He closed his eyes in all too familiar pain, then shook himself and resumed his careful progress across the camp. There were birds and fish, he told himself, just as there were those who were meant to be bards and those who weren’t. Birds drowned, and fish couldn’t fly, but he knew something inside him would demand he go on trying, like a salmon perpetually hurling itself into the air in a desperate bid to become a hawk. Which was more stubborn than intelligent, perhaps, but what could one expect from a hradani? He grinned at the comfortable tartness of the thought, yet he knew his need to touch the true heart of the bard’s art was far less a part of his affectations-and far more important to him-than he’d ever realized in Navahk. That might not change reality, and, after all these years, surely anyone but a hradani should be able to accept that, and yet-
His grin vanished, and his ears flicked. No one else in Kilthan’s train would have recognized that sound, and even he couldn’t make out the restless, muttering words from here, but he knew Hurgrumese when he heard it.
He moved more quickly, head swiveling as he scanned the moonstruck dark. None of the tents were lit, and he saw no one moving, heard only that muttering babble, all but buried in the sounds of deep, even breathing and snores. The men in this section would be going on night watch in another few hours; they needed their sleep, hence the distance between them and the wakefulness about the fire, and Brandark was glad of it as he went to his knees at the open fly of his tent.
Bahzell twisted and jerked, kicked half out of his bedroll, and sweat beaded his face. His massive hands clutched the blankets, wrestling with them as if they were constricting serpents, and Brandark’s ears went flat as the terror in his friend’s meaningless, fragmented mutters sank home. The Bloody Sword had known fear enough in Navahk not to despise it in another, but this was more than fear. The raw, agonized torment in it glazed his skin with ice, and he reached out to touch Bahzell’s shoulder.
“Haaahhhhhhh! ” Bahzell gasped, and a hand caught Brandark’s wrist like a vise, fit to shatter any human arm, so powerful even Brandark hissed in anguish. But then the Horse Stealer’s eyes flared open. Recognition flickered in their clouded depths, and his grip relaxed as quickly as it had closed.
“Brandark?” His mutter was thick, and he shook his head drunkenly. He shoved up on the elbow of the hand still gripping Brandark’s wrist, scrubbing at his face with his other hand. “What?” he asked more clearly. “What is it?”
“I . . . was going to ask you that.” Brandark kept his voice low and twisted his wrist gently. Bahzell looked down, ears twitching as he realized he held it, and his hand opened completely. He stared at his own fingers for a moment, then clenched them into a fist and sucked in a deep breath.
“So, it’s muttering in my sleep I was, is it?” he said softly, and his jaw clenched when Brandark nodded. He opened and closed his fist a few times, then sighed and thrust himself into a sitting position. “A blooded warrior with a score of raids into the Wind Plain,” he murmured in a quiet, bitter whisper, “and he’s whimpering in his nightmares like a child! Pah!”
He spat in disgust, then looked up with a jerk as Brandark touched his shoulder again.
“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.