Oath of Swords

The massive hradani trembled with the physical echo of the struggle against his demon. Beads of sweat merged into a solid sheet, breath hissed between his teeth in sharp, sibilant spits of air, and a guttural sound-too soft to be a snarl yet too savage to be anything else-shivered in his throat. It was a slow, agonizing process, this controlled waking of the Rage, but he fought his way through it, clinging to the purpose which had brought him here, and then, suddenly, his shoulders relaxed and his eyes flared open once more.

They were different, those eyes. Both brighter and darker, hard as polished stone, and his lips drew back as another shriek of pain floated down the corridor.

The Rage boiled within him like fixed, focused purpose, and he sheathed his dagger and flexed his fingers, then toed the library door open.

He made no move to step through it as it swung gently, silently wide. His thoughts were crystal clear, gilded in the Rage’s fire yet colder than ice, and he simply stood watching in the mirror as the guard at the head of the hall looked up. The sentry frowned and opened his mouth, but another scream-more desperate than the others-came through the door at his back, and he grimaced.

Not the time for a prudent guard to be disturbing his master, Bahzell thought through the glitter of the Rage, and his ears flattened as the sentry drew his sword and started down the hall. He was better than the gate guard had been, and his head turned in slow, small arcs, as if he sensed some unseen danger. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to raise the alarm over no more than a door that had opened of itself. Perhaps, he thought, the baron had failed to close it securely and some gust of wind through the library windows had pushed it open. Unlikely though that seemed, it was far more likely than that someone had crept past all the outer guards, scaled to a second-floor room undetected, and then opened the door without even stepping through it!

Yet even as his mind sought some harmless reason, his sword was out and his eyes were wary. He reached the door and stood listening, unaware Bahzell could see him in the mirror. He reached out and gripped the door in his free hand, drawing it further back to step around it, and as the door moved, Bahzell, too, reached out. His long arm darted around the door with the blinding, pitiless speed of the Rage. He ignored the sentry’s sword; his hand went for the other man’s throat like a striking serpent.

The guard’s eyes flared in panic. He sucked in air to shout even as he tried to leap back, but that enormous hand didn’t encircle his neck. It gripped the front of his throat between thumb and fisted fingers, and his stillborn shout died in an agonized gurgle as Bahzell twisted his hand. A trachea crushed, ripped, tore, and then the Horse Stealer stepped out into the hall, and his other hand caught the guard’s sword hand as the strangling sentry tried frantically to strike at him.

The guardsman’s free hand beat at Bahzell, but the hradani’s grip was an iron manacle upon his sword hand. He couldn’t even open his fingers to drop the weapon, and Bahzell Bahnakson’s cold, merciless smile was the last thing his bulging eyes ever saw as his crushed windpipe strangled him to death.

Bahzell held the body until it stopped twitching, dragged it back into the library, and lowered it to the carpet. Steel rasped as he drew his own sword, and then he went down the hall with the deadly tread of a dire cat.

The carved door was locked, and Bahzell raised a booted foot. He drove it forward, and the door crashed open as its lock disintegrated.

It wasn’t a woman who’d been screaming; it was a boy-naked, no more than twelve, bound to a stone table, his chest already a bloody ruin of oozing cuts-and a silk clad man leapt back with a startled cry as his door flew wide.

“What in Carnad-?! ” he snapped, whirling towards the intrusion, but the oath died in his throat and his eyes went huge. He stared at Bahzell in disbelief, then dropped his razor-edged knife, and his hands flickered.

Something tore at Bahzell, twisting deep in his brain, but he barely felt its pain, and the wordless snarl of a hunting beast quivered in his throat. He bounded through the door and kicked it shut behind him, and Baron Dunsahnta paled as his spell of compulsion failed. He spat a phrase in High Kontovaran, hands moving again, but the force of Bahzell’s Rage filled the very air. The baron had never encountered its like-never imagined anything like it-and the terrible power of the curse of the hradani lashed at him. Not even a full adept could have adjusted for its impact, for the way it twisted and reverberated in the energy fields about him, and the baron was little more than a journeyman. The bolt of power which should have struck Bahzell down flashed up from the baron’s hands in a dazzling burst of light that accomplished absolutely nothing, and then that huge sword whistled at him.

Baron Dunsahnta screamed as the flat of the blade crashed into his left arm. Bone splintered, hurling him to the floor, and a boot slammed down on his right elbow. He shrieked again as more bone broke, then wailed in terror as a hand gripped his robe and snatched him up. Brown eyes, harder than stone and colder than death itself, stared into his, and he writhed in agony and strangling panic as the mouth below those eyes smiled.

“Now then,” a voice that was inhuman in every sense of the word said coldly, almost caressingly, “I’m thinking it’s time we had a little chat.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Brandark stared out into the night, trying to hide his concern. Bahzell had been gone too long, but he’d heard no alarms, and one thing was certain: his friend would never be taken quietly, whatever happened. So-

“And a good evening to you, Brandark,” a deep voice said, and the Bloody Sword leapt a full inch into the air. His sword was in his hand by the time he landed, and he whirled with a curse.

“Fiendark seize you, don’t do that!” he gasped at the huge shadow which had filtered from the night and heard Tothas’ soft, sibilant endorsement, but both of them crowded forward to seize the Horse Stealer’s shoulders-only to pause as they saw the small, cloth-wrapped body he held.

Bahzell ignored them and bent over the boy in his arms. The youngster shook like a terrified leaf, and his eyes were huge with fear and pain, but a smile trembled on his mouth when the hradani nodded to him.

“There now, didn’t I say we’d be making it out?” The boy managed a tiny answering nod. “So I did, and now we’ll take you where it’s safe. You’ve my word.”

The boy closed his eyes and pressed his face into the Horse Stealer’s armored chest, and Bahzell’s huge, gentle hands held him close.

“My Lady?” Tothas demanded, and slumped as Bahzell shook his head.

“Buck up, man. We’d never much hope of finding her here, but now I’ve a notion where I should be looking.”

“You do?” Tothas looked back up eagerly, and the hradani nodded.

“Aye. But first we’ve a lad to get safe back to The Brown Horse, and then it’s time we were making some plans.”

The landlord was less than pleased to see them back-until he recognized his own nephew in Bahzell’s arms. The healer was still there, watching over Rekah, and the i

“You know where to find My Lady?” Tothas demanded urgently.

“In a ma