Appendix

The Gods of Norfressa
The Gods of Light
Orr All-Father: Often called “The Creator” or “The Establisher,” Orr is consid­ered the creator of the universe and the king and judge of gods. He is the father or creator of all but one of the Gods of Light and the most powerful of all the gods, whether of Light or Dark. His symbol is a blue starburst.

Kontifrio: “The Mother of Women” is Orr’s wife and the goddess of home, family, and the harvest. According to Norfressan theology, Kontifrio was Orr’s second creation (after Orfressa, the rest of the universe), and she is the most nurturing of the gods and the mother of all Orr’s children except Orfressa herself. Her hatred for Shigu is implacable. Her symbol is a sheaf of wheat tied with a grape vine.

Chemalka Orfressa: “The Lady of the Storm” is the sixth child of Orr and Kontifrio. She is the goddess of weather, good and bad, and has little to do with mortals. Her symbol is the sun seen through clouds.
Chesmirsa Orfressa: “The Singer of Light” is the fourth child of Orr and Konti­frio and the younger twin sister of Tomanak, the War God. Chesmirsa is the goddess of bards, poetry, music and art. She is very fond of mortals and has a mischievous sense of humor. Her symbol is the harp.

Hirahim Lightfoot: Known as “The Laughing God” and “The Great Seducer,” Hirahim is something of a rogue element among the Gods of Light. He is the only one of them who is not related to Orr (no one seems certain where he came from, though he acknowledges Orr’s author­­ity . . . as much as he does anyone’s) and he is the true prankster of the gods. He is the god of mer­chants, thieves, and dancers, but he is also known as the god of seductions, as he has a terrible weakness for attractive female mortals (or goddesses). His symbol is a silver flute.

Isvaria Orfressa: “The Lady of Remembrance” (also called “The Slayer”) is the first child of Orr and Kontifrio. She is the goddess of needful death and the completion of life and rules the House of the Dead, where she keeps the Scroll of the Dead. Somewhat to her mother’s dismay, she is also Hirahim’s lover. The third most powerful of the Gods of Light, she is the special enemy of Krahana, and her symbol is a scroll with skull winding knobs.

Khalifrio Orfressa: “The Lady of the Lightning” is Orr and Kontifrio’s second child and the goddess of elemental destruction. She is considered a Goddess of Light despite her penchant for destructiveness, but she has very little to do with mortals (and mortals are just as happy about it, thank you). Her symbol is a forked lightning bolt.

Korthrala Orfro: Called “Sea Spume” and “Foam Beard,” Korthrala is the fifth child of Orr and Kontifrio. He is the god of the sea but also of love, hate, and passion. He is a very powerful god, if not over-blessed with wisdom, and is very fond of mortals. His symbol is the net and trident.

Lillinara Orfressa: Known as “Friend of Women” and “The Silver Lady,” Lillinara is Orr and Kontifrio’s eleventh child, the goddess of the moon and women. She is one of the more complex deities and extremely focused. She is appealed to by young women and maidens in her persona as the Maid and by mature women and mothers in her persona as the Mother. As avenger, she manifests as the Crone, who also comforts the dying. She dislikes Hirahim Lightfoot in­tensely, but she hates Shigu (as the essential perversion of all womankind) with ­every fiber of her being. Her symbol is the moon.

Norfram Orfro: The “Lord of Chance” is Orr and Kontifrio’s ninth child and the god of fortune, good and bad. His symbol is the infinity sign.

Orfressa: According to Norfressan theology, Orfressa is not a god but the uni­verse herself, created by Orr even before Kontifrio, and she is not truly “awake.” Or, rather, she is seldom aware of anything as ephemeral as mortals. On the very rare occasions when she does take ­notice of mortal affairs, terrible things tend to happen, and even Orr can restrain her wrath only with difficulty.

Semkirk Orfro: Known as “The Watcher,” Semkirk is the tenth child of Orr and Kontifrio. He is the god of wisdom and mental and physical discipline and, before the Fall of Kontovar, was the god of white wizardry. Since the Fall, he has become the special patron of the psionic magi, who conduct a merciless war against evil wizards. He is a particularly deadly enemy of Carnadosa, the ­goddess of black wizardry. His symbol is a golden scepter.

Silendros Orfressa: The fourteenth and final child of Orr and Kontifrio, Silen­dros (called “Jewel of the Heavens”) is the goddess of stars and the night. She is greatly reverenced by jewel smiths, who see their art as an ­attempt to cap­ture the beauty of her heavens in the work of their hands, but generally has little to do with mortals. Her symbol is a silver star.

Sorbus Kontifra: Known as “Iron Bender,” Sorbus is the smith of the gods. He is also the product of history’s greatest seduction (that of Kontifrio by Hirahim__a “prank” Kontifrio has never quite forgiven), yet he is the most stolid and dependable of all the gods, and Orr accepts him as his own son. His symbol is an anvil.

Tolomos Orfro: “The Torch Bearer” is the twelfth child of Orr and Kontifrio. He is the god of light and the sun and the patron of all those who work with heat. His symbol is a golden flame.

Tomanak Orfro: Tomanak, the third child of Orr and Kontifrio, is Chesmirsa’s older twin brother and second only to Orr himself in power. He is known by many names—“Sword of Light,” “Scale Balancer,” “Lord of Battle,” and “Judge of Princes” to list but four—and has been entrusted by his father with the task of overseeing the balance of the Scales of Orr. He is also captain ­general of the Gods of Light and the foremost enemy of all the Dark Gods (indeed, it was he who cast Phrobus down when Phrobus first rebelled against his father). His symbols are a sword and/or a spiked mace.
Torframos Orfro: Known as “Stone Beard” and “Lord of Earthquakes,” Torframos is the eighth child of Orr and Kontifrio. He is the lord of the Earth, the keeper of the deep places and special patron of engineers and those who delve, and is especially revered by dwarves. His symbol is the miner’s pick.

Toragan Orfro: “The Huntsman,” also called “Wood­helm,” is the thirteenth child of Orr and Kontifrio and the god of nature. Forests are especially sacred to him, and he has a reputation for punishing those who hunt needlessly or cruel­ly. His symbol is an oak tree.

The Dark Gods
Phrobus Orfro: Called “Father of Evil” and “Lord of Deceit,” Phrobus is the seventh child of Orr and Kontifrio, which explains why seven is considered the unlucky number in Norfressa. No one recalls his original name; “Phrobus” (“Truth Bender”) was given to him by Tomanak when he cast Phrobus down for his treacherous attempt to wrest rulership from Orr. Following that defeat, Phrobus turned openly to the dark and became, in fact, the opening wedge by which evil first entered Orfressa. He is the most powerful of the gods of Light or Dark after Tomanak, and the hatred between him and Tomanak is unthinkably bitter, but Phrobus fears his brother worse than death itself. His symbol is a flame-eyed skull.

Shigu: Called “The Twisted One,” “Queen of Hell,” and “Mother of Madness,”  Shigu is the wife of Phrobus. No one knows exactly where she came from, but most believe she was, in fact, a powerful demoness raised to godhood by Phrobus when he sought a mate to breed his own pantheon to oppose that of his father. Her power is deep but subtle, her cruelty and malice are bottom­less, and her favored weapon is madness. She is even more hated, loathed, and feared by mortals than Phrobus, and her worship is punishable by death in all Norfressan realms. Her symbol is a flaming spider.

Carnadosa Phrofressa: “The Lady of Wizardry” is the fifth child of Phrobus and Shigu. She has become the goddess of black wizardry, but she herself might be considered totally amoral rather than evil for evil’s sake. She enshrines the concept of power sought by any means and at any cost to others. Her symbol is a wizard’s wand.

Fiendark Phrofro: The firstborn child of Phrobus and Shigu, Fiendark is known as “Lord of the Furies.” He is cast very much in his father’s image (though, fortunately, he is considerably less powerful), and all evil creatures owe him allegiance as Phrobus’ deputy. Unlike Phrobus, who seeks always to pervert or conquer, however, Fiendark also delights in destruction for destruction’s sake. His symbols are a flaming sword or flame-shot cloud of smoke.

Krahana Phrofressa: “The Lady of the Damned” is the fourth child of Phrobus and Shigu and, in most ways, the most loathsome of them all. She is noted for her hideous beauty and holds dominion over the undead (which makes her Isvar­ia’s most hated foe) and rules the hells in which the souls of those who have sold themselves to evil spend eternity. Her symbol is a splintered coffin.

Krashnark Phrofro: The second son of Phrobus and Shigu, Krashnark is something of a disappointment to his parents. The most powerful of Phrobus’ child­ren, Krashnark (known as “Devil Master”) is the god of devils and ambitious war. He is ruthless, merciless, and cruel, but personally courageous and possessed of a strong, personal code of honor, which makes him the only Dark God Tomanak actually respects. He is, unfortunately, loyal to his father, and his power and sense of honor have made him the “enforcer” of the Dark Gods. His symbol is a flaming steward’s rod.

Sharna Phrofro: Called “Demonspawn” and “Lord of the Scorpion,” Sharna is Krashnark’s younger, identical twin (a fact which pleases neither of them). Sharna is the god of demons and the patron of assassins, the personification of cunning and deception. He is substantially less powerful than Krashnark and a total coward, and the demons who owe him allegiance hate and fear Krashnark’s more powerful devils almost as much as Sharna hates and fears his brother. His symbols are the giant scorpion (which serves as his mount) and a bleeding heart in a mailed fist.

