Wind Rider's Oath wg-3

by David Weber

  “I’m sure it hasn’t,” Sholdan agreed, working his way back into the conversation. “After all, he’s a baron, and he doesn’t know who we’re really working for. He sees us only as tools, not anyone who could seriously threaten someone as powerful as he is.”

  “Which is why They wanted him brought into this in the first place,” Varnaythus said. “I only wish I felt more confident that They aren’t overreaching.”

  “Of course They aren’t!” Sholdan stared at him, eyes wide in shock. Salgahn seemed much less appalled by Varnaythus’ temerity, but dog brothers weren’t especially noted for piety even where their own patron, Sharna , was concerned.

  “Oh, don’t be an old woman, Jerghar!” Varnaythus snapped. “Of course They can make mistakes! If They couldn’t, They’d have finished off the other side twelve hundred years ago. What bothers me this time around is how many balls They expect us to keep in the air simultaneously. If it all works—or even if only half of it works—the results will be all They could hope for. But the more complex the plan, the more opportunities there are for things to go wrong, too. All I’m saying is that, speaking as the person responsible for making it all fit together at the critical moment, I wish They could have kept things a bit simpler.”

  “All you have to do is follow orders,” Sholdan protested, and Varnaythus snorted.

  “If that were all I was required to do, They wouldn’t need me here at all, Jerghar! But They do need me, because someone has to adjust when bits and pieces of the master plan go to your Lady’s Seventh Hell in a handbasket! All I have to say is that it’s a good thing the other side can make mistakes, too. Especially this time around.”

  A fine sheen of perspiration dewed Sholdan’s forehead. He seemed genuinely horrified by the wizard’s attitude.

  “If you offend Her—or any of the rest of Them!—Varnaythus, no power on earth—” he began, and Varnaythus laughed.

  “I don’t intend to offend anyone—certainly not any of Them! But They picked me to oversee this operation—all of this operation—because I’m not afraid to use my brain. They need someone who’s willing to remember there are at least two sides in any war, and that the other sides work just as hard at beating you as you do at beating them. And do you really think for a moment that Their counterparts are unaware of what They’re doing?”

  “Well, of course theyknow She and the others are working against them. But if they really knew all we’re doing, surely they would have acted directly against us by now.”

  “You do have a brain, don’t you, Jerghar?” Varnaythus asked. The banker swelled with anger, but Varnaythus continued calmly. “I’ve always assumed you must, because without one, you couldn’t be as successful at amassing wealth as you’ve been, even allowing for all the business your Lady’s church throws your way. But when you say something like that, I find myself questioning my basic assumptions. Perhaps it has something to do with your diet.”

  “And just what do you mean by that?” Sholdan demanded.

  “By what? You mean the bit about your diet?” The wizard’s smile was deadly, and Sholdan shook his head sharply.

  “Not that!” he snapped. “The rest of it. What did you mean by the rest of it?”

  “I meant that you have a dazzling ability to overlook the obvious when reality isn’t to your liking.” Varnaythus shook his head. “Both sides are limited in what they can do,” he continued in an elaborately patient voice. “Not even They dare to intervene directly and personally very often, and the other side chooses to do it even less frequently. Which—we might as well be honest here, since it’s just us plotters—is a very good thing for Them, since the other side is more powerful than They are.”

  Sholdan’s eyes darted around the inn room with more than a hint of true panic. Salgahn, on the other hand, looked faintly amused.

  “Oh, calm down, Jerghar,” Varnaythus said wearily. “Of course the other side is more powerful! Not only individually, but in numbers, as well. But what of it? How powerful one god or another may be is really immaterial to us mortals.” Sholdan goggled at him, and he snorted. “Any god could evaporate any one of us with a thought, if he or she decided to,” he pointed out acerbically. “Does it really matter if one of them decides to turn us into purple vapor, instead of orange vapor?”

  “B-b-b-but—” Sholdan stuttered.

