Free The Sword of the South - eARC by David Weber Page B

been in another time, another universe. And this much I will tell you, Bahzell Bahnakson: the man he is this night, the man sitting in your taproom, is just as much one of my own as Sergeant Houghton ever was, even if he doesn’t know it. He isn’t Sergeant Houghton, but in the sense you mean it, you’re right. You may not have met, but you do know him. Or, put another way, perhaps, you do know what lives inside him and makes him who he is .>
    < Then that’s after being good enough for me ,> Bahzell said simply, and felt a vast, immaterial hand rest lightly on his shoulder.
    < I knew it would be, my Sword. But Wencit also spoke nothing but truth about the peril you and Leeana—and Gwynna—will face because Kenhodan’s come into your lives. I’m not speaking just about tonight, Bahzell. I know the temper of the steel in you and Leeana, and I have no fear that either of you will fail the Light. But know this. The moment which I warned you so long ago was coming is almost here. Events are in motion, and the confusion and the possibilities and the echoes of what might be are so sharp, so strong, that not even a god can see them clearly. The final campaign of the war between Kontovar and Norfressa—between those who stand with the Light and those who have given themselves to the Dark—begins this night in your tavern, Bahzell Bahnakson. This is the battle for which you were truly born, the challenge for which you and Leeana were bred and trained and tempered on the anvil of love and honor, and it will cost you dear. I can’t see all ends, and of those I can see, I have no way to predict which one you and she will experience, but the price will be high .>
    There was no flinch, no effort to temporize, in that earthquake voice. There never had been, and Bahzell had never flinched from the iron fidelity of its truth. Nor did he flinch now. He only drew on his pipe for a moment, then blew out a thin, fragrant jet of smoke.
    < Then I’m thinking it’s as well as I’ve my sword handy ,> he told his deity simply.
    * * *
    Kenhodan’s fingers caressed the wire wound hilt of the sword lying naked across his thighs and he looked across the taproom at his host.
    If not for the smoke curling from Bahzell’s pipe, he would have been tempted to think the huge hradani was asleep. But thoughtful brown eyes gleamed in the light-flickers from the hearth, and Bahzell’s ears were half-cocked as if he were considering the pieces of a puzzle.
    Or perhaps the piece of a puzzle.
    If Kenhodan had been remotely tempted to doubt Wencit of Rūm’s word about Bahzell Bahnakson’s status as a champion of Tomanāk, he would have abandoned that doubt as Bahzell crisply—and ruthlessly—ordered the rest of the Iron Axe’s staff out of danger. They’d dispersed to other houses—and it said a great deal about Bahzell’s stature in Belhadan that those other houses had taken in hradani without even a murmur of protest—but Kenhodan suspected few of them would get much sleep this night. He’d needed no memory to understand the unwillingness with which they’d abandoned their chieftain and lady, and their reluctance had raised Bahzell and Leeana still higher in his esteem.
    Now Kenhodan sat quietly, waiting, wondering what was about to happen. He’d had no armor to climb into as Bahzell had, and he eyed the great, two-handed sword propped beside the hradani with profound respect. Its five-foot blade and long hilt almost matched Kenhodan’s own height, and its hard edges were lovingly honed. The crossed mace and sword of the war god were etched below the quillons, and while Kenhodan would never have attempted to flourish so much steel about, Bahzell handled it like a cavalry saber.
    The other defenders were spread about the building. Wencit sat alone in the kitchen, his own sword bare on the table while a tiny globe of witchfire danced slowly up and down it. The globe pulsed gently in time with his breathing, and his hooded eyes never left