Oath of Swords

Five feet of razored steel-and that glittering blue nimbus-exploded across a sinuous, armored neck with an ear-shattering CRACK ! It ripped through half-inch scale like tissue, bit deep into u

Chapter Thirty-two

The hurricane died, and quiet fell like a hammer, broken only by a soft, fitful patter-the sound of the last broken branches, falling as the wind released them. The invisible barrier which had blocked Brandark vanished, and he floundered to his feet and down the muddy hill to the mountainous, crumpled heap of the demon, still twitching with the last flicker of its u

Brandark flung himself to his knees, and his hand trembled with more than the aftermath of the Rage as he touched the side of Bahzell’s neck, then gasped in relief at the slow, strong throb of the Horse Stealer’s pulse. The spiderlike limb across him was massive as a tree trunk, but the Bloody Sword wrapped his arms around it and heaved. It took all his strength to shift it, yet he managed to move it just far enough to haul Bahzell from under it.

He dragged his friend clear, circling round upwind of the fallen demon to get out of the worst of its stench, and arranged him on his back. Bahzell was bruised, battered, and filthy with foul-smelling blood, and huge streaks of steel plates had been ripped from his scale mail, but Brandark heaved an even deeper sigh of relief as he examined him. Hradani tended to survive anything that didn’t kill them outright, and, impossible as it seemed, Bahzell didn’t even seem to have any broken bones. The Bloody Sword slumped down on his heels in disbelief. He’d seen it with his own eyes, and it didn’t help. He still didn’t believe it.

The eerie blackness faded into the more natural dimness of evening, and Brandark shook himself. He thrust himself back upright with the stiffness of an old, old man and picked his way back down to the demon. It took him several minutes to spot Bahzell’s sword-it was hidden almost to the hilt under the demon’s body-and even longer to summon the courage to touch it. Brandark knew that blade as well as his own, but the crackling blue corona that had turned it into a weapon out of legend left him off balance and unsure. No trace of that eldritch glare remained, yet he had to draw a deep breath and clench his jaw before he gripped the hilt. Nothing happened, and he pulled it from under the monster and carried it gingerly back up the slope just as Bahzell groaned and began to stir.

The Horse Stealer groaned again and shoved himself up to sit on the muddy hillside. He blinked his eyes, as if they didn’t want to focus, then scrubbed at them with one hand. It was as filthy as the rest of him, smearing more mud and blood across his face, but it seemed to help, and he turned his head as Brandark went to his knees at his side and laid the sword beside him.

“I trust-” it cost Brandark a great deal of effort to put the right drawl into his voice “-that you don’t plan to do that again anytime soon?”

“Ah?” Bahzell blinked again, owlishly, and shook his head. It was a tentative gesture, as if he were assuring himself it was still attached, but he managed a lopsided grin. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, I’m not thinking as how that’s something a man wants to be doing too often. Best save it up for times when life goes all boring on him.”

“Boring,” Brandark repeated dryly. “I see.” Bahzell started to stand, and the Bloody Sword pushed him back down. “Just sit there and feel bored a bit longer while you get your breath back,” he advised testily.

“Hush, now!” Bahzell brushed the restraining hand aside and rose. “I’ve a notion someone dropped a tree on me when I wasn’t watching, but I’m in one piece yet, Brandark!”

He stretched his arms enormously, then put his hands on his hips and tried a few limbering up exercises and smiled more naturally at his friend as various joints and muscles worked. Brandark still looked dubious, but in truth, Bahzell felt far better than he knew he had any right feeling. Bruised, battered, and exhausted, perhaps, yet that was a preposterously light price for his survival. He rubbed a particularly tender bruise on his jaw, and his smile turned into a frown as he looked down at the Bloody Sword.

“Indeed, I’m thinking I should be feeling a sight worse than I am. Where’s-”

He turned, and his voice died as he saw the outstretched demon. The light was almost gone, hiding the creature’s more hideous details, but he could see enough, and his hand stopped moving along his jaw. He stood motionless, gazing at the enormous carcass, and then slowly, slowly lowered his hand. He turned to look at Brandark with his mouth slightly open and his ears half-flattened, and the Bloody Sword shrugged.

“Don’t ask me. I saw you kill it, and I still don’t know how you did it. All I know is that you started shouting Tomanāk’s name, lit up like Wencit’s sword, and charged straight at it like a maniac. Of course,” Brandark stood and slapped him on the shoulder with a grin, “you never have been noted for imaginative tactics, but still-!”

“Tactics, is it?” Bahzell closed his mouth with an effort and tried to summon up a glare.

“No, not tactics; the absence of them,” Brandark corrected. “Still, it seems to’ve worked, and-”

“Indeed it did,” an earthquake voice rumbled suddenly behind them.

Both hradani spun, and it was Brandark’s turn to drop his jaw as he saw the huge shape on the crest of the hill. Blue light, like a gentle shadow of the glare which had engulfed Bahzell, shone from it, and the Bloody Sword felt himself slip to one knee in automatic response.

Bahzell didn’t. His head went up, and his shoulders straightened, but he kept his feet and met Tomanāk’s eyes steadily. The god cocked his head for a moment, then nodded in approval.

“You did well, Bahzell.” His impossibly deep voice was quiet, yet a fanfare of trumpets seemed to sound in its depths.

“Aye, well, as to that, I’ve a notion you had something to do with it, as well.”

“I told you I strengthen my champions.”

“Do you, now?” Bahzell cocked his ears, and his voice was thoughtful. “I’m thinking it might be you were doing just a mite more than that this time.”

“Not a great deal,” Tomanāk said, and shook his head at Bahzell’s skeptical look. “Oh, I lent your sword a bit of my power, but that would have meant little without your heart and purpose behind it, Bahzell.”

“Mine?” Bahzell sounded surprised, and Tomanāk nodded, then lowered his eyes to include Brandark in his gaze.

“Yours and no one else’s. The Rage is your people’s curse, but it need not be one forever. That’s one reason I wanted you as my champion.”

Bahzell looked a question at him, and the War God sighed.

“Bahzell, Brandark, what was done to your people went deeper than even the wizards behind it dreamed. Their purpose was simply to goad and control you, to create a weapon, but the consequences of a spell may go far beyond what the wizard intended.”

The hradani stared at him, listening intently, and Tomanāk folded his arms across his immense chest.

“Wizardry is power-nothing more, and nothing less. As Wencit told you, it’s energy which can be applied to specific tasks. Some of those tasks are straightforward; others are complex and subtle, especially when they pertain to living creatures. Inanimate objects can be altered, transformed, even destroyed with relative impunity and without changing their fundamental natures. Blast a boulder to gravel, and it remains the same stone; you’ve simply broken it into fragments.”