David Weber - Hradani (Oath of Swords) 02 - The War God's Own

The War God's Own

by David M. Weber

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-87873-5

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, May 1998

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

For Clarence A. Weber,

my father.

A man who loved books and taught me to, as well.

I wish you were here to read this one

like you promised.

ALSO IN THIS SERIES:

Oath of Swords

BAEN BOOKS by DAVID WEBER:

Honor Harrington Novels:

On Basilisk Station

The Honor of the Queen

The Short Victorious War

Field of Dishonor

Flag in Exile

Honor Among Enemies

In Enemy Hands

Edited by David Weber:

More Than Honor

Mutineers' Moon

The Armageddon Inheritance

Heirs of Empire

Path of the Fury

With Steve White:

Insurrection

Crusade

In Death Ground

PROLOGUE

Slate-gray seawater blew back in explosions of white as the twin- masted

schooner sliced through the swell. The eastern sky ahead of her was brushed

with rose and gold, a dawn that offered beauty to the eye if no warmth to

cold-pinched fingers and noses, and ice glittered on her stays. The low, sleek

vessel's flag-green, badged with a golden seagull-and black hull proclaimed

her Marfang Island registry. Not that any flags were needed. A prudent seaman

would have taken at least one reef, but she leaned well over to the wind,

driven hard by a captain who was, to say the least, confident. Others would

have used a less complimentary adjective as they watched white water cascade

over her leeward rails like a tide race.

Some argued that Marfang Islanders took risks sane people went far out of

their ways to avoid specifically because of their small size, as a sort of

compensation for standing little more than three feet tall. Others held that

they deliberately courted danger in an effort to prove that the reputation for

cowardice which clung to other halflings did not apply to them, while still

others claimed that it was all because of something in Marfang Island's water.

Any or all of the theories could well be true, yet in the end the "why"

mattered less than the "what," and any deep-water sailor who saw that

schooner's driving approach to Belhadan Bay would instantly proclaim that her

skipper and crew must be Marfangers.

And he would have been right . . . mostly. But not entirely, for two of the

figures working about her deck were hradani who towered above their

companions. One was perhaps an inch or two over six feet, which was quite

enough to make him loom over the ivory-horned halflings about him, but the

other was at least seven and a half feet tall. That made him a giant even for

his native Horse Stealer tribe, and someone like him had no business on the

deck of a vessel scaled to halflings, yet he moved among them with a

nimbleness at odds with his stature, lending his massive weight and strength

wherever it was most needed.

"Don't just stand there like a whore at a wedding, Master Holderman! Trim that

foresheet! It's slacker than those idlers you call seamen!"

The words roared from the quarterdeck through Evark Pitchallow's leather

speaking trumpet, and his first mate grimaced. Then he waved acknowledgment

aft and began snapping orders of his own. The schooner's crew had just

finished shaking out the reefs that even Evark carried overnight in these

waters in winter, and the mate was pleased with how efficiently they'd done

so. In fact, there were at most a few inches of slack in the offending

foresheet, but the word panache might have been coined specifically for

Captain Pitchallow, and Holderman knew better than to argue with him. Nor did

the seamen who hurried to obey his orders show any inclination to dawdle, for

Belhadan Bay was the largest (and busiest) port of the Empire of the Axe.

Every professional seaman in the world passed through it sooner or later, and

Pitchallow's crew knew he wasn't about to stand for their embarrassing him in

front of his peers, even if they did have two out-sized, half-trained

landlubbers getting in their way.

Something between a word and a grunt came through the speaking trumpet in an

expression of what was probably satisfaction, and Holderman drew a deep breath

and nodded to the men about him. Several grinned at him, as accustomed as he

to their captain's ways, and he was hard put not to grin back. But he'd earned

his own master's ticket last year, and he had high hopes of winning command of

his own ship when Wind Dancer returned home. The city of Refuge boasted

Marfang Island's only true deep-water harbor, and for all its inhabitants'

small size, that made it the home port of the finest seamen in all Orfressa.

