Santagithi stared with the coldest expression Rache had ever seen. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Enough people can kill anybody.”
Rache recognized the threat directed as much at him as Garn. He did not want to further anger Santagithi, if possible, but he saw no other way to make his points. “If you send an army after Garn, he’ll panic and kill Mitrian.”
“If he hasn’t already done so in the time I’ve wasted on you!”
Rache cringed, dismissing the possibility out of necessity. “If Garn wanted to kill Mitrian, he could have done so while I found and mounted the horse. I think he’s using her as a hostage to get safely out of town. Garn doesn’t know where he’s going. The way the mountains and passes sit, I’d bet everything I own he’ll go north. I know Northmen. If you send an armed party into their territory, like it or not, you’ll start a war you haven’t enough men to win.” He studied Santagithi. “I’m the only soldier who speaks their tongue.”
The general remained rigid, but he did appear to be listening. “What are you suggesting?”
“Send me,” Rache said. “Alone.”
“Are you crazy?” Santagithi screamed. “Send one cripple after my strongest gladiator? My daughter’s life is at stake.”
Nantel caught Santagithi’s arm warningly, but the general threw him off.
Santagithi’s words stung, but Rache knew they stemmed from anger not cruelty. “Garn won’t see one man as a threat. Crippled or not, I am the only single man you have who can handle Garn. I know Garn’s mind like no one else does, and I think he respects me a little. I know he doesn’t respect anyone else.” Rache held his breath, not quite able to understand why so much seemed to rest on Santagithi’s decision. He knew he felt responsible for Garn, but the reasons went deeper than he could comprehend. Garn had stolen Rache’s glory and his manhood, his belief in himself as a person, and, somehow, defeating Garn would prove him the better of the two and restore the self-respect Garn’s blow had cost. Until then, he would always be the man broken by the slave. A warrior defeated but not killed and, therefore, a coward.
Santagithi snatched up his sword from the ground. He examined Rache as if to decide through which vital organ to thrust his blade. At length, he spoke. “Take my horse. But if you don’t come back with my daughter . . .” He jabbed the sword toward Rache, murder in his eyes. “. . . don’t come back.”
Joy filled Rache, tempered by the seriousness of Santagithi’s threat. He whacked the workhorse’s flank, and it galloped off toward the stable.
* * *
Santagithi stared after the retreating guard. His fists tensed and loosened spasmodically, his guts felt as though tied in knots, and rage bunched, a tense lump filling his throat. The sword remained in his rigid grip.
Behind him, Nantel cleared his throat. “You did the right thing, sir.”
Santagithi watched the rump of the workhorse disappear into a cloud of swirling dust kicked up by its hind legs. He spoke without turning. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
Nantel made no reply.
Santagithi faced his archer captain, trying to extract the man’s thoughts by the grim expression on his homely features. “You may speak freely, Nantel. Of all people, I trust your opinion.”
Nantel’s muddy gaze met Santagithi’s. The mood was too somber for him to grin, so only a flicker in his eyes revealed he appreciated or acknowledged the compliment. “You’re the best strategist I know, perhaps the best in the world.” The seriousness of Nantel’s tone convinced Santagithi the archer’s words were not simply an exchange of praise. “Rache may not care much for the formalities of rank, but he respects you. He’s never questioned your judgement before. When someone I trust takes exception to one plan in sixteen years, I have to believe he has reason. Mitrian is your daughter.” He paused, as if awaiting an answer, though the statement did not require one.
“Yes,” Santagithi said, fighting the blind fury that threatened to overwhelm him again. “Mitrian is my daughter.”
“What if Garn had taken one of the village girls? Would you have organized an army then?”
“I don’t know,” Santagithi admitted. The pound of hoofbeats caused him to look away. His long-legged roan gelding galloped toward the town. Astride it, Rache looked small, young and frail, an injured, golden child. Living under the constant threat of war had taught Santagithi not to question circumstance, only to react to it. His choice had been made, the action taken. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Yet, for the first time in his life, he was doubting and mulling over his own decision.
“Do you trust Rache?” Nantel’s question snapped like a challenge.