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 Tomanak 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 Tomanak 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.
“You do realize just how stupid this is, don’t you?” he said then, never looking up from the bridge of his instru­ment.
“Well, no one was ever after calling me smart.” Bahzell crossed to the tethered mule and horse to free their leads from the picket lines and grinned at Brandark’s caustic snort. “And stupid or no, I’ve yet to hear a better idea from you.”
“I’ve done my part by trying to talk you out of this. I don’t have the energy to think up better ideas on top of that.”
“And here I thought you such a clever lad!” Bahzell gathered the animals’ reins and headed down the beach into the wash of the surf. Water filled his worn, leaky boots instantly, but he ignored it. He was still damp from wading out to the island in the first place, and it was no part of his plan to leave visible tracks along any of the islet’s shoreline.
“You’ll never be able to do it—not alone,” Brandark said more seriously.
“I’m thinking you’re wrong, and wrong or no, it’s a notion worth trying. We’ve little chance of outrunning them all afoot, and they’ll not be expecting such as this.”
“Maybe that just indicates how much smarter than you they are!” Brandark growled, eyes still fixed on his balalaika.
“It may that,” Bahzell agreed, listening to the grumbling breath of the sea, “but smarter or no, it’s time I was gone. Don’t you go drifting off to sleep, now!”
“Don’t worry about me, you lunatic. Just watch your own backside, and—” Brandark looked up at last, his eyes unwontedly serious in the twilight “—good luck.”
Bahzell nodded, raised one hand in a half wave, and waded further out into the surf.

It had been dead low water when they crossed to the island; by the time Bahzell reached the mainland once more, the flood tide was sending hissing waves high up the beach. A newly risen moon spilled silver light over the sand, and he looked back over his shoulder in satisfaction as he led the unsaddled horse and mule clear of the water. His and Brandark’s earlier tracks had already been eaten by the tide, leaving no sign that anyone had detoured to the island, and he moved rapidly along ­between the surf and the high-tide mark for the better part of a mile before he climbed higher up on the beach. If any tracker did cast along the shoreline for his trail, they should find exactly what he wanted them to: the same prints of one pair of boots, one horse, and one mule, with nothing to suggest that at least one of their quarry was no longer in front of them. He hoped no one would ever see those tracks at all, but if they did, he’d at least gotten Brandark safely out of it, and he’d left all their remaining provisions with the Bloody Sword. They should last him for a week or so, if he was careful with his ­water. By then, any pursuit should have moved on to other ­areas and his leg should be recovered enough to give him an excellent chance of making it back to the Empire of the Spear on his own.
Not, Bahzell reminded himself, that there would be any reason for Brandark to do any such thing . . . assuming, of course, that his plan worked.
He urged the animals up the beach into the lee of the high dunes to avoid silhouetting himself against the moon-silvered sea and jogged eastward.

Bahzell had gone perhaps a league when his head jerked up, and he frowned. His ears pricked, trying to identify the sound which had cut even through the grumble of the surf, and then he blinked in disbelief. The high, fierce cry of a hunting falcon came yet again, and he wheeled away from the sea as a black shape swept across the star-strewn sky.
An instant of cold panic touched his heart, yet there was too little time to feel it fully. There was no way a falcon should be on the wing so late at night, and even less reason for the bird to launch itself towards him like a lodestone to steel. Instinct screamed warning at the unnaturalness of its appearance, but another instinct brought his right arm flashing up to guard his face as the fierce-beaked predator shot straight into it. His muscles tensed against the rending attack of powerful talons, but it never came. Instead, those lethal claws struck his wrist and closed with impossible gentleness.
Bahzell’s breath hissed out of him in a deep, shuddering gasp, but his relief was far from total. He lowered his arm slowly, cautiously, extending it well away from him, and the bird mantled as it shifted its weight to balance on his wrist. It cocked its head, small, round eyes bright with reflected moonlight, and Bahzell swallowed. He wore no falconer’s gauntlet, but the bird still gripped with those gentle talons, and then its beak opened.
“Hello, Bahzell.” The Horse Stealer twitched again, muscles tensing to jump back. His ears flattened, but then he made himself stand very still, for he recognized the voice issuing from that dangerous, hooked beak. It was Zarantha’s! He stared at the falcon and licked his lips, aware that he must look like a total idiot, then opened his mouth to reply, but the falcon spoke again before he could.
“I asked Wencit for a favor,” Zarantha’s voice went on, “and Father agreed to give up his prize falcon for it. Wencit promises it will find you, but I’m afraid not even he can guarantee it will ever come home again afterward. Father was a bit upset by that, but I guess he thinks getting his daughter back is worth a few sacrifices.”
Despite himself, Bahzell grinned as he heard the fami­liar, laughing wickedness in Zarantha’s voice. It was even more welcome—and precious—as he recalled her wan, wounded look on the morning they parted, and the falcon flapped its wings again, shifting from foot to foot as if it shared her laughter.
“At any rate, Wencit got me safely home, dear friend,” Zarantha went on more seriously. “He tells me his gramerhain suggests that you and Brandark won’t be able to visit us after all—this time, at least—so I wanted you to know you don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’ve heard from Tothas, as well. He and Rekah are indeed well, and they should be home within a few weeks, too. Thank you, my friend. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. If we never meet again, know that I will never forget all you and Brandark did for us.”
The voice paused for a moment, then changed. It was no longer Zarantha’s, but a man’s, deep and measured.
“I know little of sorcery, Bahzell Bahnakson and Brandark Brandarkson, but if Wencit is correct and you ever hear this message, know that Caswal of Jashвn stands eternally in your debt. I repeat my daughter’s invitation, and beg you to visit us here, if ever it should be possible, and I name you Bahzell and Brandark of Jashвn, sept to Jashвn. If ever I, or any man of Jashвn may serve you or yours, send word. And if the gods decree we shall never meet, know that wherever you may go, you are blood of our blood and bone of our bone, my friends.”
Duke Jashвn’s voice ceased, and the bird stood silent for another moment while Bahzell stared at it. Then Zarantha spoke a final time, and her voice was soft.
“And so our journey ends at last, dearest of friends and now my brothers. My life and the lives of those dear to me were your gift, and I give you now the only gift I can across the miles between us: my love. May it go with you always, and may the Gods of Light keep and guard you both as you kept and guarded me. Farewell, Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum. Farewell Brandark. Remember us.”
Bahzell blinked eyes that burned with sudden, unexpected tears. The falcon lingered on his wrist, gaze still fixed upon him, and he drew a deep breath.
“Farewell, Zarantha of Jashвn,” he whispered, and the bird threw back its head with another high, fierce cry. And then, suddenly, it launched itself like an arrow from the string and vanished into the stars, and only the sigh of the wind and the rumble of the surf breathed in the night.

The trip took longer than Bahzell had expected, but it was without further incident, for there were few decent anchorages between Falan Bay and Bortalik, and the merchant princes who ruled the city of Bortalik protected their position. No other ports were permitted along their coastline. Even fishing villages were almost unheard of and existed only on sufferance. Bortalik tolerated them within a few leagues of the city itself, where the city’s customs agents could police them, but none were allowed to dabble in trade. More than one fishing port had been burned out—by landing parties from merchantmen, as well as warships—if the city merchants so much as suspected it of smuggling. And so, ironically in a land whose enormous wealth depended upon its control of seaborne trade, this entire vast sweep of coast was almost empty.
Almost, but not quite. The moon was well into the west when Bahzell rounded a headland and found himself abruptly facing a good-sized village at last. There were few lights, ashore or afloat, and he frowned at the fishing boats drawn up on the beach or nestled alongside the rickety-looking wharves.
The animals blew gratefully as he squatted on his heels, gazing at the boats and pondering his options. It was tempting, but, after several moments’ consideration, he shook his head. He was no seaman, yet those vessels looked too flimsy to his landsman’s eye. Most of them were little more than glorified rowboats or small, single-masted craft. No, he needed something bigger and better suited to deep water . . . but that didn’t mean the village was useless to him.
He led the horse and mule inland, eyes sweeping the dark. This might be a fishing village, but somewhere there had to be a—
Ah! He grinned to himself as he found the small, stonewalled pasture. It held perhaps a dozen cattle and runty horses, and he made his way around to a gate in the low wall. The night was undisturbed by so much as a barking dog as he eased the gate open and turned his own animals quietly into the pasture. They stood for a ­moment, gazing back at him curiously, then shook their heads and trotted over to the pasture’s other inhabitants, and Bahzell chuckled as he closed the gate behind them.
Unless he missed his guess, the owner of that pasture was unlikely to mention the sudden arrival of two big, strong, healthy, and expensive animals to anyone. Indeed, he might go to some lengths to hide his unexpected gifts, which would suit Bahzell fine. Even if he did report them to the authorities, Bahzell should be long gone by the time those authorities figured out where they’d come from, and he felt better leaving them to someone’s care. They’d served him and Brandark well, and the thought of simply abandoning them hadn’t set well with him.
He started off once more, and, divested of the animals, he made better time. He jogged past two more villages—their existence welcome signs that he was nearing his destination—and the moon was still well above the horizon when he finally spied the dull glint of high walls before him.
Bortalik dozed under the moon. Bahzell made his way out onto a rocky point and leaned back against a boulder, catching his breath while he gazed across a wide arm of Bortalik Bay at the sleeping city. Watch lights dotted the curtain wall and crowned the countless towers that ribbed its length, and more lights were smears of brightness along the wharves that lined its foot. There was ­activity at dockside even this late at night, and masts and rigging rose in a black lace forest against the light. Other vessels dotted the bay, lying to anchors or buoys, and, despite himself, Bahzell felt a trace of wonder at the sheer size of the port.
The northern hradani tribes knew little more about the Purple Lords than the Purple Lords knew about them, but even they had heard of Bortalik Bay, and Zarantha and Tothas had told him far more. Bortalik was the ­undisputed queen of the southern coast and determined to remain so. The enormous bay was not simply a ­superb natural anchorage; it also controlled the entire delta of the mighty Spear River and, with it, all trade that moved up the Spear or any of its tributaries. It was an advantage the Purple Lords used ruthlessly, and the power it gave them was obvious as Bahzell looked out upon their city.
He shook himself after a moment and turned his eyes away from the city walls and back out over the bay, searching for what he needed. Not too small, he thought, but not too big, either, and well away from the docks. Surely, among all that shipping, there must be—
His eyes settled on a single vessel, and he rubbed his chin. The twin-masted schooner was further from shore than he’d hoped, but aside from that it seemed perfect. The anchor light on its foredeck burned like a lonely star, for there was nothing else within a ­hundred yards of it, and even in the uncertain moonlight it looked low, sleek, and fast. Best of all, it was little larger than one of Kilthan’s riverboats, which suggested a reasonably small crew.
He studied it a moment longer, then nodded once.

