Oath of Swords wg-1

by David Weber

  “Who-?” he began, but then words failed him. He could only stare at Brandark, and the Bloody Sword touched his shoulder.

  “Chesmirsa,” he said very, very softly. “The Singer of Light.”

  Bahzell’s eyes flew wide, and he jerked upright. He towered two feet and more taller than the woman by the fire, but she’d put aside her mortality. He was less than a child before her, and fear and confusion boiled through him.

  “I-” His voice died, and she smiled once more.

  “Sit, Bahzell.” It was a request when she could have commanded, and he sank back onto the rock while he stared at her. She nodded to Brandark, and the Bloody Sword sat beside him once more, eyes fixed upon the goddess’ face. “Thank you,” she said softly. She laid her harp in her lap and leaned forward across it, still a slender, brown-haired woman and yet infinitely more, and her gentle eyes were compassionate. “I know how confused you are-both of you-and I suppose I was wicked to sneak up on you, but would you really have preferred a flash of light and a roll of thunder?” All the merriment of a universe danced in her dimpled smile, and they felt themselves smiling back. “Besides,” she added, “to be greeted as a mortal and offered the kindness of mortals-that, my friends, is a gift whose value you cannot begin to imagine.”

  “But . . . but why?” Brandark asked, and the silver, rippling magic of her laugh went through them like a sword.

  “Because of your friend, Brandark-and you. You were the only reason I could come here, and I have a message for you, but it’s Bahzell’s stubbornness that brings me to deliver it here and now.”

  “My stubbornness?” Bahzell rumbled, and she nodded.

  “Your stubbornness. Your elemental, pigheaded, stiff-necked, iron-pated, wonderful hradani stubbornness.”

  “I’m not after understanding,” he said with unwonted uncertainty.

  “Of course not; you’ve been fighting for months not to understand.”

  “The dreams?” His voice was suddenly sharper, and she nodded again.

  “The dreams.” A touch of sternness gilded her reply. “You’ve been doing the equivalent of jamming your fingers in your ears and drumming your heels on the floor long enough, Bahzell.”

  “Is that what I’ve been doing, now?” he asked more challengingly. Brandark touched his arm, but the Horse Stealer’s eyes were fixed on Chesmirsa’s face, and she cocked her head.

  “Of course it is. Come now, Bahzell, would we send you dreams you couldn’t understand if we had a choice?”

  “I’ve no way of knowing,” he said flatly. “I’m naught but a hradani, Lady. We’ve no experience with how or what gods send to folk they care about.”

  Brandark inhaled sharply, yet the goddess didn’t even wince. Sorrow dimmed her glorious eyes for just a moment, but not anger, and she sighed.

  “I know how you feel about us, Bahzell Bahnakson,” she said gently, “and who are we to blame you? If you were less of what you are your anger with us would be less, as well . . . and the time to send a hradani dreams would not have come.”

  “My anger, is it?” Bahzell rose once more, meeting her gaze on his own two feet, and his eyes glittered. He felt her presence, knew she was veiling her power, that if she’d loosed it upon him he could never have stood before it, but he felt no awe. Respect and wonder, yes, but not awe. His people had suffered too much-been left to suffer too much-for that.

  “Yes, your anger. And your fear, Bahzell.” His eyes flashed, and she raised a graceful hand. “Not of us, but lest we ‘betray’ your people once again by turning our backs upon them. But I tell you this, Bahzell Bahnakson, and I do not lie; what happened to your people was none of our doing, and its wounds cut deeper than even you can imagine. We’ve labored for a millennium to undo it, whether you knew it or not, but the final healing must be yours. You must take the final step-you and all your people. No one else can take it for you.”

  “Words, Lady,” Bahzell said stubbornly. “All I hear are words.”

  “No, Bahzell. All you’ve heard so far have been my words, and this task isn’t mine. It was laid upon my brother Tomanāk-and upon you.”

  “Upon me?! ”

  “You. It will be no easy task, Bahzell Bahnakson, and it will bring you pain beyond your dreams, for my brother’s province is war and justice, and those are hard masters for man or god. But this is the task for which you were born, the proper challenge for your strength and courage and stubbornness, and there will be joy with the pain. Yet it’s also a burden no one can compel you to shoulder, one no unwilling back could bear even had we the right to demand your obedience.”