Evark Pitchallow stood high among that select company, and his recommendation

would almost guarantee Holderman a captain's berth. Which meant it was time to

begin practicing his own captain's demeanor, and so he simply repeated his nod

and made his way to the rail.

He crossed the deck carefully. Marfangers were daring and intrepid, but

reputation notwithstanding, they weren't foolish. Or not totally so, at least.

Holderman used the safety lines rigged across the treacherously wet planks

with as much care as he insisted any of his seamen take, then clung to a stay

and peered ahead along Wind Dancer's course.

The wind of the open sea cut like icy swords, striking tears from his eyes and

offering to freeze his very skin off. Showers of lashing spray made it no more

pleasant, but these northern waters were as familiar to Holderman as the

warmer, milder ones around his southern homeland, and compared to what

conditions could have been at this time of year, this was an almost balmy day.

He sucked in a huge lungful of the sea's brutal freshness and watched the

mountains looming steadily higher above the eastern horizon. There was snow on

the taller of those peaks year round, but now their heads glittered a rose-

tinged white as they loomed against the dawn, and the masthead lookouts kept a

close watch. Belhadan's location as the northernmost ice-free port of the

Empire helped explain its importance, but it wasn't so far south that drift

ice or icebergs were unheard of. Indeed, given his own preferences, Holderman

thought he might actually have reduced sail, or at least left the night's

reefs in rather than shaking them out, if only to give himself a little more

time to avoid any ice his lookouts spotted. But the decision wasn't his, and

at least visibility was excellent.

He felt rather than saw a huge presence looming up behind him and turned to

glance over his shoulder at the taller of the two nonhalflings in Wind

Dancer's crew.

"And how long would it be to reach yonder mountains?" a cavern-deep bass

rumbled in a wind-whipped cloud of steamy breath.

"Oh, we should fetch the harbor in another two or three hours," Holderman

replied. He turned, still maintaining his grip on the stay, and looked up at

the other with frank curiosity. "Have you and Brandark given any more thought

to your plans?"

"No, but not for want of trying. We've nothing at all to be basing plans on,

you see, and I'm thinking the Axemen may be after being just a wee bit unhappy

to see us."

"How unreasonable of them," Holderman said dryly. "Why, I can't think of

anything that would make me happier than having a couple of hradani come

ashore in my port."

A deep, booming laugh answered him, and a shovel-sized hand thumped him on the

shoulder. It was a gentle thump, given the size and strength of the hand's

owner, but Holderman staggered anyway. He glared up at the huge hradani, yet

his heart wasn't in it, which kept him from generating the intended power.

"I'll thank you not to knock me over the rail, lummox! I've spent ten years at

sea without drowning yet, and I'd just as soon not start now."

"Drown, is it? And here was I, thinking as how Marfang Islanders learned to

breathe water when they were no more than wee, tiny fellows!" The hradani

paused just a moment, then added, "But then, you're always wee, tiny fellows,

so it might just be I'd the wrong of exactly when you're after learning,

mightn't it?"

He tilted his head and cocked his foxlike ears at an angle that mirrored the

devilish sparkle in his brown eyes, and Holderman snorted.

"I'd spend some time watching 'wee, tiny' sharks finish off a whale before I

got too complacent about my size, Bahzell Bahanakson!" he said, and the

hradani raised a hand in the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a touch. He

gave the first officer another white-toothed smile, then turned and crossed to

his fellow hradani's side, and Holderman watched him go.

It wasn't easy for someone that huge to maneuver about Wind Dancer's decks,

but Bahzell moved with an easy balance which seemed profoundly unnatural,

especially to a halfling, in anyone his size. Either of his legs alone would

easily have outweighed Holderman, and the blade of the sword he carried ashore

was at least a foot longer than the tallest halfling aboard, but he could fit

into amazingly tight quarters when he had to. His companion Brandark was over

a foot shorter than he, yet Bahzell had made himself much more quickly at ease

aboard the schooner. Perhaps, Holderman mused, that was because Bahzell, at

least, could swim. Brandark couldn't, and the first officer suspected that had

made him more than a little tentative when it came to finding his sea legs.

