The rain pitched with redoubled fury. A wolf howled. The horse bolted in terror. Mitrian’s heart pounded while she calmed her reeling steed. Rain drowned her screamed commands. She pulled the hood of her cloak down to protect her face and buried her hands in her mare’s wet mane. She clung, hoping the horse could find shelter.
The mare slogged onward. Moisture penetrated Mitrian’s last layer of dry clothes, and she fought to drag herself from nightmare. The horse lurched abruptly. Mitrian threw out an arm for balance, and her fingers scraped stone. She tossed hair from her eyes and confronted two headless statues guarding the entrance to the long-dead city she had viewed from the hilltop. Her horse sprinted inside.
High granite walls and arches crowded the inner streets, providing protection from the rain. Vines obscured the sides of buildings and made statues appear to have sprouted hair. Ripe blueberries hung from the foliage. Relieved for this rude shelter, Mitrian slowed her mare to a walk.
After a short distance, the street opened to a courtyard that held a statue of a mounted warrior. Along its walls, multicolored birds waged ravenous war on the berries. Their song thrilled Mitrian despite the strange surroundings of her dream. She followed the birds as they winged down a road on the far side of the square.
Fear faded, and despair replaced it. Mitrian felt her wet jerkin peel away from her skin with every movement. She passed through streets and alleyways to a vast, roofed hall. Here she dismounted, tugging angrily at clinging undergarments. Engrossed in her discomfort, she did not notice the robed figure at the farthest corner of the room. “Mitrian, your journey is finished. Accept my hospitality.” The voice echoed between pillars with a power that quailed her.
Mitrian whirled, and her grip on the bridle went lax. Before her stood an old man, tall and thin as a fence rail. On another man, the narrow frame might have appeared frail. But it seemed more as if this man found bulk unnecessary for strength and so discarded it. The sight stirred the memory of a childhood story, but it did not surface to conscious thought. Mitrian stared as her mind filled with questions she could not bring her mouth to verbalize. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Is this your city?”
The man laughed, the sound like the peel of a bell. “I don’t own the ruins, but they are my home. My name is Shadimar. Your people know me as the Eastern Wizard.”
Mitrian gasped. “Eastern?”
Shadimar made a reassuring gesture. “By name, not affiliation.” From any other person, the words would have sounded stilted, but they fit the image of this elder. “The Western Wizard and I protect the Westland peoples, your people. Come, Mitrian. I’ve called you here for a reason. Is it true you will soon own a sword?” As he finished speaking, a wolf slunk from a passage behind the Wizard and settled beneath his outstretched palm.
“Yes,” Mitrian replied as she absorbed the remainder of his words. “You called me here? How do you know my name?” Boldness swiftly replaced surprise as she recalled part of Rache’s tale. The guard captain had spoken of a childhood exploration soon after his arrival in Santagithi’s Town that had led him to inadvertently trespass on a Wizard’s lands. In payment, the Wizard had forced Rache to share his quarters with a gentle, foreign child, a punishment that had seemed more like a gift. Vaguely, she recalled mention of a wolf. All else muddled into a single description: “He looked old as the earth, but seemed kindly.”
“I have dealt with Rache and your father. Little escapes me.” Shadimar turned toward the passage from which the wolf had appeared. “Leave your horse. She’ll be tended.” He pushed past the open door and strode down the corridor, the wolf at his heels.
“Tended?” Mitrian repeated, still dazed. The ceaseless echo of rain on the roof made the ruins seem comfortable. I suppose she won’t stray. Mechanically, she removed the saddle and bridle, wondering why Shadimar both intimidated and intrigued her. And why isn’t my horse scared of his wolf?
Shadimar offered no answer, but he poked his head through the portal. “Time’s growing short, Mitrian. I offer the adventures you seek and a spell for your sword. If you accept my bargain, neither the sword’s edge nor its sheen will dull. Come. At least see what I offer.” His head disappeared from the doorway, and his footfalls retreated down the corridor.
