“He’s a guard in a Western village they call the Town of Santagithi, after its leader. Rache’s been among them almost sixteen years.” He paused, waiting to see if Siderin would recognize the significance of that number. When he received no reply, he continued. “He’s served as guard captain and weapon master the last eleven.”
Now Siderin pursed his lips, apparently intrigued.
“Watch him closely.” Carcophan indicated the wall where Rache demonstrated a stroke to the coiled and glaring gladiator. The Wizard added sound to the picture, a tinny thunk as the sharpened sword bumped the blunted one. The gladiator imitated the cut.
Siderin settled back in his chair, staring at Carcophan’s conjured window with flat, dark eyes, obedient to his own curiosity rather than the Wizard’s command.
“Head up, Garn!” Apparently oblivious to his audience, Rache caught the gladiator’s sword on the flat of his own. His glance darted across every sinew of Garn’s tensed body, and his scowl revealed his displeasure. “Head up.” He lunged.
A dexterous sweep of the gladiator’s sword redirected the blow.
“Good,” Rache said.
Garn returned a high sweep, and Rache caught it on his sword. The gladiator scuttled backward, but the tip of the sword master’s blade nicked his naked side.
“Too slow, Garn!” Rache reprimanded as he danced to the left.
The hollow sound of a knock rose over the swordplay.
Reflexively, Siderin glanced toward the strategy room door.
Not so used to magic as you think you are. Carcophan suppressed a smile, aware the noise had come from the door to Santagithi’s training room.
In Carcophan’s magical image, Rache used an agile downstroke to trap the gladiator’s sword with his own. “Relax.” He held his position without taking his gaze from Garn. “Who is it?”
A voice wafted through the door. “Mitrian’s here for you.” The tone turned musical as the unseen man teased. “Trying to score favors from the general’s daughter?”
Garn tensed. His eyes seemed to hollow, as if all rationality fled him, leaving only savage, driving rage and a glint Carcophan identified as envy. For a moment, he felt certain the gladiator would charge Rache, despite the sword master’s weapon and the crossbow at his back.
Rache’s gaze never left the gladiator. “I’ll be out shortly.” He inclined his head toward the guard with the crossbow, then masterfully yanked the practice sword from Garn’s hand. Tossing it aside, he gathered the chains and wound them around Garn’s wrists and ankles.
Menaced by the crossbow, Garn submitted docilely, but Carcophan read murder in the slave’s rigid crouch. Rache, too, seemed unfooled, aware that only the loaded crossbow shielded him from death.
Garn addressed Rache softly. “May your soul rot in Hel, wisule.” The insult referred to a foul-smelling, disease-carrying rodent, one of the few creatures that would abandon its offspring rather than face an enemy.
Rache hesitated, his surprise evident. He lashed a hand across the gladiator’s face, but the slap lacked the wild force of a strike performed in anger. Apparently, Rache merely intended to remind the gladiator of his station rather than to hurt him. “Watch your mouth. This morning you fought like an old woman who had never seen a sword. You’ll die quickly in the pit if your tongue doesn’t kill you first.”
“Die quickly?” Acid entered Garn’s tone. “Brave words from one who arms me with a stick and himself with a sword. And you dare call yourself a man? Give me an even fight, coward. I’ll kill you.”
The crossbowman edged closer, weapon trained steadily on Garn’s chest. Rache paused, as if in deep consideration.
Carcophan nodded sagely. Garn had trapped Rache neatly with his own bravado, the same bold audacity that had earned the weapon master his position as captain at the age of fifteen. The Wizard watched with amusement as Rache removed Garn’s shackles, returned the dull-edged weapon to the gladiator’s hands and, without a word, freed his own longsword.
Garn sprang. Rage tripled the strength of his blows. Rache countered the frenzied onslaught, his expression somber.
Carcophan could almost feel the thoughts spinning as Rache realized the consequences of a decision made out of pride instead of reason. Garn was the stronger of the two. A wild or lucky strike could kill Rache. And if Rache or the bowman killed Garn, it would infuriate Santagithi.