Yet he'd found them in the end, and he'd learned much more about Wind Dancer

than Bahzell had. Not that Bahzell had been disinterested or tried to avoid

doing his share and a little to spare aboard ship. But the Horse Stealer saw

the schooner mainly as a means of getting from one port to another, while

Brandark saw deeper than that. Bahzell had learned to obey the orders of the

skilled professionals about him; Brandark had learned why those orders were

given.

Holderman watched the two hradani talk with their heads close together while

water creamed up over the lee rails and raced at their feet. He couldn't hear

them through the sound of wind and wave, the creak and groan of timbers, and

the high-pitched song of the rigging, but he'd heard them chaffering often

enough to have a shrewd notion of what they were saying, and he shook his own

head.

Marfangers knew more than most people about hradani, for their homeland lay

directly across the Wild Wash Channel from the hradani clans of the same name.

Yet for all their fierceness in battle and predilection for carrying off

anything not nailed to the earth, the Wild Wash clans' reputations were but

shadows of those of the Horse Stealers or Brandark's native Bloody Swords.

Wind Dancer's crew had heard all about their savagery and mutual hatred,

despite their northern homelands' isolation, long before Bahzell and Brandark

had come aboard. In fact, every Norfressan (with the possible exception of a

few hermits among the desert-riding Wakuo nomads) had heard about the Horse

Stealers and Bloody Swords, and no one wanted a thing to do with either of

them.

And that was what puzzled Holderman whenever he looked at Wind Dancer's

passengers. They should have gone for one another's throats on sight, which

made their deep and obvious friendship confusing enough, but neither was

remotely like their people's reputations in most other ways, either. That,

Holderman reflected, might indicate that hradani reputation was as misleading

as some of the wilder tales told about his own folk, but it didn't explain why

these two differed so . . . profoundly from the stereotypes.

Brandark was bad enough. The kindest description of the Bloody Swords

emphasized their contempt for the weakening influence of anything smacking of

civilization, yet Brandark favored lace-fronted shirts and embroidered jerkins

which would have done a Purple Lord proud. Worse, he was the best educated

person aboard Wind Dancer, although he was entirely self-taught. And to top

things off, he was a skilled musician, despite the loss of two fingers, who

could play the bawdiest tune a seaman could name or spend hours staring into a

lamp flame while he stroked soft, haunting beauty from his balalaika. His

voice, unfortunately, was something else again. Not even his closest friend

would call it beautiful, and Holderman was almost relieved that it was so. The

notion of a hradani scholar and dandy was hard enough to cope with; he rather

doubted he could have gotten his mind around the concept of a Bloody Sword

bard.

On the other hand, even that idea might have been easier to adjust to than

that of a Horse Stealer champion of Tomanak . Like the rest of Wind Dancer's

company, Holderman had felt nothing but scorn when seven and a half feet of

stark naked hradani had swum half way across Bortalik Bay, climbed over the

rail, and calmly claimed to be one of the war god's chosen champions. The

assertion had been preposterous and probably blasphemous, given the fact that

there hadn't been a single hradani champion of any God of Light in the twelve

centuries since the Fall of Kontovar. Besides, every Norfressan child knew the

hradani had served as the Carnadosan traitors' shock troops in the war which

had destroyed the empire which once ruled Orfressa's southern continent. That

was why they were universally distrusted and shunned, if not actively hated.

Well, that and the berserk, uncontrollable bloodlust Bahzell's people called

"the Rage." No one, after all, wanted to get too friendly with a gigantic

barbarian who might suddenly take it into his head to chop one into teeny,

tiny pieces for no particular reason.

