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# Chapter Ten

There were no more attacks. In fact, some of the scouts found hastily abandoned campsites along their route, and Bahzell felt people turn to look at him whenever those reports came in. Yet the other guards, and especially Hartan's command, seemed to regard him with a sort of rough sympathy, and not the horror he'd feared.

It was odd, he thought—and he had more time to think than he would have preferred, for Kilthan's healers had never treated a hradani before. They weren't prepared for the speed with which he recovered from his minor wounds, and they'd put him on light duty rather than simply stitching him up and sending him back to his regular position as a hradani healer would have done.

And so he rode in a wagon, arbalest ready, out of the rain, and considered the strangeness of it all. Everyone "knew" hradani were murderous, uncontrollable blood-letters, and the Esganians, who'd never seen him raise even his empty hand except in self-defense, hated and feared him. These men, who'd seen the full horror of the Rage, did neither. Perhaps it was only that they recognized what an asset he was to them, yet he thought not. He thought it went deeper, a recognition of the control he and Brandark exerted to hold the Rage in check that made them more willing to trust the hradani. And perhaps, just perhaps, some actually understood his shame, knew that even if they felt no horror of the thing that lived within him, he did.

He didn't know about that, but he knew that while some of the other merchants and their men harbored doubts, Kilthan's guard did not. If they were careful around him, they were no more so than they might have been around anyone whose temper was to be feared, and they treated him not just as a dangerous hireling but as a comrade who'd bled and fought with them. The officers cursed him as cheerfully as any of the others, the cooks grumbled over how much food it took to stoke his mountainous carcass, and his fellows included him in their coarse, rough-and-ready humor. It was the first time in two years he'd been given that sense of being among his own, and he treasured it even as he tried to push away his own guilty secret . . . that he longed to taste the Rage again and hungered for a target against which he might rightfully loose it.

The splendor of that moment, its transcendent glory and aliveness, haunted him. He could thrust it aside by day, but it poisoned his dreams by night, calling to him and pleading with him to unlock the chains he'd bound about it.

Yet that, at least, he understood, for this wasn't the first time he'd faced the Rage down and whipped it back to its kennel. It was the other dreams which truly disturbed him, the ones he could never quite recall when he woke sweating and gasping in his blankets. Those dreams terrified him, and he couldn't even say why, for he couldn't remember, however hard he tried. There were only bits and pieces, a face he couldn't quite recall, a voice he'd never heard with waking ears, and a sense of—

Of what? He didn't know, yet it haunted him like the memory of the Rage. It was as if some purpose or cause or compulsion walked his dreaming mind, and a fear more dreadful than any he'd ever known followed in its footsteps, for he was hradani. His people knew in their very bones and blood what it was to be used and compelled. They'd been used and compelled, and the terrible things done to them during the Fall of Kontovar—the horrible things they'd been driven to do by the black wizards who'd turned them into ravening tools—haunted his people's souls. That wizardry had left them with the Rage, and the thought of being used so again was the dark terror that horrified even their strongest, whether they would admit it or not . . . and the reason that voice he couldn't remember and had never heard struck ice into Bahzell Bahnakson's heart.

The dwarvish singer came to the end of his song, and Brandark let the last note linger, then stilled the strings with a gentle palm. There was a moment of total silence that died in applause, and he and Yahnath rose beside the fire to bow. Someone clapped harder, and Brandark slapped the stocky, bearded dwarf with the golden voice on the shoulder and grinned, trying to hide his envy even from himself as he accepted his share of the acclaim.

The moonlit night was cool, almost chill, clear, spangled with stars, and no longer soaked with rain. They were free of the hills, barely a day's journey from Hildarth, capital of the Duchy of Moretz, and the men were relaxed, less tense. The easier going, coupled with the dearth of raiders and the easing of their duties as Rianthus integrated the more reliable of the independent guard detachments into his operations, meant there was energy for songs and tales now . . . and enough singers to spare them Brandark's voice.

The Bloody Sword didn't blame them. At least they'd been polite, and they still valued his playing, but it had needed only two or three performances for them to reach the same judgment Navahk had reached. And, listening to Yahnath, he could agree with them, however much he longed not to. So he gave one last sweeping bow, slung his balalaika, adjusted his embroidered jerkin, and began picking his way towards the tent he shared with Bahzell.