Santagithi grimaced, but the weapon sagged in his grip. “The Northie taught my daughter to use a sword!”
Nantel remained composed. “That’s not what I asked.”
Santagithi returned his attention to the archer. “He’s an arrogant, insubordinate bastard!”
Nantel remained relentless. “That’s still not what I asked. Do you trust Rache?”
Santagithi did not care for Nantel’s tone. He reined his rage long enough to think. “With anything but my daughter.”
Nantel’s mustache twitched. “Rache taught Mitrian to use a sword because he saw her as a sister. He meant well. You may not trust him with your daughter socially, but would you trust him with her life?”
“Are you defending what he did?” Santagithi’s tone went bitter as he forgot he had bid Nantel to speak his mind.
Nantel shook his head briskly, whipping his short, brown locks around his face. “Not defending. Let’s just say, I understand why he did it.”
Santagithi fell silent. Annoyance tempered his concern for his daughter and his decision.
Apparently accepting Santagithi’s hush as encouragement, Nantel explained. “Recall, I taught Mitrian, too.” A tight-lipped smile formed like a crooked gash. “She hooked me with the claim she wanted to help Rache. Once on the range, she had me. She was just so damned eager.” His gaze drifted to the bottom of the hill as the hoofbeats receded into nothingness. “The guards view their lessons as a necessary duty. Mitrian acted like archery was the greatest experience of her life. She’s got her mother’s natural grace.” Nantel looked back, adding quickly, “And yours, too, sir, of course. She listens and learns from her mistakes. I can’t begin to describe how good it makes a teacher feel to find a student that loves the sport, actually hears and understands the instruction and visibly improves with every lesson.”
Santagithi frowned. The idea of his beautiful daughter drenched in dirt and gore sickened him.
Apparently missing the warning, Nantel continued. “And Rache said she was the same way with sword. He said she was good. Have you ever heard Rache call anyone good?”
Santagithi stiffened. He had, but only applied to some enemy chieftain slaughtering men like sheep. “Stop it!” His words emerged as a command. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
But once started Nantel’s tirades became difficult to staunch. “Sir, you asked my opinion, and I’m giving it. Everything Rache said makes sense to me. One man is a challenge; an army is a threat. We can hope that Garn has retained a tiny spark of humanity, enough to remember the friendship he once had with Mitrian.” Nantel’s tone clearly implied that his experiences with Garn made the thought unlikely. “But I have to be honest. If Garn feels threatened, I truly believe he won’t hesitate to kill her. On the other hand, he may be willing to compete with Rache. I’ve seen Rache train Garn, and I’m confident Garn would welcome the chance to prove he’s the better swordsman.” He shrugged. “Luckily, he isn’t.”
Santagithi pursed his lips so severely, his chin puckered. “Nantel, I appreciate your loyalty, but you seem to have forgotten something. I don’t like it any more than you do, but Rache is a cripple.”
Nantel’s face went as red as it did when he chastised the guards. “A cripple who is still the best soldier we have. If I thought it would make me as capable as Rache, I’d
beg the gods to cripple me, too. Your entire army should be so crippled.”
“Stop!” Unconsciously, Santagithi rubbed his sword hand, the memory of Rache’s casual disarming aching within him. He tried to sort all the information from the emotions swirling through his mind. One of his strengths as general had arisen from acting logically rather than intuitively. The loss of his daughter addled him as nothing else ever had. “For now, I’ll concede Rache may still be capable of handling Garn.” Doubt filled his voice, and he felt certain Nantel knew that point had not been fully laid to rest. “There’s the possibility Rache may not find Garn.”
Nantel shrugged. “Rache can follow a trail as well as anyone.”
Santagithi continued as if Nantel had not interrupted. “And Rache is the last man I’d send anywhere as a diplomat.” He’s disrespectful, not good at dealing with people and far too quick to resort to violence.
Santagithi’s implication seemed to confuse Nantel. “We’re talking about the Northlands, here, vast tribes of honorable savages just like Rache. Who would know the Northlands better than Rache?”
