Harnak swallowed and nodded.
“Excellent,” the archpriest said benignly. “Now, Bahzell was just inside the northern edge of the Shipwood when the servant intercepted him and was destroyed. That was two days ago. Given his desire to reach Alfroma, it seems certain he’ll proceed south through the forest. If he reaches the Darkwater, he can travel upriver by boat to his destination, but crossing the Shipwood should slow him and give you your chance to overtake him.”
“But how will I find him?” Harnak tried to hide his secret hope that there was no way to do that, but the priest only gestured to his sword.
“The Scorpion will guide you. I fear the dog brothers have lost so heavily in their attempts upon him that they’ve called off the active hunt for him, but two of them will guide you as far as Sindark on the Darkwater. If Bahzell knows the land and his own whereabouts well enough, he’ll no doubt head for Sindark himself, as the most likely place to find passage upriver, but you can travel by the highroads while he picks his way through the forest. You may well intercept him there; if not, you should be west of him, between him and his destination, and you can take ship down the river until you meet him. The lesser servants still find him difficult to locate in the wilderness, but the sword you bear is no lesser servant. Once you come within ten leagues of him, it will lead you directly to him.”
The archpriest shrugged, and a chill touched Harnak’s heart as the human smiled once more.
“From there, Your Highness,” he said softly, “the task will be yours.”
Chapter Thirty-four
“Well there’s a fine thing,” Bahzell sighed. He gazed out over the swift-flowing river and sank down on his heels, still holding the packhorse’s lead. The animal looked about for something to browse upon but found only dead leaves and winter-browned moss and blew heavily in resignation.
“As a navigator, you make a fine champion of Tomanāk.”
Brandark stood beside his friend, rubbing his horse’s forehead, and one of the mules nudged him hopefully. Unlike the horses which had fled, both mules-smart enough to remember the hradani were a source of grain-had returned the morning after the demon’s death, and the hopeful one nudged the Bloody Sword again, harder, then shook its head and lipped at the grain sack across its companion’s pack saddle.
“Now isn’t that just like you,” Bahzell replied. “If you’re thinking you can do better, why then, lead the way, little man.”
“Me? I’m the city boy, remember? You’re the Horse Stealer.”
“Aye, and no Horse Stealer with his wits about him would be wandering about these godsforsaken woods in winter, either,” Bahzell growled back.
“Which explains your presence, but what am I doing here?”
Bahzell snorted and pondered the water before him. It was too broad to be anything except the Darkwater, but he’d expected to hit the river almost two days ago. That meant he was well and truly off the course he’d tried to hold, but had he strayed east or west?
He eased down to sit on a tree root and stretched his legs before him. His boots were sadly worn, which was a worrisome thing, for boots his size were hard come by. He could feel the sharp edges of rocks and the lumpy hardness of roots and fallen branches through their thinning soles, yet if the truth be known, he was more aware of his legs’ weariness. Iron-thewed Horse Stealer that he was, this journey was telling upon him, and he was only grateful they’d moved far enough south to find warmer weather.
He flipped a stone into the river and watched it splash, then peered up at the sky and tried to estimate the time. About the second hour of the afternoon, he decided finally. That gave them another three or four hours of light, and he had no intention of sitting here on his arse wondering where he was while they sped past.
“Well,” he said finally, “I’m thinking we’ve borne too far east or west, and whichever it may be, we’ve little choice but to follow the river till we find a way across it. So, since you’ve come all over sarcastic about my guidance, why don’t you be suggesting which way we should be going?”
“That’s right, dump it all on me.” Brandark glanced up at the sky in turn, then shrugged. “Given the Darkwater’s general course and how much longer than expected it’s taken us to get here, I’d say we’ve fallen off to the east. That being the case, I vote we go upstream.”
“Ah, the wit of the man!” Bahzell marveled. “Were you truly after figuring that all out on your very own?”
Brandark made a rude gesture, and the Horse Stealer laughed.
“Well, I’ll not be surprised if you’ve the right of it after all, and either way is better than none, so we’d best be going.”
He heaved himself back to his feet, settled his sword once more on his back, and led the way northwest along the riverbank.
The sun had sunk low before them when they came to a spot where the banks had been logged back for over a mile on each side. A small, palisaded village crouched on the southern bank, and a broad-beamed ferry was drawn up at a rough dock near it. Thick guide ropes stretched across the stream, running over crude but efficient pulleys, and Brandark groaned in resignation as he and Bahzell headed for them.
The Horse Stealer ignored him and gripped the guide rope, then grunted as he threw his weight upon it. A ferry that size had never been meant for one man to move unaided, but Bahzell’s mighty heave urged it into the stream. It curtsied clumsily on the current, and Brandark leaned his own weight on the rope beside him. The craft moved a bit more quickly, yet the river was broad, and it took them the better part of fifteen panting, heaving minutes to work it across to their side.
Bahzell gasped in relief when the square bow nudged the mud at his feet, yet his brow furrowed in puzzlement as he wiped sweat from it. He could see at least a score of people standing about the village gate, and half a dozen horsemen sat their mounts facing them, yet it seemed none of them had as much as looked up as their ferryboat moved away from them. That indicated a certain lack of caution to Bahzell. The village was small enough to offer easy pickings to any band of brigands (assuming any such ever came this way), and someone should have been keeping an eye on the boat.
He shrugged the thought away and helped Brandark lead their animals onto the ferry. It was a tight fit-they never would have made it with the horses they’d lost-and the Bloody Sword stood in the bow while Bahzell took the stern. The rope was chest-high for most humans, though considerably lower for Bahzell, and they leaned on it once more to work their way back across the stream.
“I wonder what they do for a living around here,” Brandark panted as they neared midstream. “I don’t see any sign of farmland.”
“Woodsmen, I’m thinking,” Bahzell replied. “Oh, be still, you nag!” He broke off to kick one of the mules on the haunch as it stamped uneasily towards the side. The mule flattened its ears and glared at him, but it also stopped moving, and he grunted in satisfaction.
“You think they float timber downstream to South Hold?”
“Well, they are calling it the ‘Shipwood.’ ” Bahzell flicked his ears at the logged-off swath along the river. “They never used all that wood to build yon miserable village, but there’s no cause they should be floating it just to South Hold. There’s Bortalik Bay to the south, and no question the Purple Lords need timber enough for their shipping.”
“You’re probably right,” Brandark grunted, heaving on the rope.
“Aye,” Bahzell agreed as they neared the southern bank, but his eyes were on the people clustered around the palisade gate, and he frowned. Brandark looked up at the absent note in his voice, then followed his glance back to the village, and his ears pricked.