Oath of Swords

“Ah?”

“Ah, indeed. There’s no White Council now, Bahzell, but I do what I can to stop the abuse of the art. I’ve come to rely heavily on the magi’s aid for that, and the Axe Hallow mage academy got word to me when Zarantha didn’t reach home on schedule.”

He shrugged, and Bahzell nodded.

“Aye, she’d be important to you, and the magi, wouldn’t she now?”

“If you’re referring to her plans to found a Spearman mage academy, the answer is yes. But if you’re suggesting her mage talent is all that makes her important to us, you’re wrong.” Wencit spoke almost mildly, but there was a hint of steel in his voice, and Bahzell nodded again, accepting the rebuke, if that was what it had been.

“Fair enough,” he said slowly, “but I’m just the tiniest bit confused. You’ve been glued to their trail like a lodestone for days now, and I’m thinking the likes of you could deal with the wizards who have her.”

“And you want to know why I haven’t.” Wencit made the question a statement, and Bahzell nodded yet again. “It’s not quite as simple as you may think, Bahzell. Oh, you’re right, I could deal with either of them-or both together-easily enough, but not with the men they have with them. Not without violating the Strictures, at any rate.”

“The Strictures?” Bahzell’s arched eyebrow invited further explanation, but it was Brandark who answered him.

“The Strictures of Ottovar, Bahzell,” the Bloody Sword said, dismounting from his own horse to stand beside his friend. “They were the laws of wizardry in Kontovar, the rules the White Council was formed to enforce.”

“Among other things,” Wencit amended with a nod.

“And what might the Strictures be?” Bahzell asked.

“Exactly what Brandark said: the laws of wizardry. Or of white wizardry, at any rate. They were written by Ottovar the Great and Gwynytha the Wise when they ended the wizard wars of their own time and founded Ottovar’s empire. In simple terms, they were designed to protect those who don’t have power from casual abuse by those who do.”

“And you’re still after following them all these years later?”

“If I don’t, who will?” That steely edge was back in Wencit’s voice, and his wildfire gaze bored into Bahzell’s eyes. “Does time alone define right or wrong? And even if it did, by what right could I demand other wizards obey them-or hold them accountable when they don’t-if I violated them myself?”

“Aye, there’s that,” Bahzell agreed slowly, rubbing his chin with one hand, then gave the wizard a sharp look. “Still and all, I can’t but think you’ve hunted us out to do more than tell us what it is you can’t be doing.”

“True.” Wencit smiled almost impishly and gave his horse’s neck another pat, then leaned back against his saddle and surveyed the two hradani. “Under the Strictures, I may use sorcery against nonwizards only in direct self-defense, and even then I can’t kill them if anything short of killing will keep me alive. Wizards-especially dark wizards-are another matter. Them I can challenge to arcane combat, but somehow I doubt their henchmen could refrain from sticking a knife in my back while I do it.”

“Ah,” Bahzell said again, and exchanged glances with Brandark before he looked back at Wencit. “I’m hoping you won’t take this wrongly,” he said politely, “but I’m thinking I see where you’re headed, and twenty-to-one might be just a mite heavy odds for us to be keeping off your back while you satisfy your principles, Wencit.”

“I know,” Wencit said cheerfully, “but with the right help, you won’t be facing twenty-to-one odds.”

“And here I was thinking you’d just said you couldn’t use sorcery against nonwizards.”

“Oh, but I won’t use a single spell on them ,” Wencit said, and something in his smile was as cold as the falling snow.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The sentry huddled in the lee of a patch of scrub, hugging himself under his cloak while cataracts of white roared past. Storms this fierce were rare in these southern plains, and he stamped his feet and peered uselessly into the whirling snow devils. Visibility was as much as thirty yards between wind gusts, but such intervals were rare, and he swore balefully. Posting guards was pointless on a night like this, but there’d been no use arguing, and he swore again, this time at himself for ever having taken service with the Church of Carnadosa.

Black wizards were perilous paymasters at any time, for the same penalties applied to a black wizard’s hirelings as to himself. That meant the money was good, of course, yet his employers were being less open than usual this time, and the presence of assassins made him almost as uneasy as his ignorance of what was on their track. Carnadosa and Sharna were never comfortable allies, and anything that could bring their followers into alliance was bound to be risky.

The sentry knew he was only a hired sword to the Church, yet this was the first time his masters had refused to explain anything . They’d simply sent him and twenty others out to meet two of their number-and the dog brothers-in the middle of this howling wilderness, and the palpable anxiety which possessed the people they’d met was enough to make anyone nervous. Whatever was back there, it had inspired the travelers to push their horses dangerously close to collapse and post guards even in the heart of a blizzard, and the sentry was uncomfortably certain it was all somehow due to the presence of their prisoner. He didn’t know who she was, either, and he didn’t want to. The senior of his employers-a priest of Carnadosa, as well as a wizard-had her under some sort of compulsion that turned her into a walking corpse, something that moved pliantly and obediently and ate whatever was put into its mouth, yet the sentry had seen her eyes-once-and there was nothing dead about them. They burned with fury and a sort of desperate horror that set his nerves on edge and made him wish he’d never taken the money.

But he had, and wizards were bad masters to betray or desert . . . even if there’d been anywhere to desert to in this godsforsaken wasteland. No, he was stuck, and-

He never completed the thought. A towering, snow-shrouded form blended silently from the swirling whiteness behind him, a hand yanked his head back, a dagger drove up under his chin into his brain, and he never even realized he was dead.

Bahzell let the corpse slither down and wiped his dagger on its cloak. He resheathed the blade and drew his sword as two horses appeared out of the roaring, white-streaked darkness like a pair of ghosts, and he felt the hair stir on the back of his neck once more. Wencit of Rum had a pedigree not even hradani could question, but that made him no less uncanny, and no hradani could ever be comfortable in any wizard’s web. The notion that there was still at least one white wizard in the world would take getting used to, and even now Bahzell couldn’t quite believe that he and Brandark had actually agreed to let him enwrap them in his magic. On the other hand, Wencit had guided them to their enemies’ camp as unerringly as if the night had been clear and still, not this snowy maelstrom, and if his spells did what he’d claimed they would-

The Horse Stealer’s thoughts broke off as his companions reached him and drew rein. Wencit rose in the stirrups, thrusting his head above the low-growing trees’ cover and peering into the roaring wind as if he could actually see. He stayed there for several minutes, turning his head to sweep his gaze back and forth across something visible only to him, then settled back and wiped snow from his beard. He tucked up the skirt of his poncho to clear his well-worn sword hilt, and Bahzell told himself it was only the cold that made him shiver as those wildfire eyes moved back to him.

“There are four more sentries!” Wencit had to shout to make himself heard above the gale. “The closest is about fifty yards that way!” He gestured off to the left, then shrugged. “I imagine they’ll take to their heels when they realize what’s happening, but watch your backs!”

Both hradani nodded grimly, and Brandark drew his own sword. Wencit didn’t, but then, if all went well, the wizard would have no use for steel tonight.

If all went well.

“Remember! So far I haven’t done anything to draw attention to myself, but the instant the spell goes up, the wizards at least will know I’m here! Leave them to me, but get to Zarantha as quick as you can!”

Bahzell nodded again. The wizards might prefer to use Zarantha’s death to raise power, but if their main goal