The War God's Own

'Wonderful. I wish someone had thought to warn me about gods and their senses of humor.'

'How's that?' Evark asked.

'I know all the legends and lays,' the Bloody Sword said plaintively. 'I've learned just about all the songs, read most of the chronicles, and studied everything I could get my hands on about the Fall.'

'And?' Evark prompted when he paused.

'And not one of them warned me,' Brandark complained. The halfling looked at him, and he shrugged. 'Oh, there's plenty of warning that Hirahim Lightfoot enjoys bad jokes, but that's his job. According to the lore masters, Tomanak is supposed to be a serious, high-minded sort of god… not the kind of person who'd send that-' he waved at the oncoming martial fashion plate '-to meet us.'

'Aye? Well according to the tales, he's not one to be having hradani champions, either, now is he?' Bahzell demanded. Brandark shook his head wryly, and Bahzell smacked him on the shoulder. 'Then I'm thinking that either your precious lore masters weren't quite the 'masters' they thought, or else there's changes being made. Either road, I've more than a feeling there's a reason himself was after sending 'that' to be meeting us.'

'Oh, I'm sure of that,' Brandark muttered. 'What I'm not sure of is that it's a reason I'll like.'

* * *

It was even colder on the docks than Vaijon had feared. He had the distinct impression his nose was about to freeze off, followed by other portions of his anatomy in order of exposure, but he looked about with interest despite his discomfort.

He'd never been a good sailor. The mere thought of a winter voyage could tie his stomach in knots, and he'd managed to avoid visiting the docks more than twice in the entire time he'd been assigned to the Order's Belhadan chapter. Those two trips had been made in the middle of summer, unfortunately, and in addition to its importance as a shipping hub, Belhadan was home port to the largest fishing fleet in Norfressa, and his business had taken him right to Fisherman's Wharf. The stench from the midsummer fishery sheds had turned Vaijon a darker green than his surcoat, which was why he'd gone to such lengths to avoid repeating the experience. Luckily, today's business took him to a different part of the waterfront. Even better, the winter cold seemed to have frozen the stench out of the air, for which he was devoutly grateful.

He consulted the scrap of paper Sir Charrow had handed him and nodded as he matched the numbers on it to those painted on the dockside pilings. He'd been told to look for a schooner (whatever a 'schooner' was) at Berth Nine at the Produce Pier, and he shoved the note into his belt pouch as Berth Nine came into sight. He couldn't see much of the ship moored there-it appeared to be lower than the side of the pier-but it had only two masts and seemed quite small. He felt a spurt of indignation that a champion of Tomanak should be forced to travel aboard such a lowly vessel, but he stepped on it quickly. A true knight went where honor and his duty to the God took him, and a champion's presence touched even the least prepossessing ship with the shadow of Tomanak Himself.

He quickened his pace, reassured by that thought, and squared his shoulders as the crowd of roughly dressed longshoremen turned to stare admiringly at him. He was accustomed to that reaction, and he inclined his head at precisely the right angle-enough to acknowledge their admiration but not enough to appear overly proud-as he headed for the gangplank.

'Gods!' Brandark muttered as the magnificent young man drew closer. 'D'you think Tomanak would be too upset if we dropped him in the harbor for a few minutes? I'd pull him back out- promise!'

'Will you just listen at that, now!' Bahzell replied. 'Why, I'm thinking he could be teaching you a thing or two about dressing sharp, Brandark my lad.'

'Him?' Brandark snorted. 'All this time together, and you still haven't learned to appreciate the elegance, the restrained style and cut, the carefully selected fabrics of my wardrobe?' His hand swept a graceful gesture at his tattered finery, and he shook his head sadly. 'Anyone can sew fistfuls of jewels onto himself, you uncouth barbarian, but that doesn't mean he has a sense of fashion! Besides, I won't have to drop him in the harbor if he's not careful. If he pokes his nose an inch or two higher, he's going to trip over his own two feet, go over the edge, and drown out of pure self- admiration.'

'Ah, so that's it! I was thinking I'd heard a note of jealousy there,' Bahzell observed, and grinned at his friend's expression. Brandark started to reply, then stopped as the newcomer walked to the edge of the pier and looked down at Wind Dancer with a puzzled air.

Vaijon looked out over the boat-no, he corrected himself, the schooner-in confusion. He knew he'd come to the right berth, but there was no champion in sight, nor even any sign of his proper entourage. Seen close up, the schooner was less pedestrian-looking than he'd feared. In fact, it had a certain undeniable grace, a long, lean set of lines which looked indefinably right somehow, but its crew appeared to consist entirely of halflings. Well, halflings and two-

Sir Vaijon of Almerhas froze. He'd never encountered a hradani in his life, for such savages were never seen among civilized folk, but he couldn't mistake the mobile, foxlike ears. Or, for that matter, the sheer size of the bigger one. The mountainous hradani would have made at least two of any man Vaijon had ever seen-he must weigh four or five hundred pounds, all of it bone and muscle-and a more evil-looking villain would have been impossible to imagine. His cloak looked to have been looted from a dead brigand, his crudely made scale mail had obviously been scrounged from the same source, and his boots and breeches were little better than rags. The hilt of a sword thrust up behind his raggedy cloak's left shoulder, and the sort of warrior's braid favored by backward human frontiersmen blew in the icy wind. The smaller hradani was just as tattered looking, but beside his companion's hulking menace he looked almost civilized.

Ancient tales of the hradani rape of Kontovar and more recent stories of border warfare and bloodshed here in Norfressa flashed through Vaijon's mind, and he stared at the hradani as if he'd opened his closet and found it full of vipers. There was no sane reason for two members of the most feared and reviled of all the Races of Man to suddenly appear in the middle of Belhadan, but there they stood, gazing up at him, and his hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

He started to draw, then made himself stop while he battled his confusion. He was only a knight-probationer, but it was the duty of any knight of Tomanak to defend the helpless against hradani and their like. He got that far without difficulty. The problem was that no one else on the pier seemed to realize they were in danger. In fact, they were gawking at him, not the hradani, and as he stood there with six inches of his sword out of its sheath, most of them began to grin and one or two actually laughed aloud.

His ears might be half frozen, but they weren't too cold for him to feel them burn as the loutish bystanders chuckled at his expense, and he shoved his blade back home with a click, kicking himself mentally for reacting without thought. The hradani were simply standing there on the schooner's deck, with two equally travel-stained packs at their feet. They were obviously passengers, not raiders sailing into Belhadan on the quarterdeck of a Shith-Kiri corsair, and however fearsome their kind might be as fighters, a single pair was hardly enough to threaten one of the King Emperor's largest cities! No wonder no one else seemed concerned. No doubt the Guard would keep a close eye on them-Vaijon would pass the word to the authorities himself after he guided the champion to the chapter house-but the very thought of the champion reminded him that he had more important duties this morning, and he shook himself impatiently. His lungs ached, protesting the cold as he drew a deep, calming breath, and then he settled his cloak more neatly about his shoulders and stalked down the gangplank with icy dignity.

Or as close to icy dignity as he could come. The plank was much springier than he had imagined, and he found himself doing an awkward hop-skip-and-stumble over its battens as it flexed under his boots. More guffaws rose from the idlers on the dock, and Vaijon muttered a few words Sir Charrow would not have approved of as he felt his ears burn afresh. What he wanted to do was take the flat of his blade to the buffoons who dared laugh at him, but his oath to the Order, not to mention the Code of Tomanak , forbade any such thing. In an intellectual way, Vaijon could agree with the restriction-it wasn't as though anyone had offered