  “The point is,” Varnaythus said, “that even the weakest god is so much more powerful than any mortal that any differences of power between deities aren’t particularly significant. The fact that Tomanak, say,” he watched Sholdan flinch physically at his offhand use of that hated name, “is individually more powerful than any one of Them doesn’t matter a solitary damn to you, me, or any other mortal. There’s only so much power any deity can apply to the physical universe without smashing the whole thing, which would defeat his own purpose, and either side is perfectly capable of doing that if they get too openly involved. That’s why both of them need agents in the first place, to avoid the escalation of direct confrontations that could get out of hand. You know that.”

  “But—” Sholdan tried again.

  “Oh, give it a rest, Jerghar!” Salgahn interjected. “And you stop needling him, Varnaythus!” Both of the others looked at him, and the assassin shrugged. “We can debate about agents, direct divine intervention, and the destruction of the world some other time,” he said impatiently. “What matters right now is that the gods on the other side have chosen to restrict their direct intervention, that they believe in free will, and, unlike certain gods on our side,” he carefully named no names, “that they expect theiragents to think for themselves. And, as Varnaythus says, Jerghar, even if they wanted to lead someone like Bahzell around by the hand all day long, they can make mistakes, too.”

  “Salgahn’s right, Jerghar,” Varnaythus said. “I shouldn’t try to goad you that way. But if you want confirmation that the other side isn’t whispering the details of all of Their plans into their precious champions’ ears—or anyone else’s—look at what happened to the coursers. Do you think that precious stallion would have let any of his herd stay behind over the winter if he’d realized my Lady was influencing their minds? Or do you honestly believe the Sothoiiwould have allowed an entire herd of their precious coursers to walk right into destruction if they’d known what was about to happen?”

  “Well, no,” Sholdan said.

  “Neither do I. And while I’m about it, I might as well acknowledge that your Lady and Her servants succeeded brilliantly in that particular phase of the operation.”

  “It would have been better if the shardohns had gotten them all,” Sholdan grumbled, but Varnaythus shook his head.

  “No. It’s much better this way—someone had to get home to tell the Sothoii what happened. You’ll get all the rest of them in time, if the plan works properly, but for now those poor, pathetic survivors are bound to arouse every protective instinct the Sothoii have. And if there hadn’t been any survivors at all, how could we have goaded them into responding?”

  “I can see that,” Salgahn said. “On the other hand, it was Tellian who was supposed to be sucked in, not Bahzell.”

  “Yes,” Sholdan said. “No one suggested we’d have to deal with a champion of Tomanak!” There wasn’t much question that in this case the “we” meant Jerghar Sholdan and his coreligionists, not Varnaythus and Salgahn or any of their associates.

  “The possibility was always there,” Varnaythus pointed out, his tone less cutting but still a bit impatient. “Ideally, Tellian would have taken his men out himself and been destroyed, of course. But there was always the chance—the distinct probability, really—that Bahzell would insist on accompanying him. It’s what those interfering busybodies of Tomanak’s do.” He shrugged. “If the plan is sound and it’s executed properly, it should be capable of dealing with ’Prince Bahzell.’ And even if we don’t manage to destroy him, we may manage to kill Brandark. That wouldn’t be as good as getting Bahzell, of course, but it’s almost
as good as getting Tellian.”

  “I wish They’d tell us why it’s so damned important to kill two damned hradani,” Salgahn muttered. “Tellian, I can understand. For that matter, Bahzell makes sense. But why Brandark? He’s no prince or champion!”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out someday, if we don’t manage to kill him,” Varnaythus said dryly. “Always assuming we survive not killing him in the first place. Which, just between the three of us, is another reason I’m perfectly happy to see Bahzell and Brandark riding off towards Warm Springs without us. I’m just upset because Tellian isn’t with them.”

  “And because you don’t know what else Cassan might be up to that could disorder our plans,” Salgahn put in.

  “And because of that,” Varnaythus admitted.

  “I’ll have my people in Toramos see what they can find out,” the assassin said. “I know your contacts with Cassan are probably better than mine, but I’ve got more sets of eyes and ears than you do.”

