alike grew weary and irritable, and aching muscles had a magnifying effect on even the most petty resentments.
Bahzell saw it coming. His own lot was tolerable enough-Hartan was a hard man, but one a hradani could respect, and his own assignment kept him with the column and not gallivanting about the countryside-but the mounted units were another matter, and Brandark was assigned to one of them. So was Shergahn, and the Daranfelian’s bitter dislike for all hradani found fertile, weary soil, especially when he began muttering about “spies” set on to scout the caravan’s weaknesses and report them to their brigand friends.
Shergahn’s bigotry didn’t make him or his cronies total idiots, however, and they’d decided to leave Bahzell well enough alone. None cared to try his luck unarmed against a giant who towered nine inches and then some over seven feet, and the prohibition against drawn steel precluded anything more lethal. Besides, they’d seen him at weapons drill with that monstrous sword. In fact, Rianthus-not by coincidence-had paired the worst of them off as his sparring partners to give them a closer look, and they wanted no part of it.
But Brandark was a foot and a half shorter and carried a sword of normal dimensions. Worse, his cultured grammar and dandified manner could be immensely annoying. They were also likely to provoke a fatal misjudgment, and Shergahn’s contempt for any so-called warrior who wore flower-embroidered jerkins, quoted poetry, and sat by the fire strumming a balalaika while he stared dreamily into the flames was almost as boundless as Prince Churnazh’s.
Bahzell sat cross-legged against a wagon wheel, fingers working on a broken harness strap while the smell of cooking stew drifted from the fires. He’d been surprised and pleased by how well Kilthan fed his men, but, then, he’d been surprised by a great many things since entering Esgan. He’d looked down on Churnazh and his Navahkans as crude barbarians, yet he’d been forced to the conclusion that
Hradani wagons were little more than carts, often with solid wooden wheels. Kilthan’s wagons were even better than those Bahzell had seen in Esganian hands; lightly but strongly built, with wheels padded in some tough, springy stuff he’d never seen before rather than rimmed in iron, and he hadn’t been able to believe how well sprung they were until he’d crawled under one of them with Kilthan’s chief wainwright to see the strange, fat cylinders that absorbed the shocks with his own eyes. They were a dwarvish design, and the wainwright insisted they had nothing inside them but air and plungers, yet they made Bahzell feel uneasily as if he’d stumbled across some sorcerous art . . . and more than a bit like a bumpkin over his own unease.
And those wagons and lightweight kettles were only two of the wonders about him. Discovering what his people had been denied by their long isolation filled him with anger-and a burning desire to see and learn even more.
A soft, familiar sound plucked him from his thoughts, and he looked up from his repairs as Brandark stepped into the firelight. The balalaika slung on his back chimed faintly as he swung his saddle over a wagon tongue, then he straightened wearily, kneading his posterior with both hands, and Bahzell grinned. He’d heard about the confusion in orders that had sent Brandark’s platoon out on a scouting sweep . . . in the wrong direction. They’d needed three hard, extra hours in the saddle to catch back up, and the rest of their company been less than amused by how thin the absence of a third of its strength spread its remaining members.
Brandark nodded to his friend, but his long nose twitched even as he did so. He turned like a lodestone, seeking the source of that delicious aroma, gave his backside one last rub, and started for the cooking fires, when a deep, ugly voice spoke from the shadows behind him.
“So,
Bahzell’s hands stilled at Shergahn’s growled accusation, but he made no other move. The last thing he and Brandark needed was to make this a matter of human against hradani rather than a simple case of a troublemaker with an overlarge mouth.
Brandark paused in his beeline to the stew pot and cocked his ears.
“Should I take it you’re addressing me?” he asked in a mild tone, and Shergahn barked a laugh.
“Who else would I be calling a bastard, you smooth-tongued whoreson?”
“Oh, it’s you, Shergahn!” Brandark said brightly. “
“Which question?” Shergahn sounded a bit taken aback by the lack of anger in the hradani’s voice.
“The one about bastards. I’d thought it must be someone else asking for
“Ha! Think you’re so damned smart, d’you?” Shergahn spat, and the Bloody Sword shook his head with a sigh.
“Only in comparison to some, Shergahn. Only in comparison to some.”
Bahzell grinned, and someone closer to the fires laughed out loud at the weary melancholy that infused Brandark’s tenor. A dozen others chuckled, and Shergahn spat a filthy oath. He erupted from the shadows, flinging himself at Brandark with his arms spread-and then flew forward, windmilling frantically at empty air, when the hradani stepped aside and hooked his ankles neatly from under him with a booted foot.
Brandark watched him hit hard on his belly, then shrugged and stepped over him, brushing dust from his sleeves as he resumed his journey to the food. A louder shout of laughter went up as Shergahn heaved himself to hands and knees, but there were a few ugly mutters, as well, and two of Shergahn’s cronies emerged from the same shadows to help him up. He stood for a moment, shaking his head like a baffled bull, and Brandark smiled at one of the cooks and took his long iron ladle from him. He ignored Shergahn to dip up a dollop from a simmering kettle and sniff appreciatively, and his lack of concern acted on the human like a slap. He bared his teeth, exchanged glances with one of his friends, and then the two of them charged Brandark from behind.
Bahzell closed his eyes in pity. An instant later, he heard two loud thuds, followed by matched falling sounds, and opened his eyes once more.
Shergahn and friend lay like poleaxed steers, and the Daranfelian’s greasy hair was thick with potatoes, carrots, gravy, and chunks of beef. His companion had less stew in his hair, but an equally large lump was rising fast, and Brandark flipped his improvised club into the air, caught it in proper dipping position, and filled it once more from the pot without even glancing at them. He raised the ladle to his nose, inhaled deeply, and glanced at the cook with an impudent twitch of his ears.
“Smells delicious,” he said while the laughter started up all around the fire. “I imagine a bellyful of this should help a hungry man sleep. Why, just look what a single ladle of it did for Shergahn!”
Chapter Nine
Icy rain soaked Bahzell’s cloak and ran down his face, and one of the wheel horses snorted miserably beside him as the pay wagon started up another hill. The muddy road was treacherous underfoot, and raindrops drummed on the wagon’s canvas covering. It was six days since Shergahn’s attack on Brandark, and the rain had started yesterday, just as the road began winding its way through the hills along the border between Esgan and Moretz.
He looked up as a mounted patrol splashed by, and Brandark nodded in passing. The Bloody Sword was just as soaked and cold as Bahzell, yet he looked almost cheerful. Shergahn had never been popular, and the rest of the guards admired Brandark’s style in dealing with him. Most were none too secretly pleased Rianthus had paid the troublemaker off and sent him packing, as well, and a couple had actually asked Brandark to sing for them. Which either said a great deal for how much they liked him or indicated they were all tone deaf.
Bahzell chuckled at the thought, and someone jabbed him in the back.
