Santagithi faced a crowd of nearly two hundred men. Their dress and demeanor covered a broad spectrum. His guards, noticeably in the foreground, wore lacquered leather jerkins studded with black, iron rings, shields slung across their backs, and swords at their waists. Some of the off-duty guards also wore mail. Mitrian nodded in tacit understanding. My father’s men know him well.
The blacksmith and his son, Listar, stood in leather aprons black with sweat and grease. Merchants huddled in robes of silk and velvet over tunics of fur. Jeweled or tooled belts were fastened about their waists, and shoes of as fine a cloth as their robes covered their feet.
“Friends!” Santagithi shouted. “We have assembled . . .” His voice died beneath the clamor of the guards’ swords crashing against their shields. It seemed to Mitrian they must have practiced all morning to unsling their shields so fast.
Santagithi’s scowl, though false, silenced them. “My friends,” he began again. “Too long we have sat in our huts. The arm must be worked to stay strong. The one that rests becomes withered and soft. We have rested too long. In three days, we ride against Strinia, not for gold, although we will find it, but for a strong arm and a fierce heart.”
Again, clamor arose from the guards. The merchants shifted uneasily from silk-covered foot to silk-covered foot. The blacksmith showed no emotion, although a light flashed in Listar’s eyes and then disappeared. He would not go.
The crowd dispersed as Santagithi stepped down from the oak stump to view the men who had chosen to stay for the battle plans: his guards and a few of the cattlemen and farmers. Not many, but all capable hands with a sword. And then there was Rache. The strange combination of chair and wheels sat motionless as Rache glanced from face to face. Everywhere, Mitrian saw the same stupid look of incredulity, everywhere except on the face of Nantel. Santagithi, too, recovered quickly, but the rest remained gaping.
“I’m coming,” Rache said.
Startled visages alternated looks of horror and disbelief. No one moved, as if some warped artist had carved statues to replace them. Mitrian’s hands balled to fists.
Santagithi gripped Rache’s shoulder. “You’re always welcome next to me in battle. Of course you’ll go.”
The ease with which their leader accepted Rache’s presence obviously unsettled the guards. Whispers passed through the crowd. “Our leader must be daft . . . why does he want Rache dead . . . what can he hope to do in battle?”
Nantel’s gruff baritone rose above the speculations of his peers. “Quiet, you bunch of cackling hens! You sound like women pounding clothes in a stream. I fought Rache since he lost the use of his legs, and he won. None of you can beat me. He would make fools of all of you. Santagithi knows the best men in this town. If you wish to grumble into your beards about his choice, go to the stream and pound clothes!”
This once, Mitrian found Nantel’s temper welcome. The archer burst through the crowd, pushing men from his path.
Santagithi took the back of Rache’s chair and followed in Nantel’s wake.
* * *
The morning the men left on the foray, Mitrian sat on her bed, examining her collection of gems. They slid through her fingers and fell to her bed covers in a multicolored stream. Rubies, emeralds, topaz, and tiny, flawed diamonds clicked together, each a memento from one of her father’s raids. When the last stone dropped from Mitrian’s palm, she pressed her hands to the bedspread. Gems rolled into the depressions her fingers made in the coverlet. She paid them no heed, her attention straying to the largest member of her collection, an oval-cut, blue stone lying on a shelf near her window.
Mitrian referred to the stone as a sapphire, though it was unlike any other gem that bore the name. Each facet seemed smoother than a salt grain, cut and shaped with a perfection far exceeding the technique and skill of the jewelers in Santagithi’s town. It sported the rich color of berries with cream, and its radiance remained long after the sun failed and night blanketed the sleeping village.
The sapphire had been a special gift from Santagithi the first time he had led a foray on Mitrian’s birthday, and she knew it had cost him a large portion of his take from the war spoils. Since then, he had missed her birthday many times, though he never forgot it. He would return from battle with a unique bauble and spend at least one of the following days telling the stories she loved. Still, by tradition, a birthday was a time to be spent with family. Now, on the occasion of Mitrian’s coming of age, she wished her father were home.
Mitrian’s mother understood her disappointment. She served her daughter’s favorite breakfast and amused her with romantic tales that would have made Santagithi blush. As a treat, she was packing a lunch for Mitrian to share with Listar while Mitrian played with gems and memories in her room.
