by David Weber
Kaeritha nodded, blue eyes dark as she contemplated the spiraling cycle of distrust, hostility, and potential violence Yalith was describing.
“Well, in that case, Mayor,” she said quietly, “we’ll just have to see to it that that doesn’t happen, won’t we?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Edinghas Bardiche knew his expression wasn’t the most tactful one possible, but there wasn’t a great deal he could do about that. He was too busy gazing in disbelief at his newly arrived … “guests.”
He stood in the muddy paddock outside the main stable, acutely aware of the watching eyes of the Warm Springs armsmen currently on duty, still ringing the building protectively. Alfar Axeblade stood before him, holding the reins of a borrowed horse, and eight hradani stood behind Alfar—seven of them in the colors of the Order of Tomanak. It was remotely possible, Edinghas thought, that there could have been a more unlikely sight somewhere in the Kingdom. He just couldn’t imagine where it might have been. Or when.
Finally, after endless seconds of silent consternation, he succeeded in goading his tongue to life.
“I crave your pardon … Milord Champion,” he managed. “I must confess that when I dispatched Alfar to the Baron, I didn’t anticipate that he might return with a— That is, I didn’t expect a champion of Tomanak.”
His attention was focused on the mountainous hradani looming before him, yet a corner of his eye caught the expression on Alfar’s face. He couldn’t begin to sort out all of the emotions wrapped up in that expression, but embarrassment and something almost like anger seemed to be a part of them. His retainer opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the hradani glanced at him with a tiny head shake, and Alfar’s mouth closed with an almost audible click.
“What you’re meaning, Milord Warden,” the hradani replied in a deep, rumbling bass perfectly suited to his huge stature, “is that you were never expecting a hradani champion.”
Edinghas felt his tired face heat, but the hradani sounded almost amused. It might be a dry, biting amusement, but it wasn’t the anger the lord warden’s self-correction might all too easily have provoked.
“Yes, I suppose that is what I meant,” he admitted.
“Well,” the hradani said, “I won’t say as how that’s after making me feel all warm and cuddly inside, Milord. On the other hand, I can’t be saying as how it’s after surprising me, either. Like enough, I’d feel the same, if the boot were on the other foot. Still and all, here I stand, and it’s in my mind that what’s happened here is after being the sort of thing as one of Himself’s champions ought to be looking into.”
“I certainly can’t argue with that,” Edinghas said. “But I hope I won’t offend you by saying that my armsmen are likely to be even more … surprised than me.”
“Milord.” Alfar’s voice was polite but firm, and Edinghas looked at him, surprised by the interruption. “Milord,” Alfar repeated when he was certain he had his liege’s attention, “Sir Jahlahan, Baron Tellian’s seneschal, personally vouches for Prince Bahzell in the Baron’s name and explains how he came to be in Balthar when I arrived there.” His wave indicated the still unopened message from Swordspinner in Edinghas’ hand. “And for myself,” he continued, even more firmly, “I can only say that, hradani or no, these men have not spared themselves for a moment in their determination to reach Warm Springs as quickly as possible. Milord, they ran all the way from Balthar.”
Edinghas’ eyebrows rose involuntarily. Sothoii retainers and freeholders, especially in a northern holding like Warm Springs, were a sturdy, independent lot. It had something to do with endless hours spent all alone on horseback in the grassy immensity of the Wind Plain—or in the howling chaos of a midwinter blizzard. Yet for all that, the note of near rebuke in Alfar’s voice surprised him.
He shook himself, then looked back at the hradani. No, he told himself, at Prince Bahzell.
“I crave your pardon once again, Milord Champion,” he said, and this time his voice sounded closer to normal in his own ears. “Alfar’s right. I ought to at least read Lord Swordspinner’s dispatch. And however surprised I may have been by your … unexpected arrival, that surprise doesn’t excuse my rudeness.”
“I’d not be calling it rude,” Bahzell replied. He smiled slowly. “I’d not be calling it exactly the warmest welcome I’ve ever had, but it’s not after being the coldest, either. Not by a long road, Milord.”