There was no surf within the confines of the sheltered bay, but water washed and surged rhythmically as Bahzell laid aside his baldric and unbuckled his weapon harness. He’d left his arbalest and scale mail with Brandark, for he’d known this moment was coming, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as he methodically stripped to the skin. He belted his dagger and a fat, jingling purse back about his naked waist, then laid his sheathed sword atop his discarded boots and clothing with a final pat he hoped looked less dubious than it felt. Part of him wanted to ask Tomanak if this whole notion was truly a good idea, but the rest of him dug in stubborn toes and refused the temptation. A man couldn’t just go about asking “May I?” every time he had to make a decision, he told himself. Of course, he was relying heavily on what Tomanak had told him about his sword, but even so—
He snorted and shook himself, ears half-flattened in amusement. Either it worked, or it didn’t, and standing here thinking of excuses to delay the inevitable wouldn’t change the final outcome! He grinned crookedly at the thought and waded out into the bay.
The bottom dropped off more sharply than he’d ­expected. It was going to be a longer swim than he’d planned, but a broken, drifting spar bumped up against him, as if to compensate, and he seized it gratefully. He was no fish, and the spar’s added buoyancy was welcome as he kicked his way across the bay. There was enough noise in the night to hide most sounds, yet there was no point taking chances, and he tried—not entirely successfully—to avoid splashes. It was a long, tiring swim; the bay was colder than he’d anticipated when he was only wading through the surf; and he was acutely aware that he was a land animal. He sensed the empty water ­between him and the bottom, how easily it could suck him under, and found himself thinking about sharks. Or octopuses—they ate people, too, didn’t they? And even if they didn’t, the gods only knew what else might be hiding just under the water, circling him, waiting . . . .
He pushed the thought firmly away. People swam in the sea all the time, and they’d hardly do that if something pounced on anyone who tried! Of course, that didn’t mean nothing ever pounced, and—
He looked up and inhaled in deep, heartfelt relief as he saw his destination close ahead. He kicked more strongly, and his ears twitched in amusement at his own eagerness to reach it. For all he knew, that vessel’s ­entire crew had seen him coming and was lined up behind the bulwark to knock him on the head, but it didn’t matter. The company of his thoughts on the swim out left him impatient to confront them even so.
He reached the schooner’s side and swam along it as quietly as he could. It was flush-decked, with a low sheer and a freeboard of no more than six or seven feet, yet that was high enough to make things difficult for a man in the water. He was confident that he could lunge high enough to get his fingers over the rail, but not without an appalling amount of noise, and he continued forward until he reached the flared bow. The bowsprit was a long, graceful lance, reaching out above his head, but the ­anchor cable plunged into the water beside him, and he laid a hand on the thick hawser. He craned his neck, peering up to where it curved over the anchor bits. It looked far more promising than trying to heave himself bodily over the side, and he nodded in satisfaction and shoved the broken spar away.
He got a grip on the hawser and hauled himself cautiously up it. A cathead thrust out above him, and he hooked an elbow around it, then curled his body up to get his knees over it. He crouched there a moment, catching his breath, listening to the trickling splash as water dribbled back into the bay from his skin, then shoved his head cautiously over the rail.
There was no one in sight, but he heard a fiddle and what sounded like an accordion, and what he’d thought was just an anchor light was also the gleam of light from the scuttles of a low, midships deckhouse. More light glowed from an open companion, and his ears flattened at the realization that some, at least, of the crew was awake. He had no special desire to harm anyone if he could help it, but they wouldn’t have any way of knowing he sought peaceable conversation, now would they? That was why he’d hoped to surprise them asleep in their berths, but it seemed he was going to have to do things the hard way.
He sighed and stood, balancing on the cathead, then stepped across to the deck. His bare feet made no sound, and he started towards the companion. If he could come down it and block access to the deck, then—
“Here, now! What’re you doing creeping about my ship?”
The sharp, crisp voice was behind him, and he spun like a cat, one hand going to his dagger.
“Ah, now! None of that!” the voice said even more sharply, and Bahzell swallowed an oath. There had been men on deck; he simply hadn’t seen them because they were so small they’d been hidden behind the deckhouse. Now five halflings stood facing him, and each of them held a drawn shortsword as if he knew what to do with it.
He stepped back against the rail, taking his hand carefully from his dagger, and his eyes narrowed. He’d seen several halflings since leaving Navahk, but none as big as these fellows. They might be little more than half his own height, but they were a good foot or more taller than the only other ones he’d met, and there was nothing hesitant about them. They seemed confident of their ability to deal with him, and the one who’d spoken cocked his head, then spat over the side.
“Ha!” The spokesman wore the golden trident badge of a worshiper of Korthrala. Now he surveyed the towering, naked, soaking wet intruder on his foredeck and tweaked a handlebar mustache with such superb panache Bahzell’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’ve picked the wrong ship tonight, friend,” the halfling said with obvious satisfaction. “I think we’ll just feed you back to the fishes and be done with it.”
“Now, now. Let’s not be doing anything hasty,” Bahzell rumbled back.
“Oh, we won’t be hasty, friend!” The halfling smiled unpleasantly and nodded to his fellows, who split up into pairs to come at Bahzell from both sides. “But you might want to nip back over the side right sharp.”
“And here was I, thinking as how halflings were such cautious folk, and all,” Bahzell replied, still keeping his hand away from his dagger.
“Not Marfang Island halflings.” The spokesman kept his eyes fixed on Bahzell, but his lip curled. “We can get downright nasty, so if I were you, I’d be back over that rail double quick.”
“Marfang Island, is it?” Bahzell murmured, and his ears cocked. He’d heard of Marfang Island halflings. They were said to be a breed apart from their fellows—taller, stronger, and noted for a personal courage that verged all too often on rashness. Even the Wild Wash hradani who lived across the channel from their ­island home had learned to treat them with cautious respect, despite their size advantage. More to the point this night, the Marfang Islanders were also the finest seamen Norfressa bred, despite their small stature, and they hated the Purple Lords with a passion for their interference with free trade.
“Aye, it is,” the halfling agreed. “And the rail’s still waiting for you,” he added pointedly.
“You’ve guts enough for five wee, tiny fellows with knives, I’ll grant that,” Bahzell said easily, and the halfling gave a crack of laughter.
“Maybe so, but there are four of us, and you’ve naught but a knife yourself, longshanks!”
“Do I now?” Bahzell murmured, and raised his empty right hand with a brief, silent prayer that he’d understood Tomanak correctly that night in the Shipwood. The halflings stopped, suddenly wary, and he drew a deep breath.
“Come!” he bellowed, and the halflings jumped back in surprise at the sheer volume of his shout—then jumped back again, with unseemly haste, as five feet of gleaming steel snapped into existence in his hand and an empty scabbard thumped the deck at his feet.
“Well now! It did work,” Bahzell observed. He put both hands on his hilt but lowered the tip of the blade to touch the deck unthreateningly and smiled at the spokesman. “I’m thinking I’ve a bit more than a knife now, friend,” he pointed out genially, and the halfling swallowed.
“How . . . how did—?” He stopped and shook himself, then cleared his throat. “Who in Korthrala’s name are you, and what d’you want?” he demanded.
“As to that, my name is Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum, and I’ve need of your ship.”
“Prince of—?” the halfling began incredulously, only to stop with a bark of laughter. “Aye, of course you’re a prince! What else could you be?” He ran his eyes back over the naked hradani and tweaked his mustache once more. Bahzell’s ears flicked in amusement at his tone, but there was no more give in his eyes than in the halfling’s, and he nodded.
“That I am, friend, and a champion of Tomanak.” All five halflings looked at one another in disbelief, and Bahzell’s voice hardened. “I’d not be laughing at that, were I you, for I’m not in the mood.” He raised the tip of his sword slightly, and the spokesman held out a restrain­ing hand as his fellows bristled in instant response.
“Not yet, lads,” he said, his eyes still locked with Bahzell’s. More feet scampered up the companion as his crew belowdecks realized something was happening, but neither he nor Bahzell turned their heads. They faced each other in the darkness, and then the halfling looked pointedly at Bahzell’s sword and raised an eyebrow. The Horse Stealer turned it slightly, letting the light catch the symbols of Tomanak etched deep into the steel, and the halfling nodded and lowered his own blade.
“Well, then, Bahzell Bahnakson,” he said dryly, “my name’s Evark, and I’m master of this ship. If you need her, I’m the man you have to talk to about it, so suppose you tell me why I should waste time listening?”
“I’ve no mind to be rude,” Bahzell replied politely, “but I’m thinking this—” he twitched his sword “—might be one reason.”
“It might,” Evark allowed. “You might even be able to carve us all up into fish food with it, though I doubt Tomanak would approve. But that would still leave you a little problem, friend—unless you’ve got a spare crew tucked away?”
Bahzell chuckled and leaned back, propping his weight on his sword.
“You’ve a way about you, Evark, indeed you do. Very well, then, if it’s a reason you’re wanting, d’you think we could be keeping our swords out of each other long enough for me to give you one?” He twitched his heavy purse so that it jingled, and added, “You’ve my word you’ll not lose by listening.”
“Oh, I suppose we might.” Evark beckoned his crewmen back and sat on the roof of the deckhouse, his own sword across his thighs, and grinned at Bahzell. “Assuming, of course, that you understand we’ll still chop you into dog meat if it’s not a reason we like.”

