Rache bounded over a deadfall, dodged between closely spaced trunks and skidded around a moss-covered boulder. Hearing no sounds of pursuit, he squatted and thrust an end of the potato into his mouth. It singed his palate and tongue, and he tasted coal dust and dirt, but he continued eating. The white of the vegetable crunched, hard and grainy between his teeth, only partially cooked. But it was still the best thing he had eaten in days, and he bolted it. Even so, it scarcely grazed his hunger.
Rache lowered himself to the ground, sitting on layers of shed needles. He stared at his hands, the right with grime caked into the hollows of his sloughed calluses, the left still with horny buttons at the base of each finger but stinging where the potato had burned it. Scabs, abrasions and tears marred the back of his hands and knuckles. He rubbed his face, feeling the sharper cheekbones, his eyes sunken back, and the skin loose beneath his lids. It seemed as if he had touched a stranger’s features rather than his own. So this is what my mother’s soul has bought. Rache hung his head in shame and despair. The wind chilled over him, and rain began, pattering down across the blanketing umbrella of trees as if in mockery. His people, dead in war, killed in the wild blaze of glory they sought. And Rache, who might be the last of the great Renshai, sat wasting in the lands of his enemy, swordless, reduced to petty theft.
The rain intensified to a steady, reviling thrum, exposing Rache to his own ugliness. He had killed his first warrior in the battle; blooded, by Renshai law he was not a child but a man. A man. A Renshai! A spark of defiance rose, flared, and grew with the roar of the rain. I’ll go to the high king’s city and find out about my people. There, I’ll get a sword any way I can. From that time on, I won’t go hungry again. Rache sprang to his feet. Until then, I have to get food. If that means stealing from Northmen, so be it.
Rache headed back toward the trader’s campsite, first quickly, then more slowly as he spied the thread of smoke winding through the trees. Near the forest’s edge, Rache hunched behind a wall of dwarf pine, staring through a gap. The heavyset man now sat on a log before the fire, worrying at a drumstick. The moist air smelled thick and greasy, and each raindrop hissed onto the fire.
Too late. Sick with the aroma of food and the knowledge he would go hungry again tonight, Rache dropped back to his haunches. His movement shook the trunk, showering him with a spray from the branches. Rache sputtered, back-stepping. Then, he caught sight of a flat scrap of tin resting on a log a short distance from the fire. It held part of a breast and wing of the duck and a steaming potato. Rache froze. Another man? I didn’t see one.
Rache glanced toward the wagon. The horse continued grazing, its red-brown fur darkened with water. Rain pooled into a sag in the canvas roof. Rache neither heard nor saw any sign to suggest the trader traveled with a companion. Maybe he’s out in the woods. Concerned, Rache whirled, ears tuned for the rattle of brush beneath the rain. Hearing none, he grew bolder. Eyes fixed on the trader who seemed intent on his own supper, Rache crept toward the food.
Rache’s soaked and tattered clothing shifted and clung with every movement. He placed his toes carefully on the rain-slicked needles. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat. He was just reaching for the plate amid a rising sense of triumph when the trader glanced up.
Rache shrank back, tensed to run.
The trader did not move. He spoke softly. “The food is yours. I just want to talk.”
Rache fidgeted uncertainly. He glanced around to make certain the trader was not distracting him from some companion who was preparing to grab Rache from behind. Seeing no one, he looked back. The golden-brown skin of the duck enticed.
“Go ahead, boy,” the heavyset man said. “You must be hungry.”
Edging forward, Rache seized the wing. It felt warm and oily in his fist, slicked with rain. He took a bite, unable to recall a time when meat tasted so good.
The trader dropped a bone to his own plate, licking each finger. “Can you cook, boy?”
Rache shook his head, chewing furiously.
“Can you set a camp?”
This was more familiar to Rache. He nodded, taking another bite of the duck. Again, he peeked behind him and saw no one.
“Do you know how to tend a horse?” The trader gestured at the chestnut in the ditch.
Again, Rache nodded. Some of the Renshai war techniques were performed from horseback, and Devil’s Island had its share of horses. Rache had heard that those horseback combat maneuvers not invented by Colbey were perfected by him. Late one night, Rache had seen Colbey leaping from beast to beast, his sword a flying blur. One horse had pitched him to the dirt, the first and only time Rache had seen his torke fail at anything. Though he had had no reason to believe anyone watched, Colbey had slashed, rolled, and remounted without skipping a beat.
