Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  iar," she said nonchalantly, "and he knows when

  I'm being cheated."

  The price of their room took a mysterious plunge.

  After installing their gear and settling Warrl in

  their room, they returned to the taproom for sup-

  per and information.

  If the streets were deserted, the taproom was

  crowded far past its intended capacity.

  Tarma wrinkled her nose at the effluvia of cheap

  perfume, unwashed bodies, stale food odors and

  fish-oil lanterns. Kethry appeared not to notice.

  Tarma's harsh, hawklike features could be made

  into a veritable mask of intimidation when she chose

  to scowl; she did so now. Her ice-cold stare got

  them two stools and a tiny, round table to them-

  selves. Her harsh voice summoned a harried ser-

  vant as easily as Kethry could summon a creature

  of magic. A hand to her knife-hilt and the ostenta-

  tious shrugging of the sword slung on her back into

  a more comfortable position got her speedy service,

  cleaning her fingernails with her knife got them

  decent portions and scrubbed plates.

  Kethry's frown of worry softened a bit. "Life has

  been ever so much easier since I teamed with you,

  she'enedra," she chuckled quietly, moving the sides

  of her robe out of the way so that she could sit

  comfortably.

  "No doubt," the swordswoman replied with a

  lifted eyebrow and a quirk to one corner of her

  mouth. "Sometimes I wonder how you managed

  without me."

  "Poorly." The green eyes winked with mischief.

  Their food arrived, and they ate in silence, fur-

  tively scanning the crowded room for a likely source

  of information. When they'd nearly finished, Kethry

  nodded slightly in the direction of a grizzled mer-

  cenary sitting just underneath one of the smoking

  lanterns. Tarma looked him over carefully; he looked

  almost drunk enough to talk, but not drunk enough

  to make trouble, and his companions had just de-

  serted him, leaving seats open on the bench oppo-

  site his. He wore a badge, so he was mastered, and

  so was less likely to pick a fight. They picked up

  their tankards and moved to take those vacant seats

  beside him.

  He nodded as they sat; warily at Tarma, appre-

  ciatively at Kethry.

  He wasn't much for idle chatter, though. "Eve-

  ning," was all he said.

  "It is that," Tarma replied, "Though 'tis a strange

  enough evening and more than a bit early for folk to

  be closing themselves indoors, especially with the

  weather so pleasant."

  "These are strange times," he countered, "And

  strange things happen in the nights around here."

  "Oh?" Kethry looked flatteringly interested.

  "What sort of strange things? And can we take care

  of your thirst?"

  He warmed to the admiration—and the offer.

  "Folk been going missing; whores, street trash,

  such as won't be looked for by the watch," he told

  them, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, while Tarma

  signaled the serving wench. He took an enormous

  bite of the spiced sausage that was the Blacke Ewe's

  specialty; grease ran into his beard. He washed the

  bite down by draining his tankard dry. "There's

  rumors—" His eyes took on a certain wariness. He

  cast an uneasy glance around the dim, hot and

  odorous taproom.

  "Rumors?" Tarma prompted, pouring his tan-

  kard full again, and sliding a silver piece under it.

  "Well, we little care for rumors, eh? What's rumor

  to a fighter but ale-talk?"

  "Plague take rumors!" he agreed, but his face

  was strained. "What've magickers and demons got

  to do with us, so long as they leave our masters in

  peace?" He drained the vessel and pocketed the

  coin. "So long as he leaves a few for me, this

  Thalhkarsh can have his fill of whores!"

  "Thalhkarsh? What might that be? Some great

  lecher, that he has need of so many lightskirts?"

  Tarma filled the tankard for the third time, and

  kept her tone carefully casual.

  "Sh!" the mercenary paled, and made a caution-

  ary wave with his hand. " 'Tisn't wise to bandy

  that name about lightly—them as does often aren't

  to be seen again. That—one I mentioned—well, some

  say he's a god, some a demon summoned by a mighty

  powerful magicker. All I know is that he has a

  temple on the Row—one that sprang up overnight,

  seemingly, and one with statues an' such that could

  make me blush, were I to go view 'em. The which I

  won't. 'Tisn't safe to go near there—"

  "So?" Tarma raised one eyebrow.

  "They sent the city guard trooping in there after

  the first trollops went missing. There were tales

  spread of blood-worship, so the city council reck-

  oned somebody'd better check. Nobody ever saw so

  much as a scrap of bootleather of that guard-squad

  ever again."

  "So folk huddle behind their doors at night, and

  hope that they'll be left in peace, hmm?" Kethry

  mused aloud, taking her turn at replenishing his

  drink. "But are they?"

