by David Weber
Kenhodan heard swords ring yet dared not look away from his foe. He didn’t know if it was Bahzell or someone else who fought the other attacker, and fear for his friend stabbed him, but he pushed it down, concentrating on his swordplay. He was the better bladesman, but this man was delaying him. He was a hindrance, and Kenhodan felt his core of fury take command of his left hand, moving it to the hilt of Gwynna’s dagger. His right locked blades with a turn of his wrist, and both swords rose high, his chest crashing into his opponent’s. For an instant they strained together…and Gwynna’s dagger plunged up under the assassin’s ribs and twisted.
The man went down, shrieking, and Kenhodan spun with inhuman speed. Steel belled and crashed as two combatants flashed through a desperate exchange. A woman—a beautiful woman, with black hair flying in a silken cloud—engaged the surviving killer. Kenhodan leapt to her side, but he was too late. Her blade slithered in side-armed, writhing past Sagrin’s guard with deceptive ease, and opened a deep gash across his ribs. He fell back in anguish, and Chernion’s follow-up thrust drove into his belly and ripped upward. He opened his mouth in a silent screen, choked blood, and fell.
He was dead before he landed.
Kenhodan put his back to the woman’s and surveyed the room. Scarlet ran from his sword and pearled on his dagger tip, and the hard, bright smell of blood and the reek of opened intestines filled a room which was absolutely motionless. Most of the patrons were fighting men; they knew any move might be misread.
Kenhodan glared at them for a moment, then lowered his sword. The fire in his eyes faded, his daggered foe gave a last moan and was still, and ale still ran from a dropped tankard. It had been that quick.
He drew a deep breath and turned to the woman.
“My thanks,” he said formally.
“None needed,” Chernion replied with equal formality. Her eyes searched his for a moment and something inside her relaxed ever so slightly as she felt him re-chain whatever demon slept at the heart of him.
“My thanks to his,” Bahzell rumbled, stepping forward, his eyes cleared at last. “I’m thinking I’d’ve sprouted a steel backbone, but for you.”
“No one likes to see four set on two,” she replied, bending to wipe her blade on Sagrin’s tunic. She straightened. “And that’s what it was from the start. I’ve seen that trick.”
“We’re grateful,” Kenhodan said, flicking blood from his own blades with the casual wrist snap of a man who’d done it a thousand times before. Then he reached for another fallen assassin’s tunic to wipe both of them down.
“But what was it all about?” Chernion wondered innocently.
“I think they were assassins,” Kenhodan said grimly.
“Assassins?!” Chernion put a hiss into her voice. “But why—?”
She broke off as the tavern’s owner hurried up, his face dark with anger. He stopped to recover Bahzell’s scabbard and extended it to him.
“By the Mace, Bahzell, you warned me they wanted you, but I never thought dog brothers would be so bold! To enter the Unicorn…!”
“To tell truth, I’d not have expected it myself, Telbor. I’m thinking I may be after growing soft in the brain, too, for we’ve killed their fellows and there’s more than money in it now. But for my friend and this borderer, I’d never be after making a mistake again!”
His laughter eased the tension.
“And who might it be as I’m after owing my life?” he asked, turning to Chernion.
“My name is Elrytha—Elrytha Sarndaughter,” Chernion replied, “border warden from the southern East Walls, of Clan Torm. I’m pleased to have served the Bloody Hand.”
“You know me?” Bahzell eyed her intently.
“No.” Chernion allowed herself a slight smile. “On the other hand, there aren’t so many hradani champions of Tomanāk, are there?” She shook her head as Bahzell’s ears flicked in acknowledgment, then frowned slightly. “I hadn’t heard you’d come south, though.”
“It’s Angthyr we’re bound for,” Bahzell said.
Kenhodan frowned briefly, then shrugged. Their enemies surely already knew their destination. Why not tell a friend?
“Angthyr?” Chernion’s tone was surprised. “I have business in Fen Guard in Shespar, and I’ve been a little nervous about the trip, times being as they are. Perhaps we could travel together for a way?”
She held her breath, afraid she’d pushed too hard but unable to waste the opening.
