The Sword of the South

  Fradenhelm huddled in a corner, propped against the wall, and clutched his arm while whimpers leaked through his teeth. An hour had passed since Bahzell dropped him, but shock and terror gripped him still, sapping his strength.

  Five hundred gold kormaks had seemed a fortune, especially with half of it paid in advance, when all he’d had to do was inform the assassins when their victims appeared. Even the murder of the wind rider had been easy, for all he’d done was look the other way. Yet the rider’s death rattle had been the first whisper of his own fate, and now he knew what greed might have cost him.

  He was marked. As a wind rider, Bahzell shared an obligation to kill him with every wind rider of the vast Kingdom of the Sothōii. The Sothōii had seemed safely far away at the time, but that distance had become cold comfort in the wake of Bahzell’s visit. Fradenhelm was only grateful their past dealings had created an offsetting obligation in the hradani’s mind. It gave him a chance to flee, and he must run if he wanted to live—run so far and hide so deep that no one, not even Bahzell Bloody Hand, could ever find him again.

  Unless the assassins actually managed to kill Bahzell, of course. The chances of which, based on their uniform lack of success in that respect, were no more than even, even with Chernion himself taking the assignment.

  None of which considered the fact that he’d violated Chernion’s instructions, as well, which could mean—

  A buskin whispered in straw, and his head jerked up as six assassins materialized about him. His spastic effort to rise ended stillborn as a sword tip waved gently at his terror-dilated eyes.

  “Greetings, Horsetrader.” The leader’s voice was low, carved from melodious, almost effeminate ice, and Fradenhelm trembled as he stared pleadingly into the dark eye-glitter in the hood’s slits.

  “I received your message…tardily. You chose a poor messenger, yet he found us at last and bade us come. Behold me. Where are the targets?”

  “G-gone,” Fradenhelm whispered.

  “So I perceive.” The voice was gentle. “Weren’t you told to hold them here until I could attend to them?”

  “I…They—”

  “A simple answer is sufficient, Horsetrader,” the assassin purred.

  “I tried! Bahzell was in too big a hurry for me to hold them long. I…I tried to convince them to spend the night here in Korun, but they refused! And…and I sent you word as soon as they got here!”

  “You did—by a halfwitted oaf who took an hour and more to find me. But, yes, you sent word. And your messenger tells me you also kept the courser you were supposed to dispose of.” The soft voice sounded almost amused. “You know Bahzell’s a wind rider. Were you truly so foolish you thought you could hide a courser from him?”

  “They—that is, Bahzell—”

  “You told them we were coming, didn’t you?”

  “Bahzell made me! He tortured me!” Fradenhelm shrieked.

  “So I see,” the assassin soothed, “and a man has a right to tell what he knows to end the pain. Even so, Horsetrader, it may have been unwise. You’ve failed me, and no one does that twice. Redeem yourself!” The voice became a lash. “Where did they go?”

  “Morfintan! They said Morfintan!” Fradenhelm offered feverishly, raising his good hand ingratiatingly. “I-I crawled to the door to listen.”

  “Morfintan.” The assassin considered a moment, then chuckled. “Foolish of you, Horsetrader. Do you really believe Bahzell Bloody Hand wouldn’t guess you were there?”

  The slim man nodded, and a knife whispered on leather as it was drawn. Fradenhelm shrank back, moaning as the gleaming blade was bared.

  “You’re a fool,” the leader remarked calmly, “and I have no use for fools. Your greed betrayed us, and your stupidity’s allowed our targets to begin some plan to evade us. Farewell, Horsetrader.”

  “Noooooooooooooooo!”

  Fradenhelm’s scream died in a gurgle, and a small body slumped to the straw in a spreading fan of red. The leader had already turned to one of the others.

  “Check the gates, Rosper. Check them all. Their destination is Sindor for the present—I’m sure of it. But I think this fool told the truth about what he heard, so perhaps they’ve chosen an indirect route. Check the East Gate well; if they have gone that way, we may be able to overtake them on the high road.”

  “At once, Chernion.”

  “The rest of you, gather our mounts and meet me in the Potters’ Square. We can ride in any direction from there.”

