The War God's Own

Stealer saw the echoes of the Rage in his eyes, as well; knew that Brandark, as he, had summoned their people's 'curse' to him. Vaijon was pale-faced and grim, clearly shaken by his first true taste of combat, but he'd stayed shoulder to shoulder with Brandark throughout, and Bahzell knew how few warriors could have done that.

Now the Horse Stealer turned where he stood and grimaced as he saw the trail of bodies strewn over the trampled, bloodstained snow. His own path was a ruler-straight line of corpses, headed directly for the woods from which the attack had come, and it was obvious which had fallen to him and which to the precise, lethal thrusts of Kaeritha's lighter weapons. The two of them alone had probably accounted for a third of their attackers, he realized, but, then, they'd had an advantage the others had lacked: those enemies had come to them-initially, at least.

But their companions had fought just as hard… and some had been less fortunate. He saw a dismounted lay- brother sitting up in the snow, shoulders propped against another brother's knee while a third tightened a tourniquet on a left arm which had lost its hand. Other bodies in the Order's colors lay still and unbreathing in the snow, and more knights and lay-brothers bent over other wounded friends.

But there were far more bandit bodies, he noted grimly. His original estimate had been low; there had been more like sixty than forty attackers, but less than fifteen had survived, and he gazed at them bleakly as he promised himself the opportunity to… discuss their actions with them. Yet for now there were other things to concern him, and he looked back at Kaeritha.

'Well fought, sword brother,' she told him, sheathing her cleaned swords, and he nodded.

'You, too, lass,' he agreed, and ripped a poncho from another corpse to wipe his own blade. He cleaned the steel, then sheathed it. 'But now I'm thinking it's time I was having a look at that leg of yours, sister,' he rumbled more quietly, 'and after that-' he twitched his head at the other wounded '-we'd best be talking to himself about healing our friends.'

Chapter Thirteen

So none of them have the least idea who hired them, eh?' Kaeritha sounded as skeptical as Bahzell felt, and the Horse Stealer snorted.

'If they do, none of 'em's minded to be telling us, at least,' he rumbled, and turned his head to spit into the snow in disgust. 'Mind you, if it wasn't for that 'Oath to Tomanak ' nonsense, Brandark and I'd soon have the truth out of them.'

'It's not 'nonsense,' Bahzell,' Kaeritha said, her tone mild but firm.

One knight-Sir Erek-and four lay-brothers had been killed, and six more had been wounded, two severely. Given the odds they'd faced, that was a low casualty list, but that made neither the deaths less painful nor the suffering of the wounded easier. Now the two champions sat apart from the others, wrapped in blankets while they recovered from the exhaustion of healing those wounded men. It wasn't simply physical weariness, but a champion's ability to heal depended on three things: his faith, the strength of his own will, and his ability to directly channel the power of his deity. As joyous as that was, it was also as strenuous, in its own way, as any battle. The focused will and faith, the ability to see the wounded man whole as he ought to be, produced the exhaustion, but the direct communion with their god produced its own sense of… bemusement and almost dreamy wonder. Still, they'd had time to recover from the stronger aftereffects, and Kaeritha gave the hradani a moderately stern glance.

Bahzell grimaced, but he also nodded. There was no question that he commanded their party-which, after all, had been assembled to get him home to deal with Sharna's meddling in Navahk-but Kaeritha had been a champion for almost eight years. It was hard to remember sometimes that she was senior to him, for despite her formidable height (for a human woman), she was of less than average height and delicate compared to hradani women, and she was almost ten years younger than he. Yet senior she was… and no one who had seen her in action this afternoon would ever think of her as a fragile flower of sheltered femininity.

'Aye, I know,' he agreed after a moment, 'but if the boot were on the other foot, these bastards wouldn't be caring less what our lot might have sworn. And if they hadn't been after swearing it, and if all our people weren't after being in the Order's colors, then Brandark and I could convince them easy enough… and without laying a finger on 'em, either.' Kaeritha raised an eyebrow, and he grinned evilly. 'We're hradani, Kerry, and all the world knows as how hradani would sooner slit a man's throat than look at him. Trust me. If these lads weren't after knowing as how calling on Tomanak protects them from us, we'd scare 'em into loosening their tongues quick enough.'

