Oath of Swords

by David Weber

  And it was in the Quarter that the first attack had occurred.

  Bahzell knew Hartan blamed himself for letting his guard down, but there'd been absolutely no sign of danger as he and his platoon's first squad escorted Kilthan toward the docks on the morning of their departure. One moment, the street was utterly normal, a congested stream of tradesmen and laborers eddying and flowing around knots of haggling hucksters and dignified merchants; the next it was a place of clashing steel and screams.

  Bahzell still didn't know exactly how it had happened. They'd erupted from the very cobbles without so much as a shout, cloaks and smocks cast aside to reveal gleaming swords, and his own blade had leapt into his hands without conscious thought as three of them came straight at him.

  A crowded street was a poor battlefield for someone his size. There were too many innocent bystanders fleeing for their lives while Hartan cursed his shocked men into response, and Bahzell needed space to work. It was more luck than skill that let him skewer his first attacker with a lunge so clumsy his old arms master would have beaten him senseless for trying it in practice, but it worked, and he'd dodged the sword of a second, taken a cut from a third on his scale mail, and drawn his dagger with his left hand.

  He wrenched his sword free of its first victim, then brought it down, one-handed but deadly, despite the close quarters, and split a skull. Hartan's battle-axe buried itself in the third man's chest with a terrible, sodden crunch, and steel rang on steel as more of the attackers engaged the rest of the squad. Bahzell parried a blade on his dagger, slammed his sword pommel into its wielder's skull, and gutted him with the dagger as he staggered. The dying man stumbled back, blocking a fellow just long enough for Bahzell to crop his head in turn, and the bull-throated bellow of Hurgrum's war cry did almost as much as the sudden explosion of combat to scatter the crowd. The bystanders scrambled madly out of the way, and, finally, he had room to work properly.

  He threw his dagger into the throat of a human who'd circled around Hartan's off side and got both hands on his sword, and the rest of the squad slotted into place on either side of him. They took him for point, forming a line about Kilthan and anchoring their flanks against a tavern wall, and bodies, limbs, and pieces of limbs flew as his blade took any target that came within his reach.

  It was over in minutes, and that, too, was strange. Their attackers had conceded defeat too promptly. None of them had been able to get past Bahzell, but they hadn't even seriously tried the others. Two members of the squad had been killed in the initial attack, but no one had come even close to Kilthan or his moneybags when the attackers vanished down alleys and side streets. Fifteen bodies lay in the street, but at least that many had fled, and Bahzell had stood panting amidst the carnage, unable to understand. The squad had been outnumbered three-to-one, and surely anyone who could plan and execute that smooth an ambush in a city street should have shown more determination to reach his target!

  But they hadn't, and his own puzzlement had been dwarfed by Hartan's and Rianthus' when they found the scarlet scorpion tattooed on each body's shoulder. That was the emblem of the dog brothers, and no one could understand why the Guild of Assassins should attack Kilthandahknarthas dihna' Harkanath. Kilthan had rivals in plenty but remarkably few true enemies, and Clan Harkanath had a reputation for ruthless responses to attacks on any of its own, much less its head. No one could think of anyone who hated—or feared—Kilthan enough to pay the fee the Guild must have demanded for a target as dangerous as he, and why dog brothers, who specialized in stealth and cunning, should try for him in something as obvious as a street brawl baffled them all.

  But they had, and not just in Saramfal. Kilthan had argued the point, but the united front of Rianthus and Hartan had browbeaten him into leaving his riverboat only for specific meetings, and then only with two full squads of Hartan's men—including Bahzell. Yet they'd been attacked again in Trelith, the Kingdom of Morvan's main port, and a third time, when they made their regular detour up the Feren River to Malgas.

  The Trelith attack had been a repeat of the abortive Saramfal attempt with twice the men. Fortunately, the sheer number of attackers had been harder to hide, and Hartan spotted them before Kilthan was fully into their trap. The bodyguards' commander had also had more time to plan, and his prearranged order had sent Bahzell falling back beside Kilthan to deal with any who might break through to him. But the assassins hadn't pressed the attack. Indeed, they'd broken off the instant Hartan's men formed line about Kilthan and Bahzell, yet any hope they'd given up for good had been blunted at Malgas. The attack there had been nothing less than a fire ship. Brandark had lost both eyebrows in that one, for the river barge, packed with combustibles and roaring with flame, had actually lodged against Kilthan's ship for over two minutes before the crew could boom it off, and they might never have pushed it clear without the added weight and strength of the two hradani.