“It’s good of you to say so.” Edinghas felt himself returning Bahzell’s smile. Then he gave himself another little shake. “With your permission, Prince Bahzell, I’ll ask Alfar to escort you to the manor house. He can get you and your men settled in there while I repair my error and read what Lord Swordspinner has to say. And,” he met Bahzell’s eyes levelly, “while I have a few words with my armsmen, as well.”
“Aye, I’d not say that was so very bad an idea,” the hradani agreed.
“Thank you.” Genuine gratefulness for the other’s attitude touched Edinghas’ tone, and he returned his gaze to Alfar. “Please take Prince Bahzell and his men up to the house,” he said. “Tell Lady Sofalla that they’ll be our guests for at least the next few days.”
Alfar nodded, but Edinghas’ attention had already returned to Bahzell. The hradani gazed back at him for a moment, his face almost expressionless. But then he bowed, very slightly, and Edinghas saw the understanding in his eyes. The lord warden’s decision against sending even a single armsman along with Alfar, even as only a courteous “escort,” on the trip to his family’s private home was the strongest possible way for him to express his trust.
“It’s grateful we are,” Bahzell rumbled, and turned to follow Alfar towards the fortified manor house that was the closest Warm Springs had to a proper keep.
* * *
Lady Sofalla Bardiche was a sturdy, attractively plain woman whose chestnut hair was well stranded with silver. Instead of the gown a more higher ranked Sothoii noblewoman might have worn, she wore serviceable (although subtly feminine) trousers under a long, brightly embroidered tunic. The embroidery was a bit finer and more fanciful than a prosperous farmer’s wife might have boasted, but it certainly wasn’t the silks and satins, pearls and semiprecious gems of a great noble house. She also had a brisk, no-nonsense manner that reminded Bahzell strongly of Tala, and she took the sudden arrival of her husband’s henchman with eight hradani in tow far more calmly than might have been expected.
“Well,” she said after Alfar had completed his hasty explanation, “I can’t say I ever expected to be entertaining hradani, Prince Bahzell. Or not, at least, on this side of the manor wall!” She smiled as she said it, and he smiled back. “But if Lord Edinghas wants you put up in guest quarters, that’s good enough for me. I’m afraid you’ll find things a bit less fine here at Warm Springs than at Balthar, though!”
“Milady,” Bahzell replied, “we’re after being hradani. A roof as doesn’t leak more than a few bucketfuls each night will be doing us well enough.”
“Oh, I think we can manage a little better than that,” she assured him, and turned to the small gaggle of housemaids huddled behind her and gazing apprehensively at the hradani whose stature dwarfed the manor house’s entry hall.
“Stop gawking like ninnies!” Sofalla scolded. “Ratha,” she continued, singling out one of the older, more levelheaded-looking maids, “go and tell Gohlan that we’ll be putting Prince Bahzell and his people into the south wing.”
* * *
Lord Edinghas’ armsmen still looked less than delighted with the situation when Alfar escorted Bahzell back to the stable an hour and a half later, but at least the most overt hostility seemed to have eased. Bahzell didn’t know exactly what Sir Jahlahan had included in his letter, or how Edinghas had explained the situation to his wary retainers, but it seemed to have taken. Bahzell wasn’t surprised—not after watching Lady Sofalla deal with the household staff. If her husband possessed even half her strength of personality, it would take a braver man than Bahze
ll to argue with him!
The reflection made Bahzell chuckle as he and Alfar crossed to where Edinghas stood in one of the stable doors.
“Again, welcome, Milord Champion,” the lord warden said, and this time extended his right hand. Bahzell clasped forearms with him, and Edinghas produced a much more natural smile.
“I won’t apologize again for my first greeting,” he said. “I’ve read Lord Swordspinner’s letter, now, and he told me you’d probably understand if we seemed a bit … put off, just at first. Doesn’t make it any better—I know that—but if you’re willing to forgive me for it, I’ll try to see it doesn’t happen again.”
