The Right Hand of God (2 page)

The bandits could hardly believe their good fortune. What fool would take a fully-laden train over the highest pass in the Veridian Borders? Straux, the kingdom to the north of these mountains, had recently declared war on the slave traders and their cargoes of human misery.

It hardly seemed credible the slavers would risk their lives on this northern road, even if it meant they would avoid having to pay off the marauders who lined the more easterly route out of Hamadabat. Nevertheless here they were; and the band of robbers awaiting them, cutthroats and murderers sloughed off from more successful groups, knew that their luck had finally turned. Until now the bandits had managed to construct a meagre existence from preying on the few lone travellers foolish enough to venture across the Borders without an armed escort, but it had not been enough. They were hungry, tired and starved of the various entertainments a captive could supply.

The Veridian Borders were the worn-out nubs of old mountains, beaten into submission by the hot southern sun and the clash of winds from the desert and the more fertile, rainswept Maremma Basin to the north. The winds had carved the yellowing, grassless hills into a myriad of odd shapes. Adrar himself, the Golden Lion, presided over the head of the pass, while many other figures, most conjured up from local myths and legends, adorned the winding pass from mouth to crest. The best place for an ambush was directly below the Claws of Adrar, where the road narrowed between two steep talus rock slopes, just before it darted to the right, crested the mountains and began its journey down into Straux. Here the bandits waited.

Let the merchants think they'd made it all the way through the mountains, that was the game, then take them at the very last minute. Take them and have some fun with them, in the usual bandit style; then let one lucky merchant escape with his life, thereby ensuring their ruthlessness became a byword, all the better to attract more desperate men. This robber band had more to prove than any of the others, and each member had secret plans for any merchant or slave who remained alive after the initial exchange. The excitement rose as the camel train inched closer. One of the lieutenants drew his sword to clean it, and his arm was slapped down by

the bandit leader in case the sun glinted on the exposed blade. Not that it matters, he thought.

These merchants were either so foolish or so overconfident they had posted no scouts; They probably wouldn't notice if he knifed one of his men in the back and sent him plummeting to the road. Briefly occupied with this thought, it was all the bandit leader could do to stop himself laughing out loud.

As the camel train passed a predetermined point the robbers divided into two groups, one to block the head of the pass in front of the train, the other to block the road behind them. Once the road was secure, they could take as long as they wanted over what would happennext.

At a signal, the still afternoon air was rent by the ululations of two dozen bandits scampering down the slope towards the hapless merchants. The bandit leader noted something minor had already gone wrong. When the group led by his second-in-command reached the road below the camel train, the merchants and their slaves had contrived to place themselves further down the road. Rather than trapping their prey up against the frightened camels, the robbers themselves were trapped. The bandit leader shrugged his shoulders. Killing rather than planning was his lieutenant's strong suit. It wouldn't matter to him which direction he faced when he killed.

The dozen or so robbers who ran shouting on to the path in front of the train found not the panic and terror their surprise attack was supposed to create, but an eerie silence, and one man standing to meet them. He wore a long, flowing black robe in the Bhrudwan fashion, though the cowl was thrown back to reveal a close-cropped head, a young but weather-beaten face punctuated with deep-set eyes. He stood the way an experienced fighter stands, balanced on the balls

of his feet, ready to counter any thrust from his enemy. A Bhrudwan, the bandit leader mused.

And a warrior. I might lose one or two of my men — it's time they were culled anyway. I have nothing to fear. I have faced men said to have fought alongside the Lords of Fear themselves.

Perhaps the bandits might have had a chance of survival had they abandoned their original plan and focused all their attention on the lone warrior. But they did not, deeming him the sacrificial bait in some desperate gambit. Angered his trap had been sprung, at least to some degree, the bandit leader cried out a command, throwing his hindmost group at the merchants and their slaves, and ignored the lone man lor the moment.

