Rache ignored them all, wanting to appear bold and in control though excitement quivered through him. No one stopped him from climbing the hill to the citadel. When he arrived at the top he found the gate standing open, a single, bored guard sitting in the grass of the entryway. The man rose as Rache approached, bulky with mail beneath a uniform of black and silver. A sword girded his waist, and a halberd rested against the stones of the wall. “What can I do for you, stranger?” He smiled as he spoke, his intonation unnaturally wavering and high-pitched, like a poorly imitated mockery of the singsong Northern speech. The guard used the common trading tongue of the West.
Rache tried to look defiant. “I have business with your king.”
The guard loosed a snorting laugh. He smiled condescendingly, turning the darkest eyes Rache had ever seen toward him. “You do, do you now? Hmmm.” He scratched at a brown beard. Rache had never seen hair that color, and he wondered if the man needed a bath. “That may be a problem, boy. We don’t have a king. Will our leader do?”
Rache nodded mutely. This was not going at all as he’d expected.
The guard hollered. “Halnor!”
“What do you want?” someone called back. As Rache watched, another man came into view, darker even then the first and dressed in a similar uniform.
“This young whip wants to see Santagithi. What do you think?”
Halnor stared at Rache. Then he, too, snorted, and both guards broke into laughter. “Today? Just after the birth of his first child? I think Santagithi would see the Eastern king. Bring the child in.”
Rache balled his hands into fists, unaccustomed to this type of treatment. No one had ever talked to him before as if he were an imbecile, and the guards’ levity enraged him. Still, they were doing as he asked, so it seemed foolish to quibble.
“Come on.” Halnor led Rache into a well-tended grassy courtyard. He headed away from the series of buildings to the north, and the direction confused Rache. He expected to find the leader tending business in his citadel, but Halnor trotted around a garden and toward a cluster of two dozen men seated and sprawled in circles on the grass. The reek of alcohol hovered around them, and their celebratory laughter sounded as sharp as the children’s playing had. Halnor threaded through the group as all eyes turned toward him. He stopped before a tall, well-muscled blond in the center of the group.
Rache stared. These men wore no uniforms but shirts and britches and breeks in a variety of colors; their features mixed races. Some, like the blond, had skin nearly as light as the Northmen while others looked as swarthy as Easterners. Hair colors ranged from black to sandy and, though the majority studied Rache with wood-colored eyes, more than one trained a pale gaze on the stranger. Most carried swords.
“Santagithi.” Halnor addressed the blond. “This child demands to see our king.”
Laughter broke out in the ranks. All other conversation ceased.
Santagithi smiled kindly, ignoring his followers’ mirth. He rose, extending a hand. “Hello, boy. What can I do for you?”
Rache scowled. “Man,” he corrected.
Again laughter ruffled through the ranks, and, again, Santagithi did not join it. “Very well. ‘Man’ you are until I know your name. I’m Santagithi.” He examined Rache through mild, gray eyes.
The guards snickered, nudging one another, but Santagithi’s frown silenced them. They grew appropriately serious.
Rache took an instant liking to this down to earth leader and an equally instant hatred to his off-duty guards. “My name is Rache. I’m a soldier. I’d put myself in your service if you will have me.” He fondled the hilt of his sword.
Laughter spread like fire in a dry field. Santagithi grinned but maintained his composure. He raised a hand to quiet the guards. “Let the man speak.”
The guards’ laughter angered Rache, and Santagithi’s easy-going manner inspired him to challenge. “I’ll take any man among you in spar.”
Now Santagithi did laugh. “I need spirited men, Rache. Do you have a home? A family?”
Rache shook his head, not explaining further.
“I’ll find you a home in town. When you come of age and Nantel has taught you to fight, perhaps you will make a soldier. In the meantime . . .”
Patronized by the one man who seemed worthy of his time, Rache shook with rage. He considered leaving, but anger forced his tongue. “This Nantel can teach me nothing new. Maybe I can give him lessons.”
