by David Weber
“Haaahhhhhhh! ” Bahzell gasped, and a hand caught Brandark’s wrist like a vise, fit to shatter any human arm, so powerful even Brandark hissed in anguish. But then the Horse Stealer’s eyes flared open. Recognition flickered in their clouded depths, and his grip relaxed as quickly as it had closed.
“Brandark?” His mutter was thick, and he shook his head drunkenly. He shoved up on the elbow of the hand still gripping Brandark’s wrist, scrubbing at his face with his other hand. “What?” he asked more clearly. “What is it?”
“I . . . was going to ask you that.” Brandark kept his voice low and twisted his wrist gently. Bahzell looked down, ears twitching as he realized he held it, and his hand opened completely. He stared at his own fingers for a moment, then clenched them into a fist and sucked in a deep breath.
“So, it’s muttering in my sleep I was, is it?” he said softly, and his jaw clenched when Brandark nodded. He opened and closed his fist a few times, then sighed and thrust himself into a sitting position. “A blooded warrior with a score of raids into the Wind Plain,” he murmured in a quiet, bitter whisper, “and he’s whimpering in his nightmares like a child! Pah!”
He spat in disgust, then looked up with a jerk as Brandark touched his shoulder again.
“That was no child’s nightmare,” the Bloody Sword said. Bahzell’s eyes widened, and Brandark shrugged. “I couldn’t make out exactly what you were saying, but I picked out a few words.”
“Aye? And what might they have been?” Bahzell asked tautly.
“You spoke of gods, Bahzell-more than one, I think-and of wizards.” Brandark’s voice was harsh, and Bahzell grunted as if he’d been punched in the belly. They stared at one another in the night, and then Bahzell looked up at the moon.
“I’ve three hours before I go on watch, and I’m thinking it’s best we go somewhere private,” he said flat-voiced.
***
They found a place among the provision wagons, and Brandark perched on a lowered wagon tongue while Bahzell stood with a boot braced on a wheel spoke and leaned both arms on his raised knee. A silence neither wanted to break lingered, but finally Bahzell cleared his throat and straightened.
“I’m thinking,” he said quietly, “that I don’t like this above half, Brandark. What business does such as me have with dreams like that?”
“I suppose,” Brandark said very carefully, “that the answer depends on just what sorts of dreams they are.”
“Aye, so it does-or should.” The Horse Stealer folded his arms, standing like a blacker, more solid chunk of night, and exhaled noisily. “The only trouble with that, Brandark my lad, is that I’m not after being able to remember the cursed things!”
“Then tonight wasn’t the first time?” Brandark’s tenor was taut.
“That it wasn’t,” Bahzell said grimly. “They’ve plagued me nightly-every night, I’m thinking-since the brigands hit us, but all I’ve been able to call to mind from them is bits and pieces. There’s naught to get my teeth into, naught to be telling me what they mean . . . or want of me.”
Brandark’s hand moved in a quick, instinctive sign, and Bahzell’s soft laugh was bitter in the darkness. Brandark flushed and lowered his hand. He started to speak, but Bahzell shook his head.
“No, lad. Don’t fret yourself-it’s more than once I’ve made the same sign now.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Brandark shivered, for he, too, was hradani, then squared his shoulders. “Tell me what you do remember,” he commanded.
“Little enough.” Bahzell’s voice was low, and he began to pace, hands clasped behind him. “There’s this voice-one I’ll swear I’ve never heard before-and it’s after telling me something, asking me something . . . or maybe asking for something.” He twitched his shoulders, ears half-flattened. “It’s in my mind there’s a face, as well, but it disappears like mist or smoke any time I try to lay hands on it. And there’s something else beyond that, like a job waiting to be done, but I’ve not the least thrice-damned idea what it is! ”
There was anguish in his voice now, and fear, and Brandark bit his lip. The last thing any hradani wanted was some sort of prophetic dream. Ancient memories of treachery and betrayed trust screamed in warning at the very thought, and Bahzell had muttered of gods and wizards while the dream was upon him, even if he couldn’t recall the words to his waking mind.
