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# Chapter Thirty-four

"Well there's a fine thing," Bahzell sighed. He gazed out over the swift-flowing river and sank down on his heels, still holding the packhorse's lead. The animal looked about for something to browse upon but found only dead leaves and winter-browned moss and blew heavily in resignation.

"As a navigator, you make a fine champion of Tomanâk."

Brandark stood beside his friend, rubbing his horse's forehead, and one of the mules nudged him hopefully. Unlike the horses which had fled, both mules—smart enough to remember the hradani were a source of grain—had returned the morning after the demon's death, and the hopeful one nudged the Bloody Sword again, harder, then shook its head and lipped at the grain sack across its companion's pack saddle.

"Now isn't that just like you," Bahzell replied. "If you're thinking you can do better, why then, lead the way, little man."

"Me? I'm the city boy, remember? You're the Horse Stealer."

"Aye, and no Horse Stealer with his wits about him would be wandering about these godsforsaken woods in winter, either," Bahzell growled back.

"Which explains your presence, but what am I doing here?"

Bahzell snorted and pondered the water before him. It was too broad to be anything except the Darkwater, but he'd expected to hit the river almost two days ago. That meant he was well and truly off the course he'd tried to hold, but had he strayed east or west?

He eased down to sit on a tree root and stretched his legs before him. His boots were sadly worn, which was a worrisome thing, for boots his size were hard come by. He could feel the sharp edges of rocks and the lumpy hardness of roots and fallen branches through their thinning soles, yet if the truth be known, he was more aware of his legs' weariness. Iron-thewed Horse Stealer that he was, this journey was telling upon him, and he was only grateful they'd moved far enough south to find warmer weather.

He flipped a stone into the river and watched it splash, then peered up at the sky and tried to estimate the time. About the second hour of the afternoon, he decided finally. That gave them another three or four hours of light, and he had no intention of sitting here on his arse wondering where he was while they sped past.

"Well," he said finally, "I'm thinking we've borne too far east or west, and whichever it may be, we've little choice but to follow the river till we find a way across it. So, since you've come all over sarcastic about my guidance, why don't you be suggesting which way we should be going?"

"That's right, dump it all on me." Brandark glanced up at the sky in turn, then shrugged. "Given the Darkwater's general course and how much longer than expected it's taken us to get here, I'd say we've fallen off to the east. That being the case, I vote we go upstream."

"Ah, the wit of the man!" Bahzell marveled. "Were you truly after figuring that all out on your very own?"

Brandark made a rude gesture, and the Horse Stealer laughed.

"Well, I'll not be surprised if you've the right of it after all, and either way is better than none, so we'd best be going."

He heaved himself back to his feet, settled his sword once more on his back, and led the way northwest along the riverbank.

The sun had sunk low before them when they came to a spot where the banks had been logged back for over a mile on each side. A small, palisaded village crouched on the southern bank, and a broad-beamed ferry was drawn up at a rough dock near it. Thick guide ropes stretched across the stream, running over crude but efficient pulleys, and Brandark groaned in resignation as he and Bahzell headed for them.

The Horse Stealer ignored him and gripped the guide rope, then grunted as he threw his weight upon it. A ferry that size had never been meant for one man to move unaided, but Bahzell's mighty heave urged it into the stream. It curtsied clumsily on the current, and Brandark leaned his own weight on the rope beside him. The craft moved a bit more quickly, yet the river was broad, and it took them the better part of fifteen panting, heaving minutes to work it across to their side.

Bahzell gasped in relief when the square bow nudged the mud at his feet, yet his brow furrowed in puzzlement as he wiped sweat from it. He could see at least a score of people standing about the village gate, and half a dozen horsemen sat their mounts facing them, yet it seemed none of them had as much as looked up as their ferryboat moved away from them. That indicated a certain lack of caution to Bahzell. The village was small enough to offer easy pickings to any band of brigands (assuming any such ever came this way), and someone should have been keeping an eye on the boat.

