by David Weber
Bahzell’s face burned still hotter, but Tomanāk only chuckled again and said, “Draw your sword, Bahzell. Hold it in one hand and lay the other on Brandark, then just concentrate on your friend. Think of him as you remember him and see him that way once more.”
“And is that all there is to it?” Bahzell asked incredulously.
“You may find it a bit more difficult than you assume, my friend,” Tomanāk told him. “And don’t get too confident. How much we accomplish will be up to you as much as to me. Are you ready?”
Bahzell hesitated in sudden, acute nervousness. It was one thing to fight demons and cursed blades. Fighting, at least, was something he understood; this notion of healing was something else again, and the idea that he could do it was . . . disconcerting. And, he admitted, frightening. Another step into whatever future he’d embraced when he entered the War God’s service, yes, but an uncanny one that would make his acceptance of that future more explicit and inescapable. He stood motionless for a few seconds longer, then sighed and drew his sword. He held it in his right hand and knelt beside his friend, then laid a tentative hand on Brandark’s wounded arm.
“Ahem!” Bahzell’s ears flicked as a throat cleared itself soundlessly in his brain. “You’ll have to do a bit better than that,” Tomanāk informed him.
“Better?”
“Bahzell, we’re not going to hurt him, but how well this works will depend in no small part on how thoroughly you enter into it. Now stop being afraid he’s going to break-or that you’re going to turn into a purple toad-and do it!”
Bahzell blushed more brightly than ever, but his mouth twitched in a small smile at the asperity in the god’s mental voice. He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and fastened one huge hand on Brandark’s slack shoulder. No one had told him to, but he bent his head, resting his forehead against the quillons of the sword in his other hand, and tried to empty his mind of Brandark as he now was. It was hard-far harder than he’d anticipated-for the image of his dying friend haunted him, and something deep inside jeered at the thought that he could do anything to change that. This wasn’t the sort of battle Bahzell Bahnakson had ever trained to fight. It wasn’t one where size or strength mattered, and he didn’t know the moves or counters, but he clenched his jaw and threw every scrap of will and energy into it.
Sweat beaded his brow, and his fingers ached about his sword, but slowly-so slowly!-he forced his mental picture of Brandark to change. He drove back the slack-faced, gray-skinned reality, fighting it like some living enemy, and a new picture replaced it. Brandark lounging back on the deck of the ferryboat leaving Riverside in his dandy’s lace shirt and flowered waistcoat, smiling down into the deck house at Zarantha and Rekah, ears aquiver and eyes alight as he sang his maddening Lay of Bahzell Bloody-Hand to them. The spritely notes of the balalaika, the smile on Brandark’s face, the sense of energy and deviltry which were so much a part of him-Bahzell brought them all together, welding them into what Brandark ought to be. What he was , Bahzell told himself fiercely-and what he would be again!
Sweat rolled down his cheeks, and then, suddenly, his mind snapped into focus. It was like the release of an arbalest bolt, an abrupt, breathless flash of vision, and in that instant he truly heard the music, Brandark’s voice, the slap and gurgle of water under the ferry’s bow. It was as if he could reach out, touch that moment once more. And then, in some strange fashion he knew he would never be able to describe, he did touch it, and became a bridge, a connection between the image and this wretched, fireless camp. Something crossed that bridge, flowed through him, burned in his veins like agony, and something else came with it-something fierce with war cries and the clash of steel, terrifying with the thunder of heavy cavalry, grim with purpose and glorious with the bright, defiant sound of bugles. His closed eyes couldn’t see the brilliant blue light that flashed briefly from his blade, licked up his body, darted down his arm to Brandark, but he felt it. Felt it like the strike of lightning, cauterizing him, consuming him, and his own strength poured out to meld with it and flood down, down, down into Brandark’s faltering body.
It was the most draining, glorious thing he’d ever experienced, and it was far too intense to sustain. He felt that torrent of power snap into Brandark, felt his friend’s heart spasm under its lash, and then he was shrugged aside. The energy was too potent, too wild and fierce to constrain, and Bahzell cried out as it flung him away. His eyes popped open, and then he gazed down at Brandark, chest heaving as he sucked in huge lungfuls of air, and the world went very, very still.
