The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The rhythmical pounding of Nantel’s approaching mount shattered the reunion. Rache sat patiently as Nantel swept toward him, sword circling his head like some ghastly, silver halo. As the distance narrowed, Nantel aimed a high stroke for Rache’s head. Suddenly, Nantel’s face pinched in horror. Rache knew Nantel doubted he could still avoid the deadly strokes.

  Rache imagined Nantel cursing himself for his friend’s demise. Perhaps he even believed Rache’s challenge an attempted suicide. The sword master spurred his chestnut. Nantel’s blade fell on empty air. Rache swung. His riposte drove the heavy links of Nantel’s mail into his jerkin.

  The two men pulled their horses about, Rache pleased with himself, Nantel obviously unamused. Rache swelled with the new vitality that pulsed through him. It seemed odd that a piece of steel slightly longer than a man’s arm could so quickly restore life, though it took life with equal fervor.

  On the second pass, Nantel did not charge with the fevered bravado that caused the first blood shed by many a young warrior to be his own. The gap closed gradually. Each man kept his sword arm toward the other. Rache caught Nantel’s strokes on the blade or crosspiece of his sword, content to parry all the assaults and let Nantel collapse from exhaustion.

  After a time, Nantel disengaged, wheeled his horse, and galloped for Rache. When the horses met muzzle to muzzle, Nantel viciously kicked his mount and yanked its head to Rache’s unprotected side. Too late, Rache realized his mistake. Both horses lunged, and the flat of Nantel’s sword smacked the flank of Rache’s enraged chestnut.

  Rache cursed himself as he fought to control his steed. In a real battle, with his horse not as fresh or himself slightly less lucky, that blow could have killed him. The straps that held him in place limited his movement so he could not fight men on each side. He would have little chance in war, surrounded by enemies. Rache’s eyes went cold as he approached Nantel.

  In his anguish, Rache became a whirling blur of fury. No longer content to parry blows, he lunged avidly for Nantel’s head. The archer captain reeled. Rache changed his maneuver to a wicked slap that bruised Nantel’s knee. Pain and surprise threw Nantel off balance and bared his cinch. Rache’s next stroke hacked nearly through the fabric. His sword battered the horse’s flank, sending it surging with sufficient power to burst the few remaining strands securing Nantel’s seat. Nantel and saddle pinwheeled. The archer sprawled, gasping in the grass.

  Both horses galloped off; Rache left an aching Nantel on the ground. Surely, the archer captain expected laughter, but Rache’s rage left no place for mirth. His ride home seemed as one through the raw, red gullet of a demon. He remembered none of it, not the cobbled streets, not the ripe, yellow sun that burned away the clouds as if to taunt him, and not Emerald’s concerned face as she eased him from the saddle.

  Once inside his cottage, Rache pulled himself along the floor. He groped beneath the worn, wooden frame of his bed until his hands closed on a coarse box he knew nearly as well as its contents. Amongst a poniard, buckler, and gem-studded belt lay a tied bundle of oilcloth, nearly black with age. The cloth was part of a cloak he had worn as a boy. Its contents had made him a man. He untied the packet with trembling fingers and loosed the hilt, crosspiece, and a few shards from the sword Episte had bought for him. The blade had been broken when struck while its tip was still embedded in a dying foe. Rache wallowed in the irony of a sword and its master both broken by nonentities, one by a nameless thief, the other by a slave.

  Sun flooded the brown, lifeless room where Rache lay, draped across his bed, a swatch of oilcloth across his knees and a shattered piece of metal in his hand. Engrossed in his past, he did not notice when Emerald opened the door and quietly left him to the mercy of this other mistress who now shared his bed. He could not see the tears in her eyes.

  * * *

  A sturdy knock at Rache’s door ushered in nightfall as a cock’s call heralds the morning. Whether the crow beckons the coming day or mourns the ended night matters only to a man who hears and cares. Rache noticed nothing.

  Nantel’s hand upon Rache’s shoulder scarcely roused him from a world of fragmented hopes and dreams. When Rache spoke, his proud voice shriveled to an impotent shadow of its former self. “Nantel, don’t come to gloat over me. Though you bested me in combat today, I don’t want to hear you mock a foolish cripple.”