Excitement and fear warred in Mitrian. Though her parents had taught her that magic was no more real than Rache’s myths of elves, she did not doubt Shadimar’s abilities. Even the absurd seems plausible in dream. Mitrian shied from the grisly face that held the door’s ring and followed Shadimar through a corridor dimly illuminated by evenly spaced, brass lanterns. Rainwater ran from her hair and clothes, trailing droplets on the stone floor. She could find nothing dry on which to wipe her sweating palms.
Although Mitrian saw less finery here than in Santagithi’s citadel, she found the crumbling simplicity engrossing. Bronze-bound oak doors interrupted the time-worn walls at regular intervals, and Shadimar opened one of these. He gestured Mitrian through it.
Mitrian pushed past Shadimar and his wolf. Her jerkin brushed a damp spot onto the satin of the Wizard’s robe. The room beyond seemed confining after the spacious entry hall. A copper brazier held rectangular blocks issuing a steady orange flame. Two chairs stood before a fireplace filled with a larger stack of the glowing bricks. Shadimar sat in one of the chairs, and the wolf settled at his feet. Mitrian took the seat beside him. Already, the warmth of the room was drying her clothes.
In these well-lit quarters, Mitrian examined her host. He appeared older than any man she had ever seen, yet vitality radiated from him, everywhere except from his eyes. They reminded her of ancient stone. “Why would you magic a sword for me?” Despite Mitrian’s anxiety, her question emerged calmly.
A frown parted Shadimar’s beard. “I mentioned a bargain, not a favor. Understand, I will extract payment for the only magic sword of the Eastern, Western, and faerie worlds.” He leaned forward, and his eyes went cold. The wolf shifted uneasily. “Magic comes of Chaos, unpredictable even in a Wizard’s control. This sword will grant responsibilities as well as abilities. It will offer a culture of warrior men and women, a heritage of blood and glory dedicated to the battle goddess, Sif.”
Mitrian plucked key phrases from the Wizard’s speech. Payment, Chaos, responsibilities, blood. She studied the beast at Shadimar’s feet. If I run, will the wolf chase me?
Shadimar continued, seemingly oblivious to Mitrian’s distress. “It will become your destiny to return an heir to his throne, to fight in the Great War against the East, to. . . .”
Excitement fluttered Mitrian’s heart. “War,” she whispered. Dream flowed into dream. Mitrian imagined castle spires on the horizon, her arm linked with a young prince as beautiful as Rache. “You promise adventure?”
“No!” The Wizard’s shout shattered Mitrian’s reverie. “I guarantee only a sword worthy of adventure. It won’t come to you. You must create it.” His thick, white brows beetled beneath a creased forehead. “For you, Mitrian, finding adventure would require an act of defiance.”
The thought of Santagithi’s wrath made Mitrian shudder.
Shadimar loosed a derisive laugh, apparently guessing her thoughts. His voice went strangely cold. “A would-be adventurer afraid of her own father?” He sneered. “Forgive me. I’ve chosen wrongly. I withdraw my offer.”
Shadimar’s tone infuriated Mitrian. She leapt to her feet. Her hand fell to her belt, though she wore no weapon. “You can’t just retract it! The offer’s been made.” The realization that Shadimar could indeed refuse to work his magic drained Mitrian’s anger. She sat down again, sulking. “Where will you find another with my sword mastery and knowledge?” Consumed by rage, Mitrian did not realize how easily the Wizard played her.
Shadimar smiled. “Your potential abilities cannot be easily matched. But knowledge? Really. What does a girl understand of war?”
Mitrian reined in annoyance with effort. “I don’t see what my sex has to do with it. You said this Sif was goddess to warrio
r men and women,” she reminded him icily. “Nantel and Rache have told me. . . .”
The Wizard interrupted, his face wrinkled. “Half truths. To spare you from the gore, they focused on the glories of victory, the beauty of swordcraft, and your father’s strategic wisdom. Men die. . . .”
Mitrian knotted her hands in her lap. “Don’t you think I know that!”
“Fine. If you don’t fear war, take these.” His hand dipped into his pocket, then flicked outward. Two tiny amber gems bounced at Mitrian’s feet. “If we transact this deal, these must become the eyes of a wolf on your sword hilt. Now, with my help, they can serve as a window to a battle in which you have a stake. And so does the demon of the gems.”
