Wind Rider's Oath: Chapter Eighteen

    Although Alfar Axeblade’s family came originally from the westernmost edge of the West Riding, he hadn’t had any actual personal experience with hradani. One of his grandfathers and two of his uncles had been killed in border clashes with Horse Stealer raiders in the years before Prince Bahnak had been strong enough to forbid such attacks, and his family’s modestly prosperous farm and its prized herd of horses had been wiped out in the process. But Alfar himself had been no more than a child when his father relocated to Warm Springs, which was far enough from the Escarpment that no hradani raid had ever penetrated to it. His family history was more than sufficient to reinforce the traditional Sothoii prejudice against all hradani, but unlike men who’d actually fought against them, he was unprepared for the reality of hradani endurance.

    He’d become familiar with it over the last several hours, however.

    Bahzell had brought along a half dozen members of the Hurgrum chapter of the Order of Tomanak, all but two of them Horse Stealers. The other two were both Bloody Swords, who, like Brandark, were small enough (by hradani standards) that a sturdy horse might be expected to carry them without too much complaint. All three of the Bloody Swords had brought along an additional horse each, which would at least allow them to switch off when their initial mounts tired, but no horse in its right mind would have consented to carry a Horse Stealer. So Bahzell and his four fellow clansmen, including Hurthang and Gharnal, were on foot.

    Alfar had expected that to slow them down, and he’d been prepared to protest that speed was essential. By the time they’d been on the road for two hours, he was just as glad he hadn’t let the words out of his mouth. The five Horse Stealers loped along in a sort of half-jog, half-run that easily matched the best pace even a Sothoii warhorse could sustain. Worse, they did it apparently effortlessly. They spent a good bit of their time cheerfully insulting their Bloody Sword brethren over the shorter legs which made horses necessary for them, but Alfar suspected that Brandark and his fellows could have matched their endurance if they’d truly needed to. Possibly not as easily, however. Or, at least, Alfar hoped not. It was bad enough watching the Horse Stealers do it! Bahzell was actually able to run along at Alfar’s side, in full armor, and carry on a conversation with him while he did so.

    Alfar had never imagined anything like it. The hradani even managed to maintain his side of the conversation almost normally as he probed for more details about the disaster which had sent Alfar to Balthar. His deep, even breathing induced a certain forced rhythm, but that was the only evidence of exertion he showed. It was the most unnatural thing Alfar had ever seen, especially from someone so tall that his head was very nearly on the same level as Alfar’s, despite the fact that he was perched on the back of a warhorse who stood just under fifteen hands high.

    Finally, after over four hours of it, when the horse Stealers still showed no sign of asking for a rest stop, or even to slow their pace long enough for a breather, Alfar could contain his curiosity no longer.

    “Excuse me, Milord Champion,” he said gruffly, managing to get the title out with only the smallest hesitation this time, “but would you mind if I asked a question?”

    “And why should I be minding?” Bahzell asked with a chuckle. “After all, it’s picking your brain about Warm Springs I’ve been since ever we left Hill Guard. I’m thinking it’s only fair exchange if you’ve a question or two of your own as you’d like answered.”

    “Thank you.” Alfar turned to look into the towering hradani’s eyes, and considered how to ask what was on his mind with the least probability of giving offense. In the end, he decided it was best to just go ahead and ask, so he did.

    “Milord, you and your friends have been running along at my stirrup iron for the better part of five hours now. And you’ve scarcely broken a sweat. It’s in my mind that you could have run even faster than you have, too, if you’d been so inclined.”

    “And you’re after wondering just how it is we do it?” Bahzell suggested, his ears half cocked in amusement.

    “Well, in a word, yes,” Alfar admitted.

    “I can be seeing why you might,” Bahzell said. “And up till the last year or so, truth be told, I’d not have been able to answer you.” He shrugged. “We hradani have always been after being the biggest, strongest, and toughest of the Races of Man, and by and large, so far as we’d ever known, that was just the way things were after being. We’d no more notion of why we were those things than anyone else. But this past winter, Wencit was kind enough to be explaining it to us, though, to be honest, I’m thinking as how it had slipped his mind that the rest of us are just a mite younger than he is and that it might be we’d simply forgot the answer our own selves.”

