The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The Easterner grinned, displaying a serrated row of crooked, yellow teeth. “I like the bawdy part. And I like where the guy’s tongue gets sliced out.” He made an abrupt cutting motion, then laughed. “I’m Trinthka.”

  “Mar Lon.” The bard smiled, amused by the man’s honest simplicity.

  The Easterner flicked his gaze across Mar Lon, as if truly noticing him for the first time. His grin wilted. “Marlon?” He slurred the syllables together. “What kind of weird name’s that?”

  “An old family name.” Mar Lon took a careful swallow, aware he had addressed the shallow specifics but not the true intentions behind the man’s question. The bard’s dark hair and eyes fit well with the locals, but his fairer skin betrayed his Western heritage. Now that he had spoken in other than song, he guessed his accent also became clear. “My family’s not really from anywhere. That’s why they call us wandering minstrels.” It was not quite true. Upon his father’s death, Mar Lon would find a permanent position as the Béarnian king’s personal guard, but he saw no reason to cultivate hostility from a man so close to giving him an inside glimpse of Eastern motivations.

  The Easterner made a noncommittal noise.

  Mar Lon waited. Westerners had never been welcome in the Eastlands, and it was within the law for Easterners to kill strangers with little or no provocation. In the last fifty years, as the time for war approached, the Easterners had placed guards at the only pass through the Great Frenum Mountains. Anyone who traveled from the West to the East required special permission. If denied, he was executed on the spot. Mar Lon had gotten his authorization directly from Carcophan.

  The serving girl wove through the crowd. She handed the Easterner a drink, then disappeared back into the tavern’s depths.

  Her interruption dispelled the tension. Apparently concluding that Mar Lon’s overt presence in a public tavern made him a safe confidant, the Easterner remained beside him. “You also a soldier, minstrel?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.” The Easterner took a hearty swig of his beer. “My brothers and I pulled sticks to see who got to train in Stalmize and who had to stay and tend the crops.” A frown scored his thick features. “I lost.”

  Mar Lon nodded, presuming from the Easterner’s choice of words that “lost” meant staying home. The attitude surprised the bard. In the North, men clamored to become soldiers, both to spare their brothers and to die in glorious combat. The latter meant that their souls went to Valhalla to serve the gods and help defend them from enemies during the Ragnarok. But the Easterners had no apocalyptic legends, and their god had a superiority and omnipotence that did not require them to serve him after death. “You would prefer to go to war?”

  “Of course.” The Easterner drained his mug while Mar Lon’s was still half-full. He scowled, studying the dregs as if disbelieving that nothing remained. He made a brisk gesture at the serving girl. “At least to get called up for training. If we don’t go to war, I’d still get paid, and I’d get respected for doing nothing. If we do go to war, I’d get to butcher infidels.” He glared at Mar Lon with a cold-blooded gleam in his brown eyes, as if to challenge the bard to dispute. “We are Sheriva’s Elite, yet the infidels have all the land’s rewards.” He waved vaguely Westward, either ignorant of or blithely dismissing the fact that the East once had soil as fertile as the Westlands before overtilling, constant planting of the most valuable crops without rotation, and indolence had ruined it. They had lost their forests by burning them to provide land for their cities or to clear the ground for mining of the abundant gems and minerals beneath the earth. “Sheriva promised us that a day would come when his people owned the world, and the infidel inferiors became our chattel. I will be a part of that. I want to hear them beg for mercy, then deliver them, piece by bloody piece, to Sheriva’s hell. I want to feel their wenches struggle helplessly beneath me and know the agony of their screams. I want my share of gold and land and slaves.”

  Though familiar with Carcophan and his tenets, Mar Lon could not suppress a shiver of horror and disgust. “But your people will die, too. Your cousins, your brothers, perhaps yourself.”

  “Ah!” the Easterner’s eyes fairly danced with triumph. “But then I would die in Sheriva’s cause, following his Chosen general, and the god will reward me with wealth and slaves and women in the afterlife.”

