by David Weber
He stood there, magnificent in the remnant of his winter coat, and his huge eyes—amber-gold, not brown—were fixed upon Bahzell.
Bahzell stood, slowly, as if he were being drawn to his feet by another hand, not rising of his own volition. He stood less than five feet from the courser, and then, even more slowly than he’d stood, he stepped forward.
The courser stood motionless for a second, possibly two. And then he lowered his head, and his impossibly soft nose touched the hradani’s broad chest. The nostrils flared, the amber-gold eyes slipped shut, and the stallion blew heavily. Bahzell’s hands rose, as if they belonged to someone else. They stroked up the stallion’s muzzle, gently, gently. They found the ears—the ears that pricked sharply forward, as if listening for the sound of the hradani’s heart—and caressed them with a delicacy that seemed impossible for such powerful, sword-callused fingers.
Kelthys stared, unable to believe even now, despite everything that had happened, that he was seeing what he saw. A thousand years of history said this moment could not occur, and he held his breath, waiting to see if a thousand years were wrong.
“His name,” Bahzell half-whispered, “is Walsharno.”
* * *
A thousand years, it seemed, were wrong.
Sir Kelthys Lancebearer leaned against a paddock fence, Walasfro standing beside him like a warm, black wall, and watched the Wind Plain’s newest wind rider trying not to fall off of his courser.
“Tell me something I didn’t already know, Twinkle Hoofs,” Kelthys replied mildly, then winced as Bahzell almost lost his seat. The hradani looked ridiculous perched on top of what was probably the only “horse” in the world that could make him look like a child on his first pony. Of course, the fact that Bahzell’s riding style could best be summed up in two words—”very bad”—probably helped create that image.
“Nonsense!” Kelthys said bracingly. “Hradani are tougher than that. Besides, he’ll probably fall off before Walsharno hits a trot.”
“Actually, you know, it is funny,” Kelthys told his courser. Walasfro snorted heavily, shaking his head in equine disgust, but Kelthys was unmoved.
“I’m not saying it isn’t going to … upset a few people,” he conceded. “On the other hand, only the most dyed-in-the-wool bigot is going to be able to argue Bahzell didn’t do one hell of a lot more to earn Walsharno’s companionship than most wind riders ever manage. Dear heart, I certainly never did anything that worthy of your love, but you gave it to me anyway.”
“Well, of course.” Kelthys smiled and reached up to stroke Walasfro’s shoulder.
“Still,” he continued after a moment, fighting not to grin as Walsharno circled patiently around the paddock, “it is just a trifle unusual for any courser to choose someone who just plain can’t ride worth a damn. I suppose it comes of Bahzell’s never having had much opportunity to practice.”
“You can be so cynical sometimes,” Kelthys scolded with a chuckle. Walasfro poked his nose at him, and Kelthys smacked it.
“You’re probably right,” Kelthys agreed. Indeed, there was usually no better judge of a human’s—or, he supposed, a hradani’s—horsemanship than a courser. “Still,” the human added hopefully, “he’s getting better faster than almost anyone else I’ve ever watched.”
“You wonder what?” Kelthys prompted after several seconds.
“Now that is a very interesting thought,” Kelthys murmured softly. “And while we’re having interesting thoughts, here’s another one for you. Have you ever heard of a champion of Tomanak bonding with a courser before?”
“No, I haven’t,” Kelthys said. “Because it’s never happened before. And I find myself wondering how Bahzell’s relationship with Tomanak is going to affect Walsharno.”
Walasfro admitted frankly. Then he laughed.
“Yes, it is,” Kelthys agreed, laughing with him. “I wonder if his herd stallion knew something when he gave it to him?”
“Yes, it does. For that matter, it fits Bahzell, too.”
Walasfro tossed his head in a gesture of agreement coursers had long ago picked up from humans. In the Sothoii tongue, “Walsharno” meant “Sun of War,” although it might also be translated as “Battle Dawn.”
“At any rate,” Kelthys continued, “I suppose that even without Bahzell’s status as one of Tomanak’s champions, the mere fact that a hradani’s been chosen as a wind rider at all should suggest that we’d all better be as open-minded as possible about their bond.”
“I don’t know,” Kelthys admitted frankly. “I do know that Bahzell is worrying over the same questions. But I don’t think he’ll be ready to move for at least another two or three days, anyway.”