The gladiator rained blows upon his teacher. As Rache retreated, he wove a careful barrier of metal between them. The room rang with the clamor of steel smiting steel, Rache’s sword like an anvil beneath Garn’s hammering blows.
Rache’s back touched the wall, his sword a blur of defense before him. The crossbowman’s finger tightened on the trigger. With Rache cornered, Garn did not need a sharpened blade to pummel the life from him.
Rache’s sword flashed in offense only once; it licked across Garn’s neck.
The gladiator froze abruptly, eyes wide with awe. He clasped his hand to his throat, and blood trickled between his fingers.
Rache’s expression did not change, but a light of triumph flickered in his blue eyes. He smacked the weapon from Garn’s weakened grasp before the gladiator could recognize the superficiality of what Carcophan could see was simply a well-aimed scratch. “If I had given you a sharpened weapon, the fair fight you wanted, I would have had to kill you.” With a nod to the crossbowman, who appeared as shocked as Garn, Rache rechained the slave and left the room.
Carcophan dropped the image and turned his attention to the Eastern king. “What do you think?”
Slowly, Siderin rolled his gaze from the fading magic on the wall to his companion. “I think you wasted my time watching a single, recklessly arrogant soldier who won’t survive long enough to oppose me.”
Carcophan grimaced. He pressed. “Didn’t anything strike you as odd about Rache.”
Siderin shrugged, still patient as always, but not interested in Wizards’ games.
Carcophan summed his findings for his champion. “A Northman living in the West who looks younger than his age. A superior swordsman, even as a child.”
No reaction from Siderin.
Aggravated, Carcophan suggested the solution before fully revealing the problem. “You have to murder Rache. Before the Great War.”
Siderin whirled toward Carcophan. His fist crashed on the tabletop with a force that made his sword and helmet jump, a grim, dark statue come suddenly to life. Still, his swarthy features held no emotion. “I won’t expose myself before I’m ready. You’ve given me this thing to do, this war, and I’ve planned it for twenty years. I’ve waited and I’ve waited for the time to be just right for it. My time is coming. I’ll cause a wholesale slaughter such as this world has never seen. At my order, the continent will run crimson with blood.” He jabbed a finger at his own chest. “When I’m done, the Westlands will be enthralled to me. My people will no longer have to live in crowded, disease-riddled cities. They will be the masters, and I will be the master of all.” He made a broad gesture to indicate his kingdom. “You expect me to risk that because of your fears of one little speck of dust of a man you perceive as a threat? You want me to risk everything I’ve built for one soldier?”
“Yes.” Carcophan gathered breath to explain, but Siderin had not finished his piece.
“Do you understand the lengths I’ve gone to to keep the West ignorant? I blasphemed the gods! I created an idol-worshiping cult in the West composed of my spies and assassins, priests that I tracked down, bred, and trained. Wizard, I used only albinos so the Westerners wouldn’t recognize them as Easterners. Do you know how hard that was? If it weren’t for your stupid Wizards’ prophecies, the West wouldn’t even know I was planning the greatest massacre of all time. As it is, my delay has made them complacent. I won’t risk that advantage by making a move too early.”
“Yes,” Carcophan said. “I know all that. You’ve done well with the ideas I’ve given you.” Carcophan locked his gaze on Siderin as he delivered the end
-all piece of information. “But Rache is Renshai.”
“Renshai,” Siderin repeated, but his features gave away nothing. “Renshai?” His dark eyes narrowed to slits. “You told me all the Renshai were killed fifteen years ago.”
“Sixteen,” Carcophan corrected. “And so I believed.”
Siderin tried to control his emotions. But now his flared nostrils and the hand wandering unconsciously to the sword on the table betrayed his anger. “So you believed?” he mocked. “You believed, Wizard? You’re telling me the information you’ve conveyed as fact is ungrounded speculation? I’ve based an entire crusade on your flimsy guesses?”
Carcophan’s tone went flat as he suppressed his own rising anger. “Nothing is certain, Siderin. You’re a general. You know a tiny detail can destroy the best laid plans.”
