The horse went down squealing, and Bahzell cut yet another guardsman from his saddle while the fallen man fought to scramble free of his mount. He managed it—and rose just in time to meet Brandark's sword. He crashed back with a split skull, and the two surviving guards were no longer smiling as they flung themselves desperately at the hradani.
They lasted no longer than their fellows, and the Purple Lord gaped in terror as Bahzell and Brandark cut his men apart with polished efficiency. His horse reared as he spurred it, but he was trapped between the palisade and Bahzell. He stared desperately around, and his hand darted to his ornamented, gold-crusted sword hilt.
"Don't be stupid, man!" Bahzell snapped, but the half-elf was too panicked to heed the warning. He slammed his spurs home once more, and his sword swung wildly as the beast squealed and bolted forward.
Bahzell ducked the clumsy stroke easily, and his own blade hissed back around in a dreadful, economic riposte. He didn't even think about it; he simply reacted, and the Purple Lord was flung from his saddle without a sound. He hit the mud with a sodden thump, the villagers gasped in horror as he fell, and then there was only stillness, and eight dead men sprawled on the churned up ground.
Bahzell lowered his sword slowly and muttered an oath as he surveyed the carnage. He'd never dreamed the man might be daft enough to try something like this, and his heart sank as he recognized the trouble to come. He turned his head to meet Brandark's eyes, and his friend sighed.
"Well," he said wryly, "no one ever said hradani were smart."
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 Jashân 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 villag
e, 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 deepe
ned, 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.
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.