The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  There was no other response, and after a moment, he pounded again—harder.

  “Go away!” a nasal voice shouted at last. “We’re closed!”

  “Not to me, you’re not!” Bahzell bellowed back.

  “And why not?” the nasal voice snapped pettishly.

  “Because I’ll be after kicking this door down, wringing your scrawny neck, and booting your thieving backside to Belhadan!”

  “Bahzell?” the nasal voice asked incredulously. “Is that you, Bahzell?”

  “And who else is after having the patience to stand blathering through a closed door?! Not, mind you, as I’ll be patient much longer!”

  “Er…just a moment!”

  Voices muttered, then the bolt thumped and the door creaked open. A small, bald man blinked like a mole, rubbing a wisp of straw from his apron, and a nervous stable boy stood a pace or so behind him, fidgeting as he peered around him at the newcomers.

  “It is Bahzell!”

  “Is it, then?” Bahzell retorted sarcastically, and glared at him. “It’s horses I need—and I’m after needing them quick. A mount each for Wencit and my friend here, and two pack horses. Would it happen you’ve got them?”

  “Uhhh…Of course! I mean—Well, that’s to say I can mount one of your friends at once, Bahzell, but—”

  The little man stopped to wring his hands.

  “But what?” Bahzell asked ominously.

  “I don’t have one big enough for you!” the small man blurted.

  “And were you thinking I’d not’ve thought on that myself?” Bahzell snorted. “Rest easy, Fradenhelm. I’ve a friend on his way to meet me.”

  “Walsharno?”

  It seemed to Kenhodan that Fradenhelm was less than delighted to suggest that name, and he wondered why. In Old Kontovaran, it meant “Battle Dawn” or “Dawn of Battle,” which, he admitted, sounded more than faintly ominous, but the stable master’s attitude still struck him as a bit odd.

  “Aye,” Bahzell replied, ears cocked and one eyebrow raised as he considered Fradenhelm. “And where else were you thinking I’d find something with four hooves as was up to my weight?”

  “Nowhere,” Fradenhelm said hastily. “It’s just…”

  “Just what?” Wencit asked, and Fradenhelm turned quickly to face the wizard as he entered the conversation.

  “I’ve one mount here that could probably stand the sort of pace Walsharno would set, Milord,” he said quickly, “but not two, and I wouldn’t want to slow him and Bahzell down.”

  “And?” Bahzell prompted as the stable master paused, and Fradenhelm’s eyes darted back to him.

  “Well, I was only thinking it might be wiser for you to wait until I could find another as good as the one I already have. I mean, if you were to take a room at the Lively Vixen while I looked about, I might be able to—”

  “You’re one as always knows where the best horseflesh in Korun’s after being found,” Bahzell interrupted. “So you’d best be saying it straight. Would it happen you’ve the horses we need? And if you don’t, where might such as you lay hands on them?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, it is late, so if you could just find someplace to spend the night, give me until morning, I mean, and then—”

  “Fradenhelm,” Bahzell said ominously, “you’re after being a thief and a cheat, and well we both know it. Korun’s not my city, and it’s a time or two you’ve been useful to the Order, so I’ve not made it my business to be discussing the Mayor’s matched bays with him…yet. But if it was to so happen as you couldn’t be finding the mounts we’ve need of, and quickly, it might just be as I’d have time to do it while we lie about waiting.”

  “What I meant to say,” Fradenhelm said hurriedly, “is that I can mount one of your friends suitably right this moment, and if you’d care to wait, I’m sure I can find another mount almost as good despite the hour. I can send Refram here—” he gestured at the silent stable boy “—to check with Cherthan at the city livery and Terahn at the Gray Pony. Terahn had a Sothōii warhorse he wanted me to look at day before yesterday, and if he’s found a buyer already—and the gods know he may well have—Cherthan always knows where the best horseflesh’s to be found. It may take a while, you understand, but I can guarantee—well, almost guarantee—I can find you what you need. Truly I can, Bahzell! There’s, uh, no need to be bothering the Mayor at this time of night. Really there isn’t!”