Holderman was prepared to admit that stereotypes tended to be exaggerated, yet

he'd found it impossible to believe that Tomanak Orfro, Keeper of the Scales

of Orr, the Sword of Light, God of Justice, and Captain-General of the Gods of

Light as well as God of War, would pick a champion from such unpromising

material. But Tomanak had done just that. The powers of the champion's blade

Bahzell bore had proved it, and Bahzell's champion status, even more than the

fury he'd waked among the Purple Lords whom Captain Pitchallow hated with

every fiber of his being, explained the speed with which Wind Dancer's master

had granted him and Brandark passage to Belhadan. Not that Pitchallow wouldn't

have cheerfully rescued anyone who could infuriate the Purple Lords. Under

most circumstances, however, he would at least have required them to pay their

passages-he was a Marfang halfling, after all-and he'd flatly refused to take

a copper kormak from Bahzell.

That hadn't kept him from insisting that they pull their weight aboard ship,

but it was a sign of his high regard for the hradani, and he and Bahzell had

spent many a late night with their heads together. No one else-aside, perhaps,

from Brandark-had any idea precisely what the captain and Bahzell had found to

discuss so earnestly, but Pitchallow's devotion to Korthrala, the sea god, was

as well known as it was strong. And although even his own followers admitted

that Korthrala wasn't overblessed with wisdom by divine standards, he was

Tomanak's younger brother and firm ally, so perhaps it wasn't so very

surprising that one of his churchmen should have a lot to say to a brand new

champion of the war god. Especially one who needed advice as badly as Bahzell

Bahnakson was likely to need it.

Now, as he watched the two hradani shade their eyes with their hands, gazing

at the approaching mountains while they talked, Holderman said a small,

sincere prayer of his own for them. He might be less devout than his captain,

but given what Wind Dancer's two guests were likely to face when they set foot

ashore in Belhadan, he reflected, even his prayers couldn't do any harm.

CHAPTER ONE

"So, Vaijon. Are you ready?"

The question came in a gently sardonic voice, and the golden-haired young man

standing before the mirror in the chapter house's entry vestibule turned

quickly. A faint flush touched his cheeks as he recognized the voice's teasing

edge, but he bent his head in a small bow.

"I am, Sir Charrow."

His reply was proper enough, but irritation lingered in his expression. Not

overtly; it was more subtle than any scowl, little more than an extra bit of

tension in his jaw, more sensed than seen, perhaps, with just the tiniest edge

of challenge under his courteous words. Sir Charrow Malakhai, Knight-Captain

of the Order of Tomanak and master of its Belhadan chapter, hid a sigh as he

wondered if the youngster even realized that edge was there. Sir Charrow had

seen other arrogant young sprouts-more of them, in fact, than he had any

desire to contemplate-during his years with the Order. Fortunately, Tomanak's

Order, as a rule, had a way of knocking that sort of attitude out of its

brethren; unfortunately, the process seemed to have gone awry this time.

"Good, my son." The knight-captain made his words a gentle reprimand and was

rewarded by seeing the younger man's flush darken. Whatever else he might be,

Vaijon wasn't stupid. He recognized a rebuke even when he truly failed to

grasp the reason for it. "This is a very important day for our chapter,

Vaijon," Charrow went on in a more normal voice. "It is up to you to represent

us-and Tomanak -properly."

"Of course, Sir Charrow. I understand. And I'm honored by the trust which led

you to select me for this duty."

Vaijon went down on one knee and bent his head once more, and Charrow gazed

down at him for a moment. Then he laid one scarred hand, blunt fingers still

strong and calloused from regular practice with sword, bow, and lance, upon

the gleaming gold hair.

"Go then with my blessing," he said, "and with that of the God. May his Shield

go before you."

