The War God's Own

trained, powerful weight, and the sound of collision was a sharp, ear-shocking Crack!

Many of those watching had seen Vaijon launch the same attack in training. It had never failed when executed properly… and Vaijon had never executed it any other way. It came in at precisely the correct angle, and it should have smashed Bahzell's shield to the side, battered him sideways, opened the way to his body for Vaijon's blade even as it staggered him and drove his weight back on his heels.

But Bahzell wasn't staggered. He didn't even seem to shift balance. He simply took Vaijon's full weight, and all the momentum of his charge, and absorbed it. It was Vaijon who bounced, eyes wide in disbelief, as Bahzell twisted his arm and tossed their locked shields-and Vaijon-aside so that his stroke went wide… and left him wide open for the hradani's riposte.

Someone in the watching audience bit off a shocked shout as Bahzell's blade flicked out almost negligently. The blow seemed effortless, almost gentle, but it sounded like an axe in seasoned oak as it landed, and Vaijon staggered back another stride as Bahzell lopped a huge chunk from the side of his shield.

The younger man tried to gather himself, regain his balance, but Bahzell wouldn't let him. The hradani stood motionless no longer, and Vaijon felt a totally unfamiliar surge of panic. It wasn't fear, really, for there wasn't time for it to become that. It was surprise-disbelief and even shock-that anyone the Horse Stealer's size could move so quickly, coupled with the feeling that he himself had somehow been mired in quicksand. Huge as he was, Bahzell moved like a dire cat, with a deadly precision whose like Vaijon had never before encountered. His huge sword sang, impossibly quick, lashing out as if it weighed no more than a walking stick as he flicked the blade in strokes that looked effortless even as every one of them carved yet another chunk out of Vaijon's shield.

Other knights came to their feet as Vaijon reeled back, mercilessly driven by his unrelenting foe, and Sir Charrow watched in a disbelief as great as that any of his brother knights felt. Bahzell wasn't attacking Vaijon directly. He was attacking Vaijon's shield, ignoring openings to the other's body, using that huge sword like a hammer to batter the smaller, slighter human back and back and yet further back. He all but ignored Vaijon's sword, as well, using his own shield with almost contemptuous ease to brush aside the few, desperate attacks the younger man managed to launch.

If it was hard for the rest of the chapter to believe, it was even harder for Vaijon. He'd never experienced anything like it, never imagined an attack like this was possible. No one could maintain that furious, driving rhythm-not with something as massive and clumsy as a two-handed sword! Bahzell had to tire, had to slow, had to lose his cadence and give him at least an instant to regain his balance!

But that tree trunk arm didn't tire… and it didn't slow. Vaijon tried to twist his body, tried to set himself and thrust Bahzell back, and it didn't work. Then he tried to fall back faster than Bahzell could follow, tried to get outside the other's reach, open the range at least enough to rob the hradani's blows of their power, and that didn't work, either. Bahzell had too much reach advantage, and he seemed to sense Vaijon's moves even before the human attempted them. He followed up, hacking, hacking, hacking at Vaijon's shield, and splinters flew as that merciless blade reduced it to wreckage.

Vaijon panted for breath, too astonished by the boundless power of Bahzell's attack to feel fear even now, but it was obvious to every watcher that he was totally at the hradani's mercy. Bahzell was toying with him as he drove him back in a staggering, lurching parody of his normal, tigerish grace. The hradani battered the younger man back until Vaijon's heel caught on the hearth at the southern end of salle. The golden-haired knight staggered for balance, half-falling, and a deep, rustling sigh went up from the audience as he faltered, exposing himself for Bahzell's coup-de-grace.

But Bahzell didn't deliver it. Instead the hradani stepped back with a deep, booming laugh. The mockery in it cut like a lash, and Vaijon's half-strangled gasp for breath was also a sob of rage and shame as he hurled himself forward once more behind his shattered shield. The tip of his blade came up, thrusting murderously for Bahzell's exposed face, but the hradani's shield slammed the sword-and swordsman-aside. Vaijon bounced back from the blow and went half-way to one knee, and this time Bahzell was on him in an instant.

