The War God's Own

Bahzell swallowed, jarred by the casualness of the wizard's tone. He could forget Wencit's age and reputation for days on end-or no, not forget so much as set them aside or fool himself into thinking he'd come to grips with them-and then some offhand remark would drive the old man's sheer antiquity home like an arbalest bolt. Like now. No one else in the world could possibly refer to twelve hundred tumultuous years as 'a while,' yet to Wencit of Rum, that was precisely what they had been.

For an instant, Bahzell was terrifyingly aware of the age and knowledge-and power-riding peacefully along at his side. This was the man who had strafed Kontovar. Who had fought the Lord of Carnadosa himself, and all his inner council, to a standstill in the first, desperate days of the war which had doomed the Empire of Ottovar. Whose protection had prevented the Dark Lords from pursuing Kontovar's refugees to Norfressa to make an end of them. Bahzell Bahnakson was not a man who felt awe easily, but there was not-could not be-a more perilous being in all the world, and for just that instant, a fear-touched awe was precisely what echoed through Bahzell's bones.

But the moment passed. Not because the Horse Stealer felt any less respect, but because Wencit had chosen for it to pass. It would have been impossible for Bahzell to imagine anything less like the dark and terrible wizard lords of the ancient tales than the plainly clothed old man on the horse beside him. No one who ever met Wencit of Rum could mistake the steel at his core, but the wizard had never sought wealth or pomp. His was a quiet authority which came from who he was and what he had done, not from the sort of mailed fist which could impose obedience. He was a wanderer, moving about on missions of his own, often inscrutable and mysterious to those about him, who turned up unexpectedly and then disappeared as unexpectedly as he'd come. He was as comfortable with barbarian hradani as at the King-Emperor's own court, and for twelve hundred years he had been a law unto himself.

Now he looked at Bahzell, raising one snowy eyebrow, and smiled. It was an oddly intimate little smile, as if he knew what the hradani had been thinking and found it amusing, yet there was a wry twist to it, as well. Perhaps, Bahzell thought, the real reason Wencit had never built himself the sort of wizard's tower the old tales described or established himself in luxurious wealth and authority in Axe Hallow or Midrancimb or Sothfalas was far simpler than most people had ever imagined.

He was lonely. Could it truly be that simple, the Horse Stealer wondered? And yet, how could it not be? This man's flame-cored eyes had witnessed the fall of the greatest empire in history. He'd seen the wreckage of that empire washed up on Norfressa's shore, watched over and guarded it as it painfully and laboriously set about putting its pieces back together. And aside from some of the elves of Saramantha in their self-imposed seclusion, he was the only one who had. How many people-how many friends-had he known across that vast sweep of years? How many times had death washed them away and left him alone once more to pursue his lonely task as a continent's guardian? The grief of so much loss must eat at a man's soul, yet the only way to avoid that sorrow would be to isolate one's self as Saramantha had-to erect barricades and defenses against feeling-and that, Bahzell somehow knew, was something Wencit simply could not do. And so he took people as he met them. All people, on their own terms, accepting them for who and what they were, for he needed them to remind him of who he was… and why he had given and sacrificed so much to protect them for so long.

'You were commenting on the walls?' The old man's voice prodded Bahzell with unusual patience, and the Horse Stealer shook himself, then grinned.

'Aye, so I was,' he replied, grateful to Wencit for breaking the train of his thoughts. 'I'd not've thought anyone would spend the effort to polish them this way. Tomanak ! I'd've said no one could do it!'

'Ah, but they didn't-polish them, I mean,' Wencit said. Bahzell looked at him for a moment, then flicked his eyes back to the glass-smooth stone.

'And just how would you describe whatever they were after doing, then?' he asked politely.

'Oh, the stone's smooth enough,' Wencit agreed, 'but they didn't have to 'polish' it. This-' he flicked a hand to indicate the entire wide sweep of the tunnel which surrounded them '-is sarthnasik work.'