He shrugged the thought away and helped Brandark lead their animals onto the ferry. It was a tight fit—they never would have made it with the horses they'd lost—and the Bloody Sword stood in the bow while Bahzell took the stern. The rope was chest-high for most humans, though considerably lower for Bahzell, and they leaned on it once more to work their way back across the stream.

"I wonder what they do for a living around here," Brandark panted as they neared midstream. "I don't see any sign of farmland."

"Woodsmen, I'm thinking," Bahzell replied. "Oh, be still, you nag!" He broke off to kick one of the mules on the haunch as it stamped uneasily towards the side. The mule flattened its ears and glared at him, but it also stopped moving, and he grunted in satisfaction.

"You think they float timber downstream to South Hold?"

"Well, they are calling it the 'Shipwood.' " Bahzell flicked his ears at the logged-off swath along the river. "They never used all that wood to build yon miserable village, but there's no cause they should be floating it just to South Hold. There's Bortalik Bay to the south, and no question the Purple Lords need timber enough for their shipping."

"You're probably right," Brandark grunted, heaving on the rope.

"Aye," Bahzell agreed as they neared the southern bank, but his eyes were on the people clustered around the palisade gate, and he frowned. Brandark looked up at the absent note in his voice, then followed his glance back to the village, and his ears pricked.

"Trouble, you think?" he asked casually.

"As to that, I've no way of knowing, but those folk seem all-fired interested in something besides us, my lad."

"Well, we'll know soon enough," Brandark replied philosophically, and Bahzell nodded as the ferry grounded once more. No one came down to help them disembark, and Bahzell's curiosity flared higher as they urged their animals onto the dock. Ignoring the departure of their ferryboat was one thing; ignoring its return with two large, unknown, and heavily armed warriors was something else again, and he gave Brandark a speculative glance.

"Are you thinking we should be wandering over to see what's caught them all up so?"

"Actually, no," Brandark said. "Whatever it is, it's their business, and we're a pair of hradani a long, long way from home."

"And you the lad who said you wanted adventure!"

"I spoke from the enthusiasm of ignorance—and you shouldn't rub my nose in it."

"Ah, but it's after being such a long, lovely nose," Bahzell chuckled. "Still and all, you may have the right of it. We've no cause to be mixing in other folk's affairs, and—"

He broke off, ears pricking, as a sudden, loud wailing rose from the village. His eyes narrowed, and he peered intently at the horsemen at the gate. One of them, much more richly dressed than the others, sat his saddle with an air of supreme arrogance, one fist on his hip, holding a riding crop, while the other hand held his reins, and two drably dressed villagers had gone to their knees before him. They were too distant for Bahzell to make out words, but he recognized pleading when he saw it, and his ears went flat to his skull as the richly dressed horseman leaned from the saddle and his long crop flashed. The lash on its end exploded across the cheek of one of the kneeling men, knocking him over, and Bahzell snarled.

"Now that, I'm thinking, changes things a mite," he grated as a louder keen of despair went up. A woman dashed from the village and crouched over the fallen man. She screamed something at the man with the crop, and it flashed again. She got her arm up just in time to block it short of her own face, and Bahzell snarled again and started forward.

"Ah, Bahzell?" Brandark's voice stopped him, and he turned to glower at his friend.

"What?" he said flatly.

"I just wanted to mention that we are strangers hereabouts. A certain, um, caution might be indicated."

"Caution, is it? And what about that whoreson with the whip?"

"Goodness, and there's not even blood on your knuckles!" Brandark murmured. An unwilling grin twitched Bahzell's lips, but there was no give in his expression, and the Bloody Sword sighed. "All right. All right! I suppose it's all that new champion nobility rushing to your head. But if it's all the same to you, can we at least try talking to them?"

"And what were you thinking I meant to do? Just walk up and have two or three heads off their shoulders?"

"Well, you can be a bit direct at times," Brandark pointed out, but he was grinning as he said it, and he swung back up onto his horse. "All right," he repeated. "If we're going to poke our noses in, let's get to it."

He touched a heel to his horse and trotted forward at Bahzell's side as the Horse Stealer stalked over to the group by the gate. Two more women had emerged from it, and though he still couldn't make out the words, he heard their imploring tones. The richly dressed man shook his head and nodded to one of the men with him, and the setting sun flashed on a drawn sword as the retainer walked his horse forward.

