Oath of Swords

Silence hovered, and then Tarlnasa sniffed. He turned his back upon the captain, and the riverman rolled his eyes at Bahzell and Brandark before he stumped back to his helmsman.

“Moron!” Tarlnasa muttered resentfully. He ran his fingers through his beard, then gave his long hair a settling tug, squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and looked up at Bahzell.

“Well, now that he’s out of the way, I suppose I should get down to the reason for my visit.”

“Aye, well, don’t let us be stopping you,” Bahzell rumbled. He started to step out of the man’s way, but Tarlnasa shook his head irritably.

“No, no, no! ” he snapped. “Gods give me patience, you’re all idiots!”

“Idiot I may be,” Bahzell said less cheerfully, “but it’s in my mind you’d do better not to be calling it to my attention, friend.”

“Then just listen to me, will you? You’re the reason I’m here!”

“I am?” Bahzell’s eyebrows rose, and Tarlnasa snorted.

“You are, gods help us all. Why they had to pick me, and get me out of bed at this ungodly hour and send me down here to endure that loudmouthed dolt of a captain and now this -!” He broke off and shook his head, then folded his arms. “Attend me, Bahzell Bahnakson,” he said imperiously, “for I bring you word from the gods themselves.”

He raised his chin to strike a dramatic pose, and Bahzell leaned back, ears flattened, and planted his hands on his hips. Bahzell glanced at Brandark and saw the same stiffness in his friend’s spine, but then the Bloody Sword made himself relax, shrugged eloquently and stepped to the side. He leaned on the bulwark, gazing back at the receding docks, and Bahzell looked back down. Tarlnasa had abandoned his theatrical pose to glare up at him in self-important impatience, as if the Horse Stealer were a none-too-bright student who ought to have sense enough to beg his mentor to illumine his ignorance. The man was an ass and a lunatic, Bahzell told himself . . . unless the gods truly had sent him, in which case he was something far worse. The Horse Stealer remembered his dreams, and a spike of panic stabbed him. If it was some god sending them, had they left him in peace last night because they knew this madman was coming?

“And what if I’m not so very interested in hearing what ‘the gods’ have to say?” he demanded at last.

“What?” Tarlnasa gaped at him, and the hradani shrugged.

“I don’t meddle with gods,” he rumbled, “and I’ll thank them not to be meddling with me.”

“Don’t be an ass!” Tarlnasa snapped, then shook himself, recrossed his arms, and fell back into rolling periods. “You’ve been chosen by the gods for great deeds, Bahzell Bahnakson. A great destiny awaits you, and-”

“ ‘Destiny,’ is it?” Bahzell grunted. “You can be keeping your ‘destinies’-aye, and tell whatever god sent you I said so!”

“Stop interrupting!” Tarlnasa stamped a foot and rolled his eyes heavenward, pleading for strength. “Why the gods should choose a blockhead like you is beyond me, but they have. Now be still and listen to their commands!”

“No,” Bahzell said flatly. Tarlnasa goggled up at the towering Horse Stealer, and elemental hradani stubbor

“But you have to! I mean- That is-”

“That I don’t.” Bahzell glanced at the docks, begi

“Of course I can! I was born in Derm, though what that has to do with anything is more than I can see. The point is that the gods have chosen me to reveal to you their plans for you. You are commanded to- Stop! What are you doing?! Put me down , you-!”

The high-pitched, nasal voice cut off in a tremendous splash as Bahzell dropped Tarlnasa overboard. The hradani leaned out across the bulwark, gazing down into the water, and watched a head of streaming brown hair break the surface in a seaweed cloud of white beard and a furious splutter.

“The shore’s that way,” he said genially, pointing at the riverbank while the riverboat’s crew howled with laughter.

“You idiot! ” Tarlnasa wailed. “The gods-”

“Take yourself and your poxy gods off before I’m after pushing you back under,” Bahzell advised.

Tarlnasa gawked up at him, treading water as the barge pushed on downstream away from him under full sail. He seemed frozen, unable to believe what was happening, and Bahzell waved cheerfully.

“Have a nice swim, now!” he called out as the philosopher fell even further astern. Tarlnasa raised a dripping fist and shook it at the departing boat with a wordless screech, only to splutter again as he went under once more. He kicked back to the surface, spat out a mouthful of water, shouted something far less exalted than his earlier peroration, and then swam strongly for the shore while Bahzell leaned on the bulwark beside Brandark and watched him go.

“You know,” Brandark said after a long, thoughtful pause, “you really ought to work on how you deal with others in social situations.”

“Why?” Bahzell asked mildly as Tarlnasa dragged himself up the bank and stood knee-deep in mud, shaking both fists and screeching curses after the barge. “He made it, didn’t he?”

Chapter Thirteen

The Morvan River was a peaceful place. Golden sunlight slanted across dark blue water, ruffled here and there with white lace or streaked brown with mud where it shallowed, but the central cha

Bahzell and Brandark sat in their regular spot on the foredeck, enjoying the sun’s warmth, and the Bloody Sword’s clever fingers wove a gentle, pleasantly plaintive tune from his balalaika in and out around the quiet rasp of Bahzell’s whetstone. The Horse Stealer sat cross-legged while he honed his sword, and his eyes were hooded, despite their present tranquility, for Bahzell was uneasy. The riverborne portion of Kilthan’s a

It hadn’t seemed that way at first. The voyage from Derm to Saramfal, capital of the elvish Kingdom of Saramantha, had been without incident. Even Brandark, who still harbored a nonswimmer’s doubts about this whole notion of boats, had relaxed. They’d actually learned enough to lend their weight on halyards and sheets, and Bahzell had been grateful for the peaceful interlude after his encounter with Jothan Tarlnasa.

For all his studied nonchalance with Brandark, the episode left him uneasy. The notion that the gods-any gods-took an interest in him was enough to make a man bilious; the idea that they had “commands” for him was downright frightening. It had taken him a full day to get the coppery fear taste out of his mouth, but he had, at length, and he’d actually begun to enjoy the voyage-until Saramfal, at least.

The elves’ island capital wore the city’s white walls and splendid towers on its rocky head like a spired crown. He’d known he was gawking like a country-bred lout on market day while the boats tied up in the shadow of those walls, but he hadn’t been able to help it. Nor had he really cared. That first sight had been as wondrous as he’d always suspected an elvish city must be, and he’d been eager to explore it, yet once he had, Saramfal’s reality had been . . . disturbing.