The silence grew unreasonably long, even for a meeting of near-immortals. Davrin did not strum, though his lips moved as he composed a song. Haim stood with his head bowed, waiting for his master to speak. Even Carcophan sat in stony quiet.
At length, Tokar broke the hush. “You have finished the Seven Tasks of Wizardry.”
Shadimar frowned, even his vast patience tried. It seemed nonsensical for the Western Wizard to wait so long to voice a self-evident statement.
“I have,” Haim replied as formally.
“And the eighth task?” Tokar continued.
Now all of the Wizards shifted forward to hear the answer, the rustle of robes and cloaks disrupting the stillness.
“There is no eighth task.” Haim parroted the instructions given to him just before the Cardinal Wizards’ magic had sent him to face his destiny.
Tokar questioned further. “But one was offered to you?”
“Yes.” Haim looked at the Wizards uneasily, specifically avoiding Carcophan’s piercing, cat-like stare. “The Keeper of the eighth task offered me a chance at ultimate power, even over the gods. As you advised, I refused it. There is no eighth task.”
Though often quoted among the Cardinal Wizards, the final statement was not wholly true, at least in Shadimar’s experience. The decision to refuse or accept the task itself seemed a test of judgment. In the millennia since Odin had created the Tasks of Wizardry, no survivor of the tasks had ever chosen to attempt the eighth one. Shadimar had no way of knowing for certain, but it followed that some of the potential Wizards had tried the task. And it followed equally as naturally that every one who tried it had failed and died. Each Wizard held his or her own theory, but Shadimar believed that Odin had added the eighth task to protect the gods, the world, and the system of Wizardry. Surely, anyone interested in ultimate power could not be trusted to obey the many laws that hemmed in and restricted the Wizards, and he guessed that the simple act of accepting the eighth task meant failing it.
“Did the Keeper say anything more?” Tokar asked.
Every breath and movement became clearly audible as the silence waxed even deeper. Usually the Keeper did nothing more than offer the task. But when he did speak, his words were always of the greatest significance.
“He did,” Haim said. His gaze darted from rapt face to face. Apparently intimidated, he chose to focus on his master’s feet as he spoke. “He said that the age of change would begin during Shadimar’s reign.”
Trilless gasped. It was the first time Shadimar had seen the keeper of all goodness lose her composure. Davrin clutched his mandolin so tightly his fingers blanched on the frets. Even Carcophan looked pale and shaken.
An ancient prophecy flashed into Shadimar’s mind, words carved on a wall in the Crypts of Kor N’rual by the original Northern Wizard. Committed to writing, this first prophecy had survived the longest, known not only by the Wizards, but by the few adventurous Northmen who happened to explore the cliffs in the wilderness outside what had once been the tribal city of Renshi:
In the age of change
When Chaos shatters Odin’s ward
And the Cardinal Wizards forsake their vows
A Renshai shall come forward.
Hero of the Great War
He will hold legend and destiny in his hand
And wield them like a sword.
Too late shall he be known unto you:
The Golden Prince of Demons.
Not all about the prophecy seemed clear, but one part left little doubt in any Wizard’s mind. The age of change referred to the Ragnarok, the apocalyptic war that would result in the virtual destruction of all life, including the gods. Shadimar shivered. Certainly, against this threat, even Trilless and Carcophan would band together. And Shadimar reminded himself a hundred times in the next second that prophecies did not just occur by destiny; it was the Wizards’ job to see them fulfilled.
Only Tokar seemed unaffected by Haim’s pronouncement. “The Keeper said the age of change, or an age of change?”
Haim shifted from foot to foot, looking like an errant child caught daydreaming during an important lesson. “Master, I’m almost certain he said the age of change. He said that Carcophan would incite the Great War.”
Forgetting his manners, Shadimar interrupted. “The Keeper mentioned Carcophan by name? And myself?”
Haim glanced at Shadimar. “Yes, lord.”
“And us?” Tokar regained control of the proceedings with a warning glare at Shadimar. “Did he say whether you or I would carry out the Western Wizard’s portion of the prophecies?”