The villagers backed away in terror, and Bahzell's lips tightened. He picked up his pace a bit, and the rearmost horseman suddenly looked over his shoulder. He stiffened and leaned forward, poking one of his companions and gesturing, and the richly dressed man's head snapped around. The man with the sword stopped and turned his head in turn, and then all the horsemen were shifting position, drawing their mounts around to face the newcomers while their hands rested near their sword hilts.

Bahzell crossed the last few feet of muddy ground and paused, arms folded and hands well away from his own weapons, to survey them. The villagers peered at him from frightened eyes set in faces of despair, but his attention was on the richly dressed man—a half-elf, from his features and coloring—and the armed and mailed horsemen at his side.

"What d'you want?" the half-elf demanded in Spearman, and not even his atrocious accent could hide his imperious disdain as he gazed at the travel-worn hradani.

"As to that, we're but passing through," Bahzell replied in a voice which was far calmer than he felt.

"Then keep right on passing," the Purple Lord sniffed. "There's no place here for such as you."

"Such as us, is it?" Bahzell cocked his ears and tilted his head to study the other with cold eyes. "And could you be telling me just who you are to be saying that?"

"I own this village," the Purple Lord shot back, "and you're trespassing. Just like these scum." He jabbed his crop contemptuously at the peasants and spat on the ground.

"Now that's a strange thing," Bahzell replied, "for I'm thinking they've the look of the folk who built this village in the first place."

"And what's that to you?" the half-elf demanded, with the arrogance Purple Lords were famous for. "I own the land under it, and I own the trees they've cut."

"And they did it all without your even knowing, did they?" Bahzell marveled.

"Of course not, you fool!"

"Friend," Bahzell said gently, "I'd not use words like 'fool' so free if I were you."

The Purple Lord started to spit something back, then paused and gave the towering hradani a measuring look. He frowned, then shrugged.

"I don't really care what you'd do. This is none of your affair. These lazy bastards owe me the next quarter's rent, but they can't pay, and I've no use for idlers!"

Bahzell glanced at the villagers, and his eyes lingered on work-worn clothing and calloused hands, then moved slowly back to the Purple Lord's soft palms and manicured nails. The half-elf flushed angrily under the contempt in those eyes, but Bahzell only looked back at the villagers.

"Is that the right of it?" he asked, and fearful expressions looked back at him. Eyes shifted uneasily to the Purple Lord and his armed men, and Bahzell sighed. "Don't you be minding old Windy Guts," he said gently. "It's a champion of Tomanâk I am," he felt ridiculous as he claimed the title for the first time, "so just tell me true."

The man whose face bore the crop's bleeding welt stared at him, eyes wide at the unexpected announcement, and the Purple Lord cracked a scornful laugh.

"You? A champion of Tomanâk?! You're a poor liar, hradani!"

"Don't be making me prove you wrong," Bahzell advised him, "for you'll not like the way I do it."

His deep voice was level, but the Purple Lord blanched at something in it and edged his horse back a stride. Bahzell held his eyes for a moment, then looked back at the villager, and the man swallowed.

"Are . . . are ye truly what ye say, sir?" he asked timidly.

"I am that, though I'll not blame you for wondering." Bahzell glanced down at his tattered, stained self and grinned wryly. "Still and all, it's not clothes make the man, or Puff Guts yonder would be a king!"

Someone guffawed nervously, and the Purple Lord flushed.

"So tell me the truth of what's happening here," Bahzell urged.

"Well, sir." The villager darted an anxious look at the Purple Lord, then drew a deep breath. "The truth is, it's been a mortal hard year," he said in a rush. "The price of timber, well, it's been less'n half what it us'ly is, an' after Milord took his tithe of it, there's nigh nothin' left. We . . . we paid half our rent, sir, 'deed we did, an' if Milord'd only wait till spring, we'd pay it all, no question. But—"

He shrugged helplessly, and Bahzell swiveled his eyes back to the landlord. The Purple Lord flushed even darker, but his lip curled.