“That might be a good idea,” Kenhodan said slowly, “but I’m afraid we’d have to consult our other companion first. For myself, I’m impressed, and if you don’t mind assassins, I’d be pleased if you joined us, Border Warden.”
“And I!” Bahzell rumbled, extending his great hand. He and Chernion exchange the grip of warriors, and his eyes widened in pleased surprise at the strength of her fingers. She smiled inwardly of his expression.
If Wencit was as easily duped as these simpletons, they were all as good as dead already.
* * *
Wencit returned several hours later to find all three of them at a corner table. He crossed to them and looked down at Bahzell quizzically.
“So, Bahzell.” He placed a hand on the hradani’s shoulder. “What’s this I hear about bloodshed and slaughter? Can’t you and Kenhodan stay out of trouble for a moment without me?”
His tone was bantering, but his multihued eyes watched Chernion disconcertingly. She forced herself to remain expressionless, but a tiny flicker of fear flared within her under the weight of that glowing regard. She hadn’t bargained on the sheer strength of the wizard’s presence.
“Hah!” Bahzell’s foot hooked a chair out and he waved at it. “Fine talk! As if these little escapades were owing nothing to our taste in friends! Aye, and as if we weren’t after spending half our time keeping your old hide whole!”
“Perhaps, Mountain.”
Wencit sat and raised a polite eyebrow at Chernion.
“Wencit of Rūm, be known to Elrytha Sarndaughter of the Border Wardens,” Bahzell said. “But for her, the world would be after being the poorer for one hradani.”
“I see.” Wencit bowed without rising. “My thanks, Border Warden. He may be a noisy lout—in fact, he is a noisy lout—but he’s also a friend.”
“I did little enough. Kenhodan would’ve finished them without me.”
“But not in time,” Kenhodan said quickly.
“In time, I think.” Chernion shrugged. “Still, I was happy to be of assistance. There are too many dog brothers in the world.”
“Aye, that she was and that there are, and she might be after lending still more aid, Wencit,” Bahzell said. “She’s business in Shespar, and it’s our thought we might be traveling together. She’s a worthy blade and the skill of a borderer—such might be after serving as well.”
“But not unless she knows the risks,” Kenhodan interjected firmly.
“Truly spoken, lad. We’d not ask a friend to travel with us blind, but it was our thought we’d best be deferring to your judgment before saying more. You’re after being the best judge of how much of our journey should be public knowledge.”
“As little as possible,” Wencit said dryly. His wildfire eyes studied Chernion for a moment. Then he smiled slowly.
“A border warden could be of considerable assistance,” he murmured. “Very well, Elrytha. Our destination’s Torfo. We have a small matter to deal with, one concerning Baroness Wulfra, and she doesn’t want us to prosper—thus the assassins. She’s attacked three times with sorcery, as well, so any trip with us would be neither safe nor comfortable. Are you sure you want to take the trail with companions so beset?”
“Wulfra?” Chernion found she had no need to feign anger as she said the name. “I owe that one an ill turn or two. Yes, I’ll go with you—in fact, I demand to join you!”
“Demand?” Wencit repeated the word softly.
“Yes, demand by my service to your friends! Wulfra cost the lives of some of my close co
mpanions, and revenge is my right, I think.”
“Perhaps so.” Wencit regarded her again, then shrugged. “Very well…Elrytha of the border wardens. Will you take the road with us in the morning?”
“With pleasure,” she said, raising her tankard, but behind her smile her brain was busy. Now why, she wondered, had he hesitated over her assumed name? She’d best go carefully with this one. But whatever he suspected, she’d won admittance to his party.
That was worth the lives of four dog brothers.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
South from Sindor
“Do we really have to leave this damned early, Wencit?”
Kenhodan’s mournful plaint was low but intense as dawn bled over the city of Sindor and four riders approached the south gate. No one else was abroad except for a few city guardsmen, a single military patrol, and a handful of apprentices sweeping the streets in preparation for business.
“Humor me, Kenhodan,” Wencit murmured, glancing around alertly.
