The War God's Own

Brandark's finery. His breeches were warm and serviceable, but they were cut for comfort, not style. His full- sleeved shirt was made of first-quality linen, but without a trace of embroidery, and the warm tunic he wore over it was of the same plain green wool as the Order's field-issue surcoats, as was the quilted Sothoii-style poncho he'd insisted upon instead of a cloak. Most of the lay-brothers who served the Order as men-at-arms were better dressed than he, and he must certainly be the drabbest 'knight' ever to grace these halls.

Except, of course, that he wasn't a knight.

'You know,' Brandark said slowly, adjusting a tuning peg with exquisite care rather than looking at his friend, 'it might put these people a bit more at ease with you if you'd let them knight you. Sir Charrow, at least, is just aching for the opportunity, and I don't see how Tomanak could object. They are his Order, after all.'

'Ha!' Bahzell snorted, and sheathed the dagger with a sharp click! as if for emphasis. 'Wouldn't that just look wonderful, now. Me, decked out like some cursed knight from one of your fool tales! Oh, no, my lad!'

'But if it would make them happy-'

'No, I said, and no, I meant,' Bahzell said flatly. 'Himself was after telling me he needed a champion. He said naught at all about knights and lords and titles, and I've no mind to be taking such on, either. And-' his brown eyes hardened ominously '-if these folk can't be accepting what's good enough for himself, then I've no mind to be catering to their prejudices, either!'

'I hadn't thought about it in that light,' Brandark admitted. He pursed his lips and half-flattened his ears, then plucked a string, listening critically to his instrument's voice. 'So if you're not going to let them knight you, what are you going to do?'

'Now there you've got me.' Bahzell sighed. He rose and clipped the dagger sheath to his belt, stretching in a huge yawn despite the limitations of the chamber's ceiling, then crossed to the rack on which he'd hung the armor Sir Charrow had insisted the Order was duty bound to provide him. A kite-shaped shield, dark green and bearing the emblems of Tomanak in gold, hung on the wall behind it, beside his arbalest, and Bahzell smiled faintly as he reached out to brush his fingertips almost reverently across the mail. It was by far the finest he'd ever owned, dwarvish chain with a steel breast-and-back, though he felt certain Sir Vaijon would turn up his nose at it. The mail was of honest steel rings, with no silver wash or fancywork, and the burnished breastplate was equally plain, without even the green enamel most members of the Order preferred. But Bahzell knew the quality of that armor's workmanship, and Bahzell Bahnakson had little use for flash and glitter.

Yet happy as he was to see it and to once again have boots which not only fitted but kept out snow and wet, the price seemed high. It was obvious Vaijon could scarcely force himself to be civil even now. In fact, the young man's unhappiness seemed to be growing still worse, as if some poison festered deep inside him. Yet Bahzell almost preferred Vaijon to the reservations and resentments behind the exquisitely courteous facades of all too many of his new 'brothers.' He'd identified Yorhus and Adiskael, but he suspected there were others, as well. Others who were far harder to identify because they were older and more restrained. More… cautious than Vaijon's desperate youthful ardor permitted the golden-haired knight-probationer to be. Yet they were there. He often wondered whether or not Vaijon realized that, but he doubted it, somehow. Young Vaijon was too wrapped up in his own unhappiness and disappointment to realize that he was serving-perhaps even being made to serve-as the focus of the unstated resentment of so many of his seniors, as well.

'I've thought on it, this last week and more,' he went on to Brandark after several thoughtful seconds, while his fingers unconsciously caressed the high-combed helmet with the special openings for a hradani's ears. 'To speak truth, I've been more than half minded to take myself off. Old Kilthan's factor could find work enough for the two of us, or Master Kresco's one as would be after putting us up at need, and I've had a bellyful of sideways looks. Mind you, I've naught at all against Sir Charrow, and most of the rest've tried at least, but there's no skirting 'round it, Brandark. But for Sir Charrow and two or three others, most of 'em are ready enough to be seeing my backside.'