Unaware of Rache’s reverie, the trader continued. “Then I propose a deal. You take care of the camp and the horse. In return, I’ll let you ride along with me, give you a place to sleep out of the rain, and feed you as much as you can eat. Is it a deal?”
Rache gnawed the last scrap of meat from the bone, his stomach churning at the food with the same vigor as his mouth. The agreement seemed too good to be true, yet previous experience gave him no reason to mistrust. A small, close-knit tribe, the Renshai did not cheat one of their own, and Rache had had no exposure to mainland trade or diplomacy. Renshai combat training focused on individual skill, not wile or strategy. Still, Rache considered.
“Well?” the trader pressed. Apparently interpreting Rache’s hesitation as suspicion, he rose nonthreateningly, raising his hands to demonstrate he held no weapons. “I didn’t have to feed you. If you refuse to help me, I won’t do it again, I promise.”
Familiar with the sign language, Rache’s eyes naturally drifted to the stranger’s hip where no sword hung. He bit into the potato, irrationally afraid the trader might reclaim it. “Where are you headed?” The thin quaver of Rache’s voice surprised him. He had not spoken aloud since the battle.
The trader dumped the bones from his plate. His muddled gray-green gaze swung toward Rache, unreadable. “Nordmir. The king’s city. I’ve got some trading and selling to do there. I’m a tinsmith.” He made a stiff-fingered gesture of greeting. “Arvo Ranulfsson of the Gjar.”
Rache returned the salute. “Rache,” he said and immediately wished he had not. Like most of the Renshai names, “Rache” was nonspecific among the Northern tribes; but the Renshai’s custom of calling newborns after their own dead had limited their pool of names. He left off his sire’s name, probing his memory for a distant tribe unlikely to be closely tied or at war with the Gjar. “I’m Varlian.” Rache held his breath, waiting for Arvo to challenge his claim. But if the trader saw through Rache’s lie, he made no sign.
“Very well, Rache.” Arvo spoke in a mid-Northern accent, clipping the final syllable of Rache’s name so it sounded more like a breath than a sound. “I’ll take care of the plates, you hitch up the horse, and we’ll be on our way.”
Rache gulped down the last morsel of potato, feeling better and more energetic than he had in days. He had never harnessed a horse before, but the system of straps and poles proved easy enough to figure out. Within a few short moments, he had the horse tied in. Glancing up, he discovered Arvo on the driving seat, patting the bench beside him. Rache climbed up beside Arvo, the trader clucked, shaking the driving reins, and the horse started down the roadway.
At first, the strangeness of the territory kept Rache tensed and coiled, and every bounce of the cart’s wheels jangled his tightly drawn nerves. As the hours passed, the bump and jounce of the wagon grew familiar. The rhythmical chitter of the rain against the canvas lulled him. Arvo began talking of his travels the instant Rache swung into his seat, and the tinsmith scarcely seemed to stop for breath. As Rache relaxed, he listened. Though Arvo used words as mundane as the lands in which he traded, Rache’s ignorance of any place but Devil’s Island stimulated his imagination. His mind added the pageantry Arvo’s de
scriptions lacked.
For Rache, the hours went by in dry contentment. Protected from the rain, his belly full, he reveled in the damp odors of evergreen, canvas, and horse. Attention on Arvo’s ceaseless droning, Rache let the tragedy of the previous week slip from his mind, reminded of it only once. That evening, over a dinner of jerked lamb, Arvo talked about the son who had once performed the tasks for which he had hired Rache. “Scarcely thirteen, but as cocksure of his abilities as any child.” Arvo’s oddly colored eyes blurred with tears. “He chose to fight his first battle against Renshai and died on Devil’s Island.”
Rache stiffened, as much confused as horrified. He wanted more information, particularly about his people. But even at ten, Rache was dimly wise enough to know Arvo’s thoughts focused on his son, not his enemies. Crying for a hero killed in battle made no sense to Rache. “At least he died in glory.” He spoke the platitude from habit, shocked when it seemed to goad Arvo to further tears.
Arvo’s words rattled in his chest. “When they found his body, he was . . .” Arvo paused, his face lapsing into grieving wrinkles.
