The Sword of the South - eARC (31 page)

Before last night, he’d accepted the plan to ambush the assassins largely as a “safe” outlet for the rage within him, and that had changed somehow. He still felt that rage, but something inside his mind’s new walls had transformed his perspective. His fury was no longer a threat; he controlled it, as if it were on a short, heavy chain he could slip at will. He found himself regarding it, almost with detachment, as a part of himself…a useful part which
ought
to have frightened him, but no longer did.

Yet the idea of an ambush bothered him even less now than it had when his rage had craved an acceptable outlet. It was the right decision, for one killed assassins any way one could. That proposition was now self-evident, accepted almost dispassionately—without arrogance or self-righteousness, but with something much more like…self recognition.

And with it came a weariness, as if some of Wencit’s ancientness had crept into his bones. Did old trees feel this way? Full of vigor and sap as they faced a storm, yet simultaneously older than the hills? As if they’d always been here and would be here forever?

Or was he a river rock? A stone polished and worn until it had no hard edges, only roundnesses and a core of permanence? He didn’t know the answers to those questions, but a sense of balance, of adjustment, gave him a peace he hadn’t known since Belhadan, one all the stranger for the feeling of unending strife beneath it, like a volcano mantled in ice and snow.

The noon halt startled him, for he’d ridden lost in thought. Now he shook himself mentally and dismounted to stretch.

“How much farther, Bahzell?” he asked.

“Another hour. I’m thinking we’ll reach the stream in no more than half that; it’s climbing the far side as will eat up the rest of the time.”

“And the assassins?” Wencit asked.

“Now that’s after being harder to say.” Bahzell shrugged. “It’s an easy pace I’ve set them today, and it’s surprised I’ll be if they haven’t closed on us all the while. It’s five hours back they might be, or maybe as little as two. Not less than that though, I’m thinking.”

“I’d just as soon get it over,” Kenhodan sighed, gnawing at a slab of jerky.

“Aye, I’ll not disagree with you there, lad. There’s after being too many of Sharnā’s scum in the world. Best we be showing some of them the way out of it.”

“Scum they may be,” Wencit said testily, “but they’re also skilled fighters. I’d suggest neither of you forget that!”

“Skilled they may be,” Bahzell said sternly, “but don’t be naming them ‘fighters’ to me. Any son of Sharnā’s after being a disgrace to my blade—though it’s happy I’ll be to introduce them to it!”

“Just so they don’t get steel into you first, Mountain.”

“That they won’t.”

“I suggest you make certain of that, because it won’t be
clean
steel.”

“Poison?” Kenhodan’s skin crawled at the thought.

“Aye,” Bahzell said. “To a dog brother’s thinking, dead is dead, and killing’s naught but a matter of kormaks. And old graybeard’s after being right to be wary. But then, I always am.” The hradani stood once more, resettling his pack on his shoulders. “And I still say they’re no fighting man!”

Kenhodan mounted and followed Bahzell down a changing trail. The forest giants moved well back and lower, scrubbier trees filled the gaps between them. Willow and alder became more frequent, and Kenhodan frowned as they reminded him of rivers. He was finally dry, and he’d prefer to remain that way for a day or so.

Unfortunately, the world didn’t much seem to care about what he’d prefer.

He heard the threatening rumble of water long before the trail led them to the deep gash of the stream. It started low, that rumble, but it grew steadily louder as they approached, and he wondered what it sounded like later in the spring, when the stream which spawned it was in full spate.

When he finally saw it, he could only shake his head. It was worse than he’d feared.

The brawling stream ran in a wide, unpleasant ravine. The water didn’t look deep, but it flowed with appalling speed over tumbled boulders, and white foam and spray made rainbows over the steep shelves of cascading rapids. A necklace of driftwood near the top of the ravine showed it was sometimes a
little
deeper—by some thirty or forty feet, he thought wryly.

The footing in the ravine was bad. The ground sloped, but not enough for good drainage, and the soft ground sucked at the horses’ hooves as they picked their way across. There were firm spots, but no trail, and even with Bahzell probing carefully ahead for a path, one packhorse slithered to its knees at one point and had to be rescued.