Haim whipped his attention back to Tokar. “No, master. He did not mention either of us. Nor the Lady Trilless either.” He inclined his head to indicate the Sorceress. “In fact, he said nothing more.”
Shadimar grappled with the information. Each Wizard knew his role in the Great War, though some in more detail than others. Parts of the prophecies had been lost; at least one premature death of a Wizard had interrupted both the Eastern and Southern lines, taking with them all previous memories. By piecing together legends and Wizards’ writings, Shadimar knew that the Great War would pit evil against neutrality in the bloodiest battle the world had ever seen. Trilless’ people, the Northmen, would have little or no involvement. The stories conflicted as to who would triumph.
Long contemplation of the Great War always frightened Shadimar. As the Eastern Wizard, his loyalties lay with the Westlands. Should evil win, nothing would stand between good and evil, and the wars would rage for eternity, or until one or the other triumphed. Yet if neutrality completely defeated evil, there would remain no force to equalize Trilless’ good. The weakest of the Wizards cleared his throat. Should such a thing happen, goodness would lose all meaning, and he could not discount the possibility that the loss of symmetry alone would plunge the world into the Ragnarok. “Colleagues, it’s certain that nothing positive can come of the Great War. If either side wins, it would disrupt the very balance we were created to uphold.”
Tokar nodded his support without a trace of the passion that had filled Shadimar’s words. Trilless said nothing. The matter did not involve her. A brief silence followed, shattered abruptly by Carcophan’s laughter. “Balance?” He laughed again, with malice. “My Wizard’s vows and duties say nothing of balance. But they do say that I must fulfill the prophecies set up for me by Southern Wizards down through eternity.” He rose, anticipation dancing in his yellow-green eyes. “There will be a Great War, a bloody rampage like nothing your weak mind could imagine. If you choose not to oppose me, I will be disappointed, but it will only make my job that much easier.” Piece spoken, he rose from his chair and stomped out the only exit from the Meeting Room.
Surprised and crushed by the unexpected hostility of Carcophan’s opposition, Shadimar said nothing. He had misjudged completely, and he needed time to understand his mistake. It had all seemed so clear to him. Carcophan’s refusal is folly. Surely even the Southern Wizard can see the danger. If the Ragnarok annihilates the world, who will remain to espouse his beloved philosophies of evil?
Trilless rose. Though slender and graceful, she maintained an aura of great power. “It pains me to side with the Evil One, but he’s right this time. Though he supports the wrong cause, he is as honor bound to Odin as any of us.” She glanced toward the door, obviously reluctant to remain on neutral territory while her opposite wove his evil into mortals unopposed. But the captain of the ship that carried the Wizards to and from the Meeting Isle was one of her own minions. He would not return Carcophan to the world without her presence to balance his. “It’s our duty to the gods to fulfill whatever prophecies our predecessors created. To abandon that duty would mean forsaking our Wizards’ vows and would bring the very Ragnarok you intended to avoid.” Unwilling to wait any longer, she hurried after Carcophan.
Shadimar went utterly still. His neutral position surely gave him a clearer view of the consequences, and he could see nothing but disaster coming in the w
ake of the Great War.
Tokar rose, waving his apprentice to his side. “Shadimar, don’t let your fears for the masses make you lose sight of details. We are each honor bound to fulfill our own predecessors’ prophecies, but nowhere does it state that we can’t thwart one another. Carcophan can no more choose to suppress the War than you can let the high king’s heir die. Yet we can oppose the Evil One even as we execute our own roles.” He headed through the door, Haim following in his wake, then turned back to voice a final thought. “Odin constrained us so that our followers could remain free, heroes and victims of their own mistakes. We can only motivate; the mortals choose their routes and methods and create their own consequences.” He continued into the gloom, his last, soft statement nearly swallowed by position and distance. “I believe there may be more to this Golden Prince of Demons than any of us knows.”
The Ragnarok in my lifetime. Shadimar let his chin sink back into his palms. Davrin played a gentle song of comforting, passed along and perfected across hundreds of generations. Yet today the melody fell on deaf ears. We can only hope, Shadimar brooded, that my reign is infinite.