The Bloody Sword made his teeth loosen on his lip and leaned an elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his palm while he tried to recall all the bits and pieces he’d ever read about such dreams. He would have liked to think it was only a nightmare-something brought on by Bahzell’s Rage, perhaps-but that was unlikely if the Horse Stealer had been having them every night.
“This ‘job,’” he said at last. “You’ve no idea at all what it is? No one’s . . . telling you to do something specific?”
“I don’t know ,” Bahzell half groaned. “It slips away too fast, with only broken bits left behind.”
“What sort of bits?” Brandark pressed, and Bahzell paused in his pacing to furrow his brow in thought.
“I’m . . . not sure.” He spoke so slowly Brandark could actually feel his painful concentration. “There’s sword work and killing in it, somewhere. That much I’m certain of, but whether it’s my own idea or someone else’s-” The Horse Stealer shrugged, then his ears rose slowly and he cocked his head. “But now that you’ve pressed me, I’m thinking there is a wee bit more. A journey.”
“A journey?” Brandark’s voice sharpened. “You’re supposed to go somewhere?”
“It’s damned I’ll be if I go anywhere for a sneaking, crawling dream I’m not even recalling!” Bahzell snapped, and Brandark raised a hand in quick apology.
“I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant to ask was if the dream wants you to go somewhere?”
“Aye, that’s it!” Bahzell’s spine snapped straight and he planted his fists on his hips and turned to glare into the black and silver night. “The curst thing does want me to go somewhere.”
“Where?” Brandark asked intently, and Bahzell growled in frustration.
“If I was knowing that, then I’d know what the damned thing is wanting of me when I get there!” he snarled, but then his rumbling voice went even deeper and his ears flattened. “And yet . . .”
He jerked his hands from his hips and began to prowl back and forth once more, pounding a fist into his palm while he stared at the grass. Brandark sat silently, letting him pace, feeling the intensity of his thought, and his stride gradually slowed. He came to a complete halt, rocking on his heels, then turned and looked sharply at the Bloody Sword.
“Wherever it is,” he said flatly, “I’m on the road to it now.”
“Phrobus!” Brandark whispered. “Are you certain of that?”
“Aye, that I am.” Bahzell’s voice was grim and stark, and Brandark swallowed. He’d never heard quite that note from his friend. It was like rock shattering into dust, and something inside him shuddered away from it in fear while silence hovered between them once more.
“What do you want to do?” he asked finally.
“I’ve no taste for destinies and such.” Bahzell was still grim, but there was something else, as well. He’d recognized the foe, at least in part, and the elemental stubbornness of all hradanikind was rousing in defiance. “I’ve worries enough for a dozen men as it is, and ‘destinies’ and ‘quests’ will get a man killed quick as quick,” he said harshly. “And if I spoke of gods, well, no god’s done aught for our folk since the Fall, so there’s no cause I can see to be doing aught for them .”
Brandark nodded in heartfelt agreement, and square, strong teeth flashed in a fierce, moonlit grin as Bahzell returned the nod with interest.
“And if it’s not some poxy god creeping round my dreams, then it’s like enough some filthy wizard, and I’ll see myself damned to Krahana’s darkest hell before I raise hand or blade for any wizard ever born.” There was a dreadful, iron tang in that, and Brandark nodded
again.
“But how do you keep from doing what they want when you don’t know what it is?” he asked slowly.
“Aye, there’s the rub.” Bahzell scrubbed his palms on his thighs, then shrugged. “Well, if it’s on the road I am, then I’m thinking it’s best I step aside.”
“How?”
“By going where I’d never planned. If some cursed god or wizard’s set himself on having me, then I’ll just take myself somewhere he’s not after expecting me to be.”
“All of this means something?” Brandark asked with a trace of his normal tartness, and Bahzell chuckled nastily.
“So it does, my lad. So it does. Look you, all this time I’ve been heading west, with never a thought of going anywhere else. Soon or late I have to let Father know my whereabouts, but until I do, he can be telling Churnazh-aye, or anyone else who asks-he’s no knowledge where I am. I’ve been minded to follow Kilthan clear to Manhome and see a wee bit of the Empire of the Axe before I get in touch with him again, but now I’m damned if I will.”