    The big hradani grinned so wryly Alfar had to suppress a chuckle. Given that Wencit of Rum was at least twelve hundred years old, Alfar supposed that just about anyone was “a mite younger” than he.

    “Any road,” Bahzell continued, “from what Wencit was saying, it seems as how we hradani are after being directly linked to what he’s pleased to be calling ‘the magic field.’ ”

    “ ‘Magic field’?” Alfar repeated.

    “Aye. From what old Wencit’s saying, it seems as how everything about us—the entire world, and every last thing in it, living or dead—is truly after being naught but energy. It may look solid enough, and if it happens you should be dropping a rock on your foot, it may feel solid, but to a wizard, it’s naught but a mass of energy, like fire or lightning, and all in the world that wizardry is after being is the ability to be seeing and manipulating that energy.”

    Alfar looked at him skeptically, and Bahzell flicked his ears in the equivalent of a shrug.

    “I’ll not blame you if you’ve doubts about all of that, you understand,” he said. “I certainly had ’em in plenty at the time, and I’m still not so very certain in my own mind as how it all makes sense. I’m thinking Brandark could explain it better, if you’re minded to ask him about it later, but if Wencit has the right of it—and I’m not so very eager to be telling a man as saw the Fall of Kontovar with his own eyes that he doesn’t—then what makes my folk as we are is that somehow we’re after being physically connected to all of that energy. We’ve no idea how we do it, but we’ve the ability to be drawing on that energy to aid our own. In a manner of speaking, I suppose, it’s not after being all that different from touching it as a wizard might, though I’m hoping Wencit has a better notion of what he’s about when he does! But it’s that as gives us our size and our strength, aye, and our endurance, as well. And the reason we heal so much quicker than any of the other Races of Man.”

    “Really?”

    Alfar looked across at the huge man jogging so effortlessly along beside his trotting horse, and something very like wonder warred with his ingrained hatred for all things hradani. If what Bahzell was telling him was the truth, then it was suddenly clear to him why hradani were capable of the casual displays of impossible strength and stamina which, along with the Rage, made them such fearsome foes. Yet what truly woke his feeling of wonder was the thought of all the other things such a link might mean to the hradani. Like virtually all Sothoii, Alfar had never given much thought to the hradani, or their lives, beyond the automatic hate and fear they evoked. Why should anyone waste time and effort thinking about a batch of bloodthirsty barbarians whose only interests seemed to be murder, looting, and plundering? But if those same capabilities could be applied to other ends, other objectives . . . .

    And then it hit him.

    His eyes flared wide, and his jaw dropped in sudden consternation. His indrawn breath of shock was so abrupt that it was clearly audible even through the thud of hoofs, the creak of saddle leather, and the metal-on-metal jingle of armor and weapons. He stared at Bahzell, and the hradani nodded almost compassionately.

    “Aye, Master Axeblade,” he said. “Brandark and I have been after discussing the selfsame thing with Baron Tellian, Hathan, and Sir Kelthys. And we’ve come to conclude that, assuming as how Wencit has the right of it where hradani are concerned, then it’s only reason that what sets coursers apart from any other breed of horse is after being much the same thing. I’ll not blame you if it’s not a thought as you find pleasant to contemplate, seeing what’s lain between your folk and mine for so long. But there it is.” He smiled with an odd gentleness. “You might be saying as how we hradani and the coursers are after being related.”

    “Not pleasant to contemplate” was a very pale description of Alfar’s reaction to the possibility that hradani and coursers might have anything in common. Unfortunately for the comfort of his prejudices, by the time they finally stopped late that evening at a wayside inn, he’d been forced to admit they did. He clung to the possibility that there was a different explanation for the abilities of hradani and coursers, but it was impossible to doubt the huge similarities between those abilities.

    Alfar himself was reeling in the saddle by the time they stopped, but although Bahzell had finally worked up a hard sweat, it was painfully obvious that it was only Alfar’s and his mount’s exhaustion which had led the Horse Stealer to call a halt. Alfar had always considered himself a reasonably tough individual, but compared to the hradani, he wasn’t. If he’d been even a little less fatigued, he would have felt humiliated to have been found so wanting in hardihood. As it was, he felt only dull-minded, exhausted gratitude when he finally climbed down out of the saddle. He was worn beyond exhaustion as he had never before been in his life, so utterly drained that he actually allowed another man to see to his horse’s care while Bahzell chivied him upstairs to bed.