His friend’s cropped ear and fingers were healed over, no longer raw and crusted but clean, smooth tissue.
Bahzell reached out and touched that wounded ear. It was cool, no longer hot with fever, and suddenly Bahzell was fumbling with the dressing on Brandark’s arm. He ripped it aside, and his eyes went huge when he saw the cut. It was less completely healed than the Bloody Sword’s ear or fingers, but the wound looked at least two weeks old, and Bahzell’s hands shook as he drew his dagger and cut away the bandages on Brandark’s thigh.
He hesitated as he bared the inmost layer, clotted and thick with oozing suppuration, then drew them aside and gasped. The terrible wound remained, but it was clean and healthy. He touched it lightly, then pressed harder, felt the solid, meaty strength of intact muscle and sinew, and drew a deep, hacking breath of joy.
“Well done!” a deep, echoing voice cried within him. “Well done, indeed, Bahzell Bahnakson!”
“Thank you,” Bahzell whispered, and it was not for the compliment. He closed his eyes again, recalling how he’d thrown the uselessness of uncaring gods into Tomanāk’s teeth, and someone else laughed deep inside him. It was a laugh of welcome, a war leader’s slap of congratulation on the shoulder of a warrior who’d fought well and hard in his first battle, and he smiled.
“Thank you,” he repeated more normally.
“I told you it would take us both,” Tomanāk said, “and it’s not every one of my champions who can fight as hard to heal a friend as to slay a foe, Bahzell.” Bahzell inhaled once more, treasuring the deep, joyous holiness of that moment-the knowledge that he held life in his hands, not death-and someone else’s huge, gentle hand seemed to rest lightly upon his head for a single endless moment. But then it withdrew, and he straightened as he sensed the War God’s change of mood.
“Brandark will recover fully, in time,” Tomanāk told him. “He’ll need care, and it will be some weeks still before that leg is fit to bear his weight, but he’ll recover. Without the tip of his ear or the fingers, I fear, but fully in every other sense. And with that behind us, perhaps its time to turn to the question you originally asked.”
“Which question?”
“The one about what to do with Harnak’s sword,” Tomanāk said dryly.
“Ah, that one!” Bahzell shook himself and settled back on his heels, sword across his thighs. “I’ll not deny I’d dearly like that answered, yet it’s but one. What’s to be done about old Demon Breath’s doings in Navahk?”
“One thing at a time, Bahzell. One thing at a time. My champions are only mortal, and I expect them to remember that.”
“Well, there’s a relief!” Bahzell chuckled.
“I’m glad you think so. First, the sword. You were right not to leave it behind. It’s failed in its original purpose, but that only makes it more dangerous, in a way. It was forged as a gate, Bahzell-an opening to Sharna’s realm so that he himself might strike at you through Harnak.” Bahzell swallowed, but the god continued calmly. “That constituted an unusual risk, even for him, and when you and I defeated him, it cost the Dark Gods more access here than you can guess. I’m sure his fellows will have something to say to him about it, but despite his failure in this instance, it remains a gate keyed to him, a path to reach anyone unfortunate enough to pick it up. There are few ways to neutralize something this powerful short of destroying it, and that, unfortunately, would liberate all its energy at once-and kill whoever destroyed
it. Under the circumstances, the wisest course is to bury it at sea. Somewhere nice and deep, where my brother Korthrala can keep it safe.”
“At sea, is it? And how am I to be getting there with the ports no doubt closed against me?”
“That, Bahzell, is up to you. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
The Horse Stealer growled under his breath, yet there was an odd lack of power to the growl, and he felt the flicker of Tomanāk’s tart amusement.
“As for Navahk,” the god went on after a moment, “I think we can leave that for later. There are other forces at work, and I don’t expect you to deal with all of Norfressa’s problems on your own. Send word to your father and let him alert his allies. The Dark Gods work best in the dark; expose them to the light of day, and half the battle is won. In the meantime, you and Brandark have enough problems to deal with. Just try to get both of you out of this in one piece, Bahzell. Brandark is one of my sister’s favorites-and I’ve put a great deal of effort into you .”