  “Good!” Varnaythus grunted. “I’ll do what I can, as well, but there are too many magi in Toramos for comfort. Cassan may be more than a bit irrational on the subject, but they really do constitute a threat—to us, at least, if not to him. If you want real honesty, that’s the main reason I haven’t done more scrying, Jerghar,” he admitted. “If I use any of the really effective spells, one of them is likely to catch me at it. They probably wouldn’t be able to identify me, but they could certainly tell who I was trying to watch, which could be almost as bad.”

  “I’d prefer for them not to know we’re using wizardry at all,” Salgahn said frankly. “Anything that might bring Wencit of Rum back to the Wind Plain would be a really bad idea, as far as I’m concerned!”

  “Amen to that,” Varnaythus said fervently, and touched the lump under his shirt and tunic that was the small wizard’s wand of wrought silver he wore on the chain about his neck. His clothing hid it, but the simple fact that he possessed it would earn the death penalty if it was discovered. And if Wencit of Rum should happen to discover that Varnaythus wore the amulet of a priest of Carnadosa, death would probably be preferable to his fate.

  “What about Kalatha?” Sholdan asked.

  “At the moment, everything seems to be proceeding nicely. I’ll check with Dahlaha while I’m there, of course but I don’t expect any problems to have cropped up since my last visit,” Varnaythus told him.

  The banker looked as if he wanted to ask more questions, but Varnaythus had made it clear he intended to keep the different aspects of the complex, interwoven operation as compartmentalized as possible. He needed Sholdan’s cooperation—or, rather, his cooperation and that of his fellow Servants of Krahana. But however reliable the banker’s discretion might have been in matters of business, Varnaythus didn’t trust his ability to keep his mouth shut (and his hands off) anything really important. Time enough to let Sholdan know all that was involved at Kalatha when the operation had been crowned with success. For the moment, let him continue to think that nothing else was as important as killing Bahzell, Tellian, and Brandark.

  “Very well,” the wizard-priest continued, shaking aside his thoughts. “I believe we’re all up to date. Jerghar, get word to your Lady’s Servants immediately that Bahzell and Brandark are on their way, then get up there and take personal charge of dealing with them. Salgahn, I’ll check with your message drop in Sothofalas to see what you may have discovered when I get back to the capital. In the meantime, I have a few errands to take care of for Them before I head back.”

  The other two nodded, and he strode briskly out of the room. One of the advantages of wizardry was how quickly he could cover ground, he thought. He had plenty of time to drop by Lorham and check the Kalathan situation’s progress personally before he headed back to Sothofalas.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Although Alfar Axeblade’s family came originally from the westernmost edge of the West Riding, he hadn’t had any actual personal experience with hradani. One of his grandfathers and two of his uncles had been killed in border clashes with Horse Stealer raiders in the years before Prince Bahnak had been strong enough to forbid such attacks, and his family’s modestly prosperous farm and its prized herd of horses had been wiped out in the process. But Alfar himself had been no more than a child when his father relocated to Warm Springs, which was far enough from the Escarpment that no hradani raid had ever penetrated to it. His family history was more than sufficient to reinforce the traditional Sothoii prejudice against all hradani, but unlike men who’d actually fought against them, he was unprepared for the reality of hradani endurance.

  He’d become familiar with it over the last several hours, however.

  Bahzell had brought along a half dozen members of the Hurgrum chapter of the Order of Tomanak, all but two of them Horse Stealers. The other two were both Bloody Swords, who, like Brandark, were small enough (by hradani standards) that a sturdy horse might be expected to carry them without too much complaint. All three of the Bloody Swords had brought along an additional horse each, which would at least allow them to switch off when their initial mounts tired, but no horse in its right mind would have consented to carry a Horse Stealer. So Bahzell and his four fellow clansmen, including Hurthang and Gharnal, were on foot.

  Alfar had expected that to slow them down, and he’d been prepared to protest that speed was essential. By the time they’d been on the road for two hours, he was just as glad he hadn’t let the words out of his mouth. The five Horse Stealers loped along in a sort of half-jog, half-run that easily matched the best pace even a Sothoii warhorse could sustain. Worse, they did it apparently effortlessly. They spent a good bit of their time cheerfully insulting their Bloody Sword brethren over the shorter legs which made horses necessary for them, but Alfar suspected that Brandark and his fellows could have matched their endurance if they’d truly needed to. Possibly not as easily, however. Or, at least, Alfar hoped not. It was bad enough watching the Horse Stealers do it! Bahzell was actually able to run along at Alfar’s side, in full armor, and carry on a conversation with him while he did so.