Mitrian scooped the glittering pile of gems up in her cupped hands and poured them into their pouch. She hung the collection on a bedpost, rested her chin in her hands, and tried to decide which stories to beg from her father’s repertoire upon his return. Certainly, she would ask details of the foray. His raiding tales sang the praises of his soldiers’ glories, in which Rache always played the most important role. But this time, Mitrian knew the sword master turned archer believed more than the honor of a single battle was at stake.
After sating her curiosity and capturing her father’s memories of his latest escapade, Mitrian decided she would question him about the world beyond their village. It was his favorite story, and Mitrian never tired of hearing it. He would always begin by describing the Eastlands, a place of deceit and hatred cut off from their Western world by an impassable barrier of peaks known as the Great Frenum Mountains. For as long as Mitrian could remember, there had been rumors the dark-skinned Easterners would ride through the southern trails to the Western Plains. Led by a demon, they would war against the Westerners until either the heroes of the West or the decadents of the East triumphed and claimed both lands.
Mitrian shuddered at the memory of Eastlands so evil the Western cartographers trailed their maps into black obscurity beyond the Great Mountains. She turned her thoughts to the neighbors who shared their Western world. To the south lay smaller towns like their own with which Santagithi traded or waged war, depending on the proclivities of the chieftains. Northward, blond reavers amused themselves throughout the frigid winters by warring amongst themselves with the same savage honor Rache displayed in battle.
Mitrian most enjoyed the descriptions of the civilized cities to the west. In Santagithi’s youth, his people had lived among the prosperous western towns, until a band of exiled Northmen ravaged many of the cities for food, treasures, and love of violence. Santagithi’s city had fallen, though not without valiant resistance, and the survivors had relocated farther east. Unlike men more prone to despair, Mitrian’s father held no grudge against the Golden-haired Devils who had wreaked havoc on the Westlands. He believed in the superiority of might. In their new home, his strength of character and wisdom as a tactician unanimously earned him the position of leader.
On the bed, Mitrian rolled to her stomach. Effortlessly, her mind shifted from her father’s historical explanations to Nantel’s vivid descriptions of the modern West. For several months each year, the archer captain journeyed to the market town of Pudar with gladiators and other goods which he traded for exotic foods, spices, and weapons of extraordinary design.
Her mother’s voice interrupted Mitrian’s musings. “Mitrian, Listar’s worked hard all day. He must be hungry.”
Mitrian stood, yawned, and grinned at her mother’s flagrant hint. At a trot, she traversed the long, plain corridor to the kitchen where, with a smile of welcome, her mother handed her a basket. The aroma of stew rose in thin wisps of steam.
“Thank you.” Mitrian accepted the packed lunch, then pushed through the door and trotted down the vine-covered hill to the town below. The basket slapped against her thigh as she headed toward the blacksmith’s cottage. The regular rhythm of wicker against cloth focused her thoughts on her conti
nuing archery lessons with Nantel. She had made progress since her first experience and now spent more time tearing arrows from wood than soil. Before Santagithi had left for the foray, he had accepted her new pursuit with little more than a frown of disapproval, a circumstance Mitrian attributed to the kind support of Rache and Nantel. But Mitrian knew her father would never accept her knowledge of swordcraft. Men used bows for competitions and hunts, but to Santagithi’s mind, the only purpose of a blade was for killing men.
Mitrian arrived at the main road and slowed to a walk. The metallic thump of Listar’s hammer grew louder. The crackle of weeds in the wind reminded her of the southern clearing where she practiced sword techniques. Last evening, a rustling in the brush had interrupted her session as had the red eyes a few weeks earlier. As Mitrian sat, cross-legged, behind Listar’s anvil, she decided to tell Rache about the animal in the clearing when he returned.
Engrossed in this work, Listar apparently did not notice Mitrian’s arrival. She studied his soot-streaked, blond curls and the stocky set of his body. His arms bulged as he swung his hammer in tight arcs. As he brushed sweat and hair from his eyes, his gaze fell on Mitrian. He smiled.
Mitrian grinned back, but her thoughts followed Rache. She imagined the enemies of her town fleeing before his feathered shafts, and her mind conjured images of silver turrets stretching toward the sky.