Mitrian closed her fist around the gems. The Wizard uttered three short words, each harsh as cliff stone. The walls of the ruins faded to the consistency of frosted glass. The patter of rain became the clash of distant steel, and the scene unfolded to a pine forest near the barbaric town of Strinia. The woods were dark, yet through the matted interlace of branches, Mitrian recognized Santagithi’s archers. Their horses stood in no formation, demeanors relaxed and unhurried. Rache waited before them. Though alert, his eyes lacked the fire of interest. His hair hung in a golden veil.
Mitrian received another’s thoughts as clearly as the image. At first, she believed they were Rache’s because they fit him nearly perfectly. Yet there was an alien quality as though relayed by a stranger, apparently, the so-called “demon of the gems.” Through him, she learned that the Strinian town lacked fortifications, and Santagithi had no need for bowmen or crippled swordsmen. The source of the thoughts believed Rache had chosen his current position for the fragrance of the pines and the sounds of the battle. Yet each clash of steel awakened a wild war passion that quickly broke to despair. Soon the pine scent became familiar enough to allow the musty aroma of humus through it. The chatter of squirrels was displaced by the pounding of hoofbeats. Before Rache could shout a warning, large figures in beast skins burst through the forest.
Swords leapt for the archers; copper blades washed red. Half the archers fell dead before they could draw weapons. A few released arrows that dropped some of the ambushers as they howled war cries. Gods! Mitrian flinched as guards’ eyes glazed. But Rache’s projected presence within her warmed to command. He shouted orders that seemed senseless to her and surely were lost beneath the battle din. But the archers obeyed, weaving into a tight formation.
Through Rache’s eyes, Mitrian watched the forest depths blur as every movement of man or beast sprang to vivid clarity. Like a war machine, his mind assessed every flaw, pattern, and strength of each man. He noticed an archer cut off from the rest.
Mitrian knew the archer. Called Ancar, he often practiced at the range with Nantel, Rache, and herself. His wife was a few years older than Mitrian, had been a playmate in her youth. Before the foray, Ancar had carried his baby son to the range and patiently explained archery amid the good-natured gibes of his peers. Rache alone had not smiled at the spectacle. Now Ancar wore a mask of desperation, having already exceeded his best efforts at defense.
All the information Rache and the demon had gathered was stored in pockets of consciousness for instant retrieval. Mitrian’s mind exploded to a vast plain of red. Battle madness welled to enveloping euphoria, pleasure like nothing she had ever experienced. Rache brought the flat of his sword across the rump of his mount. It lunged forward.
The forest rang with sound as Ancar fought with borrowed strength. He blocked a strike to his head, whipped his blade around, and buried it in an attacker’s skull. The barbarian’s death throes wrenched the sword from Ancar’s grip.
“No!” With his free hand, Rache drew a second sword to throw to Ancar as skin-clad riders closed on them from all sides. A hilt in each fist, Rache set to his own defense. Swords flashed around him. He deflected every blow, then used the force of one to redirect his own blade through the neck of an attacker.
A cry of fierce joy sprang from Rache’s throat. While defending all sides, he had not found time to question his abilities. His mind did not need to answer; his body did. His swords moved with such speed they seemed invisible and unstoppable. He easily sliced through hide armor, spilling entrails over the coarse hair covering his opponent’s torso.
In the distance a great horn sounded. One attacker hesitated. With a quick thrust, Rache pierced the barbarian’s chest. The man fell with scarlet froth on his lips as Rache’s last opponent reined toward the sound of the horn. Suddenly, Rache’s head and, apparently, his attention returned to Ancar’s plight; he galloped to the position where he had last seen the archer. Barely able to cling to his horse, Ancar bled from scores of wounds. The worst laid his scalp open and oozed a yellowish liquid. Rache pulled the dying man to his saddle, cradled him in his arms, and returned to his men.
The forest was littered with bodies. Of the original seventeen archers, five remained. Mitrian realized the horn blast had summoned the barbarian warriors back to their town. Had it not, none of the archers would have survived the ambush. The stench of blood and death obscured the perfume of pine and humus. Rache lowered Ancar’s body to the ground.
