He wrenched his sword free of its first victim, then brought it down, one-handed but deadly, despite the close quarters, and split a skull. Hartan’s battle-axe buried itself in the third man’s chest with a terrible, sodden crunch, and steel rang on steel as more of the attackers engaged the rest of the squad. Bahzell parried a blade on his dagger, slammed his sword pommel into its wielder’s skull, and gutted him with the dagger as he staggered. The dying man stumbled back, blocking a fellow just long enough for Bahzell to crop his head in turn, and the bull-throated bellow of Hurgrum’s war cry did almost as much as the sudden explosion of combat to scatter the crowd. The bystanders scrambled madly out of the way, and, finally, he had room to work properly.
He threw his dagger into the throat of a human who’d circled around Hartan’s off side and got both hands on his sword, and the rest of the squad slotted into place on either side of him. They took him for point, forming a line about Kilthan and anchoring their flanks against a tavern wall, and bodies, limbs, and pieces of limbs flew as his blade took any target that came within his reach.
It was over in minutes, and that, too, was strange. Their attackers had conceded defeat too promptly. None of them had been able to get past Bahzell, but they hadn’t even seriously tried the others. Two members of the squad had been killed in the initial attack, but no one had come even close to Kilthan or his moneybags when the attackers vanished down alleys and side streets. Fifteen bodies lay in the street, but at least that many had fled, and Bahzell had stood panting amidst the carnage, unable to understand. The squad had been outnumbered three-to-one, and surely anyone who could plan and execute that smooth an ambush in a city street should have shown more determination to reach his target!
But they hadn’t, and his own puzzlement had been dwarfed by Hartan’s and Rianthus’ when they found the scarlet scorpion tattooed on each body’s shoulder. That was the emblem of the dog brothers, and no one could understand why the Guild of Assassins should attack Kilthandahknarthas dihna’ Harkanath. Kilthan had rivals in plenty but remarkably few true enemies, and Clan Harkanath had a reputation for ruthless responses to attacks on any of its own, much less its head. No one could think of anyone who hated-or feared-Kilthan enough to pay the fee the Guild must have demanded for a target as dangerous as he, and why dog brothers, who specialized in stealth and cunning, should try for him in something as obvious as a street brawl baffled them all.
But they had, and not just in Saramfal. Kilthan had argued the point, but the united front of Rianthus and Hartan had browbeaten him into leaving his riverboat only for specific meetings, and then only with two full squads of Hartan’s men-including Bahzell. Yet they’d been attacked again in Trelith, the Kingdom of Morvan’s main port, and a third time, when they made their regular detour up the Feren River to Malgas.
The Trelith attack had been a repeat of the abortive Saramfal attempt with twice the men. Fortunately, the sheer number of attackers had been harder to hide, and Hartan spotted them before Kilthan was fully into their trap. The bodyguards’ commander had also had more time to plan, and his prearranged order had sent Bahzell falling back beside Kilthan to deal with any who might break through to him. But the assassins hadn’t pressed the attack. Indeed, they’d broken off the instant Hartan’s men formed line about Kilthan and Bahzell, yet any hope they’d given up for good had been blunted at Malgas. The attack there had been nothing less than a fire ship. Brandark had lost both eyebrows in that one, for the river barge, packed with combustibles and roaring with flame, had actually lodged against Kilthan’s ship for over two minutes before the crew could boom it off, and they might never have pushed it clear without the added weight and strength of the two hradani.
Now, as the convoy headed down the last few leagues to Riverside, Bahzell felt unhappy over his plan to leave it when they reached the port. Kilthan was well beyond any likely raider attack, but leaving him now seemed poor repayment for his kindness if the dog brothers meant to have him.
“Kormak for your thoughts,” a tenor voice asked.
“I’m doubting they’re worth as much as all that,” he rumbled.
“Call me a big spender.”
Bahzell gave a wry smile, but then it faded, and he shrugged.
“I’ve just been casting my mind over my-our-plans. We’re coming up fast on Riverside, and I’m not so easy in my mind over leaving Kilthan as I’d thought to be.”
“The dog brothers?”
“Aye.” Bahzell flattened his ears. “It’s not a thing I can understand, Brandark, this notion of taking money to kill a man you’ve never met and who’s done naught to you or yours. And as for any scum that would worship Sharna into the bargain-!” The Horse Stealer spat over the side, and Brandark sat up and cradled his balalaika across his lap.
“Sometimes I think you’re too much a barbarian for your own good,” he said. “If you’d grown up in Navahk, you’d understand exactly how someone could kill for a fistful of gold-or copper, for that matter. But you really don’t, do you?” He shook his head at Bahzell’s blank look and sighed. “Don’t let it worry you, Bahzell. You’re probably better off not understanding . . . as long as you remember other folk do. But as for worshiping Sharna-”
The Bloody Sword broke off, gazing out over the sunlit river for several long minutes, then shrugged.
“Truth to tell, I doubt many of them really ‘worship’ old Demon Breath. From all I’ve heard, a man would have to be more than just sick-minded to dabble in such as that. Oh, the dog brothers pay Sharna lip service, at least-I suppose even assassins want a patron of some sort, and the kind of treachery and cunning Sharna relishes is their stock in trade-and there’s no doubt they maintain links to his church, but I doubt most of them would ever come any nearer a demon-raising than they could help!”
“Aye?” Bahzell raised his sword to peer down its edge, and fresh-honed steel glittered below his eye as he glanced up at his friend. “That’s as may be, my lad, but if they’ve a mind to call such as Sharna lord and master, then I’ve a mind to cut their gizzards out on sight.”
“I doubt you’d get much argument from anyone there-except the dog brothers, of course. But I take it the attacks on Kilthan are why you’re uncomfortable about leaving his service?”
Bahzell nodded again, then put his sword away. Steel clicked as he sheathed it and tucked the whetstone into his belt pouch.
“I understand,” Brandark said after a moment, “but you can only kill them when they come at him. Hartan’s other fellows can do that almost as well as you, and, much as it pains me to say it, he and Rianthus between them are at least half as smart as I am, so not even my brilliance is irreplaceable to Kilthan’s security.”
“Ah, the modesty of the man!” Bahzell sighed, and Brandark grinned. “Still and all,” the Horse Stealer went on more seriously, “you’re after making sense. It’s just that these are good lads, Brandark, and skipping out when they might be counting on us . . . frets me. I’ll be missing them, come what may, and if aught should happen to Kilthan after we’ve gone-” He twitched his ears unhappily, and his eyes were dark once more.
“I know.” Brandark rubbed an index finger gently down a balalaika string and frowned. “Has he said anything more about our plans?”