Familiar, bittersweet amusement at his own foolish ambitions filled him, and he stopped for a long moment, gazing up at the brilliant moon while his throat ached with the need to praise that loveliness, express the deep, complex longing it woke within him.

And he couldn't. He knew how horrible his verse was. He longed for the rolling beauty of the written word, the cadenced purity, the exact, perfect word to express the very essence of a thought or emotion, and he produced . . . doggerel. Sometimes amusing or even witty doggerel, but doggerel, and everyone knew about his voice. He supposed it was funny, in a cruel way, that a barbaric hradani—and a Navahkan Bloody Sword, to boot—should spend nights staring into his lamp, begging the Singer of Light to touch him with her fire, lend him just a single spark from her glorious flame. But Chesmirsa had never answered him, any more than any god ever answered his people.

He closed his eyes in all too familiar pain, then shook himself and resumed his careful progress across the camp. There were birds and fish, he told himself, just as there were those who were meant to be bards and those who weren't. Birds drowned, and fish couldn't fly, but he knew something inside him would demand he go on trying, like a salmon perpetually hurling itself into the air in a desperate bid to become a hawk. Which was more stubborn than intelligent, perhaps, but what could one expect from a hradani? He grinned at the comfortable tartness of the thought, yet he knew his need to touch the true heart of the bard's art was far less a part of his affectations—and far more important to him—than he'd ever realized in Navahk. That might not change reality, and, after all these years, surely anyone but a hradani should be able to accept that, and yet—

His grin vanished, and his ears flicked. No one else in Kilthan's train would have recognized that sound, and even he couldn't make out the restless, muttering words from here, but he knew Hurgrumese when he heard it.

He moved more quickly, head swiveling as he scanned the moonstruck dark. None of the tents were lit, and he saw no one moving, heard only that muttering babble, all but buried in the sounds of deep, even breathing and snores. The men in this section would be going on night watch in another few hours; they needed their sleep, hence the distance between them and the wakefulness about the fire, and Brandark was glad of it as he went to his knees at the open fly of his tent.

Bahzell twisted and jerked, kicked half out of his bedroll, and sweat beaded his face. His massive hands clutched the blankets, wrestling with them as if they were constricting serpents, and Brandark's ears went flat as the terror in his friend's meaningless, fragmented mutters sank home. The Bloody Sword had known fear enough in Navahk not to despise it in another, but this was more than fear. The raw, agonized torment in it glazed his skin with ice, and he reached out to touch Bahzell's shoulder.

"Haaahhhhhhh!" Bahzell gasped, and a hand caught Brandark's wrist like a vise, fit to shatter any human arm, so powerful even Brandark hissed in anguish. But then the Horse Stealer's eyes flared open. Recognition flickered in their clouded depths, and his grip relaxed as quickly as it had closed.

"Brandark?" His mutter was thick, and he shook his head drunkenly. He shoved up on the elbow of the hand still gripping Brandark's wrist, scrubbing at his face with his other hand. "What?" he asked more clearly. "What is it?"

"I . . . was going to ask you that." Brandark kept his voice low and twisted his wrist gently. Bahzell looked down, ears twitching as he realized he held it, and his hand opened completely. He stared at his own fingers for a moment, then clenched them into a fist and sucked in a deep breath.

"So, it's muttering in my sleep I was, is it?" he said softly, and his jaw clenched when Brandark nodded. He opened and closed his fist a few times, then sighed and thrust himself into a sitting position. "A blooded warrior with a score of raids into the Wind Plain," he murmured in a quiet, bitter whisper, "and he's whimpering in his nightmares like a child! Pah!"

He spat in disgust, then looked up with a jerk as Brandark touched his shoulder again.

"That was no child's nightmare," the Bloody Sword said. Bahzell's eyes widened, and Brandark shrugged. "I couldn't make out exactly what you were saying, but I picked out a few words."

"Aye? And what might they have been?" Bahzell asked tautly.

"You spoke of gods, Bahzell—more than one, I think—and of wizards." Brandark's voice was harsh, and Bahzell grunted as if he'd been punched in the belly. They stared at one another in the night, and then Bahzell looked up at the moon.

"I've three hours before I go on watch, and I'm thinking it's best we go somewhere private," he said flat-voiced.