“You can’t just leave,” Brandark objected, and Bahzell shook his head sharply.
“Old Kilthan’s deserving better of me than that, but we’ve never told him we’d go clear to Manhome. No, I’m thinking I’ll stay with him to Riverside. From there he’ll be in the Kingdom of Angthyr, and that’s an Axeman ally and safe enough for merchants, from all I hear. He’ll have little need of my sword after that . . . and I’ll be far enough from Navahk not to worry about steel in my back some dark night.”
“In our backs, you mean.”
Bahzell cocked his ears once more, studying his friend intently, then shook his head.
“I’m thinking you should stay clear of this,” he said quietly. “It’s one thing to be twisting Churnazh’s nose-aye, and even to risk your neck for naught more than friendship. But this is none of your making, and it might just be your neck is the least thing you could be losing. Stay with Kilthan, Brandark. It’s safer.”
“Listen, I know you don’t like my singing, but you don’t have to go to such lengths to get rid of it.”
“Leave off your jesting now! There’s a time and a place for it, but not here. Not now! Against Churnazh and his lot-aye, or anything else we could feed steel till it choked-I’d take you at my side and be glad of it. But dreams and destinies . . .” Bahzell shook his head again. “Stay clear of it, Brandark. Stay clear and let it pass.”
“Sorry, but I can’t do that.” Brandark stood and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “For all you know, I’m already caught up in it.”
“Oh? And what have your dreams been like?” Bahzell demanded with awful irony, and the Bloody Sword laughed.
“I haven’t had any-yet! But if you’re busy running in the opposite direction, whatever it is might decide to pick on the single hradani who’s still headed the right way, and then where would I be? If that’s the case, then the safest place I could possibly be would be running right beside you.”
“That,” Bahzell said after a moment, “is most likely the most addlepated, clod-headed excuse for logic I’ve ever heard.”
“Being rude won’t help you. I thought it up, and I’ll stick by it. You know how stubborn hradani are.”
“Aye, so I do.” Bahzell sighed. He gripped the smaller man by the upper arms and shook him-gently for a hradani. “You’re a fool, Brandark Brandarkson. A fool to come after me from Navahk, and three times a fool if you dabble in this. It’ll likely be the death of you, and not a pretty end!”
“Well, no one ever said you were smart,” Brandark replied, “and, if the truth be known, I don’t suppose anyone actually ever said I was.”
“If they did, they lied.” Bahzell gave him one last shake, then sighed again. “All right, if you’re daft enough to be coming, then I suppose I’m daft enough to be glad for the company.”
Chapter Eleven
The heavy wooden chair back flew apart. The stubs of its uprights stood like broken teeth, and then they, too, flew apart as the sword thundered down between them and split the seat. Splinters hissed, and Harnak of Navahk screamed a curse as he whirled to the chest beside the ruined chair.
He drove his sword into it like an axe, then wrenched the blade free and brought it down again and again and again, cursing with every blow. He hacked until he could hack no more, then hurled the blade across the room. It leapt back from the wall, ricocheting to the floor with a whining, iron clangor, and he glared down at it, gasping while spittle ran down his chin.
But then he closed his eyes. His wrist scrubbed across his mouth and chin, and he dragged in a deep, wracking breath as the Rage faded back from the brink of explosion. It was hard for him to beat it down, for he seldom chose to do so, but this time he had no choice.
He mastered it at last and shook himself, glaring about his chamber at the wreckage. Even the bedposts were splintered and gouged, and he clenched his jaw, feeling the gaps of missing teeth, as he wished with all his heart those same blows had landed upon Farmah or Bahzell Bahnakson.
He swore, with more weariness than passion now, and waded through the rubble to the window. He sat in the opening’s stone throat, staring hot-eyed out over the roofs of Navahk, and rubbed the permanent depression in his forehead while he made himself think.
The bitch was alive-alive! -and that slut Tala with her, and the pair of them were in Hurgrum!
***
The nostrils of his misshapen nose flared. How? How had two women, one a mere girl and beaten half to death into the bargain, gotten clear to Hurgrum through his father’s entire Guard? It wasn’t possible!
