Sword Brother

closed door of his own cell, and he knew where she was bound. He knew what sort of death awaited a sacrifice to Sharna, knew what the unspeakable appetite behind the malevolence he'd sensed wanted from her. And he knew no one could possibly save her from it.

His eyes burned with that knowledge. Then his jaw clenched, and he bent forward, pressing his hands to his temples, summoning all the power within him and focusing it through the training he had already received. He reached out, reached through that darkness and stone, until his questing mental fingers touched the surface of the doomed young woman's mind.

She was even younger than he'd thought, not yet eighteen, he judged. And in that moment when their minds touched, he knew she had already seen the deaths of her parents, her brothers, a sister. Knew she understood precisely what was about to happen to her, as well, and felt her hopeless terror beating like the wings of a dying bird against the iron bars of the inescapable cage about her.

She sensed him, too, though not as clearly as he sensed her, and he held out his mental hand to her. He took her hand in his, clasping it, offering the only comfort he could, and felt her grip close with desperate strength and gratitude upon his. There were no words between them. Trayn's major talent was not telepathy, and she had no mage talent at all. Yet if there were no words, there was a promise, and Trayn went with her as she was dragged down that passageway of dark stone towards the agonizing death awaiting her.

XIV

'So let me get this straight,' Houghton said. 'The two of you-the three, of you, I mean-' he corrected himself, nodding at the huge horse he'd been informed was actually something called a courser (and also a champion of Tomanak)'-plan to go inside a tunnel none of the rest of us can even see. Have I got that right?'

He and Mashita had climbed up out of Tough Mama to join Wencit. Houghton had been careful to keep his boots well away from the ichor which continued to smoke as it ate its way through the LAV's paint. Aside from that, he'd tried not to think all that much about exactly what the 'demons'' reality represented. Unfortunately, the towering, fox-eared Bahzell seemed completely serious . . . which probably meant the gunnery sergeant was going to have to think about them-or, at least, whoever had sent them-very shortly.

That possibility made Houghton very nervous, indeed.

Mashita, on the other hand, seemed all but oblivious to such minor concerns as gigantic, impossibly fast, armor-plated, man-eating, pincer-equipped, cursed creatures out of the darkest pit of Hell. He was too busy drooling over Bahzell's horse-courser, a corner of Houghton's brain corrected mechanically-to pay much attention to anything else, which obviously amused the courser no end.

'Aye, and so we do,' Bahzell agreed in response to the Marine's question.

There was something about that earthquake-deep voice of his which made anything he suggested sound reasonable, Houghton reflected. However insane it might actually be.

'And there may be more of these things,' the gunnery sergeant jerked his head in a sideways nod at the hideous, mangled bodies draped in front of-and across-his LAV, 'waiting for you in there?'

'As to that, I'm thinking there's at least one more,' Bahzell said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. 'I'm after feeling something a bit . . . odd about this one, though.'

''Odd?'' Houghton snorted. 'So all of this-' he waved both arms at the abattoir hillside '- wasn't 'odd' for you people?'

'Actually,' Wencit replied with a slight smile, 'it's not very far out of the ordinary for a champion of Tomanak.'

'As to that,' Bahzell gave the wild wizard a quelling look, then turned back to Houghton, 'don't you be listening to him, Ken Houghton. It's dead I'd be, and Walsharno with me, if not for you. And its thankful we both are, as well. Still and all, we've some unfinished business down that hole yonder.'

'What sort of business?'

Houghton knew, the instant he opened his mouth, that he shouldn't have asked the question.

'The 'raiders' Walsharno and I have been after following-aye, and the ones Wencit's been after chasing with you-are inside there, and they've at least one entire village's children, not to mention dozens of other folk, with them.'

'And you're going in after them,' Houghton said flatly.

'Aye.' Bahzell's deep, rumbling voice was just as flat, just as hard. 'I've no choice, you see. I've already said there's after being at least one more of these beauties down yonder, and so there is. And the only way Demon Breath's church can be after controlling such is by feeding them.'

He didn't have to explain what he meant, and Houghton's belly knotted at the implications. Implications which, he knew, he should have already recognized for himself.

'And just how many people-how many soldiers-are they going to have in there with them?' he asked.

'Somewhere in excess of a hundred armsmen,' Wencit said. 'I can't be positive exactly how many, but that's a minimum number. And then there are at least three wizards, possibly more. Plus the demon, of course.'

'Aye,' Bahzell agreed. 'Still and all, Wencit, they've not bound the demon yet. That's going to be taking them more than a minute or two, I'm thinking. So if it happened we could get in there quick enough, it might just be as we could keep them from ever binding it.'

'Somehow,' Houghton sighed, 'I just knew you were going to say that.' He shook his head, then looked at Mashita with a crooked grin. 'What d'you say, Jack?'

* * *

It was clear Walsharno didn't think very much of his rider's plans.

Houghton watched Bahzell and the huge stallion standing literally nose-to-nose. The 'hradani' (as Wencit had told him Bahzell's branch of the 'Races of Man' was known) didn't seem quite so mountainous from a distance, especially when compared to the courser, and Houghton decided he wouldn't have wanted to have anything Walsharno's size as angry with him as the courser stallion obviously was. The gunnery sergeant and Mashita had looked on in amazement as Bahzell healed the bleeding gash down Walsharno's flank and then watched the courser brush his velvet nose affectionately across the hradani's chest afterward. Now, however, Walsharno stamped one dinner-plate-sized rear hoof angrily. A ring of blue fire, like a flash of igniting lighter fluid, swept outward from the point at which that huge hoof struck the ground, and Walsharno's black tail switched furiously, more like some irate tiger's than that of any 'horse' Houghton had ever seen.

'You won't be fitting, if that tunnel's after closing down,' Bahzell said in a voice which mingled sternness, reason, frustration, and at least a little anger of its own. 'Aye, and, come to that, who's to be watching our backs if you're inside there, too?'

He folded his arms emphatically and paused, as if listening to a voice only he could hear, then shook his head.

'No,' he said. Again, his foxlike-ears cocked as if listening. 'I'm not liking it a bit more than you,' he said then, his voice marginally gentler, 'and well you know it. But we've no time at all, at all, to be standing here, arguing.'

The stallion glowered at him for another moment, and then his head sagged and his tail drooped. He leaned forward, resting his jaw on the hradani's shoulder, and Bahzell closed his eyes and reached up to caress his companion's ears as he pressed the side of his own head against Walsharno's neck. Then he stood back, gave the stallion a crisp nod, and turned to Wencit, Houghton, and Mashita.