'I see.' Kaeritha considered for a moment, then chuckled. 'You know, I think I'd like to see that. And as far as I know, scaring them into talking isn't against the Code.'

'As far as that goes, Milady,' Vaijon said, crossing from the fire to bring the two of them steaming mugs of tea, 'we can always hope they violate their oaths of surrender.'

'I don't think that was precisely what Tomanak had in mind when he ruled that a prisoner's violation of the terms of surrender frees His followers from the Code,' Kaeritha told him dryly as she accepted a mug. He acknowledged her point with a nod, but the wistful longing in his eyes didn't fade, and she shook her head. 'You two deserve each other,' she said, waving the mug at them. 'Either Bahzell is a corrupting influence on you, Vaijon, or else there was always a nasty streak of peasant practicality in you and you just didn't know it.'

'Please, Milady!' Vaijon protested, drawing himself up and looking down his nose at her. 'Practicality if you like, and 'nasty' is fair enough. But 'peasant practicality'? My father would die of apoplexy! I am an Almerhas of Almerhas, you know.'

'Don't we all?' Kaeritha returned, and he chuckled. He was about to say something more when Sir Harkon walked up behind him. Wencit and Brandark were with Harkon, and the knight-commander looked grim as he held out one hand.

'We found this on one of their dead, Milord,' he told Bahzell in a flat voice, and the Horse Stealer stiffened as he saw the golden chain and pendant. He hesitated a moment, then took it gingerly, holding it up for Kaeritha to see, as well. The pendant was an icon in the shape of a scorpion, as long as a man's index finger, crouched atop an oval cut emerald a half-inch across. The creature's stinger-tipped tail was raised to strike, and its eyes were tiny rubies. It was an exquisite piece of work, and Kaeritha hissed as she saw it.

'Sharna here?' She glared at the symbol of the god of demons and assassins.

'Why not?' Brandark demanded with mirthless humor. She looked at him, and he shrugged. 'Old Demon Breath took quite a dislike to us-well, to Bahzell, to be honest, though it tended to spill over onto everyone in the vicinity- last fall. From all I've heard, he isn't one to give up grudges easily, and he doesn't seem to be particularly blessed with inventiveness, either. He spent a thousand leagues or so and several dozen dog brothers trying to ambush us. It never quite worked, but he did seem determined to keep trying until he finally got it right.'

'That's not what I meant.' Kaeritha reached out and took the scorpion from Bahzell. It was obvious she didn't enjoy touching it, but she turned it up and tapped the emerald on which it crouched. 'This isn't something a dog brother would wear, Brandark. For all its official connection to Sharna, the assassins' guild isn't particularly pious, and this is the emblem of one of Sharna's priests.' She glanced at Harkon. 'Did you find any dog brothers among the dead?'

'None,' Harkon replied, and looked at Wencit for confirmation.

'There weren't any,' the wild wizard agreed. 'And we looked very carefully for tattoos after we found that-' he jutted his chin at the scorpion '-too.'

'I see.' Bahzell leaned back on the rock upon which he sat. He took a long sip of hot tea, then rubbed the tip of his nose while his ears flattened in thought. He felt the others watching him, but he took his time considering the scanty information they had.

'I'm thinking,' he said at last, 'that there's naught but one possibility. Scummy as he is, Demon Breath is still a god… of sorts. Like as not, he's after knowing what we're about, and like Brandark says, he's not been shy about trying to scrag us both in the past. On the other hand, it's in my mind that himself said not even the Dark Gods dare meddle too directly.' He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Kaeritha, who nodded. 'Well, I suppose it's possible, then, that he's not told his lot just why he's wanting us dead. Come to that, the way