  “As to that, it’s a few minutes we can spare,” Bahzell replied. “And while Refram’s after running about town, we’ll be looking at this other mount of yours, Fradenhelm. And the pack horses, too. I’ve a mind to be gone by mid-watch, and I’ll not appreciate it if we’re not.”

  “Of course!”

  Fradenhelm bowed them in and jerked his head in silent command at the boy, who dashed down the street. Kenhodan watched him go, then followed Bahzell and Wencit into the stable. Somehow, he reflected, Bahzell’s…bargaining style wasn’t quite what he would have anticipated out of a champion of Tomanāk. It did seem to cut right to the heart of things, though.

  Fradenhelm scurried about, lighting lanterns in the front half of the stable. The rear half remained shrouded in shadow, but there was light enough to see the open stalls in the front and Kenhodan felt his eyebrows rise. However and wherever Fradenhelm acquired his stock, Bahzell was right about its quality. The stable was full of horses, all above average and some excellent, and Kenhodan gravitated almost unconsciously toward a tall, gray stallion the color of fog under the lantern light. He had a shaggy, mountain mustang’s winter coat, but the long, powerful quarters and graceful head of Sothōii breeding, although he stood at least a full hand taller than a normal Sothōii warhorse.

  “Ah! I see you’ve noticed him, young master,” Fradenhelm purred as he opened the stall’s half door and led the stallion out. “Caught your eye, hasn’t he? And well he should! I’ll stand behind any horse in this stable, but if you’re going to travel with Walsharno, this lad’s the only one for you.”

  “No doubt,” Kenhodan said, reaching up to lay one hand on the horse’s shoulder, the rough coat marvelously soft against his palm, while he wondered again who the mysterious “Walsharno” might be, “but I’m afraid he’s beyond my means.”

  “By no means! To be sure, such don’t come cheap, but I’m sure we can reach agreement if you’re Bahzell’s friend and travel with Wencit of Rūm.”

  “You’d be striking a better bargain because he’s after being my friend?” Bahzell’s eyebrows rose and his ears twitched derisively.

  “Not precisely.” Fradenhelm coughed into his fist. “I really meant that Wencit of Rūm carries a heavy purse, and you’re clearly in a hurry. That should produce a mutually acceptable price, don’t you think?”

  “Aye, and you’ve relieved my mind, too,” Bahzell told him. “For a moment, I was afraid as how I’d underestimated your greed.”

  “You don’t have to meet my price.” Fradenhelm sounded hurt, although the expression of mournful reproach seemed an unnatural fit on his sharp, foxy features.

  “Never fear,” Wencit said, reaching for his purse. “He’s a noble beast, and you’re right—we are in haste. Name your price.”

  “Forty gold kormaks,” Fradenhelm said promptly.

  “Gods!” Bahzell exclaimed. “A noble beast, fair enough, but he’s not after being made of gold! Give him twenty, Wencit.”

  “Thirty-five?” Fradenhelm suggested. “You won’t find a finer horse this side of the Wind Plain, Bahzell, and well you know it! He’ll carry the young sir all day on a handful of grain, and not hold Walsharno back while he does it. No need for a spare mount with this fellow!”

  “Hirahim was after leaving a son in your father’s bed!” Bahzell snorted. “I’d not give thirty-five for a purebred Sothōii warhorse! Still, you’re not so very wrong about its quality.” The last sentence came out grudgingly, and the hradani reached up to run a huge hand down the stallion’s proudly arched neck. “Throw in his saddle, and
it might be we’d give you twenty-five.”

  “Saddle, bridle, saddlebags, and blanket—and not one copper less than thirty kormaks!” Fradenhelm replied indignantly.

  “Well…”

  Bahzell examined the horse thoroughly, skilled hands searching the shaggy coat for hidden infirmities. He peered into the stallion’s mouth and examined each hoof and shoe minutely.

  “It’s robbery without a weapon,” he muttered, “but not so much more than he’d be after fetching if it should happen his papers would stand in court! Take it, Wencit.”

  “Very well: thirty gold kormaks.”

  Wencit counted the money into Fradenhelm’s hand while Bahzell selected suitable equipment from the tack room just inside the stable’s entrance and handed the gear to Kenhodan with a grin. Thirty gold kormaks was a princely sum…and ludicrously low for such a beast, if he’d been honestly come by.