"They've always got some excuse, but there are plenty of others who'll jump at the chance to take their places—yes, and pay their rent on time, too!"

"So you're after turning them out in the teeth of winter, is it? And them with half their rent for the next quarter already paid?"

"And what business is it of yours?" the Purple Lord snapped. "I'm within my rights!"

"Are you, now? And no doubt you've some bit of paper to prove it?"

"Prove it?!" The landlord gasped incredulously, then shook himself. "Hirahim! Why am I even wasting time with the likes of you? Be on your way, hradani, and be glad I let you go!"

"As to that, it's happy I'll be to move on," Bahzell said calmly. "As soon as you've returned the rent these folk did pay, that is."

"What?" The Purple Lord gawked at him. "You're mad!"

"That's as may be, but if you're after putting them out, then I'm thinking they're not after owing rent for the time they won't be here. Aye," Bahzell's eyes narrowed, "and I've a shrewd notion that precious paper of yours would be saying the same thing, wouldn't it?"

" 'Deed, sir," a woman's voice said nervously, "it does, and 'twas that we asked him for when he come to put us out, but he said—"

"Hold your tongue, bitch!" the Purple Lord spat furiously. The woman who'd spoken cowered back, and he glared at her. "It's none of this bastard's affair! One more word, and I'll have the whip to you!"

"Now that's where you're wrong," Bahzell said flatly, and the landlord quivered with rage as he glared at the ragged, muddy figure before him. His mouth worked, and he jerked around to his seven guardsmen.

"Kill these swine!" he barked.

His men had more than half-expected the command, and they drew their swords instantly. Bahzell's blade was still sheathed as they spurred forward, grinning at the sport fate had dropped in their way, but none of them realized what they faced. Hradani were rarely seen in these lands, and never so far east, and they were totally unprepared for how quickly Bahzell's hands moved. Five feet of glittering steel hissed free and came down overhand in the same motion, and the guard captain screamed as it bit deep into his armored chest.

His corpse toppled from its horse, and one of his men shouted a shocked, incredulous oath and came straight at the hradani. His sword flashed, but he was more accustomed to terrorizing tenants than facing trained warriors, and Bahzell's blade licked out almost contemptuously. The guardsman grunted, staring stupidly down at the two feet of steel buried in his guts, then shrieked as Bahzell plucked him from the saddle like a speared salmon.

Two more men charged the Horse Stealer, but one of them veered aside, face etched with sudden panic as Brandark spurred to meet him. The guardsman got his blade up in time to block a straight-armed cut, but the force of the blow drove his sword to the side, and a lightning backhand took out his throat. He fell with a bubbling gurgle, and Bahzell put his armored shoulder into the barrel of his companion's rearing horse.

The horse went down squealing, and Bahzell cut yet another guardsman from his saddle while the fallen man fought to scramble free of his mount. He managed it—and rose just in time to meet Brandark's sword. He crashed back with a split skull, and the two surviving guards were no longer smiling as they flung themselves desperately at the hradani.

They lasted no longer than their fellows, and the Purple Lord gaped in terror as Bahzell and Brandark cut his men apart with polished efficiency. His horse reared as he spurred it, but he was trapped between the palisade and Bahzell. He stared desperately around, and his hand darted to his ornamented, gold-crusted sword hilt.

"Don't be stupid, man!" Bahzell snapped, but the half-elf was too panicked to heed the warning. He slammed his spurs home once more, and his sword swung wildly as the beast squealed and bolted forward.

Bahzell ducked the clumsy stroke easily, and his own blade hissed back around in a dreadful, economic riposte. He didn't even think about it; he simply reacted, and the Purple Lord was flung from his saddle without a sound. He hit the mud with a sodden thump, the villagers gasped in horror as he fell, and then there was only stillness, and eight dead men sprawled on the churned up ground.

Bahzell lowered his sword slowly and muttered an oath as he surveyed the carnage. He'd never dreamed the man might be daft enough to try something like this, and his heart sank as he recognized the trouble to come. He turned his head to meet Brandark's eyes, and his friend sighed.

"Well," he said wryly, "no one ever said hradani were smart."

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