He considered summoning the messenger back to him, pictured the moment his fangs sank into the creature's noisome flesh and the essence of its being flowed into him like the very elixir of life. But then he put the thought firmly aside. He would need all the shardohns he had, and he suspected he would wish he had more of them, before this night was done. Besides, the temptation reminded him that should he fail in this mission, there were those higher than he in Krahana's hierarchy and that his life would taste far sweeter to them than a mere shardohn would to him.
No, it was time to concentrate upon what his Lady demanded of him.
He closed his eyes again, longing to return to the comforting darkness of the void until the sun blazing outside the cave disappeared. Much as he might despise shardohns, he was forced to admit that his thoughts, too, were slower, less acute, during the hours of daylight than in darkness. Varnaythus had scarcely bothered to conceal his own contempt for Jerghar in Balthar, and the wizard-priest's scorn had grated on him. But Varnaythus had never encountered Jerghar in the blackness of night, when he was at the height of his powers. There were times Jerghar hungered to welcome Varnaythus into his embrace then, show him the price of contempt. It would not happen, not so long as Varnaythus was valuable to Carnadosa, for Krahana had decreed that Her sister's chosen Servants were not to be touched. Yet if the wizard-priest should fall from favor, if Carnadosa should withdraw Her protection . . .
He put that thought aside, too, with a mental curse for the way it proved how his mind wandered under the influence of the accursed sun even here, under fifty feet of solid earth and stone.
He knew what he had to do, and he knew what powerful weapons the Queen of the Damned had gifted him with. But despite that, and despite the fact that his enemies were coming to him on ground of his choosing and preparation, he felt what a mortal man would have called a shiver of fear as he contemplated his mission.
It would have been so much better if he'd dared to attack Warm Springs, to swoop down upon the manor with the shardohns and slaughter every living thing in it. But his mistress' plans had forbidden the shardohns to carry through against the manor after the initial attack on the courser herd. Warm Springs, as much as the attack on the coursers who wintered there, had been the bait in the trap which would close upon Baron Tellian. In the end, Lord Edinghas' entire holding would be taken and devoured slowly, lovingly. But not until after Tellian had been drawn in so that he might be included in the feast.
Only . . . Tellian hadn't come. He'd been sucked away to Kalatha, instead, lured away from Krahana and into the Spider's web. Jerghar wasn't supposed to know the details of what Dahlaha and her mistress intended to happen, but he knew many things he wasn't supposed to. If Varnaythus was too confident of Jerghar's stupidity to realize his attempts to prevent that had failed miserably before one who commanded his lady's resources, so much the worse for him.
Yet the substitution of Bahzell Bahnakson for Baron Tellian threatened to disorder even Her plans, and it was Jerghar's responsibility to make certain it did not. He'd been gravely tempted to proceed with the attack on Warm Springs which had always been part of the original plan, but the speed with which Bahzell and his companions had reached Lord Edinghas from Balthar had taken him by surprise. Bahzell had already arrived and healed the coursers of the shardohns' lingering venom-something Jerghar hadn't believed would be possible, even for a champion of Tomanâk-almost a full day before Jerghar had anticipated his arrival. By the time Jerghar himself had assumed direct command of the shardohns and the additional Servants awaiting him and gotten his forces properly organized, Bahzell had done far more than simply heal the coursers. He'd also been given one full priceless day of sunlight in which to recover from that ordeal, and he'd used his respite well.
Jerghar had required only the gentlest probe by one of his fellow Servants to know that the accursed hradani had erected a defensive perimeter impossible to cross. In fact, the sheer strength of the barrier Bahzell had managed to throw up was more than merely frightening. The Horse Stealer had been a champion for less than one year, yet the seamless, impenetrable power of that barrier-blazing incandescently with the terrifying blue light of Tomanâk for those with the eyes to see it-surpassed anything Jerghar had ever encountered. Thank the Lady he couldn't bring that fixed, focused rampart with him! It must have cost him hours of concentration to erect it in the first place, and he had to have anchored it in the very soil of the Warm Springs home manor.
But it appeared that the hradani was confident enough to come out from behind its protection at last. Which was either a very good thing . . . or the very worst thing that could possibly have happened. And if the shardohn's report was correct, Jerghar should discover which it was this very night.
Chapter Forty
<Are you prepared, Bahzell? And you, Walsharno?>
This time, the deep, rolling voice echoing through Bahzell's mind wasn't a courser's. It was the voice of Tomanâk Orfro, God of War and Chief Captain of the Gods of Light.
Bahzell didn't even blink, but his mobile ears twitched, moving in perfect parallel with Walsharno's to point forward. The hradani felt the courser's reaction like an echo of his own, yet Walsharno took the cascading, musical thunder of that voice far more calmly than Bahzell had taken his own first conversation with Tomanâk. There was a flavor of intense respect to his emotions, a touch of wonder and delight, but not one of awe.
<And isn't that after being a silly question?> Bahzell thought back at his deity. <And here was I, thinking as how we were all after riding out for a picnic lunch!>
Walsharno didn't share the apprehension bordering on horror which Bahzell's tart exchanges with his god tended to evoke in two-legged audiences. He continued to trot briskly forward, swishing his tail to discourage a particularly irritating fly, and looked on with amused interest, perched like another viewpoint in Bahzell's mind.
<Bahzell,> the deep, resonant voice observed with a sort of pained amusement of its own, <I realize you're not exactly the most conventional Sword I've ever had, but you might want to work on your social skills for the moments when we have these little conversations.>
<So I might, but I'm thinking that if ever I did, you might be after getting all confused and wondering if you'd the right fellow on the other end.>
<Oh, I doubt that, Brother,> Walsharno's thought put in. <I doubt very much that He could possibly have two champions as irritating as you are.>
<Just like you to be after making up to Himself just because he's a god, and all,> Bahzell retorted, and the earthquake rumble of Tomanâk's chuckle rolled through him. Then the god continued, but his voice was softer, somehow.
<I see that you two are as well suited to one another as any of us of the Light could have hoped, my children. That's good. You have far to go together. Be glad in one another and treasure what lies between you.>
<Aye, that we will,> Bahzell replied, his own "voice" gentler than it had been a moment before. He felt Walsharno's unspoken agreement behind his own, then gave himself a mental shake. <Still and all,> he pointed out in something much more like his normal style, <that sounds as if it's after suggesting we've a way to go yet after this little unpleasantness as is waiting up ahead of us somewhere.>