“Sheriva damn you to the Pits, Wizard!” Siderin no longer attempted to hide his rage. “I convinced Morhane to usurp the Béarnian throne and destroy his brother’s line so he wouldn’t have to contend with Béarn’s armies and her allies. I planted the lies that drove the high king in Nordmir to destroy the Renshai. I’ve seen beyond everything you’ve ever dreamed. I’ve taken what you wanted me to do, not one step, but vistas farther than you ever could have planned. I relied on you to do one thing, to gather information, and you fail me like this?”
Carcophan raised his hand in threat but reined his anger before he slammed his champion with lethal spells. “To gather information? You make it sound like a simple spying mission. That kind of general knowledge doesn’t come from men. I consorted with demons, damn it. Demons!”
Siderin blinked, obviously unfamiliar with the term. “Demons?”
An image writhed in Carcophan’s mind, a creature composed of parts that did not seem to fit, as if some warped god had seamed it together from leftover pieces of creation. Each demon took a different form, and, at times, no form at all or a semi-solid conformation of no substance Carcophan could define. “Demons. Creatures from the world of magic. I had to call it and bind it just right.” Though no coward, the Southern Wizard shivered. The creatures of magic went beyond evil, representing a force unlike anything in the world of men, barely fathomable despite the tens of centuries of information and experience at Carcophan’s command. No matter their background, all the races of men had some code of honor they adhered to strictly. Even the decadent Easterners, who would slay a foreigner for the joy of it, would not murder one of their own without just cause. Each clan, tribe, or kingdom fell into its neat square in the order of the world. But the demons obeyed no laws, honored no vows, followed no codes. And many Wizards had paid to gather that small amount of knowledge.
Carcophan glanced at Siderin and realized the general-king was waiting for him to finish the description. “I had to phrase the question just right and force the demon to give the answer. Demons serve no master. They mislead and lie as much as the bindings allow. Then, I had to pay its price. In blood.” Carcophan did not expound. The demons claimed the lives of a Wizard’s followers as its fee, as if to touch the Wizard with cold, demon chaos, if only for the moment. If not completely controlled, the demon could also attack its summoner. And, though Carcophan would never admit the weakness to a mortal, demons were one of the few things that could injure, even kill, the Cardinal Wizards.
Siderin remained relentless. “So you misphrased your question.”
“Not necessarily,” Carcophan defended himself. “That particular demon was weak. It may not have known Rache lived. Whatever the case, now that the Great War is imminent, I was thorough enough to check again.” Unconsciously, his hand slid to his upper arm, kneading a healing scar from the demon’s claw strike, hidden beneath his sleeve. “And I know Rache is the only living, full-blooded Renshai. There’s a mixed tribe in the West, but Renshai law acknowledges only thoroughbred Renshai; and the Wizards’ complete version of the prophecy states that the hero of the Great War will be accepted as Renshai by his people. Rache has to be the one. You must kill him as soon as possible.”
Siderin sat in silence for a long time, his open eyes and the ceaseless movement of his forefinger across his lips the only evidence he was awake. At last, he spoke. “Rache will die in the war like all the others, if his own stupidity doesn’t kill him first.”
“No!” Frustration hardened Carcophan’s tone. “You don’t understand. Prophecies aren’t random. The Wizards’ strength and credibility lie in completing their predecessors’ oracular visions. It is the Western Wizard’s job to see that the prophecy is fulfilled and Rache survives to fulfill his destiny.”
“Necessary?” Siderin frowned. “Then it’s hopeless?”
“Not hopeless.” Carcophan gestured with hands tightened into claws by frustration. In the past, his talks with Siderin had concentrated on the war, and it seemed illogical and impossible to impart all the knowledge since the world began in one afternoon. “Wizards are fallible. They can be thwarted along with their prophecies. If you act, we can still win. If you don’t kill Rache, the Western Wizard will go unopposed, and you may lose the Great War. All the plans that you’ve made, all the plans that I’ve made, all the plans that the Southern Wizards before me have made for the last ten thousand years will come to nothing.”
Siderin shook his head. “If you’re so powerful, why don’t you kill this Renshai? Why should I risk myself?”