  Now, as the convoy headed down the last few leagues to Riverside, Bahzell felt unhappy over his plan to leave it when they reached the port. Kilthan was well beyond any likely raider attack, but leaving him now seemed poor repayment for his kindness if the dog brothers meant to have him.

  "Kormak for your thoughts," a tenor voice asked.

  "I'm doubting they're worth as much as all that," he rumbled.

  "Call me a big spender."

  Bahzell gave a wry smile, but then it faded, and he shrugged.

  "I've just been casting my mind over my—our—plans. We're coming up fast on Riverside, and I'm not so easy in my mind over leaving Kilthan as I'd thought to be."

  "The dog brothers?"

  "Aye." Bahzell flattened his ears. "It's not a thing I can understand, Brandark, this notion of taking money to kill a man you've never met and who's done naught to you or yours. And as for any scum that would worship Sharna into the bargain—!" The Horse Stealer spat over the side, and Brandark sat up and cradled his balalaika across his lap.

  "Sometimes I think you're too much a barbarian for your own good," he said. "If you'd grown up in Navahk, you'd understand exactly how someone could kill for a fistful of gold—or copper, for that matter. But you really don't, do you?" He shook his head at Bahzell's blank look and sighed. "Don't let it worry you, Bahzell. You're probably better off not understanding . . . as long as you remember other folk do. But as for worshiping Sharna—"

  The Bloody Sword broke off, gazing out over the sunlit river for several long minutes, then shrugged.

  "Truth to tell, I doubt many of them really `worship' old Demon Breath. From all I've heard, a man would have to be more than just sick-minded to dabble in such as that. Oh, the dog brothers pay Sharna lip service, at least—I suppose even assassins want a patron of some sort, and the kind of treachery and cunning Sharna relishes is their stock in trade—and there's no doubt they maintain links to his church, but I doubt most of them would ever come any nearer a demon-raising than they could help!"

  "Aye?" Bahzell raised his sword to peer down its edge, and fresh-honed steel glittered below his eye as he glanced up at his friend. "That's as may be, my lad, but if they've a mind to call such as Sharna lord and master, then I've a mind to cut their gizzards out on sight."

  "I doubt you'd get much argument from anyone there—except the dog brothers, of course. But I take it the attacks on Kilthan are why you're uncomfortable about leaving his service?"

  Bahzell nodded again, then put his sword away. Steel clicked as he sheathed it and tucked the whetstone into his belt pouch.

  "I understand," Brandark said after a moment, "but you can only kill them when they come at him. Hartan's other fellows can do that almost as well as you, and, much as it pains me to say it, he and Rianthus between them are at least half as smart as I am, so not even my brilliance is irreplaceable to Kilthan's security."

  "Ah, the modesty of the man!" Bahzell sighed, and Brandark grinned. "Still and all," the Horse Stealer went on more seriously, "you're after making sense. It's just that these are good lads, Brandark, a
nd skipping out when they might be counting on us . . . frets me. I'll be missing them, come what may, and if aught should happen to Kilthan after we've gone—" He twitched his ears unhappily, and his eyes were dark once more.

  "I know." Brandark rubbed an index finger gently down a balalaika string and frowned. "Has he said anything more about our plans?"

  "Naught but what you've heard as well as me. I'm thinking he'll be sorry to see our backs, not but what he'd cut his throat sooner than admit it! But all he's said is that we'd best be looking twice before we jump. We've a place here now; if we strike out on our own, we'll lose that."

  "True enough, but that'd be just as true wherever we part company with him, and if you're serious about not going further west—?"

  "After that maw worm Tarlnasa?" Bahzell bared square, strong teeth. "Even allowing as how that bag of piss and wind would know Dark Gods from Light, no god as would choose something like that as messenger is anyone I'd want to be meeting! Oh, no, Brandark, my lad! It's happy I am no one's said aught of wizards, but I'll be taking my chances with Harnak again before I stick my neck into any god's noose!"