Brandark sat huddled in a blanket beside the piled heap of driftwood and stared morosely out to sea. The night lay in ashes about him, a hint of gray tinged the eastern horizon, and he chewed the inside of his lip.
Bahzell should have been back by now, assuming his ­lunatic plan had worked, and worry gnawed at the Bloody Sword. The whole idea was crazy, and he was bitterly aware why Bahzell had hatched it. He touched his bandaged leg and swore. The sheer joy of realizing it was going to heal after all had been so great he’d almost been able to forget what his continuing incapacity implied, but he could no longer pretend. Without him to look after, Bahzell could have played catch-as-catch-can with the cavalry patrols; with someone who could barely ride, much less walk, that was impossible. Which was why Bahzell had hit upon the notion of somehow hiring—or stealing—a ship. The idea had a sort of elegant simplicity, but only an idiot would think a hunted fugitive could sneak into the Purple Lords’ very capital, get aboard a ship, and—
His thoughts broke off as something flashed in the darkness. It blinked again, then burned steadily—a tiny pinprick of light, spilling reflections of itself across the sea. Brandark stared at it incredulously, unable to ­believe in it, and then he was fumbling madly for his tinderbox.

A brilliant arm of sun heaved itself drippingly out of the sea just as the launch came gliding in. There was something strange about the boat, and it had taken Brandark several seconds to realize what it was. That enormous shape in the bows had to be Bahzell, but the oarsmen looked like children beside him, and the Bloody Sword shook his head in fresh disbelief as he saw the glint of ivory horns and realized they were halflings.
The boat slid up on the beach, and Bahzell—wearing sword and dagger but otherwise naked as the day he was born—leapt over the side and heaved it higher on the sand.
“I see there’s some benefits to bringing along someone your size after all!” a voice called from the stern sheets, and Bahzell grinned.
“You’ve a sharp tongue for so small a fellow, Evark!” he replied. The fiercely mustachioed halfling laughed, and then Bahzell was bounding through the surf to clasp Brandark on both shoulders. “And you, little man! Don’t be telling me you weren’t feeling just a mite anxious.”
“Me? Anxious?” Brandark heard the huskiness in his own voice and cleared his throat. “Nonsense!” he said more strongly. “Everyone knows Horse Stealers are born to be hanged. What could have happened to you on a simple little job like this?”
He waved at the boat as Evark jumped onto the beach and stumped up to them. The halfling captain propped his hands on his hips and peered up at the two hradani, then shook his head.
“Hanged, is it? Well, he came near enough to it, I suppose. But what’s a man to do when an idiot with more sword than brain climbs over the side of his ship in the middle of the night?”
“Here, now! It’s hard enough when one of you is ­after calling me names!”
Evark ignored Bahzell and thrust out a hand to Brandark. “So, you’re the bard, are you?” he said gruffly.
“Ah, no.” Brandark grasped the proffered hand with a smile. “I’d like to be one, but I’ve been told I lack the voice for it.”
“Do you, now? Well, never mind. From what your friend tells me, the two of you managed to piss off half the Purple Lord army, and that’s recommendation enough to anyone who’s ever had to deal with ’em! Besides, Korthrala wouldn’t like me anymore if I left one of Scale Balancer’s lot to fend for himself, and if Tomanak’s crazy enough to take on a hradani champion, who am I to ­argue with him?”
“Ah, the tongue of him!” Bahzell mourned, then laid a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Brandark, be known to Evark of Marfang Island, master of the Wind Dancer, who’s after being kind enough to offer us a ride.”
“But I’ll not change my schedule for you, mind!” Evark said gruffly. “I’m bound straight to Belhadan with a cargo of Wakuo dates. They won’t keep long, so it’s to Belhadan you’ll go if you ship along with me. Aye, and you’ll pull your weight aboard, too!”
“Belhadan?” Brandark laughed. “D’you know, I suddenly have an absolutely overwhelming desire to see Belhadan. Where is it?”
“You’ll find out, my lad,” Evark assured him. Several more of his men swarmed ashore and began gathering up the hradani’s sparse gear, and the captain made a shooing gesture at the launch. “Get aboard, get aboard! Your friend’s been freezing his arse long enough—we’d best get him back to Wind Dancer and into some clothes ­before something he’ll miss freezes off!”
“Aye, I’ll be going along with that.” Bahzell grinned at Evark and slipped an arm around Brandark to help him hobble to the boat. “It’s a terrible temper he has for such a wee little fellow,” he told the Bloody Sword, “but he’s a head on his shoulders for all that.”
“And a good thing, too,” Evark snorted, chivvying his passengers across the beach. “Korthrala knows the pair of you need looking after if even half of what you’ve told me is true, longshanks! Damn me for a Purple Lord if I know which of you’s the bigger idiot—you, for getting yourself into this, or this other fathom of fish bait for following you!”
“Oh, it’s Bahzell, hands down,” Brandark assured him as the Horse Stealer half-lifted him over the gunwale and settled him on a thwart. One of Evark’s men handed him his balalaika with a grin, the other halflings scrambled back aboard, and Bahzell heaved the launch off the beach and crawled over the stem as they backed oars to slide away from the island.
The bonfire still burned, pale and smoky in the growing, golden light, and Brandark gazed back at it and shook his head again at the breakneck speed with which everything had changed. They were going to live after all.
“So, I’m the bigger idiot, am I?” Bahzell growled as the launch curtsied across the water. “And where would you be without me, hey?”
“Snug in bed in Navahk—and hating every minute of it,” Brandark said, and Evark snorted behind him.
“Well, you’re a long way from Navahk—wherever it is—” the captain observed, putting the tiller over to steer for his ship “—and I can hardly wait till I put the two of you ashore in Belhadan! Korthrala, the Axemen will have a fit! Still,” he squinted into the sun, his voice more thoughtful, “I doubt you’d’ve made it this far if you couldn’t land on your feet.”
“Oh, we’ll be fine,” Brandark said, turning on the thwart to sit facing him. “Assuming, of course, that Bahzell doesn’t find something else to come all over noble about.”
“Noble, is he? Him?” Evark gave a crack of laughter. “Now somehow I don’t think that’s the very word I’d use to describe him!”
“Oh, but he is!” Brandark assured the captain. ­“Nobler than you could possibly guess.”
“Here! That’s enough of that!” Bahzell protested while the entire boat’s crew chortled.
“Don’t let his modesty fool you,” Brandark said earnestly, a wicked gleam in his eye. “He’s too shy to brag on himself, but I know. In fact, why don’t I just entertain you with a song on the way back to your ship, Captain?”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Bahzell made a grab for the balalaika, but he couldn’t reach far enough past the oarsmen, and Brandark settled the instrument in his lap with a seraphic smile.
“It’s just a little thing I’m still working on,” he told a grinning Evark while Bahzell sputtered behind him. “I call it The Lay of Bahzell Bloody-Hand, and it goes like this—”

Chapter Thirty-six

Prince Harnak drew rein and dabbed irritably at the sweat on his brow. The clothing he’d brought with him suited a northern winter, not the unnatural heat of this southern warm spell, and he muttered a sour curse on the hot, clammy woolens under his chain mail as he glowered at the terrain.
He’d never been good with maps, and his notion of his whereabouts had become uncomfortably vague. In fact, the only things he was sure of was that he was far south of Sindark, floundering about in an unknown land where every hand was potentially hostile . . . and that Bahzell was somewhere ahead of him still.
His survey of the countryside told him nothing. It was more of the gentle, sparsely wooded hills that stretched from the Shipwood to Bortalik Bay, without a village in sight. That was good—they’d nearly collided with some local lordling’s retainers when they strayed too near a small town three nights ago—but the lack of any road or guidepost made him uneasy.
Not that he was without any guides. He touched his sword hilt once more, almost against his will, and felt the pull that had first drawn him south, away from Sindark. There, he thought—to the southeast again. The hatred of the cursed blade sought the Horse Stealer like a lodestone . . . and it was growing stronger. Ten leagues, the archpriest had said; that was the range at which the sword could sense Bahzell. Judging by how fierce its pull had become, they were getting close, and Harnak spat on the ground as he released the hilt. The oppressive alienness of this land—his sense that he was far, far from home and riding further with every hour—made him edgy, and fear of what would happen when he and Bahzell finally met gnawed his belly like a worm of acid. Yet for all that, impatience goaded him on. His own hatred warred with his fear . . . and at least some of his troubles would be resolved, whatever happened, when he ran the Horse Stealer to ground at last.
He settled himself in the saddle again, nodded irritably to Gharnash, and pushed his horse back up to a weary trot.

