But he had, and wizards were bad masters to betray or desert . . . even if there'd been anywhere to desert to in this godsforsaken wasteland. No, he was stuck, and—
He never completed the thought. A towering, snow-shrouded form blended silently from the swirling whiteness behind him, a hand yanked his head back, a dagger drove up under his chin into his brain, and he never even realized he was dead.
Bahzell let the corpse slither down and wiped his dagger on its cloak. He resheathed the blade and drew his sword as two horses appeared out of the roaring, white-streaked darkness like a pair of ghosts, and he felt the hair stir on the back of his neck once more. Wencit of Rum had a pedigree not even hradani could question, but that made him no less uncanny, and no hradani could ever be comfortable in any wizard's web. The notion that there was still at least one white wizard in the world would take getting used to, and even now Bahzell couldn't quite believe that he and Brandark had actually agreed to let him enwrap them in his magic. On the other hand, Wencit had guided them to their enemies' camp as unerringly as if the night had been clear and still, not this snowy maelstrom, and if his spells did what he'd claimed they would—
The Horse Stealer's thoughts broke off as his companions reached him and drew rein. Wencit rose in the stirrups, thrusting his head above the low-growing trees' cover and peering into the roaring wind as if he could actually see. He stayed there for several minutes, turning his head to sweep his gaze back and forth across something visible only to him, then settled back and wiped snow from his beard. He tucked up the skirt of his poncho to clear his well-worn sword hilt, and Bahzell told himself it was only the cold that made him shiver as those wildfire eyes moved back to him.
"There are four more sentries!" Wencit had to shout to make himself heard above the gale. "The closest is about fifty yards that way!" He gestured off to the left, then shrugged. "I imagine they'll take to their heels when they realize what's happening, but watch your backs!"
Both hradani nodded grimly, and Brandark drew his own sword. Wencit didn't, but then, if all went well, the wizard would have no use for steel tonight.
If all went well.
"Remember! So far I haven't done anything to draw attention to myself, but the instant the spell goes up, the wizards at least will know I'm here! Leave them to me, but get to Zarantha as quick as you can!"
Bahzell nodded again. The wizards might prefer to use Zarantha's death to raise power, but if their main goal was to prevent the creation of Spearmen magi, their hirelings would have orders to kill her to prevent her rescue.
"Ready?" Wencit demanded. Two more nods answered, though a corner of Bahzell's mind shouted at him to get the hell out of this. Too much of their plan depended on a man they'd met only hours before, and whatever his reputation, Wencit was a wizard. But this was no time for second thoughts, and he stepped out around the edge of the scrubby trees into the teeth of the wind.
Brandark followed at his shoulder, and they moved confidently forward despite the howling near invisibility. They were all but blind, but Wencit had briefed them well. Bahzell had felt acutely uneasy when the wizard produced the polished stone he called a "gramerhain" and peered into it. The heart-sized crystal had flared and flickered even more brightly than Wencit's eyes, blinding the hradani if they glanced at it too closely, but Wencit had stared intently into it for long, studious moments. Then he'd put it away and drawn an impossibly detailed diagram of the enemy's camp in the snow. The wind should have blotted it out in a moment, but it hadn't, and he'd taken them patiently through it again and again, until they knew it as intimately as the backs of their own hands. Bahzell might be uncomfortable with the way the information for that diagram had been obtained, yet he had to admit there seemed to be advantages to having a wizard on his side.
Assuming of course that Wencit truly was on his side.
He shook his head sharply, castigating himself for his doubts, but Fiendark take it, the man was a wizard. Twelve centuries of instant, instinctive hatred couldn't be set aside in an instant, and—
The nagging undercurrent of thought broke off, and he touched Brandark on the knee as the ground began to angle downward before them. They stood at the lip of the deep, sheltered hollow their enemies had selected for their camp, and it was time.
Bahzell looked up at his friend for just a moment, seeing the echo of his own doubts on the Bloody Sword's face, then grinned crookedly, shrugged, and squeezed Brandark's knee once. The Bloody Sword nodded back, and Bahzell got both hands on the hilt of his sword, drew a deep breath, and hurled himself down the slope with a bull-throated bellow.
