Oath of Swords

Darkwater’s general course and how much longer than expected it’s taken us to get here, I’d say we’ve fallen off to the east. That being the case, I vote we go upstream.”

“Ah, the wit of the man!” Bahzell marveled. “Were you truly after figuring that all out on your very own?”

Brandark made a rude gesture, and the Horse Stealer laughed.

“Well, I’ll not be surprised if you’ve the right of it after all, and either way is better than none, so we’d best be going.”

He heaved himself back to his feet, settled his sword once more on his back, and led the way northwest along the riverbank.

***

The sun had sunk low before them when they came to a spot where the banks had been logged back for over a mile on each side. A small, palisaded village crouched on the southern bank, and a broad-beamed ferry was drawn up at a rough dock near it. Thick guide ropes stretched across the stream, running over crude but efficient pulleys, and Brandark groaned in resignation as he and Bahzell headed for them.

The Horse Stealer ignored him and gripped the guide rope, then grunted as he threw his weight upon it. A ferry that size had never been meant for one man to move unaided, but Bahzell’s mighty heave urged it into the stream. It curtsied clumsily on the current, and Brandark leaned his own weight on the rope beside him. The craft moved a bit more quickly, yet the river was broad, and it took them the better part of fifteen panting, heaving minutes to work it across to their side.

Bahzell gasped in relief when the square bow nudged the mud at his feet, yet his brow furrowed in puzzlement as he wiped sweat from it. He could see at least a score of people standing about the village gate, and half a dozen horsemen sat their mounts facing them, yet it seemed none of them had as much as looked up as their ferryboat moved away from them. That indicated a certain lack of caution to Bahzell. The village was small enough to offer easy pickings to any band of brigands (assuming any such ever came this way), and someone should have been keeping an eye on the boat.

He shrugged the thought away and helped Brandark lead their animals onto the ferry. It was a tight fit-they never would have made it with the horses they’d lost-and the Bloody Sword stood in the bow while Bahzell took the stern. The rope was chest-high for most humans, though considerably lower for Bahzell, and they leaned on it once more to work their way back across the stream.

“I wonder what they do for a living around here,” Brandark panted as they neared midstream. “I don’t see any sign of farmland.”

“Woodsmen, I’m thinking,” Bahzell replied. “Oh, be still, you nag!” He broke off to kick one of the mules on the haunch as it stamped uneasily towards the side. The mule flattened its ears and glared at him, but it also stopped moving, and he grunted in satisfaction.

“You think they float timber downstream to South Hold?”

“Well, they are calling it the ‘Shipwood.’ ” Bahzell flicked his ears at the logged-off swath along the river. “They never used all that wood to build yon miserable village, but there’s no cause they should be floating it just to South Hold. There’s Bortalik Bay to the south, and no question the Purple Lords need timber enough for their shipping.”

“You’re probably right,” Brandark grunted, heaving on the rope.

“Aye,” Bahzell agreed as they neared the southern bank, but his eyes were on the people clustered around the palisade gate, and he frowned. Brandark looked up at the absent note in his voice, then followed his glance back to the village, and his ears pricked.

“Trouble, you think?” he asked casually.

“As to that, I’ve no way of knowing, but those folk seem all-fired interested in something besides us, my lad.”

“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” Brandark replied philosophically, and Bahzell nodded as the ferry grounded once more. No one came down to help them disembark, and Bahzell’s curiosity flared higher as they urged their animals onto the dock. Ignoring the departure of their ferryboat was one thing; ignoring its return with two large, unknown, and heavily armed warriors was something else again, and he gave Brandark a speculative glance.

“Are you thinking we should be wandering over to see what’s caught them all up so?”

“Actually, no,” Brandark said. “Whatever it is, it’s their business, and we’re a pair of hradani a long, long way from home.”

“And you the lad who said you wanted adventure!”

“I spoke from the enthusiasm of ignorance-and you shouldn’t rub my nose in it.”

“Ah, but it’s after being such a long, lovely nose,” Bahzell chuckled. “Still and all, you may have the right of it. We’ve no cause to be mixing in other folk’s affairs, and-”

He broke off, ears pricking, as a sudden, loud wailing rose from the village. His eyes narrowed, and he peered intently at the horsemen at the gate. One of them, much more richly dressed than the others, sat his saddle with an air of supreme arrogance, one fist on his hip, holding a riding crop, while the other hand held his reins, and two drably dressed villagers had gone to their knees before him. They were too distant for Bahzell to make out words, but he recognized pleading when he saw it, and his ears went flat to his skull as the richly dressed horseman leaned from the saddle and his long crop flashed. The lash on its end exploded across the cheek of one of the kneeling men, knocking him over, and Bahzell snarled.

“Now that, I’m thinking, changes things a mite,” he grated as a louder keen of despair went up. A woman dashed from the village and crouched over the fallen man. She screamed something at the man with the crop, and it flashed again. She got her arm up just in time to block it short of her own face, and Bahzell snarled again and started forward.

“Ah, Bahzell?” Brandark’s voice stopped him, and he turned to glower at his friend.

“What?” he said flatly.

“I just wanted to mention that we are strangers hereabouts. A certain, um, caution might be indicated.”

“Caution, is it? And what about that whoreson with the whip?”

“Goodness, and there’s not even blood on your knuckles!” Brandark murmured. An unwilling grin twitched Bahzell’s lips, but there was no give in his expression, and the Bloody Sword sighed. “All right. All right! I suppose it’s all that new champion nobility rushing to your head. But if it’s all the same to you, can we at least try talking to them?”

“And what were you thinking I meant to do? Just walk up and have two or three heads off their shoulders?”

“Well, you can be a bit direct at times,” Brandark pointed out, but he was grinning as he said it, and he swung back up onto his horse. “All right,” he repeated. “If we’re going to poke our noses in, let’s get to it.”

He touched a heel to his horse and trotted forward at Bahzell’s side as the Horse Stealer stalked over to the group by the gate. Two more women had emerged from it, and though he still couldn’t make out the words, he heard their imploring tones. The richly dressed man shook his head and nodded to one of the men with him, and the setting sun flashed on a drawn sword as the retainer walked his horse forward.

The villagers backed away in terror, and Bahzell’s lips tightened. He picked up his pace a bit, and the rearmost horseman suddenly looked over his shoulder. He stiffened and leaned forward, poking one of his companions and gesturing, and the richly dressed man’s head snapped around. The man with the sword stopped and turned his head in turn, and then all the horsemen were shifting position, drawing their mounts around to face the newcomers while their hands rested near their sword hilts.

Bahzell crossed the last few feet of muddy ground and paused, arms folded and hands well away from his own weapons, to survey them. The villagers peered at him from frightened eyes set in faces of despair, but his attention was on the richly dressed man-a half-elf, from his features and coloring-and the armed and mailed horsemen at his side.

“What d’you want?” the half-elf demanded in Spearman, and not even his atrocious accent could hide his imperious disdain as he gazed at the travel-worn hradani.

“As to that, we’re but passing through,” Bahzell replied in a voice which was far calmer than he felt.