Oath of Swords

A terrible shriek of equine agony filled the world, and the right-hand horseman catapulted from the saddle as sixty inches of razor-sharp steel took his mount across the knees. He landed on his head, his shout of panic cut off with the abrupt, sickening snap of his neck, and his horse went down, screaming and twisting while blood fountained from its truncated forelegs.

Bahzell took a precious second to cut the animal’s throat as he stepped across it into the road, and his eyes glittered as the other two guardsmen dragged their mounts to a sliding halt and gaped back at him. He took one hand from his sword and beckoned to them, and he could almost hear them snarl as he taunted them. His own fury rose to meet them, but he fought it down, strangling the incipient Rage, as they spurred back towards him.

The distance was too short for them to regain their previous speed, yet that made them almost more dangerous, for they wouldn’t override their mark this time. They were further apart, too, opening a gap between them and wary of another feint, and he watched them come, one ear cocked to the shouts and clash of steel behind him, listening for any sound of hooves from the rear.

There was none, and he leapt forward into the opening between them as they charged down on him again. It took them by surprise. The one on his right pulled further to the side, sword poised to unleash a deadly blow, but the maneuver slowed them, bringing them in separately and not together, and Bahzell was on the off side of the one to his left. The left-hand sword came over in a clumsy, cross-body slash that whistled harmlessly wide of a quick duck, and he pivoted to his own right, blade darting up to meet the more dangerous threat from that side.

Steel whined, then glanced from the shoulder of his scale mail with a sledgehammer impact, but his enemy had forgotten how tall his opponent was. He’d cut down from the saddle without guarding his own head . . . and that head bounded from his shoulders as his horse surged past Bahzell.

The Horse Stealer spun on his toes, shoulder aching from the blow his armor had turned, even as the remaining trooper’s mount pivoted on its haunches and came back at him yet again. But this time there was as much fear as fury on the guardsman’s face. He kept Bahzell to his right, clearing his own sword arm, yet he closed far more tentatively, and his head moved in small, quick arcs, as if he fought an urge to look over his shoulder in hopes of other aid.

But there was no aid. Bahzell faced back up the road now, and he saw one of Brandark’s three foes motionless and bleeding in the roadway, the other two swirling in a twisting, furious knot as he held them both in play. His lips drew back in a grin at the sight, and the guardsman paled as he charged to meet him instead of awaiting his attack.

The horse leapt forward with a squeal as the spurs went home, but it was too late. Bahzell’s size canceled out the guardsman’s height advantage, and he’d sacrificed the weapon of momentum. Worse, his sword was far lighter, for no mounted man could manage a blade to match Bahzell’s. What would have been a two-handed great sword for a human was little more than a bastard sword for him. The guardsman’s desperate cut glanced harmlessly from the Horse Stealer’s interposed blade, and Bahzell twisted at the hips, throwing his shoulders into a two-handed blow that smashed through armor-and spine-in a gout of blood.

The charging horse ran out from under the tumbling corpse, and Bahzell completed his turn and raced up the road. One of Brandark’s surviving enemies pitched suddenly from his saddle, clutching at the spouting stump of an arm, and some sixth sense warned his companion. He jerked his horse aside, backing away, and swallowed hard as he realized he was all alone. His eyes darted over the sprawled bodies, and then he yanked his mount’s head around, slammed in his heels, darted past Bahzell, and galloped off to the east.

Bahzell slid to a halt, chest heaving, and Brandark looked across at him from the saddle. A deep cut on the Bloody Sword’s cheek dripped onto his once splendid jerkin, slashed fabric fluttered where a sword had cut his left shirtsleeve, and his eyes glittered with a fire utterly at odds with his usual dandy’s role, but his tenor voice was more drawling than ever.

“Pitiful,” he sighed, watching the fleeing guardsman thunder down the road in a flurry of dust. “Simply pitiful. And-” his teeth flashed in a sudden smile “-I do wish I could hear him explain this one to Churnazh!”

Chapter Six

The Grand Duchy of Esgan was nervous about its neighbors. Bloody Sword hradani had poured over its frontiers all too often in its seven-hundred-year history, and the posts along its eastern border were more substantial than those one might find elsewhere, with garrisons to match.

A twenty-man platoon flowed out onto the road as Bahzell and Brandark approached, and Bahzell watched speculatively while they shook themselves into order. The only humans he’d ever seen had been Sothōii cavalrymen intent on spilling his blood, and he was almost disappointed by how normal the Esganian infantry looked. They were well turned out, with better armor and weapons than even Hurgrum could provide, yet there was something just a bit sloppy about their formation, as if they knew they were mere border guards.

They were also much darker than most Sothōii . . . and smaller. The tallest was shorter than Brandark and barely chest-high on Bahzell, and the Horse Stealer’s ears twitched with derisive amusement as he saw them absorb that fact and draw into a tighter array.

An officer stepped to the fore, his brightly worked rank insignia gleaming, and raised an imperious hand at the two hradani.

“State your business!” His badly accented Navahkan held an edge of truculence and an even sharper one of nervousness, for in addition to their own horses, Bahzell and Brandark led no less than four more with war saddles. Two were laden with bloodstained arms and armor whose original owners no longer required them, and two badly wounded, semiconscious guardsmen were strapped into the saddles of the other two.

“Certainly.” Brandark’s calm Esganian was far better than the officer’s Navahkan. “My companion and I wish to cross the border and travel to Esgfalas in hopes of hiring on as caravan guards.”

“Caravan guards?” Even Bahzell, whose Esganian was limited at best, recognized the officer’s incredulity. The man’s eyes flitted back over their plunder and Churnazh’s two wounded guardsmen, and he cleared his throat. “You seem a bit, ah, well-equipped for caravan guards, friend.”

“We do?” Brandark turned in his saddle to run his own eyes back over the cavalcade. “I suppose we do, Captain, but it’s all come by honestly.” The officer made a strangled sound, and Brandark gri

“Without cause?” the officer repeated politely, with a significant glance at the wounded guardsmen’s livery, and Brandark shrugged.

“Well, it seemed that way to us , Captain. At any rate, we claim their arms and horses as lawful plunder.”

“I see.” The officer rubbed his chin, then shrugged. Manifestly, the reasons for which hradani chose to slaughter one another meant nothing to him, as long as they did it on their own side of the border. “May I ask your names?”

“My name is Brandark, until recently of Navahk,” Brandark replied cheerfully. “The tall fellow yonder is Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“Ah, yes,” the officer said. “As a matter of fact I have. Something about broken hostage bond and rape, I believe.” Bahzell stiffened, but the Esganian went on in an unhurried tone. “Since, however, the tale came from an officer of Prince Churnazh’s Guard-I believe that’s his surcoat there, on the second horse-I saw no particular reason to believe the rape charges. As for the hostage bond, that would be between your friend, Prince Churnazh, and Hurgrum, and no concern of Esgan’s. But-” he darted sharp eyes back to Brandark “-no one mentioned anything about you .”