Hooves thudded beside him as Brandark spurred forward, and the Bloody Sword's high, fierce yell answered his own war cry. Their voices should have been lost without a trace on such a night, but they weren't. They couldn't be, for they were answered and echoed from all sides, and suddenly there weren't just two hradani charging down the slope. There were thirty of them, mounted and afoot alike, bellowing their fury, and even though he'd known it was supposed to happen, superstitious dread stirred deep inside Bahzell Bahnakson.
He felt the cold and wind, the snow on his face and the hilt in his hands and the wild, fierce pounding of his heart, and exhilaration filled him, banishing his dread, as he gave himself to the Rage and the phantom warriors charged at his side. His and Brandark's own war cries had triggered the spell Wencit had woven, and a strange, wild sense of creation—of having snapped the others into existence by his own will—sparkled through him. And, in a sense, he had created them, even more than Wencit. The wizard could have settled for simple duplicates of Brandark and himself, but his spell was subtler than that. He'd plucked images of remembered warriors from the hradani's memories, breathing life into them, and the verisimilitude of his illusion was stunning. The bellowing, immaterial figures actually left footprints in the snow, and the sheer multiplicity of warriors—each with his own face, his own weapons and armor and voice—left no room for question. This was a real attack, and shouts of panic and the scream of startled horses split the night as Bahzell bounded through the last swirling snow curtain into the sheltered hollow.
Forty men rolled out of their blankets, snatching for weapons, leaping to their feet in horror as the horde of hradani erupted into their midst. There was no time to don armor; those who'd shed their mail for the night were forced to let it lie, and their vulnerability filled them with its own panic.
A man dodged frantically, scrambling to evade Bahzell, but there was no time for that, either. The Horse Stealer's massive blade whistled, and his victim went down, screaming as his guts spilled out in a cloud of steam. Brandark thundered past, leaning from the saddle, longsword sweeping like a scythe. A raised blade sought desperately to block the stroke, but its wielder's arm flew in a spray of blood, and he shrieked as the Bloody Sword rode him down. The shrieks cut off with sickening suddenness under trained, iron-shod hooves, and the warhorse pivoted, spurning the body as Brandark reined it around to split the skull of a fleeing foe. Another enemy, this one braver, helmetless but clad in chain mail, leapt to engage Bahzell, and the Horse Stealer smashed him into bloody ruin with a single mighty stroke.
Steel clashed all around him, and even through the Rage and the fury of battle a corner of his mind marveled at the depth of Wencit's illusion. His phantom allies couldn't actually harm anyone—that would have been against the Strictures—but that was the only thing they couldn't do. The men who engaged them "felt" and "heard" their own blows go home against armor or shield. They knew—didn't just think, but knew—they were locked in mortal combat with real enemies, and Bahzell and Brandark rampaged through them like dire cats. The hradani were the only ones in that entire mad melee who knew the truth. They were unhampered by any confusion as to who could kill them and who couldn't, and they forged straight for the knot of figures beside the fire.
Two unarmed men leapt to their feet in almost comical disbelief, but they were wizards. Even through the cacophony of shouts and shriek
s and clashing steel, Bahzell heard one of them scream a curse as he recognized the illusory horde for what it was. The man's head darted from side to side, seeking the real attackers he knew had to be present, and his hand went up as Bahzell crashed through his panicked retainers. Light flashed on his palm, and the Horse Stealer felt something tug at him even as he kicked a guardsman in the belly and lopped his head as he went down. But the wizard behind that spell was no Wencit of Rum. The elemental fury of the Rage brushed his spell aside, and both wizards stumbled back as Bahzell vaulted over the body of his latest victim towards them.
Steel glinted as one of their men whirled towards a slender, blanket-wrapped figure beside the fire. Zarantha didn't stir as the blade went up. She simply lay there, watching it rise, seeing it sweep down. She fought desperately against the spell which held her motionless, but there was no escape. She couldn't even scream—and then a gory thunderbolt swept up beneath the descending blade. It smashed the death stroke aside, and the man who'd tried to kill her screamed as Bahzell cut his legs from under him.
