The Sword of the South - eARC by David Weber Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Weber
for their battle craft, but their true function was to be his Swords in the world of mortals, weapons ready to his hand for the protection of the weak and the administration of justice.
As a champion of Tomanāk, Bahzell was certainly a fit mate for a Sothōii war maid, and he also held rank equal to that of a Knight Grand Cross of the Legion of the Axe. More to the point, he was entitled to a lucrative income from the Order’s coffers, which only deepened the mystery of why he kept a tavern.
Of course, that last was a minor, virtually insignificant question compared to all of the other mysteries chasing themselves about under the tavern in question’s roof.
“A warrior, are you?” the hradani mused. “Aye, you’ve the thews for hard knocks, but is it the skill you have?”
“Wencit says I do, but I’m afraid I have to take his word for it.” Kenhodan shrugged. “I’ve no memory to judge by.”
“Faugh!” Bahzell thumped his tea mug down. “It’s naught I know of lost memories, and little more of wizardry—and that too much for comfort—even allowing as I’ve questionable taste in friends! But this I do know. Take no man’s word for your own sword skill, Kenhodan. It’s advice or opinions you can ask on a ship, a house, or an investment, but know your own worth with a blade or expect a short life! Have you a sword?”
“I’ve nothing but what you see. Not even a past.”
“Well, as to that, it’s not so very much I can do about pasts.” Bahzell waved a callused, oddly compassionate hand against the bitter self-deprecation of Kenhodan’s words. “But if it’s a sword that’s wanted, we might be doing a mite about such as that.” His bright eyes flickered to Wencit, alive with surmise, and then to his wife. “And where was it you were after storing Brandark’s old sword, love?”
“In that rusting collection of ironmongery in your strong room, along with every other weapon you’ve ever collected,” Leeana replied with a certain degree of asperity.
“Well, be a good lass and fetch it out! Here’s a man of deeds without a blade, and I’m thinking it’d please the little man right down to the ground if we used his sword to set that right.”
“All right, but don’t let your tea cool while you wait. You keep that place in such a state it may take me hours to find it.”
She rose gracefully and swept off, the light of battle in her eyes, and Bahzell threw a glance after her before he leaned closer to his guests. He grinned and spoke in a lowered voice.
“Tomanāk knows what I’d do without her, and whatever it is you might be seeking in this tavern, she can find it in a dark room with her eyes closed. But she does like to prod me now and again. And she’s cause enough, truth to tell, for she’s the only person can ever find aught in that strong room. Still, she’s after enjoying the game as much as I do…I think.”
“And the fact that you’d have to get your own swords if the game ever ended never enters your head?” Wencit asked innocently.
“Of course not!” Bahzell took another long pull from his cup and chuckled deep in his chest, ears half-flattened in amusement, It was a resonant, rumbling chuckle—an earthquake sort of a chuckle—but Kenhodan noticed that Gwynna drowsed right through it with the ease of long practice. She merely shifted to one side of her father’s neck to avoid jostling, and her lips curved in a sleepy smile as she curled more tightly against him. Yet another deathblow to the hradani stereotype, the red-haired man thought dryly.
“Here.” Leeana returned with a long scabbard tucked under her arm. Its black leather was clasped with silver bands overlaid with a patina of vast age, and despite her comments about “rusting ironmongery,” the leather was well oiled and the silver gleamed without a trace of tarnish. “Miracles still happen. It is where it was supposed to be!”
“You see?” Bahzell beamed at her. “The serving wenches
As a champion of Tomanāk, Bahzell was certainly a fit mate for a Sothōii war maid, and he also held rank equal to that of a Knight Grand Cross of the Legion of the Axe. More to the point, he was entitled to a lucrative income from the Order’s coffers, which only deepened the mystery of why he kept a tavern.
Of course, that last was a minor, virtually insignificant question compared to all of the other mysteries chasing themselves about under the tavern in question’s roof.
“A warrior, are you?” the hradani mused. “Aye, you’ve the thews for hard knocks, but is it the skill you have?”
“Wencit says I do, but I’m afraid I have to take his word for it.” Kenhodan shrugged. “I’ve no memory to judge by.”
“Faugh!” Bahzell thumped his tea mug down. “It’s naught I know of lost memories, and little more of wizardry—and that too much for comfort—even allowing as I’ve questionable taste in friends! But this I do know. Take no man’s word for your own sword skill, Kenhodan. It’s advice or opinions you can ask on a ship, a house, or an investment, but know your own worth with a blade or expect a short life! Have you a sword?”
“I’ve nothing but what you see. Not even a past.”
“Well, as to that, it’s not so very much I can do about pasts.” Bahzell waved a callused, oddly compassionate hand against the bitter self-deprecation of Kenhodan’s words. “But if it’s a sword that’s wanted, we might be doing a mite about such as that.” His bright eyes flickered to Wencit, alive with surmise, and then to his wife. “And where was it you were after storing Brandark’s old sword, love?”
“In that rusting collection of ironmongery in your strong room, along with every other weapon you’ve ever collected,” Leeana replied with a certain degree of asperity.
“Well, be a good lass and fetch it out! Here’s a man of deeds without a blade, and I’m thinking it’d please the little man right down to the ground if we used his sword to set that right.”
“All right, but don’t let your tea cool while you wait. You keep that place in such a state it may take me hours to find it.”
She rose gracefully and swept off, the light of battle in her eyes, and Bahzell threw a glance after her before he leaned closer to his guests. He grinned and spoke in a lowered voice.
“Tomanāk knows what I’d do without her, and whatever it is you might be seeking in this tavern, she can find it in a dark room with her eyes closed. But she does like to prod me now and again. And she’s cause enough, truth to tell, for she’s the only person can ever find aught in that strong room. Still, she’s after enjoying the game as much as I do…I think.”
“And the fact that you’d have to get your own swords if the game ever ended never enters your head?” Wencit asked innocently.
“Of course not!” Bahzell took another long pull from his cup and chuckled deep in his chest, ears half-flattened in amusement, It was a resonant, rumbling chuckle—an earthquake sort of a chuckle—but Kenhodan noticed that Gwynna drowsed right through it with the ease of long practice. She merely shifted to one side of her father’s neck to avoid jostling, and her lips curved in a sleepy smile as she curled more tightly against him. Yet another deathblow to the hradani stereotype, the red-haired man thought dryly.
“Here.” Leeana returned with a long scabbard tucked under her arm. Its black leather was clasped with silver bands overlaid with a patina of vast age, and despite her comments about “rusting ironmongery,” the leather was well oiled and the silver gleamed without a trace of tarnish. “Miracles still happen. It is where it was supposed to be!”
“You see?” Bahzell beamed at her. “The serving wenches