By David Weber
Whom the gods could recruit, they first tick off . . .
Our Hero: The not going Paladin, Bahzell Bahnakson of the pony Stealer Hradani. He¿s no knight in shining armor. He¿s a hradani, a race identified for his or her uncontrollable rages, bloodthirsty traits, and lack of ability to keep up civilized behavior. not one of the different 5 Races of guy like the hradani. in addition to his ethnic burden, Bahzell has difficulties of his personal to accommodate: a violated hostage bond, a vengeful prince, a value on his head. He doesn¿t are looking to mess with anyone else¿s difficulties, not to mention a god¿s. not to mention the War God¿s! So how does he prove one thousand leagues from domestic, neck-deep in political intrigue, assassins, demons, psionicists, evil sorcery, white sorcery, darkish gods, good gods, undesirable poets, grasping landlords, and so much of Bortalik Bay? good, it¿s all of the struggle God¿s fault. . . .
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Extra info for Oath of Swords
His lord's rage ebbing, but slowly, trickling down like the rain. Blood leaked from a sword wound in Anomander's left shoul¬der. And there had been a look in his eyes . , Endest sighed as he worked his way up the street's slope, but it was an uneven, harsh sigh. Off to his left was the heaped rubble of the old palace. A few jagged walls rose here and there, and crews had carved paths into the mass of wreckage, salvaging stone and the occasional timber that had not burned. The deafening col¬lapse of that edifice still shivered in Endest's bones, and he slowed in his climb, one hand reaching Out to lean against a wall.
Facing the crystal window that ran the entire length of the Nightwater wall, his long silver-white hair faintly luminous in the muted, refracted light cast into the room by the faceted quartz. The sword Dragnipur was nowhere in sight. Three steps into the chamber and Spinnock halted. ' 'You won again, Lord. ' Spinnock smiled wryly. 'When all else seems lost. ' Perhaps Anomander Rake nodded at that, or his gaze, fixed somewhere out on the waves of Nightwater, shifted downward to something closer by.
Am I not the last one left to share with my lord that memory! The pressure slowly eased. And once again, he had survived the embrace. And the next time? There was no telling, but he did not believe he could last much longer. The pain clutching his chest, the thunder in his skull. We have found a new supply of cadaver eels. That is what I will tell him. And he will smile and nod, and perhaps settle one hand on my shoulder. A gentle, cautious squeeze, light enough to ensure that nothing breaks. He will speak his gratitude.