Free The Swordbearer by Glen Cook Page B

let's go!" Rogala snarled.
    "After me, my Lords."
    "Don't let them bully you, boy," Rogala told Gathrid as they approached the heart of the camp.
    "They'll look at the length of your whiskers and try. Just remember, they're more scared of you than you are of them."
    The knight glanced back, frowned. Rogala was dragging his heels, forcing the impatient soldiers to pause again and again. "The pressure starts getting you, rest your hand on the Sword. Just rest it. Don't draw it unless you need to kill somebody."
    Gathrid wondered at Rogala's game. Why was he stalling? He was not overawed. He had kept company with men far greater than any they would meet today.
    "Tell you a secret," the dwarf said, divining his thoughts. "Always be late. It irritates them.
    Fogs their thinking. You can get the best of them, long as you keep a clear head yourself. And it works whether you're dickering over sausages or provinces."
    Gathrid nodded, though he was not really listening.
    He was awed by the men they were about to face. The most important man he'd ever met was his father's liege, the Dolvin.
    "Whew!" Rogala spat suddenly, halting. "Will you look at that?" They had come in view of the compound of the Kings. Doubtless Rogala had seen greater opulence in ancient Anderle, but hardly amidst a march to war. "These people aren't serious," he said. "They're just making a show.
    Running a bluff. Better get a grip on the Sword now, boy. They're going to put us through it."
    Gathrid did grasp Daubendiek's hilt after adjusting it so it hung crosswise behind his waist instead of down behind his shoulder. Just a light touch on that grim hilt gave him instant confidence.
    He wondered if it really were the Sword, or just something in his head.
    Comings and goings round the big tent ceased. "Good. Good," Rogala said. "They're impressed. Give them another touch. I'll teach you yet."
    The dwarf surged forward, past the startled knight. He bulled through hangers-on. Gathrid scampered after him.
    Rogala shot into a huge tent. Immediately inside lay a curtained receiving room where guards and worktables formed a barrier between world and council. The guards moved to intercept Rogala. They froze at a frown from Gathrid. They hadn't the nerve to stop him.
    How good that felt!
    The knight yapped at his heels like a worried pup. Gathrid glowered over his shoulder, won some silence. This was his first taste of power. He savored it even though he knew he was being seduced by the Sword.
    He and Rogala shoved into the heart of the tent.
    Men were shouting at one another there. Fists shook. Threats filled the air. Kings cursed one another for being hardheaded or stupid.
    A chamberlain intercepted them and babbled in their faces. His face was bleak with terror. Rogala shoved him inside. Someone in authority bellowed, "Guards, seize those two." Gathrid located the speaker and locked gazes. The man went pale and began to stammer. The guards ignored his instructions.
    Gathrid caressed Daubendiek's hilt.
    "Got them," Rogala chuckled softly. Into the sudden silence he bellowed, "The Swordbearer. The Chosen Instrument of Suchara. All rise."
    Several men did so, sank back angrily.
    Gathrid scanned the gathering, keeping his fingers near the hilt of the Sword. Never had he felt so young and clumsy and out of place. Only in wild daydreams had he ever pictured a moment like this. In the dense human press of that tent he saw seven crowned heads. He saw four Brotherhood Magisters, the heads of every Order but the Blue. Dukes and* barons attended the great ones... .
    Again and again his fingers went to Daubendiek's hilt.
    One spare, grisled old man caught Gathrid's eye. His uniform marked him as a high officer of the Anderlean Empire's army. He seemed amused by the interruption. Only he met Gathrid's gaze without flinching. Here, the youth thought, is a man of substance, of character. Who is he? What is he doing here, treated as an equal by the others? For them contempt of the