“Because I asked him not to,” Kelthys said calmly. Walasfro swung his head around to look at him, and Kelthys shrugged. “Yes, we have to move. And, yes, the fundamental responsibility has to be Bahzell’s—well, his and the Order’s. But whatever’s happening out there, it’s on the Wind Plain, Walasfro. It’s on our land, and it’s attacked and killed our coursers, and at the moment, you and I—well, you and I and Bahzell and Walsharno—are the only wind riders here. That’s why I sent out the dispatches before we left Deep Water. By now, there must be over a dozen other wind riders on their way to Warm Springs. I expect to see the first of them no later than tomorrow. Don’t you think that our own honor and responsibility require that the wind borne and our brothers ride with Tomanak’s warriors at a time like this?”
Walasfro had started to interrupt, but then he’d stopped to listen to what Kelthys had to say. And at the end, he snorted once ag
ain, and tossed his head in agreement.
* * *
“Begging your pardon, Milord, but are you certain about this?”
Saratic Redhelm, Lord Warden of Golden Vale, glared at his marshal. Sir Chalthar Ranseur met his glare with a level look of his own. Chalthar had served Saratic for over ten years, and he’d begun as a common armsman under Saratic’s father, almost twenty years before that.
Saratic reminded himself of that as he fought his own temper back under control. There was no doubt in his mind that Chalthar was completely loyal—as only a Sothoii armsman could be—to Saratic personally and to Golden Vale. But the man’s long service gave him the right to offer advice when he thought his liege lord was about to commit a serious error. And he obviously thought that was what was about to happen.
And I’d probably be less angry with him if a part of me wasn’t worried that he’s right, Saratic thought grimly. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Chalthar.
“Yes, I am certain about it,” he said instead, and held Chalthar’s eyes with his own. There was no expression on the dark-haired, grizzled knight’s weathered face, but he bobbed his head in an abbreviated bow.
“Very well, Milord,” he said. “In that case, I’d recommend that we send the Third and Fifth.”
Saratic pursed his lips while he considered the advice carefully. It was as shrewd as he would have expected from Chalthar, although the Third and Fifth Companies were very different from one another.
Sir Fahlthu Greavesbiter’s Third Company was actually the largest in Saratic’s service. At two hundred men, it was almost twice the size of Sir Halnahk Partisan’s Fifth Company. But Fahlthu was also the most mercenary of Saratic’s officers. He was very good at his trade, if a bit inclined towards brutality as the solution to most problems, but his loyalty went to the man who paid him, and he’d recruited his oversized company up to strength with men very like himself.
Sir Halnahk was almost the diametric opposite. His loyalty was given to his liege lord because he’d sworn fealty to him. After Chalthar himself, his was probably the most reliable allegiance of any of Saratic’s field commanders.
“An excellent suggestion, Chalthar,” Saratic mused aloud. “Of course, Fahlthu and Halnahk hate each other’s guts.”
“To be honest, Milord, that consideration is one reason I feel they’d be the best choices.”
“Ah?” Saratic leaned back in his chair, squinting his eyes against the bright sunlight streaming into his study through the windows behind Chalthar.
“Of course, Milord.” Chalthar waved a blunt-fingered hand. “To be honest, it we’re going to risk someone, I’d sooner lose Fahlthu than anyone else. But he’s only as reliable as his next payday, and I wouldn’t trust him not to betray you in a heartbeat if a better offer came along—or if he thought it would keep his own skin safe.” The marshal paused, then grimaced. “Actually, Milord, that’s not quite fair, I suppose. Fahlthu’s brave enough once it actually comes down to blows. It’s in his planning before the fighting starts that his thinking depends on what he expects to get out of it.”
Saratic nodded. That attitude of Fahlthu’s was one reason he’d recruited the man in the first place. There were times when a lord warden needed the proper tool for fishing in murky waters.
“Halnahk, on the other hand, isn’t much going to like his orders,” Chalthar continued with blunt honesty, “but he’s your man and always has been. He’ll carry ’em out, whatever they are, and he’s senior to Fahlthu. So, Milord, I think we should put him in command of this affair. His seniority would make it logical, but even more importantly, we can tell him your full intentions and rely upon him to act in accordance with them. In the meantime, let me tell Fahlthu a part of what you intend—the part he’ll have to know—but not enough details to make betraying us strike him as being worth the risk. We can trust Halnahk to make the best use of him … and if it should chance that my concerns prove to have been justified, he’ll make Halnahk a rear guard none of us will miss. Not to mention,” the marshal smiled thinly, “the fact that everyone knows Fahlthu’s little better than a common mercenary. If something unfortunate should befall him, I think it would not be unreasonable for Baron Cassan to conclude that Sir Fahlthu had been bribed by Lord Warden Erathian—who’s Tellian’s vassal, not the Baron’s—to vastly exceed any orders you might have given him.”