  “Lady,” the Horse Stealer spoke slowly, each word forged of iron, “I’ll bow down to no one, god, demon, or devil. What I do, I’ll do because I choose to do it, and for no other reason.”

  “I know. We know,” Chesmirsa said. “Nor is it my task to ask you to accept this burden. I ask you only to consider it, only to be willing to hear so that you can choose when the time comes. Is that so much for anyone to ask?”

  Bahzell met her eyes levelly, then shook his head, almost against his will.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, and her eyes told him she knew how hard it had been to make even that concession. “But as the choice must be your own, so must the decision to hear. You will be troubled by no more dreams, Bahzell Bahnakson, but think well and hard upon what I’ve told you. When the time comes that you’re ready to hear, then hear you shall. And if you never decide you’re ready, then we will leave you in the peace you desire.”

  Bahzell recognized an oath when he heard one, and he bent his head in acknowledgment. The goddess gazed at him for one more moment, then turned her eyes to Brandark, and her face lightened.

  “And so to you.” The Bloody Sword looked up once more, his eyes bright, and she smiled. “Ah, Brandark! Brandark! What shall I do with you?”

  “Do with me, Lady?” he asked hesitantly, and her smile became an urchin’s grin.

  “Alas, Brandark, you have the soul of a poet, but the other tools-!” He felt himself blush, yet her eyes lit a bubble of laughter in his heart even as she shook her head at him.

  “I do my best, My Lady,” he said humbly, and she nodded.

  “That you do, and always have. But the truth, Brandark, is that you were never meant for the task you thought. You are too much my brother’s, too apt to other tasks. You will never be a bard.”

  “Never?” Brandark Brandarkson had never dreamed he could feel such sorrow-or that so much joy could wrap itself about the hurt-and his goddess smiled upon him.

  “Never,” she said firmly. “Music you will have always, and my blessing on your joy in it, but another career awaits you. One that will demand all you have and are, and which will fill you with a joy you never knew to seek. I promise you that, and-” her eyes danced at him “-I think you’ll find it one to suit a poet’s soul. Live it well, Brandark.”

  “I’ll . . . try, My Lady,” he whispered, and she touched his head once more. Then she returned her harp to its case and slung it upon her back. She shook out her plain, everyday cloak and draped it across her shoulders, and smiled at them.

  “You are not quite what we expected, either of you. And yet each of you is precisely what you must be. It’s only that you’re so much more than we dared hope, my children. Farewell.”

  She vanished. One instant she was there; the next she was gone, and the hradani shook themselves. The gray light of dawn glimmered in the hole in the cave’s roof, and Bahzell frowned as he tried to calculate how many hours must have sped past in what had seemed so few minutes. Yet the fire still burned, the horses and mules still drowsed in their corner of the cave, and their three companions slept on, untouched by all that had happened. He should have been exhausted from a sleepless night, but he felt rested and restored, and he looked at his friend.

  Brandark looked back, his eyes huge with bemused sorrow and joy. And as they looked into one another’s eyes, the Bloody Sword felt unseen fingers tug gently
at his ear once more while a husky contralto voice ran around the cave like the laughter of the first day of creation.

  “Remember, Brandark,” it said softly. “You may have another task, but you do have a poet’s soul, and that means a part of you will always be mine. Live your life well, Brandark Brandarkson. Take joy of it, and remember I will be with you to its end . . . and beyond.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A south wind blew misty rain into Bahzell’s eyes as the gray walls of Angcar rose before him. It was two hours till gate-closing, but lanterns already glimmered from the battlements, and he blinked away water, looked back over his shoulder, and bit his lip. All of them, including those who’d slept through Chesmirsa’s visit, had felt invigorated and renewed when they left the cave. But they’d no sooner set out once more than the gray, persistent rain had returned, and flooded valleys and mud-treacherous slopes had taken toll of their mounts and slowed them badly. The rain looked like blowing itself out at last, but Tothas was hunched in the saddle, his face pinched and gray, and his harsh, rasping cough came all too often. Short of funds or no, they had to get him under a roof, Bahzell thought grimly, and increased his pace toward Carchon’s capital.

