thing I'm still working on," he told a grinning Evark while Bahzell sputtered behind him. "I call it The Lay of Bahzell Bloody-Hand, and it goes like this—"

  "Sword Brother"

  I

  He was thinking about snow when it happened.

  He really ought to have been getting his mind totally focused on the task at hand, but the temperature had topped 110° that afternoon, and even now, with the sun well down, it was still in the nineties. That was more than enough to make any man dream about being some place cooler, even if it had been—what? Three years since he'd really seen snow?

  No, he corrected himself with a familiar pang of anguish. Two and a half years . . . since that final skiing trip with Gwynn.

  Gunnery Sergeant Kenneth Houghton's jaw tightened. After so long the pain should have eased, but it hadn't. Or perhaps it had. Right after he'd received word about the accident, it had been so vast, so terrible, it had threatened to suck him under like some black, freezing tide. Now it was only a wound which would never heal.

  The thought ran below the surface of his mind as he stood in the commander's hatch on the right side of the LAV's flat-topped turret and gazed out into the night. As the senior noncom in Lieutenant Alvarez'' platoon, Houghton commanded the number two LAV (unofficially known as "Tough Mama" by her crew), with PFC Jack Mashita as his driver and Corporal Diego Santander as his gunner. Tough Mama was technically an LAV-25, a Light Armored Vehicle based on the Canadian-built MOWAG Piranha, an eight-wheel amphibious vehicle, armored against small arms fire and armed with an M242 25-millimeter Bushmaster chain gun and a coaxial M240 7.62-millimeter machine gun. A second M240 was pintle-mounted at the commander's station, and Tough Mama was capable of speeds of over sixty miles per hour on decent roads. She drank JP-8 diesel fuel, and
technically, had an operational range of over four hundred miles in four-wheel drive. In eight-wheel drive, range fell rapidly, and the original LAVs had been infamous for leaky fuel tanks which had reduced nominal range even further. The most recent service life extension program seemed to have finally gotten on top of that problem, at least.

  At the moment, Mashita was sitting behind the wheel, with the big Detroit Diesel engine to his immediate right and his head and shoulders sticking up through the hatch above his compartment. The twenty-year old private had just finished checking all of the fluid levels—which he'd do again, every time the vehicle stopped. Santander was standing to one side, jaw methodically working on a huge wad of gum, as he spoke quietly with Corporal Levi Johnson, the senior of their evening's passengers. The four-man recon section they were responsible for transporting and supporting had already stowed most of its gear aboard, and Houghton reminded himself to check the tunnel from the LAV's driver's compartment to the troop compartment before they actually headed out. It was supposed to be kept clear at all times, but people had a habit of protecting equipment and gear from damage by stowing it in the tunnel, rather than stowing it in the open-sided bin mounted on the back of the turret or lashing it to the outside of the vehicle, the way they were supposed to.