Bahzell straddled Zarantha's motionless body. Two more guards came at him, and he snarled with the terrible glory of the Rage as he smashed them back. Brandark's horse reared, trampling another victim, forehooves crashing down like the War God's mace, and the Bloody Sword lashed out with a backhand blow that flung a body aside in a gout of blood. All around them, men threw aside weapons, turned their backs, fled madly into the snow. Half a dozen of them thought of their horses and ran desperately for the picket line, but Brandark was on their heels. He rode two of them down and scattered the rest, and Bahzell hacked aside the last guardsman foolhardy enough to come at him.
The Horse Stealer whirled on the wizards, blade hissing as he drove a furious slash at the nearer one, but their retainers' deaths had bought them a few precious seconds. Sparks showered and flashed as Bahzell's blade slammed into an unseen barrier and rebounded, and the wizard behind that barrier spat a curse and raised both hands—not at the hradani, this time, but at Zarantha.
Bahzell flung himself between those hands and their target. He had no idea if his Rage would protect another from a spell, or even guard him against death magic, but it was the only defense he could give Zarantha. He went to his knees, snarling up at the wizard, covering her with his own body, and the wizard bared his teeth in triumph as he brought both hands down in a convulsive, throwing gesture.
Light glared and hissed between his clenched fists, spitting towards Bahzell like evil green lightning, but it never struck. Something flashed in its path—a brilliant blue disk, brighter even than the lightning—and the hissing light-snake shattered like glass.
The wizard staggered back in disbelief, then jerked his head around as another horseman rode slowly forward. The rider's eyes flamed brighter than the camp's fire, and the sword in his hand glittered with the same blue light that had shielded Bahzell and Zarantha. The surviving dog brothers vanished into the howling snow and the last guardsmen yelped in panic and cast down their weapons at the sight, and the wizard who'd tried to kill Zarantha seemed to shrink in on himself. He and his fellow stood rooted to the ground, faces whiter than the blizzard, and Wencit stopped his horse. He dismounted with slow, graceful precision, and sheathed his sword, never taking his wildfire gaze from his enemies.
"My name," he didn't raise his voice, but it carried crisp and clear and coldly formal through the howl of the wind in a dialect unheard in Norfressa in centuries, "is Wencit of Rum, and by my paramount authority as Lord of the Council of Ottovar I judge thee guilty of offense against the Strictures. Wouldst thou defend thyselves, or must I slay thee where thou standest?"
One of the wizards whimpered, but the Carnadosan priest who'd tried to kill Zarantha was made of sterner stuff. He wasted no time on words; his right hand darted to his belt, snatching out a short, thick wand, and brought it up in a darting arc at Wencit.
The wild wizard raised his own hand almost negligently, and the wand exploded in a shower of smoking fragments. The wizard howled and seized his right wrist in his left hand, shaking it frantically as a curl of flame rose from his palm, and Wencit nodded.
"So be it." His voice held an executioner's dispassion, and he pointed a finger at his writhing foe. "As thou hast chosen, so shalt thou answer."
A spear of light—the same wildfire light as his eyes—leapt from his finger, and the priest screamed as it struck his chest. His spine arched, convulsing in agony, and the wildfire crawled up inside him. It spewed from his shrieking mouth in a tide of brilliance, glaring and pulsing with the rhythm of his wildly racing heart, and then he collapsed in upon himself like a figure of straw in the heart of a furnace. Smoke poured up from his crumpling body in a stinking tide, whipped and shredded by the wind, and when it cleared only a smoldering heap of ash remained.
The second wizard fell to his knees, mouth working soundlessly as he raised his hands in piteous supplication, but Wencit's face was colder than the storm. His hand swung, his finger pointed, a second shaft of light lanced out from it, and his victim shrieked like a soul in hell as he blazed.
Bahzell crouched on his knees, still shielding Zarantha, and even through the Rage he felt a stab of pure, atavistic terror as he stared at Wencit. Wind roared across the hollow, roofing it in a boiling cauldron of white, and the wild wizard loomed against it like a figure out of Kontovar's most terrifying myths. He lowered his hand slowly while the smoke of his enemies streamed up to whip away on the gale, and his words carried with that same, impossible clarity through the blizzard's bellow.
