“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.”