Mitrian quietly repacked the basket, but her eyes betrayed excitement. Her obsession with action never seemed to dull.
“Want me to walk you back?”
“No,” Mitrian said. “I want to sit here for a while. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Right.” Rache rose and headed back toward Santagithi’s estate. His discussion with Mitrian, though brief, had displaced thoughts of work for a time, but now all the day’s burdens rushed back. Due to three impromptu spars initiated by guards, Rache had fallen behind in his duties and would have skipped eating if he had not already promised Mitrian. Even so, Garn’s challenge had whittled away at one end of Rache’s lunchtime, and Jakot’s lesson had forced him to cut the meal short.
At the edge of the forest, Rache shaded his eyes from the sun’s glare, hurrying in the direction of the guardhouse. He had scarcely reached the familiar portal when a darkly bearded guard accosted him. “Hey Rach!”
Rache chuckled at the laziness of a culture that insisted on shortening even his simple, two syllable name.
“How about a match before you get back to work?”
Rache stemmed the tide of oaths that burned on his tongue. Usually, he enjoyed his job, and he did not want his temper to discourage the guard. “I promised to spar Jakot after lunch. Since he’s not here yet, I suppose I can take you first.”
The two men found an open space and began their contest. Rache bested his opponent with every stroke. After he had twice sent his bearded companion to his knees, the swordmaster called a halt to the match. “You place too much weight on your leading foot,” Rache explained as he sheathed his sword. “You commit yourself to each lunge and leave too little time to prepare for the next.”
“Thank you,” the guard muttered glumly as he trotted toward the guardhouse.
Rache turned to face Jakot.
* * *
That evening, Rache staggered against the door to the quarters he shared with Nantel. After Garn’s sledgehammer blows and an afternoon spent sparring with students, Rache could scarcely lift his hands to the door’s handle. The wooden panel yielded, more to his will than to strength, to expose the brightly lit room. Nantel roasted a piece of salt pork on an iron spit in the fireplace. Beyond him, the bedroom beckoned, a keg of ale outside it, but Rache collapsed into one of the two chairs at the table. Shoving aside plates and mugs, he buried his face in his arms.
“Rache, my friend,” Nantel called cheerily. “What a beautiful day. I hope tomorrow’s just like it.”
With effort, Rache raised his head. Nantel’s gaiety irked him. “I hope the end of your tongue catches on the spit with the pork, you swine.”
Nantel turned. “I hope I’m wrong,” he said, too innocently. “But it sounds like you had a bad day.”
Rache replaced his face on his arm, too dazed to realize Nantel was baiting him. “The worst. And it’s not over yet.” He groaned. “I hate guard duty.”
“Aah,” Nantel asserted in a singsong. “A chance to breathe the cool night air, enjoy the stars, and march the borders of this splendid town. One of the more pleasant duties of a soldier.”
“Fine.” Nantel’s levity compounded Rache’s misery. “You do it. So far this day I taught that dog, Garn, a lesson, trained six other gladiators, and sparred with fourteen fools who scarcely know which end of the sword to hold. Then I crawl home to listen to the ramblings of an idiot who can find no other pleasure than standing in the woods at night getting bitten by blackflies.” He leaned on his elbow and regarded Nantel from the corner of one eye. “I believe I deserve a drink.”
Seizing one of the two mugs at random, the guard captain rose and strode to the keg. He filled it and faced Nantel. “In all my years of teaching, I’ve never had so many men attack me with such vigor. If I’d inspired this enthusiasm when I first became captain, Santagithi would now rule the world.” He downed the drink in a single, hasty gulp.
“My friend.” Nantel stood. “That enthusiasm has touched even me. I’m sure you have enough energy to teach one you so inspire. We’ve got time for one more spar before we eat.”
Rache glared. “Forget it. You want a favor, go ask your brothers. I’m sure the asses in the stable have more energy than I do.”
Nantel ignored the insult. “One spar is a small price to pay for a chance to avoid the blackflies.”
Rache glanced up, some of his lost vitality returning in a rush. “If you take my place as sentry, I’ll spar with you.” He added quickly, “Once.”