Bahzell started to shoot something back, but there was a sudden stillness in his mind, and he knew Tomanāk had gone.
“Well,” he murmured instead, gazing down at Brandark’s relaxed face and listening to his even, sleeping breath, “now there’s a thing!”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Wind whipped out of the south, rough coated and sinewy, carrying a deep, rhythmic crash of sound and the high, fierce cry of gulls. The world was awash with energy and life, dancing on Bahzell’s skin like electricity as he waded through waist-high grass, topped the crumbly sand of a high-crested dune, and saw the sea at last.
It froze him, that sight. It held him like a fist, staring out over the endless blue and flashing white, lungs aching with the smell of salt. Surf boomed and spurted against the tan-colored beach in explosions of foam, and his braid whipped like a kite’s tail as the ocean’s breath plucked at his worn and tattered clothing. He’d never seen, never imagined, the like of this moment, and a vast, inarticulate longing seized him. He didn’t know what it was he suddenly wanted, yet he felt it calling to him in the surge of deep water and the shrill voice of sea birds, and his heart leapt in answer.
“Phrobus,” a tenor voice said softly, half lost in the tumult about them. “It’s big , isn’t it?”
“Aye, it is that,” Bahzell replied, equally quietly, and turned his head.
Brandark sat his horse with unwonted awkwardness, eyes huge in wonder. His bandage-wrapped right leg still gave him considerable pain, and it was all he could do to hobble about on it dismounted, for his body had yet to complete its healing. Yet a literal glow of health seemed to follow him about, and his reaction when he woke clearheaded and hungry for the first time in days had been all Bahzell could have desired. For once, even Brandark had been stunned into silence by the change in his condition, and when he learned how that change had come about-!
It had been too good to last, of course, and in his heart of hearts, Bahzell was glad of it. Refreshing it might have been to have Brandark deferring to him every time he turned around, but it had also been profoundly unnatural, and he’d felt nothing but relief the first time the word “idiot” escaped Brandark’s lips once more. By now, things were almost back to normal, and the Bloody Sword shook himself.
“Well,” he said dryly, “this is all very impressive, I’m sure, but what do you plan for your next trick?”
“ ‘Next trick,’ is it now?”
“Indeed. You said something about heading west along the shore, I believe, but that was when we still had all our supplies. Now-” Brandark waved at the single sparsely filled pack on the mule beside his horse and shrugged.
“D’you know, I’ve been giving that very thing some thought my own self,” Bahzell rumbled, “and I’m thinking what we need is a ship.”
“A ship? ” Brandark looked at him in disbelief. “And just how, pray tell, do you propose to manage that? Those bastards hunting us are still back there somewhere,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, “and correct me if I’m wrong, but hadn’t we decided they must have sent word ahead?”
“Ah, the pessimism of the man!” Bahzell shook his head mournfully. “Here he is, with a champion of Tomanāk to see him safe home, and all he can be thinking of is wee little things to carp over!”
“If you think half an army of cavalry is a ‘wee little thing,’ then Harnak must’ve hit you on the head with that thing.” Brandark kicked the cloak-wrapped sword with his left foot.
“Nonsense! Now don’t you be worrying about a thing, a thing, for I’ve a plan, little man.”
“Gods preserve us, he ’s got a plan!” Brandark groaned, and Bahzell threw back his head and laughed. He couldn’t help it. A strange, deep bubble of joy had filled him since the night he’d healed Brandark-or helped Tomanāk heal him, or whatever had happened-and the wild, restless vitality of the sea flowed into him. It was like a moment of rebirth, a strange, unshakable confidence and zesty delight impossible to resist, and he roared with laughter. He saw Brandark staring at him for a moment, and then his friend began to laugh, as well. They stood there on the dune, laughing like fools, drunk on the sheer joy of living, and Bahzell slapped Brandark on the shoulder.
“Aye, it’s a plan I have, so come along with you, now! We’ve things to do before I set it in motion and dazzle you with my wit!”