  “Rache?” Nantel hesitated in disbelief. “You left me sitting in a field and forced me to walk almost a league to get home. My friend, I didn’t win that little duel.” A twisted smile formed on Nantel’s face. “A pretty sight I must have seemed. A large dolt in chain sitting in the dirt, staring at the rump of a horse.” Nantel’s mouth framed a wry laugh, but Rache saw no humor in the scene.

  The two companions stared at one another; neither knew what to say or do. Rache fondled the hilt of his shattered sword.

  “Gods!” Nantel cursed. “Anyone can fall prey to bad luck. When I spurred my horse. . . .”

  The hilt in Rache’s fist struck the headboard. The blow sent pieces of his broken blade tumbling to the floor. Regathering his composure, Rache turned away from his friend to stare into the fireplace where the embers dwindled as swiftly as his hopes. He delivered his words more like a prayer than conversation. “Nantel, though your sword never touched me, you bested me today. You saw I could defend only one side of my horse and knew I couldn’t turn quickly enough to meet a blow from my left. Your attack vanquished me. In a battle, you would have felled my horse and left me trapped to kill however you wished.”

  The light guttered and sank. Rache watched Nantel struggle for words and suddenly recalled the time the archer had sought to question a haggard priest who was beseeching the Westlands’ faceless god of winter to allow spring to return. Then, the controlled power in the speaker’s words had struck Nantel dumb. Rache tried to match his tone with the memory. “While I still have the strength and courage, I must seek my death. Many enemies would like nothing more than to force one of my people to wander the frozen wastes of Hel.” Rache did not explain further. Nantel had lived with Rache long enough to know there was something strange and secretive about his past. “I have fought many battles within my soul today, and I have only one more left before I look upon the gates of Valhalla. Tomorrow, I leave for my last battle against the cowards of the North.” A tear formed in Rache’s eye as he tore his gaze from the dull, red coals and cast it upon the green gem that adorned the hilt of his broken sword.

  Slowly, the glow and heat of the embers faded before the growing fires in Nantel’s eyes. “You selfish bastard! Perhaps you deserve to wander Hel. At least you should remember you will not die alone.”

  “Surely, I will take many men with me,” started Rache. “But when has it become a sin to slay enemies on a battlefield and die in glory?”

  “The lives that damn you will be those of women and children . . .” Nantel paused.

  Thoughts raced through Rache’s mind, dim racial memories of the crimes of his forefathers, tales of slaughter that had lulled him to sleep as a baby and the grisly stories told to him by those who could not guess his heritage. He had given Nantel clues, the greatest one today, but not enough, he had thought, to know.

  This thought was redirected by the end of Nantel’s speech. “. . . and perhaps even mine. If you leave, may all of this town who die in the following raids and the coming Great War rest heavily upon your soul.”

  “You can’t place this burden on me!” screamed Rache. “No one man decides the fate of a city.” He choked on the words, his mind thick with the memory of a mother selling her spirit for her son’s life and a prophecy. A prophecy that will save the Westlands. A prophecy that damns its own hero as a prince of demons. A prophecy that bodes as much evil as good. Anger alone allowed Rache to complete his tirade. “For lying to me, may you be the one who walks the frozen ground of Hel, barefoot, for eternity!”

  Nantel’s voice gained the restrained power Rache’s lost. “Our strength doesn’t lie in numbers. You
know it lies in the skill of the few men we have, the skill you’ve placed there. If you leave, you might just as well take the guards with you. They’ll do us little good once they forget how to wield a sword.”

  Resolution ebbed from Rache. What little remained was born of hatred and vengeance, and even these became hollow thoughts. When Garn had struck Rache, he robbed the sword master of life. No longer could Rache smell the mingled sweat and blood nor see life with the crystal detail revealed to him in battle. But it was this town, Mitrian, Emerald, Nantel, and the others who cared for him that barred him from Valhalla. Although he had no wish for martyrdom, he made himself one vow: If it costs a prophecy, my mother’s spirit, and the last Renshai soul to teach a group of helpless fools to use swords, they’ll become damned good swordsmen. These things will not be cheaply bought.