    He had a vague impression of the innkeeper’s half-frightened, mostly surly expression when he found himself face to face with eight hradani. If he hadn’t been all but dead on his feet, he might have felt compelled to speak sharply to the man. Whatever Alfar himself thought about hradani in general, these hradani were driving themselves hard to reach Warm Springs because Lord Edinghas needed help. More to the point, perhaps, Sir Jahlahan, acting in Baron Tellian’s name, had ordered Alfar to personally escort them to Warm Springs. That gave him an obligation to see to it that they were at least treated with common courtesy. Unfortunately, he was too exhausted even for that—so exhausted that he was never very clear later on exactly how he got to the proper room. He never did manage to undress completely before he fell across the hard, narrow mattress, either, and he was snoring before his head hit the pillow.

    He slept for almost nine hours before his own sense of urgency dragged him back up out of dream-troubled sleep. Despite a lifetime in the saddle, he couldn’t stifle a groan as he shoved himself up and forced stiff, abused muscles to answer his demands. He managed a sketchy wash up, then tottered downstairs to the inn’s common room.

    Bahzell and the rest of their party—all hradani, Alfar thought, truly realizing for the first time that he was the only human in the entire group—sat around one of the trestle tables. There was something about the way they sat that was almost defensive. The table wasn’t the largest one available, but it was set in the angle of a corner, and the hradani seated around it could see the entire room and all three of its entrances while they sat with their backs to a solid wall. A smallish fire smoldered on the hearth, and bright morning sunshine spilled through the inn’s diamond-paned windows to glitter on the crossed, golden mace and sword of Tomanak where they badged his servants’ surcoats and ponchos, and their personal weapons leaned upright against the wall behind them. The remnants of a truly stupendous breakfast were strewn across the table, and Bahzell leaned back on a bench, bracing his shoulders against the wall while he nursed a tankard of ale.

    Alfar’s jaw clenched in mingled shame and anger as he gazed out the window.

    “What’s the hour?” he asked.

    Bahzell gazed at him for a moment, one eyebrow quirked, then reached into a belt pouch and withdrew a pocket watch. It was only the fourth or fifth watch Alfar had seen in his entire life, and he recognized a work of art when he saw one. He had no idea how a hradani might have come by it, but he also found himself rapidly passing beyond any sense of surprise at anything this improbable hradani champion of Tomanak might do. And so he simply waited while Bahzell consulted the beautifully painted ivory face and golden hands.

    “It’s just passed nine of the morning,” the hradani rumbled after a moment. He closed the watch case and returned it to his pouch, and Alfar’s jaw tightened even harder. They could have been on the road again at least two or three hours earlier, and it was obvious the hradani were all fresh and rested. It was only his own weakness which had delayed them.

    “I could wish you’d waked me earlier, Milord Champion,” he said, once he was certain he had command of his voice. It appeared, however, that he’d had less command of it than he’d thought, because Bahzell cocked his ears quizzically, then shook his head.

    “Master Axeblade,” he said, his deep voice surprisingly gentle, “even if we’d been after waking you earlier, I’m thinking as how your horse might not have been so very grateful to have his rest cut short. Now, it’s in my mind that we’d not find it so very difficult to be finding you another horse, but that’s a fine mount Baron Tellian’s seneschal already found you. Probably better than any we might be finding in replacement.”

    He let Alfar consider that for a few seconds, until the human’s own common sense had to admit there was some point to the argument. Then he continued.

    “Still and all, though,” he said, “I’ll admit as how I’d not have waked you any sooner even if we’d a courser waiting to go under your backside. It’s half-dead you were, for you’d driven yourself like Fiendark himself was on your heels to be reaching Balthar, and it was little enough rest you’d had since. Aye, and naught but a few mouthfuls of bread and sausage in the saddle for food. I’ve seldom seen a man as needed rest more than you, and its naught but sheer stubbornness on your part to be arguing otherwise. I’m thinking we’re well ahead of how fast you or Lord Edinghas could have expected us to be moving, and I’ll not be letting you kill yourself just to shave an hour or two more from our trip.”