***
“Ah, now! There’s what we want,” Bahzell said in satisfied tones. The sun was slanting back into the west once more as they stood on a firm-packed beach, waves washing about the hocks of Brandark’s horse and Bahzell’s calves, and looked out across a hundred yards of sea at a small island. It wasn’t much of an island-just a bare, lumpy heap of sand, sea grass, and stunted scrub, no more than a hundred yards across at its widest point-and Brandark gazed at the Horse Stealer in patent disbelief.
“That’s what we want?”
“Aye, the very thing. And unless I’m much mistaken, the tide’s gone out, as well,” Bahzell observed with even deeper satisfaction.
“And what, if I may ask, do you know about tides?”
“Not so very much,” Bahzell conceded cheerfully, “but look yonder.” He pointed up the beach, where the sand turned crumbly and a tangled necklace of driftwood marked the tide line. “I’m thinking that’s where the water’s coming to at high tide, so, as it’s down where we are just this minute-” He shrugged, and Brandark sighed.
“I hate it when you go all deductive on me. But even allowing that you’re right about the tide, what difference does it make?”
“It’s part of the plan,” Bahzell said smugly, and started wading out into the sea.
“Hey! Where d’you think you’re going?!”
“Follow and see,” Bahzell shot back, never turning his head, and Brandark muttered under his breath. He hesitated another moment, but Bahzell was already waist-deep in surging water and showed no sign of stopping, so he closed his mouth with a snap and urged his mount into the waves.
The horse didn’t want to go, and the mule was even more recalcitrant. Brandark had his hands full getting them started, but Bahzell only grinned back over his shoulder at him as he cursed them with fervent artistry. The mule laid back its ears and bared its teeth, but a firm yank on its lead rein started it moving once more, and both animals churned forward at last.
They never quite had to swim, but it was close before they reached the island and scrambled ashore once more. By the time Brandark led the soaked, indignant mule ashore, Bahzell was standing on the southern side of the island, hands on his hips, and gazing out to sea with obvious delight.
“Will you please tell me what you think we’re doing?”
“Eh?” Bahzell turned to face him, and the Bloody Sword waved an exasperated hand.
“What’re we doing out here?!”
“As to that, we’re about to make camp,” Bahzell said, and grinned again as Brandark swelled with frustration. “Now, now! Think on it a minute. We’ve kept below the tide line since lunch.
What d’you think will be happening to our tracks when it comes back in?”
Brandark paused, eyebrows arched, and rubbed his truncated right ear.
“All right,” he said after a moment, “I can see that. But they’ll know that’s what we did and just cast up and down the shore from where the trail disappeared.”
“So they will, but they’ll not be finding us unless they search every islet they come across, now will they?”
Brandark rubbed his ear harder, then nodded.
“All right,” he conceded. “As long as we don’t do anything to call attention to ourselves, they’ll probably assume we kept on going. Gods know only a lunatic wouldn’t keep running! But we’re short on provisions, Bahzell, and I don’t see any sign of fresh water. We can’t stay here long.”
“No more will we have to. Give me another few hours, and I’ll be off with the dark to fetch back a ship for us.”
Brandark’s jaw dropped. He stared at his friend without speaking for over a minute, then shook his head slowly.
“The man’s mad. Stark, staring mad! Where d’you think you’re going to find a ship, you idiot?”
“Why, as to that, I’m thinking there’s ships and to spare down to Bortalik Bay,” Bahzell said cheerfully, “and we’ve still that nice, fat purse Yithar was after leaving us. With that, all I need do is nip down and, ah, hire one of them.”
***
Bahzell dumped the last armload of driftwood on the heap and regarded it with a proprietary air. He’d chosen the site for the bonfire-to-be with care, then spent over an hour heaping sand into a high wall to improve it. The island’s low spine and his piled barrier would prevent anyone ashore from seeing it, but once lit, it should be visible for miles from seaward.
Brandark had sat propped against his saddle, strumming experimentally on his balalaika while he worked. The Bloody Sword’s maimed left hand made chording difficult, and he seemed to be concentrating on that to the exclusion of all else-until Bahzell dusted his palms with an air of finality.