  “Yes, Chernion!” they chorused.

  “See to it. And hide your leathers until we ride.”

  “Yes, Chernion!”

  They slapped fists to chests in salute and faded into the mist. Chernion’s emotionless toe pushed the body onto its back, and the assassin reached into an inner pocket for a heavy purse. Gold gleamed as the Guildmaster emptied two hundred and fifty gold kormaks over the corpse.

  Chernion dropped the purse and drew a tiny dagger of hammered silver, its pommel a grinning death’s head, from a wrist sheath. The killer drove it through the purse into the dirt, then turned on a heel without glancing back.

  Chernion had no use for fools, but examples were another matter. Dog brothers were businessmen, and if mere murder paid no bills, executions for failure built a reputation for ruthless infallibility.

  That was worth the kormaks Fradenhelm had been promised.

  * * *

  Two horsemen and a hradani pressed down the high road.

  The hradani’s ears pricked, as if to pluck any sound of pursuit from the breeze, as he ran with the steady, swinging, tireless endurance of the Horse Stealers. Mist wreathed the horses’ knees, so that the riders seemed to float on a sea of vapor that ended at their stirrup irons. Moonlight broke the clouds occasionally, but they’d grown thick; breaks big enough for the moon had become few and far between, and a soft drizzle sifted down.

  One of the pack horses stumbled, but Bahzell’s iron arm held him. The gelding recovered, but he breathed heavily as the hradani brought him back up. He was obviously still willing, but he was nearly spent, and the second pack horse was little better, although the courser and Glamhandro appeared fresh enough.

  “We’ll have to rest them,” Bahzell said so abruptly Kenhodan started in surprise after the speechless hours. He glanced at the drooping gelding and nodded agreement.

  “I fear you’re right.” Wencit rose in the saddle to peer through the depressing mist. The high road was wide and firm, hard paved as it sped across the moor, and a swatch of firm turf ran along either verge for horsemen. The night lay in ashes about them, but dawn was still distant, and fine drops of rain made it hard to see much.

  “Over there,” he said finally, pointing into the dark. “I see the loom of some trees. We can shelter there for an hour or so.”

  Bahzell looked carefully in the indicated direction and grunted, then led them through the rainy mist at a more sedate paste, followed by Wencit, the pack horses, and Kenhodan. The red-haired man was uneasy, sensing the pursuit he couldn’t see, and his hand brushed his sword hilt. He turned every few minutes to glance cautiously behind, but at least the following breeze favored them. It would carry any sound of pursuit to them and push their own noise ahead…he hoped.

  Melting snow and spring’s long rains had struck deep into the soil of South March Moor, and sodden ground sucked at the horses’ hooves between tussocks of stiff grass. A dense belt of firs bulked wetly, farther from the road than Kenhodan would have guessed. They stood on higher, firmer ground, and he suspected they’d been planted as a windbreak for the high road.

  He sighed in relief as he dismounted, and Wencit swung down beside him with an echoing sigh of gratitude.

  “Old bones don’t take kindly to desperate all-night rides,” the wizard observed, stretching until his shoulders popped loudly.

  “Old bones, is it?” Bahzell’s ears twitched at Wencit in amusement. “I’m thinking as how someone wants an excuse to be lying about while others are aft
er doing the work!”

  “You expect a poor old man to work after such a night?” Wencit’s voice quavered pitifully. “An old man, worn with his labors and hard riding?”

  “Aye,” Bahzell answered with a grin.

  “The gods will deal with you as you with me,” Wencit warned him.

  “That’s as may be, but it’s pleased as punch you’ve been with yourself all afternoon and night, Wizard. Well, wizard’s news is for wizard’s ears, they say, so I’ll not blame you for not sharing it—though Tomanāk knows it must be after being good indeed to have you grinning like a loon with dog brothers on our heels! But if you’ll not share that, you’ll at least share the work.”

  “Learn from this, Kenhodan,” Wencit said mournfully. “Never ride with a hradani. He’ll either eat your horse or make you tend it like a slave.”