“There’s naught to forgive,” Bahzell replied with a shrug. “That’s not to be saying we’d not all have been happier to’ve been being greeted with open arms and glad hosannas, but I’m thinking as a man should be keeping his hopes to what’s possible, when all’s said.”
He smiled, and Edinghas smiled back. Then the lord warden’s expression sobered.
“Sir Jahlahan wrote that you’d see it that way, Milord. And I’m glad. But I’d also be happier if there’d never been need for a champion of Tomanak to come to Warm Springs. And especially not for a reason like this.”
“Aye, I’ll not disagree with you there,” Bahzell said somberly.
“Well, I suppose we should get to it, then,” Edinghas sighed. “I warn you, Milord, I’ve no idea how they’ll react when they meet you. We’ve still no idea what happened to them out there, but whatever it was, it’s marked them more than just physically.” His jaw tightened. “I’ve never seen coursers frightened, Milord. Not before this. But now—”
He sighed again and turned to lead the way into the stable.
* * *
Warm Springs’ stables had been built to a much larger scale than those of most manors because of the holding’s long association with the Warm Springs coursers. The main stable was a high, airy structure, with huge, open-fronted stalls that were well kept and spotlessly clean. And, in spite of everything, Bahzell was unprepared for what he found inside it.
He’d asked Brandark to remain outside, with the other members of the Order. The last thing they needed was to overwhelm the injured coursers with the presence of so many hradani. He knew that, but no amount of logic could keep him from feeling alone and isolated among so many humans, none of whom knew him, and all of whom were his people’s hereditary enemies.
He faced that thought, and then put it firmly behind him. He couldn’t afford it now, he told himself, and turned his attention to the coursers he’d come to see.
Despite his people’s name and reputation, he’d had quite a bit of experience with horses. He’d actually ridden (if not particularly well, and only for fairly brief periods) on several occasions, and the Horse Stealers’ traditional enmity with the Sothoii more or less required them to be familiar with cavalry and its capabilities. No Horse Stealer was ever going to be a cavalryman himself, given his people’s sheer size, so most of his personal experience had been with draft animals, but like any Horse Stealer, he had an expert eye when it came to evaluating quality horseflesh.
For all of that, he had never come within a mile of any courser until he encountered Baron Tellian and Dathgar and Hathan and Gayrhalan in the Gullet. To a large extent, that was because his father had outlawed raids on the Wind Plain less than five years after Bahzell had earned his warrior’s braid. To an even larger extent, though, it had been because it was more than any hradani’s life was worth to come within what any courser stallion might consider threatening range of his herd … which equated to coming within the stallion’s line of sight. The reservations Gayrhalan continued to nourish where Bahzell was concerned even now only underscored the wisdom of remaining safely out of reach of any courser’s battleaxe jaws and piledriver hoofs.
Dathgar had become rather more comfortable with Bahzell, but even Tellian’s companion remained … uneasy in close proximity to him. Still, coursers were at least as intelligent as most of the Races of Man, and both Dathgar and Gayrhalan, like Sir Kelthys’ Walasfro, had been wise enough to recognize that Bahzell was not the slavering hradani stereotype for which the coursers had cherished such hatred for so long.
Nonetheless, he recognized that it behooved him to approach these coursers cautiously. None of them had ever met him; Sir Kelthys had not yet arrived, so there was no wind rider and his companion to vouch for Bahzell; and these were the brutally traumatized survivors of a merciless massacre. They were unlikely, to say the least, to take the sudden appearance of eight hradani well.
But when he stepped into the stable and saw the condition of those survivors, it was hard—even harder than he had anticipated—to remember the need for caution and distance.
The seven adults were bad enough. Even now, they shivered uncontrollably, as if with an ague, rolling their eyes and flinching away from any unexpected sound or movement. Seeing horses in such a state of terror would have sufficed to break any heart. Seeing coursers reduced to such straits was the stuff of nightmare, and not just for Sothoii like Alfar or Edinghas.