If Mitrian could believe the demon of the gems, peace settled over Rache, quickly displaced by a rush of joy inspired by his triumph over his handicap. But Mitrian’s sorrow lingered, forcing her to contemplate the eternity that would continue after the deaths of these men, and her own as well. Rache’s faith in the afterlife of Valhalla shielded him from Mitrian’s turmoil, but she envisioned each corpse as the spirit that once inhabited it, a priceless life lost to the stroke of a sword. She recalled the lamentations of widows and fatherless children, a grief she never shared because Santagithi always returned. And what of Ancar’s child? Will he become a warrior bound to avenge his father, or will he disdain war? Will love for his father’s valor become hatred for abandoning his son?
Mitrian tried to consider a grown child who had lost his father to battle, but her mind drew a blank. Then she thought of Rache. His presence seemed to enter her consciousness with his name, his happiness so incongruous with the deaths around him that it pained Mitrian. With a sharp intake of breath, she dropped the gems from her fist. Instantly, the forest faded. She clung to her final thought, and it kindled a memory.
Mitrian pictured herself beside the stream crossing the forest near Santagithi’s citadel. She was five years old. On the far bank, Rache tossed pebbles into the water, breaking its placid surface in widening rings. Though nearly of age, Rache appeared a child. And while he should have been exuberant over his recent promotion to captain, bitterness tinged his words. “My mother fought with a skill Santagithi’s guards can only envy. My family was slain by enemies of our own race who served in other days as allies. My baby sister would be your age.” Rache did not address Mitrian. His blue eyes strayed past her to another figure on the bank. The image blurred as Mitrian attempted to form a mental picture of the boy at Rache’s side, a stranger she had long ago forgotten. His name escaped her. She recalled only that his large size and persistent silences had frightened her.
Shadimar’s voice sheared the last, wispy bindings of his spell. “He is the prince of the high kingdom, Béarn.”
“Who?” Mitrian stammered, unwilling to believe the Wizard could influence her memories as well as create her dreams.
Shadimar clenched his lips in a slight smile. “The child who frightened you, though he would no more harm you than Listar or Nantel would. He alone survived his uncle’s spree of murder. Someday, you may restore him to his throne.”
Mitrian replied in a voice devoid of confidence. “Restore him? I don’t even remember what he looked like. How?”
“No matter. He’s changed since childhood, and so have you, Mitrian. When the time comes, you will know him, just as you will join the Great War, just as you will kill a friend. . . .”
“Kill a friend?” Mitrian repeated, stunned.
The Eastern Wizard replied evenly. “Yes, Mitr
ian. Kill a friend.”
Mitrian jumped to her feet with a violence that toppled her chair. “Stop!”
The wolf crouched. The Wizard shied away from Mitrian, obviously startled for the first time since they’d met.
“Stop!” Mitrian screamed again. “I don’t want to hear any more. Let me live my life, not have it displayed like a rich man’s feast. Don’t talk about destiny. Right or wrong, I’ll believe my life is a consequence of chance and the things I’ve done.” She turned away. “If you know so much about the future, why do you live alone in shabby ruins?”
Shadimar remained silent for a moment, as if he recognized her harsh words came from uncertainty rather than cruelty. His stone gray eyes softened. He rose, and his hand dropped to Mitrian’s shoulder. “Mitrian, there are many things you can’t understand. But this time you’re right. I have talked too much for the excitement of fulfilling prophecies. The magic I offer will add to your sword skill, give you a new perspective and a heritage, nothing more. The other events I spoke of will occur only by your decision. If my advice can make your choice simpler, remember that allies and enemies can change.” He let his arm fall to his side and sat down. “And now, your time has come. Will you accept my magic in exchange for an item of far less value?”
Mitrian whispered, fearing to ask. “Which is?”
Shadimar’s smile returned. “The Pica Stone, a sapphire in your possession, worth no more to you than the gems I offer in trade. To me, it is everything. It belonged to my people before the Northmen’s raids that killed them. Many hands have held it before yours. Many eyes have admired its beauty. May I have it back?” Doubt settled across the aged features and made him seem far less formidable.
The Last of the Renshai Page 17