David Weber - Oath of Swords

Twelve centuries had passed since the Carnadosans destroyed the House of Ottovar, but the elves of Saramantha were as blasted and scarred by the horrors of that destruction as if it had happened yesterday. They dared not open to the world about them lest they be blasted once more, and, for the first time, Bahzell Bahnakson realized how terrible a curse immortality could be.

Yet whatever they’d chosen, the world refused to leave them entirely alone, for the work of elvish craftsmen and artists commanded enormous prices in other lands, and Saramantha had its own needs. Where those needs crossed there were always merchants to fulfill them, and with merchants came all the paraphernalia of commerce, including docks, warehouses, taverns and inns . . . and thieves.

The Saramfal Guard dealt mercilessly with any of the riffraff that spilled over into the city, but they left the Trade Quarter to its own devices-less because they condoned lawlessness than because the Quarter was so alien to them-and, over the years, the Merchants Guild had hired its own peacekeepers and evolved its own laws. By now the Quarter was a city within a city, with formal interfaces between it and Saramfal proper, and it remained a lustier, busier, far more brawling community than any elvish city.

And it was in the Quarter that the first attack had occurred.

Bahzell knew Hartan blamed himself for letting his guard down, but there’d been absolutely no sign of danger as he and his platoon’s first squad escorted Kilthan toward the docks on the morning of their departure. One moment, the street was utterly normal, a congested stream of tradesmen and laborers eddying and flowing around knots of haggling hucksters and dignified merchants; the next it was a place of clashing steel and screams.

Bahzell still didn’t know exactly how it had happened. They’d erupted from the very cobbles without so much as a shout, cloaks and smocks cast aside to reveal gleaming swords, and his own blade had leapt into his hands without conscious thought as three of them came straight at him.

A crowded street was a poor battlefield for someone his size. There were too many innocent bystanders fleeing for their lives while Hartan cursed his shocked men into response, and Bahzell needed space to work. It was more luck than skill that let him skewer his first attacker with a lunge so clumsy his old arms master would have beaten him senseless for trying it in practice, but it worked, and he’d dodged the sword of a second, taken a cut from a third on his scale mail, and drawn his dagger with his left hand.

He wrenched his sword free of its first victim, then brought it down, one-handed but deadly, despite the close quarters, and split a skull. Hartan’s battle-axe buried itself in the third man’s chest with a terrible, sodden crunch, and steel rang on steel as more of the attackers engaged the rest of the squad. Bahzell parried a blade on his dagger, slammed his sword pommel into its wielder’s skull, and gutted him with the dagger as he staggered. The dying man stumbled back, blocking a fellow just long enough for Bahzell to crop his head in turn, and the bull-throated bellow of Hurgrum’s war cry did almost as much as the sudden explosion of combat to scatter the crowd. The bystanders scrambled madly out of the way, and, finally, he had room to work properly.

He threw his dagger into the throat of a human who’d circled around Hartan’s off side and got both hands on his sword, and the rest of the squad slotted into place on either side of him. They took him for point, forming a line about Kilthan and anchoring their flanks against a tavern wall, and bodies, limbs, and pieces of limbs flew as his blade took any target that came within his reach.

It was over in minutes, and that, too, was strange. Their attackers had conceded defeat too promptly. None of them had been able to get past Bahzell, but they hadn’t even seriously tried the others. Two members of the squad had been killed in the initial attack, but no one had come even close to Kilthan or his moneybags when the attackers vanished down alleys and side streets. Fifteen bodies lay in the street, but at least that many had fled, and Bahzell had stood panting amidst the carnage, unable to understand. The squad had been outnumbered three-to-one, and surely anyone who could plan and execute that smooth an ambush in a city street should have shown more determination to reach his target!

But they hadn’t, and his own puzzlement had been dwarfed by Hartan’s and Rianthus’ when they found the scarlet scorpion tattooed on each body’s shoulder. That was the emblem of the dog brothers, and no one could understand why the Guild of Assassins should attack Kilthandahknarthas dihna’ Harkanath. Kilthan had rivals in plenty but remarkably few true enemies, and Clan Harkanath had a reputation for ruthless responses to attacks on any of its own, much less its head. No one could think of anyone who hated-or feared-Kilthan enough to pay the fee the Guild must have demanded for a target as dangerous as he, and why dog brothers, who specialized in stealth and cunning, should try for him in something as obvious as a street brawl baffled them all.

But they had, and not just in Saramfal. Kilthan had argued the point, but the united front of Rianthus and Hartan had browbeaten him into leaving his riverboat only for specific meetings, and then only with two full squads of Hartan’s men-including Bahzell. Yet they’d been attacked again in Trelith, the Kingdom of Morvan’s main port, and a third time, when they made their regular detour up the Feren River to Malgas.

The Trelith attack had been a repeat of the abortive Saramfal attempt with twice the men. Fortunately, the sheer number of attackers had been harder to hide, and Hartan spotted them before Kilthan was fully into their trap. The bodyguards’ commander had also had more time to plan, and his prearranged order had sent Bahzell falling back beside Kilthan to deal with any who might break through to him. But the assassins hadn’t pressed the attack. Indeed, they’d broken off the instant Hartan’s men formed line about Kilthan and Bahzell, yet any hope they’d given up for good had been blunted at Malgas. The attack there had been nothing less than a fire ship. Brandark had lost both eyebrows in that one, for the river barge, packed with combustibles and roaring with flame, had actually lodged against Kilthan’s ship for over two minutes before the crew could boom it off, and they might never have pushed it clear without the added weight and strength of the two hradani.

Now, as the convoy headed down the last few leagues to Riverside, Bahzell felt unhappy over his plan to leave it when they reached the port. Kilthan was well beyond any likely raider attack, but leaving him now seemed poor repayment for his kindness if the dog brothers meant to have him.

“Kormak for your thoughts,” a tenor voice asked.

“I’m doubting they’re worth as much as all that,” he rumbled.

“Call me a big spender.”

Bahzell gave a wry smile, but then it faded, and he shrugged.

“I’ve just been casting my mind over my-our-plans. We’re coming up fast on Riverside, and I’m not so easy in my mind over leaving Kilthan as I’d thought to be.”

“The dog brothers?”

“Aye.” Bahzell flattened his ears. “It’s not a thing I can understand, Brandark, this notion of taking money to kill a man you’ve never met and who’s done naught to you or yours. And as for any scum that would worship Sharna into the bargain-!” The Horse Stealer spat over the side, and Brandark sat up and cradled his balalaika across his lap.

“Sometimes I think you’re too much a barbarian for your own good,” he said. “If you’d grown up in Navahk, you’d understand exactly how someone could kill for a fistful of gold-or copper, for that matter. But you really don’t, do you?” He shook his head at Bahzell’s blank look and sighed. “Don’t let it worry you, Bahzell. You’re probably better off not understanding . . . as long as you remember other folk do. But as for worshiping Sharna-”