Listar tossed a strip of steel to the sand pile. He wiped his brow, smearing ash across his face. Turning, he strode to Mitrian, took her hand, and recoiled as if from fire. “I’m sorry, Mitri. I got soot on your sleeve. Let me go wash.” Listar jogged in the direction of the fountain.
Mitrian opened her basket, removed a checkered blanket, and spread it on the grass near the anvil. She knew she would probably marry Listar someday, and this thought awakened a strange sorrow. Listar cared deeply for her. Honest, tender, and sincere, he would make a fine husband. But Mitrian could not love him. I wonder what sort of man I do want. Maybe one like my father, a strategist, a leader loved by his people and feared by his enemies. Listar could become aggressive at times, but he lacked the wild war passion that drove Santagithi and Rache to battle. Even as the idea came into Mitrian’s mind, she pitied Emerald. Rache was beautiful and more heroic than any man she knew, but he could belong to no one.
Listar returned, sitting so close to Mitrian she could smell the clean perspiration of hard labor. She passed him a bowl of stew and a spoon. “What did you make?”
“Barrel hoops.” Listar spooned warm stew into his mouth. His friendly, blue eyes met Mitrian’s.
“That sounds . . .” Mitrian struggled for words, not wanting to damn with faint interest.
“. . . boring.” Listar spared her the need. “It’s not one of my favorite projects.” He set aside the spoon and rubbed Mitrian’s arm with affection.
A sudden breeze draped strands of matted hair across Listar’s brow. A plan entered Mitrian’s mind so naturally, it seemed as if some power had placed it there. Her voice assumed the strained quality Rache had learned to mistrust. “I wonder what my father will bring me from the foray.” She glanced at Listar, sidelong.
Listar chewed slowly, attention on Mitrian.
Mitrian fondled his leather pant leg absently. “He always brings me a special present for my birthday. And Rache. . . .” She let her words trail, feeling necessarily cruel.
At the mention of the sword master’s name, Listar’s face pinched. Despite Rache’s living arrangements with Emerald, Mitrian’s visits to Rache’s cottage were no secret to the townsfolk, though only she and her mentor knew the meetings were actually sword lessons. Surely, Mitrian’s crass reference, rumors, and Listar’s own insecurity bit deeply. When Mitrian did not continue, he spoke. “Rache?” The name emerged as a choked whisper.
Fidgeting, Listar waited while Mitrian took a mouthful of stew, chewed leisurely, and swallowed. “Rache always brings me something nice, too.”
“Does he!” Listar’s voice rumbled with challenge. “Well, my gift’s better.” He leaped to his feet so abruptly, he nearly spilled his stew. “Because I’ll get you anything you want. Name it.”
Mitrian teased. “A country.”
The color drained from Listar’s face. Then, noticing her smile, he chuckled in relief, sat down on the blanket again, and retrieved his stew. “What would you want with a country? Your father already leads one.”
Carefully, Mitrian set her spoon in her bowl and spoke in the most sincere tone she could muster. “Fine, then. Make me a sword.”
Despite her attempt to radiate candor, Listar laughed. “Stop kidding. What would you do with a sword?”
“The same thing anyone else would do with it.” Annoyance hardened Mitrian’s sarcasm. “Butter bread. Listar, you asked me to name anything. I want a sword, a longsword with a good, split leather grip.”
Mitrian’s knowledge of weapons held Listar momentarily speechless. “You’re serious,” he stated the obvious. “I don’t understand.” He awaited an explanation.
Mitrian offered none. She shrugged.
Listar took Mitrian’s hand and stared past his anvil to the stout workhorse tethered to his father’s cabin. “If you really want a sword, I’ll make one that rivals the weapon of the god of steel.” He closed his fingers about hers. “I’ll start on it tomorrow and have it done before the warriors get back from the foray. When I finish the rough work, you can choose the type and pattern of jewels in the hilt.” He added, emotion trailing back into his words. “Perhaps then you’ll tell me what, by the gods, you plan to do with the thing.” He raised one eyebrow.
Mitrian avoided the question, excitement enveloping her in waves.
With a sigh, Listar finished his stew, kissed Mitrian, lightly on the cheek, and resumed his work.
Mitrian remained in the grass, her thoughts triumphant and distant.