  Kenhodan had become accustomed to finding hidden talents within himself, but it was especially pleasing to learn horsemanship was among them. His hands were gentle as he worked, whispering softly, and a velvet nose pressed his shoulder. The stallion blew gently, and his ears were as expressive as Bahzell’s as he and Kenhodan felt one another out.

  Wencit and Fradenhelm soon reached agreement on two more horses to serve as pack animals. Both were well above average, but Kenhodan noted smugly that the stable master had spoken no more than the truth when he said neither of them was the equal of his own new beauty. Under normal circumstances, he would have been more than satisfied to accept either of them, however, and he found himself wondering once again what sort of mount the mysterious Walsharno intended to provide Bahzell if they needed an even better horse to go under Wencit’s saddle.

  Fradenhelm provided two pack frames for a modest fee, and Bahzell and Kenhodan quickly packed their gear onto the horses. In the event, they needn’t have hurried, however, for there was no immediate sign of Refram’s return, and Bahzell paced slowly, smoking his pipe and stopping occasionally to examine the shaggy-coated stallion. The horse stood behind Kenhodan, resting his jaw on the red-haired man’s shoulder with his eyes half-closed as he luxuriated in the fingers reaching up to caress the half-lowered ears.

  “I’m thinking you’ve made a friend,” the hradani said.

  “And who wouldn’t want a friend like this one?” Kenhodan asked cheerfully.

  “No one as I’d care to know. Would it be you’ve a thought about what to call him?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, but I haven’t come up with anything suitable. Why? Do you have a suggestion?”

  “As to that, it might be I do. It’s after being a Sothōii-ish sort of a name, but I’m thinking it’s one as fits. Look at that coat; see how it’s after shifting under the light and melting into the shadows like mist? I’m thinking he’ll show gray under the sun, but I’ll swear to silver under the moon. And if he’s not one as outruns the wind, my name’s not Bahzell Bahnakson…which would be something of a shock to Leeana, I’m thinking!” He chuckled, then turned serious. “Aye, I think I’ve a name. How would ‘Glamhandro’ strike your fancy?”

  “Glamhandro.” Kenhodan tried it slowly, savoring the sound on his tongue. Like “Walsharno” it was Old Kontovaran, and it meant “gray wind of autumn.”

  “I like it,” he said. He whispered the name in the stallion’s ear, and the horse flicked his head as if in agreement. “I swear he understands every word I say!” Kenhodan chuckled delightedly.

  “Why, as to that, I’m thinking it’s not so unlikely as he does.”

  Kenhodan eyed Bahzell suspiciously, then glanced at the wizard. Wencit grinned and settled on a bale of hay, settling his poncho about him, and Kenhodan looked back at Bahzell.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any fool could be seeing as he’s Sothōii blood, and there’s no faster, smarter horse ever bred than a Sothōii warhorse. Mind you, I’m thinking this lad is after being something special, however it might be Fradenhelm laid hands on him. He’s warhorse blood, sure as death, but I’m thinking as there’s more than that to him. It’s not so very often a courser and one of what they’re after calling ‘the lesser cousins’ mate, but it’s not something as never happens, either, and it’s in my mind as how there might just be a wee drop of courser blood in this lad’s family tree. And any wind rider knows any courser’s after understanding us ‘two-foots’ when it happens we speak to one of them.”

  “Like Blanchrach?” Kenhodan asked, seeing a sudden light.

  “Eh?” Bahzell’s ears flicked. “No! Coursers are after understanding anyone, Kenhodan, though it’s true enough that it’s only their own wind brothers as can hear them reply.”

  Kenhodan bit off a sigh. It was frustrating to think he saw a door crack of light only to have it vanish, and that seemed to happen a lot in his case. Gwynna and the direcat confused him, and he longed to understand the child’s relationship with the enormous predator. But he refused to pry if Bahzell didn’t volunteer information. Still, the hradani’s explanation of the coursers left much to be desired, as well.

  “So do you mean the coursers read minds?”

  “No, I mean they’re after understanding two-foots’ language. Now, it might be fair to be saying they read their riders’ minds—and t’other way about, come to that—but that’s not the same thing.