One of the younger guards beside Santagithi, a homely man with curly, dark hair and a mustache, flushed scarlet. He leapt to his feet, lips splayed open in sudden outrage. “Sir, I’d like permission to give this child his first lesson.” Though respectful, his tone was razor-edged, and his hand kneaded his hilt as if to strangle it.
Santagithi frowned, considering all aspects of the challenge. His gaze turned from Nantel to Rache.
Eager to demonstrate his skills, Rache nodded his willingness. His first torke had told him the Renshai maneuvers combined and honed the highest techniques of warrior societies throughout the continent, and the Renshai’s emphasis on early training conveyed many advantages over outsiders. Though only ten years old, it never occurred to Rache that he might lose.
Santagithi looked back at Nantel. Then, apparently deeming a supervised spar more prudent than a lawless feud, he consented. “Very well.”
Nantel sprang toward Rache, impulsive as a child, while Rache waited with the patience of an elder.
Santagithi’s eyes narrowed in disapproval, and he finished carefully, obviously too familiar with Nantel’s temper. “See to it what you’re teaching is sword techniques.”
The guards passed whispered comments, and one laughed out loud. Several exchanged a bottle of wine, tipping it back in turns, while others watched the coming spar with bland curiosity. They had experienced too many contests to waste their off-duty revelry time watching a man train a child.
Nantel drew his sword. Though Rache started the movement later, his blade came free faster, but he did not press his advantage. Instead, he took a defensive posture, waiting for Nantel to make the first attack.
Nantel prodded a backhanded swing toward Rache’s chest with the gentle ease of a torke with a toddler. Rache could not recall anyone using a sword that slowly since he turned three. He blocked easily, noting as he did that Nantel had committed too far forward, and the tip of the sword sagged at the end of the strike. Surprised by Nantel’s sluggishness, Rache did not bother to return the attack. He wondered how much Santagithi’s celebration and free-flowing beer had affected Nantel’s reflexes.
Nantel swung again, and Rache blocked. On Nantel’s third attempt, Rache tired of the tedium. He caught Nantel’s blade with an outside block, snapped the sword away, and seized Nantel’s sword hand. As the sword spun harmlessly aside, Rache whipped his own blade back toward Nantel’s abdomen. Pulled, the cut caressed Nantel’s stomach without biting flesh.
Killing stroke. Rache smiled, not bothering to announce his obvious win. The guards snickered.
Nantel’s lips clenched to thin, white lines, and muscles bunched in his arms. Suddenly, he planted his palms squarely on Rache’s chest and shoved with a violence that sent Rache stumbling backward. “All right, you little worm!” He plunged at Rache, sword circling high in a feint, then whisking for Rache’s knees.
Rache back-stepped and blocked low, meeting the wild force of a blow that could not have been pulled. In his rage, Nantel was fighting for real.
“Nantel! Half speed.” Santagithi’s reprimand fell on deaf ears. Nantel’s sword became a savage blur, and Rache relied on the instincts hours of daily practice had given him.
Rache counterslashed high. Nantel parried with an outside circle that drove down Rache’s sword, then upper cut toward the Renshai’s face. Rache sprang back. Reversing the movement the instant his foot touched ground, he thrust toward Nantel’s knee. Nantel scarcely batted the attack aside, then returned with an overhead strike aimed for Rache’s skull.
/> Forsvarir. The name of the maneuver came to Rache’s mind as fast as he performed it. He blocked high, then spun toward Nantel, steel scraping steel with a high-pitched screech. Reversing his grip, he slapped the flat of his blade across Nantel’s knuckles. Nantel’s grip gave, and Rache snagged the haft of Nantel’s sword as it fell. A sword in each hand, Rache slid back into a defensive position.
Nantel clasped his injured hand, counting digits like a new father with an infant. Accustomed to Renshai spars, where disarmings were routine and it was considered discourteous to let a sparring companion’s sword hit the ground, Rache could not know the usual methods of disarming would have severed two or three of Nantel’s fingers.
Now every stare fixed on the combatants.
Nantel loosed a rabid howl of anger. His face darkened to purple. “Give me a weapon!”