Though unable to admit it even to himself, Santagithi appreciated the turn of the topic away from Mitrian and Garn. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that, as close as we live to the Northlands, Rache’s never gone back even to visit? When you make your yearly excursions to the West, you never have trouble gathering men to go. In fact, I’ve had to intervene to keep enough men here to protect the town.”
Nantel hesitated, obviously hiding some piece of information. “That’s not the same thing. Many of the men who go with me were born here. The trading town of Pudar is loud and interesting. Every time I go, I find things I’ve never seen before, and you haven’t tasted beer until you’ve had a fresh mug in The Dun Stag. The Northlands are a cold wasteland full of warriors.”
Santagithi pressed, fully aware Nantel knew something he chose not to tell. “Nevertheless, as seriously as Rache embraces the tenets of the Northmen, he seems awfully accepting, not to mention free, with racial slurs against them. You were the one who told me he planned to attack the entire Northlands in a fit of despair. He called them cowards. As far as I can tell, that’s the basest insult Rache uses.”
Nantel avoided Santagithi’s gaze. “What are you thinking?”
“Rache doesn’t visit his home. He has some hatred against his own people. The way I put that together, he’s an exile. Maybe a criminal, a thief who’ll be executed if he returns.”
Nantel loosed a snorting laugh through his nose.
“What’s so funny?” Santagithi demanded.
“I was just picturing Rache stealing.” He laughed aloud. “Instead of skulking around dark alleys, Rache would choose and approach the strongest warriors from the front in broad daylight. Then he’d battle to the death, enjoying the fight so much he’d forget to take their coppers. And,” Nantel chuckled again. “Rache was a child when he came here. Who would recognize him now?”
“All right,” Santagithi said, seizing on Nantel’s mood. “How do you put it together?” The disappearance of his daughter faded to a nagging worry at the edge of his consciousness.
Nantel’s mirth disappeared. His eyes rolled upward, the whites making his coarse features appear even more ugly. He seemed to come to a decision. “Do you remember when the Wizard came, claiming Rache had trespassed on his property?”
Santagithi nodded at the distant memory, but Nantel’s certainty bothered him. “You believed Shadimar was a Wizard?”
“You didn’t?” Nantel sounded incredulous.
Santagithi shrugged. To say he was not easily taken in would imply that Nantel was, so he chose silence.
“Shadimar appeared without getting past the gate guard accompanied by a wolf that obeyed him better than any dog. He knew everyone by name. He gave Rache a child to guard, never bothering to ask if you minded, and you didn’t question. Before he left, he told you, no commanded you, to watch over the boy because he was important. And, though he never said it, you and I both knew he meant Rache, not the child he brought.”
Santagithi stared, able to pass off most of the events as carelessness or coincidence. But Nantel’s last line floored him. Kadrak’s sword, how could Nantel know what I was thinking? He recovered quickly. “What does Shadimar have to do with Rache’s background?” He intended to discover why the archer had raised this forgotten issue now, but Nantel misinterpreted the question.
“I don’t know,” Nantel said. “But Rache used to tell the Wizard’s boy things he wouldn’t say even to me. I’m not sure why. The boy was so quiet, I think maybe Rache felt obligated to do the talking.”
The Wizard’s child had only stayed a few years, and Santagithi had paid him little attention. Unable even to recall the boy’s name, Santagithi latched onto the important part of Nantel’s speech. “You overheard Rache talking to the child?”
“On occasion, yes.” Nantel plucked nervously at his tunic.
“Things I should know about Rache?” Santagithi pressed.
Nantel made a throwaway gesture. “If you overheard something I said in confidence, would you tell anyone?”
“No.” Santagithi understood Nantel’s point, but concern superseded it. “But if you know something that may affect my daughter, I order you to tell me. If you force me to, I’ll beat the information out of you.” Santagithi’s hands knuckled into fists, the threat far from idle. Larger and heavily muscled, Santagithi could beat any of his men in a fistfight, despite his age. Until a few moments ago, he would have believed he was the best with a sword as well. He had never had to prove himself. Always before, Santagithi’s men had respected him too much to act against him.
