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# 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 unnatural vitality while Bahzell lay facedown, half buried under one outthrust limb.

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 Tomanâk'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 Tomanâk'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," Tomanâk 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 Tomanâk 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 Tomanâk 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."

He raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if they followed him, and they nodded silently.

"But changes in living creatures are more complex. Life is ongoing, eternally changing and becoming, and when the dark wizards made your people fodder for their armies, they forced a change even more profound than they realized. They changed your basic matrix, the factors which control your heredity. That's why the Rage has bred true among hradani . . . but it's no longer the Rage they intended you to have."

He fell silent, and Bahzell scratched the tip of one ear and frowned. He glanced at Brandark, who looked as puzzled as he felt, then back at Tomanâk.

"Begging your pardon, but I'm not understanding."

"I know." Tomanâk gazed down at the Horse Stealer, then raised one hand to gesture at the demon's carcass. "The dark wizards intended you and your people to be no more than that demon was: ravening beasts with an unstoppable lust to kill. And, for a time—a very long one, as mortals reckon it—that was what the Rage made you. What it still makes some of you. But what happens when you give yourself to the Rage, Bahzell?"

The Horse Stealer flushed, recalling the shameful seduction of the Rage's power and focused passion, but Tomanâk shook his head.

"No, Bahzell," he said gently. "I know what you think happens, but the Rage doesn't make you a killer when you embrace it . . . because it isn't really 'the Rage' at all."

Bahzell blinked, and Brandark jerked upright beside him.

"Not—?" the Horse Stealer began, and Tomanâk shook his head once more.

"No. It's similar to the Rage, and it springs from the same changes wizardry wrought in you, but it's quite different. Perhaps your people will think of another name for it in years to come, as you learn more about it and yourselves. You see, the Rage controls those it strikes without warning, but you control it when you summon it to you. It becomes a tool, something you can use at need, not something that uses you."

Bahzell stiffened in shock, and Tomanâk nodded, but there was a warning note in his voice when he continued.

"Don't mistake me. Even when you control it, the Rage remains a deadly danger. Just as wizardry, it's the use to which it's put which makes it 'good' or 'evil.' A man who knowingly summons the Rage to aid him in a crime is no less a criminal—indeed, he becomes a worse criminal than one whom the Rage maddens against his will—and the old Rage, the one the wizards intended, is far from dead among your people. It's dying. In time, it will be no more than a memory, but that time lies many years from now, and there will always be those, like Churnazh and Harnak, who glory in destruction and use it to that end. But for the rest of your people, as you learn to control and use it—as you used it today, Bahzell—the Rage will become a gift, as well."

Bahzell inhaled deeply. What Tomanâk had said seemed impossible. For as long as hradani could remember, the Rage had been their darkest shame, their most bitter curse. How could something which had cost them so much, made them monsters to be shunned by the other Races of Man, possibly be a gift?

Yet even as he thought that, his mind spun back over the handful of times he'd summoned the Rage, and the first, faint ghost of belief touched him. He'd never really thought about it, he realized. He'd been too ashamed, too frightened by it . . . and he'd never summoned it except in battle. It was too powerful a demon to be unchained unless his very survival left him no choice, and he'd always locked the chains back about it as quickly as he could.

And because he had, he'd never realized it wasn't the destruction of the Rage that tempted him at all. It was the exaltation, the focus, the sense that in its grip he became all that he could possibly be. He'd simply never considered using that power and focus for anything other than warfare, and he sucked in a deep breath of total shock as he realized that he could. That it didn't have to be used for destruction.

That his people held in their own hands the power to free themselves of their ancient curse at last.

"I—" He stopped and drew another breath. "I'm thinking I'll need time, and not a little of it, to be understanding all you've said," he said, and his voice was unwontedly hesitant. "Yet if it's true . . ."

He trailed off, and Tomanâk nodded once more.

"It's true, Bahzell, and it will be one of your tasks to teach your people that. Yes, and to remind them that swords have two edges, that they must evolve new laws to govern the use of the Rage and punish those who abuse it. As Ottovar once taught wizards to restrain their power, so your people must learn to restrain theirs, and the learning won't be easy."

"No," Bahzell said softly. "No, I can be seeing that."

"I know," Tomanâk said gently. "It was one reason I chose you—and hoped you would choose me, in turn. And now," the god's voice turned brisker, "since it seems you have chosen me, are you prepared to swear Sword Oath to me, Bahzell Bahnakson?"

The sudden question wrenched the Horse Stealer's mind from the stunning revelation Tomanâk had just made, and he shook himself as he gazed up at the god. A corner of his mind still yammered in panic at the thought of "destinies" and gods-given "tasks," yet it was only a tiny voice, overwhelmed by that terrible moment of clarity when he'd first seen the demon clearly, recognized all it represented, and realized what he'd been born to fight. And even if that memory had not been etched imperishably into his heart and mind, he had no choice. He'd already given himself to the War God's service, accepted Tomanâk's aid in battle, and as he'd told the god that first night, when Bahzell Bahnakson gave his word, it meant something.

And so he gazed at the glowing shape before him, and nodded.

"Aye. I am that," he said softly, and Tomanâk smiled and reached up over his shoulder and drew his own sword.

