It was the most draining, glorious thing he’d ever experienced, and it was far too intense to sustain. He felt that torrent of power snap into Brandark, felt his friend’s heart spasm under its lash, and then he was shrugged aside. The energy was too potent, too wild and fierce to constrain, and Bahzell cried out as it flung him away. His eyes popped open, and then he gazed down at Brandark, chest heaving as he sucked in huge lungfuls of air, and the world went very, very still.
His friend’s cropped ear and fingers were healed over, no longer raw and crusted but clean, smooth tissue.
Bahzell reached out and touched that wounded ear. It was cool, no longer hot with fever, and suddenly Bahzell was fumbling with the dressing on Brandark’s arm. He ripped it aside, and his eyes went huge when he saw the cut. It was less completely healed than the Bloody Sword’s ear or fingers, but the wound looked at least two weeks old, and Bahzell’s hands shook as he drew his dagger and cut away the bandages on Brandark’s thigh.
He hesitated as he bared the inmost layer, clotted and thick with oozing suppuration, then drew them aside and gasped. The terrible wound remained, but it was clean and healthy. He touched it lightly, then pressed harder, felt the solid, meaty strength of intact muscle and sinew, and drew a deep, hacking breath of joy.
“Well done!” a deep, echoing voice cried within him. “Well done, indeed, Bahzell Bahnakson!”
“Thank you,” Bahzell whispered, and it was not for the compliment. He closed his eyes again, recalling how he’d thrown the uselessness of uncaring gods into Tomanāk’s teeth, and someone else laughed deep inside him. It was a laugh of welcome, a war leader’s slap of congratulation on the shoulder of a warrior who’d fought well and hard in his first battle, and he smiled.
“Thank you,” he repeated more normally.
“I told you it would take us both,” Tomanāk said, “and it’s not every one of my champions who can fight as hard to heal a friend as to slay a foe, Bahzell.” Bahzell inhaled once more, treasuring the deep, joyous holiness of that moment-the knowledge that he held life in his hands, not death-and someone else’s huge, gentle hand seemed to rest lightly upon his head for a single endless moment. But then it withdrew, and he straightened as he sensed the War God’s change of mood.
“Brandark will recover fully, in time,” Tomanāk told him. “He’ll need care, and it will be some weeks still before that leg is fit to bear his weight, but he’ll recover. Without the tip of his ear or the fingers, I fear, but fully in every other sense. And with that behind us, perhaps its time to turn to the question you originally asked.”
“Which question?”
“The one about what to do with Harnak’s sword,” Tomanāk said dryly.
“Ah, that one!” Bahzell shook himself and settled back on his heels, sword across his thighs. “I’ll not deny I’d dearly like that answered, yet it’s but one. What’s to be done about old Demon Breath’s doings in Navahk?”
“One thing at a time, Bahzell. One thing at a time. My champions are only mortal, and I expect them to remember that.”
“Well, there’s a relief!” Bahzell chuckled.
“I’m glad you think so. First, the sword. You were right not to leave it behind. It’s failed in its original purpose, but that only makes it more dangerous, in a way. It was forged as a gate, Bahzell-an opening to Sharna’s realm so that he himself might strike at you through Harnak.” Bahzell swallowed, but the god continued calmly. “That constituted an unusual risk, even for him, and when you and I defeated him, it cost the Dark Gods more access here than you can guess. I’m sure his fellows will have something to say to him about it, but despite his failure in this instance, it remains a gate keyed to him, a path to reach anyone unfortunate enough to pick it up. There are few ways to neutralize something this powerful short of destroying it, and that, unfortunately, would liberate all its energy at once-and kill whoever destroyed it. Under the circumstances, the wisest course is to bury it at sea. Somewhere nice and deep, where my brother Korthrala can keep it safe.”
“At sea, is it? And how am I to be getting there with the ports no doubt closed against me?”
“That, Bahzell, is up to you. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
The Horse Stealer growled under his breath, yet there was an odd lack of power to the growl, and he felt the flicker of Tomanāk’s tart amusement.
“As for Navahk,” the god went on after a moment, “I think we can leave that for later. There are other forces at work, and I don’t expect you to deal with all of Norfressa’s problems on your own. Send word to your father and let him alert his allies. The Dark Gods work best in the dark; expose them to the light of day, and half the battle is won. In the meantime, you and Brandark have enough problems to deal with. Just try to get both of you out of this in one piece, Bahzell. Brandark is one of my sister’s favorites-and I’ve put a great deal of effort into you .”
Bahzell started to shoot something back, but there was a sudden stillness in his mind, and he knew Tomanāk had gone.
“Well,” he murmured instead, gazing down at Brandark’s relaxed face and listening to his even, sleeping breath, “now there’s a thing!”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Wind whipped out of the south, rough coated and sinewy, carrying a deep, rhythmic crash of sound and the high, fierce cry of gulls. The world was awash with energy and life, dancing on Bahzell’s skin like electricity as he waded through waist-high grass, topped the crumbly sand of a high-crested dune, and saw the sea at last.
It froze him, that sight. It held him like a fist, staring out over the endless blue and flashing white, lungs aching with the smell of salt. Surf boomed and spurted against the tan-colored beach in explosions of foam, and his braid whipped like a kite’s tail as the ocean’s breath plucked at his worn and tattered clothing. He’d never seen, never imagined, the like of this moment, and a vast, inarticulate longing seized him. He didn’t know what it was he suddenly wanted, yet he felt it calling to him in the surge of deep water and the shrill voice of sea birds, and his heart leapt in answer.
“Phrobus,” a tenor voice said softly, half lost in the tumult about them. “It’s big , isn’t it?”
“Aye, it is that,” Bahzell replied, equally quietly, and turned his head.
Brandark sat his horse with unwonted awkwardness, eyes huge in wonder. His bandage-wrapped right leg still gave him considerable pain, and it was all he could do to hobble about on it dismounted, for his body had yet to complete its healing. Yet a literal glow of health seemed to follow him about, and his reaction when he woke clearheaded and hungry for the first time in days had been all Bahzell could have desired. For once, even Brandark had been stunned into silence by the change in his condition, and when he learned how that change had come about-!
It had been too good to last, of course, and in his heart of hearts, Bahzell was glad of it. Refreshing it might have been to have Brandark deferring to him every time he turned around, but it had also been profoundly unnatural, and he’d felt nothing but relief the first time the word “idiot” escaped Brandark’s lips once more. By now, things were almost back to normal, and the Bloody Sword shook himself.
“Well,” he said dryly, “this is all very impressive, I’m sure, but what do you plan for your next trick?”
“ ‘Next trick,’ is it now?”
“Indeed. You said something about heading west along the shore, I believe, but that was when we still had all our supplies. Now-” Brandark waved at the single sparsely filled pack on the mule beside his horse and shrugged.