“You can’t really think the assassins won’t find out soon enough anyway,” Kenhodan grumbled. “I could’ve slept another three hours, but for you.”
“So you could have. And of course I know the dog brothers have scouts out. Don’t worry. They’ve been taken care of—wherever they are.”
“‘Taken care of?’” Kenhodan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you explain to me some time ago that white wizards don’t use spells against non-wizards?”
Chernion’s nerves went taut at the red-haired man’s question, but her face was expressionless when she glanced at him and the wizard.
“No,” Wencit said with a sudden almost boyish grin. “That’s not what I said, Kenhodan. The Strictures say a wizard can’t harm a non-wizard except in direct self-defense. I suppose I could make a case for self-defense against assassins who want to kill me, but that’s not really necessary in this case, because I haven’t hurt them a bit. In fact,” he chuckled gleefully, “they’ll find it quite…refreshing.”
“Really?” Kenhodan eyed him speculatively. “And are you going to tell us what it is you’ve done?”
“No,” Wencit said smugly. “I’m not.”
Nor did he, for all of Bahzell’s and Kenhodan’s prodding. Chernion, on the other hand, resolved not to try, because something about the wizard’s manner whenever he spoke to her made her uneasy. He didn’t know she was an assassin—he’d never have let her so close if he knew that—but instinct told her that something she’d done, or said, or possibly left undone, had aroused his suspicion. She couldn’t imagine what it had been, but she was determined to make no more false steps until she found out. And so she kept silent as they clattered quietly through South Gate and headed for South Wall Pass.
There was no sign of any watcher as they slipped away from Sindor like thieves.
* * *
Umaro of Morfintan was a hard man whose followers took pains to avoid disappointing him. They were times, unfortunately, when they had no choice about that.
Like this morning.
“It took you three days to find me, did it?” Umaro grated. “How did you spend your time? Wenching? You had orders to find me, Brothers!”
Umaro’s voice was as unpleasant as his appearance, which was to say extremely so. He was a short, slab-sided man, burly as a bear and covered in thick, black body hair. His forehead slanted, his hairline was low, and his eyes were dull as soot, yet surface impressions could be deceiving. He was renowned among fellow professionals as an even better poisoner than Rosper and one of the sharpest witted of the Guild’s craftmasters. At the moment, however, his temper—for which he was equally renowned—was on a short leash as he glowered at the dog brother called Horum.
“Yes, Umaro.” Horum was sweating slightly. “But we didn’t know where you were. Darnosh waited at the Windhawk in case you came there after all while Menik and I searched the city. But you were too well hidden. We just couldn’t find you in time!”
“Arrrgh!”
Umaro waved a fist and grunted disgustedly. It was no one’s fault, and he knew it, but his fresh losses grated on nerves already raw from news of Rosper’s death. Sharnā, but this job was costing dear!
He took a quick turn around the squalid room. Nothing had gone as planned. The fact that Chernion had been right at the start—that the Guild should never have dealt with the sorceress, however good the price—had become steadily more obvious. His own failure only made it worse. Perhaps he should have been warned by Rosper’s fate, but the opportunity had looked so good. Yet to have all four of his dog brothers cut down without a single survivor—and without drawing so much as a single drop of blood in return—!
Well, spilt blood couldn’t be poured back into his men’s veins, and he turned on Horum once more.
“Tell me about this agent of Chernion’s again,” he growled.
“He says he’s used her before.” Horum breathed easier at the change of subject. “All I know is that she’s supposed to be our relay, and we’re to take anything she says as having come from Chernion himself.”
“I don’t like it,” Umaro muttered. “Did Chernion tell her she could kill our men just to gain the targets’ confidence? Pah!”
“I think that was her own idea,” another assassin said. “In fact, I think it was a case of opportunity, not planning. And I hate to say it, but the fact that she took the opportunity may indicate her judgment’s even sounder than Chernion suggested.”
Umaro’s thunderous expression turned even darker and his jaw clenched visibly as he turned to the speaker, but his tone was almost courteous despite his obvious anger.
“Explain, Ashwan,” he said.