  Alfar had never imagined anything like it. The hradani even managed to maintain his side of the conversation almost normally as he probed for more details about the disaster which had sent Alfar to Balthar. His deep, even breathing induced a certain forced rhythm, but that was the only evidence of exertion he showed. It was the most unnatural thing Alfar had ever seen, especially from someone so tall that his head was very nearly on the same level as Alfar’s, despite the fact that he was perched on the back of a warhorse who stood just under fifteen hands high.

  Finally, after over four hours of it, when the horse Stealers still showed no sign of asking for a rest stop, or even to slow their pace long enough for a breather, Alfar could contain his curiosity no longer.

  “Excuse me, Milord Champion,” he said gruffly, managing to get the title out with only the smallest hesitation this time, “but would you mind if I asked a question?”

  “And why should I be minding?” Bahzell asked with a chuckle. “After all, it’s picking your brain about Warm Springs I’ve been since ever we left Hill Guard. I’m thinking it’s only fair exchange if you’ve a question or two of your own as you’d like answered.”

  “Thank you.” Alfar turned to look into the towering hradani’s eyes, and considered how to ask what was on his mind with the least probability of giving offense. In the end, he decided it was best to just go ahead and ask, so he did.

  “Milord, you and your friends have been running along at my stirrup iron for the better part of five hours now. And you’ve scarcely broken a sweat. It’s in my mind that you could have run even faster than you have, too, if you’d been so inclined.”

  “And you’re after wondering just how it is we do it?” Bahzell suggested, his ears half cocked in amusement.

  “Well, in a word, yes,” Alfar admitted.

  “I can be seeing why you might,” Bahzell said. “And up till the last year or so, truth be told, I
’d not have been able to answer you.” He shrugged. “We hradani have always been after being the biggest, strongest, and toughest of the Races of Man, and by and large, so far as we’d ever known, that was just the way things were after being. We’d no more notion of why we were those things than anyone else. But this past winter, Wencit was kind enough to be explaining it to us, though, to be honest, I’m thinking as how it had slipped his mind that the rest of us are just a mite younger than he is and that it might be we’d simply forgot the answer our own selves.”

  The big hradani grinned so wryly Alfar had to suppress a chuckle. Given that Wencit of Rum was at least twelve hundred years old, Alfar supposed that just about anyone was “a mite younger” than he.

  “Any road,” Bahzell continued, “from what Wencit was saying, it seems as how we hradani are after being directly linked to what he’s pleased to be calling ’the magic field.’ “

  “ ’Magic field’?” Alfar repeated.

  “Aye. From what old Wencit’s saying, it seems as how everything about us—the entire world, and every last thing in it, living or dead—is truly after being naught but energy. It may look solid enough, and if it happens you should be dropping a rock on your foot, it may feel solid, but to a wizard, it’s naught but a mass of energy, like fire or lightning, and all in the world that wizardry is after being is the ability to be seeing and manipulating that energy.”

  Alfar looked at him skeptically, and Bahzell flicked his ears in the equivalent of a shrug.

  “I’ll not blame you if you’ve doubts about all of that, you understand,” he said. “I certainly had ’em in plenty at the time, and I’m still not so very certain in my own mind as how it all makes sense. I’m thinking Brandark could explain it better, if you’re minded to ask him about it later, but if Wencit has the right of it—and I’m not so very eager to be telling a man as saw the Fall of Kontovar with his own eyes that he doesn’t—then what makes my folk as we are is that somehow we’re after being physically connected to all of that energy. We’ve no idea how we do it, but we’ve the ability to be drawing on that energy to aid our own. In a manner of speaking, I suppose, it’s not after being all that different from touching it as a wizard might, though I’m hoping Wencit has a better notion of what he’s about when he does! But it’s that as gives us our size and our strength, aye, and our endurance, as well. And the reason we heal so much quicker than any of the other Races of Man.”