"Thank you, Sir Charrow," Vaijon murmured. Charrow's mouth quirked in a small

smile, for there was a trace of impatience in the younger man's voice now to

mingle with his lingering irritation. Clearly, if he had to do this, he wanted

to get it over with as soon as possible.

The master of the chapter considered pointing out that this was not precisely

the correct attitude for one being sent forth on the War God's business, but

then he thought better of it. Vaijon's attitude, after all, was one reason

he'd selected the young knight-probationer for this particular task, and so he

settled for patting him on the shoulder and left.

When he looked back from the doorway, Vaijon was back on his feet and gazing

once more into the mirror. The knight-captain shook his head with another

smile. It was a wry smile, and if the young man before the mirror had been

even a little less involved with his reflection, he might have felt a twinge

of alarm at the sparkle of amusement in his superior's eyes.

At twenty-five, Sir Vaijon of Almerhas, Baron Halla, fourth son of Earl

Truehelm of Almerhas and cousin to Duke Saicha, Royal and Imperial Governor of

Fradonia, was a handsome young man. He was also a very large one (he stood six

inches over six feet, with broad shoulders), and as the son of a great noble

and heir to a barony in his own right on his mother's side, he had begun his

weapons training early. He moved with the trained grace of a warrior, his

muscles had much the same solidity as well-seasoned oak, long hours on the

training field had gilded his complexion with a bronze which lingered even in

midwinter, and the deep green surcoat of the Order of Tomanak set off his hair

and flashing blue eyes admirably.

Sir Vaijon was well aware of all those facts. Indeed, although it would have

been unbecoming to admit it, he knew he took a certain pride in them. As his

father was fond of pointing out, after all, one had a duty to one's blood-and,

of course, to the Order-and presenting the proper appearance was part of

discharging that duty. When one looked the part of a knight of the Order and

spoke with the confidence of a gentleman, one's words carried additional

weight even with one's peers and impressed lesser folk into obeying one

without bothersome argument.

In moments of honesty, Sir Vaijon was prepared to admit that his pride in his

birth and appearance stemmed from more than a simple awareness of how they

served him in the performance of his duties. To be sure, the administration of

justice was the primary purpose of the Order, and it was clear to Vaijon that

an imposing presence and the judicious use of his aristocratic titles would .

. . encourage others to defer to him when he stepped in to settle disputes. He

couldn't change who he was, anyway, so why shouldn't he embrace his identity

and use it to the Order's benefit?

Yet as he listened to the door close behind him and used the mirror to check

his grooming one last time, Vaijon knew Sir Charrow disagreed with him. The

knight-captain considered his firm sense of who he had been born to be a flaw,

though Vaijon had never been able to see why. Or, at least, to see that it

detracted in any way from the performance of his duties. Not even Sir Charrow

could fault his passion for truth and justice; indeed, the master was more

likely to suggest in his gentle way that Vaijon might want to temper his quest

for justice with a bit more compassion. Nor could he fault Vaijon as a

warrior, for it was a simple fact that no one had ever bested him-in training

or actual battle-since his seventeenth birthday. Which was only to be expected

in an Almerhas of Almerhas, of course. And in one who had known almost from

the day he learned to walk that he was destined to be a knight of the war god.

Yet the master seemed to have reservations even there, as if he thought

Vaijon's confidence in his abilities constituted some sort of overweening

pride, even arrogance. But how could simply admitting the truth of one's own

capability be arrogance? And it wasn't as if Vaijon thought that he alone

deserved all the credit for his prowess. He knew how much he owed his

instructors for his superlative training, and he was well aware of how

fortunate he was in terms of the size and native strength with which Tomanak

had blessed him. Indeed, that awareness of the favor the Sword of Light had

shown him was one of the reasons he longed to administer justice among the

little people of Orfressa, which was why he was often baffled by the master's

concern when all he sought was to be worthy of the trust Tomanak had chosen to

repose in him.