  The coal black courser snorted. Then his nose pushed the wizard between the shoulders hard enough to make Wencit stumble forward a full stride, and Kenhodan—already busy with Glamhandro—grinned. The wizard turned to the courser, and the huge stallion cocked his head to one side, turning it to regard Wencit with a steady eye until he reached up and laid one palm on the courser’s forehead. The stallion pushed against it, far more gently, and Wencit smiled.

  “Old and feeble I may be, My Lord, but I’m sure I can dredge up at least a little energy.”

  The courser snorted again, and Wencit began loosening the saddle girth.

  Kenhodan already had Glamhandro’s saddle off, and the big gray was sweaty enough to need attention in the chill air. Yet he still spoiled for a run—his ears were forward, and his left forefoot dug at the damp turf as Kenhodan stroked his velvet nose, then rubbed him down briskly. He turned the blanket and replaced the saddle, then draped his poncho over the horse. The firs protected him from the rain, and Glamhandro’s overheated strength needed warmth more than he. He eased the bit from the stallion’s mouth, and Glamhandro nuzzled his ear, blowing gently before he dropped his head to crop the sparse grass.

  Kenhodan listened to the sound of grazing for a moment, then turned to help the others. Bahzell was just finishing with the first of the pack courses, and he glanced at Kenhodan with a tight grin as he bent his great bow and nodded back towards the high road. Kenhodan nodded in understanding, and the hradani vanished into the mist. Kenhodan heard his boots suck in and out of the mud once or twice; then there was only silence.

  The red-haired man removed the second pack horse’s pack frame and set it aside, and the weary gelding—a gray, darker than Glamhandro with black legs—blew gratefully. The red-haired man began working the rubbing cloth over the horse’s coat and glanced over his shoulder at Wencit.

  The courser was big enough to make it difficult for the wizard to reach his poll without some sort of stool, but the stallion had bent his head to ease the task, and Wencit’s hands were gentle on the galled welts his imprisoning halter had left. He wore no bridle, of course. Most coursers wore ornamental hackamores, usually without reins and decorated with ornamental silver work or even gems. No wind rider would even consider putting a bit into his companion’s mouth, and no courser would ever choose a rider who might have contemplated anything of the sort. Kenhodan knew that, yet he’d still found it strange to watch Wencit cantering through the night with his hands resting on his thighs.

  Now the wizard finished rubbing down the courser, and the stallion touched him with his nose again in thanks, then moved over beside Glamhandro to tear at the scanty grass.

  Kenhodan and Wencit worked together, as silently and smoothly as if they’d practiced it for years, to set the picket pins for the pack animals. Wencit seemed content to trust their security to Bahzell, and after a moment or two of thought, Kenhodan discovered that he shared his confidence. The red-haired man considered what would happen to any pursuers out there in the dark and felt less anxious as he checked the picket rope and turned wearily to Wencit.

  “Do we dare risk of fire? Or are they likely to be so close we really need Bahzell out there?”

  “Probably not—to both questions.” Wencit’s silver hair gleamed with the fine raindrops. “For all his banter, Bahzell’s cautious. He doesn’t really expect to see anyone, but he hasn’t lived this long by ignoring remote possibilities. But why were you wanting a fire?”

  “Leeana packed plenty of tea. I thought a cup or two…?”

  “An excellent idea! And we don’t need a fire for that; I’ll provide the heat.”

  There was a stream somewhere near, chuckling softly in the night. Indeed, it was a rare spot on South March Moor where one didn’t hear running water, but direction was easily lost in the mist. Kenhodan didn’t care to stray far on the fog-girt moor, so he unstoppered a canteen to fill Bahzell’s blackened camp kettle and dropped in a handful of fragrant tea.

  While he did that, Wencit had drawn his sword and turned up the flat of the blade. Now he set the kettle on the inlaid steel, balancing it with his free hand. His brilliant eyes burned even brighter for a moment and a diamond-hard glitter edged the blade, bathing his features in blue luminescence. Kenhodan swallowed a muffled exclamation and moved quickly between the sword and the road to hide its light, but his instinctive protest died as the kettle began to steam. His eyes fastened on the razor edge of light, and his mind echoed with a strange humming noise.