    His voice was as steady and level as his eyes, and Alfar recognized his tone. He’d simply never expected to hear a hradani, of all people, speaking to him as his commanding officer. But that, he realized with a lingering sense of disbelief, was precisely what Bahzell Bahnakson had become. And it shamed him again, in a different way, to realize that he was actually surprised by Bahzell’s concern for his own exhaustion.

    “No doubt you’ve a point, Milord,” he admitted finally. “But even so, I can’t say I don’t begrudge every lost minute.”

    “No more can I,” Bahzell said. He looked over Alfar’s shoulder, and the human turned to see one of the inn maids walking towards him with a large, heavily laden tray of food. She looked as if there were nowhere in the world she would not have preferred to be, and Bahzell’s lips tightened at her manifest unhappiness. But he only nodded to her, and gestured for her to set the tray on the table.

    She obeyed quickly and silently, her anxious expression proclaiming her trepidation at finding herself in such close proximity to eight murdering hradani, whatever their leader claimed to be, and Alfar looked back at Bahzell as she turned and scurried away like a frightened rabbit. He felt his face heat, but Bahzell only flicked his ears in the equivalent of a human shrug and gave him a crooked smile.

    Alfar wondered if he should say something, but nothing suggested itself to him. Then he wondered if he could get away with declining the substantial breakfast Bahzell had obviously ordered for him. One more glance at the hradani’s expression told him there was no point trying, however, and his empty belly’s sudden, sharp pangs as he smelled the food’s aroma made him just as happy that there wasn’t.

    “Better,” Bahzell said with a broader, less ironic smile as Alfar seated himself and reached for a spoon. “I’d half thought as how I’d find myself force-feeding you, Master Axeblade!”

    “If I thought it might have gotten us on our way any sooner, you would have, Milord,” he said around a mouthful of stinging hot porridge and honey.

    “Ah, a man of wisdom, I see,” Brandark put in. The Bloody Sword half-reclined along another bench directly under the window, plucking idly at his balalaika, and Alfar glanced across at him. “I wouldn’t call Bahzell the very brightest fellow I’ve ever met, Master Axeblade, but he’s certainly in the running for the most stubborn.” Hurthang and the other members of the Order chuckled, and Brandark grinned. But then his expression sobered. “And in this case, he would have been right, too,” he said. “You needed food, as well as rest, and you’d not have taken either if Bahzell hadn’t made you. Riding with worry and grief can drive a man too hard and kill him as surely as any sword or arrow.”

    Alfar’s spoon paused midway between bowl and lips, frozen there by the understanding in the Bloody Sword’s voice. After a lifetime of mutual hatred, compassion was the very last thing he would have anticipated from any hradani. Which, he suddenly thought, might say more about his own prejudices than it did about Bahzell or Brandark.

    “I—” He paused, wondering what might be the right thing to say. Then he cleared his throat. “I know what you mean,” he said. “But to see something like that—to know an entire herd of coursers could be destroyed that way . . .” He shook his head. “I doubt anyone but another Sothoii could really understand what that feels like, Lord Brandark.”

    “Just ‘Brandark’ will do fine, Master Axeblade.” The Bloody Sword chuckled. “None of us hradani stand much on ceremony, and even if I’d been inclined to do that, I’d’ve given up months ago. These Horse Stealer louts are too ignorant and uncivilized to remember proper titles, anyway.”

    “Just you go right on being civilized, my lad,” Gharnal advised him, while another chuckle rumbled through the other Horse Stealers. “Don’t you be wasting a moment worrying about what nasty things might happen to a man whose mouth is so smart he can’t be keeping it shut.”

    “You see?” Brandark said plaintively. “All of them are like that, not just him.” He pointed at Bahzell with his chin, and the Horse Stealer snorted.

    “But as to understanding how this all feels for a Sothoii,” Brandark continued more seriously, “no doubt you’re right. I can probably come closer now that I’ve met coursers myself—Sir Kelthys’ Walasfro and Baron Tellian’s Dathgar—but that’s not the same thing as growing up around them.” He shook his head, his eyes dark. “All I can say is that I never dreamed I’d meet such magnificent creatures. I wouldn’t have believed anything could ravage an entire herd of them the way you’ve described, but if there’s something out there that can, then I want it stopped, Master Axeblade.”

