"I believe you left this in a demon," Tomanāk said.
"I—" Vaijon looked up at him, then nodded. "I suppose I did," he said.
"A pretty toy," Tomanāk observed, "but the steel is sound enough under all the fancywork. One simply has to look close enough to see it, wouldn't you say, Vaijon?" The young man nodded slowly, never looking away from the god's face. Every person in the hall knew the words meant far more than they seemed to, but only Bahzell and Vaijon knew what that something more was.
"Yes," Tomanāk went on judiciously, "I think you understand that now. Just as you understand that a blade that looks a bit rough and unpolished—" he flicked a grin at Bahzell "—can bite deeper and truer than the most beautiful one ever forged. And just as you've learned to understand that—" he returned his eyes to Vaijon "—I've tested the steel in you, Vaijon of Almerhas. It took a while to see past the gems and decoration, but there's a fine blade underneath all that gaudiness... one I would be pleased to call my own."
He reached down and handed Vaijon's sword not to him, but to Kaeritha. Vaijon's eyes flickered in confusion for a moment, but then Tomanāk reached back over his shoulder to draw his own sword and extend the hilt to him.
"Will you swear Sword Oath to me as my champion, Vaijon?" he asked, and Vaijon sucked in deeply. His eyes clung to that plain, wire-bound hilt, and he started to shake his head—not in rejection, but with a profound sense of his unworthiness. But a hand on his shoulder stopped him, and he turned his head to see Bahzell's smile.
"It's not a thing as any man feels worthy of, lad," he said softly.
"No, it's not," Tomanāk confirmed, "and the more worthy of it he is, the less worthy he feels. But you are worthy, Vaijon. Will you serve me?"
"I will," Vaijon whispered, and laid his hand upon the hilt of his god's sword.
Blue light crackled about his fingers as he touched it, and prominences of the same light ran up his arm to dance and seethe about his head like a crown of fire. The same blue radiance danced above Bahzell and Kaeritha, flickering in a web of power that linked both champions to the champion to be and to their deity, and Tomanāk's deep voice echoed in the silence of Prince Bahnak's hall.
"Do you, Vaijon of Almerhas, swear fealty to me?"
"I do." Vaijon's voice had taken on an echo of the War God's, and there was no more doubt, no more hesitation in it.
"Will you honor and keep my Code? Will you bear true service to the Powers of Light, heeding the commands of your own heart and mind and striving always against the Dark as they require, even unto death?"
"I will."
"Do you swear by my Sword and your own to render compassion to those in need, justice to those you may be set to command, loyalty to those you choose to serve, and punishment to those who knowingly serve the Dark?"
"I do."
"Then I accept your oath, Vaijon of Almerhas, and bid you take up your blade once more. Bear it well in the cause to which you have been called."
There was a moment, like a pause in the breath of infinity—one Bahzell remembered well from a windy night in the Shipwood when he had sworn that oath—and then Tomanāk drew back his sword and Vaijon blinked like a man awaking from sleep. He drew a deep, lung-filling breath and smiled up at his god, and Kaeritha stepped up beside him and extended the sword Tomanāk had handed her. He took it from her and, as he touched it, Bahzell saw the same spark in him he had seen in Kaeritha from the first—the flicker of Tomanāk's reflected presence burning like some secret coal at the young man's heart. He reached out, embracing the War God's newest champion, and Tomanāk smiled down at them all.
"Remarkable," he said, drawing his champions' eyes back to him. He shook his head. "It isn't often one of my champions has the opportunity to swear Sword Oath with even one other champion present, and here I am with three. And the three of you," he told them, "are quite possibly the stubbornest trio of mortals I've come across in millennia. If you think you had a hard time with Vaijon, Bahzell, you should hunt up Dame Chaerwyn and let her tell you what she went through with Kerry!"
"I wasn't that bad, Milord!" Kaeritha protested. "Was I?"
"Worse," Tomanāk assured her. "Much worse. But the best ones usually are."
"Are they, now?" Bahzell asked.
"Of course there are, Bahzell," Tomanāk said. "That's why I feel confident I'll be finding lots of them among your folk in the future."
