The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “I have to run. And quickly. You’ll come with me?” he said softly but aloud this time, his words more plea than question. His voice jarred the final piece into place.

  Garn. Mitrian jerked free of his embrace, not yet able to deal with another wild squall of feelings and ideas. She could not help but recall the child with whom she had wrestled as a toddler on the kitchen tiles. Though two and half years older and ten times stronger, he had always let her win, performing comical flips and rolls in response to her most feeble attacks. Yet her mind also conjured images of Garn hammering Mukesh into gory oblivion and far beyond. Rache and Nantel had told her that Garn was no longer the sweet child she had known. He had turned into a bitter, savage man, poisoned by an anger that drove him to kill people and, eventually, to cripple Rache. Still, he had held her with a warmth and gentleness Listar could not match. And when she needed consolation, he was the one who had been here for her.

  The last thought grated at Mitrian. “How did you know? How could you possibly know?”

  Despite the vagueness of the question, Garn apparently understood, because he addressed her concern exactly. “The guards talk freely around the gladiators. I heard the rumors about you and . . .” He paused, then pronounced the name with an emphasis that reeked of disgust and aversion. “. . . Rache. Tonight, the stories changed.”

  Mitrian felt a new wave of tears rising, and she banished them with rage.

  Her lapse, though brief, did not go unnoticed. Smoothly, Garn reached for her arms, and she did not pull away. Hands rough as tree bark closed over hers. “Sometimes, when things got too horrible. When the guards’ whips left me bleeding on the cold, wet stone of my cage, I’d remember when you used to talk me into playing family. And I’d pretend those were real memories, that you and I were married and. . . .” He pulled her closer. “I always loved you, Mitrian. You know that.”

  Mitrian met Garn’s gaze. His words haunted her, raising images of the boy she had loved as a brother and a friend, who had played father to the rag doll her mother had made, who had helped her steal cookies from the pantry. And she saw something else, a deeper emotion she could not explain. Beneath Garn’s pain and uncertainty, she found the same tender protectiveness her father displayed when he studied her, believing she slept, or the look Listar beamed at her whenever she claimed she loved him.

  Mitrian had to know. “Why did you kill Mukesh?”

  Garn stared. “Wasn’t it obvious?”

  “Not to me.” Mitrian blocked out the images she had run through a thousand times then packed away years ago.

  “I . . . he. . . .” Garn seemed flustered. “He told me he was going to force himself on you. I couldn’t tell anyone. Who would have believed a slave’s child over a merchant’s? And I hoped it was just talk. Then, when he grabbed your . . . your . . .” His face flushed, and he patted his own chest rather than say the word. “. . . and he got that ugly look on his face. . . .” His voice faltered, and words failed him.

  Mitrian’s gaze fell naturally to her breasts. Having recently turned sixteen, she had only come to grips with her sexuality in the last few years. Her memories of the childhood incident had centered on Garn’s violence. At eight, she remembered being confused by some of Mukesh’s actions and words, but she had no experience to think of them as anything except innocent play, especially since his advance had been aborted before any clothing was removed. Now, thinking back, she remembered how Mukesh had rubbed himself against her. And he had planted both hands on her chest. “Gods.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” Garn went on. “I lost control.” His tone changed abruptly, and his eyes turned cold as steel. “And that was his fault.”

  The last statement did not seem to fit. “Mukesh’s?”

  Garn’s jaw set, and he released Mitrian. “Rache’s.”

  The change in Garn’s manner chilled Mitrian. She back-stepped. “What do you mean?”

  Garn cleared his throat, then did a poor imitation of Rache’s Northern singsong: “If a situation demands that you draw a weapon, then it demands that you kill.” Garn quivered with a rage that foiled his impersonation. “Whenever you get an enemy at a disadvantage, you don’t gloat. You don’t talk. You kill.” He dropped the accent. “He drove his savagery into me as if it were a gift. Then, when I naturally followed his rules he turned against me.” The pink blush of embarrassment gave way to scarlet outrage. “He blathers about dying with honor and dignity, yet he turned me over to a frothing pack of wolves. He knew exactly why I did what I did. Yet at the trial, he never said a word in my defense.”