When Sir Charrow spoke, Vaijon always listened, of course. It was his duty as

a knight-probationer, and no Almerhas of Almerhas ever failed in his duty. Yet

closely as he listened and hard as he pondered the master's words, he could

not convince himself Sir Charrow was right. Justice was justice, truth was

truth, and skill at arms was skill at arms. To deny or compromise any of them

was to undercut all the Order stood for.

And as far as his birth was concerned, Vaijon had never claimed precedence

over any other member of the Order, however low born those others might be.

Indeed, he took a certain pride in the fact that he never had. Unlike many

other chivalric orders, the Order of Tomanak stood open to all, and fitness

for membership was judged solely on the applicant's merits. It was, perhaps,

regrettable that such a policy allowed the occasional lowborn embarrassment

entry, but it also meant that only the most qualified warriors from the ranks

of the gently born were admitted, as well. And however common some of his

brother knights might be, Vaijon knew their hearts were in the right place,

else they had never been admitted in the first place, which made up for a

great deal. Besides, the better born and more sophisticated members of the

Order-like, for example, Sir Vaijon of Almerhas-could normally cover their

occasional public gaffes, and Vaijon defied anyone to name one time when he

had treated any of them with less than true courtesy.

And so far as those who were not one's brothers were concerned, neither

Tomanak's Code nor any law or rule of the Order specifically required one to

actually socialize with inferiors so long as one saw to it that they received

justice. Still, he couldn't escape the notion that Sir Charrow felt he should

be more . . . more-

Vaijon couldn't lay his mental grip on the exact word to describe what Sir

Charrow wanted of him, but he knew it was there. The knight-captain didn't

lecture him-that wasn't the way of the Order-but there had been enough

elliptical references to the character traits of a true knight to leave Vaijon

with no doubt that Sir Charrow was unconvinced he possessed them all in proper

proportion. More, Vaijon remained only a knight-probationer after almost three

full years. He knew his failure to advance beyond that status had nothing to

do with his prowess, which could only mean Sir Charrow had delayed his

promotion for other reasons, and Vaijon had noted (though no proper knight

could admit he had) that the master had a tendency to single him out for

particularly onerous duties from time to time. Not dangerous ones, and

certainly not ones to which a knight of the Order could object, yet subtly . .

. demeaning? No, that wasn't the word either. It was as if . . . as if Sir

Charrow hoped that by burdening him with tasks better fitted to the more

humbly born he could force Vaijon into some sort of insight.

If that was, indeed, the master's purpose, Vaijon had no intention of

objecting, for Sir Charrow was his superior in the Order. He was also one of

the noblest, and certainly one of the holiest, men Vaijon had ever met, and

the younger knight did not even blame the knight-captain for his own lack of

promotion. He might not agree with it, but decisions on advancement were

properly made by the master of a chapter, and it was the mark of a true

gentleman to accept the decisions of those placed in authority over him

whether he agreed with those decisions or not. And if Sir Charrow wished

Vaijon to learn some lesson or attain some insight which had so far eluded

him, then the younger knight was earnestly willing to be instructed by him.

That, too, was one of the traits of a man of noble birth, and hence, by

definition, of an Almerhas of Almerhas.

Unfortunately, he had yet to obtain so much as a glimpse of whatever Sir

Charrow intended him to learn, and there were times when he found the knight-

captain's notion of his proper duties more objectionable than others. Like

now. Not that there was anything ignoble about this task, but the morning was

little more than an hour old, and six inches of fresh snow had fallen

overnight. A knight must be hardy and inured to discomfort, yet there were

very few places Sir Vaijon of Almerhas would rather be on a morning like this

than buried in a nice, warm nest of blankets. Certainly the last place he

wanted to be was down at dockside, and in the full regalia of the Order to

boot.

He gave the set of his surcoat one last, finicky twitch of adjustment and

grimaced as he listened to winter wind moan just beyond the stout front door.