Not one of the terrified survivors had escaped unwounded, and one of the fillies had lost her right ear and eye and bore an ugly, ragged, wound that ran from the point of her left hip forward almost to her shoulder. She must have been almost four years old, and it was obvious that her technically “juvenile” status had not kept her out of the heart of her herd’s battle. Her right knee was lacerated, with a deep tear extending downward along the cannon. It seemed impossible that it could have missed the extensor tendons, but although she obviously favored the leg, it was still taking her weight.
She bore at least half a dozen other, scarcely less brutal wounds, and there was something wrong about all of them. Coursers healed almost as rapidly as hradani, yet those deep, wicked trenches still oozed. Their discharge crusted her shaggy winter coat, and Bahzell could detect the scent of corruption from where he stood, even through the normal stable smells about him. The injured filly’s head drooped, and her breathing was labored, yet her outward damages, grievous though they might be, were less deadly than the wounds no physical eye could see.
Bahzell felt every muscle tighten as his vision shifted. It was an aspect of his champion’s status that he had yet to become fully accustomed to, and his jaw clenched as he seemed to find himself suddenly able to look inside the filly’s body. He could “see” the powerful muscles, the tendons and bones, the lungs and mighty heart …
And the vile green pollution spreading slowly, slowly through every vein and artery in her body. Any lesser creature, he knew, would already have succumbed to the infiltrating poison, and even the filly was fading fast.
Nausea churned deep in his belly as the sheer evil of the creeping contamination washed over him. It took a wrenching physical effort to tear his eyes from her and turn that same, penetrating gaze upon the surviving foals.
Bahzell Bahnakson grunted, as if someone had just punched him in the belly. The foals had been less rent and torn than the adults who had fought to protect them, but they were also younger and smaller, with less resistance to the poison spreading from the wounds they had taken. The poison, Bahzell realized, which no horse leech, no physical healer, could possibly see or recognize.
“I’d thought you said as how there were after being eight foals,” he said to Alfar, and even to his own ear, his deep voice sounded harsh.
“There were, Milord Champion,” Lord Edinghas said grimly before Alfar could respond. “We lost the worst hurt of them, a colt not more than eight months old, yesterday.” The lord warden shook his head, his face ashen. “We shouldn’t have, Milord. A horse with those wounds, yes, but not a courser. Never a courser.”
“He’s right,” another voice said from Bahzell’s right, and the Horse Stealer turned towards the speaker. It was a young man, not yet out of his twenties, whose face and chestnut hair proclaimed his parentage. And whose eyes were hard and hostile as they met Bahzell’s.
“
My son, Hahnal, Prince Bahzell,” Lord Edinghas said.
Unlike his father and the armsmen guarding the stable, Hahnal was neither armed nor armored. He wore a smock, instead, marked with old bloodstains—and some not so old—and his youthful face was haggard.
“Hahnal is one of our best horse leeches,” Edinghas continued. “He’s snatched an hour or so of sleep here and there, but he’s refused to leave the stable since they returned.”
“And Phrobus’ own good it’s done!” Hahnal half-spat. His big, capable-looking hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he turned to stare at the visibly failing coursers with eyes in which despair was finally strangling desperate determination. “We’re losing them Father. We’re losing all of them.”
His voice cracked on the final word, and he turned away, scrubbing at his face with one palm. Bahzell could almost taste his humiliation at his display of “weakness,” and, without even thinking about it, he reached out and laid his own hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch me, hradani!” Hahnal wrenched away from the contact, spinning to face Bahzell, and his eyes were fiery.
“Hahnal!” his father said sharply.
“No, Father.” Hahnal never looked away from Bahzell, and his voice was icy cold. “You are Lord Warden of Warm Springs. You may grant guest right to anyone you choose. Including a hradani who claims to be a Champion of Tomanak. That is your right and prerogative, and I will obey your word in it. But I will not be touched or petted and cosseted by a Horse Stealer, be he ten times a champion!”