  Mitrian nodded. Huddled in the back of her father’s court with her mother, she had watched Rache sitting motionless in the back corner, his expression so blank it seemed as if the features had fallen from his face. And when the sentence was pronounced, Rache had risen and left the room in silence.

  Though Garn had imitated Rache’s voice badly, his words perfectly matched the Northman’s teachings. Sparked to the memory of Rache’s words in his cottage, Mitrian knew now more than ever that she could not stand to remain in this town another moment: “Look at what my training has done to you. . . . It turned you into something unfit for this village.” Unfit. Like Garn.

  A wolf howled, a long low melody in the distance, reminding Mitrian of the Eastern Wizard and his pet. A number of questions still plagued her, not the least of which was how Garn came to be free. Yet for now, none of that mattered. “Yes,” she said, though a full conversation had passed since he had posed the question. “I will come with you.” Defiantly. And gladly.

  * * *

  Hoofbeats. The noise pounded through Rache’s dream. He drew breath to command the archers into a fighting unit and sprang to protect them from the endless stream of Strinian barbarians spewing from among the trees. The sudden tightening of his body awakened him, his heart pounding. Swiftly, he reoriented to his cottage, the thatched roof barely visible in a thin stream of moonlight through the window, Emerald’s deep, regular breathing beside him. And still, he heard the hoofbeats.

  Hoofbeats? Rache sat up, dumping the thin coverlet onto Emerald. Still dressed only in the worn, battle britches in which he had fallen asleep, before and after Mitrian’s interruption, he rolled from the mattress to the floor and belted on his sword. Aside from the blacksmith’s workhorse, all of the town’s steeds were stabled on Santagithi’s estate, close to the guards and defensible in case of attack. There could be only three explanations for a horse galloping through town in the middle of the night: an emergency on the hill, something had frightened the blacksmith’s horse, or an intruder. Rache wriggled to his front door, hating all of the possibilities. Nudging the panel open, he peered outside.

  Starlight trickled through an overcast sky. Chips of quartz glimmered from the cobbles, drawing spots and lines in the granite. The cottages lay, still and silent, on either side of the street, but Rache could hear the regular, four-beat hammer of the hoof falls beneath the hum of insects. He cocked his head toward the citadel, and a distant movement caught his vision, coming toward him quickly. Then, abruptly, it was on him, a horse whisking past in the darkness, its neck outstretched and its mane flying. A lean but large-boned figure hunched over its neck, dressed in a woman’s sleeping gown. Mitrian? Rache sucked in his breath. Behind her, astride the saddle, a man clutched the reins in one hand, steadying the woman with the other. Though coordinated, he was at the same time awkward, like a trained athlete attempting a new sport for the first time.

  Rache knew the man the way a rabbit knows the shadow of a hawk. Garn. He caught the door frame, hauling himself to his knees, willing his useless legs to walk. But the shriveling muscles defied him, and the effort only gouged slivers of wood into his palms. I have to stop him. I have to find a horse. He dropped to his belly, slithering through the portal.

  The animal and its riders disappeared into the darkness beyond the cottages, headed east. The hoofbeats faded, and the cries of the insects seemed to fold over the sound. Rac
he’s face felt hot with frustration. Why didn’t I have Garn executed while I had the chance? Idiot! He cursed himself. I knew the guards couldn’t handle him. Who did he kill to get free? And what has he done to Mitrian?

  Rache slithered across the cobbles, dragging himself toward the blacksmith’s cottage. Why didn’t I chase after Mitrian? And why didn’t I have Garn killed? The stones twisted and jammed his fingers, and dirt abraded his chest and arms. His mind rose to answer his questions. The first came easily. Mitrian had needed time alone, and Rache had no way to guess that Garn had broken free. Then, as so many times in the past, memory threw back a vision of Garn’s father gasping out his dying plea. Rache shook his head to dispel the image. I made Garn; and, evil as he is, I couldn’t stand to destroy what I created.

  Rache’s arms ached from their pounding on the cobbles and soreness from the previous day. Even after years of sword work, he thought little of a practice or a foray in which he did not push himself hard enough to feel stiff the following morning. He crept off the road and onto the dry, stabbing grass of the blacksmith’s yard. I tried so hard to instill temperance as well as swordcraft. Instead, I taught Garn to murder and to hate. I built a monster, a killing machine without a conscience. And now, because of my stupid vanity and mercy, Garn has Mitrian.

