The War God's Own

we'll look after you right and tight anyway. Why, you'll be safer than if you were after lying in your mother's arms.'

Brandark opened his mouth to reply, then shut it with a click as Hurthang slid under the firs beside them and jerked his head back the way Urach had come.

'Tracks, hey?' he said softly. 'Now what would you be thinking could bring honest folk out into the middle of these godsforsaken woods this time of year, Bahzell?'

'What? Not 'Milord'?' Brandark jibed. Hurthang darted him a quick look, then chuckled and reached across Bahzell to punch the Bloody Sword on the shoulder.

'I can see why himself here is after being so attached to you, little man. You're enough to be keeping any man humble, aren't you just?'

'I try,' Brandark admitted. 'It's a hard task, mind you, but someone has to do it. And at least Bahzell gives me plenty of material to work with.'

'Now that'll be enough out of the both of you,' Bahzell said austerely as Hurthang smothered a laugh. 'We've more important things to be thinking on here.'

'Aye, that's true enough,' Hurthang agreed. 'But given the rumors Brandark was after sharing with us, I've little doubt as how Urach's trail will be taking us where it is we're wishful to go.' He narrowed his eyes at Bahzell. 'Have you felt anything yet?'

'No, not yet. Or, that's to say I don't think I've felt aught-other than a bit of nervous flutter, as you might say. Still and all, I'm thinking you're right enough, and it's grateful I'll be if you'll take your section up ahead there. I'll follow along on your heels, and Gharnal's lot can watch our backs.'

'Fair enough.' Hurthang nodded and squirmed back out into the open, waving for the other thirteen men of his section to join him. White-smocked Horse Stealers appeared suddenly, blending out of the most improbable bits and pieces of concealment, and all fourteen of them pushed off in a quiet hiss of skis.

Bahzell let them get perhaps fifty yards ahead, then crawled out of his own cover. Brandark followed, and Vaijon and Kaeritha joined them in short order. The humans looked weary, but they'd managed to keep up, and Bahzell knew they'd earned the admiration of his Horse Stealers in the process. His people took their own endurance for granted, but they knew other races didn't share it… and that however tired Vaijon or Kaeritha might have become-however hard they'd panted, or however soaked with sweat their faces had been-the humans had matched them league for league.

Fortunately, Bahzell had slowed the pace once they reached the wooded area Brandark had identified as their likely hunting ground. Haste was the enemy of stealth, and at the moment caution was more important than speed could ever have been. The peace treaty between Horse Stealers and Bloody Swords still held-technically, at least. But even though hradani tended to be surprisingly proper sticklers for things like formal declarations of war, they were also masters of the occasional preemptive raid, and unlike many people, they had no objection to launching those raids in winter. Which meant Churnazh had to be keeping a closer watch than usual for Horse Stealer trespassers in his realm… and that didn't even consider anything Sharna's lot might be up to. The fact that slowing down had allowed his human friends to catch their breath was a useful bonus, but Bahzell's real purpose had been to avoid blundering into some sentry or trap his enemies might have set.

The rest of his section joined him, and he waved them forward, he and his friends moving off on Hurthang's heels at the center of their loose formation. Behind them, Gharnal began beckoning for his own people to form up, and Bahzell let automatic, trained reactions carry him along while he half-closed his eyes and concentrated.

He hadn't been entirely honest with Hurthang. Or, more precisely, he'd understated his own speculations to be on the cautious side. Privately, he was convinced he was picking up a faint, unpleasant sensation, almost like something stirring in the dark, from the north. Now his head turned, nostrils flaring as if to scent the air, and his lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl he wasn't even aware of, for the sensation was stronger than it had been, and strengthening by the moment.

'D'you think as how Sharna's lot can be sensing us as well as we can sense them?' he asked Kaeritha quietly, and she shrugged.

'I don't know. I suppose Demon Breath has the equivalent of his own champions, but I've no idea at all what capabilities they might have.' She frowned, arcing away from Bahzell to pass on the far side of a tree and then coming back, and shrugged. 'I know our champions have wandered into ambushes from time to time. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. As far as I know, though, it's usually when they don't expect trouble.' She grimaced. 'I suppose no one could be ambushed in the proper sense of the word if they were 'expecting trouble,' of course, but that wasn't what I meant.'

'What you were meaning was that the champions in question weren't after trying to sense their enemies because they'd been given no other reason to think as how they might be there,' Bahzell said, and she nodded.

'Exactly. And that being the case, I've always assumed we can do the same thing to the other side under similar conditions. Of course, Sharna may well have told them we were coming. He did try to ambush us in the Empire, after all.'

'Aye.' It was Bahzell's turn to grimace. 'Well, the best we can do is all we can be doing, and we'll just have to be hoping it's enough.'

He looked up, beckoned, and another of his men hurried forward.

'Aye, B- Milord?'

'Take yourself on ahead there, Torlahn. Tell Hurthang I'm after being certain now. There's a pocket of pus and nastiness up ahead, and I'm wishful he should go slow and easy, for they may've guessed we're coming.'

Torlahn nodded and pushed off with his ski poles. He faded quickly into the fog, and Brandark looked around with a jaundiced eye.

'I don't want to sound as if I'm complaining,' he observed, 'but it's just occurred to me that fifty-eight men- well, fifty-seven men and one woman-could find themselves just a bit outnumbered by a nest of demon-worshiping filth on its own ground.'

'That just occurred to you now?' Vaijon asked in a hoarse whisper, surveying the same woods, and shook his head in disbelief.

'I'm a city boy,' Brandark replied with dignity, 'not a Horse Stealer. I'm not the expert on raids and sneaking about in the woods.' He sniffed and jabbed one of his ski poles at Bahzell. 'That's the management for this little operation, my boy.'

'And a good thing, too,' Bahzell rumbled, 'for the two of you are after carrying on like little old ladies in a brothel! We're after trying to sneak up on 'em, as even this Bloody Sword knows, and I'd take it kindly if the both of you would be keeping your jaws still for just a bit. And as for being outnumbered, well, I'm doubtful somehow that Sharna and his lot would be wanting to keep a lot of men under arms out here. Even a Bloody Sword might spot such as that-though I'll grant you he'd need to be walking right into 'em before he stopped chattering long enough to be taking notice!'

'There's no need to be rude,' Brandark said with even more dignity. He and Vaijon exchanged slightly strained grins, and then the two of them concentrated on moving as smoothly and silently as possible.

That sick sense of something putrid and vile grew stronger and stronger as Bahzell concentrated upon it. The chaffering with Brandark had distracted him from it for a few moments, but now it was back and worse than ever, and his ears flattened under his hood. He glanced at Kaeritha and made a small gesture for her to retain her position at the center of his section, then pushed ahead to overtake Hurthang. He wasn't certain why it suddenly seemed so urgent for him to do that, but he didn't question the feeling, either.

One of Hurthang's men saw him and hissed a warning that brought the entire section to a halt. Hurthang himself loomed up out of the fog, eyebrows arched and ears cocked as Bahzell caught up with him. Bahzell started to speak, then swayed, gagging as a carrion reek seemed to catch at the back of his throat like filthy hands. He caught himself on his ski poles and shook his head violently, then spat into the snow.

'What?' Hurthang asked, his voice little more than a rumbling thread.

'We're close,' Bahzell said equally quietly. 'What's ahead?'

'Not a lot,' Hurthang replied. 'A clearing of sorts, and a valley. It's an ugly place, too. I'd not set foot in it under other circumstances, and that I'll tell you plain, Bahzell.'