David Weber - Oath of Swords

Tension hovered like lightning, poised to strike, but Bahzell simply waited. His posture was eloquently unthreatening, and no man there wanted to be the first to change that, but the troublemaker staggered to his feet, still spewing curses.

“Are you going to let this hradani bastard get away with this?!” he screamed, and two others started forward, then froze as eyes cored with icy fire swiveled to them and Bahzell’s ears went flat. One of them swallowed hard and took a step back, and the roughneck rounded on him.

“Coward! Gutless, puking coward! Cowards all of you! He’s only a stinking hradani , you bastards- kill him! Why don’t you-”

“I think,” another voice said, “that that will be enough, Falderson.”

The troublemaker’s mouth snapped shut, and he spun to face the inn yard gate. Two men stood there, both in the boiled leather jerkins of the town guard, and Bahzell recognized the speaker from the party who’d met them outside town. The man wore a sergeant’s shoulder knot, and if there was no liking in the gaze he bent on Bahzell, there was no unthinking hatred, either.

“Arrest him!” Falderson shouted, raising his shattered wrist in his other hand. “Look what the stinking whoreson did to me!”

“Why are you wearing your sword belt, Falderson?” the sergeant asked instead, and the roughneck seemed to freeze. He opened his mouth, and the sergeant smiled coldly. “I see you seem to have forgotten your sword-or did you lose it somewhere? And isn’t that your dirk?” A finger pointed to the weapon Falderson had dropped, and the Esganian’s face went purple with shame and fury. His mouth worked soundlessly, and then he shook himself.

“I-I was defending myself!” he snarled. “This bastard hradani attacked me-attacked me without cause! Ask anyone, if you don’t believe me!”

“I see.” The sergeant looked around the hushed inn yard, but no one spoke, and his eyes narrowed as Brandark emerged from the inn. The Bloody Sword said nothing, but the crowd parted before him as he stepped to Bahzell’s side. He, too, looked down at the dirk lying on the hard-packed dirt, then reached back without taking his eyes from the sergeant’s. His hand vanished into the trough, then emerged with a dripping sword and dropped it beside the dirk.

“Yours, I believe?” he said quietly to Falderson in perfect Esganian, but his eyes were still on the sergeant, and the sergeant nodded slowly.

“I- I mean, he-” Falderson’s gaze darted around the yard, but none of the others-not even the two who’d started forward to attack Bahzell-would meet his eyes, and his voice died into silence.

“I think we all know what you mean.” The sergeant stepped forward to gather up the sword and dirk and hand them to his companion. “It’s not the first time you’ve landed yourself in trouble, so I’ll just keep these for you . . . at least until you can hold them again,” he added meaningfully, and Falderson stared down at his shattered wrist.

“All right!” The sergeant raised his voice. “The show’s over. You, Henrik-take Falderson to the healer and have that wrist set. The rest of you be about your business while I have a word with these . . . gentlemen.”

Voices rose in an unhappy mutter, but the crowd began to drift away, and the sergeant walked over to the hradani. There was still no liking in his eyes, but there was a certain amusement mixed with the wariness in them.

“Falderson,” he said quietly to Bahzell in passable Navahkan, “is as stupid as the day is long.” He craned his neck to gaze up at the hradani and shook his head. “In fact, he’s even stupider than I thought. You, sir, are the biggest damned hradani-no offense-I think I’ve ever seen.”

“None taken,” Bahzell rumbled. “And my thanks. I’m thinking it would have gotten a mite messy if you hadn’t happened along.”

“I didn’t ‘happen’ along,” the sergeant said. “The mayor wasn’t very happy about your visit, and he asked us to keep an eye on you. Now-” he waved at the weapons his companion still held “-you can see why, I think.”

“Sergeant,” Brandark began, “I assure you-”

“No need to assure me of anything, Lord Brandark.” The sergeant granted the title without irony, and Brandark cocked an eyebrow. “From all I hear, you’ve been here before and always avoided trouble, and it’s plain as the nose on my face your friend didn’t pick this quarrel.” The sergeant’s mouth quirked. “If he had, I doubt Falderson would have gotten off with no more than broken bones. But the fact is that Waymeet doesn’t like hradani. This is a country town, and it’s not thirty years since the entire place burned to the ground in a border raid. Country folk have long memories, and besides-” He broke off and shrugged, and Bahzell grunted in unhappy understanding.

“That being the case,” the sergeant went on, “I think it would be better all around if you and your friend moved on, Lord Brandark. Meaning no disrespect, and I realize you have road tokens. More than that, I realize neither of you has any intention of making trouble. But the point is, you don’t have to make trouble; you are trouble, and this is my town.”

Bahzell’s ears flattened, but he clamped his jaws on his anger and glanced at Brandark. The Bloody Sword looked back with a small shrug, and Bahzell snorted, then looked back at the sergeant and nodded grimly.

“Thank you.” There was a trace of embarrassment in the man’s voice, but no apology, and he glanced at the sun. “I’d say you’ve another hour of light, Lord Brandark. I’m sure the innkeeper can put up a supper for you-tell him to put it on my tab-but I’d advise you to eat in the saddle.”

He drew himself up to a sort of attention, nodded, and beckoned to his companion. The two guardsmen marched out the inn gate, and Bahzell and Brandark stood alone in the center of the silent, deserted yard.

The gate guard gave them a sharp look as they made their way through Drover’s Gate into Esgfalas. Bahzell gazed back with a certain dour bitterness but let it pass. Waymeet lay days behind, and he’d managed to conquer his fury at what had happened there, yet the all-pervasive hostility around him was worse, in its way, than anything he’d been forced to endure in Navahk. At least there he’d known his enemies had cause for their enmity.

The outright hatred had eased as they got further from the border, yet what was left was almost worse. It was a cold, smokelike thing that hovered everywhere yet lacked even the justification of border memories. It sprang not from anything he or Brandark, or even raiders, had done; it sprang from who and what they were .

The gate guard took his time checking their road tokens, and Bahzell folded his arms and leaned against his packhorse. The gelding blew wearily, then turned its head to lip the hradani’s ears affectionately, and Bahzell rubbed its forehead as he studied what he could so far see of Esgfalas.

Esgan was a human realm, and Bahzell knew the shorter-lived, more fertile humans produced denser populations than his own folk found tolerable. But he also knew from his tutors that Esgan was less populous than many other human lands . . . and its capital still seemed terrifyingly vast. The city walls were enormous, if in poorer repair than they should have been, and the traffic passing through the gates beggared anything Bahzell had ever seen. He couldn’t even begin to guess how many people lived within those walls, but at the very least it must be many times the population of the city of Hurgrum, possibly greater than his father’s entire princedom!