It was a plain, utilitarian weapon, its hilt devoid of gold or gems, its blade unmarked by inlay work, yet it needed none of those things. It was tall as Bahzell himself, and it turned every sword he'd ever seen into flawed, imperfect copies, as if its forging had included every essential element of the very concept of "sword"—and excluded every nonessential. It was no prince's plaything, no sword of state. It was a weapon, borne by a warrior and a leader of warriors.

Tomanâk's nimbus glowed higher, licking out to touch the trunks and branches of the trees about the hill as he held the mirror-bright blade in his hands. He extended the hilt to Bahzell, and the hradani licked his lips and steeled himself to lay his own hands upon that plain, wire-bound pommel. Something crackled under his fingers, like a living heart of electricity, a leashed echo of the raw power he'd felt from his own blade as he charged the demon, and a patina of the god's own light flickered about him as Tomanâk looked gravely down at him.

"Do you, Bahzell Bahnakson, swear fealty to me?"

"I do." Bahzell said, and Brandark swallowed beside him, for his friend's voice was a firm, quiet echo of the god's subterranean rumble. There was a kinship between them, almost a fusion, and Brandark felt both awed and humbled and strangely excluded as he watched and listened.

"Will you honor and keep my Code? Will you bear true service to the Powers of Light, heeding the commands of your own heart and mind and striving always against the Dark as they require, even unto death?"

"I will."

"Do you swear by my Sword and your own to render compassion to those in need, justice to those you may be set to command, loyalty to those you choose to serve, and punishment to those who knowingly serve the Dark?"

"I do."

"Then I accept your oath, Bahzell Bahnakson, and bid you take up your blade once more. Bear it well in the cause to which you have been called."

The wind died. All movement ceased, and silence hovered, like a pause in the heartbeat of eternity, and then Tomanâk smiled down upon his newest champion. He withdrew his sword from Bahzell's hands, and the hradani blinked as if waking from sleep. He stood a moment, then smiled back up at the god who had become his deity, and stooped to pick up the sword Brandark had recovered from under the demon's corpse. He lifted it easily, then paused with an arrested expression and looked down at it, for it felt different in his hands.

He raised the blade to examine it, and his ears pricked in surprise. It was the same weapon it had always been, yet it weighed more lightly in his hands. The blade which had been forged of good, serviceable steel glittered with a new, richer shine in the War God's light, and Tomanâk's crossed sword and mace were etched deep into it, just below the quillons. He felt no quiver of power, no sudden surge of strength, yet somehow it had been touched by the same elemental perfection that imbued the god's own sword, and he raised wondering eyes to Tomanâk's.

"My champion bears my Sword, as well as his own, Bahzell, so I've made a few changes in it."

"Changes?" An echo of a hradani's instinctive distrust of all things arcane echoed in Bahzell's voice, and Tomanâk smiled wryly.

"Nothing I think you'll object to," he soothed, and Bahzell's ears tilted back. He frowned, and the god laughed out loud. "Oh, Bahzell, Bahzell! Not even single combat with a demon can change you, can it?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't be knowing about such as that," Bahzell said politely, but a gleam of amusement lit his own eyes, and he flicked his ears impudently. "But you were saying as how you'd made some 'changes' in my blade?"

"Indeed. First, of course, it bears my sign now, so that others may recognize it as a champion's blade and know you for what you claim to be."

"Claim to be, is it?" Bahzell stiffened his spine and cocked his head. "I'm thinking I'm not so pleased to be needing proof of my own word!"

"Bahzell," Tomanâk replied, "you're a hradani. The first hradani to become my champion in over twelve hundred years. It may seem unfair to you, but don't you think a certain amount of, ah, skepticism is inevitable?"

Bahzell made a sound deep in his throat, and Tomanâk sighed.

"Will it make you feel any better to know that all of my champions' swords bear my sign? Or do you want to stand here and argue about it all night?"

Bahzell flushed and twitched his ears, and Tomanâk grinned.

"Thank you. Now, about the other changes. For one thing, this blade is now unbreakable. For another, you'll never drop it or lose it in battle—and no one else can wield it. In fact, no one else can even pick it up unless you choose to hand it to them. I trust you find none of that objectionable?"

The god asked the question with a sort of teasing humor, and Bahzell managed a smile in reply as he shook his head.

"Good, because that's about all I did to it—aside from one other tiny thing most champions' swords don't do, of course."

"Other thing?" Bahzell's ears cocked once more, and Tomanâk grinned.

"Yes. You see, it comes when you call it."

"It what?" Bahzell peered up like someone awaiting the joke's punchline, and Tomanâk's grin grew broader.

"It comes when you call it," he repeated. "It is the symbol of what you've become, Bahzell, and while I value my champions' independence, it can make them a bit . . . fractious, shall we say? As a hradani, you may need to prove your status to your fellows a bit more often and conclusively than most, so I've given you a means to do just that by summoning your blade to you."

Bahzell blinked once more, and Tomanâk's grin became a smile that looked oddly gentle and yet not out of place on that stern, warrior's face.

"And with that, Bahzell, I bid you good night," he said, and vanished like a wind-snuffed candle.

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