As the merchants threw back their cloaks and drew their weapons, the bandits' second-in-command received his first of many shocks. These were not the sleek Falthans he was familiar with, men who had grown rich trading in the misery of others; instead they wore the look of hardened fighters. That one there, the dark-skinned one wielding a huge stone club as if it weighed nothing at all, he would not scream for mercy as soon as a knife was set to his skin, promising to reveal hidden treasures in exchange for his life. Neither would the man beside him, a long-haired Falthan wearing a tunic marking him as a Deruvian. That woman there, she would scream, but the fierceness that distorted her face made him realise this one would kill or be killed before she let anyone get their hands on her. And the truly fat man wearing a red robe, he had the light of madness in his eyes, as though some dark hunger lurked within. He had seen that light in the eyes of one or two of his former companions, a death wish that had eventually been granted. Some of the arrogance the second-in-command habitually cloaked himself with began to drain away, to be replaced by an unfamiliar fear. Caution, he told himself.

Then it dawned on him that the supposed 'slaves' were not shackled together. They, in their turn, drew weapons and now stood opposed to his men. To his left stood a young girl, trying not to be scared; beside her another fat man strove to keep the fear off his face; a thin man with a staff; a cripple who held his sword awkwardly but with confidence; and still others the bandit did not have time to identify.

Even as he tried to think this turn of events through, the merchants and their slaves set upon him. Instantly two of his men were down, slow-witted enough not to have realised that something was wrong, paying the price for overconfidence. No coward, the second-in-command moved towards the man with the stone club and his long-haired Deruvian companion, rightly identifying them as his greatest threat. Immediately he regretted his decision. The sheer speed of their strikes and thrusts was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The stone club howled horribly as it swung through the air, just missing his unprotected arm. He could not parry the club, and had to duck and weave, backing away more and more quickly just to stay alive. The Deruvian took a wicked swing, and next to him one of the bandits - he couldn't see which one, but it sounded like Hamus - shrieked in agony. He found himself ducking again and again, without respite, trying to keep the savage man off him, cursing the bandit leader, cursing their bad luck, certain now they would all die here.

Back, back again; then he heard a wheezing behind him, felt a sudden thump in his back and something burned hot in his lungs. He looked down through blurring eyes to see the tip of a sword protruding from his chest, and

he cried out in fear as the day he had told himself would never arrive finally came upon him.

A hundred paces further up the pass the bandit leader awoke to his peril and, far too late, decided to cut down the lone Bhrudwan and make his escape. With a shrill cry he sent his second band of men at the warrior.

The narrow path allowed only three bandits to come at the Bhrudwan at one time. The bandit leader watched transfixed as the sword moved from one place to the next with blurring speed, often in a quite different direction to which the Bhrudwan sent his body. The man's strength was clear. His first real blow took off a sword arm and ended embedded in the unfortunate man's hip. He delivered it with only a casual flick of his arm, his body already moving to meet the stroke of his next assailant. The bandit leader noted this in a dry place at the back of his mind. Not one of the Bhrudwan's strokes could be said to have finished: all flowed into a graceful dance where sword tip counterpointed feet and head, all seemingly going their own way, but meeting together to deliver a death blow. It was music, it was poetry, it was slaughter.

Six men down, and only now did the bandit leader realise he had met something he never would have believed could exist. Surely the dreaded Lords of Fear themselves could not light like this - this spirit-being! He abandoned the half-dozen remaining men to their fate, and began to scramble up the slope.

Within moments there were only two robbers left standing on the path, one of whom already emitted a dreadful wailing, a keening for the death that even now reached out to claim him.

The other seemed to be a good fighter, one who might

have given any of the others pause, but the Bhrudwan warrior's cruel blade had inflicted the killing blow and was withdrawn before the man moved to duck.

The Bhrudwan took a moment to check his victims for any sign of life; then, satisfied, he hefted his sword and in a powerful overhand motion threw it up the slope. The bright blade took the bandit leader in the back, and the last sound of the conflict was that of the body rolling back down to the path accompanied by a number of small rocks.

