The second wizard fell to his knees, mouth working soundlessly as he raised his hands in piteous supplication, but Wencit’s face was colder than the storm. His hand swung, his finger pointed, a second shaft of light lanced out from it, and his victim shrieked like a soul in hell as he blazed.

Bahzell crouched on his knees, still shielding Zarantha, and even through the Rage he felt a stab of pure, atavistic terror as he stared at Wencit. Wind roared across the hollow, roofing it in a boiling cauldron of white, and the wild wizard loomed against it like a figure out of Kontovar’s most terrifying myths. He lowered his hand slowly while the smoke of his enemies streamed up to whip away on the gale, and his words carried with that same, impossible clarity through the blizzard’s bellow.

“By their works I knew them, by the Strictures I judged, and by my oath I acted,” he said softly, and turned away at last.

Chapter Thirty

There was no dawn. The storm howled on, roaring like an enraged giant, and Bahzell sat beside the fire and watched their prisoners.

There were eleven of them: six Carnadosan guardsmen and five dog brothers. One assassin would die soon; all four of his fellows and two of the guardsmen were wounded, and cold hatred urged the Horse Stealer to cut all their throats. But the aftertaste of the Rage was poison on his tongue, copper-bright with too much blood, too much exaltation in its shedding. Even if it hadn’t been, these men had surrendered; if he killed them now, it would be in cold blood-murder, not battle-and Bahzell Bahnakson was no dog brother.

Thirteen bodies lay piled beyond the fire’s warmth, frozen and stiff. The dead wizards’ remaining henchmen had fled into the shrieking blizzard, most without cloaks, some without even boots. Few would survive the storm, and bleak satisfaction filled Bahzell at the thought as he looked at Zarantha.

She lay across the fire from him, closed eyes like bruised wounds in her stark, white face as she slept with her head on Wencit’s thigh. Her captors had been careful not to abuse her physically, for they’d wanted her strong and fit for sacrifice, and she was tough, Zarantha of Jashân. Yet the horror of what she’d endured-of riding obediently to what she knew was hideous death, a prisoner in her own body-had marked her . . . and the compulsion that had held her so had survived her captors’ deaths.

Wencit’s face had been grim as he bent over her, and Bahzell had knelt behind her, supporting her shoulders against his knee as the wizard’s eyes flamed and the cleansing fire of his wizardry burned deep inside her. Bahzell had felt Zarantha’s terrible shudders as that sorcery warred with the noisome, clinging shroud about her soul, heard her teeth-clenched groan of agony as the compulsion frayed and tore under the power of Wencit’s will, and he’d gathered her in his arms as she sobbed explosively against his mailed chest when the spell broke. He’d smoothed her black hair, murmured to her, held her like a child, and she’d clung to him, burying her face against him.

That had been almost enough to send him raging amidst the prisoners, murder or no, but it hadn’t. He’d only held her, and thought no less of her as she wept, for hradani knew the horror of helplessness in the hands of wizards.

She’d mastered her tears more quickly than he would have believed possible. She’d drawn the discipline of the magi about her and pushed herself back to smile at him, her white cheeks wet.

“And so I owe you my life again, Bahzell Bahnakson,” she’d said, voice wavering with the aftershock of her tearing sobs. “Oh, Bahzell, Bahzell! What god sent you and Brandark to me, and how can I ever prove worthy of you?”

“Hush, lass,” he’d growled, and patted her roughly, awkward and uncomfortable as a stripling before the glow in her eyes. “You’ve no call to be ‘worthy’ of such as us!”

“Oh, but I do-both of you.” She’d reached out a hand to Brandark, and the Bloody Sword had squeezed it gently. “I lied to you, and tricked you into this, and still you came for me.”

“Huh!” Brandark had snorted. “It was no more than a leisurely jog for longshanks here! Now, I , on the other hand-!”

Zarantha had answered with a gurgle of tearful laughter, but she’d shaken her head until Bahzell cupped her face in one huge hand and turned it back to him.

“Lass, you never lied. Less than the full truth, aye, but were you thinking the two of us stupid enough not to be guessing you’d reason for it?” Her lips had trembled, and he’d touched her hair once more. “Tothas told us what it was, and I’ll not fault your thinking-no, nor your judgment, either.”

“Tothas! ” she’d gasped, her eyes darting suddenly about, wide with fresh, sudden dread as she noted her armsman’s absence. “Is he-?!”

“Tothas is well,” Bahzell had said firmly. “He’d not the strength for a run like this, so we left him safe enough in Dunsahnta to watch over Rekah. It’s half-mad with worry over you he was, but he’d sense enough to know this was best left to us, and he sent his love with us.”

“Rekah is alive?!” Incredulous joy had flickered in her shadowed eyes. “They told me she was dead!”

“Aye, well, as to that, I’ve no doubt they thought she was, but she was alive enough when last we saw her, and I’m thinking we left her in the hands of a healer who’s kept her so.”

“So you did, and so she is,” Wencit had said. Bahzell turned his head, eyebrows raised, and the wild wizard smiled. “I try to keep abreast of things,” he’d explained gruffly, “and Tothas and Rekah are just fine. In fact, the commander of Dunsahnta’s military district arrived there four days ago, and he’s been cleaning out the late baron’s friends ever since.”

Zarantha had closed her eyes and sagged against Bahzell once more. “You answer my prayers yet again,” she’d murmured. “Dear friend, I can never repay you for all you’ve done.”

“No, and there’s no cause you should,” he’d said, letting her rest in his arms. “I told you before, lass; a man looks after his own in this world.”

Bahzell’s mind returned to the present, and he looked back at Zarantha. He hadn’t wanted to relinquish her to Wencit when she dozed off, but however little he knew of sorcery, he’d recognized Wencit’s expression. The wild wizard was worried, and Bahzell had sensed a sort of unseen probing, as if Wencit’s mind delved deep inside Zarantha’s, seeking for wounds yet unhealed. Now he cleared his throat, and the wizard looked up at him.

“I’m thinking you’re not so satisfied about her as you’d like,” the hradani said, and Wencit sighed.

“Not yet. In time, she’ll recover fully, I think, but she’ll need care-and watching-till she heals.”

“Ah?” Bahzell cocked his ears.

“They raped her, Bahzell. Not physically, but inside her mind, and she’s a mage.” Wencit shook his head, face tight with anger. “She knew what they were doing, which made it still worse. She’s . . . open to them. Vulnerable. And if they get the chance to strike her again, it won’t be to control, but to kill.”

“Can you be stopping them?” the Horse Stealer demanded flatly.

“I can, but I’ll have to keep her under my eye to shield her. And all I can really do about the damage is hold it where it is-keep it from growing any worse-until we get her someplace safe and familiar, where I can use past associations to help her rebuild her defenses. That means either a mage academy or Jashân itself, and getting her to either of those places won’t be easy.”

“Why not?” Brandark asked across the fire.

“Carnadosa has more followers in Norfressa than most people dream is possible,” Wencit replied. “They dare not draw attention to themselves, but they’re always with us. The Dark Gods promise their followers a great deal, and the lust for power cuts deep . . . especially in wizards.” He smiled bleakly at the two hradani. “For those who can, the need-the hunger-to wield the art is too terrible to resist. In a sense, it’s our own Rage. It drives us with a power and passion I doubt anyone but a hradani could truly understand.”