  The kettle bubbled at a low boil within seconds, and Kenhodan snatched it from the sword. He hissed as he burned his fingers and set it aside quickly, fumbling a riding glove from his belt to shield his hand from the heat.

  Wencit blinked at Kenhodan’s muffled curse, and the glow of the sword died instantly, plunging them back into a night all the darker for the brief light. All Kenhodan could see were the wizard’s eyes, floating like disembodied balefires in the gloom.

  “Here.” Wencit wrapped a corner of his cloak around the kettle handle, and Kenhodan watched bemusedly—wondering why the small, casual sorcery impressed him as deeply as the desperate spells Wencit had used against the corsairs. Watching Wencit of Rūm calmly brew tea on a magical sword seemed somehow…inappropriate.

  “What was that sound?” he asked curiously.

  “Sound?” The glowing eyes shifted to consider him thoughtfully.

  “Like a humming. I’ve heard something every time you’ve worked sorcery near me, only usually it sounds like some sort of animal.”

  “Have you now?” Wencit chuckled. “Mightn’t it be wiser to say you heard it every time you knew I was using the art?”

  “Are you trying to evade me?” Kenhodan asked curiously. “If so, I’m perfectly willing to drop it. I was only curious.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Wencit said. “Some people can detect the wild magic, although there’s no fixed way of perceiving it. Some hear it, some see it—some actually taste it. It’s possible you truly can hear it.”

  “Is that significant?” Kenhodan asked nervously.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Wencit said dryly. “I once knew a warrior with no more skill in the art than a block of wood. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how profoundly unmagical he was! Yet he could hear wild magic from one end of Kontovar to the other. Little good it did him in the end, I’m afraid. There’s a vast difference between detecting the wild magic and being able to command it, and he went off to the Battle of Lost Hope without ever showing even a hint of the Gift.”

  “I see.” Kenhodan felt a surge of relief. “Good! I don’t want—”

  “Idiots! Idiots the pair of you!” Bahzell filtered out of the mist and glowered at them. “Clear down by the road, I was, and saw that glow like a beacon! I might’ve been picking you both off, clean and easy as butts at a target match—and tempted I was to do it! Why not be hiring a band the next time you’re wishful to draw the dog brothers’ eye?!”

  “There are no eyes out there to see it,” Wencit said calmly, “and even if there were, there’s far less chance of anyone noticing so brief a light than any fire we might have lit.”


  “With mortal eyes, maybe.” Bahzell gave not an inch. “But what if Wulfra’s seen fit to be giving her killers a pet wizard for a guide?”

  “Unlikely.” Wencit shrugged. “Rumor says Chernion hates all wizards. His Guild has too many secrets, and he wants no wizard meddling with them. Besides, the dog brothers have been hurt too often working with wizardry against you and me alike, Bahzell. Chernion won’t want to risk repeating that against both of us. But even if he wanted a wizard, it’s unlikely any of Wulfra’s circle would go with him. Whatever else, Chernion’s never been afraid to see his victims before he strikes—or even to attack them face-to-face. Do you really think any of the scum running with Wulfra would willingly come close to me? I know you’re not that stupid, Bahzell.”

  “All right! Put your pride back in your pack and forget I was after speaking! Wizards! Not a one of ’em but would take time out on the brink of disaster to discuss his peers failings!” Bahzell turned to Kenhodan before Wencit could take fresh umbrage at the suggestion that another wizard might be his “peer.” “If that’s tea I’m smelling, pour it out. My belly’s colder than a Purple Lord’s heart on settling day.”

  Kenhodan chuckled as he poured into the metal cups, and they squatted, sipping gratefully at the hot, bitter tea of the East Wall mountaineers.

  “What time is it?” Kenhodan asked finally.

  “About the turn of the morning watch,” Bahzell answered. “We’re after making good time—we’ve come over ten leagues, I’m guessing. Say what you will of Fradenhelm, he’s an eye for horseflesh and it’s not far wrong he was about Glamhandro.”

  “Then we could camp here?”

  “No.” Bahzell sipped noisily and shook his head. “I’m thinking we’d best rest a little more, then move on. They’ll be after us, and while they’ll not be making up much distance, they’ll not be many hours back, either.”