Oath of Swords

Chapter Thirty-six

Prince Harnak drew rein and dabbed irritably at the sweat on his brow. The clothing he’d brought with him suited a northern winter, not the unnatural heat of this southern warm spell, and he muttered a sour curse on the hot, clammy woolens under his chain mail as he glowered at the terrain.

He’d never been good with maps, and his notion of his whereabouts had become uncomfortably vague. In fact, the only things he was sure of was that he was far south of Sindark, floundering about in an unknown land where every hand was potentially hostile . . . and that Bahzell was somewhere ahead of him still.

His survey of the countryside told him nothing. It was more of the gentle, sparsely wooded hills that stretched from the Shipwood to Bortalik Bay, without a village in sight. That was good-they’d nearly collided with some local lordling’s retainers when they strayed too near a small town three nights ago-but the lack of any road or guidepost made him uneasy.

Not that he was without any guides. He touched his sword hilt once more, almost against his will, and felt the pull that had first drawn him south, away from Sindark. There, he thought-to the southeast again. The hatred of the cursed blade sought the Horse Stealer like a lodestone . . . and it was growing stronger. Ten leagues, the archpriest had said; that was the range at which the sword could sense Bahzell. Judging by how fierce its pull had become, they were getting close, and Harnak spat on the ground as he released the hilt. The oppressive alienness of this land-his sense that he was far, far from home and riding further with every hour-made him edgy, and fear of what would happen when he and Bahzell finally met gnawed his belly like a worm of acid. Yet for all that, impatience goaded him on. His own hatred warred with his fear . . . and at least some of his troubles would be resolved, whatever happened, when he ran the Horse Stealer to ground at last.

He settled himself in the saddle again, nodded irritably to Gharnash, and pushed his horse back up to a weary trot.

***

“Are you sure it’s really winter?” Brandark asked plaintively as he wiped his streaming face.

“Aye-or what passes for it in these parts. And a fine one you are to be complaining, you with your horse under your arse!” Bahzell snorted.

“I didn’t complain; I only asked a question,” Brandark said with dignity, and turned to gaze behind them. “Think they’re still back there?”

“As to that, you’ve as good a notion as I-but if they’re not behind still, they’ve at least sent word ahead. You can lay to that, my lad.”

Brandark grunted unhappily, although both of them were aware they’d actually done very well . . . so far. There’d been one close call two days after Tomanak’s last visit when a mounted patrol thudded urgently past their hide in a handy coppice. The patrol hadn’t been following their tracks, yet neither of them had doubted what brought it this way. The Lands of the Purple Lords were a hotbed of semi-independent city-states, locked in bitter competition (mercantile and otherwise) despite their nominal allegiance to the Conclave of Lords at Bortalik. Population was sparse, for half-elves were less fertile than most of the Races of Man, and villages of their mostly human peasants tended to cluster around the larger cities, while vast, still unclaimed areas-luckily for fugitives-lay outside any petty prince’s holding. The Conclave Army was charged with policing those areas but spent most of its time on the frontiers, and few things would bring thirty-five of its mounted troopers this far south. For that matter, most of the local lordlings would have fits if the army intruded upon their private domains . . . unless, of course, the officer commanding the intrusion had a good reason for his presence.

“Where are we, anyway?” Brandark asked after a moment.

“By my reckoning, we’ve come maybe a hundred fifty leagues from the Darkwater,” Bahzell replied. “If that’s so, we’re naught but fifty leagues or so from the coast.”

“That close?” Brandark frowned and pulled on his nose. “What happens once we reach the coast, if you don’t mind my asking? As you say, they must have sent word ahead of us to the ports. That means ships are out, and since I still can’t swim and you can’t walk on water, it might be time to consider what we’re going to do next.”

Bahzell snorted in agreement and paused in the welcome shade of a small stand of trees. He mopped at his own face, then shrugged.

“I’m thinking it’s likely we have lost whoever was actually on our trail,” he said finally. “We’ve not set so hard a pace we’d not have seen something of them by now else, and that rain the other day was hard enough to be taking out our tracks. If that’s the way of it, then all we really need do is play least in sight and keep clear of roads.”

“And?”

“From the map, there’s precious few coast towns west of Bortalik. I’m minded to make it clean to the sea if we can, then turn west along the shore.”

“To where?”

“As to that, we’ll have to be making up our minds when we get there. We might strike for the Marfang Channel, find a way across, and take ship from Marfang itself. Or we might try northwest, amongst the Wild Wash Hradani, or cut north through the Leaf Dance Forest back up into the Empire of the Spear.”

“D’you have any idea how far that is?” Brandark demanded.

“Aye, I do that-a better one than you, I’m thinking.” Bahzell raised a foot and grimaced at the holes in the sole of his boot. “But if you’ve a better notion, it’s pleased I’ll be to hear it.”

“No, no. Far be it from me to interfere when you’ve done such a fine job of planning our excursion. What’s a few hundred more leagues when we’re having such fun?”

***

“Well?” Rathan’s voice was sharp as the scout trotted up to him. The major’s elegant appearance had become sadly bedraggled over the last week of hard riding and frequent rain, but the toughness that elegance had cloaked had become more evident as it frayed, and the scout shifted uneasily. The major had been less than pleased when they lost the trail of his cousin’s killers. His order to spread out and find it again had been curt, but the need to sweep every fold of rolling ground had slowed them badly, and he’d begun taking his frustration out on anyone who hadn’t found the tracks he wanted.

“I’m . . . not certain, sir,” the scout said now.

“Not certain?” Rathan repeated in a dangerous tone, and the scout swallowed.

“Well, I’ve found a trail, Major. I’m just not certain it’s the one we’ve been following.”

“Show me!” Rathan snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

The scout turned his horse and led the way. He almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut, but if he hadn’t reported it and someone else had , the consequences would have been even worse, he thought gloomily.

Twenty minutes brought them to his find, and he dismounted beside the ashes of a fire.

“Here, Major,” he said.

Rathan dismounted in turn, propped his hands on his hips, and turned in a complete circle. The camp was clearly recent, but the hradani they were tracking were trail-wise and canny. Their fires, when they made them at all, were smaller than this one, their camps selected with an eye to concealment, and they did a far better job than this of hiding the signs of their presence when they moved on.

“And what,” he asked with ominous quiet, “makes you think this was the bastards we want?”

“I never said it was, sir,” the scout said quickly, “but you wanted to know about any tracks we found, and we are hunting hradani.”