His silvered chain hauberk (a gift from his father when he earned his

probationary knighthood) glittered brightly, and the gems studding his white

sword belt (a gift from his mother on the same occasion) sparkled, yet he

suspected he was fiddling with his appearance at least in part to delay the

moment he had to step outdoors. The deep green surcoat, woven of the finest

silk, emphasized the splendor of his accouterments . . . but it wasn't very

thick. Just this once, Vaijon thought longingly of the plainer, cheaper

surcoats the Order provided for those knights who lacked his own family's

private resources. They were far more plebeian-rather drab, in fact, with

minimal embroidery in barely adequate colors-but there was no denying that

they were warmer.

Perhaps so, he told himself, but a nobleman must hold to a higher standard,

especially on important occasions. And if his surcoat was thinner than he

might have wished, at least he had the arming doublet under his hauberk and

the otter-trimmed cloak his mother's ladies had sewn for him. Of course, once

the wind moaning outside the chapter house had a chance to sink its teeth into

the steel links of his mail they would nip right through his arming doublet,

but-

He shook his head and scolded himself for thinking about such things at a time

like this. However much the weaknesses of the flesh might make him long to

avoid exposing himself to the chill-and this early, to boot!-the task he had

been assigned was a great honor for a knight-probationer, and Vaijon drew

another deep breath, swept his cloak over his shoulders, picked up his gloves,

and headed for the door.

Evark Pitchallow laid his schooner alongside the pier with a master's touch.

Wind Dancer ghosted in under a single jib, then kissed the fenders guarding

her hull from the pilings like a lover, and a dozen longshoremen caught the

lines her crew threw ashore. Thicker hawsers followed, and it took no more

than a handful of minutes to wrap them around the mooring bollards and lower a

plank from the pier. It angled steeply downward, for the schooner's deck was

much lower than the edge of the wharf, but heavy cross battens promised plenty

of traction for those who had to use it.

Evark spent a few more minutes making certain Wind Dancer was properly snugged

down, then tucked his thumbs in his belt and marched over to where his

passengers stood in the waist of the ship with their meager belongings at

their feet. He paused in front of them, rocking back on his heels to regard

them properly, and Bahzell smiled down at him.

"Well, I've seldom seen a scruffier pair," the halfling allowed after a

moment, and Bahzell's smile grew broader. "Aye, all very well to stand there

with a witless grin, fishbait! But this is the big city, not some ratty little

town in the back of beyond, and the Belhadan Guard's not exactly known for

viewing vagrants with affection. If you want my advice, you'll lie up

somewhere out of sight and see about at least getting yourselves some clothes

that pass muster."

" 'Vagrants' is it, now?" Bahzell laid a hand on his massive chest, and his

foxlike ears flattened in dejection. "You're not after being one to smother a

man with flattery, are you now?"

"Ha! Calling you two that probably insults real vagrants!" Evark snorted, and

there was more than a little truth to his words.

Bahzell's gear had been passable enough when he fled the Bloody Sword city of

Navahk, but since then he'd covered the full length of Norfressa, north to

south, on foot, through a particularly rainy autumn and the onset of winter.

Having the Assassins Guild and the adherents of at least two Dark Gods

competing to kill him had added a bit more wear and tear to his equipment. The

rents various swords, daggers, and demon claws had left in his cloak had been

mended competently enough, but the repairs would never win any prizes for

neatness, and his boots had been beyond salvation weeks ago. His armor had

seen better days, as well. There were gaps in his scale shirt's overlapping

steel plates, and despite his best efforts, the survivors wore a faint patina

of rust.

Yet grubby as Bahzell was, Brandark was almost worse. For one thing, he lacked

the towering inches which lent his companion a certain imposing presence

regardless of what he wore. Indeed, having Bahzell for a friend actually made

Brandark look even scruffier. The Bloody Sword was taller than most humans,

with far broader shoulders, yet no one really realized that when he stood next

to Bahzell, for his head didn't even top the Horse Stealer's shoulder.

