Oath of Swords

The dwarvish singer came to the end of his song, and Brandark let the last note linger, then stilled the strings with a gentle palm. There was a moment of total silence that died in applause, and he and Yahnath rose beside the fire to bow. Someone clapped harder, and Brandark slapped the stocky, bearded dwarf with the golden voice on the shoulder and gri

The moonlit night was cool, almost chill, clear, spangled with stars, and no longer soaked with rain. They were free of the hills, barely a day’s journey from Hildarth, capital of the Duchy of Moretz, and the men were relaxed, less tense. The easier going, coupled with the dearth of raiders and the easing of their duties as Rianthus integrated the more reliable of the independent guard detachments into his operations, meant there was energy for songs and tales now . . . and enough singers to spare them Brandark’s voice.

The Bloody Sword didn’t blame them. At least they’d been polite, and they still valued his playing, but it had needed only two or three performances for them to reach the same judgment Navahk had reached. And, listening to Yahnath, he could agree with them, however much he longed not to. So he gave one last sweeping bow, slung his balalaika, adjusted his embroidered jerkin, and began picking his way towards the tent he shared with Bahzell.

Familiar, bittersweet amusement at his own foolish ambitions filled him, and he stopped for a long moment, gazing up at the brilliant moon while his throat ached with the need to praise that loveliness, express the deep, complex longing it woke within him.

And he couldn’t. He knew how horrible his verse was. He longed for the rolling beauty of the written word, the cadenced purity, the exact, perfect word to express the very essence of a thought or emotion, and he produced . . . doggerel. Sometimes amusing or even witty doggerel, but doggerel, and everyone knew about his voice. He supposed it was fu

He closed his eyes in all too familiar pain, then shook himself and resumed his careful progress across the camp. There were birds and fish, he told himself, just as there were those who were meant to be bards and those who weren’t. Birds drowned, and fish couldn’t fly, but he knew something inside him would demand he go on trying, like a salmon perpetually hurling itself into the air in a desperate bid to become a hawk. Which was more stubborn than intelligent, perhaps, but what could one expect from a hradani? He gri

His grin vanished, and his ears flicked. No one else in Kilthan’s train would have recognized that sound, and even he couldn’t make out the restless, muttering words from here, but he knew Hurgrumese when he heard it.

He moved more quickly, head swiveling as he sca

Bahzell twisted and jerked, kicked half out of his bedroll, and sweat beaded his face. His massive hands clutched the blankets, wrestling with them as if they were constricting serpents, and Brandark’s ears went flat as the terror in his friend’s meaningless, fragmented mutters sank home. The Bloody Sword had known fear enough in Navahk not to despise it in another, but this was more than fear. The raw, agonized torment in it glazed his skin with ice, and he reached out to touch Bahzell’s shoulder.

“Haaahhhhhhh! ” Bahzell gasped, and a hand caught Brandark’s wrist like a vise, fit to shatter any human arm, so powerful even Brandark hissed in anguish. But then the Horse Stealer’s eyes flared open. Recognition flickered in their clouded depths, and his grip relaxed as quickly as it had closed.

“Brandark?” His mutter was thick, and he shook his head drunkenly. He shoved up on the elbow of the hand still gripping Brandark’s wrist, scrubbing at his face with his other hand. “What?” he asked more clearly. “What is it?”

“I . . . was going to ask you that.” Brandark kept his voice low and twisted his wrist gently. Bahzell looked down, ears twitching as he realized he held it, and his hand opened completely. He stared at his own fingers for a moment, then clenched them into a fist and sucked in a deep breath.

“So, it’s muttering in my sleep I was, is it?” he said softly, and his jaw clenched when Brandark nodded. He opened and closed his fist a few times, then sighed and thrust himself into a sitting position. “A blooded warrior with a score of raids into the Wind Plain,” he murmured in a quiet, bitter whisper, “and he’s whimpering in his nightmares like a child! Pah!”

He spat in disgust, then looked up with a jerk as Brandark touched his shoulder again.

“That was no child’s nightmare,” the Bloody Sword said. Bahzell’s eyes widened, and Brandark shrugged. “I couldn’t make out exactly what you were saying, but I picked out a few words.”

“Aye? And what might they have been?” Bahzell asked tautly.

“You spoke of gods, Bahzell-more than one, I think-and of wizards.” Brandark’s voice was harsh, and Bahzell grunted as if he’d been punched in the belly. They stared at one another in the night, and then Bahzell looked up at the moon.

“I’ve three hours before I go on watch, and I’m thinking it’s best we go somewhere private,” he said flat-voiced.

They found a place among the provision wagons, and Brandark perched on a lowered wagon tongue while Bahzell stood with a boot braced on a wheel spoke and leaned both arms on his raised knee. A silence neither wanted to break lingered, but finally Bahzell cleared his throat and straightened.

“I’m thinking,” he said quietly, “that I don’t like this above half, Brandark. What business does such as me have with dreams like that?”

“I suppose,” Brandark said very carefully, “that the answer depends on just what sorts of dreams they are.”

“Aye, so it does-or should.” The Horse Stealer folded his arms, standing like a blacker, more solid chunk of night, and exhaled noisily. “The only trouble with that, Brandark my lad, is that I’m not after being able to remember the cursed things!”

“Then tonight wasn’t the first time?” Brandark’s tenor was taut.

“That it wasn’t,” Bahzell said grimly. “They’ve plagued me nightly-every night, I’m thinking-since the brigands hit us, but all I’ve been able to call to mind from them is bits and pieces. There’s naught to get my teeth into, naught to be telling me what they mean . . . or want of me.”

Brandark’s hand moved in a quick, instinctive sign, and Bahzell’s soft laugh was bitter in the darkness. Brandark flushed and lowered his hand. He started to speak, but Bahzell shook his head.

“No, lad. Don’t fret yourself-it’s more than once I’ve made the same sign now.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Brandark shivered, for he, too, was hradani, then squared his shoulders. “Tell me what you do remember,” he commanded.