The hradani wasted no more time driving his enemy about the salle. He had only one purpose now, and Sir Charrow felt himself frozen motionless in his chair as Bahzell Bahnakson of the Horse Stealer hradani gave the Belhadan chapter of the Order of Tomanak a merciless lesson in who and what he was. A single savage blow smashed what remained of Vaijon's shield into dangling wreckage, hanging from his shield arm to entangle and hinder without affording the least protection. Vaijon fought to interpose his longsword, but Bahzell's blade crashed down upon it, and steel rang like an anvil. The younger man went all the way down on his right knee, and Bahzell struck again, twisting in with brutal, side-armed power. Steel belled and clangored again, like harsh, explosive music ugly with hate, and Vaijon's sword flew through the air, spinning end-over-end. It landed in the sawdust fifteen feet away, and Sir Charrow lunged to his feet at last as Bahzell's sword came down yet again.

Yet the knight-captain's shout of protest died unspoken. Vaijon was defenseless, and the hradani would have been completely within his rights to finish him once and for all. But instead, the massive sword came in from the side, the flat of the blade striking Vaijon's shield arm like a blacksmith's sledge, and the knight-probationer cried out. His mail sleeve could blunt that blow; it couldn't stop it, and his forearm snapped like a dry branch. And then Bahzell struck yet again, and Vaijon cried out once more as his sword arm broke as well. He slumped fully to his knees, both arms broken, crouching at Bahzell's feet, and the hradani stretched out his sword once more-gently this time, with the precision of a surgeon-until its lancet tip rested precisely against his plate gorget.

'Well now, Sir Vaijon of Almerhas,' a voice rumbled. It was deep and steady, unwinded and coldly mocking. 'I'm thinking I promised to show you what hradani truly are, but it's in my mind as how you're not overpleased with the lesson. Still, there's little need for me to be after showing you, for you already know, don't you now? Aye, it's a rare, bloodthirsty lot my people are, so I'm thinking there no reason at all, at all, why I shouldn't be pushing this-' metal grated with a small, tooth-clenching squeal as he twisted his wrist, grinding the tip of his blade against Vaijon's gorget '-right through your arrogant throat, now is there?'

Vaijon stifled a whimper-of pain, not for mercy-and gazed up along the glittering edge of the five-foot blade resting against his throat. Absolute silence hovered in the salle, and fear flickered in his blue eyes at last. That fear was made only sharper and deeper by the fact that he'd never truly expected to feel it, yet he refused to beg, and Bahzell smiled. It was a grim smile, but there was a hint of approval in it, and he eased the pressure on his sword.

'Still and all,' he said quietly, 'it might just be you've a thing or two to learn yet, Vaijon of Almerhas, and not about hradani alone. I'm thinking himself can't be feeling any too pleased with you just now, for I've yet to meet a more conceited, miserable excuse for one of his knights.'

Vaijon felt his face go scarlet within the concealment of his helm, despite the shock and pain of his broken arms, as that deep, rumbling voice hammered spikes of shame into him. They hurt even more than shattered bone, those spikes, for they were completely deserved, and he knew it.

'If I were wanting your life, my lad, I'd already have had it,' Bahzell told him almost compassionately, 'but for all you've worked yourself into a right sorry position just now with me and with himself, as well, you've some steel in your spine and some gravel in your gullet. Aye, and I doubt you've ever had a conniving thought in your life- unlike some.' The hradani let his eyes rest briefly on Sir Yorhus of Belhadan's strained face, then looked back down at Vaijon. 'It's a pity, perhaps, that you've so much bone in your skull to go with the steel, but I've been known to be a mite stubborn myself, from time to time. I've a notion himself would think it a bit harsh to be taking someone's head just because he's acted the fool, however well he was after doing it. So tell me, Vaijon of Almerhas, would it be that you're minded to be just a mite more open-minded about who himself can be choosing as his champions?'

'I-' Vaijon bit his lip until he tasted blood, then sucked in a huge lungful of air and made himself nod. 'Yes, Milord Champion,' he said, his voice loud and clear enough to carry to every corner of the salle despite his shame and the waves of pain flooding through his arms.

'Your skill at arms has vanquished me, yet your mercy has spared my life,' the young knight forced himself to go on, 'proving both your prowess and your right to the honor to which the God has called you.' He paused, and then continued levelly. 'More, you have reminded me of what I chose in my arrogance to forget or ignore, Milord.