The War God's Own

himself against the hradani didn't worry him particularly, despite the other's size. He worked out daily with the Belhadan chapter's best trainers, even in midwinter; none had ever bested him, and big as the hradani was, he had to be slow, especially with any weapon as ponderous as the two-handed sword he wore across his back. But Vaijon couldn't issue challenge without proof the other had lied, and until he had that proof, his own honor required him to treat the hradani with the same courtesy he would show an honest man.

'Forgive me, sir,' he said finally, 'but since the master of my chapter house was unable to give me either the name or the description of the one I was sent to meet, I must seek some proof of identity.'

He was rather pleased by how close to normally that had come out, but the hradani's unflustered nod puzzled him. There was no defensiveness in it, and he held his empty right hand out in front of him. Vaijon felt his eyebrows rise in confusion as the other flexed his fingers, and then that earthquake voice uttered a single word.

'Come,' it said quietly, almost coaxingly, and Vaijon of Almerhas jumped straight backward in astonishment as five feet of burnished steel leapt into existence. One instant the hradani's hand was empty; the next the sword which had been on his back was in his grip, flashing with razor-edged wickedness in the morning light.

Vaijon's backwards stumble ended with him half-crouched, eyes huge while a panic no opponent had ever waked pulsed within him. But the hradani only looked at him with those same compassionate eyes and lowered his blade until its tip touched the deck before him, then turned it so Vaijon could see it clearly. The knight quivered, still lingering on the edge of that totally unexpected panic, but then he sucked in air and forced himself back under control. He was a knight of the Order of Tomanak , and whatever else he might be, he was no coward. And so he reexerted his self-mastery and looked at the sword, then leaned abruptly forward, blue eyes wide once more as he stared at the crossed mace and sword etched deep into the blade below the quillons.

A profound silence stretched out. Vaijon had never actually seen a Sword of Tomanak . Such a blade was the ultimate emblem of the Order, a weapon only the mightiest of champions might bear and the symbol of the obedience every member of the Order owed to its bearer. Even among champions such blades were vanishingly rare, for they came only from the hands of Tomanak Himself, and He bestowed them only upon those who had proven themselves worthy to stand at His own side in battle. But rare though they might be, every servant of the Order, down to the rawest squire, knew each was imbued with its own special powers, and what the hradani had just done combined with the burnished, unmarred and unmarrable perfection of the sword's blade and those perfectly formed emblems of Tomanak to tell Vaijon exactly what he looked upon.

For an instant, he looked whiter than the snow behind him, despite his weathered complexion, but then the color came back in a scalding flood of scarlet. It was still impossible. His emotions insisted that this hradani couldn't possibly be a champion of Tomanak . Yet his intellect knew better… and that he'd made a colossal fool of himself into the bargain.

He forced himself to straighten and cleared his throat, gloved hand still locked on the hilt of his own sword. It was remotely possible that the blade he'd been shown was a wizard-wrought forgery, but Sir Charrow would be the best judge of that. For now, his own duty was clear, and he made himself look the hradani squarely in the eye.

'Pray pardon me for questioning your identity… Sir Bahzell,' he got out.

'As to that, I've no doubt I'd be a mite surprised in your boots my own self,' Bahzell replied. 'Which, come to think, is the reason himself was after giving me this sword. He said I'd have need of proof.' His sudden grin showed square, white teeth that looked strong enough to bite Wind Dancer's hawsers in half. 'And I've no need for 'sirs,' my lad. Just plain Bahzell will be serving well enough for the likes of me.'

'But-' Vaijon began, then chopped himself off and managed a nod. 'As you will, S- Bahzell. As I've said, Sir Charrow Malahkai, Knight-Captain and Master of the Belhadan Chapter of the Order of Tomanak and Constable of Fradonia in the King-Emperor's name, sends greeting through me and begs you to accompany me to the chapter house that he and your brothers of the Sword may greet you properly and welcome you to their fellowship.'

He knew there was a sour edge to his voice, hard though he tried to keep it out, and Bahzell cocked his head, twitching his ears thoughtfully back and forth as he gazed down at him. A handful of seconds trickled past, and then the Horse Stealer reached back over his shoulder to sheath his sword and nodded agreeably.

'That's after being the friendliest welcome I've had this whole trip,' he observed, with just enough irony to make Vaijon flush anew, 'and it's happy I'll be to accept it. Assuming, of course, that it's meant to include my friend here,' he added, indicating Brandark with a flick of his ears.

Vaijon hesitated in fresh consternation. Bad enough to invite a hradani who might be a champion into the chapter house without inviting one who most certainly was not. But assuming that this Bahzell was who and what he claimed, he had the right to extend guest right to anyone he chose… and there was that sword… .

'Of course,' Vaijon said with a sigh he couldn't quite hide. 'Will you have your baggage sent after you to the chapter house?'

'I'm not after being so feeble as all that just yet,' Bahzell said genially. He hung a leather rucksack over one shoulder, picked up the steel-bowed arbalest which had lain beside it on the deck, and beamed at his guide while Brandark gathered up his own pack. 'We'll just be taking it with us as we go,' he told Vaijon. The knight- probationer started to make another comment, then hesitated and visibly changed his mind.

'If you and your… companion will follow me, then,' he said instead, and led the way back up the springy gangplank. Bahzell and Brandark paused only to exchange farewells with Wind Dancer's grinning crew, then followed docilely in his wake.

* * *

Neither hradani spoke as Vaijon led them through Belhadan's streets, and he was just as glad. It freed him to think, which was in many ways a mixed blessing, but at least it also gave him a chance to consider the conclusions which his brain persisted in drawing however much he would have preferred not to.

It was certainly possible Sir Charrow had known no more about this 'champion's' identity than Vaijon had, but Vaijon didn't believe it for a moment. Especially in light of the master's frequent, gentle admonitions on the perils of pride in self, his selection of a guide back to the chapter house was too pointed to be coincidental, and Vaijon clamped his jaw tight on resentment as he reflected upon that unpalatable fact.

He longed to cling to the belief that 'just plain Bahzell' was, in fact, an impostor, but he knew better, and it was no part of a gentleman's conduct to lie to himself. Yet admitting that knowledge to himself didn't make things any better. Champions were chosen directly by the God Himself. They were His true Swords, the exalted few who bore the full brunt of battle against the Dark Gods in the Light's name, and there were probably fewer than twenty of them in all Norfressa at any given moment. How could Tomanak have wasted such honor as that upon an ignorant, bloodthirsty, barbarian hradani?

His soul cried out in protest at the very thought, yet even as it did, another part of him writhed in self- contempt. He had no right to dispute the choices of the god he served. Worse, the part of him Sir Charrow had worked so hard to reach-the tiny, buried part which had heard the summons of the God of Justice even through the pride of House Almerhas-knew protest was stupid. That the Order itself taught that neither birth nor blood nor family made a true knight. That the only cause which truly counted was the cause of justice, the only true treasure was the treasure of truth, and the heart of a true knight's strength must come from within. And if all those things were true of the knights of the Order, how much more must they be true for the God's own champions?

That small, inner voice would give Vaijon no peace as it whispered in the back of his brain, castigating him for his own blindness. Yet it was only a whisper, and youth and pride muffled it. He truly tried to work through his confusion and lay hands on understanding, but his own strength and stubborn will were turned against him in the struggle, and resentment and confusion boiled just beneath the false surface of courtesy his childhood training still presented to the world.

* * *

Brandark glanced at their guide's pike-straight back, then looked at Bahzell and rolled his eyes, flattening his