  “You know the Sothōii well, don’t you?” Kenhodan asked curiously, remembering Brandark’s explanation of Bahzell’s past.

  “Aye, you might be saying that,” Bahzell acknowledged, and Wencit laughed.

  “And you might be saying the Western Sea’s a little damp,” the wizard said. “Mind you, there was a time—before that unfortunate business in Navahk and his introduction to Tomanāk—when young Bahzell Bahnakson was one of the most accomplished horse thieves in all of Norfressa. Of course, that was before his father put an end to Iron Axe raids on the Sothōii herds. Although I do seem to remember that there was that one raid after that, wasn’t there, Bahzell? That little business with Lord Warden Resak’s prize stud, wasn’t it?”

  Bahzell ignored him and busied himself tamping the tobacco in his pipe and relighting it from one of the stable lanterns, and Wencit chuckled.

  “I’ve often thought Prince Bahnak had more than one reason for picking young Bahzell as his hostage to Navahk,” he said. “Just getting him away from temptation on the Wind Plain probably would’ve been enough to convince him all by itself. Of course, then Bahzell wandered off and got himself enlisted by Tomanāk, which was a horrid shock to any hradani’s system, as I’m sure you can imagine. When he came home again, butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth.”

  Kenhodan snorted in amusement, trying—and failing spectacularly—to imagine Bahzell as a prim and proper reformed horse thief.

  “I’m thinking,” Bahzell said to no one in particular, gazing up at the rafters, “as those who’re after opening their mouths too wide are like to be finding a boot stuck in it. Aye, and sometimes it’s even their own and not someone else’s.”

  “I believe Brandark did mention something about surrenders and paroles,” Kenhodan said. “I didn’t get much detail, though.”

  “That’s a pity,” Wencit replied. “It’s worth telling in full, and if we had time, I would. The heart of the matter, though, was that some of Tellian of Balthar’s vassals had taken it upon themselves to launch an unauthorized invasion of Hurgrum while Prince Bahnak was occupied fighting the Bloody Swords. Since no one else was available, Bahzell and a few score Horse Stealers who’d taken Tomanāk’s service took it upon themselves to block the only good route from the West Riding to Hurgrum and…argue the point with them. Rather pointedly, in fact.”

  The wizard’s humor settled into something rather more serious, and he shook his head.

  “The fellow leading the Sothōii was an insufferable young hothead, the sort who thinks with his spurs and his sword instead of his brain—and doesn’t have much brain even if he should miraculously try to use if
, for that matter—and he got a lot of his supporters killed when he tried to rush the hradani’s position. He was getting ready for another try when Tellian arrived. He’d hoped to overtake the idiots before they actually crossed swords with the hradani, and when he realized he was too late for that—that the war he’d been trying to stop had already well and truly started without him—he was sorely tempted to follow through with the attack himself. He had a lot more men with him, as well, and getting the first blow in quick and hard might have made that war a lot shorter, after all. And there’s no doubt he could have done just that, although the price tag would’ve been steep. I happened to have ridden along with him, however—just to do my own bit to prevent the normal sort of Sothōii-hradani ‘negotiations’—and I decided the foolishness had gone far enough, so I gave them a little history lesson.”

  “History lesson?” Kenhodan repeated in a careful tone, and Bahzell snorted thunderously.

  “Aye, you might be calling it that. He was after standing the Sothōii’s understanding of how the war betwixt us first started on its head.”

  “He did?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Wencit acknowledged. “And once Tellian understood that it truly had been the Sothōii who’d started all those centuries of mutual bloodletting, he found himself in a bit of a quandary.”

  “Don’t you be making light of Tellian, Wencit.” Bahzell’s tone was dry, but something very like a warning gleamed in his eyes. “It’s a good man he was, one of the finest ever I’ve known.”

  “Yes. Yes, he was,” Wencit agreed. “Unfortunately, the only way anyone could see to bring the confrontation to a close without major bloodshed was for one side to surrender to the other. Logically—although I realize we’re talking about Sothōii and hradani here—Bahzell ought to have surrendered to Tellian, given the enormous imbalance in their numbers. I doubt he and his lads were outnumbered by any more than—eighty or ninety to one, would you say, Bahzell?”