PROLOGUE
Year: 11,224 (Year 10 of the Reign of Valar Buiranesson)
Ten-year-old Rache Kallmirsson leapt and kicked and spun, his sword slicing arcs through the deepening dusk. Light flashed like a signal from the blade, as if it gathered the glow of the stars and crescent moon to scatter them from the silver of the steel or the gold of his close-cropped hair. An outsider might have been hard-pressed to differentiate whether Renshai-child or sword initiated each action, but to Rache every movement was his own, precise and directed. Called Gerlinr, the Renshai maneuver had a proper sequence of motion and balance; every deviation, no matter how slight, was a mistake that could spell the difference between life and death in combat. Each sweep, trip, or thrust was designed to cut down an enemy who had avoided the previous one, or to finish the opponent who had not blocked quickly enough.
Rache whipped the sword in a sidestroke, seeing nothing but the imagined form of an enemy before him, hearing only the crisp whistle of his blade through air. Like all Renshai, Rache was physically immature for his age, his blue eyes relatively wide, his head, body, and legs proportioned more like a seven-year-old than a boy who had reached double digits. Though honed and finely-balanced, his sword was small, lighter than the weapons the adults used, and the leather-wrapped hilt felt snug and proper in fists scarred from practice. Rache’s strokes lacked the power his adult musculature might someday lend them, but it did not matter. The Renshai maneuvers were designed for speed and agility, and Rache had both beyond his years.
Rache sprang into the last sequence, snapped through a wild parry of a fancied enemy attack, then performed the final stroke. He ended in a well-set stance, prepared to cover his mistakes or his enemies’ wiles, to defend or attack again. He held the position as if he had hardened to stone, reviewing each purposeful movement, every twitch. I’ve mastered Gerlinr. Self-esteem flooded through Rache, the innocent, shameless pride of a praised child. Tonight is the night I move to the next class. He sheathed his sword with reverence. The promotion would make him only the third of the ten children his age to advance to daylight training sessions. He knew a few younger ones had already surpassed him; one girl, scarcely five, had left her peers far behind. But the gods had granted her a rare natural dexterity and competence. Rache’s progress pleased him.
Gradually, Rache lowered his concentration to let the remainder of the world in. The familiar scenery of Devil’s Island filled his vision: swatches of evergreen woods interrupted by the cleared patches for cottages, cook fires, and sword lessons. Rache practiced too far inland to see the sheer cliffs enclosing the fjords or to hear the ceaseless crash of waves against shore, but he knew those things like the sight and sounds of his own parents. Across the Amirannak Sea, on the northern mainland, the other Northland tribes kept a wary truce with the exiled Renshai they hated.
Rache glanced at the moon through the thickening night, and its position in the sky drove all other thought from his mind. Modi’s wrath, I’m late! Fear gripped Rache and swelled to self-loathing. He had never arrived late for a sword practice before. He ran, swerving between the towering trunks, shed needles crunching beneath his feet as if in accusation. His lateness went far beyond careless folly, it demonstrated disrespect for his teacher, his torke. So many years, Rache had pushed himself, hoping someday to earn the chance to be trained by Colbey Calistinsson, the most skilled sword master of the Renshai and, therefore, the best in the world. Now that dream had become reality, and Rache had proven himself unworthy of the honor.
Colbey! Tears pooled in Rache’s eyes. The wind of his run splashed the liquid from his lids, and sweat trickled, salty, on his tongue. He sprinted toward discipline, and he was glad of it. It’s nothing more than I deserve. An adult thought in a child’s mind. For the Renshai, war training began in infancy, and it left no time for youthful play or fantasy. Rache was as much a man as a ten-year-old could be. And though he could not fathom the reason, he knew punishment would absolve his guilt.