“From what I’ve been able to discover,” Ashwan said, “the attack had already failed before she moved at all. No disrespect to our brothers, but they seem to’ve underestimated the redhead. I don’t blame them. Given the Bloody Hand’s reputation, I’d’ve made exactly the same judgment, but that’s why they didn’t throw the second tankard. They thought blinding him would be advantage enough, while throwing both tankards might have looked even more suspicious. On the other hand, it was already going to look ‘suspicious’ to the Unicorn’s customers, and it would seem—” he drew a fingertip fastidiously across the mean little room’s tabletop”—that they should have thrown it anyway.”
He raised his finger, gazed down at it for a moment, then blew dust from it and looked back up at Umaro.
“According to the witnesses I spoke with, Sagrin was down at the start—thanks to the redhead. Lerdon died before he cleared leather—thanks to the redhead. And Calth and Freedmark had time for only one cut at Bahzell before the redhead—this ‘Kenhodan’—killed Freedmark and turned on Calth.” He shrugged elegantly. “I find it difficult to believe he couldn’t have killed Calth and Sagrin—after Sagrin picked himself up from the floor again—all by himself.” He shook his head. “No. The trap had already fallen apart before Elrytha took a hand, and at least she bought their trust about as convincingly as anyone could have.”
“But we might’ve had the Bloody Hand, at least, but for her!”
More than the frustration of a single failed mission burned in Umaro’s angry voice. Like Chernion, he’d consulted the Guild’s records when this assignment was accepted. He knew, unlike most of the rest of his men, just how many dog brothers had fallen to Bahzell Bahnakson’s sword over the years.
“We might have,” Ashwan replied. “But we might not have, either. He barely missed Calth when his eyes were full of ale—I doubt he would have missed Sagrin several blinks later. And be honest, Umaro. I, for one, wouldn’t care to face the Bloody Hand when he was only half blind.”
Ashwan admitted it without apology, and Umaro only grunted. A killer with Ashwan’s record could afford to be honest.
“Maybe you’ve hit it,” the Craftmaster growled after a moment, “but whatever happened it leaves us with a hellish mess now. When we took the assignment, the only target was the poxy wizard—now look! We’ve
got the Bloody Hand and this Kenhodan fellow as well as a wizard!”
He paused to spit on the floor, and his men stood silently as he worked the venom from his system. Only Ashwan smiled.
“The Council will regret overruling Chernion on this one,” Umaro said with bitter satisfaction. “He warned them, and he was right, so I’ll abide by his orders. But I’ll have all three—wizard or no—before this is over!”
He stopped and yanked out a watch and glared down at it.
“And speaking of orders, where the hell are our gate reports?!” he exploded. “It’s past ten—surely they must’ve gone somewhere!”
“True,” Ashwan said imperturbably, “but—”
He broke off as another assassin hurried in and saluted, breathing heavily. His face was slick with sweat.
“Well, what bad news brings you here?” Umaro growled.
“Y-Your pardon, Umaro, b-but something strange’s happened.”
“I suppose you mean something new?” Umaro sighed resignedly.
“Yes. Shernak at South Gate. H-He fell asleep, Umaro!
“He what?! That’s one error too many, by the scorpion! I’ll have his heart for this! I’ll—!”
“Just a moment, Umaro,” Ashwan said softly, holding up one hand, and turned to the messenger. “Why do I feel you have something more to add, Brother?”
“I do,” the messenger said gratefully. “The gatekeeper says the targets passed through at dawn.”
He flinched at Umaro’s volcanic curse, but Ashwan’s dark eyes never even flickered.
“And Shernak never saw them?”
His voice was even softer, and the messenger shook his head.
“No. That is, he thinks he did, but he’s not certain. If he did, it was just before he…fell asleep.”
“Wizardry!” Umaro snapped viciously. “Gods! If I ever agree to hunt another wizard, I’ll deserve to have my own throat slit!”
“Perhaps.” Ashwan stroked his black mustache thoughtfully. “But it seems Chernion was even wiser to plant a spy on them than he realized. Without it, they’d probably have escaped. As it is, we have a friend to mark their trail for us.”