“ Tomanak! ”
He cut down another opponent. Then another, and they were no longer coming at him. Instead, they were trying desperately to get away, and he felt the Rage, the bloodlust of his people, rising within him. But the Rage had become his servant, not his master, over the years, and he controlled it with the ease of long practice as he, Vaijon, and Brandark hammered forward on their enemies’ heels.
Someone on the other side was shouting orders. Bahzell took down yet another of the attackers and chanced a look in the direction of all the noise, and his eyes narrowed as he saw a small knot of archers who still retained their bows. They were clustered around the one doing all the shouting, and the loud fellow was pointing urgently in the direction of the road. The archers raised their bows, taking careful aim at whoever he was pointing out, and Bahzell threw his dagger in a flat, vicious arc.
It was a long throw, especially left handed, even for Bahzell Bahnakson, but the blade flickered in sunlight and shadow as it flashed straight to its mark. It went home with a grisly, meaty thud, driving quillon-deep in his target’s collarbone. Over two inches of bloody steel projected from the man’s back, his commands died in a gurgling crimson spray, and the sheer force of the dagger’s impact lifted him from his feet and hurled him into two of the archers who’d been listening to him.
That was enough for all those archers. Whatever force of will their leader had used to hold them together vanished with his death. They scattered, most of them discarding their bows so they could run faster, and Bahzell smiled in satisfaction through the cold, icy focus of the Rage. An assassin who’d been coming at him saw that smile and tried frantically to brake, but he was too late. Before he could stop, he ran into a steel whirlwind that crashed through his feeble attempt to parry and split his skull.
“Oath to Tomanak!” someone shouted. “ Oath to Tomanak! ”
“Damn it!” Brandark grated. “I hate it when they do that!”
Bahzell grunted a harsh, unamused laugh, but the Bloody Sword only snarled.
“You think they’d show the least damned bit of interest in letting us surrender if we were the ones shouting it?” he demanded as the man he’d been about to skewer threw away his sword and raised his hands.
“Likely not,” Bahzell conceded. Another of the ambushers went to his knees, and the Horse Stealer grunted again-this time in disgust-as the gripped the man by the nape of the neck and lifted him back to his feet. His unfortunate captive squealed in pain as he was hauled onto his toes and Bahzell half-threw and half-shoved him back towards the high road.
“I’m thinking you’d best not do one damned thing I could be taking as breaking your oath,” he told the would-be assassin, and the man nodded desperately. Another one of the attackers tried to fade into the shadows, only to freeze as Bahzell cocked his head at him.
“You just go on running,” the hradani encouraged coldly. “Those as don’t come quiet when they’ve given oath to Tomanak, why, they’re not protected by it, now are they?”
The human stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, then nodded even more violently than Bahzell’s first prisoner and started stumbling back towards the high road himself. Vaijon had rounded up a prisoner of his own, and Brandark sent the man who’d surrendered to him hurrying after the others with the Bloody Sword’s sword tip prodding him to encourage more speed.
The time compression of combat never ceased to astonish Bahzell, even after all these years. The fight had seemed to last at least an hour, yet the whole thing had taken mere minutes. But they’d been bloody minutes, and his jaw tightened and his ears flattened as he came out of the trees and saw the carnage.
Eight or nine of Tellian’s armsmen were down on the roadway where the initial volleys of arrows had slashed into them, but men were smaller targets than horses. At least a dozen of their mounts had been hit by arrows intended for their riders, and equine screams of pain tore at his ears with that special heart-rendering intensity of wounded horses without the ability to understand why they’d been hurt. Battle hardened or not, Bahzell had never been able to listen to those screams without hearing the beasts’ pleas for someone to explain, someone to make it go away. Here and there armsmen had already cut the throats of mortally wounded horses. It was second nature to any Sothoii-their duty to the horses who served them so loyally-and not one of Tellian Bowmaster’s armsmen would have even considered seeing to his own hurts until he’d seen to those of his mount. Nor would he flinch from doing his responsibility to end that uncomprehending agony when he must. It was one of the things Bahzell most liked about them, and ‹ Quickly, Brother!›
Bahzell’s head snapped up at Walsharno’s mental cry. The unbreakable link between them would have told him if the courser had been wounded, and he and Walsharno had learned not to distract one another on those occasions when one or both of them had to enter battle without the other. But now the raw, burning urgency of Walsharno’s summons burned through him and he turned quickly, then froze.
Dathgar was down. The huge bay had been hit by at least four arrows, and there were limits to even a courser’s vitality. His coat was saturated with blood, his sides heaved weakly, and bloody froth blew at his nostrils. He tried to raise his head feebly, eyes glazed, and Tellian lay half under him, unconscious, with two snapped-off arrow shafts standing out of his chest. His right leg was twisted, obviously broken where Dathgar’s weight had smashed down on it, and Hathan was on his knees beside him, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding, while two more of Tellian’s armsmen knelt over Tarith.
“Do you be taking Dathgar!” Bahzell said sharply to Walsharno. The stallion nodded, and Bahzell looked over his shoulder. “Brandark-”
“I’ll keep an eye on these bastards,” Brandark promised him, brown eyes grim as he glared at the prisoners. “Go!”
It was Bahzell’s turn to nod, and Hathan looked up with desperate eyes as the enormous Horse Stealer went down on one knee beside him.
“I can’t stop the bleeding!” the wind rider said.
“Aye, I can be seeing that,” Bahzell said grimly. Behind him, he sensed Vaijon heading for Tarith, but all of his own attention was focused on the dying man pinned under the dying courser. “Leave him to me,” he told Hathan. “You be drawing those arrows out of Dathgar for Walsharno!”
“But-” Hathan began, then chopped himself off. “Of course,” he said instead, his voice harsh, and Bahzell touched the shaft of the arrow which had driven into Tellian no more than an inch or two from his heart.
I’m thinking if ever I needed you, I’m needing you now, he thought, his eyes closing briefly as he reached out to that inner link which glowed between him and the god he served like some glittering golden chain or an inextinguishable torch blazing against the dark. This is a good man-a friend.
There were no words from Tomanak this time, only that comforting sense of the god’s presence, that feel of two huge hands settling on Bahzell’s shoulders. Warmth spread into him out of them, warmth he needed badly as he saw the damage, heard the wet, weak wheeze of the baron’s breathing while blood bubbled from his nostrils, and realized Tellian was no more than half a breath, possibly two, from slipping away to Isvaria’s table.
But that was as far as he was going, Bahzell told himself with all the grim, iron purpose which had made him a champion of the god of war, and felt Tomanak’s strength fill him as he opened himself once more to the power of his deity.
His eyes opened again, focused and clear with purpose, and blue light crackled around his hands. He laid the palm of his left hand flat on Tellian’s feebly moving chest, and that blue light flowed out from it, flooding across the baron like a layer of azure ice. It flickered and glowed, burning more brilliantly than the afternoon sunlight, lighting Bahzell’s face from below, embracing Tellian like a shield, and Bahzell reached out with it. He felt Tellian’s flickering life force try to sink away from him, and he refused to let it. He locked the grip of his own will upon it, drawing on Tomanak’s power to forbid its extinction, and his right hand gripped that broken arrow shaft and pulled.