“Agreed.” Nantel drew his sword and headed out through the door into the field before the guardhouse. Sunset touched yellow wildflowers amid weeds mulched by the feet of practicing guards. To the west, the rugged silhouettes of the Granite Hills rose distantly above the forest beyond the wall surrounding Santagithi’s citadel.
Rache followed more slowly. Irked by Nantel’s obvious ardor, he did not think to question why his companion chose this particular evening for a match. He yawned, anticipating a moment of talk before the contest, a chance to prepare. So the blinding ferocity of Nantel’s attack made Rache catch his breath. Nantel hacked for Rache’s side. Rache dodged, overtaxed muscles flashing complaint. The blunt edge of his sword slapped Nantel’s knuckles. The archer captain dropped his weapon.
“Done.” Rache turned, his arms aching.
Nantel cursed and retrieved his sword. “Not . . . done . . . yet, Rache!” He lunged for Rache’s back.
Rache spun. Again, the unsharpened side of his blade struck Nantel’s bruised hands. For the second time, Rache disarmed Nantel.
Nantel snatched up his weapon. “You won’t escape this easily.” He tensed, but as quickly as Nantel regained his sword, Rache chopped it from his grip. Nantel dove for his hilt.
“Enough! You win!” Rache hurled his sword at Nantel’s feet and swore violently. “We sparred three times. After tonight, you owe me two more nights with the blackflies.”
Nantel laughed. “A small price to pay,” he muttered to himself as Rache stalked sullenly inside their quarters and fell into his seat before the table. He leaned on his elbows, scowling, as Nantel merrily finished preparing the meal. In no mood to consider his own thoughts, Nantel’s mumblings and whistling interested Rache far less. He scarcely tasted the pork and ale Nantel served, though he downed prodigious quantities.
“Pass the salt please.” A friendly smile graced Nantel’s twisted features.
When Rache raised his arm, pain danced along it. He could feel every muscle fiber and followed every overused tendon to its source. “Go to the ocean, and sift your own damned salt.”
Nantel chuckled. He reached across the table and slid the small bowl of salt toward his plate. “Rache,” he said in the same congenial tone. “I’m afraid you’ll have to prepare the next few meals for yourself. I’ll be forced to eat with Santagithi and his family.”
“What are you babbling about, idiot?” demanded Rache, in too much discomfort to guard his tongue. “You’re barely fit to dine with Santagithi’s dogs.”
A grin decorated Nantel’s face. “True, but I earned a seat at his table. I defeated his ‘unbeatable’ captain.”
Understanding struck Rache with vivid clarity. “You what?” He leaped to his feet, jarring the wobbly table. Mugs toppled and rolled, splashing Nantel before hitting the floor with a tinny clang. “You . . .” The string of expletives that followed was harsh even to Nantel’s ears.
The archer laughed, though ale stained and dripped from his jerkin.
Rache thundered into the bedroom and out the opposite doorway. His head pounded with anger. As he tramped through the corridors, he saw nothing but his goal, the main chamber where he knew he would find Santagithi chastising his guards for last night’s card game. Ignoring the doors into the other quarters, he burst into the meeting room. “I want you to know about that spawn of a lizard turd you call captain of archers!”
Two dozen off-duty guards looked up from the array of chairs, chests and tables. Santagithi whirled, his v
oice unusually calm for a general addressed in this manner by a subordinate. “There is only one ‘spawn of a lizard turd’ among my guards. I presume you mean Nantel.”
Abashed silence erupted into laughter. Rache noticed his roommate had slipped into the room behind him and joined the mirth, and, if his arms were any less swollen, Rache would have throttled Nantel.
“He’s just mad because I won the week of good food,” boasted Nantel.
Rache quivered with rage. He jabbed an accusing finger at Santagithi. “What sort of reward did you offer these men to assault me?” Rache rarely allowed his emotions free rein, but this day had been a long string of outrages. “And just tell me. Did you offer it to the gladiators, too?”
Santagithi smiled tolerantly. He placed a heavy hand on Rache’s shoulder. “I only thought of it this morning. I hoped it would encourage the guards to practice if I offered a week at my table to the man who bested you. I was going to tell you before guard duty tonight.”
“Do you know how Nantel won that spar?” Fatigue began to replace Rache’s ire. “He let the others wear me down.” His broad gesture included every man in the room. “Then he just kept pestering me until I gave him the match so he’d leave me alone.”