  Rache watched Nantel shuffle past his iron-bound door and gaze into the heavens. If the archer captain sought guidance from the Faceless One, his expression told Rache that he received no answer.

  CHAPTER 5

  Storm Master of the East

  In Rache’s cottage, removed from the townsfolk and the certainty of their disapproving glares, Mitrian’s sword sang a dirge as it swept the air around her. Engaged in an unusually punishing practice, she felt sweat-matted hair sting her eyes and laughed at the thought that she could double for a fountain in the town square.

  Mitrian’s lapse drew bitter words from Rache, who lay on his bed watching her critically. “I don’t know where your mind went, girl, but if you give no more attention to your sword than this, your body might as well go with it.”

  Mitrian stared, confused. Her mistakes had never angered Rache before. Often he corrected, chided, even belittled her, but now the malice in his voice struck her speechless. In the past, Rache had never mentioned it when she surpassed his guards; his pleasure always shone in his eyes. Now, they held only the same pale fire that smoldered whenever he mentioned Garn.

  Rache explained. “When you place your weight on your right foot, you have to delay pulling your blade across in front of you. If you wait, your opponent will strike your blade and add momentum when you bring it across his thigh. Again, girl. Again.”

  Mitrian’s lithe body swayed opposite her sword, dancing to the same rhythm as the blade. For the course of the kata, her weariness abated and three years of Rache’s instruction merged flawlessly. She felt certain her performance would please Odin himself. She tore into the last sequence, then held her stance expectantly.

  Rache never gave praise freely. Occasionally, in spar, he would shout “fine” or “good,” and Mitrian would grow warm with pride. Now Mitrian waited, believing neither new nor arcane words could describe the fluid grace and power of her last series of movements.

  Rache simply stared through her vacantly. “We’re done for the day.”

  “Done?” Sweat trickled into Mitrian’s eyes. She lowered her sword. Though accustomed to Rache withholding compliments, she dared not believe her demonstration had left him unaffected. “Done?” she repeated. Done, indeed. This practice has lasted far too long; and, in Rache’s frame of mind, it should never have begun.

  “Yes, done,” Rache said. “You’ve had enough sword training for one day.”

  “Agreed.” Mitrian continued, determined to collect the reward she felt she had earned, if not in praise then in payment. “You may now teach me to shoot a bow.” She braced herself for an argument. They could hide sword practices from her father, but archery needed to be performed on an open range. It was dangerous, but Mitrian felt certain Santagithi would approve almost anything that drew Rache from his depression and his cottage. Of course, she could not use that particular explanation on Rache.

  “Your father,” Rache reminded predictably.

  “Does it matter?” Mitrian drew breath for a long, well-rehearsed justification.

  But, in his apathy, Rache seemed satisfied with the single question. “I suppose not.” He sighed, his voice a defeated monotone. “Find Nantel. I’ll meet you on the range.”

  Eager, yet disappointed by the ease of her victory, Mitrian returned Rache’s sword and sped from his cottage in search of the archers’ captain.

  * * *

  When Mitrian and Nantel rode toward the target range, they found Rache sitting on a weathered stump. Their horses did not disturb the human addition to the stump; the sword master seemed oblivious to everything, as soulless as the wood beneath him. His chestnut mare grazed nearby.

  Dismounting, Nantel unpacked two bows and quivers of arrows. Mitrian swung down, and the two released their mounts to grace with Rache’s. Nantel explained archery to Mitrian while Rache sat in silence. The archer demonstrated nocking point, draw length, release, aiming, and stance in detail. After the delicate Renshai strokes, archery sounded easy to Mitrian. Gradually, her initial excitement ebbed, and her mind wandered to the western world of Nantel’s other stories. It took a great deal of effort to focus on his continuous drone. She fixed her eyes on him attentively, though from their corners she watched Rache waiting motionlessly.

  “Here. You try.” Nantel offered Mitrian a longbow noticeably thinner than his own. Her enthusiasm returned as she seized the bow. She nocked an arrow, trying to remember Nantel’s instructions. Nantel passed the other bow and quiver to Rache.

  Rache accepted Nantel’s offering. He loosed silver shafts at the waist high stumps that served as targets.