'Most High, Most High,' Wiusago breathed as he made his way back down the path to meet the others. For a moment he stopped on the path, hands on his knees, as the urge to vomit almost overcame him. He had seen death before, but not like this.

'What happened?' Phemanderac asked him and Te Tuahangata, both of whom had sprinted up the path in what turned out to be an unnecessary effort to help Achtal deal with the bandits.

'Did you see?'

'Yes, we saw,' the Deruvian prince replied, unable to keep his voice entirely level. 'And I, for one, wish I had not.'

Achtal came down the path to join the others, wiping his sword clean as he walked, showing no sign of arrogance or pride that Kurr could see. Apart from the sweat beaded on Achtal's broad face and the dust clinging to his robe, nothing indicated he had killed some twelve bandits unaided. Te Tuahangata, who still breathed heavily from his own exertions, shook his head in simple disbelief, and Prince Wiusago, his friend, his enemy, returned the gesture.

'I was raised as a swordsman,' the blond man said, still struggling to control his voice. 'I've sparred with the best in

Denrys. Were I to tell them what I've just witnessed, they would counsel me to stop frequenting taverns.'

'I was born a warrior,' Te Tuahangata countered angrily, 'and we do not fight as others do.

Neither strength nor skill alone makes a warrior. We Mist-warriors are taught to live like fighting men. Larger than life,'intimidating in everything we do. That is part of being a true warrior.' He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself.

The Deruvian laughed at his companion's words, not unkindly. 'Yes, my friend, you are right.

I have seen you fight. Gestures, war cries, swinging your club in huge, extravagant arcs, the howling noise it makes, those things are enough to break the spirits of all but the bravest of foes. Yet the Bhrudwan teaches us a different way. He does nothing for show. Everything has an economy about it, which speaks of care and devotion, of calm and heart's peace, of having nothing to prove, unlike you and I. He makes no hasty moves and so comes to no hasty conclusions. He never overcommits himself and so can flow from one move to the next without effort. You, dear Tua, are hot-blooded in all you do. lie is cold. Whi!e I prefer your way to his, there is much we must learn from him before we can truly call ourselves warriors.'

His companion merely grunted, clearly unwilling to accept either the compliment or the judgment implied in the words. But from what Kurr saw, the Child of the Mist had plenty to think about.

A much different and darker set of thoughts occupied the old farmer's mind. He, too, had run some way up the path to give whatever help he could to the Bhrudwan, in itself surprising given that a few short months ago this man had tried to kill him and his friends. And this, really, was the

nub of his problem. He had just seen this implacable warrior do something otherwordly, something which must have required the dedication of a lifetime to perform. Yet he and his little band of village peasants had faced four of these monsters, of whom this man was the least, and defeated them. Watching the Bhrudwan kill a dozen bandits brought home to him how unlikely their own victory had been, and he mentioned his concern to the Haufuth as they readied the camel train to move on.

The village headman stood silent a moment, stroking his chin, before answering. 'Well, you benefited from some luck, I can see that. From what you've said, had all the Bhrudwans walked across that swingbridge with their captives, you would never have executed your ambush, no matter how clever it was.'

Phemanderac spoke up from behind them: he had just finished applying a damp cloth to the swelling on Belladonna's temple. The injury, incurred in the Deep Desert, seemed for some time to have given her a deathly hurt, but had recently healed somewhat. The swelling was still evident, however, and the magician's daughter still had trouble keeping down solid food.

'According to Mablas of Dhauria, who made a study of these things, the Lords of Fear are not only great warriors, but are also masters of the Realm of Fire, and can use illusion, the Wordweave and dark magic to achieve their ends. When Leith first told me of your Company, and how you had overcome four Lords of Fear, 1 assumed he was being modest about his own abilities, and you were the greatest of your people, life-trained and hand-picked to oppose the Destroyer's servants. But then I saw it was not so, and it became evident you had not overcome the Lords of Fear by strength or by