'Sarthnasik?' Bahzell repeated carefully. The word was obviously dwarvish, though it seemed overly short for their language, but he'd never heard it before.

'It translates-roughly, you understand-as 'stoneherd,' ' Wencit told him.

'Does it, now? And what might a stoneherd be?' Bahzell felt Brandark urging his horse up behind him and sensed the Bloody Sword leaning towards Wencit with his ears cocked. Vaijon wasn't far behind, and Kaeritha smiled crookedly as she moved her own mount to the side to make room for the young knight-probationer. Clearly she was already familiar with the term, but Bahzell wasn't, and he eyed the wizard intently.

'A stoneherd is a dwarf who practices sarthnasikarmanthar,' Wencit explained. 'That's the traditional dwarvish discipline-or art, perhaps-which allows them to command stone.'

'Command stone?' Brandark repeated, sounding as dubious as Bahzell felt, and the wizard chuckled.

'That's the simplest way to put it,' he said dryly. 'I can give you a more technical explanation if you really want one, but I doubt it would mean a great deal to you.' The Bloody Sword raised an eyebrow, and Wencit shrugged. 'Do you remember the night I tried to explain how wizardry works?'

'Yes.' Brandark rubbed his nose. 'You said something about the entire universe being composed solely of energy, however solid it may look.'

'Precisely. And if you'll recall, I also said that all wizardry consisted of was a set of tools or techniques with which to manipulate that energy?' It was Wencit's turn to cock an eyebrow, like a professor checking to see if his students followed him.

'Oh, aye. We recall it, right enough,' Bahzell assured him. 'Which isn't to be saying we're after understanding it, of course, but we do recall it.'

'Good. Because sarthnasikarmanthar is simply a specialized version of the same thing-one which applies only to stone and which only the dwarves have developed. A sarthnasik doesn't 'dig' or 'cut' a tunnel. He visualizes it in his mind-much as I suppose you or Kerry visualize the mending of a wound when you call on Tomanak for healing-and then imposes that vision on the energy other people see as 'solid stone.' '

Wencit shrugged, as if what he'd said was self-explanatory and as simple as baking a cake, and Bahzell stared at him, appalled by the implications.

'D'you mean to be telling me,' he said very slowly after a moment, 'that a dwarf can simply wish something like this-' he waved at the tunnel again '-into being?'

'Hardly!' Wencit snorted. 'It takes a great deal of concentration and imposes a tremendous drain on the life energy of a stoneherd. Something like this tunnel or some of the other tunnels and cuts sarthnasiks have produced for the Empire aren't anything they do casually, Bahzell. But the ability is undoubtedly the real reason dwarves seem so much more comfortable underground.'

'And they still do it today?' Brandark sounded uneasy, and Wencit turned to look at him. 'I mean, there's no White Council-hasn't been one for twelve hundred years.' Wencit cocked his head, and the Bloody Sword frowned. 'I don't think I like knowing that a bunch of wizards have been running around unsupervised all that time!'

'They're not wizards,' Wencit said, and sighed at Brandark's expression of disbelief. 'Sarthnasikarmanthar is no more wizardry than the elves' long life spans are, Brandark. Rock is the only thing a stoneherd can impose his will on, though most sarthnasiks do seem to have a greater affinity for metal work than even other dwarves do. I think it has something with their sensitivity to the ores in their raw state. But a stoneherd could no more 'visualize' a hole through you than Vaijon here could.'

'Sounds like wizardry to me,' Brandark said stubbornly, and Wencit shook his head.

'I suppose that-in a very specialized sense-you can define it that way if you absolutely insist,' he said, 'but no wizard would. It's a natural talent no one can learn to duplicate without the same inborn talent. In fact, most wizards would agree with the historians that sarthnasikarmanthar was the very first cleft point for the Races of Man.'

' 'Cleft point'?' Bahzell repeated. Wencit nodded, and the Horse Stealer rubbed his jaw. 'And what would a