They found a place among the provision wagons, and Brandark perched on a lowered wagon tongue while Bahzell stood with a boot braced on a wheel spoke and leaned both arms on his raised knee. A silence neither wanted to break lingered, but finally Bahzell cleared his throat and straightened.

"I'm thinking," he said quietly, "that I don't like this above half, Brandark. What business does such as me have with dreams like that?"

"I suppose," Brandark said very carefully, "that the answer depends on just what sorts of dreams they are."

"Aye, so it does—or should." The Horse Stealer folded his arms, standing like a blacker, more solid chunk of night, and exhaled noisily. "The only trouble with that, Brandark my lad, is that I'm not after being able to remember the cursed things!"

"Then tonight wasn't the first time?" Brandark's tenor was taut.

"That it wasn't," Bahzell said grimly. "They've plagued me nightly—every night, I'm thinking—since the brigands hit us, but all I've been able to call to mind from them is bits and pieces. There's naught to get my teeth into, naught to be telling me what they mean . . . or want of me."

Brandark's hand moved in a quick, instinctive sign, and Bahzell's soft laugh was bitter in the darkness. Brandark flushed and lowered his hand. He started to speak, but Bahzell shook his head.

"No, lad. Don't fret yourself—it's more than once I've made the same sign now."

"I don't doubt it." Brandark shivered, for he, too, was hradani, then squared his shoulders. "Tell me what you do remember," he commanded.

"Little enough." Bahzell's voice was low, and he began to pace, hands clasped behind him. "There's this voice—one I'll swear I've never heard before—and it's after telling me something, asking me something . . . or maybe asking for something." He twitched his shoulders, ears half-flattened. "It's in my mind there's a face, as well, but it disappears like mist or smoke any time I try to lay hands on it. And there's something else beyond that, like a job waiting to be done, but I've not the least thrice-damned idea what it is!"

There was anguish in his voice now, and fear, and Brandark bit his lip. The last thing any hradani wanted was some sort of prophetic dream. Ancient memories of treachery and betrayed trust screamed in warning at the very thought, and Bahzell had muttered of gods and wizards while the dream was upon him, even if he couldn't recall the words to his waking mind.

The Bloody Sword made his teeth loosen on his lip and leaned an elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his palm while he tried to recall all the bits and pieces he'd ever read about such dreams. He would have liked to think it was only a nightmare—something brought on by Bahzell's Rage, perhaps—but that was unlikely if the Horse Stealer had been having them every night.

"This 'job,'" he said at last. "You've no idea at all what it is? No one's . . . telling you to do something specific?"

"I don't know," Bahzell half groaned. "It slips away too fast, with only broken bits left behind."

"What sort of bits?" Brandark pressed, and Bahzell paused in his pacing to furrow his brow in thought.

"I'm . . . not sure." He spoke so slowly Brandark could actually feel his painful concentration. "There's sword work and killing in it, somewhere. That much I'm certain of, but whether it's my own idea or someone else's—" The Horse Stealer shrugged, then his ears rose slowly and he cocked his head. "But now that you've pressed me, I'm thinking there is a wee bit more. A journey."

"A journey?" Brandark's voice sharpened. "You're supposed to go somewhere?"

"It's damned I'll be if I go anywhere for a sneaking, crawling dream I'm not even recalling!" Bahzell snapped, and Brandark raised a hand in quick apology.

"I didn't mean it that way. What I meant to ask was if the dream wants you to go somewhere?"

"Aye, that's it!" Bahzell's spine snapped straight and he planted his fists on his hips and turned to glare into the black and silver night. "The curst thing does want me to go somewhere."

"Where?" Brandark asked intently, and Bahzell growled in frustration.

"If I was knowing that, then I'd know what the damned thing is wanting of me when I get there!" he snarled, but then his rumbling voice went even deeper and his ears flattened. "And yet . . ."

He jerked his hands from his hips and began to prowl back and forth once more, pounding a fist into his palm while he stared at the grass. Brandark sat silently, letting him pace, feeling the intensity of his thought, and his stride gradually slowed. He came to a complete halt, rocking on his heels, then turned and looked sharply at the Bloody Sword.

"Wherever it is," he said flatly, "I'm on the road to it now."

"Phrobus!" Brandark whispered. "Are you certain of that?"