“As always, your reasoning is acute, Chalthar,” Saratic purred. “See to it. And see to it that Baron Cassan’s man, Warshoe, is attached to Sir Fahlthu.” Chalthar looked a question at him, and Saratic shrugged. “Something about the man worries me, Chalthar. Not enough to offend Baron Cassan by refusing his services, and the gods know he’s proved capable enough in everything we’ve asked of him so far. But if he’s a blade that’s likely to turn in our hands, I’d rather have him chopping off Fahlthu’s fingers than Halnahk’s. And having him safely among those ’bribed by Erathian’ might not be a very bad thing, either.”
* * *
“There’s a messenger from Sir Jahlahan, Milord.”
Baron Tellian looked up from the breakfast campfire beside the Balthar high road at the sound of Tarith Shieldarm’s voice.
He and his armsmen were still two days’ travel—for those on warhorses, instead of coursers, at least—from Hill Guard. They’d been setting an easy pace, allowing the horses from whom they had demanded so much in their pursuit of Leeana to recover somewhat. Even so, it had not been a pleasant journey, and especially not for Tarith. The burly, dark-haired and dark-eyed armsman had been assigned as Leeana’s personal armsman even before she could walk, and when she’d been a baby, she’d held his heart in her two pudgy hands. Nor had she ever released that grip. Of all Tellian’s armsmen, Tarith had taken his daughter’s loss to the war maids hardest, and he continued to blame himself for it. It was nonsense, and Tellian knew it, but Tarith stubbornly insisted that he should have disobeyed Leeana’s direct orders and refused to let her send him away. The fact that she’d constructed a totally plausible errand for him to run seemed lost upon him, and Tellian only hoped time would heal his grief and blunt that draining sense of guilt.
“From Sir Jahlahan?” the baron said after a moment, shaking off his reverie.
“Aye, Milord,” Tarith said, and extended a sealed message pouch.
Tellian took it with a grunt of thanks that partially concealed a pang of anxiety. He’d deliberately avoided sending any messages ahead to Balthar. Despite the relatively moderate pace he’d set, he and his armsmen would reach Hill Guard no more than two days—two and a half, at most—after a messenger from Kalatha could have arrived. He refused to subject Hanatha to a written confirmation that they had lost their daughter forever when the delay to tell her in person, and hold her in his arms as she wept, would be so brief.
But Jahlahan had to know Tellian must be well on his way back to Balthar by now, whether with Leeana, or without her. So what could be so urgent that the seneschal hadn’t felt able to wait and report it to him directly?
He gazed down at the message pouch for a moment, then drew a deep breath and broke the seal. He extracted the message inside, opened it, and sat back on his haunches to read it.
But then the report’s second sentence wrenched him upright with a jerk and a white-faced oath of disbelief.
He felt all his armsmen staring at him, knew his expression was giving away entirely too much, but he couldn’t help it. He read the short, horrifying message all the way through, then made himself reread it to be certain there’d been no mistake.
There hadn’t been, and he felt his shoulders slump.
“Milord?” a voice asked. “Wind Brother?!” it said more sharply, and he shook himself.
“Yes—yes, Hathan,” he said, looking across to meet his wind brother’s anxious eyes.
“
What is it? Surely not the Baroness—?!”
“No.” Tellian shook his head again, sharply, as if trying to shake his mind back into functioning. “No, Hanatha is well. It’s—”
He looked back down at Jahlahan’s message, then crushed it into a ball in a white-knuckled fist.
“It’s not anything at Hill Guard or Balthar,” he said hoarsely. “There was an … emergency at Warm Springs. Prince Bahzell has gone to deal with it.”
“I see,” Hathan gazed at him for a moment, and Tellian flicked a thought to Dathgar.
“All right, Tarith,” he said aloud, turning back to the senior armsman. “As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, Sir Jahlahan’s note is scarcely good news. All’s well at Balthar and Hill Guard, though. The problem lies further north, and as I told Hathan, Prince Bahzell and Lord Brandark have already left Hill Guard to deal with it. However, I am the Lord Warden of the West Riding. It’s my responsibility, not Prince Bahzell’s, to respond to my lord wardens’ requests for help. There’s nothing that any of you—” he swept the listening armsmen with his eyes “— could do to help with this … particular problem, however. So Hathan and I are going to leave you here and go on ahead.”
“Milord—!” Tarith began an instant, automatic armsman’s protest, but Tellian shook his head firmly.