  They’d fallen into the habit of letting Tothas act as their spokesman in the towns they passed, for he was less threatening than a hradani, but he was folded forward over his saddle pommel in a fresh, wracking spasm when they finally reached the gates. Bahzell stood beside his horse, one hand on the beast’s neck, hiding his anxiety as best he could while he watched the armsman cough, and Brandark trotted ahead to state their business.

  The guards, already surly over pulling gate duty on such a miserable day, looked less than pleased to see a hradani, but Bahzell had little worry to spare them. The rain was far worse on Tothas than the dry cold had been. Finding the cave had been greater fortune than they had any right to expect, and what would happen to the Spearman if they met the same weather in deep wilderness frightened the Horse Stealer.

  The thought touched him with strangely bitter frustration, and he stroked the neck of Tothas’ horse again while he grappled with it. He had a notion finding that cave had been something more than a stroke of simple luck, and there was a certain seductiveness to the idea of being able to call upon a god for aid. Only, if a man got into the habit of counting on some poxy god to save his neck, what did he do the day the god was busy elsewhere or got bored and decided to do something else? Besides, there was something bribe-like about the way that cave had popped up. It was like a bait, a bit of cheese enticing him into the trap.

  He snorted in the rain. The dreams had stopped, as promised, but he wasn’t certain that was an improvement. He’d always believed knowing the truth was best, that it meant a man didn’t have to wonder or torment himself with hopes, but he’d learned better. Bad enough to suspect a god was after him; having it confirmed was much, much worse. This business about destinies, and tasks, and “pain beyond your dreams”-!

  He watched Brandark speaking with the gate guards and shook his head stubbornly. Pain didn’t frighten him. He relished it no more than the next man, but any hradani knew pain was part of life. Yet he’d meant what he’d said. What he did, he would do because he chose to do it, not because someone or something commanded him to, and he still saw no reason any man-especially a hradani-should go about trusting gods. He couldn’t deny Chesmirsa’s impact upon him, how much he’d . . . well, liked her. But the goddess of music and bards damned well ought to be likable, charming, and all those other things! And all that talk of him and Brandark being “more” than she’d hoped-! Best be keeping your hand on your purse when you hear such from someone who’s wanting something from you, my lad, he told himself sourly.

  He pulled himself from his thoughts and glanced at Zarantha, and her momentarily unguarded eyes echoed his own fears for Tothas. She felt the hradani’s gaze and looked back at him, and a spark of anger for what she was doing to her armsman burned within him, but her expression’s sick self-loathing silenced any outburst, and he looked away once more as Brandark trotted back.

  The Bloody Sword was as soaked as any of them, his finery bedraggled and mud-spattered, but meeting his goddess seemed to have honed his elemental insouciance, and there was still something jaunty about the way he drew rein. “I don’t think they were glad to see a hradani, but they’ll let us in. The sergeant was even kind enough to direct me to an inn with reasonable rates-remind me to mention his name to be sure he gets his rake-off.”

  “I’ll be doing that, if it’s after being decent. And if we can get Tothas into a warm bed.”

  “I’m-I’m all-” Tothas broke off in another spasm of coughing, and Bahzell grunted.

  “Oh, save your strength, man!” he snapped. “We’re all knowing you’ve guts enough for three men-now show you’ve the wit to go with them!”

  Tothas coughed yet again, then shook himself weakly and nodded. The Horse Stealer clapped him on the shoulder and looked back to Brandark. “All right, my lad. You’re the one has the name and address, so-” He made a shooing gesture, and Brandark turned his horse with a damp grin and led the way.

  ***

  The Laughing God was on the poor side of town, and its weathered walls looked none too splendid. Bahzell suspected Hirahim Lightfoot would have been less than pleased to discover he was the inn’s patron, yet it turned out to be much better than first appearances suggested.

