“Not even with wizards to help them?”

“Well, now,” Bahzell murmured, “there is that, isn’t there? But I’m thinking not even a wizard could have stopped him from taking two or three before he died, and we’ve seen no bodies at all, at all. Which makes me wonder, Brandark, if he’s not knowing exactly what it is he’s after?”

“Um.” Brandark frowned. “D’you think we’ve picked up an ally?”

Bahzell snorted. “Oh, he’s on their trail, right enough, but we’ve no notion of why , and any Sothōii’s likely to be putting an arrow in our gizzards the instant he sees a pair of hradani. And even if he’s not, he’s ahead of us. It’s likely enough he knows what it is he’s following, but how’s he to know who’s following him? ”

“You do have a gift for seeing the bright side, don’t you?” Brandark grumbled, and Bahzell laughed and headed for the trees with his axe.

A palm-sized fire flickered at the heart of the hollow, and Bahzell sat at the depression’s upper end, just his head rising above the crest of the low hill while Brandark slept behind him. His sword lay at his side, and he grimaced and wrapped his cloak a bit tighter as a few dry pellets of snow whipped at him on the teeth of the wind.

Snow, he thought. Just what they needed. But at least the clouds were thinner than he’d feared-he could actually see a lighter patch where the moon ought to be-and so far the snow was no more than spits. It wouldn’t be too bad if it held to flurries, yet Zarantha’s captors were keeping to a more rapid pace than he’d expected. He and Brandark had closed the gap, but they were beginning to feel the pace themselves.

Bahzell had only a vague notion of exactly where they were-somewhere in the Middle Weald, he thought. They’d crossed what passed for a Spearman highroad yesterday, which might have been the one between Midrancimb and Boracimb. If it had been, then they were little more than two hundred leagues from Alfroma, and if Zarantha’s captors were able to keep pushing this hard, the hradani must catch them up soon or risk never catching them at all.

He chewed that thought unhappily, and his mind turned as if by association to the mystery horseman. Bahzell had spent too much time on the Wind Plain not to recognize a Sothōii warhorse’s stride when he saw one, but whoever was riding it wasn’t Sothōii. The more he thought about it, the more certain of that he was, and not just because a Sothōii warrior had no business this far south. No, he rode like a Sothōii, and he tracked like one, but he didn’t think like one-not even one who knew he was on the trail of wizards.

The Sothōii horsebow was a deadly weapon in expert hands, and any Sothōii warrior was, by definition, expert. He was also both canny and patient as the grass itself. If a Sothōii knew what he was up against-and the evidence said this rider did-he’d scout the enemy, establish exactly who among them were the wizards and be certain his first two arrows went into them, then take the others one by one. It might take him a while, but he could have them all. If anyone knew that, a Horse Stealer did, and that was exactly why Bahzell was so convinced this fellow was something else.

Yet what sort of something else baffled him, and one thing he didn’t need was fresh puzzles. He had enough trouble trying to understand what in the names of all the gods and demons a pair of hradani were doing chasing wizards through winter weather in the middle of the Empire of the Spear without wondering why someone else was doing the same thing!

He swore under his breath and shifted position. Brandark, he knew, was in this because of him. Oh, the Bloody Sword had his own reasons for helping Zarantha, but he wouldn’t have been here in the first place if he hadn’t followed Bahzell out of Navahk-and if Bahzell hadn’t dragged Zarantha into his life in Riverside. But why was Bahzell in it? He knew what drove him to see Zarantha safe now , yet try as he might, he couldn’t lay hands on how his life had gotten so tangled to begin with. Each step of the road made sense in and of itself, but why the Phrobus had he set out on it in the first place?

As he’d told Tothas, he was no knight in shining armor-the very thought made him ill-nor did his friendship for Tothas and Rekah and Zarantha have anything in common with the revoltingly noble heroes who infested the romantic ballads. And it wasn’t nobility that had driven him to help Farmah in Navahk, either. It had been anger and disgust and perhaps, little though he cared to admit it, pity-and look where it had landed him!

His mind flickered back against his will to a firelit cave and the ripple of music, and he growled another curse. Whatever the Lady might say, he wasn’t out here in the dark for any thrice-damned gods! He was out here because he’d been fool enough to stick his nose into other people’s troubles . . . and because he was too softheaded-and hearted-to leave people he liked to their fates. The fact that he’d given his friendship and loyalty to strangers might prove he was stupid, yet at least he understood it. And at least it had been his own decision, his own choice. But as for anything more than that, any notion he had some sort of “destiny” or “task”-

His thoughts broke off, and his head snapped up. Something had changed-something he couldn’t see or hear, yet something that sparkled down his nerves and drove his ears flat to his skull. He snatched at his sword hilt, and steel rasped as he surged to his feet, but his shout to Brandark died stillborn as an impossibly deep voice spoke from behind him. A mountain might have spoken so, had some spell given it life, and its deep, resounding music sang in his bones and blood.

“Good evening, Bahzell Bahnakson,” it said. “I understand you’ve met my sister.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Bahzell spun around, sword raised, and his eyes went huge.

A man-or what looked like a man-stood in the hollow behind him, arms folded across his chest. He was at least ten feet tall, dark haired and dark eyed, with a strong, triangular face that shouted his kinship to the only deity Bahzell had ever seen. A light mace hung at his belt, a sword hilt showed at his left shoulder, and he wore chain mail under a green tabard. No special light of divinity shone about him . . . but he didn’t need one.

Tomanāk Orfro, God of War and Judge of Princes, second in power only to his father Orr, stood there in the dark, brown hair stirring on the sharp breeze, and Bahzell lowered his sword almost mechanically. Stillness hovered, broken only by the sigh of the wind, and Tomanāk’s sheer presence gripped Bahzell like an iron fist. Something deep inside urged him to his knees, but something deeper and even stronger kept him on his feet. He bent slowly, eyes never leaving the god, and lifted his baldric from the ground. He sheathed his blade and looped the baldric back over his shoulder, settling the sword on his back, and gave the War God look for look in stubborn silence.

Tomanāk’s eyes gleamed. “Shall we stand here all night?” Amusement danced in that earthquake-deep voice. “Or shall we discuss why I’m here?”

“I’m thinking I know why you’re here, and it’s no part of it I want.” Bahzell was astounded by how level his own voice sounded-and by his own temerity-but Tomanāk only smiled.

“You’ve made that plain enough,” he said wryly. “Of all the mortals I’ve ever tried to contact, your skull must be the thickest.”

“Must it, now?” A sort of lunatic hilarity flickered inside Bahzell, and he folded his arms across his own chest and snorted. “I’m thinking that should be giving you a hint,” he said, and Tomanāk laughed out loud.