“Are you sure it’s really winter?” Brandark asked plaintively as he wiped his streaming face.
“Aye—or what passes for it in these parts. And a fine one you are to be complaining, you with your horse ­under your arse!” Bahzell snorted.
“I didn’t complain; I only asked a question,” Brandark said with dignity, and turned to gaze behind them. “Think they’re still back there?”
“As to that, you’ve as good a notion as I—but if they’re not behind still, they’ve at least sent word ahead. You can lay to that, my lad.”
Brandark grunted unhappily, although both of them were aware they’d actually done very well . . . so far. There’d been one close call two days after Tomanak’s last visit when a mounted patrol thudded urgently past their hide in a handy coppice. The patrol hadn’t been following their tracks, yet neither of them had doubted what brought it this way. The Lands of the Purple Lords were a hotbed of semi-independent city-states, locked in bitter competition (mercantile and otherwise) despite their nominal allegiance to the Conclave of Lords at Bortalik. Population was sparse, for half-elves were less fertile than most of the Races of Man, and villages of their mostly human peasants tended to cluster around the larger cities, while vast, still unclaimed areas—luckily for fugitives—lay outside any petty prince’s holding. The Conclave Army was charged with policing those ­areas but spent most of its time on the frontiers, and few things would bring thirty-five of its mounted troopers this far south. For that matter, most of the local lordlings would have fits if the army intruded upon their private domains . . . unless, of course, the officer commanding the intrusion had a good reason for his presence.
“Where are we, anyway?” Brandark asked after a ­moment.
“By my reckoning, we’ve come maybe a hundred fifty leagues from the Darkwater,” Bahzell replied. “If that’s so, we’re naught but fifty leagues or so from the coast.”
“That close?” Brandark frowned and pulled on his nose. “What happens once we reach the coast, if you don’t mind my asking? As you say, they must have sent word ahead of us to the ports. That means ships are out, and since I still can’t swim and you can’t walk on water, it might be time to consider what we’re going to do next.”
Bahzell snorted in agreement and paused in the welcome shade of a small stand of trees. He mopped at his own face, then shrugged.
“I’m thinking it’s likely we have lost whoever was actu­ally on our trail,” he said finally. “We’ve not set so hard a pace we’d not have seen something of them by now else, and that rain the other day was hard enough to be taking out our tracks. If that’s the way of it, then all we ­really need do is play least in sight and keep clear of roads.”
“And?”
“From the map, there’s precious few coast towns west of Bortalik. I’m minded to make it clean to the sea if we can, then turn west along the shore.”
“To where?”
“As to that, we’ll have to be making up our minds when we get there. We might strike for the Marfang Channel, find a way across, and take ship from Marfang itself. Or we might try northwest, amongst the Wild Wash Hradani, or cut north through the Leaf Dance Forest back up into the Empire of the Spear.”
“D’you have any idea how far that is?” Brandark ­demanded.
“Aye, I do that—a better one than you, I’m thinking.” Bahzell raised a foot and grimaced at the holes in the sole of his boot. “But if you’ve a better notion, it’s pleased I’ll be to hear it.”
“No, no. Far be it from me to interfere when you’ve done such a fine job of planning our excursion. What’s a few hundred more leagues when we’re having such fun?”

“Well?” Rathan’s voice was sharp as the scout trotted up to him. The major’s elegant appearance had become sadly bedraggled over the last week of hard riding and frequent rain, but the toughness that elegance had cloaked had become more evident as it frayed, and the scout shifted uneasily. The major had been less than pleased when they lost the trail of his cousin’s killers. His order to spread out and find it again had been curt, but the need to sweep every fold of rolling ground had slowed them badly, and he’d begun taking his frustration out on anyone who hadn’t found the tracks he wanted.
“I’m . . . not certain, sir,” the scout said now.
“Not certain?” Rathan repeated in a dangerous tone, and the scout swallowed.
“Well, I’ve found a trail, Major. I’m just not certain it’s the one we’ve been following.”
“Show me!” Rathan snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
The scout turned his horse and led the way. He ­almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut, but if he hadn’t ­reported it and someone else had, the consequences would have been even worse, he thought gloomily.
Twenty minutes brought them to his find, and he dismounted beside the ashes of a fire.
“Here, Major,” he said.
Rathan dismounted in turn, propped his hands on his hips, and turned in a complete circle. The camp was clearly recent, but the hradani they were tracking were trail-wise and canny. Their fires, when they made them at all, were smaller than this one, their camps selected with an eye to concealment, and they did a far better job than this of hiding the signs of their presence when they moved on.
“And what,” he asked with ominous quiet, “makes you think this was the bastards we want?”
“I never said it was, sir,” the scout said quickly, “but you wanted to know about any tracks we found, and we are hunting hradani.”
“So?” Rathan demanded.
“This, sir.” The scout pulled a bronze buckle from his belt pouch. “I found it when I first searched the camp.”
 The major turned the buckle in his fingers and frowned at the jagged characters etched into the metal.
“What is this?” he asked after a moment, his voice less irritated and more intent, and the scout hid his ­relief as he tapped the marks with a finger.
“Those’re hradani runes, sir. I’ve seen ones like them on captured Wild Wash equipment.”
Rathan’s head jerked up, and he stared around the camp once more. There’d been more horses here, and heavier ones, than they’d been trailing, and the tracks slanted into the campsite from the wrong direction, which meant—
“They’ve joined up with the rest of their filthy band!” he snapped, and twisted round to his second in command. “Halith!”
“Sir!”
“Get couriers out. Call in all the scouts, then send riders to the closest regular army posts. There are more of them than we thought, and I’ll want every man when we catch up with them. Go on, man! Get moving!”
“Yes, sir!” Halith wheeled his horse, already calling out the names of his chosen messengers, and Rathan laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh, and his eyes glittered as he stared off to the southeast along the plainly marked tracks leading from the camp.
“I’ve got you now, you murdering bastards!” he whispered, and dropped the buckle. It landed rune-side up, and as he turned to remount his horse, his heel came down on the sigil of Crown Prince Harnak’s personal guard.

The sun lay heavy on the western horizon when Bahzell called a halt. A stream flowed at the bottom of a deep, tree-lined ravine, and the grass along its banks was still green. The horses and mules would like that, and Bahzell liked the concealment the ravine offered.
Brandark dismounted to lead his horse down the gully’s steep northern face. The slope was acute enough to make getting their animals down it difficult, but the southern side was far lower, and the Bloody Sword nodded in ­appreciation. Bahzell had far better instincts for this sort of thing than he did—no doubt from the time he’d spent on the Wind Plain—but Brandark approved. If anyone stumbled over them, they’d probably come from the north, and the steepness on that side would slow them while the hradani broke south.
“I see you’ve shown your usual fine eye for selecting first-class accommodations,” he said. “What do you think about a fire?”
“Best not,” Bahzell replied. “It’s warm enough without, and those who can’t see flames can still smell smoke if the wind’s wrong.”
“Um.” Brandark pulled at his nose, then nodded. “You’re probably right. Of course, by now we both stink enough they can probably smell us without smoke if they get within a league.”
“Well, yon stream’s deep enough. Once we’ve the horses picketed, I’ll be taking the first watch, if you’ve a mind to soak your delicate skin.”
“Done!” Brandark sighed. “Gods! Even cold water’ll feel good by now!”

Harnak cursed as his horse stumbled. All of their mounts were weary, and his men were straggling once more as the sun began to slip below the horizon, but the prince never considered stopping. He no longer even had to touch the hilt to feel his sword’s hard, hating pull. That fiery hunger had bled into his own blood. It dragged him on despite exhausted horses and failing light, simmering in his soul until he hovered on the very brink of the Rage. He was here. The whoreson bastard was here, so close Harnak could smell him, and he snarled and struck his mount with his spurs.
The horse squealed in surprised hurt, lunging so hard it almost unseated him. Exhaustion or no, there was no withstanding the goad of roweled steel, and it bounded ahead while Harnak’s guardsmen swore ­under their breath and fought to match their prince’s pace.
Some of them couldn’t, however they tried, and they tried hard. They’d feared this journey from the ­moment they heard of it, and, like Harnak himself, they felt adrift and lost in this strange, too warm place where anyone they met was likely to see them as brigands or invaders. They dreaded the thought of facing a roused and angry land so far from home, yet they’d begun to harbor even more fearful suspicions about their leader and the sword he wore. Harnak surrounded himself with hard and brutal men, and some of the cursed weapon’s ravening hunger spilled over into them. It touched the dark spots in their own bloodstained souls like seductive black fire, hazing their thoughts, and when they realized what was happening, they were terrified.
But it was growing harder for them to recognize the influence. It was becoming part of them, like a pale shadow of the furnace it had lit deep at Harnak’s heart. It gripped them like a drug, blending with their fear of losing the column in this alien land, and goaded them on as Harnak’s spurs goaded his horse. Yet try as they might, their weary mounts were unequal to their demands. More of them fell back, stringing out in a long, ragged line as the darkness came down.
Harnak knew it was happening, and a corner of his mind demanded he slow, let the others catch up, bring them all in together to overwhelm Bahzell and Brandark when he found them. Yet it was only a corner, lost in the roiling blood taste, and he ignored it and drove on into the falling shadows.
 