“I would,” one guard answered from the mass, “but he’s already got two. Where’s he going to hold the third one?”
Mercifully, no one laughed.
“Nantel, calm down.” Santagithi used the composed, firm tone of a man accustomed to instant obedience.
Nantel quivered, hands balling and loosening at his sides.
Santagithi glared, and, for the first time, Rache realized the leader was not yet thirty, younger than many of his guards though a decade older than Nantel. “Nantel, sit.”
Nantel hesitated, and several of the guards tensed to rise as if to force their commander’s decree. Grudgingly, Nantel complied.
Santagithi turned his attention to the Renshai. “Rache, it’s not my policy to send chil—” He caught himself, “young men to war. But if your offer of service still stands, I’d be happy to give you a home among my guards.”
Rache beamed proudly.
Santagithi twisted toward the sulking Nantel. “Nantel, I want you to show Rache to his quarters.” The crowd seemed to hold its breath as one, but Santagithi continued, oblivious. “You can put him in your room or with Quantar. Your choice.”
Rache noticed he, too, had stopped breathing. He sucked air through his teeth, trying to understand Santagithi’s intentions. If nothing else, it would force the issue.
Nantel’s features faded to their natural, bronze hue. He considered aloud. “Let me understand this. You’re giving me permission to share my room with a brazen child who embarrassed me in front of the entire guard force?” Nantel’s annoyance emerged as sarcasm. “If I like, I can hand over half my quarters to a child who can’t be older than seven yet who just beat me in a spar, who could have beaten anyone else here even more easily?” He grimaced, staring down his peers in turn, daring anyone to challenge his assertion.
No one did, though whether from deference to Nantel’s skill, his rage, or Santagithi’s warning gesture, Rache could not tell.
Nantel rose, rambling as he fumed. “A child who stole the sword from my hands. A child arrogant enough to march up here and challenge the entire guard force. A child who knows more about sword fighting than anyone here. A child who . . .” Nantel broke off, suddenly aware of his own words. “. . . nothing,” he finished softly. He rose, and a smile graced his oddly set features. “Come on, Rache. Let’s go to our room.”
PART I
THE TOWN
OF SANTAGITHI
CHAPTER 1
Master of Immorality
Year: 11,240 (Year 13 of the Reign of Morhane Buiranesson)
The Southern Wizard, Carcophan, strode through the rough-hewn corridors of the castle in the Eastern royal city of Stalmize. Gray hair dappled with black streaked into a wild mane behind him, uncovering features pinched in an angry grimace. His green-yellow eyes glared with an intensity that sent the guards skittering from his path like crabs, their ruddy brown, lacquered leather armor completing the picture. No one challenged Carcophan, despite his obvious destination of the strategy room where their general-king plotted alone. The legends claimed that the gods had sanctioned Carcophan as the keeper and sower of all the world’s corruption; and, though he rarely acknowledged any mortal except King Siderin, it was generally believed the Wizard would joyfully kill anyone who bothered him, no matter how slight the offense.
In truth, Carcophan scarcely noticed the crisp, wary movements of Siderin’s sentries; as always, he was concerned with more important matters. In his two centuries as a Wizard, he had seen mortals rise and fall, replaced by new, equally frail generations. The Cardinal Wizards’ rite of passage assured that the lines became stronger, more knowledgeable, and thus more powerful over time. But humans simply died, replaced by equally incompetent humans who seemed determined to learn nothing from those who came before them.
The paired sentries before the strategy room door moved silently aside for Carcophan. Without a word or gesture to either of the men, the Wizard twisted the knob and entered, closing the door behind him.
A detailed map of the continent, its edges curled from use, was spread across a simple, wooden table in the center of the room. Light from an overhead lantern bathed the scratched and timeworn parchment. Two dozen chairs surrounded the table, but currently only one was occupied. King Siderin studied terrain he already knew by heart. Hair black as pitch hung over his face like a curtain. Tan and blue silks covered his leather britches and jerkin, tight across a heavily-muscled chest. His broadsword rested on the table beside the map along with his helmet, a finely-crafted piece of battle gear that, when worn, hid all but Siderin’s flinty eyes. A row of steel tines ran in a line from the nose piece to the fur at its base. The general-king did not look up as Carcophan entered.