Santagithi frowned and all amusement left his features. As his stormy eyes riveted upon Nantel, Rache reveled in his minor victory. He doubted Santagithi would punish Nantel, but he enjoyed watching the archer shift nervously from foot to foot.
“Is that true?” Santagithi addressed Nantel.
The archer swallowed and glanced about, seeking aid and not just sympathy in his companions’ eyes. “Well, sort of.”
Santagithi nodded. “Make it two weeks at my table, then. This town needs strategists as well as swordsmen.” He gave Nantel a hearty slap across the back.
Rache stared, rage fading beneath the wild chorus of guards’ laughter. Finally, realizing Nantel had won this time, Rache joined his companions’ merriment until another thought wiped the grin from his face and reawakened his exhaustion. He had promised to meet Mitrian on duty that night. Fate had chosen him as its victim again, and Rache would attend his detail. But Nantel still owed him three nights on watch. If Rache had a choice in it, he would schedule those nights consecutively and in the rain.
* * *
As the light through Mitrian’s window faded, bathing the room in blackness, she slipped from her bed, fully clothed in a worn, comfortable dress. She groped beneath the bed frame for the candle and striker she kept secreted there. The dull thud of a guard’s footsteps outside reassured her. He would be at the far end of his watch when she crept from the house.
The scattered glow from Mitrian’s candle scarcely pierced the darkness, but it would reveal objects in her path. If she stumbled and awakened her parents, she would lose the sword training more than three years of stealth had earned. She stuffed her feet into her sandals, opened her bedroom door, entered the corridor, and closed the door behind her. Padding silently through the halls, she passed the kitchen and dining chambers and paused before the brass door to Santagithi’s armory. There was little of interest on the route. A practical man, Santagithi shunned unnecessary finery.
Mitrian freed the keys from her pocket, all senses focused beyond the door. Once she had interrupted a practicing guard. She had managed to escape before he recognized her, and she suspected he had not given chase because he had no more right to enter the armory at night than she did. Mitrian inserted the key, turned it, and pushed. The door swung open.
The polished faces of a dozen ornamental shields reflected her candle, scattering weak highlights that widened her view. The stately assemblage of Santagithi’s armory contrasted with the simplicity of his furnishings. Mitrian strode unhesitatingly to the weapons and lifted a broadsword from its perch. Her elbow brushed a scimitar, a fine work of tempered steel with a grip encrusted with rubies. Longing filled her. When I get my own sword, it’ll look like this one. She had asked Rache to train her to wield it many times, but he insisted she learn the double-edged weapons first. Mitrian paused, grinning. But Rache’s not teaching me tonight. She returned the broadsword, but still she wavered. The scimitar belonged to one of the villagers. If she damaged it, she could not replace it. She stroked the sheath longingly, envisioning it as her own. There’ll be no target for my blade. I can’t hurt it. Convinced by her rationalization, she buckled the scimitar to her belt.
Exiting, Mitrian closed and locked the door behind her and walked the last short hallway to the outer door. Once through it, she extinguished the candle and pocketed it. The sliver of moon became her guide as she followed the border of the woods, watching the wall to the east and picturing the town beyond it unfurling beneath her father’s estate. So familiar, her mind drew the image clearly as a map. Neat rows of cottages stood like proud soldiers, the landscape graced by fluffy, silver sheep. During the daylight hours, the blacksmith’s hammer rang ceaselessly upon his anvil while his son, Listar, pumped the bellows.
Mitrian smiled as she padded south, past the slave training quarters and the individual cells of the gladiators. She knew Listar awaited her sixteenth birthday impatiently. In a few weeks, when she came of age, he would court her, nearly unopposed. Of the five boys who had been Mitrian’s closest friends, he alone remained. Garn had slaughtered Mukesh and was enslaved for the crime. Trapped too near the violence, Helvor had withdrawn into a quivering, teary adult more often drunk than sober, and the last boy had lost his life in a hunting accident.