  Rache found the thickly muscled workhorse hobbled beside the blacksmith’s cottage. Cursing his slowness, he edged toward the animal. The horse swished its tail in wide arcs and stomped flies from its legs. Rache avoided the hooves, each the size of both his fists together. The hobbles were scarcely visible beneath the feathered fetlocks of its hind legs. Rache used the stone blocks that composed the cottage and the beast’s long mane to drag his body toward the hollow of its back. His arms throbbed and shook, his legs hindering his every movement. Gradually, he draped his chest and abdomen across the animal’s spine and arranged himself into a riding position.

  The workhorse tolerated Rache’s scrambling docilely, though it did raise its head to stare at him. Now, he paused to consider. The sooner he gave chase, the more likely he would catch Garn. Rache shook his head. Unarmed and unsecured on a horse without tack and unaccustomed to running, he had little chance of overtaking Garn. Santagithi has the right and the need to know. Another thought came to Rache, more disturbing. After last night, if Mitrian and I both disappear, Santagithi’s certain to believe we ran off together. He’ll have the entire guard force after me. He smacked the horse’s rump.

  The animal shuffled forward, tripped on the hobbles and rocked for balance. Nearly thrown, Rache cursed, grabbing a tighter hold on the mane. Freeing his sword, he slammed the flat across the horse’s haunches. This time, it reared and lunged. The hobbles snapped, and it lumbered into a canter. Repeatedly, Rache slapped the blade across the beast’s neck, urging it to greater speeds. The horse lurched into a gallop, Rache guiding it toward the hill with shouted commands, prods, and smacks with the sword. Soon, it raced up the path to Santagithi’s citadel.

  No one stopped Rache at the gate. A glance showed him the sentry sprawled facedown amid the vines. Dead, Rache assumed, not taking the time and effort to check. He would never expect an attack from behind. Probably didn’t even see Garn’s blow coming. The horse slowed to a walk, and Rache guided it around the stable and toward Santagithi’s home. The building looked cold and sterile in the darkness. “Ho!” Rache called before the door, and the horse went still. A faint moan rose from the ground. Something moved near the workhorse’s hind legs and it danced aside, nearly unseating Rache again. Regaining his balance, Rache looked down in time to watch a sentry named Bromdun sit up in the grass.

  “What happened?” the on-duty guard asked, straggling unsteadily to his feet. Apparently realizing Rache could not possibly have the answer, Bromdun explained. “I thought I saw movement, then something hit me.”

  Guilt stabbed Rache. He felt responsible for every death and injury Garn might have caused. “Bromdun, listen closely. Go inside and get Santagithi. Tell him it’s an emergency. Then I want you to go to the south and check Garn’s cage. After that, wake up Nantel and tell him to get over here immediately. Do you have all that?”

  Bromdun snapped to attention, hand clamped over the side of his head. “What’s going on?”

  “No questions!” Rache roared. “Do it!”

  Wincing, Bromdun scurried through the portal.

  Rache gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. My fault. I let Garn live. My enemy, my fault. He sheathed his sword.

  Shortly, Bromdun and Santagithi burst through the door. Santagithi wore only a wrinkled, crooked pair of breeks, obviously pulled on hurriedly. He clutched a naked broadsword in his fist. Bromdun hesitated.

  Rache made a sharp gesture toward the south, and Bromdun ran off. Santagithi waited. “Rache, what’s the emergency?”

  “Is Mitrian in her room?”

  Santagithi’s expression did not change, but his pitch rose, revealing concern. “Of course she’s in her room. Where else would she be?”

  “Could you look, please, sir?”

  Santagithi fidgeted, torn between complying and questioning further. “Rache, if you know something important, you’d better tell me.”

  Rache wound the horse’s mane between his fingers, annoyed by wasted time. “I think I do, but before I say it, I have to be certain.”

  Santagithi opened his mouth as if to press for more. Instead, he whirled on his heel and stomped back into the citadel.