He paused, staring moodily into the fire once more, then sighed heavily.

'Just betwixt the pair of us, I'd as soon show it to 'em, too,' he admitted, 'and maybe the sooner the better.' Brandark glanced up quickly at his words' bitter undertone, and Bahzell looked back at him with an expression not even the most charitable could have called a smile. His hand caressed the hilt of his dagger, and a dangerous glitter, like chips of cruel ice, flickered in his usually mild eyes. Perhaps only another hradani would have understood that glitter, but Brandark was a hradani, and he drew a deep breath before he spoke very carefully.

'Was there a specific person who brought you to that conclusion?' he asked.

'Aye,' Bahzell said grimly, and knuckles whitened as his hand clenched on the dagger.

The ice in his eyes burned suddenly hot with remembered passion, and his nostrils flared as a razor-edged echo of his people's curse shivered at his core. He and Brandark had learned more about the Rage than any other hradani had ever suspected there was to learn. They had mastered the trick of summoning it at need-of using it in their times of darkest peril-but that hadn't lulled them into forgetting its dangers, for having accepted that it could be used, the temptation to use it might well become even greater. It wasn't something they discussed, but there were times when both of them feared that their new knowledge might actually weaken the chains with which they held their demon pent. And as Brandark gazed at his friend, he suddenly wondered how much of Bahzell's apparent calm was no more than a mask for something else. There were dark and dangerous places in any hradani's soul, even that of a champion of Tomanak , and it was chillingly obvious that someone, at least, had come perilously close to pushing his way into one of them.

But then Bahzell closed his eyes, shook himself, and exhaled noisily. When he looked back at Brandark once more the sick, hungry fury of the Rage had been banished from his eyes, and he took his hand from his dagger. Brandark said nothing, but the Horse Stealer needed no words to read the thoughts behind his eyes, and he chuckled harshly.

'Aye, it was after being 'specific,' right enough,' he agreed, 'and the fool not even guessing how close he'd come to seeing his guts spilled on the floor before him, either!' He bared his strong, white teeth. 'It was near as near, Brandark-that close-' he raised his hand, holding index finger and thumb a bare quarter-inch apart 'and but for himself, I'm thinking I'd've-'

He stopped himself and shook his head.

'No, let's be honest amongst ourselves. But for himself I'd not've stopped myself. I'd've killed the sanctimonious, smiling bastard and laughed… and wouldn't that have been proving as how they'd all been right to think us savages?'

'Don't blame yourself too much,' Brandark said quietly, his voice for once devoid of humor. 'The Rage can take even the best of us, Bahzell. You know that as well as I.'

'Aye, aye.' Bahzell turned his eyes back to the hearth and shrugged, but his voice was low. 'Yet I'd hoped when himself told us how it was changing I'd not have to be facing it again-not in the old way. Yet there it was, like red murder in my soul, and the hunger of it. The need just to be reaching out and taking him by the neck and-'

He shuddered again, then stood completely motionless for almost a minute. Then he tossed his head and turned to his friend once more, and this time his smile was almost natural.

'Still and all, himself was never after promising us it would be easy, was he now? And I'm thinking he was also after warning us the old Rage lingers yet, so like as not it was naught but foolish pride made me think as how it might not be waiting for me these days, hey? And while I'd sooner not come any closer to it than I've done already, it's in my mind that himself is after thinking up something for me to be doing here, which means I can't be off before I've done it… whatever it is. On the other hand, cursed if I know what it is. And himself's not after making so very free with his little 'visits,' either,' he added wryly, then chuckled. 'Now there's a thing I'd not thought myself likely to be missing!'

'I feel sure he'll get back around to confiding in you,' Brandark said dryly, as relieved as his friend by the change of topic.

'Oh, like enough,' Bahzell agreed, turning back to the table and seating himself once more. 'The problem is I'm not so very comfortable in my mind about waiting for the boot to fall, you see. I've the notion that when it does,