"By their works I knew them, by the Strictures I judged, and by my oath I acted," he said softly, and turned away at last.
CHAPTER THIRTY
There was no dawn. The storm howled on, roaring like an enraged giant, and Bahzell sat beside the fire and watched their prisoners.
There were eleven of them: six Carnadosan guardsmen and five dog brothers. One assassin would die soon; all four of his fellows and two of the guardsmen were wounded, and cold hatred urged the Horse Stealer to cut all their throats. But the aftertaste of the Rage was poison on his tongue, copper-bright with too much blood, too much exaltation in its shedding. Even if it hadn't been, these men had surrendered; if he killed them now, it would be in cold blood—murder, not battle—and Bahzell Bahnakson was no dog brother.
Thirteen bodies lay piled beyond the fire's warmth, frozen and stiff. The dead wizards' remaining henchmen had fled into the shrieking blizzard, most without cloaks, some without even boots. Few would survive the storm, and bleak satisfaction filled Bahzell at the thought as he looked at Zarantha.
She lay across the fire from him, closed eyes like bruised wounds in her stark, white face as she slept with her head on Wencit's thigh. Her captors had been careful not to abuse her physically, for they'd wanted her strong and fit for sacrifice, and she was tough, Zarantha of Jashân. Yet the horror of what she'd endured—of riding obediently to what she knew was hideous death, a prisoner in her own body—had marked her . . . and the compulsion that had held her so had survived her captors' deaths.
Wencit's face had been grim as he bent over her, and Bahzell had knelt behind her, supporting her shoulders against his knee as the wizard's eyes flamed and the cleansing fire of his wizardry burned deep inside her. Bahzell had felt Zarantha's terrible shudders as that sorcery warred with the noisome, clinging shroud about her soul, heard her teeth-clenched groan of agony as the compulsion frayed and tore under the power of Wencit's will, and he'd gathered her in his arms as she sobbed explosively against his mailed chest when the spell broke. He'd smoothed her black hair, murmured to her, held her like a child, and she'd clung to him, burying her face against him.
That had been almost enough to send him raging amidst the prisoners, murder or no, but it hadn't. He'd only held her, and thought no less of her as she wept, for hradani knew the horror of helplessness in the hands of wizards.
She'd mastered her tears more quickly than he would have believed possible. She
'd drawn the discipline of the magi about her and pushed herself back to smile at him, her white cheeks wet.
"And so I owe you my life again, Bahzell Bahnakson," she'd said, voice wavering with the aftershock of her tearing sobs. "Oh, Bahzell, Bahzell! What god sent you and Brandark to me, and how can I ever prove worthy of you?"
"Hush, lass," he'd growled, and patted her roughly, awkward and uncomfortable as a stripling before the glow in her eyes. "You've no call to be `worthy' of such as us!"
"Oh, but I do—both of you." She'd reached out a hand to Brandark, and the Bloody Sword had squeezed it gently. "I lied to you, and tricked you into this, and still you came for me."
"Huh!" Brandark had snorted. "It was no more than a leisurely jog for longshanks here! Now, I, on the other hand—!"
Zarantha had answered with a gurgle of tearful laughter, but she'd shaken her head until Bahzell cupped her face in one huge hand and turned it back to him.
"Lass, you never lied. Less than the full truth, aye, but were you thinking the two of us stupid enough not to be guessing you'd reason for it?" Her lips had trembled, and he'd touched her hair once more. "Tothas told us what it was, and I'll not fault your thinking—no, nor your judgment, either."
"Tothas!" she'd gasped, her eyes darting suddenly about, wide with fresh, sudden dread as she noted her armsman's absence. "Is he—?!"
"Tothas is well," Bahzell had said firmly. "He'd not the strength for a run like this, so we left him safe enough in Dunsahnta to watch over Rekah. It's half-mad with worry over you he was, but he'd sense enough to know this was best left to us, and he sent his love with us."