Oath of Swords

“Ha!” The spokesman wore the golden trident badge of a worshiper of Korthrala. Now he surveyed the towering, naked, soaking wet intruder on his foredeck and tweaked a handlebar mustache with such superb panache Bahzell’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’ve picked the wrong ship tonight, friend,” the halfling said with obvious satisfaction. “I think we’ll just feed you back to the fishes and be done with it.”

“Now, now. Let’s not be doing anything hasty,” Bahzell rumbled back.

“Oh, we won’t be hasty, friend!” The halfling smiled unpleasantly and nodded to his fellows, who split up into pairs to come at Bahzell from both sides. “But you might want to nip back over the side right sharp.”

“And here was I, thinking as how halflings were such cautious folk, and all,” Bahzell replied, still keeping his hand away from his dagger.

“Not Marfang Island halflings.” The spokesman kept his eyes fixed on Bahzell, but his lip curled. “We can get downright nasty, so if I were you, I’d be back over that rail double quick.”

“Marfang Island, is it?” Bahzell murmured, and his ears cocked. He’d heard of Marfang Island halflings. They were said to be a breed apart from their fellows-taller, stronger, and noted for a personal courage that verged all too often on rashness. Even the Wild Wash hradani who lived across the cha

“Aye, it is,” the halfling agreed. “And the rail’s still waiting for you,” he added pointedly.

“You’ve guts enough for five wee, tiny fellows with knives, I’ll grant that,” Bahzell said easily, and the halfling gave a crack of laughter.

“Maybe so, but there are four of us, and you’ve naught but a knife yourself, longshanks!”

“Do I now?” Bahzell murmured, and raised his empty right hand with a brief, silent prayer that he’d understood Tomanāk correctly that night in the Shipwood. The halflings stopped, suddenly wary, and he drew a deep breath.

“Come!” he bellowed, and the halflings jumped back in surprise at the sheer volume of his shout-then jumped back again, with unseemly haste, as five feet of gleaming steel snapped into existence in his hand and an empty scabbard thumped the deck at his feet.

“Well now! It did work,” Bahzell observed. He put both hands on his hilt but lowered the tip of the blade to touch the deck unthreateningly and smiled at the spokesman. “I’m thinking I’ve a bit more than a knife now, friend,” he pointed out genially, and the halfling swallowed.

“How . . . how did-?” He stopped and shook himself, then cleared his throat. “Who in Korthrala’s name are you, and what d’you want?” he demanded.

“As to that, my name is Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum, and I’ve need of your ship.”

“Prince of-?” the halfling began incredulously, only to stop with a bark of laughter. “Aye, of course you’re a prince! What else could you be?” He ran his eyes back over the naked hradani and tweaked his mustache once more. Bahzell’s ears flicked in amusement at his tone, but there was no more give in his eyes than in the halfling’s, and he nodded.

“That I am, friend, and a champion of Tomanāk.” All five halflings looked at one another in disbelief, and Bahzell’s voice hardened. “I’d not be laughing at that , were I you, for I’m not in the mood.” He raised the tip of his sword slightly, and the spokesman held out a restraining hand as his fellows bristled in instant response.

“Not yet, lads,” he said, his eyes still locked with Bahzell’s. More feet scampered up the companion as his crew belowdecks realized something was happening, but neither he nor Bahzell turned their heads. They faced each other in the darkness, and then the halfling looked pointedly at Bahzell’s sword and raised an eyebrow. The Horse Stealer turned it slightly, letting the light catch the symbols of Tomanāk etched deep into the steel, and the halfling nodded and lowered his own blade.

“Well, then, Bahzell Bahnakson,” he said dryly, “my name’s Evark, and I’m master of this ship. If you need her, I’m the man you have to talk to about it, so suppose you tell me why I should waste time listening?”

“I’ve no mind to be rude,” Bahzell replied politely, “but I’m thinking this-” he twitched his sword “-might be one reason.”

“It might,” Evark allowed. “You might even be able to carve us all up into fish food with it, though I doubt Tomanāk would approve. But that would still leave you a little problem, friend-unless you’ve got a spare crew tucked away?”

Bahzell chuckled and leaned back, propping his weight on his sword.

“You’ve a way about you, Evark, indeed you do. Very well, then, if it’s a reason you’re wanting, d’you think we could be keeping our swords out of each other long enough for me to give you one?” He twitched his heavy purse so that it jingled, and added, “You’ve my word you’ll not lose by listening.”

“Oh, I suppose we might.” Evark beckoned his crewmen back and sat on the roof of the deckhouse, his own sword across his thighs, and gri

Brandark sat huddled in a blanket beside the piled heap of driftwood and stared morosely out to sea. The night lay in ashes about him, a hint of gray tinged the eastern horizon, and he chewed the inside of his lip.

Bahzell should have been back by now, assuming his lunatic plan had worked, and worry gnawed at the Bloody Sword. The whole idea was crazy, and he was bitterly aware why Bahzell had hatched it. He touched his bandaged leg and swore. The sheer joy of realizing it was going to heal after all had been so great he’d almost been able to forget what his continuing incapacity implied, but he could no longer pretend. Without him to look after, Bahzell could have played catch-as-catch-can with the cavalry patrols; with someone who could barely ride, much less walk, that was impossible. Which was why Bahzell had hit upon the notion of somehow hiring-or stealing-a ship. The idea had a sort of elegant simplicity, but only an idiot would think a hunted fugitive could sneak into the Purple Lords’ very capital, get aboard a ship, and-

His thoughts broke off as something flashed in the darkness. It blinked again, then burned steadily-a tiny pinprick of light, spilling reflections of itself across the sea. Brandark stared at it incredulously, unable to believe in it, and then he was fumbling madly for his tinderbox.

A brilliant arm of sun heaved itself drippingly out of the sea just as the launch came gliding in. There was something strange about the boat, and it had taken Brandark several seconds to realize what it was. That enormous shape in the bows had to be Bahzell, but the oarsmen looked like children beside him, and the Bloody Sword shook his head in fresh disbelief as he saw the glint of ivory horns and realized they were halflings.

The boat slid up on the beach, and Bahzell-wearing sword and dagger but otherwise naked as the day he was born-leapt over the side and heaved it higher on the sand.

“I see there’s some benefits to bringing along someone your size after all!” a voice called from the stern sheets, and Bahzell gri

“You’ve a sharp tongue for so small a fellow, Evark!” he replied. The fiercely mustachioed halfling laughed, and then Bahzell was bounding through the surf to clasp Brandark on both shoulders. “And you, little man! Don’t be telling me you weren’t feeling just a mite anxious.”