Carcophan traced the edge of Siderin’s sword, feeling its sharpness, though the blade could not cut him. “For the same reason the other Wizards can’t just kill you. To do so would put me in direct conflict with the Western Wizard. My vows don’t allow that. If we killed one another’s champions, nothing would ever get done.”
Siderin’s fist clenched around his sword hilt as if he feared the Wizard might try to take it from him. “I don’t believe you, Wizard. You’re creating monsters out of smoke. The Renshai is too rash to survive. I didn’t see any Wizard defending him from that gladiator. Can the Western Wizard raise the dead, then?”
“No,” Carcophan admitted, and Siderin’s words stirred doubt. It did seem odd that Tokar had taken no measures to protect Rache. Thinking back, Carcophan could not recall hearing of or from the Western Wizard since Haim had passed the Seven Tasks almost half a century ago. It was not unusual for a Wizard to disappear for years, particularly while training an apprentice. As the current oldest of the Four, Tokar must have reached his time of passing. Yet, it was customary for the new successor to make his advancement known.
Unless something happened during the ceremony. Now Carcophan sucked in his breath. If so, Siderin might take the West nearly unopposed. Most of the prophecies about the War were composed for Carcophan and Tokar to fulfill. Though Shadimar could take over the Western Wizard’s duties, it was a well-known fact that the Eastern Wizard was always the weakest of the Four. “You must kill Rache.”
Siderin’s grip blanched. “Must? I won’t be ordered.”
Carcophan closed his hand, equally tightly, across Siderin’s blade. “Don’t challenge me. You may believe you’re powerful, but you don’t know the meaning of power. Power lies in subtlety, not brute strength.”
“Not brute strength?” Siderin ripped his sword from Carcophan’s grasp with a suddenness that would have severed every finger if the weapon could have harmed the Wizard. “How many necks have you broken by subtlety, Wizard? I could crush you like a bug.”
“Go ahead. Try it.” Carcophan sneered. “Just keep in mind that once I destroy you, everything you’ve planned will come to naught, at least for you. I’ll just find some other body to fill your place, one who will do as I want.”
Siderin slammed the hilt of his sword down on the map with a sound like thunder. “You can’t treat me like this, Wizard. I’m not something that can be cast aside or ordered about. I. . . .” He pounded the table again for emphasis. “I, not you, I am going to control the world. I am the one who shaped destiny. You merely placed the seed of an idea in my mind. You can’t fathom the plans I’ve made. You can’
t possibly stretch your imagination to the boundaries of the world I’m going to create. A world that I’m going to create in my image.”
Confined by Odin’s Law, Carcophan did not dispute. Mortals were pawns, but the world belonged to these pawns. Siderin was his champion, the king on his chessboard, and Carcophan was too large, too distant to take a real position in the game. “Fine. Do as you wish. The constructs you make to please yourself don’t bother me at all. But you must kill this Renshai!”
Siderin screamed, “How dare you order me!”
“How dare I order you?” Siderin’s loss of self-control sparked Carcophan to surrender his as well. “I can order you to do anything. If I wanted you to grovel on this floor, you would. I made you everything you are. I built you block by evil block. When I found you, you were nothing. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be shoveling shit behind your father’s donkey cart!” He sprang to his feet, his mind made up. The time had come to destroy his champion, even if it meant another century of planning the Great War. “You speak of destiny, yet you have no destiny but what I gave you. You’re a crop that I planted, nurtured, and grew, and now you turn out to bear poison fruit!”
Siderin drew in a long breath, as if to shout, but all that emerged were great, shuddering peals of laughter.
Carcophan hesitated, some of his rage dispelled by Siderin’s mirth. “Fool, what are you laughing at?”
“Us,” Siderin managed before succumbing to another round of laughter.
“Us?” Curiosity sapped the last of Carcophan’s anger. “What do you mean ‘us?’”
“Don’t you see it, Wizard?” Siderin worked his sword into his sheath. “We’re the same, neither one willing to bow to the other. But because we are the same and I am going to trample the world beneath the feet of our army, I will give you this one life.” Siderin smiled, an open-mouthed grin that displayed every tooth. “I’ll organize my assassins and send them today. Within the month, Rache will be dead.”
The Last of the Renshai Page 8