Bahzell and Brandark sat on their bedrolls in their fireless camp, eating as twilight settled. They’d put in a good, hard night and a day of travel, and it was unlikely anyone was even on their heels yet, but that was no reason to get careless and show a light.
“Well,” Brandark leaned back finally, fingering silent chords on his balalaika, “how soon d’you think they’ll come after us?”
“As to that,” Bahzell returned, drawing off his boots and wiggling his toes in relief, “I’ve no way of knowing for certain, but if Malith was after being right about how soon that Yithar bastard would be missed, it’s likely enough they’ll be on our trail by morning.”
He drew out the roll of cured leather Malith had given him and unrolled it. He set his feet on it and leaned forward to scribe round them with the tip of a small knife, then went to work cutting the leather to pad the insoles of his worn-out boots.
“You take that mighty calmly, I must say,” Brandark observed.
“There’s naught at all, at all, I could be doing about it by taking it otherwise,” Bahzell replied. “And taken all in all, it’s better they be chasing after the likes of us than taking it out on Malith’s folk.”
“Well, that tale you primed Malith with should certainly see to it that they do,” Brandark said dryly.
“Aye, and that’s a shrewd man yonder. I’ve little doubt he told it well,” Bahzell agreed with a chuckle.
“Aren’t you afraid one of the other villagers may tell them the truth in hopes of some reward from the authorities?”
“That lot?” Bahzell laughed out loud. “Brandark, there’s not a man or woman in that village as isn’t related to Malith one way or another, and villages like that know a thing or two about loyalty! Oh, no, my lad. When folk are pushed down as far as these Purple Lords are after pushing Malith’s lot, they’ll jump at the chance to get a bit of their own back. That’s something Churnazh had best be remembering, when all’s said.”
“True,” Brandark acknowledged, then grinned. “And, come to think of it, knowing they’ve got a good two years’ rent hidden away should be a bit of an incentive, as well!”
“That’s as may be, but it wasn’t why I was after leaving it to them. We’ve kept enough and more for our own needs, but those folk . . . they’ve worked mortal hard for the little they have. If old Yithar could be paying them back a bit of all he’s squeezed from ’em, why, it was our bounden duty to let him be doing it.”
“Maybe, but-”
Brandark’s sentence died, and both hradani jerked their heads up as a huge figure abruptly materialized. The horses and mules stood quietly, oblivious to the sudden arrival, but Bahzell scrambled up to his stocking feet as Tomanāk folded his arms across his chest and gazed down at him.
Silence stretched out, and Brandark set his balalaika aside and rose beside his friend. Still the silence lingered, until, at length, Bahzell cleared his throat.
“I’m thinking you’ve more things to be doing than dropping in to pass the time of day regular like,” he said to the god. “Especially with it being as hard as you say to be communicating with mortals and all.”
“You think correctly,” Tomanāk rumbled, and shook his head. “That was a fair piece of work you did at that village, Bahzell, but only fair. Chopping miscreants up may be an excellent way to relieve your tensions, but sometimes it’s better to settle things without swords.”
“As to that, it was after being his idea, not mine,” Bahzell shot back. “I was only after seeing justice done.”
“True enough,” Tomanāk agreed, “and I can’t fault you-or you, Brandark-” the Bloody Sword twitched as the War God shot him a glance “-for defending yourselves. You were just a bit hasty when you cut Yithar himself down, Bahzell. He was hardly a fit opponent for one of my champions, and you probably could have disarmed him instead. But, again, I’ll grant ample provocation, and things like that happen when instincts take over in a fight. No, I don’t fault you there, but this story you gave Malith to tell-!”
The god frowned, and Bahzell cocked his ears in surprise.
“Why, I was thinking it a neat enough tale,” he said after a moment, “and they were needing something to keep the noose out from around their own necks for what we did.”
“But you told him to lie .”
“And a good thing I did, too!” Bahzell shot back.
Tomanāk blinked. A look very much like bafflement crossed his features, and he unfolded his arms to plant his fists on his hips and lean forward over the Horse Stealer.
“Bahzell,” he said almost plaintively, “I’m the god of justice, as well as war. My champions can’t go around lying to people!”
“No more I did,” Bahzell said virtuously. Tomanāk’s frown deepened, and the Horse Stealer shrugged. “Every word I was after telling Malith and his folk was true as death,” he pointed out, “and I’ve not said a word about it to another soul-excepting yourself and Brandark, that is-so how could I be lying to anyone about it?”
“But you told Malith to lie. In fact, you made the entire lie up and coached him in it! A secondhand lie is still a lie, Bahzell.”
“Now that’s plain foolishness,” the Horse Stealer replied. “The truth would only have been landing them in a mortal lot of trouble.”
“Perhaps it would, and I’m not saying they weren’t justified. But you can’t just go about making up lies whenever you find yourself in trouble.”
“Find myself in trouble, is it?” It was Bahzell’s turn to snort, and he did so with panache. “Sure, and would you be so very kind as to be telling me just how Malith’s tale will be getting me out of trouble? Lying for profit, now, I can be seeing why that should be upsetting you, but this-?”
He raised his hands, palms up, and Tomanāk rocked back on his heels. Half a dozen thoughts seemed to chase themselves across his face, but then he sighed and shook his head.
“All right, Bahzell. All right!” He smiled wryly and shook his head again. “You’re new to this, and it’s been a long time since I last had a hradani champion. You don’t seem to have quite the, ah, normal mindset of the job.” Bahzell only snorted once more, and the god’s smile became a grin. “No, I don’t suppose you do, at that,” he murmured, then straightened and waved a finger at the Horse Stealer.
“Very well, Bahzell. We’ll let it pass, this time-and you were probably right. But mind you, no lies that will profit you!” he admonished, and faded once more into the gathering night before his unrepentant champion could reply.
Chapter Thirty-six
Prince Harnak drew rein and dabbed irritably at the sweat on his brow. The clothing he’d brought with him suited a northern winter, not the unnatural heat of this southern warm spell, and he muttered a sour curse on the hot, clammy woolens under his chain mail as he glowered at the terrain.
He’d never been good with maps, and his notion of his whereabouts had become uncomfortably vague. In fact, the only things he was sure of was that he was far south of Sindark, floundering about in an unknown land where every hand was potentially hostile . . . and that Bahzell was somewhere ahead of him still.
His survey of the countryside told him nothing. It was more of the gentle, sparsely wooded hills that stretched from the Shipwood to Bortalik Bay, without a village in sight. That was good-they’d nearly collided with some local lordling’s retainers when they strayed too near a small town three nights ago-but the lack of any road or guidepost made him uneasy.
Not that he was without any guides. He touched his sword hilt once more, almost against his will, and felt the pull that had first drawn him south, away from Sindark. There, he thought-to the southeast again. The hatred of the cursed blade sought the Horse Stealer like a lodestone . . . and it was growing stronger. Ten leagues, the archpriest had said; that was the range at which the sword could sense Bahzell. Judging by how fierce its pull had become, they were getting close, and Harnak spat on the ground as he released the hilt. The oppressive alienness of this land-his sense that he was far, far from home and riding further with every hour-made him edgy, and fear of what would happen when he and Bahzell finally met gnawed his belly like a worm of acid. Yet for all that, impatience goaded him on. His own hatred warred with his fear . . . and at least some of his troubles would be resolved, whatever happened, when he ran the Horse Stealer to ground at last.