Rache waited, certain Arvo’s next word would explain his sorrow.
“. . . headless,” Arvo whispered.
Rache cringed, aware, as were all Northern warriors, that the loss of a major body part would bar the soul from Valhalla, no matter how heroic the death. Nearly a century and a half ago, the Renshai’s habit of dismembering the dead to shatter morale during border skirmishes had led to their exile and a hundred years of wandering without a country. Rache lowered his head, sharing the father’s anguish. Even the understanding that Arvo’s son had died, an enemy to the Renshai, could not stay Rache’s sadness. “I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it.
Arvo recovered quickly. They continued their journey until dusk touched the horizon, then Arvo pulled up the horse, jumped down, and signaled Rache to take care of the beast.
Rache clambered to the ground, raindrops falling coldly on his scalp. Shortly, he had the horse unhitched, hobbled, and cropping calmly at the roadside grass. He returned to the wagon and nearly collided with Arvo, who clutched a coil of thin rope. “What’s this?” Rache asked.
“I’ll let you sleep in the wagon where it’s dry.” Arvo’s voice emerged matter-of-factly, without a trace of apology or discomfort. “I need to tie your hands while I’m sleeping.”
Rache shied, tripping over the cart pole. He clutched at the wagon to catch his balance. “Tie me? Why?” This was a matter he’d never considered. The thought of allowing a near-stranger to bind him filled him with dread. Still, he liked Arvo. The tinsmith had given him much in exchange for very little, and Arvo’s casual manner made it seem like a routine request.
Arvo stood where he was, not pressing. “I’ve got valuables in the back. I can’t take a chance on those things disappearing while I’m sleeping.”
Insulted by Arvo’s mistrust, Rache defended himself. “I wouldn’t take anything.”
Arvo shook the rope, and the loops swung in shallow arcs. “You already stole from me once. I can’t afford to take the chance.”
Rache flattened against the wagon, not wanting to be tied but unable to come up with a suitable compromise. He enjoyed the company and needed the shelter and the food. The horse cart would carry him to the king’s city faster and more comfortably than walking, especially since Rache did not even know the route. Still, the thought of sleeping, bound and helpless, broke his flesh into a cold sweat.
Arvo met Rache’s stare, gently but unyieldingly. “If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done so already.”
Rache conceded. He moved toward Arvo, holding his hands out before him, hoping the gesture alone would convince Arvo.
But the tinsmith granted Rache no quarter. He wound the rope around Rache’s wrists tight enough that Rache could not separate his hands without the cord biting flesh. Unable to reach the knot with anything but his teeth, he followed Arvo docilely, and spent the night beneath the sheltering canvas amid stacks of tin bowls, plates, tankards, and figurines.
* * *
By the third night, the routine had grown familiar. During the day, Rache reveled in the breeze created by the progress of the cart. Birdsong followed them down the roadways, and a small flock trailed the wagon, picking grain seeds from the horse’s manure. Arvo continued his monotonous descriptions of the nearby towns. And at night, Rache learned to sleep with his hands bound.
On the fourth morning, Rache awoke to a sudden stripe of sunlight in his face. Arvo’s face poked through the gap between the flaps of canvas, looking harder and older than in the past. Rache sat up. Always before, the tinsmith had awakened him just before dawn. Now, sun rays slanted into the wagon, sparking silver glints along the piles of tin. Behind Arvo, Rache saw open sky rather than the towering columns of evergreen he recalled from the previous night. Apparently, the wagon had moved without his knowledge. “Wh-what?” he stammered. “Where?”
“We’re in Nordmir.” Arvo grasped the rope between Rache’s hands and helped him from the wagon.
Sunlight glared from rows of thatch-roofed dwellings, momentarily blinding him. To his right, a tall blur seemed to stretch to the sky. Rache blinked until his vision cleared and the structure became clear. Constructed of stone and mortar, it towered to four times his height, taller than any building he had ever seen or imagined. Vines curled and stretched along the surface, making it appear painted in splotches of green and brown. Though simple in shape and unadorned, its size alone robbed Rache of his breath.
“Come on.” Arvo nudged Rache toward the castle.