  Mar Lon nodded, intrigued that he appeared to have found the essence of the Eastern culture so easily, though Carcophan’s motivations had always seemed obvious. Self-interest, maliciousness, greed. Yet the Easterners had learned to work in concert in a way even the Northmen, with their eternal border skirmishes, never completely had. Whatever their weaknesses, they have as much law-restricted order and honor as any culture. They are, in their own strange, evil way, as predictable as Trilless’ Northmen. It seemed odd to Mar Lon that his own people, the Westerners, had proven the most difficult for him to understand. Like his forefathers, Mar Lon believed that, unlike the Wizards, no man could be fully wicked or pure. But the impartial Westerners spanned a vast continuum of intentions and behavior.

  The Easterner lapsed into religious rhetoric, praising Sheriva and his Chosen general/king/disciple, Siderin. Familiar with the litany, Mar Lon let his thoughts wander. And the answer hit him so hard and suddenly, it took all his self-control to keep from shouting in triumph. Education and cooperation. If the Westerners could share their techniques for preserving the soil and the forests, if they could open trade—food for crafts and gems—if they could learn to understand and respect, if not believe, one another’s religions, then the Easterners would no longer need to attack.

  Youthful idealism held Mar Lon briefly spellbound, before reality intruded and his view widened to the larger picture. The system of the Cardinal Wizards, and thus of their followers, was never geared for collaboration. Truth struck him a staggering blow, and he dared to question a god-created process accepted by his ancestors for millennia. Indeed, the Wizards’ vows forced them to work in concert on certain matters, but only in those situations necessary to keep their system working. And though Mar Lon knew it was sacrilege, he could not help wondering if Odin’s choice of method for balancing forces had been a mistake. The great Powers in constant opposition. In the long run, it will lead to the Ragnarok and, thus, to the gods’ own predestined downfall.

  Mar Lon shoved the thought aside. Judging Odin. I’ve gone beyond blasphemy into madness. And the humility allowed another idea to come to the forefront. Eleven thousand years ago, when the AllFather banished the nether, we probably needed a strict, stiff system of law and balance. And it’s worked this far. Who am I to question? Yet, Mar Lon could not wholly keep his doubts in check. After all, if his father’s brooding ballads told the story, Mar Lon would be the last bard ever on a world shortly doomed to destruction.

  Mar Lon set aside his drink, balanced his lonriset, and strummed a sad, slow melody written by Davrin.

  * * *

  Rache awakened with a vague discomfort that had grown familiar in the two weeks since his injury. Resignedly, he sighed and steeled himself for his morning ritual. Careful not to disturb Emerald, he forced his legs painfully over the side of the bed. Each night, Emerald would leave two chairs at his bedside. With mounting anxiety, he wrapped a hand about the back of each.

  The sinews of Rache’s neck tightened, and his stomach drew into a tense knot. As he lifted his body from the bed, his arms trembled. He tried to focus his attention on his upper limbs and forget the persistent weakness of his legs. Hope had died days ago; habit alone motivated him to continue this empty charade. He lowered his feet to the floor. They buckled, quivering, and rage flared at reality too strong to deny. From the day Nantel’s hopeful glances became pitying stares and Santagithi presented Rache with a chair onto which he had affixed four, wooden wheels, Rache knew he would not walk again. He forced away anger, despair and memories of his past prowess and hurled himself violently into the wheeled seat.

  Emerald stirred, the ease of
her movement underscoring Rache’s limitations.

  “Good morning,” he said with none of the kindness the amenity implied.

  “Good morning.” Emerald rose and pushed the chairs from the bed routinely.

  Rache’s resolve grew as weak as his legs. Emerald’s greetings flowed past him, unheard. The discomforting sympathy of strangers, friends insisting they understood his frustrations, and condescending platitudes voiced in the streets had driven Rache nearly to deafness. Mechanically, he donned his tunic and sword belt while Emerald pushed past the table and built a fire in the hearth.

  The breeks lay like limp snakes in Rache’s fist. He studied his legs. All attempts to move them failed. The shriveling muscles occasionally twitched despite his efforts to hold them steady. Disgusted, he pulled the linen over his feet and remembered how Santagithi’s chair had changed him from a groveling lizard who dragged himself along the floor to a broken man forced to rely on others for his transport.

  A frenzied pounding on the door dispelled Rache’s bitter musings. Emerald turned, rose from the fire, and walked to the door. Throwing the bolt, she wrenched open the panel.