  Brandark went off to examine the stables while Bahzell accompanied Zarantha and Rekah inside, and the Horse Stealer’s eyes flitted about the taproom as they awaited their host. The miserable weather had swelled its custom, but the place was clean enough, and its patrons seemed unwontedly well behaved. Rough clothing and general shabbiness proclaimed their lack of affluence, yet there was no rowdiness, and no one gave the two overworked barmaids trouble. Which might have something to do with the stocky, powerfully built human who stood with both elbows on the bar and watched the crowd. He was two feet shorter than Bahzell, with an eagle’s-beak nose in the face of someone it would be wiser not to cross, and his eyes considered the hradani warily, then flipped to where Tothas leaned on Zarantha’s shoulder. His hard gaze softened as it rested on the armsman, then tracked back to Bahzell, and he nodded to the hradani before he returned his attention to the crowd.

  One patron looked up and paled, then rose quickly, paid his shot, and departed hastily, but no one else seemed worried by Bahzell’s sudden arrival. Either that, or they had a great deal of faith in the man at the bar, and Bahzell was inclined to agree with them. That was a fighting man over there, and an unlikely character to play bouncer in a place such as this, he thought-until he saw the owner. The landlord had lost a leg at the knee somewhere, but that nose could only belong to the bouncer’s brother.

  The landlord stopped short as he saw the hradani towering in his taproom, but a glance at Bahzell’s companions seemed to reassure him. His shoulders relaxed, and he wiped his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder and stumped forward on his peg leg.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked in rough Spearman.

  “We’re hoping you’ve room for us,” Bahzell rumbled back.

  “That depends on how much room you need. We’re not the largest inn in Angcar, and I’ve let most of the private rooms already.”

  “As to that, it’s two rooms we’re needing-one for the ladies, and one for myself and my two friends.” The landlord raised an eyebrow, and Bahzell twitched his ears. “We’ve one more man. He’s seeing to our animals.”

  “I see.” The landlord thought for a moment, then nodded. “We can manage that. I’ve two adjoining rooms left on the second floor, but they’re not the cheapest ones, mind! They’ll run you a silver kormak a night each, but I’ll throw in stable space and fodder for your animals at no extra charge.”

  Bahzell winced, but he felt Tothas sagging despite his most gallant efforts and glanced at Zarantha. She nodded almost imperceptibly, and he looked back down at the landlord.


  “Done. And if we can be getting a hot meal for our friend-?” He flicked an ear sideways at Tothas, and the landlord nodded.

  “We can manage that, too, and maybe a little better.” He shouted over his shoulder, and a youngster with that same beaky nose appeared like magic. “See these people to seven and eight and tell Matha they need hot food. And see there’s a warming pan for the bed linen in both rooms!”

  The youngster dashed off, and the landlord turned back to Bahzell.

  “There’s washrooms at the back: one for men and one for women. All the hot water you need for a copper each-and a bargain at the price for someone your size, I think!” He chuckled, and Bahzell gave him a weary grin. “If you’re inclined to get your friend into a tub to soak, my people will have his bed warmed and waiting by the time he comes out to dry.”

  “I’m thanking you.” Sincerity softened Bahzell’s voice, but the landlord only shrugged and stumped back off, and the hradani took Tothas’ weight from Zarantha’s shoulder.

  “I’m thinking-” he began, then broke off as the door flew open. Brandark’s arms were heaped with enough baggage to weigh down even a hradani, and the women hurried over to relieve him of sufficient for him to see over the rest.

  “I’m thinking,” Bahzell resumed, “that now Brandark’s here, he can be seeing you to our rooms while I get Tothas neck-deep in hot water.”

  “By all means,” Zarantha said briskly. She opened one of the bags she’d taken from Brandark and withdrew a small bottle and a horn spoon. “And give him two spoonfuls of this-it’ll ease the coughing.”

  Bahzell stuffed the medication into his belt pouch with a nod and turned away to half lead and half carry Tothas to the washrooms.

  Hirahim, Bahzell thought a few hours later, might not be as irked as he’d first thought to find this inn named after him. Its rooms were expensive for its neighborhood, but the food was excellent, and the staff had seen to their needs with rare dispatch. Tothas had stayed awake long enough to consume an enormous bowl of thick, hot soup before they tucked him between the warmed sheets of his bed, and his breathing had been far easier as he dozed off.