  "Rumor says not—not unless they take care to

  stay in company at night. Odd thing though, 'cept

  for the city guard, most of the ones taken by night

  have been women. I'd watch meself, were I you

  twain."

  He drained his tankard yet again. This proved to

  be one tankard too many, as he slowly slid off the

  bench to lie beneath the table, a bemused smile on

  his face.

  They took the god-sent opportunity to escape to

  their room.

  "Well," Tarma said, once the door had been bolted,

  "we know why, and now we know what. Bloody

  Hell! I wish for once that that damned sword of

  yours would steer us toward something that pays!"

  Kethry worked a minor magic that sent the ver-

  min sharing their accommodations skittering under

  the door and out the open window. Warrl surveyed

  her handiwork, sniffed the room over carefully,

  then lay down at the foot of the double pallet with

  a heavy sigh.

  "That's not quite true—we don't really know what

  we're dealing with. Is it a god, truly? If it is, I don't

  stand much chance of making a dent in its hide. Is

  it a demon, controlled by this magician, that has

  been set up as a god so that its master can acquire

  power by blood-magic? Or is it worse than either?"

  "What could possible be worse?"

  "A demon loose, uncontrolled—a demon with am-

  bition," Kethry said, flopping down beside Warrl

  and staring up at nothing, deep in thought.

  Their lantern (more fish-oil) smoked and danced,

  and made strange shadows on the wall and ceiling.

  "Worst case would be just that: a demon that

  knows exactly how to achieve godhood, and one

  with nothing standing in the way of his intended

  path. If it is a god—a real god—well, all gods hav
e

  their enemies; it's simply a matter of finding the

  sworn enemy, locating a nest of his clerics, and

  bringing them all together. And a demon under the

  control of a mage can be sent back to the Abyssal

  Planes by discovering the summoning spell and

  breaking it. But an uncontrolled demon—the only

  way to get rid of it that I know of is to find its

  focus-object and break it. Even that may not work

  if it has achieved enough power. With enough accu-

  mulated power, or enough worshipers believing in

  his godhood, even breaking his focus wouldn't send

  him back to the Abyssal Planes. If that happens—

  well, you first have to find a demon-killing weapon,

  then you have to get close enough to strike a killing

  blow. And you hope that he isn't strong enough to

  have gone beyond needing a physical form. Or you

  damage him enough to break the power he gets

  from his followers' belief—but that's even harder

  to do than finding a demon-killing blade."

  "And, needless to say, demon-killing weapons are

  few and far between."

  "And it isn't terribly likely that you're going to

  get past a demon's reach to get that killing blow in,

  once he's taken his normal form."

  Tarma pulled off her boots, and inspected the

  soles with a melancholy air. "How likely is that—an

  uncontrolled demon?"

  "Not really likely," Kethry admitted. "I'm just

  being careful—giving you worst-case first. It's a lot

  more likely that he's under the control of a mage

  that's using him to build a power base for himself.

  That's the scenario I'd bet on. I've seen this trick

  pulled more than once before I met you. It works

  quite well, provided you can keep giving your con-

  gregation what they want."

  "So what's next?"

  "Well, I'd suggest we wait until morning, and see

  what I can find out among the mages while you see

  if you can get any more mercenaries to talk."

  "Somehow I was afraid you'd say that."

  They met back at the inn at noon; Tarma was

  empty-handed, but Kethry had met with a certain

  amount of success. At least she had a name, an

  address, and a price—a fat skin of strong wine

  taken with her, with a promise of more to come.

  The address was in the scummiest section of the

  town, hard by the communal refuse heap. Both

  women kept their hands on the hilts of their blades

  while making their way down the rank and odorous

  alleyway; there were flickers of movement at vari-

  ous holes in the walls (you could hardly call them

  "doors" or "windows") but they were left unmo-

  lested. More than one of the piles of what seemed

  to be rotting refuse that dotted the alley proved to

  be a human, though it was difficult to tell for cer-

  tain if they were living humans or corpses. Kethry

  again seemed blithely unaware of the stench; Tarma

  fought her stomach and tried to breathe as little as

  possible, and that little through her mouth.

  At length they came to a wall that boasted a

  proper door; Kethry rapped on it. A mumbled voice

  answered her; she whispered something Tarma

  couldn't make out. Evidently it was the proper

  response, as the door swung open long enough for

  them to squeeze through, then shut hurriedly be-

  hind them.