  Mitrian burst into the room. Her hair hung in an uncombed mane. Her eyes seemed wild as a frightened deer’s. She ran to Rache’s side and plucked desperately at his sleeve.

  Years of training hid Rache’s anxiety behind a mask of cold purpose. “What’s wrong?”

  Mitrian paced frantically. “My father! He needs your help.” A strange catch in her voice confused Rache; but when she clutched the back of his chair and rolled him out the door, he did not resist.

  “What happened?” asked Rache, wondering what could demand his attention over that of someone closer and more mobile. His heart raced.

  Unable or unwilling to answer, Mitrian pushed Rache through a patch of grass and wild flowers scarred by numerous passes of his chair. The chestnut mare Mitrian had ridden down from her father’s estate grazed placidly before the cabin. As the front set of wheels touched the road, Mitrian glanced up the weed-swarmed hill to the citadel and slumped across the back of Rache’s chair. “It’s no use.” She spoke despairingly. “I can’t push you all the way up there.”

  Sweat slicked Rache’s palms and tickled along his spine. He searched his mind for a solution but discovered only failure. Awash in desperation and self-pity, Rache fondled his sword hilt. Violence had usually dispelled his tension in the past, originating as it always had on the battlefield. Now Rache sat still and let disbelief overtake him.

  “I have an idea.” Mitrian pushed Rache’s chair to the side of her horse. “Climb on.”

  “What?” Rache’s mouth fell open.

  “On the horse.” She nudged him. “Get on! Please.”

  Rache paused, blaming panic for her ludicrous suggestion. “I can’t climb. And even if I could, I’d fall off.”

  “By the gods, Rache!” Mitrian pranced a hysterical half-circle around him. “Hurry! He’ll die!”

  Mitrian’s terror mobilized Rache. I have to try. He wrapped his left hand in the horse’s mane. His right groped across its neck, his face and chest pressed to the animal’s side. The odor of horse and fresh hay filled his nostrils. As he tensed his arms and pulled, the sweat of his exertions mingled with the thin oils of the animal’s coat. Gradually, with each new grip, Rache edged toward the saddle. The strength of his arms surprised him. His legs ached without reason. Wild with concern, Rache did not notice that the stirrups were tearing rents in his tunic and skin. Finally, his chest touched the seat of the saddle and, with great difficulty, he arranged his legs across it.

  Lightly, Mitrian vaulted up behind him.

  At Rache’s urging, the mare lurched into a trot. Rache slid, swore and tangled his fingers in its coarse mane. The rise and fall of the animal’s paces jolted him like a poorly-secured sack of flour. Maybe I need to get tied to the saddle like cargo. Angrily, he cast aside this self-deprecating digression for the more pressing matter of Santagithi’s health.

  The ride smoothed as it progressed, and Rache gained control with rein, voice, and the modest power remaining in his thighs. “What happened to your father?” he called over the clamor of shod hooves on cobble.

  “Rache, my father is fine. I lied so you’d try to ride. I knew you could, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  Rache hesitated, unable to recall Mitrian telling him anything. In the past few days, he had not heard much at all.

  “Rache, you’re riding!” Mitrian laughed exuberantly.

  I am riding! Rache’s spirit soared from contented realization to excitement. The world broke through the barriers his mind had built for protection. Like an old, forgotten friend, the sun smiled upon the clean stones of the road. A breeze tickled Rache’s nose with the herbal aromas of his neighbors’ morning teas. Mitrian became the most beautiful woman in the world, the horse the finest of its breed.

  Rache reveled in the potential of his discovery. On horseback, he could travel where he chose without need of someone to carry him or to direct his chair. His thoughts exploded like a flock of birds when a rock lands in their midst, then channeled in a single direction. From a horse, I can fight. Rache howled with delight. He slid off-balance, rolled from the horse, and crashed to the cobbles.

  Pain shot along Rache’s shoulder. He bit his tongue with enough force to draw blood. The horse shied, neck low, staring at Rache as if he had done something stupid beyond the animal’s comprehension. But the fall did not dispel Rache’s glee. He scrutinized deserted streets bordered by copses of goldenrod, sweet pea, and Queen Anne’s lace. Chips of quartz glimmered among the dull, gray cobbles, and a weed-swathed boulder lay on the roadside. Rache had passed the stone, without notice, on his infrequent jaunts into the town or on his way to a foray. Now it became the focus of his attention. Serpentlike, he wriggled toward it.