    A dark, almost hungry sound of agreement murmured its way around the table. Agreement, Alfar thought, from hradani. And not just any hradani—from Horse Stealer hradani. He’d discovered that he was past feeling surprise, but wonder was another thing entirely.

    He started to say something more, then shrugged with a half-apologetic smile and applied his full attention to the meal Bahzell had ordered for him. He ate quickly, but not so quickly he didn’t savor every mouthful. It wasn’t the best cooking he’d ever tasted—far from it!—but he discovered that the old saw about hunger being the best seasoning was absolutely correct. By the time he’d finished the porridge, drunk the hot tea, eaten the toasted sausages, and mopped up the last egg yolk with a piece of bread, he felt better than he had in days.

    “Thank you, Milord Champion,” he said simply, pushing the last plate aside. “I still begrudge the delay, but there’s no doubt I needed the food, and you’re right. Only a fool drives himself into the kind of blind daze I was pushing myself into.”

    “I’d not say you’d gone quite that far,” Bahzell said with another slow smile. “Still and all, I’m thinking as how we can both agree you’d pushed a mite further and harder than you’d the need to. And now, it’s no doubt best we be on our way.”

    “Of course.” Alfar stood, reaching for the belt purse Lord Edinghas had sent with him, but Bahzell shook his head.

    “No need for that. The Order’s seen to our shot.”

    “But—”

    “Leave off, Master Axeblade,” Bahzell advised him. “I’ve no doubt Lord Edinghas would stand good for it, but it’s Tomanak’s business we’re on. It may be as how Lord Edinghas might choose to be making a donation to Himself’s church when all’s done, but that’s neither here nor there just now.”

    Alfar started to argue, then stopped himself.

    “Better,” Bahzell said again, then gathered up his fellow hradani with his eyes. “I’m thinking we’d best be on our way, lads,” he said. He drained his tankard and set it on the table, then climbed to his feet.

    “Aye,” Hurthang agreed. “And not just because we’ve need of haste on Himself’s business.” He grimaced. “It’s not so very popular we are in these parts.”

    “What?” Alfar looked at him sharply, remembering his own impression when he first entered the common room. Had the hradani actually chosen their table out of defensive considerations?

    Hurthang waved one hand unobtrusively, and Alfar’s eyes narrowed as he followed the gesture. A balding, broad shouldered, deep-paunched man in a leather apron stood behind the bar at one end of the common room. Alfar hadn’t seen him enter, and he certainly hadn’t come near the hradani to see if they had any orders. Instead, he simply stood there, arms folded across his chest, and glowered at Bahzell and his companions. There was as much fear as anger in his expression, and his shoulders hunched sullenly.

    “Milord Champion,” Alfar demanded, “has anyone —?”

    “Don’t be worrying yourself, Master Axeblade,” Bahzell advised him. “It might be as how there was after being an . . . intemperate word or two last night. But that’s something as any hradani minded to travel amongst other folk had best be being thick-skinned enough to deal with. I’ll not say as how that’s after making it any more pleasant, but people are after being people, warts and all, whatever it might be we’d prefer, and we’ll not convince your folk to be setting aside all the blood that’s flowed betwixt us overnight. The innkeeper was none too happy to be seeing us, but we’d Sir Jahlahan’s sealed warrant as how we’re on Baron Tellian’s business, and our kormaks spend as well as the next man’s.”

    He shrugged and nodded towards the door. Alfar gazed back at him for a long, thoughtful moment, then nodded in response. Not in agreement, precisely, but in acknowledgment. His own sudden urge to kick the sullen-faced innkeeper’s backside up between his ears astounded him. Two days—even a single night—ago, he would flatly have rejected the very suggestion that he might find himself siding with hradani against another human. Now, though . . .

    “You’re right, Milord Champion,” he said, deliberately pitching his voice loud enough for the innkeeper to hear, “there’s no point trying to beat wisdom into a fool. You’ll only hurt your hand on a skull with that much bone in it.”