  The moments that passed felt like hours. Sensing Rache’s discomfort, the horse danced beneath him, its every quiver clear to him with no saddle to dull the movements. At length, Rache heard running footsteps headed toward them from the guardhouse.

  “She’s gone,” Santagithi said unnecessarily. The expression of alarm on his features told it all. “Where is she?” His tone became threatening. “Where is my daughter?”

  Though Rache addressed Santagithi, his head swiveled toward the south. Three figures emerged from the darkness. “Clinging to the neck of a horse. Forced, I’m certain. I saw a man riding from town with her.”

  Santagithi went rigid. “A man?” he shouted. “What man, Rache?”

  Bromdun’s breathless voice emerged from the shadows. “You’re right, Rache. Garn’s missing. How did you know?” He pulled up in front of Santagithi, Nantel and Jakot close behind him.

  Santagithi stared at Rache, his pale eyes unnaturally wide.

  Rache nodded sadly.

  “Kadrak!” Santagithi blasphemed the Western god of war. He glanced about quickly, as if seeking something to strike, then turned his rage on Bromdun instead. “Who’s on duty on the south side?”

  “Monsamer, sir.”

  “Find him!” Santagithi bellowed, his voice like a whip crack. “If he isn’t dead, I want to know why.”

  Bromdun rushed to obey. As he disappeared, Santagithi rounded on Nantel. “Get a unit together. We’re going after Garn and Mitrian.” Then, to Jakot, “Go! Get my horse ready. Now!” Jakot whirled and raced toward the stable, Santagithi striding after him.

  Finally, the pieces fell together for Nantel. Surprise made him hesitate. Rache wheeled his horse and drew it up beside Santagithi. Reaching down, he grasped his commander’s shoulder. “No,” he said quietly, but with authority.

  Nantel froze in horror.

  Santagithi spun toward Rache, wearing a mask of outrage. “What did you say?”

  “No,” Rache repeated. Then, realizing he had become insubordinate, he added. “No disrespect, Santagithi. Mitrian is your daughter. I can’t expect you to think clearly in a situation like this, but I have to let you know when concern clouds your judgment.”

  Santagithi quivered with anger, and Nantel took an involuntary step back. The general glared. “Rache, this doesn’t involve you.” He ripped from Rache’s grip, stomping toward the stable.

  Again, Rache edged his horse forward and seized Santagithi’s shoulder. “Listen to me, damn it! You’re making a mistake.”

  Santa
githi stopped dead, not bothering to turn. Rache could feel the general’s muscles, balled and twitching beneath his hand. “Rache, I’m warning you. This isn’t your problem. I told you, you don’t have anything to do with Mitrian anymore. Go back to your cottage, right now!” Again, he shook off Rache’s hand and tromped toward the stable. Jakot had long since disappeared from sight.

  Rache had never disobeyed a direct order from Santagithi before. Spurred by certainty and desperation, he drove the horse directly in front of his leader.

  Nantel gasped.

  Santagithi barely drew up in time to keep from crashing into the animal’s side. Even in the darkness, Rache could see that his leader’s face had turned crimson, and the fist on his sword hilt had blanched. “Rache, this is treason! Get out of my way before I decide to execute you myself.” He slammed the pommel against the horse’s flank.

  The animal skittered forward, clearing a path for Santagithi. Prepared, Rache kept his balance. With effort, he brought the horse’s head around in front of Santagithi again.

  Santagithi did not squander time with words. With a cry of outrage, he swung his sword at Rache’s chest. In a single movement, Rache drew and parried the cut. Santagithi looped his sword, gathering momentum for a second attack. As his sword reversed direction, Rache slammed his blade against Santagithi’s hilt, a finger’s breadth from the general’s hand. Santagithi’s sword crashed to the ground at the horse’s feet.

  Santagithi went still, his expression and stance a study in rage. It was the first time Rache and Santagithi had crossed blades, even in spar. Apparently, like Rache, Santagithi had always assumed himself the better swordsman.

  Rache kept his sword leveled defensively, seizing on his general’s silence. “Damn it, Santagithi, forget about Mitrian. We’re talking about Garn. Garn!” He spat the name as if it were the coarsest profanity. “I’m the only man you have who can handle Garn.”