Once across the morass, they faced the stream itself. It never washed higher than Kenhodan’s stirrups, but the current was bad and the footing worse. Bahzell stayed on the upstream side, guiding the packhorses carefully, but they literally had to feel their way across. The courser took it calmly; the packhorses most definitely did not, and even Glamhandro was clearly relieved when he finally emerged on the far side.

But they emerged only to face the trail out, and it reared up from the very bank of the stream, allowing the horses no place to stop and gather themselves for the climb. It writhed up the western cliff like something a snake might disdain, and the western side was more than a hundred feet higher than that to the east. Kenhodan and Wencit dismounted—even the courser would have found that climb taxing with someone in his saddle—and followed Bahzell up that slope on foot. Much of it was almost vertical, and even with switchbacks the trail was so steep the packhorses were badly blown before they topped out through a deep, narrow notch into a dense clump of willows.

Kenhodan stopped gratefully to survey the ambush site. Bahzell was right; it was perfect. No one could cross the stream quickly, nor could they retreat rapidly under fire once across. The only way out would be up and through their attackers, and the tortuous trail was hardly conducive to that. It was, he thought, admirably suited to their purposes, and he said so.

“Aye,” Bahzell agreed. “But if Chernion’s after being as good as folk say he is—and I’ve no doubt at all, at all that he is—we’d best take no chances.”

“And you’d better get ready,” Wencit said, head cocked as if to listen.

“Ah? So it’s on their way they are, then?”

“Some of them, at least. I can only feel one clearly—he seems to be a good hater. Strange. Dog brothers are usually rather dispassionate.”

“It’s a guess I’ll risk at the cause of his anger.” Bahzell smiled. “It’s no easy pace we’ve set them, and I’ve no doubt they’ll be feeling it.” He looked out over the ravine thoughtfully. “Would it happen we’re after wanting prisoners, Wencit?”

“No.” The wizard glanced in the direction of Bahzell’s gaze. “Even if they swore Oath to Tomanāk, it’s unlikely dog brothers would honor it, and you know you can never be certain you’ve found all their weapons. For that matter, they wouldn’t tell us anything without more ‘convincing’ than Tomanāk would like, Bahzell.”

“Aye, no doubt you’ve the right of that,” Bahzell rumbled in agreement. “But if we’ll not be keeping any of them, then here’s how I’m thinking to handle it, if you’re willing.”

The others leaned closer, listening, and their smiles were not pleasant.

* * *

Rosper couldn’t have faulted Bahzell’s explanation of his rage, yet it wasn’t simply the narrow, twisting trail and mud that infuriated him. No, the signs left by his quarry were even more galling.

They’d slowed. They were no longer fleeing for their lives, but he hadn’t realized that until he’d already exhausted his horses. Three of them had foundered, and five more were close to it. If they didn’t catch up soon, their remaining stock would go heels over crupper—and Bahzell’s decision to slow would show the entire Guild that Rosper had been wrong to expend his mounts.

Rosper didn’t know if Bahzell had slowed because he thought he’d shaken the pursuit or because he was now willing to be overtaken. In his present mood, he favored the former thesis, but it no longer mattered. His decisions were already made.

His men sensed it, and they were unhappy. This pursuit was most unassassinlike. Worse, all of them knew Bahzell’s and Wencit’s reputations, and none were anxious to meet either of them when they were expecting it. It was common knowledge that the Belhadan chapter had tried to kill Bahzell thirty years ago when he’d first settled in Belhadan; there was no Belhadan chapter today. The possible connection was daunting, and while the thought of killing Wencit might be professionally attractive, there were rumors—denied, for the most part, by the Guild’s senior members—that it, too, had been tried before.

But the scorpions of Sharnā rode Rosper, and it was risky to cross him in such a mood. He’d cut his way to his present post, and those who roused his ire tended to draw perilous assignments…or meet still speedier ends.

They reached the ravine and halted. The targets’ tracks led into it, but not even Rosper was prepared to race blindly into such terrain. He studied the ravine instead, holding himself still with an effort. Either Bahzell was atop the far cliff, or he wasn’t—but how to find out without suffering a mischief or wasting time? The day was wearing on, their horses were pulling up lame, and the thought of letting his prey get still further ahead of him galled his soul.

Rosper considered for another long moment, then grunted.