Positive that Siderin had heard his entrance, Carcophan frowned at his champion’s disrespect but chose to ignore it. “I have something to show you.”
Siderin made no reply, continuing to trace one of the marked lines on the map with his finger.
But the near-immortal, too, knew patience. Carcophan waited, unmoving, until Siderin raised his head.
The veil of hair fell away, revealing Siderin’s craggy, aristocratic features and irises so dark Carcophan could scarcely differentiate them from the pupils. “What is it, Wizard?”
Now Carcophan remained silent, a war of wills between two men accustomed to receiving total obedience and respect, one for decades, the other for centuries. The Southern Wizard crossed the room, hooked the chair next to Siderin’s with a sandaled foot, and sat. He paused to press wrinkles from his forest green robes.
By the time Carcophan finished settling, Siderin had returned his attention to the map.
Annoyance fluttered through Carcophan, and he reminded himself he had chosen Siderin as his champion not only because of his skill with weapons, but for his leadership, guile, and adherence to the tenets Carcophan upheld. He had not planned on Siderin’s arrogance and ungodly patience, but he had tolerated increasing amounts of both for twenty years. This close to the start of the Great War, he could not afford to waste another several decades finding and training another hero.
The Southern Wizards preceding Carcophan had used subtlety and tact as their weapons, gradually insinuating evil, pestilence, and corruption into the followers of the other Wizards. Often, the only difference between good and evil was intent. Since the four Wizards had no way to penetrate the thoughts of mortals, it was easy for the Northern Sorceress to become complacent, to believe that her supposedly humane followers, the Northmen, killed for glory and honor, stole only from need, and that her kings loved and cared for their followers and slaves as they believed best. But Carcophan felt certain many Northmen knew the brutal joy of slaughter for its own sake and theft simply out of greed. Though personally appealing, Carcophan could find nothing virtuous about gladiators forced to kill and die for the pleasure of nobles. Still, Carcophan was not careless enough to believe the guardian of morality had made no gains against his own followers; even King Siderin was not wholly wicked. As the Keeper had decreed, the time had nearly come for a bolder attack than Carcophan’s more discreet forebears had dared, the Great War prophesied by the first So
uthern Wizard, a wholesale massacre that would subjugate the world to Carcophan’s champion.
“Look at this.” Carcophan did not wait for Siderin’s attention. With an effortless gesture, he cast his magics onto one of the unadorned walls of the strategy room. A picture snapped into vivid focus. Two young men faced off in a cramped room. The one to the left of the picture was slim, of average height, but with a swordsman’s definition of sinew. He sported a short disarray of blond hair and held a sword lightly in his right fist. Though the other stood slightly shorter, he weighed easily half again as much, his frame thick with hard-packed muscle. He wore only a loincloth, his exposed chest and abdomen smeared with sweat and dirt. His dark hair hung in a lengthy snarl. He studied the blond through green eyes blazing with hatred, but the weapon in his scarred, abraded hand was a blunt-edged practice sword.
Chains lay piled in a corner behind the blond. On the opposite side of the room, before the only door, another man kept a loaded crossbow leveled at the grimy man’s back.
Given the scarcity of Wizards and the constraints Odin’s Law placed upon them, Carcophan’s spell would have shocked most mortals. But Siderin had become too familiar with sorcery to react with surprise or awe. He did, however, look up. “What’s this? A pair of adolescents in an unfair fight? Of what possible interest could this be to me, Wizard?”
“Adolescents?” Carcophan stared at the image he had conjured, recognizing the danger Siderin could not know. “I suppose you might consider the gladiator an adolescent.” He indicated the filthy man with the practice sword. “The other one, the weapon master training him.” He waved vaguely toward the blond. “That’s Rache. He’s twenty-six.”
Siderin frowned but did not voice his disbelief.
The Last of the Renshai Page 7