Listar was a hard-working, amiable man, and his features were not unbecoming. His pale eyes complemented sand-colored curls. Though not fat, his softly-rounded body contrasted sharply with the thickness of arms trained to master the hammer. Mitrian enjoyed his company at times, but found him dull. Unlike Rache, Listar had no tales of war with which to amuse her. He had not traveled to distant lands like Nantel. And, although his sex gave him the privilege to join Santagithi’s occasional forays, Listar chose to remain safely in the village as if shunning the weapon training Mitrian had won only with luck and effort.
As Mitrian rounded the guardhouse, she turned from her path. Farther south, she recognized the huddled mass of the South Corner Arena, the stone wall that encircled it obscured by trees and brush. Near it, someone moved.
Mitrian melted into the shadows and waited for moonlight to reveal the other. Soon, Rache’s confident stride became unmistakable. His golden hair rivaled the moon. Mitrian’s memory completed the figure: hard blue eyes, a boyishly handsome face, and the lithe musculature of a warrior. She watched him appreciatively. Usually, he stood and moved casually, oblivious to the fact that he could have almost any woman in Santagithi’s town. But, with a sword in his hand, nature could not match his beauty or skill. He seemed to age more slowly than other men, too, as if the gods recognized his attractiveness and wanted to preserve it like some rare specimen. Still, the qualities that made Rache so desirable kept him unattainable. The love this master lavished upon his sword equaled that of most men for their families. The one time Mitrian had gathered the nerve to question Rache about his social life, he had muttered something indecipherable about never passing a brutal heritage and time, then quickly changed the subject.
Rache hesitated, as if he sensed Mitrian’s presence.
Mitrian stepped into view. Instantly, the captain slid his sword from its sheath and crouched, from habit rather than alarm. His gaze swept across her to rest on the curved scabbard at his hip. He scowled but did not verbalize his displeasure. “Let me know when you leave.” He handed her an unlit lantern.
“Thanks.” Mitrian accepted the lantern and slipped into the woods, veering around trees that shivered in the night wind. The rustle of their leaves and the song of crickets melded into a sweet duet. Mitrian found her path by rote. In a clearing just beyond the edge of the forest, Rache had taught her some of the finer points of swordsmanship.
Mitrian lit the lantern and placed it on a high rock. Its beam drew shadows of objects in the c
learing, but the pristine beauty of forest darkness went unnoticed as Mitrian began movements so delicate and precise they commanded all her attention. Her feet skimmed lightly over the grass and seemed barely to touch ground. The graceful glides of the scimitar in her hand blended with the forest setting as if Mitrian was some woodland creature performing a rite with origins beyond creation. Each technique followed naturally from the last. She never lost the rhythm of her dance.
Mitrian had just completed a right feint with a sudden upstroke when a double glare of crimson reflected from the brush. Eyes? But animal eyes glow amber not red. Mitrian froze in position, sword raised more from coincidence than threat. Her heart raced.
Suddenly, the eyes disappeared, without any accompanying noise of breaking branches or rustling leaves. The creature still lurked in the brush, invisible now that the lantern no longer illuminated its eyes.
Time dragged. Mitrian held her defensive pose, a duplicate of Rache’s earlier crouch. Her arms ached from remaining in an unnatural position too long. Sweat trickled down her forehead and into her eyes. Then came the momentary crackle of movement, and the beast departed as quietly as it had come.
Mitrian wiped her brow and lowered her sword, quivering from what she hoped was strain but knew was alarm. Those eyes had seemed hostile, dangerous. Nonsense. Mitrian dismissed fear no more reasonable than a child’s terror of darkness. A skunk probably. Or a fox. There’s no way to judge intent by the reflection of light from eyes. Despite her brave thoughts, the glaring crimson points seemed burned into her memory, making it impossible to concentrate on practice. She sheathed the scimitar and hastened home, pausing only to wave to Rache.
CHAPTER 3
Garn’s Revenge
Garn stood, glaring between the bars of his cage in the southern corner of Santagithi’s estate. Rust and pits in the steel dug into his shoulder, and his arms throbbed from overexertion. He clutched a walnut-sized, jeweled trinket he had stolen from sentry’s pocket. Alert as always, he knew without looking that the gladiator to his right curled in wary sleep while the one to his left hunched, still but awake, on the floor of his cell. For now, they did not concern him. He kept his gaze locked on the pair of guards headed toward him, still too distant to identify.
The Last of the Renshai Page 10