Rathan turned his head to glare at the western horizon as the last crimson rim of sun fumed amid the clouds. They were close to the bastards now. He knew it—he could feel it. Hradani needed big, heavy horses which could never match the pace and endurance of his men’s lighter mounts, and enough detachments had come in to double his company’s original hundred-man strength. He had men enough to deal with any band of brigands; all he needed was another two hours of daylight, and he didn’t have them.
He clenched his jaw and fought his own impatience. It didn’t matter, he told himself. The sun would rise again, and, indeed, it might be wiser to wait until it did. A night battle was always confusing, at best; at worst, it could turn into disaster as friend turned on friend and the ­enemy escaped.
He was just opening his mouth to order a halt when his lead scouts crested a low slope several hundred yards ahead of him. The last light burned like sullen blood on their helmets, and then, suddenly, they were snatching at slung bows and he heard the first shrill screams.

Harnak jerked around in the saddle as a horse shrieked like a tortured woman. There was still light enough for him to see one of his rearmost men go down as a mortally wounded mount plunged head over crupper. The guardsman hit hard and lay still, and shouts of alarm and terror mixed with fresh cries of pain as arrows pelted his straggling rearguard.
The prince stared in disbelief, and a flicker of motion even further behind him caught his eye. Dark, indistinct figures, blurry but gilded with sparks of sunset from helmets and chain mail, swirled on a low crest beyond his men, shooting as fast as they could pull their bows. The light was so bad they were firing almost blind, yet blind fire was as deadly as aimed when there was enough of it, and another of his men pitched from his saddle.
Harnak had no idea who they were, but their abrupt, murderous appearance filled the tiny corner of his soul that still belonged to him with panic. He didn’t know how many enemies were back there, but his men were too spread out for a fight, and their horses were too weary for flight. He knew, suddenly and beyond question, that he would never see Navahk again, that the Scorpion had sent him to his death after all, and terror mixed with the wild, overmastering hunger of the sword he bore—the hunger that had come to dominate all he was—and flashed over into the Rage.
He howled like a mad animal, and a livid green glare flashed like poisoned lightning as he ripped his sword from its sheath. His men heard him, recognized his Rage and felt their own respond, and the wild, shrill scream of hradani fury rose, filling the newborn night as the last embers died on the horizon and Harnak’s column came apart.
Most of his men wheeled on their attackers, blazing with the need to rend and kill until they themselves were slain, but those closest to Harnak didn’t. The instant their prince drew the cursed blade, its power reached out to them. The dark secrets of their own hearts made them easy prey, and it seized them by the throat, wrenching them back to the south with Harnak, for the one creature in all the world it had been forged to slay lay ahead, not behind. It hurled them onward while their fellows turned at bay, and they thundered blindly into the night behind their howling prince.

“What in the names of all the gods—?!”
Major Rathan blanched as the shrieks rose like ­demons. Darkness fell with deadly speed, washing away vision, but not before he saw the first huge figures explode into his scouts. The horse archers tried to scatter, but they’d never expected their enemies to wheel into the teeth of their fire, and the hradani’s weary mounts had caught their riders’ fury, burning out their last strength in a frantic surge of speed there was no time to evade. Most of the archers got their swords out before the charge smashed home, but it didn’t matter. They went down like scythed wheat as their quarry turned upon them.
“Form up! Form up!” Rathan shouted, and bugles blared as his stunned men responded. There was no time to dress ranks properly, and unit organization went by the board as the troopers struggled to form front. It was all a mad swirl, a crazed delirium of plunging horses and shouts in the darkness, but somehow they formed a line.
“Lances!” Rathan bellowed. The last light was gone, drowning the hills in darkness that would make any semblance of control impossible, but he dared not let his men be taken at a stand by charging enemies, and at least the hradani’s shrieks of Rage told him roughly where they were.
“Charge!” he screamed, and two hundred mounted men thundered forward into the night.

Bahzell Bahnakson jerked to his feet as the first screams came out of the north. He stood among the trees for just a second, peering into the darkness, and knew he’d heard those sounds before—made them before. It wasn’t possible. Not this far south! Yet there could be no mistake, and then he heard bugles ringing over the hills and knew there was no time to waste on confusion or wonder.
He slithered down into the ravine like an out-of-control boulder. He almost fell a dozen times, but somehow he kept his feet and staggered into the camp just as a soaking wet, stark naked Brandark erupted from the stream.
“What—?!”
“No time, man! No time! They’ll be on us in minutes!” Bahzell shouted back, and Brandark strangled his questions and dashed for the heap of his clothes and armor, ignoring shirt and trousers to drag on his arming doublet while Bahzell leapt to the picket line. He grabbed a pack saddle and pushed his way in among the stamping, suddenly panicked animals, but the cacophony of screams raced nearer like some huge, malevolent beast, and it was headed straight for them.
He spun away from the horses and reached for his sword as he realized there wasn’t even time to saddle up. Brandark was still struggling with his haubergeon, and Bahzell backpedaled away from their mounts, putting himself between his friend and the lip of the ­ravine, as mounted men thundered into the woods above them with insane speed.
Horses went down, shrieking as legs broke or they speared themselves on unseen branches, but a few of them somehow threaded the obstacle and hurtled down the slope with howling demons on their backs, and crimson-shot green fire blazed from Harnak’s sword as he took his mount into the ravine like a madman. His horse squatted back on its haunches, sliding and slithering, screaming in fear as the ground fell away before it, but somehow it held its feet, and the prince’s eyes were pits of madness.
“Bahzell!” he shrieked, and charged.
Bahzell’s head twisted round at the sound of his name, and blue flame snapped down his own blade as the sword in Harnak’s hand hurled the prince at him. There was no more time for confusion—there was only the instant answer of his own Rage, and he leapt to meet his ­enemy.
“Tomanak!” His bull-throated war cry battered through the high, mad shriek of Harnak’s hatred, and his sword streamed blue fire as it hissed forward. A blaze of bloody green steel answered, and the blades met in a terrible explosion of fury, bleaching the ravine with a glare of hate that blasted up like sheet lightning. The cursed sword howled like a living soul, and the shock of impact hurled Harnak from the saddle.
The prince hit on his shoulder, yet the power bound into his blade possessed him, and he rolled back to his feet with deadly speed. His plunging mount blocked Bahzell just long enough for him to surge upright ­before the Horse Stealer could reach him, and he flung himself at Bahzell with elemental madness.
Steel crashed and belled like the hammers of enraged giants, wrapped in hissing sheets of light that blazed hotter with every stroke. Bahzell felt the power of Harnak’s weapon, sensed its hatred and implacable purpose fueling the Navahkan’s Rage, and staggered back one stride, then another, as Harnak hewed at him. A livid emerald corona rose about the shrieking Navahkan, a vague shape that swirled and fought to take the shape of a huge, green scorpion. Its pincers spread wide, groping for Bahzell, and the Horse Stealer fell back again as a deadly stinger stabbed at him. Reeking steam hissed upward where that stinger’s poison spattered like deadly rain, but there was a presence behind Bahzell, as well. He sensed a vast shape rising about him, flickering with an azure glory to match Harnak’s poisonous green, and knew this was no longer a matter of Horse Stealer against Navahkan.
A corner of his mind gibbered in panic—not of Harnak, but of what Tomanak had said about the dangers when god met god in combat—as a warring confrontation of power seethed and frothed. It filled the ravine like a flood, spilling outward in the roil and flash of lightning, and he and Harnak stood at its heart, its focus and its avatars—the vessels that gave it purchase in the world of mortals. He heard more steel clash as Brandark fought for his life, but he dared not take his attention from Harnak. It wasn’t the prince he fought; it was the unspeakable foulness reaching for him from the prince’s blade, and that blade was shorter than his own, quicker and handier in close combat. He knew—somehow, he knew—the slightest wound would be death and worse than death, and it whistled in again and again, keening its hate.
He blocked another deadly stroke and twisted his wrists, guiding it to the side. He spun on his left foot, pivoting as the force of Harnak’s blow carried him past, and his right foot lashed up into the prince’s spine so hard Harnak screamed in pain despite his Rage, but he didn’t fall. He staggered forward a dozen steps and whirled, bringing his sword around just in time, and fresh fire fountained up out of the ravine as steel met steel once more.

Major Rathan swallowed as lightning flashed and glared somewhere ahead of him. It was silent with distance, yet its heat seemed to burn across the miles like bitter summer sun. What in all of Krahana’s hells had he and his men stumbled into? His charge had come apart in the darkness, just as he’d feared, and a hurricane of combat raged across the night-struck hills. A dozen hradani, possibly more, had died on his men’s lances without breaking through, but others had carried on into sword range, and no Purple Lord trooper was a fit match for a hradani in the grip of the Rage. Screams and shrieks and curses and the clash of steel and gurgle of dying men filled the darkness, but Rathan’s cavalry had the edge in numbers. Sections of three fought to stay together and engage each hradani, horses went down, taking their riders with them, and then a howling, dismounted hradani, streaming blood from a dozen wounds, came straight at him like a shape from a nightmare, and Rathan had no time to worry about lights on the horizon.