Yet that whoreson Bahzell had contrived it anyway. He’d drawn virtually all the pursuit after him, and he and that bastard Brandark-and it had to be Brandark, whatever the japester’s father claimed!-had cut the single patrol to find them into dog meat. And while they’d done that , somehow the bitches had reached that sanctimonious dog-lover Bahnak’s court. He’d actually taken them in, put them under his own protection in his very palace!
Harnak spat another curse, and fresh hatred rose as more spittle sprayed humiliatingly through his gap-toothed snarl. Bahnak had been careful to take no official note when Churnazh outlawed his son. He’d even restrained Farmah from accusing Harnak of the crime, for to contest the sentence Churnazh had imposed would commit him to a fresh war against Navahk. His own men would demand it-and his allies would slip away if he appeared too weak to launch it.
But, by the same token, Churnazh’s allies would never support an attack on Hurgrum. If he were attacked , yes, they would come to his aid, for each feared the destruction of any one of them would be the opening wedge for Bahnak’s conquest of them all. But they were too weakened-and frightened-by what Hurgrum had already done to carry a fresh war to Bahnak, which meant he had no need to refute the charges against his son. With Bahzell safely beyond Churnazh’s reach, all Bahnak had to do was keep silent and let his allies-and Navahk’s, curse them!-laugh.
And they were laughing. Harnak clenched his fists, choking on bile. Every bard in every city-state of the Bloody Swords and Horse Stealers alike seemed to be singing the tale of Bahzell Bahnakson’s cunning. They’d made the puking bastard some sort of hero, and if they never mentioned Harnak’s name, there was no need to. If Bahzell’s father was sheltering Farmah and she was content to have it so, then Bahzell couldn’t have raped her . . . and if he hadn’t, everyone knew who must have. No one dared say so, but Harnak had seen it even in the eyes of the Guard, and he dared not show his face in public. Only the iron fist of his father’s terror kept women from spitting on his shadow as he passed . . . and his father had five sons.
The crown prince glared down at his fists. He was the eldest son, his father’s heir . . . while Churnazh lived. But what would happen when he died? Harnak knew his brothers. All of them, with the possible exception of that gutless wonder Arsham, had tumbled unwilling wenches, yet no one knew they had. Now everyone knew he had-yes, and believed he’d tried to kill the girl
, too. Either of those crimes was more than enough to absolve any warrior of loyalty to him, and all it needed would be for one of his brothers-just one-to claim the throne to set the army of Navahk at its own throat . . . and Harnak’s.
He couldn’t let that happen. Yet how could he stop it?
He brooded down at his fists, the flame of his hatred smoldering down to smoking embers that would never quite die, and thought.
There were only two possibilities, he told himself at last. Either all his brothers must die, leaving no other claimant of the blood to challenge him, or else Bahzell, Farmah, and Tala must die.
Neither solution was perfect. If he had his brothers murdered, they must all die in the same hour, and his father with them, for only one person in Navahk could profit by their deaths, and Churnazh would know it. Yet even if all four of his brothers-yes, and his father, too-perished, too many who remembered how Churnazh himself had butchered his way to the throne might seek to emulate him. A crown prince rapist believed to have murdered his entire family would be too weak and tempting a target for someone to pass by.
But if he settled for killing Bahzell-assuming he could find the Sharna-cursed bastard-and the bitches, he would have to hope his father lived for a great many years. If Bahzell died, he would become one more dead enemy, not a taunting reminder of failure, and Navahk had been taught to respect men whose enemies were all dead. And if the sluts died, then the living symbol of his crime would die, as well. Passing time would erode the certainty of his guilt, give Churnazh’s countercharges the chance to sink in, but it would take time. It would take years, more maddening years in which he would be denied his proper place, still crown prince and never ruler.
And he must have all three of them, for as long as any of them breathed, their very lives would keep the tale alive. All of his enemies must perish to put time on his side . . . and perhaps there was a way. One not even Churnazh guessed at. Nor would he, for if he should ever suspect what allies Harnak had taken, he would rip out his son’s heart with his own bare hands.
