David Weber - Oath of Swords

“Where are we, anyway?” Brandark asked after a moment.

“By my reckoning, we’ve come maybe a hundred fifty leagues from the Darkwater,” Bahzell replied. “If that’s so, we’re naught but fifty leagues or so from the coast.”

“That close?” Brandark frowned and pulled on his nose. “What happens once we reach the coast, if you don’t mind my asking? As you say, they must have sent word ahead of us to the ports. That means ships are out, and since I still can’t swim and you can’t walk on water, it might be time to consider what we’re going to do next.”

Bahzell snorted in agreement and paused in the welcome shade of a small stand of trees. He mopped at his own face, then shrugged.

“I’m thinking it’s likely we have lost whoever was actually on our trail,” he said finally. “We’ve not set so hard a pace we’d not have seen something of them by now else, and that rain the other day was hard enough to be taking out our tracks. If that’s the way of it, then all we really need do is play least in sight and keep clear of roads.”

“And?”

“From the map, there’s precious few coast towns west of Bortalik. I’m minded to make it clean to the sea if we can, then turn west along the shore.”

“To where?”

“As to that, we’ll have to be making up our minds when we get there. We might strike for the Marfang Channel, find a way across, and take ship from Marfang itself. Or we might try northwest, amongst the Wild Wash Hradani, or cut north through the Leaf Dance Forest back up into the Empire of the Spear.”

“D’you have any idea how far that is?” Brandark demanded.

“Aye, I do that-a better one than you, I’m thinking.” Bahzell raised a foot and grimaced at the holes in the sole of his boot. “But if you’ve a better notion, it’s pleased I’ll be to hear it.”

“No, no. Far be it from me to interfere when you’ve done such a fine job of planning our excursion. What’s a few hundred more leagues when we’re having such fun?”

“Well?” Rathan’s voice was sharp as the scout trotted up to him. The major’s elegant appearance had become sadly bedraggled over the last week of hard riding and frequent rain, but the toughness that elegance had cloaked had become more evident as it frayed, and the scout shifted uneasily. The major had been less than pleased when they lost the trail of his cousin’s killers. His order to spread out and find it again had been curt, but the need to sweep every fold of rolling ground had slowed them badly, and he’d begun taking his frustration out on anyone who hadn’t found the tracks he wanted.

“I’m . . . not certain, sir,” the scout said now.

“Not certain?” Rathan repeated in a dangerous tone, and the scout swallowed.

“Well, I’ve found a trail, Major. I’m just not certain it’s the one we’ve been following.”

“Show me!” Rathan snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

The scout turned his horse and led the way. He almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut, but if he hadn’t reported it and someone else had , the consequences would have been even worse, he thought gloomily.

Twenty minutes brought them to his find, and he dismounted beside the ashes of a fire.

“Here, Major,” he said.

Rathan dismounted in turn, propped his hands on his hips, and turned in a complete circle. The camp was clearly recent, but the hradani they were tracking were trail-wise and canny. Their fires, when they made them at all, were smaller than this one, their camps selected with an eye to concealment, and they did a far better job than this of hiding the signs of their presence when they moved on.

“And what,” he asked with ominous quiet, “makes you think this was the bastards we want?”

“I never said it was, sir,” the scout said quickly, “but you wanted to know about any tracks we found, and we are hunting hradani.”

“So?” Rathan demanded.

“This, sir.” The scout pulled a bronze buckle from his belt pouch. “I found it when I first searched the camp.”

The major turned the buckle in his fingers and frowned at the jagged characters etched into the metal.

“What is this?” he asked after a moment, his voice less irritated and more intent, and the scout hid his relief as he tapped the marks with a finger.

“Those’re hradani runes, sir. I’ve seen ones like them on captured Wild Wash equipment.”

Rathan’s head jerked up, and he stared around the camp once more. There’d been more horses here, and heavier ones, than they’d been trailing, and the tracks slanted into the campsite from the wrong direction, which meant-

“They’ve joined up with the rest of their filthy band!” he snapped, and twisted round to his second in command. “Halith!”

“Sir!”

“Get couriers out. Call in all the scouts, then send riders to the closest regular army posts. There are more of them than we thought, and I’ll want every man when we catch up with them. Go on, man! Get moving!”

“Yes, sir!” Halith wheeled his horse, already calling out the names of his chosen messengers, and Rathan laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh, and his eyes glittered as he stared off to the southeast along the plainly marked tracks leading from the camp.

“I’ve got you now, you murdering bastards!” he whispered, and dropped the buckle. It landed rune-side up, and as he turned to remount his horse, his heel came down on the sigil of Crown Prince Harnak’s personal guard.

The sun lay heavy on the western horizon when Bahzell called a halt. A stream flowed at the bottom of a deep, tree-lined ravine, and the grass along its banks was still green. The horses and mules would like that, and Bahzell liked the concealment the ravine offered.

Brandark dismounted to lead his horse down the gully’s steep northern face. The slope was acute enough to make getting their animals down it difficult, but the southern side was far lower, and the Bloody Sword nodded in appreciation. Bahzell had far better instincts for this sort of thing than he did-no doubt from the time he’d spent on the Wind Plain-but Brandark approved. If anyone stumbled over them, they’d probably come from the north, and the steepness on that side would slow them while the hradani broke south.

“I see you’ve shown your usual fine eye for selecting first-class accommodations,” he said. “What do you think about a fire?”

“Best not,” Bahzell replied. “It’s warm enough without, and those who can’t see flames can still smell smoke if the wind’s wrong.”

“Um.” Brandark pulled at his nose, then nodded. “You’re probably right. Of course, by now we both stink enough they can probably smell us without smoke if they get within a league.”

“Well, yon stream’s deep enough. Once we’ve the horses picketed, I’ll be taking the first watch, if you’ve a mind to soak your delicate skin.”

“Done!” Brandark sighed. “Gods! Even cold water’ll feel good by now!”

Harnak cursed as his horse stumbled. All of their mounts were weary, and his men were straggling once more as the sun began to slip below the horizon, but the prince never considered stopping. He no longer even had to touch the hilt to feel his sword’s hard, hating pull. That fiery hunger had bled into his own blood. It dragged him on despite exhausted horses and failing light, simmering in his soul until he hovered on the very brink of the Rage. He was here. The whoreson bastard was here , so close Harnak could smell him, and he snarled and struck his mount with his spurs.

The horse squealed in surprised hurt, lunging so hard it almost unseated him. Exhaustion or no, there was no withstanding the goad of roweled steel, and it bounded ahead while Harnak’s guardsmen swore under their breath and fought to match their prince’s pace.