  Sharp stones abraded Rache’s abdomen. He ignored the pain and continued dragging himself toward the rock. He heard hoofbeats behind him as Mitrian followed on the horse. His hand clasped the jagged edge of the rock when he heard the thump of her dismount. Her fingers closed about his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Rache shook her loose impatiently and slowly pulled himself up the rock. “And thank you. I’ll finish the ride.”

  Mitrian beamed. “Let me help you.”

  Rache could not fathom the anger that rose in him at Mitrian’s suggestion. “No!” He turned on her. “I won’t have your help on the battlefield.” He heaved himself to the boulder’s peak and reached for the horse.

  “Battlefield?”

  Ignoring Mitrian, Rache found remounting easier than his initial attempt. He settled into the saddle. Earlier, he had compared himself to a flour sack needing to be tied to the saddle. Now, risen again to manhood, he could benefit from the same security as the sack. “Mitrian, lend me your sandal straps.”

  Though obviously taken aback by Rache’s suggestion, Mitrian removed her footwear without question and stood, barefoot, in the street. Removing the rawhide bindings, she gave them to Rache along with the horse’s reins.

  As Rache wove the leather around his legs and the saddle, insecurity and doubt descended on him. Perhaps the straps would not hold him, or he could not control his horse without his legs. Some forgotten detail might leave him vulnerable in battle. Rache knew, for his sanity, he must overcome his fears before his feet touched the earth again. And he knew a way.

  “Keep the horse.” Mitrian rested a hand on Rache’s calf. “Get acquainted.” Hesitantly, she stopped speaking, as if she wanted to continue but had decided otherwise.

  “Thank you again.” Rache slapped the mare into a trot along the cobbles and up the main path to Santagithi’s citadel.

  The guard at the gate waved Rache past, mouth gaping in surprise.

  Rache scarcely noticed. Engrossed in the rolling rhythm of the horse beneath him, he compared the motion to his memories. As he reined toward the archery range, he found the bumps of a trot painful and the smooth rock of
a canter reassuringly familiar.

  So welcome a short time ago, the sun now wrung sweat from Rache. His thoughts raced to the cycle of the mare’s hooves, and he leaned forward to whisper in its ear. “You’re my legs now, girl. Let’s see what you can do.”

  The horse raised its muzzle to the sky, whinnying at some sound Rache did not hear. He slapped it to a gallop. Soon, several figures at the archery range became distinguishable. The musty, loam smell of the stumps they used as targets signaled a new beginning to Rache. He reined his steed to a halt at Nantel’s side.

  The archer captain lowered his bow, his arrow shafts decorated with the familiar black and silver rings of Santagithi’s crest, catching the light. He examined the chestnut with a smile. “Very nice.”

  Rache said nothing.

  Nantel circled, as if studying the beast from all sides. “Very nice indeed, Rache. Good to see you. Do you want to shoot?” He offered his bow.

  Rache ignored Nantel’s question. His voice rang with regained power. “No. I came to call you out.”

  Nantel glared. “I won’t let any man ridicule you, Rache. Not even you.” He rested one end of his bow on the grass.

  Rache continued as if he had not heard. “Mounted. On the practice field. Unless you’re afraid a cripple might beat you in spar.” He wheeled his mount and reined it, at a canter, toward the field.

  Rache realized how much more than life or death rested on the outcome of this spar. The thought frightened him. If he could still best Nantel, Rache knew he would again lead Santagithi’s guards into the wars, raids, and forays that had for so long been his only pleasures. If he lost, he surrendered his soul to the half-dead goddess, Hel, and existed until his death as Emerald’s helpless toy. But, by the time Rache drew rein upon the small practice field near the South Corner Arena, his heart beat with the same calm cadence he felt prior to battle.

  The sky grew as doubtfully gray as Rache’s thoughts. He drew his sword, and the haft heated to his grip. The sword took his spirit along with his warmth. It seemed to gain a life of its own, given by its wielder. Deliberately, Rache began an intricate kata. As the sword danced about his steed, he thought of the link between himself and the steel as that between mother and child, although he was uncertain which was the child. It’s still there.