  "Why am I not surprised?" Brandark murmured. Bahzell glared at him, but the Bloody Sword only twitched his ears gently in thought. "Well," he said finally, "in that case, Riverside's the place for us. The further west we go, the less likely we are to find anything going east, especially with winter coming on. So if you're still determined to outrun divine interference and Kilthan is willing to let us go, I suppose we have to."

  "Aye," Bahzell growled, and squinted up into the cloudless blue sky with a look that boded ill for whatever god might be stalking him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "So you're sure about this, are you?"

  Kilthan's sharp topaz eyes considered the two hradani as they stood at dockside. The city of Riverside was grimy and unkempt, and it had a name as a rough place. The Kingdom of Morvan was one of the Border Kingdoms—the small states nestled along the Empire of the Axe's frontier—but it was more lawless than most. And less concerned with keeping the Axemen happy, for the Forest of Sharmi covered its southern flank. No one went into the Sharmi willingly, not even armies of the expansionist Empire of the Spear, which left the Morvanians with a smaller sense of dependence upon Axeman protection.

  "Aye, you are," the dwarf sighed, and shook his head. "I'll be honest, you lads have worked out better than I'd expected, and Riverside is no place for a pair of hradani all on their own. I'll keep you both on—as sergeants over the winter, and with your own platoons come spring."

  "We appreciate the offer." Brandark still acted as their spokesman more often than not, but Bahzell nodded in agreement. "Truly we do. But under the circumstances—" He shrugged, and Kilthan frowned up at Bahzell.

  "You're remembering that idiot in Derm, aren't you?" His cocked head demanded answer, and the Horse Stealer nodded again. "Well, I don't know as I blame you, but I doubt Norfressa's big enough to outrun the gods—assuming a lunatic in a fancy bed gown would know a message from them if it bit him on the arse!"

  "That's as may be, but I'm minded to try. And, truth to tell, I'd sooner whatever it is not splash on you and yours if I can't outrun it, Kilthan."

  "Hmmmmm. You know, there might just be something in that," Kilthan agreed with a slow smile, then shook himself. "All right. You've more than pulled your weight, so here's your pay—and I've decided to absorb your bonds with the Guild." He tossed over a purse that clinked satisfyingly when Brandark caught it, and grinned at their expressions. "Don't let it get around. Hirahim knows I don't need a reputation as a curst soft touch!"

  "Somehow I doubt that's going to happen," Brandark assured him.

  "No more it should," Kilthan agreed, drawing an unsealed parchment letter from his tunic and handing it to Brandark as well. "You'd best take this, too. Gods know you louts will have trouble enough without me to vouch for you, but this may help." Brandark cocked his ears—his eyebrows were growing back, but remained too wispy for suitable expressiveness—and Kilthan snorted. "It's a letter of introduction. Won't do a damned bit of good if the guard decides to clap you up, and don't expect it to help much with local tradesmen, but it should carry weight with anyone from the Guild who's looking for reliable men. I perjured my immortal soul in it, but if they believe half the lies I've told, it should get you a job with someone reputable who's headed east—assuming there is anyone headed east this time of year!"

  "We're thanking you, Kilthan," Bahzell said softly. He reached down to clasp forearms with the dwarf. "It's a good friend you've been to us, and I'll not forget. I've written my father, as well. If any of your factors are ever after finding their way to Hurgrum, you'll find the markets open to you."

  "Think I didn't know that, you overgrown lump of rock?" Kilthan rose on his toes to punch the Horse Stealer in the chest. "Why else d'you think I'm sending you off with that letter? Keep your eye on the main chance and invest carefully, boy, and don't you ever forget it!"

  "Aye, that would be it, of course," Bahzell agreed with a smile, and Kilthan waved both hands at them.

  "All right, all right! I've things to do, and I can't be standing around all day, so be gone with you now!"

  He marched briskly away, and the two hradani smiled at each other behind him. They gathered their gear and started away from dockside, only to pause as Rianthus and Hartan appeared in front of them. The human led two horses, one an excellent medium warhorse and the other a sturdy pack animal, and Hartan shook his head as he glared up at the hradani.

