David Weber - Oath of Swords

“Now isn’t that just like you,” Bahzell replied. “If you’re thinking you can do better, why then, lead the way, little man.”

“Me? I’m the city boy, remember? You’re the Horse Stealer.”

“Aye, and no Horse Stealer with his wits about him would be wandering about these godsforsaken woods in winter, either,” Bahzell growled back.

“Which explains your presence, but what am I doing here?”

Bahzell snorted and pondered the water before him. It was too broad to be anything except the Darkwater, but he’d expected to hit the river almost two days ago. That meant he was well and truly off the course he’d tried to hold, but had he strayed east or west?

He eased down to sit on a tree root and stretched his legs before him. His boots were sadly worn, which was a worrisome thing, for boots his size were hard come by. He could feel the sharp edges of rocks and the lumpy hardness of roots and fallen branches through their thinning soles, yet if the truth be known, he was more aware of his legs’ weariness. Iron-thewed Horse Stealer that he was, this journey was telling upon him, and he was only grateful they’d moved far enough south to find warmer weather.

He flipped a stone into the river and watched it splash, then peered up at the sky and tried to estimate the time. About the second hour of the afternoon, he decided finally. That gave them another three or four hours of light, and he had no intention of sitting here on his arse wondering where he was while they sped past.

“Well,” he said finally, “I’m thinking we’ve borne too far east or west, and whichever it may be, we’ve little choice but to follow the river till we find a way across it. So, since you’ve come all over sarcastic about my guidance, why don’t you be suggesting which way we should be going?”

“That’s right, dump it all on me.” Brandark glanced up at the sky in turn, then shrugged. “Given the Darkwater’s general course and how much longer than expected it’s taken us to get here, I’d say we’ve fallen off to the east. That being the case, I vote we go upstream.”

“Ah, the wit of the man!” Bahzell marveled. “Were you truly after figuring that all out on your very own?”

Brandark made a rude gesture, and the Horse Stealer laughed.

“Well, I’ll not be surprised if you’ve the right of it after all, and either way is better than none, so we’d best be going.”

He heaved himself back to his feet, settled his sword once more on his back, and led the way northwest along the riverbank.

The sun had sunk low before them when they came to a spot where the banks had been logged back for over a mile on each side. A small, palisaded village crouched on the southern bank, and a broad-beamed ferry was drawn up at a rough dock near it. Thick guide ropes stretched across the stream, running over crude but efficient pulleys, and Brandark groaned in resignation as he and Bahzell headed for them.

The Horse Stealer ignored him and gripped the guide rope, then grunted as he threw his weight upon it. A ferry that size had never been meant for one man to move unaided, but Bahzell’s mighty heave urged it into the stream. It curtsied clumsily on the current, and Brandark leaned his own weight on the rope beside him. The craft moved a bit more quickly, yet the river was broad, and it took them the better part of fifteen panting, heaving minutes to work it across to their side.

Bahzell gasped in relief when the square bow nudged the mud at his feet, yet his brow furrowed in puzzlement as he wiped sweat from it. He could see at least a score of people standing about the village gate, and half a dozen horsemen sat their mounts facing them, yet it seemed none of them had as much as looked up as their ferryboat moved away from them. That indicated a certain lack of caution to Bahzell. The village was small enough to offer easy pickings to any band of brigands (assuming any such ever came this way), and someone should have been keeping an eye on the boat.

He shrugged the thought away and helped Brandark lead their animals onto the ferry. It was a tight fit-they never would have made it with the horses they’d lost-and the Bloody Sword stood in the bow while Bahzell took the stern. The rope was chest-high for most humans, though considerably lower for Bahzell, and they leaned on it once more to work their way back across the stream.

“I wonder what they do for a living around here,” Brandark panted as they neared midstream. “I don’t see any sign of farmland.”

“Woodsmen, I’m thinking,” Bahzell replied. “Oh, be still, you nag!” He broke off to kick one of the mules on the haunch as it stamped uneasily towards the side. The mule flattened its ears and glared at him, but it also stopped moving, and he grunted in satisfaction.

“You think they float timber downstream to South Hold?”

“Well, they are calling it the ‘Shipwood.’ ” Bahzell flicked his ears at the logged-off swath along the river. “They never used all that wood to build yon miserable village, but there’s no cause they should be floating it just to South Hold. There’s Bortalik Bay to the south, and no question the Purple Lords need timber enough for their shipping.”

“You’re probably right,” Brandark grunted, heaving on the rope.

“Aye,” Bahzell agreed as they neared the southern bank, but his eyes were on the people clustered around the palisade gate, and he frowned. Brandark looked up at the absent note in his voice, then followed his glance back to the village, and his ears pricked.

“Trouble, you think?” he asked casually.

“As to that, I’ve no way of knowing, but those folk seem all-fired interested in something besides us, my lad.”

“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” Brandark replied philosophically, and Bahzell nodded as the ferry grounded once more. No one came down to help them disembark, and Bahzell’s curiosity flared higher as they urged their animals onto the dock. Ignoring the departure of their ferryboat was one thing; ignoring its return with two large, unknown, and heavily armed warriors was something else again, and he gave Brandark a speculative glance.

“Are you thinking we should be wandering over to see what’s caught them all up so?”

“Actually, no,” Brandark said. “Whatever it is, it’s their business, and we’re a pair of hradani a long, long way from home.”

“And you the lad who said you wanted adventure!”

“I spoke from the enthusiasm of ignorance-and you shouldn’t rub my nose in it.”

“Ah, but it’s after being such a long, lovely nose,” Bahzell chuckled. “Still and all, you may have the right of it. We’ve no cause to be mixing in other folk’s affairs, and-”

He broke off, ears pricking, as a sudden, loud wailing rose from the village. His eyes narrowed, and he peered intently at the horsemen at the gate. One of them, much more richly dressed than the others, sat his saddle with an air of supreme arrogance, one fist on his hip, holding a riding crop, while the other hand held his reins, and two drably dressed villagers had gone to their knees before him. They were too distant for Bahzell to make out words, but he recognized pleading when he saw it, and his ears went flat to his skull as the richly dressed horseman leaned from the saddle and his long crop flashed. The lash on its end exploded across the cheek of one of the kneeling men, knocking him over, and Bahzell snarled.

“Now that, I’m thinking, changes things a mite,” he grated as a louder keen of despair went up. A woman dashed from the village and crouched over the fallen man. She screamed something at the man with the crop, and it flashed again. She got her arm up just in time to block it short of her own face, and Bahzell snarled again and started forward.