  Tarma blinked in surprise at what lay beyond

  the alleyside door. The fetid aroma of the air out-

  side was gone. There was a faint ghost of wine, and

  an even fainter ghost of incense. The walls were

  covered with soft, colorful rugs; more rugs covered

  the floor. On top of the rugs were huge, plush

  cushions. The room was a rainbow of subtle reds

  and oranges and yellows. Tarma was struck with a

  sudden closing of the throat, and she blinked to

  clear misting eyes. This place reminded her forci-

  bly of a Shin'a'in tent.

  Fortunately the woman who turned from locking

  the door to greet them was not a Clanswoman, or

  Tarma might have had difficulty in ridding her

  eyes of that traitorous mist. She was draped head

  to toe with a veritable marketplace-full of veils, so

  that only her eyes showed. The voluminous cover-

  ing, which rivaled the room for color and variety of

  pattern, was not, however, enough to hide the fact

  that she was wraith-thin. And above the veils, the

  black eyes were gray-ringed, bloodshot, and haggard.

  "You know my price?" came a thin whisper.

  Kethry let the heavy wineskin slide to her feet,

  and she nudged it over to the woman with one toe.

  "Three more follow, one every two days, from the

  master of the Blacke Ewe."

  "What do you wish to know?"

  "How comes this thing they call Thalhkarsh

  here—and why?"

  The woman laughed crazily; Tarma loosened one

  of her knives in its hidden arm-sheath. What in the

  name of the Warrior had Kethry gotten them into?

  "For that I need not even scry! Oh, no, to my

  sorrow, that is something I know only too well!"

  The eyes leaked tears; Tarma averted her gaze,

  embarrassed.

  "A curse on my own pride, and another on my

  curiosity! For now he knows my aura, knows it

  well—and calls me—and only the wine can stop my

  feet from taking me to him—" the thin voice whined

  to a halt, and the eyes closed, as if in a sudden

  spasm of pain.

  For a long moment the woman stood, still as a

  thing made of wood, and Tarma feared they'd get

  nothing more out of her. Then the eyes opened

  again, and fixed Kethry with a stillettolike glare.

  "Hear then the tale of my folly—'tis short enough.

  When Thalhkarsh raised his temple, all in a single

  night, I thought to scry it and determine what sort

  of creature was master of it. My soul-self was

  trapped by him, like a cruel child traps a mouse,

  and like cruel children, he and his priest tormented

  it—for how long, I cannot say. Then they seemed to

  forget me; let me go again, to crawl back to myself.

  But they had not forgotten me. I soon learned that

  each night he would call me back to his side. Each

  night I drink until I can no longer hear the call, but

  each night it takes more wine to close my ears. One

  night it will not be enough, and I shall join his

  other—brides."

  The veils shook and trembled.

  "This much only did I learn. Thalhkarsh is a

  demon; summoned by mistake instead of an imp.

  He bides here by virtue of his focus, the bottle that

  was meant to contain the imp. He is powerful; his

  priest is a mage as well, and has his own abilities

  augmented by the demon's. No sane person would

  bide in this town with them rising to prominence

  here."

  The woman turned back to the door in a flutter

  of thin fabric and cracked it open again. One sticklike

  arm and hand pointed the way o
ut. "That is my

  rede; take it if you are not fools."

  Tarma was only too pleased to escape the cham-

  ber, which seemed rather too confining of a sud-

  den. Kethry paused, concern on her face, to reach a

  tentative hand toward the veiled mystery. The

  woman made a repudiating motion. "Do not pity

  me!" she whispered harshly. "You cannot know! He

  is terrible—but he is also glorious—so—glorious—"

  Her eyes glazed for a moment, then focused again,

  and she slammed the door shut behind them.

  Kethry laced herself into the only dress she owned,

  a sensuous thing of forest green silk, a scowl twist-

  ing her forehead. "Why do I have to be the one

  pawed at and drooled over?"

  Tarma chuckled. "You were the one who decreed

  against using any more magic than we had to," she

  pointed out.

  "Well, I don't want to chance that mage detect-

  ing it and getting curious!"

  "And you were the one who didn't want to chance

  using illusion."

  "What if something should break it?"

  "Then don't complain if I can't take your place.

  You happen to be the one of us that is lovely,

  amber-haired, and toothsome, not I. And you are

  the one with the manner-born. No merchant-lord or

  minor noble is going to open his doors to a nomad

  mercenary, and no decadent stripling is going to

  whisper secrets into the ear of one with a face like

  an ill-tempered hawk and a body like a sword-

  blade. Now hurry up, or the market will be closed

  and we'll have to wait until the morrow."