David Weber - War Maid's choice

“No, you didn’t,” Tellian said before Bahzell could respond. “And I’m not looking forward to what Hanatha’s going to have to say to me when I get home.”

His shudder, Bahzell thought, wasn’t entirely feigned, and the hradani didn’t blame him. Tellian had written his wife the evening immediately after the attack…and her reply letter had arrived via a courier whose lathered horse spoke eloquently of the urgency with which she’d dispatched it. Bahzell didn’t doubt for a moment that she intended to rehash her initial reaction to how close Tellian had come to death the instant she got her hands on him once again. Well, not the very first instant; she’d be too busy hugging him until his ribs needed healing all over again before she got around to bashing his head for him the way he deserved. But she’d get around to it in time, and take the time to do it properly when she did.

And a good thing it will be, too, the hradani thought, looking at the man who’d become one of his closest friends. For a man as is one of the canniest, hardest headed fellows I’ve yet to meet, that was about as addlepated a decision as ever I’ve seen.

He knew he was being at least a little unfair to Tellian, but he didn’t really care. Some people were less entitled than others to take chances with their own safety when they knew they had enemies who would vastly prefer to see them dead.

And then there’s the little matter of that cough of his, the hradani thought grimly, glancing at Vaijon. None of the three champions had shared Tomanak’s confirmation about that with the baron yet, but it was going to have to be addressed eventually. On the other hand, if Wencit of Rum ran true to form, they ought to be seeing him in Hill Guard sometime in the next two or three months. If dark wizardry was indeed to blame for the baron’s “illness,” it might be best to have the world’s last white wizard available for any discussion of how a repeat performance could be avoided.

“I got another letter from her yesterday, you know,” Tellian said after a moment, and rolled his eyes.

“Did you now? And should we be taking it she’s still a mite put out with you?” Bahzell inquired genially

“You could put it that way, I suppose. Although, to be fair,” Tellian’s tone was judicious, “that would be a little like saying the Ice Sisters are a ‘mite’ chilly. In mid-winter.”

Both his companions chuckled at that one, since the Ice Sister Lakes spent three months out of the year under frozen sheets of ice several feet thick. Tellian joined their laughter, but then his expression sobered and he sighed.

“What?” Vaijon asked, and the baron shrugged.

“Hanatha got a letter from Leanna. She’s coming home for a visit for her birthday.”

“A visit, is it?” Bahzell’s ears twitched.

“Yes, and I’m going to be stuck here in Sothofalas!” Tellian’s frustration was plain. “I hardly ever get to see her, and now this!”

He glowered, and Bahzell smiled sympathetically as he heard a father’s unhappiness. He had no children of his own-as Tellian had just suggested, he was actually on the young side, by his own people’s standards, to even have been thinking about that yet, and champions seldom had the time to even consider parenthood-but he had nieces and nephews in plenty. Some fathers-too many of them, in fact, in Bahzell’s opinion-would be less than devastated by missing a visit from a war maid daughter, but Tellian wasn’t one of them, and Bahzell understood the baron’s disappointment only too well. In fact…

“And did your lady write how long she’ll be visiting?” he asked, and Tellian snorted.

“Not long enough, I’m afraid. Or not for me, anyway, if I end up stuck here as long as I’m afraid I’m going to. You should at least have a chance to see her on your way through to Hurgrum, though.”

“Will I, now? That’s good to be hearing.” Tellian raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m thinking as how by that time she and your lady will have had time enough and to spare to agree with one another about those as don’t wear armor when they ought,” Bahzell explained with a smile. “Indeed, it’s in my mind as how if I’m truly lucky, they’ll’ve worn themselves down to a nub without the strength to be starting in on me for having let you be doing something so daft as that. Mind, I’m none too optimistic about it, though. Like as not they’ll see me as naught but a setting up exercise for Hanatha once she’s after getting you home again and safely into arm’s reach.”

“Um,” Tellian considered that for a moment, then grimaced. “I’m afraid you may be onto something there. But I’m going to expect you to protect me from her if you are, you know.”

“Ah? And would it happen you could explain just why I might be daft enough to do anything of the sort?”

“It’s an ancient Wakuo tradition,” Tellian assured him.

“Wakuo, is it?” Bahzell cocked his ears and arched one eyebrow, wondering where Tellian was headed. The fierce nomads who dominated the vast, rolling wastelands beyond the Spearmen’s Great Eastern Forest had more traditions, customs, and practices (not to mention rituals, ceremonies, and taboos) than even the dwarves. No one-not even the Wakuo themselves, he suspected-could possibly keep all of them straight.

“Of course! If a Wakuo warrior saves someone’s life, he’s responsible for that person for the rest of his own life. And if you don’t protect me from Hanatha, you’ll be derelict in your duties!”

Vaijon laughed out loud, and Bahzell shook his head as Tellian looked at him guilelessly.

“If it happened as how I was Wakuo-or even as how you were Wakuo, come to that-I might be thinking as how you had a point. But as I’m not, and no more are you, and seeing as it happens I’m more than a mite in agreement with her, I’m afraid as how I’ll be otherwise occupied at the moment. Probably counting the knotholes in Walsharno’s stall. Or something nigh as important as that, leastwise.”

“Traitor!”

‹ Prudent!› Walsharno countered with a silent equine laugh. ‹ A lot more prudent than I ever would have expected out of you, as a matter of fact, Brother!›

“Now, that’s no way for a Sothoii baron to be carrying on,” Bahzell chided. “In fact-”

He broke off as the chamber door opened to admit the two men for whom they’d been waiting.

Sir Jerhas Macebearer, Lord Warden of Amber Grass, was in his mid-sixties, white-haired, blue-eyed, and richly dressed, with a luxurious mustache that drooped almost to his chin. He’d never been of more than average height for a Sothoii, and he’d grown slightly stooped with age, but his stride was still firm and powerful, despite the polished ebony cane in his right hand. His shirt was of the finest, snow-white linen, with its full sleeves gathered into embroidered wristbands; his tabard-like tunic was even more richly embroidered, as befitted the Kingdom of the Sothoii’s Prime Councilor; and the intricately worked golden chain of his office flickered with brilliant reflections about his neck. The plain leather scabbard of the businesslike dagger sheathed at his left hip should have struck a jarring note, but instead, it simply looked inevitable.

Prince Yurokhas Silveraxe was over four inches taller than Sir Jerhas, with the same red hair and blue eyes as his older brother, the King. He was five years older than Vaijon, and two inches shorter, yet the two men bore a decided resemblance to one another. Partly, that was because Prince Yurokhas’s court tunic was neither the deep blue of royalty nor marked with the simple silver ax of his house. Instead, it was exactly the same shade as Vaijon and Bahzell’s surcoats and emblazoned with the crossed swords and mace of Tomanak. Almost more even than that, though, was the fact that Yurokhas, despite his princely rank, believed in keeping himself in training. He was broad-shouldered, powerfully built, and sinewy, and he even moved like Vaijon, with an unconscious, almost feline grace.