“But you said Bahzell is in the Empire of the Spear!” Harnak protested desperately.
“So he is. As soon as the ritual has been completed, you must depart for the Empire to seek him.”
“In winter?” Harnak was aghast at the very idea-and even more so at the thought of facing Bahzell sword-to-sword, cursed blade or not. “The journey would take weeks-months!-in this weather. How could I justify it to my father, and who knows where he might be by the time I got there?”
“The Scorpion requires this service of you,” Tharnatus said sternly. Harnak swallowed audibly, and the priest softened his rebuke with a smile. “Come, My Prince! There are answers to all your concerns.”
“There are?”
“Indeed. You will justify the journey to your father by telling him you’ve heard Bahzell is bound for the Lands of the Purple Lords, there to take ship up the Spear come spring to return to Hurgrum. The dog brothers will see to it that a ‘traveler’ with word to that effect arrives in the city within the next few days, and Churnazh will be as eager as we to see to it that Bahzell never does any such thing. Bahnak has grown stronger over the fall and winter; by spring he might even be ready to take the field against Navahk once more-or so Churnazh will fear, and he knows as well as we how the tales weaken your position as his heir. Your desire to deal with Bahzell once and for all will make perfect sense to him, will it not?”
Harnak nodded against his will, and Tharnatus shrugged.
“Under the circumstances, I believe he will not only allow you to go but to take a sizable retinue with you, as well. You will then take ship at Krelik and sail down the Spear. With luck, you should reach the Empire before Bahzell resurfaces.”
“Take ship at Krelik?! ” Shock startled Harnak to his feet. The thought of trekking overland down the course of the Saram in Bahzell’s wake had been bad enough, but this was insane! “How can I possibly reach Krelik?” he demanded in a slightly calmer voice under the weight of Tharnatus’ reproving eyes. “Surely you don’t think the other Horse Stealers will grant me safe passage through their lands? None of them would dare offend Bahnak so!”
“You’ll avoid Horse Stealer lands,” Tharnatus said. “And, no,” he went on when Harnak opened his mouth once more, “I’m not so great a fool as to suggest crossing the Wind Plain. You’ll go south, around the Horse Stealers.”
“Across Troll Garth and the Ghoul Moor?” Harnak swallowed again, harder, and his voice was faint. Trolls were far from intelligent and tended to lair up in the winter, but they were also nine feet of perpetually hungry killing machine. If one of them scented fresh meat in winter, an entire pack would materialize out of the very ground, and as for the Ghoul Moor-!
“Across Troll Garth and the Ghoul Moor,” Tharnatus confirmed. “The Scorpion will protect you, although,” he added thoughtfully, “it would certainly be wiser not to travel at night.”
“Tharnatus, I-” Harnak began, but a raised hand silenced him.
“The Scorpion requires this service,” the priest repeated, and Harnak sank back down into the pew while sweat beaded his brow. There was no recourse from that cold, inflexible demand, for if the Scorpion gave much, He could also demand much . . . and those of His servants who denied His demands would envy the sacrifices upon His altars before they died.
“Do not fear, My Prince,” Tharnatus said more gently. “The Scorpion’s sting shall be above you, and His pincers shall go on either hand. No creature of the Dark will dare defy his power.” He squeezed Harnak’s shoulder. “If there were more time, He would not send you into peril, even with His protection. Surely you must realize your value to Him, the hidden sting waiting at the heart of Navahk to destroy what His enemies like Bahnak would achieve here? But the upper Spear is frozen already; within weeks, the ice will reach as far south as the Lake of Storms, and should the greater servant fail, you must reach Bahzell and slay him quickly. The Horse Stealer must die, My Prince, both for your sake and the Scorpion’s, and His greater servants are but His pincers. You will be His sting, armed with His own power and mightier than any servant. He will see to it you reach Bahzell unharmed.”
“Of course.” Harnak summoned a smile. Even he knew how weak it was, but Tharnatus squeezed his shoulder again and nodded in approval.
“Good, My Prince! And remember the ritual to come. Yours may be a cold road, but at least we shall start you upon it warm and well fed.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
White flakes curtsied before Bahzell’s nose, then shot upward as a fist of wind snatched them away and plucked at his snow-clotted hood. He and Brandark had followed their targets into the fringes of the Darkwater Marshes, the vast stretch of hilly swamps stretching east from the river of the same name to the River of the Spear. The winter cold had hardened the ground and made their journey easier, for which he was grateful, but the clouds had thickened steadily through the three days since his . . . interview with Tomanāk, and now the iron-gray sky pressed down upon him like a bowl. It was only early afternoon, but the light was dim, and despite the occasional, moaning gusts, the air held a strange, furry stillness a northern hradani knew too well. The heavens were about to deluge them with snow, and he felt the relentless pressure of time, like a dire cat’s hot, damp breath on his neck.
But the tracks of Zarantha’s captors were clear enough for now-not that it was much comfort-and his breath steamed in a quiet, fervent curse as he knelt to examine the ground once more. Their enemies had snaked along ridge lines and hilltops through the swamp in a twisting, snakelike progress that slowed their pace still further, and the hradani had made up even more distance on them. But a second trail merged with the one they’d followed for so long, and the riders they were tracking had halted and dismounted here for some time before the newcomers joined them. The frozen surface soil had been kicked up in icy, snow-dusted clots, and Bahzell rose and shook his head as Brandark drew rein beside him.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking they’ve some way of sending word ahead of them after all,” Bahzell growled. “It’s clear enough they drew up here to wait on someone, and whoever it was never found them without knowing just where to be doing it.”
“How many, do you think?” Brandark asked, and Bahzell shook his head.
“I couldn’t be saying, not for certain, but it’s surprised I’ll be if they haven’t doubled their strength.”
“Phrobus!” Brandark swore, and Bahzell nodded, then scratched his chin.
“Still and all, Brandark, it might be worse.” His friend looked at him incredulously, and he shrugged. “There may be more of them, my lad, but they waited here long enough for us to be making up time. We’re no more than an hour-two at the outside-behind now.”
“Wonderful. When we catch them, you can take the twenty on the right while I take the twenty on the left . . . and hope those poxy wizards don’t turn us into cucumbers for our pains!”
“As to that, I’m thinking we’d best take whatever chance we get and hope,” Bahzell returned with a wave at the lazily spiraling flakes. “If we don’t hit them soon, we’ll have snow enough to hide an army’s tracks. They’re easy enough to follow now, but if snow once hides the trail and they’re after changing direction, we’ll be needing hours to find ’em again-if we ever do.”
“Better and better.” Brandark straightened in the saddle, sweeping the horizon through the slowly thickening veil of flakes, then sighed in glum agreement and looked back at the Horse Stealer.
“Any more sign of our friend?”
“Not since morning,” Bahzell replied, “but he was bound southwest, so I’m thinking he’s looped out around them again. He’s up ahead somewhere, waiting for them, though how he’s after doing it is more than I can guess.”