  "Tomanak! All this time with us, and they still haven't learned to think ahead," he snorted to Rianthus.

  "Aye, well, no one ever said they were smart," Rianthus agreed, grinning at Brandark.

  "And to what—other than a desire to perfect your rudeness—do we owe this visit?" Brandark inquired politely.

  "Well, it occurred to some of the lads that you two had to sell your horses back in Derm," Rianthus said casually, "so the lot of us went in to buy you a pair of replacements. Not as good as you could, ah, liberate from a bunch of Navahkan Bloody Swords, maybe, but passable, I think."

  "Passable, is it?" Bahzell ran an appreciative eye over the horses. "Aye, you might be calling them that!"

  "Here—take 'em!" Rianthus stuck out the reins, then caught Bahzell's forearm as he took them. "And watch yourselves, you two! Gods know you're not the brightest pair I've ever seen, but we're fond of you."

  "Speak for yourself, high-pockets," Hartan grunted, but he, too, clasped arms with them both. Then the two captains nodded brusquely and turned back to their business, and Bahzell and Brandark walked slowly into the streets of Riverside.

  They soon found Kilthan's warnings well founded. They were no longer a wealthy merchant's guards, and Riverside had its share and more of prejudice. Like most of the Border Kingdoms, Morvan was a land of mixed races, but no hradani were numbered among them, and if their people's fearsome reputation meant no one cared to push a quarrel to the point of drawn steel, neither were they welcome. There was a mysterious lack of room in the better inns, and they ended up lodging above a miserable tavern on the wrong side of the city.

  Their quarters were wretched enough, but the bad side of Riverside was worse than most, and the tavern's location brought them face-to-face with half the city's would-be bravos with predictable results. Word soon got around that it was wiser to leave them in peace, however, and Bahzell hardly had to break more than an arm or two to bring it about. It took a bit more effort on Brandark's part—his balalaika and dandified air made him less elementally threatening—but after the night four burly longshoremen took flight through a second-story window, their fellows decided to leave him alone, too.

  None of that was calculated to endear them to the City Guard, and the unpleasant aura of official displeasure added itself to their other problems. All in all, Riverside was not a place either of them cared for, yet finding a way to leave was far from simple.

  Their pay from Kilthan, coupl
ed with what remained of Bahzell's original purse, was enough to carry them for a time, especially at the prices their cheerless lodgings could command, but it would never last clear through the winter. Nor would it take them very far along the road. In the long run, if they wanted to eat they needed work, and there was little of that in Riverside for hradani, even with Kilthan's letter. Not, at least, on the right side of the law, and the local underworld quickly gave up on recruiting either of them.

  Had an opportunity offered, they would gladly have used that same letter to hire on with another caravan, but autumn had caught up with them once more. Norfressa looked forward to winter, and no one willingly took to the road in winter, which lent added point to the necessity of finding some means of earning their way through the icy months to come. But as days turned into a week, then into two weeks, and then into three, and the nights grew steadily colder, it began to seem they had no choice. If there was nothing for them here, they must move on soon and trust to fortune. Besides, Bahzell's dreams were back. His memories of them were as fragmented and confusing as ever, but even more disturbing, and the Horse Stealer's feet itched to be leaving.

  The moonless night was windy and cold. Thin clouds, just thick enough to hide the stars without cutting the chill, pressed down on Riverside like a hand, filling the frosty shadows with a darker, more solid blackness. There were no streetlights on this side of town; only the occasional privately maintained flambeaux outside some gambling den or brothel broke the dark, and Bahzell muttered balefully to himself as he moved down the mean little street. He'd found a few days' work, of a sort, as a bouncer, but that was at an end now. He didn't know who the Krahana-cursed idiot was or why he'd tried to stick a knife in Bahzell's back, and no one ever would know now. The Guard seldom ventured into the Broken Bucket, and no one had seemed inclined to summon them when his attacker landed in the sawdust with a broken spine, but the bar's halfling owner had decided he could manage without Bahzell's services after all. So here he was, picking his way back home to Brandark with no more than a few miserable silvers in his pouch, and—