The touch broke Rache’s daze. He shuffled a step forward, noticing that the wagon stood parked just off a hard-packed roadway. Men and women passed, in couples and small groups, seeming to take no notice of the tinsmith and the child, despite the ropes still taut about Rache’s wrists. A pair of burly men dressed in long, mail shirts belted at the waists stood guard before the iron-embossed door of the palace. Each clutched a blade on a pole, a weapon unfamiliar to Rache. He stared at the sentries. They reminded him of the soldiers who had attacked Devil’s Island, and he felt deeply chilled. “How did we get here?”
Arvo gave Rache another shove toward the pathway to the castle door. “Come on.”
Rache staggered, then whirled. He raised his hands to remind the tinsmith of his promise. “You forgot to untie me.”
Arvo continued to ignore Rache’s comments. Catching the Renshai child by both shoulders, Arvo steered him toward the castle.
Suddenly frightened, Rache jerked back, resisting. Caught by surprise, Arvo lost his grip. Rache spun, making a desperate break for freedom. Arvo swore. He shot a foot between Rache’s legs, sprawling him. Unable to catch himself without his hands, Rache landed on his face. Pain smashed through his nose. Grit scratched furrows in his skin as he slid half under the wagon. Awkwardly, he twisted to rise. Then Arvo’s booted toe thumped into Rache’s side, driving air through his clenched teeth.
The attack made no sense to Rache. Howling, he thrashed his legs and whipped his bound hands in a childish frenzy, his combat training forgotten. Catching one flailing leg and avoiding the other, Arvo dragged Rache back into the road. “Stop it,” he screamed. He kicked Rache in the ribs, then planted a foot on the boy’s chest.
Rache gasped, forcing himself to think. Weaponless, hands tied, this was unlike any battle situation for which he had prepared. But the Renshai had constructed their maneuvers by combining the best techniques gleaned from a hundred years of wandering. Rache had never understood the philosophical aspects of Colbey’s training. Still, he called the torke’s words to mind: “Wars have been won by numbers, skill, guile, sheer audacity, and even simple luck. But never, never by panic. Panic instantly reveals your every weakness to your enemy. The secret of combat is to hide your weaknesses. Whenever possible, bide your time until your enemy’s impatience or stupidity causes him to reveal his own weaknesses, then use them against him.” Berating his loss of self-control,
Rache went still.
Face flushed with anger, Arvo caught the ropes and hoisted Rache to his feet. The cord chewed into Rache’s wrists. “Modi,” he whispered, spurred rather than cowed by the pain. His bruised ribs ached. He had trusted Arvo Ranulfsson. The betrayal hurt, fueling Rache’s hatred. Moments before, he would have risked his life for Arvo; now, the tinsmith had earned a place as Rache’s enemy, one step only beneath the high king in Nordmir, who had surely launched the surprise attack against the Renshai.
Arvo shook Rache, his grip tight and careful on the rope, his features twisted into a snarl. “Listen, Rache,” he said, his voice coarse, his words clipped. “I’ve seen too many waifs like you living as thieves and beggars, growing into the vile gutterscum that plagues honest merchants. Be grateful I’ve saved you from that fate.”
Sorrow, bitterness, and rage crushed down on Rache, but not a twinge of gratitude. Ideas spun through his mind. He wanted to protest, to force Arvo to feel guilty for what he had done. Instead, he bit his lip and said nothing, aware silent obedience would best hide his intentions until he found an opening to act. Patience, Rache reminded himself.
Arvo apparently accepted Rache’s quiet stillness as acquiescence; his cheeks paled to their normal ivory color and his voice turned friendly. “Not every boy has a chance to grow up in a king’s palace nor to serve his lord so closely.”
Hatred burned in Rache like fire. He clenched his jaw, concentrating on Arvo’s every movement, reading him for stereotyped or repeated motions, a tendency to shift one way more frequently than the other. So far he had determined only that Arvo favored his right hand. Like most Renshai, Rache was trained from birth to use both hands equally, at least when engaged in combat.
Arvo continued more slowly, fidgeting as his ire died, perhaps bothered by the intensity of Rache’s scrutiny. “Don’t do anything stupid. If the king likes you, your future’s enviable. If you whine and scream on his floor, like you did for me, he’d as soon have you killed. And if you embarrass me, my next kick won’t be so gentle.” He glared, awaiting an answer.
The Last of the Renshai Page 4