And he vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brandark Brandarkson leaned back on the weathered wooden bench with a mug of beer and basked in the first real sunlight in almost a week. The cold, wet rains of a northern spring were no stranger to him, but that didn't mean he enjoyed them, and he savored the clean, mellow taste of the beer as he soaked up the warmth. His bench was in an angle of the wall around the exercise field of the fortified manor Prince Bahnak had deeded to the fledgling Hurgrum Chapter of the Order of Tomanāk . The sharp bend shielded him from the breeze—still unpleasantly biting—while he enjoyed the sun and the first, shy flowers of spring poking through the muddy grass, and his balalaika lay beside him, weighting down the pad on which he'd been jotting potential lyrics.
He took another long swallow. The chill damp in the air only contrasted with the sun's warmth and made it even more welcome, and he luxuriated in sensual enjoyment. Yet his joy was less than complete, for the same sun had cleared most of the snow from the roads. The short northern campaigning season was almost upon them—would be, as soon as the mud dried a bit and the spring planting was in—and he felt time passing like the ticking of his pocket watch in the back of his brain while he watched the members of the newest chapter of the Order of Tomanāk at drill.
There were more of them than there had been. Fresh recruits had trickled in steadily—most Horse Stealers, but with a prickly, defensive Bloody Sword tucked away among them here and there—ever since the dramatic scene in Bahnak's hall. The word that Tomanāk Himself had appeared had spread like wildfire, and the response had been astounding, especially for hradani. Their centuries-long distrust of all gods should have made them react as young Chavâk had: with suspicion and doubt. And if the truth was known, Brandark suspected, many had reacted in exactly that fashion. But a significant number had not, and even Churnazh had been forced to give his blessings to the creation of the new chapter. He hadn't wanted to. The grudging wording of his proclamation made that perfectly plain! Yet he'd had no choice but to grant any of his warriors who wished to join it leave to do so—not after the Order's very first act had been to rescue his own realm from the influence of the Dark Gods. And especially not after Bahzell had proclaimed Tomanāk's news about the Rage.
Now over eighty warriors were out in the exercise field, squelching around the brown, sodden turf while wooden training weapons whacked and thwacked with bruising enthusiasm. Even from here he could hear occasional grunts of anguish as blows got through on practice armor, and Vaijon had two or three of the younger members off to one side, demonstrating a pass they'd never seen before. Despite his foreboding over the rapidly approaching war, Brandark smiled into his beer as he noted how intently the youngsters listened. It was amazing how having the War God Himself turn up to declare a man a champion could raise his stock, he thought wryly.
Someone walked around the corner into his sheltered nook and he turned his head, then rose with a smile, flourishing his beer as he bowed gracefully to Marglyth.
"Good morning, Milady," he said, and she smiled back at him.
"And good morning to you, Lord Brandark." She dropped a tiny curtsey in response to his bow. "And now you can just sit back down before I'm after kicking you somewhere as you wouldn't like," she suggested, and he laughed.
"Ah, you Horse Stealers are so... uncomplicated," he said, waving her down to sit beside him, and it was her turn to laugh.
"I suppose we are that," she agreed. But then her smile faded as she turned her head to watch the field. Her sister Sharkah was out there, working with Kaeritha, and Marglyth's eyes were worried as she watched them. Kaeritha wasn't teaching Sharkah her own style. Unlike Marglyth, who was as close to petite as any Horse Stealer was ever likely to come, Sharkah favored her father and brothers. She stood close to seven feet tall, and if she was built on slimmer lines, without her male siblings' massive thews, she was also faster. Kaeritha had her training with a bastard sword, and her progress was so excellent that Marglyth felt certain Sharkah had convinced one of their brothers—probably Thankar—to give her a little surreptitious training even before Bahnak relaxed his edict. Kaeritha had not yet moved beyond the most basic moves while she worked to build up the girl's muscle mass, and Sharkah was still awkward. But she was much less awkward than any of her brothers had been at the same official stage in their training, and her determination was almost frightening.