Rache second-guessed Colbey’s inflicted penalty. Probably a one-on-one after practice. The thought made Rache smile. Colbey had never lost a battle or a spar, even by fate. A spar with the master served as a proper punishment for adults, especially those who had experienced combat and knew the importance of maintaining control at all times. Colbey’s easy victory made them feel helpless and wretched, reminding them of the Renshai’s second worst sin, disrespect for a torke, only one step below cowardice. But to Rache the idea seemed as much a treat as a penalty. He held Colbey in too high esteem to revile him as an enemy, even for the duration of the one-on-one. A spar would give Rache the opportunity to watch the beauty of Colbey’s perfect dance, the grace of a live, golden flame in flawless harmony with his sword.
Guilt and anticipation blinded Rache to a growing red glow from the southern corner of the town. Even the acrid odor of smoke passed unnoticed. He skidded from the edge of the forest between two aging pines and into the practice clearing. Blurred by wind, tears, and sweat, Rache’s gaze bypassed the massed group of flailing student swords, and he ran straight to the leader at the front, gathering breath for apology.
Rache slid to a winded stop. Damp grass mulched beneath his sandal, an agile sidestep all that spared him from a fall. He wiped moisture from his eyes and took a clear look at the torke. Instead of Colbey’s cruel, gray eyes beneath a fringe of white-tinged golden hair, Rache met a glance as soft and blue as his own. Though blond as all Renshai, this torke sported the long braids of the warrior Northmen. Rache knew her as one of the finest sword mistresses on Devil’s Island, but she was not Colbey. Rache stared, assailed by a mixture of confusion and unconcealed horror.
She stiffened, outrage etched into her features. “You’re late.”
Rache gaped. Her anger scorched him. He wanted to accord this torke all the honor she deserved, but she was not his torke. Colbey was beginning his sixth decade, ancient for Renshai, whose love of war rarely brought them through their thirties. Colbey’s sick; he’s dying. The worst possibility rushed to Rache’s mind, filled it, and could not be banished. He could conjure no worse fate. Renshai died in glorious battle, their souls taken in honor to Valhalla to serve as Odin’s Einherjar. Cowards died of illness and withered in Hel. Colbey is a hero. The consummate hero. Surely he would have stumbled from his deathbed and challenged one of us. We could have given him the death in battle he deserved. And should he win the spar even through fevered delirium, I, for one, would be proud to die on his sword.
“Rack-ee Kall-meers-son, defend yourself,” the torke demanded, distinctly enunciating every syllable of his name in her annoyance. The students paused in their practice, nudging one another and passing hissed comments. “You’re late, and I want to know why.”
Rache knotted his small, callused hands. He met the torke’s stare and tried to explain, but he managed only to gasp out his concern
. “Where’s Colbey?” He spoke softly, then louder, almost in accusation, “Where is Colbey?”
The torke’s cheeks went scarlet, and anger spread like a rash across her face. “Rache, you disgrace your namesake!”
It was the basest insult anyone could hurl at a Renshai. Rache, like most Renshai, was named for a hero who had died in valorous combat, one whose soul would watch over him from Valhalla. It was an honor that had become all the more sacred as peaceful times had prevented the younger Renshai from attaining patrons. Rache recoiled as if slapped, hurt beyond physical pain. He cried, not caring who saw. He tried to sputter out the torke’s deserved apology, but concern channeled his thoughts in a single direction. “Where’s Colbey? Please, just tell me, where’s Colbey?” He became aware of a distant sound, constant, muffled, and metallic. He attributed it to his own heart, though the rhythm seemed erratic.
The entire class had ceased its practice, apparently shocked by the exchange. The torke’s fist blanched around the hilt of her sheathed sword. “Colbey’s old enough to take care of himself. As for you, little man, you’ve delayed this lesson long enough. I believe—”
“Fire!” The cry cut over the torke’s tirade.
Rache sifted the speaker from among his classmates. The child stood with a finger jabbed toward the south, and every student turned in the indicated direction. Rache could see a small but angry collage of red, black, and orange flaring from a few thatched rooftops. Wisps of smoke swirled in the spring breeze, lost in the darkness but coloring the moon a sickly gray. The noises Rache had attributed to his heart resolved into the bell of swordplay.
The Last of the Renshai Page 2