* * *
Excitement kept Mitrian from sleep that night. Anticipation formed a vivid picture of the sword that would become hers by Listar’s efforts. Soon, she would own a weapon as bright and new as her mastery of its craft. Pride of ownership thrilled through her, and she reveled in the fantasies awakened by its intensity. She pictured herself in a soft black jerkin, whirling with the grace of a dancer while her sword carved perfect arcs, grim silver highlights flashing from its steel.
Mitrian’s thoughts shifted. She imagined herself on a white stallion. Beside her, Rache controlled his eager mare with light tugs at its rein. From memories of guards’ stories, Mitrian created a background of the Western Plains. She stared across a vast flatland, sparsely populated with coarse grasses and twisted, broad-leafed trees. Far to the south, rock and clay gave way to ocean sand, and surf soughed as softly as a man’s last breath. North and eastward, peaks rose to the sky, many times higher than the hills surrounding Santagithi’s town. As Mitrian watched, a dark-skinned army swarmed through the eastern passes.
Rache tensed. Mitrian’s hand fell to a hilt crafted to her hand. Her fingers curled across leather flattened and smoothed by the familiarity of her fist. It would fit no other grip as well; the sword would serve Mitrian and no other master. This realization sent a fresh wave of excitement through her, pulling her from her reverie. But, with some effort, she reestablished the continuity of the dream.
An ashen horde of Eastern soldiers poured down the cliff face. As they neared, Mitrian concentrated on the leader, a huge man as broad as Garn and as tall as Santagithi. Then she recalled that the guards named him a demon. What does a demon look like? wondered Mitrian, and her mental image faded as she pondered the question. She pictured Nantel’s homely visage, twisted in anger by the antics of his archers. She lengthened the nose, added protruding canine teeth and goatlike horns, then colored the image olive-green. The effect was stunningly hideous. Mitrian gave her creation the body of an obese man covered with the keeled, dark scales of a viper and positioned it directly before Rache and herself.
The creature hissed. “Who dares stand before the army of
the Eastlands?”
Rache’s reply rang with power. “We are emissaries from the West come to demonstrate our skill. I am Captain Rache . . .”
The demon paled.
“. . . and this is Lady Mitrian, Mistress of the Gleaming Blade.” Rache gave a signal.
Mitrian leapt from her mount and launched into a kata that combined all of Rache’s teachings. She began with simple blocks and strikes performed with a dexterity that would awe any man with knowledge of swordcraft. Her maneuvers grew more complex. The sun reflecting from the polished steel of her sword danced like a silver flame about techniques marred only by the imperfection of Mitrian’s understanding of their intricacies. Her mind added perfection her body could never match. The grace of her dance drew Mitrian closer to sleep. As she completed her final sequence, a technique she had seen no man but Rache perform, the demon stared, transfixed.
“You’ve stopped us for now,” said the Eastern general humbly. “But it is not for a Northman and a girl to divert destiny. We will return with a way around your skill. . . .”
Mitrian’s imaginings lulled her into sleep. A discomforting chill swept through her, like the tingle of thawing fingers after a day in the snow. She rode her mare, trotting across fire-cleared meadow she somehow knew as the area west of her town. She welcomed the warm wind across her face. The sun gleamed in a sky bright as the sapphire that was the pride of her collection. As Mitrian reveled in the beauty of the scene, she reined her mount over the crest of a low hill. In the vale below her lay the ruins of a town. Huge pillars leaned horribly, like the uneven teeth in a shattered skull she had seen as a child.
Suddenly, clouds darkened the horizon. The caress of the spring breeze became the cold slap of a gale. Mitrian kicked her horse to a canter as water poured from the sky. The tempest whipped her hair into her eyes. Rain lashed her cheeks. Fear welled inside her, as sudden and cruel as the storm. She hunched against her mount’s neck and steered toward the valley, hoping the walls of the hill might dampen nature’s frenzy, and the ruins might protect her from the rain. Mitrian kept the wind in her face to maintain her course. Realization seeped into her mind. She could not remember starting this journey nor her purpose for being on the fire-cleared wastes west of home. But recognition of her dream state did little to ease growing panic. For now, the storm seemed more real than her bed.
The Last of the Renshai Page 16