  “No!” Nantel covered his eyes in exaggerated anguish. “Release the string smoothly, Mitrian. And leaning forward won’t help your shot.”

  Mitrian made many mistakes, as if the birds whose feathers fletched her shafts took control and landed them at random in the field. Yet failure only fueled her determination. She recalled the struggle for her abilities with a sword and was willing to repeat all her efforts for this new skill, if necessary. She had convinced Nantel to teach her only under the pretext of helping Rache, and, once her father found out, she might not get another lesson.

  Beside Mitrian, Rache scarcely moved. He never seemed to recognize whether his shafts struck home. His fine, white features appeared chiseled in ivory, and his arms motioned as mechanically as Mitrian’s water clock. Only his disordered, yellow hair and cold eyes reflected any life, and that as savage as his Northern blood.

  When the last arrow was spent, Mitrian and Nantel crossed the field to retrieve them. The girl roamed through the clearing, seeking fletches or a crest that would disclose a hidden arrow while Nantel plucked Rache’s shots from the stump. Mitrian consoled herself by recalling Rache’s stories of undefeatable swordsmen who shunned bows as cowards’ weapons. Still, Rache’s talent with weapons seemed boundless, and his arrows alighted with surprising accuracy. She decided that once she learned to find the target, she would surpass him. Every extra moment she found, she would spend practicing in the woodland clearing.

  As Nantel and Mitrian returned, quivers nearly full, the archer detailed Mitrian’s flaws. “Let the bow lie in your hand. You don’t have to crush it. And when you release, let the string slide from your fingers. Don’t pluck it like a harp. Also, when you draw, anchor your hand at the corner of your mouth. . . .” The rest went unheard. Mitrian wished Nantel was as easy to understand as Rache.

  After a few more flights, Mitrian no longer needed to scour the field for uncooperative lengths of feathered wood. Gradually, her arrows discovered their target. Nantel beamed, obviously crediting her improvement to his expert instruction. Though intrigued by her growing talent, Mitrian studied Rache’s melancholia with concern. She listened raptly as Nantel turned his attention from her and addressed the sword master.

  “Rache, have you found time to shoot? I thought you spent all your time honing our swordsmen.”

  Rache sat in silence. Mitrian thought he would not reply, but, at length, he spoke with hate-tinged anger. “Nantel, don’t babble. You know I haven’t drawn a bow since our last hunt.”

  Undaunted, Nantel continued. “Then explain to me how
you’re grouping your shots in an area the size of my palm. Rache, you have talent.”

  Mitrian set aside her arrows and tried to imagine the strange ideas taking form behind Rache’s blank mask. Momentarily, guarded hope flared in his eyes. “I haven’t shot for nearly a month. And I don’t have the use of my legs anymore. Nantel, you’re lying to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

  Unable to look at the longing in Rache’s face, Mitrian turned away. She guessed at his thoughts. Armed with a bow, he could join the forays as an archer. Apparently, he found a coward’s weapon better than none at all.

  Thoughtfully, Nantel ran a finger along the edge of his mustache. “Perhaps you shoot better now not in spite of your legs but because of them. I used to scold you for shifting your weight like a swordsman. Now you have to sit steady.”

  Mitrian nocked an arrow and loosed it at the stump. She could not possibly know the turn of Rache’s thoughts to the arrows that wrought carnage on his people before the foe came within range of the Renshai’s swords.

  Nantel spoke softly. “Rache, Santagithi mentioned a foray.”

  Rache stared at the ground, and Mitrian cursed Nantel’s insensitivity. In the past, Rache was the first to know of her father’s raids.

  Nantel sat on the stump beside Rache. He spoke so low, Mitrian strained to hear. “I have things to do here. Someone has to command the archers in battle. I would be honored if it was you, Rache.”

  Slowly, Rache raised his gaze to the bow in his grip. Mitrian thought she saw tears in his eyes.

  * * *

  Four days later, Santagithi rallied his people before the meeting tree. Though any of his citizens could attend these gatherings, few of the women bothered to take part in the governmental decisions of the town. Curiosity drew Mitrian to the large oak stump that served as her father’s dais.