Oath of Swords

demon, suitably propitiated, could have been a help-assuming he’d had either the means or the stomach for bargaining with one of them.

He hid the motion of his arm from Tala with his body as he touched Farmah’s throat. Her pulse throbbed against his fingers, more racing than he would have liked yet steadier than he’d feared. She’d done her dogged best, but she’d collapsed less than a mile from East Gate. She’d begged them to leave her and save themselves, but Bahzell had only snorted and given his rucksack to Tala so he could sling the girl over his shoulder, and her protests had died as exhaustion and pain dragged her under.

He sighed and withdrew his fingers from her throat to stroke her hair. It wasn’t something he would have done if anyone could see-pity was dangerous; once revealed, it could never be hidden again, and enemies would be quick to use it against you-but his heart twisted within him as he looked down upon her. So young, he thought. So young to have suffered so much, packed so much loss into so few years. Bahzell was thirty-eight, barely into the start of young manhood for a hradani, but Farmah was less than half his age, and he bared his teeth in a snarl of self-disgust at having let consideration of political consequences stay his hand while Harnak lay helpless at his feet.

A soft sound drifted through the night, and he froze, foxlike ears swiveling to track the noise. It came again, and his spine relaxed as he realized it came from the far side of the small hill on which they crouched, not from behind them.

He reached out and grasped Tala’s shoulder. The housekeeper jumped, but he’d found time to instruct her in at least the rudiments of how to conduct herself in the field, and she swallowed her gasp of surprise and kept her mouth shut as he drew her towards him.

“Horses,” he breathed in her ear. Her muscles snapped tighter, and he gave a quick headshake. “Not following us; ahead, over the hill.”

Tala’s ear twitched, and she inhaled sharply, but her relief was far from total. He approved of her taut wariness, yet if those horse sounds meant what they might-

“Wait here,” he whispered, and slipped away into the darkness.

The housekeeper watched him vanish, astonished afresh at how silently so huge a warrior moved. He was thrice her size and more, yet he’d seemed like a ghost as darkness fell, moving, despite his armor and the burden of Farmah’s limp weight, with a quiet Tala couldn’t even hope to match. Now he disappeared into the underbrush with no more than the soft whisper of a single branch against his scale shirt, and the night closed in about her.

Wind sighed-the coldest, loneliest sound she’d ever heard-and she shivered again, trying to imagine a warrior of Navahk who wouldn’t simply keep going into the dark. No one could have blamed Lord Bahzell for abandoning them. He’d already risked far more for two women of his clan’s enemies than he ever should have, yet she could no more imagine his leaving them behind than she could believe a Navahkan would have returned for them.

She settled Farmah’s head in her lap, spreading her cloak to share her own warmth with that cruelly battered body, and her eyes were cold with a hate that more than matched her fear. She was glad she’d helped Lord Bahzell, whatever came of it. He was different, like Fraidahn, her long dead husband had been-like her son had been before Churnazh took him off to war and left him there, only stronger. And kinder. Gentler. It was hard for a mother to admit that, yet it was true, however he sought to hide it. But perhaps if some god had let Durgaz grow up free of Navahk . . .

She closed her eyes, hugging the dead memories of the only people she’d ever made the mistake of allowing herself to love, and moistened a cloth from Lord Bahzell’s water bottle to wipe Farmah’s unconscious brow.

***

The underbrush slowed Bahzell, but there’d been times on the Wind Plain when he would have given an arm-well, two or three fingers from his off hand-for cover to match it. He reached the crest of the hill and raised his head above the bushes, and his eyes glittered as he saw what he’d hoped for.

No wonder there was so much underbrush and the few trees were all second growth. The moon was full enough, even without the odd chink of light streaming through the shutters of the three cottages which were still occupied, for him to tell the farm below him had known better days. Half the outbuildings were abandoned, judging by their caved-in thatch, but the overgrown hills about the farm had almost certainly been logged off in those better, pre-Churnazh days. They’d gone back to wilderness for lack of hands to work the land, yet someone still fought to save his steading from total ruin. The garden plots closer in to the buildings looked well maintained in the moonlight, clusters of sheep and goats dotted the pastures . . . and a paddock held a dozen horses.

Bahzell chuckled and let his eyes sweep patiently back and forth. Farms usually had dogs, and there was probably someone on watch, as well. Now where would he have put a sentry . . . ?

His ears rose in respect as he caught the faint glint of moonlight on steel. It wasn’t on the ground after all, for a sort of eaves-high walkway had been erected around the roof of the tallest barn. It gave a commanding view over the approaches to the farm, and there wasn’t a single watchman; there were two of them, each marching half the walkway’s circuit.

He settled down on his belly, resting his chin on the hands clasped under his jaw, and pondered. Those would be no fine saddle beasts down there, but any horse was better than the pace Tala could manage afoot. Yet how to lay hands on them? What would have been child’s play with two or three other Horse Stealers to help became far more problematical on his own-especially when he had no wish to hurt any of those farmers if he could avoid it. Anyone who could maintain even this much prosperity so close to Churnazh deserved better than to be killed by someone running from that same Churnazh, so-

He pursed his lips with a sour snort as he watched the sentries. It was hardly the proper way for a Horse Stealer to go about things, but he was in a hurry. Besides, if he was lucky, no one would ever learn of his lapse.

He rose quietly and headed back to tell Tala what he intended.

***

There were dogs. A chorus of rumbling snarls warned him as they came out of the dark, and he reached back to his sword hilt, ready to draw at need. But there was no need. No doubt there would have been if he’d come in across the fields, which was why he’d been careful to stick to the center of the track leading to the farm, and his open approach held them to a snarling challenge while the pack leader set up a howl to summon their master.

Bahzell stopped where he was, resting his palm on his pommel, and admired the dogs’ training while he waited. It wasn’t a long wait. Half a dozen sturdy hradani, all shorter than he, but well muscled from hard work and better food than most Navahkan city-dwellers ever saw, tumbled out of cottage doors. Bare steel gleamed in moonlight as they spread out about him, and Bahzell couldn’t fault their cautious hostility.

“Who be ye?” a strident voice challenged. “And what d’ye want, a-botherin’ decent folk in the middle o’ the night?!”

“It’s sorry I am to disturb you,” Bahzell replied calmly. “I’m but a traveler in need of your help.”

“Hey? What’s that? In need o’ help?” The voice barked a laugh. “You, wi’ a great, whackin’ sword at yer side an’ a shirt o’ mail on yer back, need our help?” The spokesman laughed again. “Ye’ve a wit fer a dirty, sneakin’ thief-I’ll say that fer ye!”

“It’s no thief I am tonight,” Bahzell said in that same mild voice, deliberately emphasizing his Hurgrum accent, “though I’ve naught against splitting a few skulls if you’re caring to call me so again.”

The spokesman rocked back on his heels, lowering his spear to peer at the intruder, and Bahzell gave back look for look.

“Yer not from around here, are ye?” the farmer said slowly, and it was Bahzell’s turn to snort a laugh.

“You might be saying that.”

“So I might.” The farmer cocked his head up at Bahzell’s towering inches. “In fact, ye’ve the look o’ one o’ them Horse Stealers. Be ye so?”

“That I am. Bahzell, son of Bahnak, Prince of Hurgrum.”

“Arrr! Tell us another ’un!” someone hooted, but the spokesman shook his head and held up a hand.