“Change horses,” he ordered brusquely.

“Your pardon, Rosper,” one man said nervously, “but these are our last decent mounts. If we lose them out there—” he nodded at the ravine “—we can’t pursue on the other side.”

“True, Lairdnos,” Rosper grated, “but if there’s trouble crossing, we’ll need fresh horses to get through it. There’s only one way to see if they’re waiting up there, and I’m not going to sit here forever just in case!”

Lairdnos dismounted unhappily, and he and his fellows exchanged glances as they changed saddles to their freshest horses. None were eager to discover what was waiting for them, and Rosper sensed their uneasy support for Lairdnos’ caution. His anger latched on to their unhappiness like igniting banefire.

“Lairdnos!”

The rangy assassin’s mouth went dry. He knew what Rosper was about to say, and he bitterly regretted having opened his mouth. Unfortunately, he’d worked too long and too closely with Chernion, who would never have sought revenge on someone for simply questioning the wisdom of one of his plans. Of course, he wouldn’t have
had
to question
Chernion’s
wisdom in a case like this.

“They may be waiting at there.” Rosper pointed to the willows atop the far cliff. “So to be safe, we’ll send up a scout. You.”

“Yes, Rosper.” Lairdnos saluted and obeyed, for his only alternative was death. The dog brothers didn’t take mutiny lately, however questionable an order might be.

He picked his cautious way into the ravine, and his palms were damp as his eyes flickered over the brink of the cliff with a dreadful fascination. He didn’t care for how thick those willows were.…

He forded the stream in a rush of water and spring birdsong. His bridle jingled, and his horse snorted as it plunged through the rumbling rapids. It caught his fear, and Lairdnos felt it tremble. He tried to soothe it, but his heart wasn’t in it, for Lairdnos—dealer in death—had no wish to die here.

The climbing trail was as bad as he’d feared, and his horse made heavy going, although the twisting grade was at least clear of loose rock or other treacherous footing. Lairdnos tried to feel grateful for small favors and kept his eyes on the trail. The last thing he needed was for his horse to stumble so that the two of them plummeted back into the depths of the ravine. He’d worry about the top if he reached it.

And then he did reach it, abruptly, and drew rein nervously under the lip of the ravine. He wanted his horse as recovered as possible before he poked his nose into that narrow notch. If anything happened, he intended to clap in his heels and dash past whatever awaited him. He’d done his part; let the others figure out why he didn’t come back to report!

He waited as long as he dared, then eased his sword in its sheath and clucked to his horse, starting it forward. The smell of horse sweat was strong in his nostrils, and his own sweat trickled down his spine. He moved into the willow shadows with one hand on his hilt and his nerves on fire.

His sharp, well trained eyes peered to either side. The westering sun slanted bloodily under the branches, but the inner shadows were dense, and he eyed the darker areas with special care, for the Bloody Hand would have hidden himself well.

Nothing.

He glanced up, searching the canopy of thin branches above the trail, even though willows made unlikely perches for overhead attackers.

Nothing.

He rode a hundred yards, bending to sweep the shadows carefully. Still nothing! Elated by survival, he turned back to the clifftop to report.

Rosper watched his scout reappear in the willow-crowned cleft, arms semaphoring a message, and muffled a curse. His first judgment had been correct; the targets didn’t plan to counterattack, or they would never have passed up this spot. Now his over cautiousness had cost another hour of fading light for no good reason, and fresh frustration churned his belly like acid. He waved a return message, then gestured for the others to mount, grinning sourly at their relieved expressions.

Lairdnos watched Rosper’s arms intently, reading the order to move on for another three hundred yards to be doubly certain, and swung his horse obediently, pleased to still be breathing.

* * *

Unfortunately for Lairdnos, anyone who could hide on the Wind Plain found ample scope for concealment in a wood. As the assassin passed a drift of winter willow fronds, piled untidily over a frost killed branch, a long arm snaked from behind. Before he hit the ground, a hook knife opened a second mouth across his throat.

Kenhodan slipped from another drift of brush with no more sound than a cat and moved to the brink of the cliff, careful to conceal himself as he bent his bow. He heard a scuffing sound as Bahzell dragged the body aside, and then steel whispered as the hradani drew his greatsword and spoke softly.