“It’s not that.” Nantel’s gaze fixed on Santagithi’s hands. “I think I know why Rache doesn’t care much for certain Northmen. Are you aware he almost wound up a gladiator?”
Santagithi’s eyebrows shot up, surprised despite himself. “Rache?”
“I heard Rache tell the Wizard’s boy that the high king in Nordmir captured him and tried to keep him as a gladiator.”
Incredulous, Santagithi shook his head. He would have passed it off as a child’s fantasy except he recalled Rache’s early reluctance to involve himself with the pit fights. “That would have been the stupidest thing anyone ever did.” Nantel nodded agreement, but Santagithi felt obligated to continued. “Sure he would have won, but imagine wasting the life of a soldier that loyal and capable.” Unbidden, Santagithi’s mind envisioned the possibility, though it seemed not unlike considering Mitrian as a beef cow. “Gods! Could you picture trying to control Rache? Every time a guard tried to chain him, the guard would be taking his life in his hands. Every lesson would turn into a war; could you imagine the competence and caution of the trainer? In the pit, you’d have to put him against two or three opponents.”
“Sir?” Nantel interrupted.
Lost in the reverie, Santagithi replied vaguely. “Hmmm?”
“You just described Garn perfectly. Rache knows and understands. Do you still think he can’t handle Garn?”
Trapped neatly, Santagithi wrenched back to the problem at hand, now able to see it more calmly. An idea formed, and he ignored Nantel’s question. “When were you planning to leave for Pudar?”
Nantel stared suspiciously. They both already knew the answer, but Nantel obediently gave it. “Three months, sir.”
“The plan’s been changed. I want you to gather your men and leave in the morning.”
“Sir?” Nantel started, then stopped. “Sir?” he began again, but still did not finish.
Santagithi glared. “Nantel, I told you to speak freely.”
“Very well.” Nantel stared at his feet. “Rache isn’t stupid. He’ll know you sent us to help him. He’ll know you don’t trust him, and that’ll hurt him more than anything Garn could do to him.”
“My daughter,” Santagithi reminded. He grasped the simplest solution. “Stay behind him. Help him only if he needs it, but this isn’t a game. If y
ou get a chance to rescue Mitrian, take it. Rache will just have to understand.”
Nantel twisted the hairs of his mustache, saying nothing.
“Do you have something to say?” Santagithi kept his tone level. He had always taken great care to keep his men’s friendship without sacrificing their respect. In the last day, he had failed in a way he never had before, and it pained him. He would have found Nantel’s loyalty to Rache touching had it taken the form of resistance to anyone but himself.
“Only this.” Nantel met Santagithi’s gaze, fire in his dark eyes. “A soldier doesn’t have to agree with his commander, only follow his orders faithfully.” He whirled.
Struck by the similarity between Nantel’s words and the ones he had shouted at Rache the previous night, Santagithi wondered if he was being mocked.
Nantel’s retreating back gave him no answer.
CHAPTER 8
The Chase
Dawn light reddened the towering peaks of the Granite Hills, making them appear capped in blood instead of snow. Though smaller and less stately than the Weathered Mountains stretching to the west or the impassable Great Frenum range to the east, the Granite Hills were still formidable enough to limit Rache to their natural passes. His surefooted roan gelding picked its way without complaint, one ear flicked back for Rache’s commands. Until now, Garn had left an easily followed trail, shunning the fire-cleared plains to the west and the south for the concealing forests of the northeast. As Rache had suspected, Garn apparently had heard enough geography to know he could not travel far to the east, and he had soon veered northward.
At first, Rache had found the pursuit almost too easy. Hasty and unfamiliar with travel, Garn left a wake of muddy hoofprints, broken branches, and scattered leaves that a child could trace. As the flat land rose gradually to slopes, the forest became sparser. Garn’s horse left fewer marks in the hard surface of stone. Unable to easily mount and dismount, or to lead his mount on foot, Rache was forced to guess his route. At times, he rode long distances in uncertainty, but he always discovered a travel marker to reassure him he had second-guessed Garn accurately.
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