"Aye, that I am." Bahzell's voice was grim and stark, and Brandark swallowed. He'd never heard quite that note from his friend. It was like rock shattering into dust, and something inside him shuddered away from it in fear while silence hovered between them once more.

"What do you want to do?" he asked finally.

"I've no taste for destinies and such." Bahzell was still grim, but there was something else, as well. He'd recognized the foe, at least in part, and the elemental stubbornness of all hradanikind was rousing in defiance. "I've worries enough for a dozen men as it is, and 'destinies' and 'quests' will get a man killed quick as quick," he said harshly. "And if I spoke of gods, well, no god's done aught for our folk since the Fall, so there's no cause I can see to be doing aught for them."

Brandark nodded in heartfelt agreement, and square, strong teeth flashed in a fierce, moonlit grin as Bahzell returned the nod with interest.

"And if it's not some poxy god creeping round my dreams, then it's like enough some filthy wizard, and I'll see myself damned to Krahana's darkest hell before I raise hand or blade for any wizard ever born." There was a dreadful, iron tang in that, and Brandark nodded again.

"But how do you keep from doing what they want when you don't know what it is?" he asked slowly.

"Aye, there's the rub." Bahzell scrubbed his palms on his thighs, then shrugged. "Well, if it's on the road I am, then I'm thinking it's best I step aside."

"How?"

"By going where I'd never planned. If some cursed god or wizard's set himself on having me, then I'll just take myself somewhere he's not after expecting me to be."

"All of this means something?" Brandark asked with a trace of his normal tartness, and Bahzell chuckled nastily.

"So it does, my lad. So it does. Look you, all this time I've been heading west, with never a thought of going anywhere else. Soon or late I have to let Father know my whereabouts, but until I do, he can be telling Churnazh—aye, or anyone else who asks—he's no knowledge where I am. I've been minded to follow Kilthan clear to Manhome and see a wee bit of the Empire of the Axe before I get in touch with him again, but now I'm damned if I will."

"You can't just leave," Brandark objected, and Bahzell shook his head sharply.

"Old Kilthan's deserving better of me than that, but we've never told him we'd go clear to Manhome. No, I'm thinking I'll stay with him to Riverside. From there he'll be in the Kingdom of Angthyr, and that's an Axeman ally and safe enough for merchants, from all I hear. He'll have little need of my sword after that . . . and I'll be far enough from Navahk not to worry about steel in my back some dark night."

"In our backs, you mean."

Bahzell cocked his ears once more, studying his friend intently, then shook his head.

"I'm thinking you should stay clear of this," he said quietly. "It's one thing to be twisting Churnazh's nose—aye, and even to risk your neck for naught more than friendship. But this is none of your making, and it might just be your neck is the least thing you could be losing. Stay with Kilthan, Brandark. It's safer."

"Listen, I know you don't like my singing, but you don't have to go to such lengths to get rid of it."

"Leave off your jesting now! There's a time and a place for it, but not here. Not now! Against Churnazh and his lot—aye, or anything else we could feed steel till it choked—I'd take you at my side and be glad of it. But dreams and destinies . . ." Bahzell shook his head again. "Stay clear of it, Brandark. Stay clear and let it pass."

"Sorry, but I can't do that." Brandark stood and slapped his friend on the shoulder. "For all you know, I'm already caught up in it."

"Oh? And what have your dreams been like?" Bahzell demanded with awful irony, and the Bloody Sword laughed.

"I haven't had any—yet! But if you're busy running in the opposite direction, whatever it is might decide to pick on the single hradani who's still headed the right way, and then where would I be? If that's the case, then the safest place I could possibly be would be running right beside you."

"That," Bahzell said after a moment, "is most likely the most addlepated, clod-headed excuse for logic I've ever heard."

"Being rude won't help you. I thought it up, and I'll stick by it. You know how stubborn hradani are."

"Aye, so I do." Bahzell sighed. He gripped the smaller man by the upper arms and shook him—gently for a hradani. "You're a fool, Brandark Brandarkson. A fool to come after me from Navahk, and three times a fool if you dabble in this. It'll likely be the death of you, and not a pretty end!"

"Well, no one ever said you were smart," Brandark replied, "and, if the truth be known, I don't suppose anyone actually ever said I was."

"If they did, they lied." Bahzell gave him one last shake, then sighed again. "All right, if you're daft enough to be coming, then I suppose I'm daft enough to be glad for the company."

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