The Sothōii horsebow was a deadly weapon in expert hands, and any Sothōii warrior was, by definition, expert. He was also both canny and patient as the grass itself. If a Sothōii knew what he was up against-and the evidence said this rider did-he’d scout the enemy, establish exactly who among them were the wizards and be certain his first two arrows went into them, then take the others one by one. It might take him a while, but he could have them all. If anyone knew that, a Horse Stealer did, and that was exactly why Bahzell was so convinced this fellow was something else.
Yet what sort of something else baffled him, and one thing he didn’t need was fresh puzzles. He had enough trouble trying to understand what in the names of all the gods and demons a pair of hradani were doing chasing wizards through winter weather in the middle of the Empire of the Spear without wondering why someone else was doing the same thing!
He swore under his breath and shifted position. Brandark, he knew, was in this because of him. Oh, the Bloody Sword had his own reasons for helping Zarantha, but he wouldn’t have been here in the first place if he hadn’t followed Bahzell out of Navahk-and if Bahzell hadn’t dragged Zarantha into his life in Riverside. But why was Bahzell in it? He knew what drove him to see Zarantha safe now , yet try as he might, he couldn’t lay hands on how his life had gotten so tangled to begin with. Each step of the road made sense in and of itself, but why the Phrobus had he set out on it in the first place?
As he’d told Tothas, he was no knight in shining armor-the very thought made him ill-nor did his friendship for Tothas and Rekah and Zarantha have anything in common with the revoltingly noble heroes who infested the romantic ballads. And it wasn’t nobility that had driven him to help Farmah in Navahk, either. It had been anger and disgust and perhaps, little though he cared to admit it, pity-and look where it had landed him!
His mind flickered back against his will to a firelit cave and the ripple of music, and he growled another curse. Whatever the Lady might say, he wasn’t out here in the dark for any thrice-damned gods! He was out here because he’d been fool enough to stick his nose into other people’s troubles . . . and because he was too softheaded-and hearted-to leave people he liked to their fates. The fact that he’d given his friendship and loyalty to strangers might prove he was stupid, yet at least he understood it. And at least it had been his own decision, his own choice. But as for anything more than that, any notion he had some sort of “destiny” or “task”-
His thoughts broke off, and his head snapped up. Something had changed-something he couldn’t see or hear, yet something that sparkled down his nerves and drove his ears flat to his skull. He snatched at his sword hilt, and steel rasped as he surged to his feet, but his shout to Brandark died stillborn as an impossibly deep voice spoke from behind him. A mountain might have spoken so, had some spell given it life, and its deep, resounding music sang in his bones and blood.
“Good evening, Bahzell Bahnakson,” it said. “I understand you’ve met my sister.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Bahzell spun around, sword raised, and his eyes went huge.
A man-or what looked like a man-stood in the hollow behind him, arms folded across his chest. He was at least ten feet tall, dark haired and dark eyed, with a strong, triangular face that shouted his kinship to the only deity Bahzell had ever seen. A light mace hung at his belt, a sword hilt showed at his left shoulder, and he wore chain mail under a green tabard. No special light of divinity shone about him . . . but he didn’t need one.
Tomanāk Orfro, God of War and Judge of Princes, second in power only to his father Orr, stood there in the dark, brown hair stirring on the sharp breeze, and Bahzell lowered his sword almost mechanically. Stillness hovered, broken only by the sigh of the wind, and Tomanāk’s sheer presence gripped Bahzell like an iron fist. Something deep inside urged him to his knees, but something deeper and even stronger kept him on his feet. He bent slowly, eyes never leaving the god, and lifted his baldric from the ground. He sheathed his blade and looped the baldric back over his shoulder, settling the sword on his back, and gave the War God look for look in stubborn silence.
Tomanāk’s eyes gleamed. “Shall we stand here all night?” Amusement danced in that earthquake-deep voice. “Or shall we discuss why I’m here?”
“I’m thinking I know why you’re here, and it’s no part of it I want.” Bahzell was astounded by how level his own voice sounded-and by his own temerity-but Tomanāk only smiled.
“You’ve made that plain enough,” he said wryly. “Of all the mortals I’ve ever tried to contact, your skull must be the thickest.”
“Must it, now?” A sort of lunatic hilarity flickered inside Bahzell, and he folded his arms across his own chest and snorted. “I’m thinking that should be giving you a hint,” he said, and Tomanāk laughed out loud.
It was a terrible sound-and a wonderful one. It sang in the bones of the earth and rang from the clouds, bright and delighted yet dreadful, its merriment undergirt with bugles, thundering hooves, and clashing steel. It shook Bahzell to the bone like a fierce summer wind, yet there was no menace in it.
“Bahzell, Bahzell!” Tomanāk shook his head, laughter still dancing in his eyes. “How many mortals do you think would dare say that to me? ”
“As to that, I’ve no way of knowing, I’m sure. But it might be more of my folk would do it than you’d think.”
“I doubt that.” Tomanāk’s nostrils flared as if to scent the wind. “No, I doubt that. Reject me, yes, but tell me to go away once they’re face-to-face with me? Not even your people are that bold, Bahzell.”
Bahzell simply raised his eyebrows, and Tomanāk shrugged.
“Well, not most of them.” Bahzell said nothing, and the War God nodded. “And that, my friend, is what makes you so important.”
“Important, is it?” Bahzell’s lips thinned. “Twelve hundred years my folk have suffered and died, with never a bit of help from you or yours. Just what might be making me so all-fired ‘important’ to the likes of you?”
“Nothing . . . except what you are. I need you, Bahzell.” It seemed impossible for that mountainous voice to soften, but it did.
“Ah, now! Isn’t that just what I might have expected?” Bahzell bared his teeth. “You’ve no time to be helping them as need it, but let someone have something you want, and you plague him with nightmares and hunt him across half a continent! Well, it’s little I know-and less I’m wishful to know-of gods. But this I do know: I’ve seen naught at all, at all, to make me want to bow down and worship you. And, meaning no disrespect, I’d as soon have naught at all to do with you, if you take my meaning.”
“Oh, I understand you, Bahzell-perhaps better than you think.” Tomanāk shook his head once more. “But are you so certain it’s what you truly mean? Didn’t Chesmirsa tell you the decision to hear me must be your own?”
“So she did. But, meaning no disrespect again, it’s in my mind I’m not so wishful as all that to speak to you, so why should I believe her?” Tomanāk frowned, but Bahzell met his eyes steadily-and hoped the god didn’t realize just how hard that was. “My folk have had promises enough to choke on, and never a bit of good has it done us.”
“I see.” Tomanāk studied him a moment, then smiled sadly. “Do you know the real reason you’re so angry with me, Bahzell?”