Bahzell blocked another blow and brought his hilt up. His pommel crashed into Harnak’s face, and the prince screamed as his jaw shattered. He staggered back, cutting the air before him in a frenzy while the scorpion shape shrieked its own fury, and Bahzell stepped into him. His blade came down, ripping through chain mail, and blue-lit steel cut into Harnak’s upper arm, but the Navahkan twisted aside at the last moment and slashed out wildly. Bahzell leapt away from him again, and the prince lunged after him, yet for all its fury, his attack was wild and uncoordinated.
Bahzell recognized the danger he faced, knew the driving power the Rage would have given Harnak even without whatever demon filled the blade he bore, yet Harnak fought with unthinking fury, and Bahzell’s mind was cold and clear. The Rage ruled Harnak, but Bahzell ruled the Rage, and he reached out to it, using it as he never had before, willing its power into his arms and shoulders. He waded into Harnak’s assault, smashing the Navahkan back step by frothing step, driving him now. The prince stumbled and almost fell, then staggered back again. He recovered his balance and charged once more, but this time he was just too slow.
Bahzell’s dropped point flashed out in a deadly lunge, splitting chain mail like rotten cloth, and the crown prince of Navahk convulsed in agony as his own charge impaled him. A foot of gory steel stood out of his back, and blood sprayed from his mouth as he stared down at the sword in his guts.
The light of that sword flared up into his misshapen face, etching it in a dreadful blue glare, and his arms fell to his sides. The tip of his own sword hissed as it touched the ground, and his scorpion shroud of light screamed. It writhed and twisted, still fighting to reach Bahzell, but its avatar had failed it. Harnak took one hand from his hilt and reached out, as if to pluck at the impaling steel, and then he raised his head. His eyes met Bahzell’s, filled with madness and the Rage but touched with the awareness of his own death, and the Horse Stealer stepped back. He yanked his sword free, and Harnak’s hand clutched weakly, uselessly, at the terrible, spouting wound in his belly, but his eyes never left Bahzell’s.
He was still staring into the Horse Stealer’s eyes when Bahzell’s flaming sword swept in once more and struck his head from his shoulders.
 Y     Y     Y
Rathan wrenched his sweating horse aside, and ­impact exploded up his arm as his sword bit into a neck. The charging hradani went down, and he whirled, looking for fresh foes, but the sound of battle was fading. Here and there hooves pounded as some, at least, of the hradani broke through their enemies and fled. Some of his men galloped in pursuit, others knelt over writhing, wounded fellows, and Rathan swallowed bile as he realized how many of his troopers were down.
He turned his head once more, staring into the south, but light no longer flashed on the horizon. He tried desperately to imagine what it might have been, and part of him urged him to go find out. It must have been ­connected to his own battle, whatever it had been, and terrifying as the unknown was, he knew it must be invest­igated.
But not now, he told himself. His command was harrowed and riven, its men scattered in pursuit of an ­unknown number of surviving hradani. Whatever that light had been, he had to reorganize and see to his wounded first.

Bahzell spun away from Harnak’s corpse. There were three other bodies on the ravine floor, and Brandark was backed up against the picket line, fighting desperately as a fourth Navahkan pressed in upon him. The Bloody Sword’s left arm hung straight and useless from the shoulder, and there was blood on his face. He was weakening fast, and Bahzell leapt to his aid.
Too late. Brandark went down as steel slammed into his thigh, and his attacker howled in triumph and raised his sword in both hands. It started down in the killing stroke, and then Bahzell’s blade smashed across his spine. He fell away, and Bahzell spun once more, straddling Brandark’s helpless body, as Harnak’s last two guardsmen came at him.
One of them was a little in advance of the other, and his charge ended in the thud of dead meat as he ran headlong into Bahzell’s two-handed stroke. His companion got through, and Bahzell grunted as steel crashed into his side. His mail blunted the blow, but blood welled down his ribs, and his left arm flashed out. It snaked around his opponent’s sword arm and through his armpit, and Bahzell’s hand licked up behind the other’s shoulder. He heaved, and the Navahkan lost footing and sword alike. He smashed into the ground face-first, and Bahzell’s knee came down on his spine.
The Horse Stealer dropped his own sword. His right hand darted down, found his enemy’s chin, cupped hard, and he straightened his back explosively.
The crunching crack! of vertebrae filled the ravine, and suddenly the night was still and dark once more.

Chapter Thirty-five

“No, no, no, Malith!” Bahzell sighed and shook his head while the village headman looked at him, shrewd old eyes stubborn. “You just be telling whoever asks ­exactly what I’ve told you to say.”
“But the army, Milord,” Malith protested. “They’ll not be happy, and it’s not right they should be chasing you when—”
“Oh, hush, man! The Phrobus-spawned army can be looking after itself, and right this moment it’s your necks I’m thinking of. So just tell me if you’ve all the details straight.”
“But it’s not right, Milord! ’Twas our trouble, and—”
“Malith!” The villager winced at the volume of Bahzell’s exasperation and scrubbed his calloused hands together, then swallowed.
“Yes, Milord. I understand,” he said meekly.
“Good!” Bahzell looked up as Malith’s wife scurried off to hide the last of the money they’d found on the dead landlord’s person. Two more women were busy stuffing the hradani’s pack saddles with food under Brandark’s supervision, and the Horse Stealer nodded in satisfaction. He’d been looking forward to a night or two under a roof, but that was before he landed himself and Brandark in this fresh fix. Fiendark seize it, that pompous lackwit would be related to the local governor!
Brandark buckled the saddle tight and wiggled his ears outrageously at the two young women, then kissed each of them firmly. Both of them giggled and blushed, but one of them laughed out loud and seized his right ear to drag his head down and give him a daring kiss in reply before they darted back inside the palisade.
Bahzell grunted, shoved himself to his feet, and crossed to Brandark. It was time and past time to be out of here, he thought, though precisely where he and Brandark could go now was something of a delicate question. The only thing of which he was certain was that they couldn’t take their fresh trouble to Jashвn and drop it on Zarantha and her family. Relations between the Spearmen and the Purple Lords were always bitter, for the Empire hated and resented the half-elves’ monopolistic control of its foreign trade. But that very control made them a force not even the most powerful Spearman noble could challenge with impunity, and they were only too likely to choose to make an example of Duke Caswal if he tried to shield two hradani who’d “murdered” the son of a powerful family. They’d done it before, using their grip on the Spear River and its shipping to blockade the trade of nobles who’d irritated them as a way to remind their fellows of who held the Empire’s leash.
“This,” Brandark remarked as Bahzell reached him, “is probably the worst idea you’ve had yet. You know that, don’t you?”
“D’you have a better one?”
“No, not really,” the Bloody Sword admitted.
“Well, then.” Bahzell rubbed his chin for a moment and frowned at the eight new horses they’d added to their string. They were well-bred animals, no doubt worth a pretty price somewhere, but they were going to be a handful for two people to manage, and none of them were up to a hradani’s weight. On the other hand, they couldn’t exactly leave them behind, now could they?
He sighed, then clapped Brandark on the shoulder.
“Well, climb up, little man. Climb up! We’ve some ground to cover before sunrise!”
“No doubt.” Brandark swung up into the saddle and twitched his ears at his friend. “Just once, Bahzell—just once!—I’d like to leave someplace with you and not have someone on our trail. Is that too much to ask?”
“Oh, be still with you!” Bahzell was already jogging south down the rough trail that served the village as a road, and Brandark urged his horse to a canter at his heels. The other animals lurched into motion on their leads, and the Horse Stealer’s voice carried through the wet squelch of hooves in mud. “You’ve more complaints than a little old lady in a brothel! Why, the way you’re after carrying on, folk might think you weren’t enjoying yourself at all, at all.”
“Enjoying myself! Listen, you overgrown lump of gristle, I—”
Their cheerful bickering faded into the darkness, and the villagers shook their heads at one another in ­disbelief.