But shorter stature was only a part of what made him look so tattered. He'd

lost a bigger share of his personal gear during the last wild, scrambling

stage of their journey than Bahzell had, and what he had left had once been

more splendid than anything his friend would ever have worn. Which meant, of

course, that the damage it had suffered was even more apparent. And the right

ear tip and the two fingers of his left hand which he'd lost along the way

only made him look even more battered and bedamned.

In short, Evark Pitchallow could scarcely imagine a pair who looked less like

prosperous, gainfully employed souls, and that didn't even consider the fact

that they were hradani-a detail which was hardly likely to escape the

observation of the first guardsman they encountered.

"I mean it, lads," he said in a quieter, far more serious tone, and jerked his

head at the longshoremen already peering curiously at them from the safety of

the dock. "There's those in Belhadan of the opinion that the only good

hradani's one who's had a foot or so of steel shoved through his throat, and

there's no reason in looking any more like their notion of brigands than you

have to. You'd be wiser to bide aboard while I have a word with a tailor I

know." He paused, regarding them shrewdly, then went on slowly. "If it's that

you're short of money, I could-"

"Listen to the man," Bahzell said, shaking his head with yet another smile,

and looked at Brandark. "Were you ever hearing a kinder offer? And here he's

been to such lengths to make folk think he's a ball of old pitch where others

keep a heart! It's enough to make a man come all over teary-eyed."

Evark glowered up at him, and the Horse Stealer laughed softly in a cloud of

vapor and reached down to rest a hand on his shoulder.

"Jesting aside, it's grateful I am for the offer, Evark," he said, "and I'm

thinking you've probably a point or three, as well. But we've no lack of

funds-" he gave the fat belt purse which had once belonged to a Purple Lord

landlord a jingling shake "-and we'll not be wandering about Belhadan all

unescorted."

"You won't?" Evark sounded surprised.

"We won't?" Brandark echoed, and raised an eyebrow at his towering friend.

"That's nice to know. Ah, just when were you planning to tell me we wouldn't

be? And while I'm thinking about it, how in Fiendark's name d'you know we

won't?"

"I wasn't after telling you sooner because himself only got around to telling

me on the way into the harbor," Bahzell said reasonably, and Brandark and

Evark closed their mouths with perfectly synchronized snaps. He gave a deep,

rumbling chuckle at their reaction, and Brandark shook himself.

"I don't recall seeing any deities standing around the deck," he remarked

mildly, and Bahzell shrugged.

"If he'd been minded to show himself he'd have been bringing along a chorus of

trumpets and appearing in a flash of light, I'm sure," he explained kindly.

"Given as he didn't do either, why, the only thing I can think of is that he

wasn't all that wishful to be seen."

"Oh, thank you for explaining!" Brandark replied, and this time Evark joined

Bahzell's laughter. Brandark let them chuckle for several seconds, then poked

his friend in the chest.

"All right, Longshanks," he said firmly. "Now stop laughing and explain just

what you mean about not wandering around on our own."

"There's no mystery in it, little man," Bahzell replied. "We're after being

met, and unless I'm much mistaken-" he raised his hand to point "-that's the

lad looking for us now."

Brandark followed the direction of Bahzell's index finger, and both eyebrows

rose as he took in the apparition striding down the dock.

Others were turning to look, as well. Actually, gawk was a better word, for

seldom did such splendor grace the warehouse district of the Belhadan

waterfront with its presence. The handsome, golden-haired newcomer was taller

than Brandark, which made him very tall indeed for a human, but despite broad,

well-muscled shoulders (once again, for a human) he was almost slender

compared to the powerfully built Bloody Sword. His silver-washed mail

glistened, the white sword belt that marked a knight of one of the chivalric

orders was studded with faceted gems that flashed with eye-watering

brilliance, as did those adorning the scabbard of his sword, and his high,

David Weber - Hradani (Oath of Swords) 02 - The War God's Own

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