Major Rathan No’hai Taihar was a lean, dangerous man. He was also a very well-born Purple Lord, and it showed—both in the arrogant tilt of his head and the rage in his eyes as he gazed down at the body of his cousin Yithar and listened to the illiterate headman of this miserable collection of hovels.
“ . . . an’ then Milord Yithar come t’collect th’ rest of next quarter’s rent, Milord,” Malith said anxiously, hands wringing a shapeless cap before him. “We was expectin’ him, of course, for he’d said as how he’d be here, an’ he’d just come up th’ track when we heard it.”
“Heard what?” Rathan demanded, waving a scented handkerchief under his nose against the muddy woodland stink. He knew there was money in the timber business, but what had possessed Yithar to buy up this wretched village was more than he—
“We heard ’em comin’ out of th’ woods, Milord.” Rathan’s eyes snapped back from the body to Malith’s face, and the villager swallowed. “Hradani they was, Milord. Must’a been at least a half-score of ’em—maybe more—an’ I think they was layin’ for Milord Yithar, like they knew he was collectin’, y’see.”
“Hradani?” Rathan repeated incredulously.
“Aye, Milord. Hradani. Y’can see their tracks yourself, out yonder where they come from, an’ again where they headed south with Milord Yithar’s horses . . . after.”
Rathan glared at him, and Malith swallowed again, strangling his cap.
“And none of you did a thing to help him, hey?” Rathan’s voice was silk-wrapped ice, and Malith paled.
“Milord . . . Milord Yithar don’t allow no weapons ’mongst his people—not but a boar spear or a huntin’ bow or two—an’ we’re not trained with ’em no how. ’Twas all we could do to get the gates closed and save our ownselves, ’deed it was, Milord!”
Rathan growled. The fingers of his right hand twitched towards his sword, yet the inability of these patchwork peasants to defend even themselves was disgustingly evident. Singing tension held for a long, still moment, and then he growled again and took his hand away with a grimace of contempt.
“So you just watched these bastard hradani murder Lord Yithar and his men,” he sneered instead, and Malith stared at the ground and bobbed his head.
“We did, Milord. ’Tweren’t no good thinkin’ we could’a done elsewise, for we couldn’t. ’Deed, we couldn’t even a held th’ gate, if they’d thought to attack us when they was done.”
“Attack you?” Rathan gave a crack of scornful laughter. “Why in Hirahim’s name should anyone attack this?” His gesture of disdain took in the village, and Malith looked up earnestly.
“Why, Milord, they would’a done it in a minute, ’deed they would’a, if they’d’a known.”
“Known what, you fool?”
“Why, known as how we’d saved up Milord Yithar’s rent money, Milord. Every copper of it.” The headman reached out as if to grasp the major’s arm before he remembered himself and snatched his hand back, but his pathetic ­eagerness was plain to see. “They was so busy lootin’ him an’ his men, they must not’a realized Milord Yithar was a’comin’ here, not leavin’, Milord, an’ we been downright afeared they’d come back an’ take th’ rent, as well!”
Rathan blinked, for he’d assumed the villagers were going to claim the brigands had stolen the rent payment. No one could have proven otherwise, and it was a rare peasant who wouldn’t do his betters gleefully out of their legitimate earnings.
“You mean they didn’t take the rent?”
“No, Milord, ’tis what I’m a’sayin’. They didn’t know as ’twas here, an’ we’d be thankful if you’d take it with you when you goes. ’Tisn’t much for Milord Yithar’s family, an’ all, but we feel it sharp that we couldn’t’a done somethin’ to save him. He . . . he could be a mite short if the dibs was out’a tune, Milord Yithar could, meanin’ no disrespect, but if you’d see as how his family gets th’ rent we’re owin’ . . . ?”
The headman’s voice trailed off, and Rathan shook ­himself. He turned away from the village, gazing down at the countless tracks which marked the muddy field where his cousin had died—the tracks, had he but known, which the villagers themselves had made under Bahzell’s direction—and then back at Malith. His expression was just as arrogant, but a faint hint of approval, like a master’s for a trained dog’s cleverness, tinged his smile.
“Of course, Headman Malith. Give it to my clerk—he’ll count it and give you a receipt, and I’ll personally see that Lord Yithar’s family receives it. Yes,” his smile vanished into a glare as his eyes turned back to the south, “and all the other money he’d collected, when we run these bastards to earth!”
He stood for a moment longer, glaring into the falling twilight, then inhaled sharply and beckoned to his second in command.
“Get Tregar over here to take charge of these yokels’ rent payment, Halith,” he said shortly. “Keep an eye on him while he counts it, and then get the men ready to move out.”
“Tonight, sir?” Halith said, and Rathan snarled.
“In the morning, idiot! We need light to track by. But get a couple of couriers off immediately to alert the border posts. These bastards may try to double back to the north. Even if they don’t, I want patrols out sweeping southward with daylight. We’ll teach these scum what it means to murder Purple Lords!”
“Yes, sir!” his subordinate barked, and jogged back to the remainder of the men while Rathan returned his ­attention to Malith.
“From all I can see, there was little your people could have done, after all,” he conceded, “and you did well to protect the rent you owed Lord Yithar. I’ll see that my report reflects that.”
“Thank you, Milord!” Malith bobbed servilely, still wringing his cap.
“In the meantime, we’ll be camping here tonight ­before we go after them,” Rathan went on. “We’ll need fodder for our mounts. And have your women see to some sort of supper for my men.”
“At once, Milord!”
“Good.” Rathan strode away, and, as the major turned his back, he failed to note the most unservile satisfaction—and concern for the village’s benefactors—that flickered in Malith’s shrewd old eyes.

Bahzell and Brandark sat on their bedrolls in their fireless camp, eating as twilight settled. They’d put in a good, hard night and a day of travel, and it was unlikely anyone was even on their heels yet, but that was no reason to get careless and show a light.
“Well,” Brandark leaned back finally, fingering silent chords on his balalaika, “how soon d’you think they’ll come after us?”
“As to that,” Bahzell returned, drawing off his boots and wiggling his toes in relief, “I’ve no way of knowing for certain, but if Malith was after being right about how soon that Yithar bastard would be missed, it’s likely enough they’ll be on our trail by morning.”
He drew out the roll of cured leather Malith had given him and unrolled it. He set his feet on it and leaned forward to scribe round them with the tip of a small knife, then went to work cutting the leather to pad the insoles of his worn-out boots.
“You take that mighty calmly, I must say,” Brandark observed.
“There’s naught at all, at all, I could be doing about it by taking it otherwise,” Bahzell replied. “And taken all in all, it’s better they be chasing after the likes of us than taking it out on Malith’s folk.”
“Well, that tale you primed Malith with should certainly see to it that they do,” Brandark said dryly.
“Aye, and that’s a shrewd man yonder. I’ve little doubt he told it well,” Bahzell agreed with a chuckle.
“Aren’t you afraid one of the other villagers may tell them the truth in hopes of some reward from the author­ities?”
“That lot?” Bahzell laughed out loud. “Brandark, there’s not a man or woman in that village as isn’t related to Malith one way or another, and villages like that know a thing or two about loyalty! Oh, no, my lad. When folk are pushed down as far as these Purple Lords are after pushing Malith’s lot, they’ll jump at the chance to get a bit of their own back. That’s something Churnazh had best be remembering, when all’s said.”
“True,” Brandark acknowledged, then grinned. “And, come to think of it, knowing they’ve got a good two years’ rent hidden away should be a bit of an incentive, as well!”
“That’s as may be, but it wasn’t why I was after leaving it to them. We’ve kept enough and more for our own needs, but those folk . . . they’ve worked mortal hard for the little they have. If old Yithar could be paying them back a bit of all he’s squeezed from ’em, why, it was our bounden duty to let him be doing it.”
“Maybe, but—”
Brandark’s sentence died, and both hradani jerked their heads up as a huge figure abruptly materialized. The horses and mules stood quietly, oblivious to the sudden arrival, but Bahzell scrambled up to his stocking feet as Tomanak folded his arms across his chest and gazed down at him.
Silence stretched out, and Brandark set his balalaika aside and rose beside his friend. Still the silence lingered, until, at length, Bahzell cleared his throat.
“I’m thinking you’ve more things to be doing than dropping in to pass the time of day regular like,” he said to the god. “Especially with it being as hard as you say to be communicating with mortals and all.”
“You think correctly,” Tomanak rumbled, and shook his head. “That was a fair piece of work you did at that village, Bahzell, but only fair. Chopping miscreants up may be an excellent way to relieve your tensions, but sometimes it’s better to settle things without swords.”
“As to that, it was after being his idea, not mine,” Bahzell shot back. “I was only after seeing justice done.”
“True enough,” Tomanak agreed, “and I can’t fault you—or you, Brandark—” the Bloody Sword twitched as the War God shot him a glance “—for defending yourselves. You were just a bit hasty when you cut Yithar himself down, Bahzell. He was hardly a fit opponent for one of my champions, and you probably could have disarmed him instead. But, again, I’ll grant ample provocation, and things like that happen when instincts take over in a fight. No, I don’t fault you there, but this story you gave Malith to tell—!”
The god frowned, and Bahzell cocked his ears in surprise.
“Why, I was thinking it a neat enough tale,” he said after a moment, “and they were needing something to keep the noose out from around their own necks for what we did.”
“But you told him to lie.”
“And a good thing I did, too!” Bahzell shot back.
Tomanak blinked. A look very much like bafflement crossed his features, and he unfolded his arms to plant his fists on his hips and lean forward over the Horse Stealer.
“Bahzell,” he said almost plaintively, “I’m the god of justice, as well as war. My champions can’t go around lying to people!”
“No more I did,” Bahzell said virtuously. Tomanak’s frown deepened, and the Horse Stealer shrugged. ­“Every word I was after telling Malith and his folk was true as death,” he pointed out, “and I’ve not said a word about it to another soul—excepting yourself and Brandark, that is—so how could I be lying to anyone about it?”
“But you told Malith to lie. In fact, you made the ­entire lie up and coached him in it! A secondhand lie is still a lie, Bahzell.”
“Now that’s plain foolishness,” the Horse Stealer ­replied. “The truth would only have been landing them in a mortal lot of trouble.”
“Perhaps it would, and I’m not saying they weren’t justified. But you can’t just go about making up lies whenever you find yourself in trouble.”
“Find myself in trouble, is it?” It was Bahzell’s turn to snort, and he did so with panache. “Sure, and would you be so very kind as to be telling me just how Malith’s tale will be getting me out of trouble? Lying for profit, now, I can be seeing why that should be upsetting you, but this—?”
He raised his hands, palms up, and Tomanak rocked back on his heels. Half a dozen thoughts seemed to chase themselves across his face, but then he sighed and shook his head.
“All right, Bahzell. All right!” He smiled wryly and shook his head again. “You’re new to this, and it’s been a long time since I last had a hradani champion. You don’t seem to have quite the, ah, normal mindset of the job.” Bahzell only snorted once more, and the god’s smile ­became a grin. “No, I don’t suppose you do, at that,” he murmured, then straightened and waved a finger at the Horse Stealer.
“Very well, Bahzell. We’ll let it pass, this time—and you were probably right. But mind you, no lies that will profit you!” he admonished, and faded once more into the gathering night before his unrepentant champion could reply.