As Rache descended the Granite Hills into the Northlands he had not seen for sixteen years, doubts pressed in upon him. In his hurry, he would have galloped from Santagithi’s Town without any supplies except the swords at either hip. Jakot had prevailed on Rache to bring torches and a tinderbox; those had served well in the denser areas of forest where the moonlight did not penetrate. Jakot had also pressed a full waterskin and a pair of straps on Rache. But when the dark-haired guard ran off for food, changes of clothing, and chains to handle Garn if necessary, Rache had bound his legs to the saddle and ridden off without waiting. In the forays, supplies had not been Rache’s concern, and he had never learned to worry about them. Now, without the circle of hills to protect him from the howling, Northern winds, he shivered in his battle britches and wished he had at least worn a shirt.
The roan’s hooves clattered over the rocky cleft of the final hill. Below Rache, a short stretch of forest melted into a huddled town he knew belonged to the tribe of Vikerin. He hesitated, his mind jangling with concerns. Likely, Garn would have veered off here and headed west, avoiding human company, but a hunting part or patrol might have spotted the gladiator and might be able to give Rache word on whether he still carried Mitrian.
The last thought plagued Rache. Garn could not have broken free at a worse time, and the coincidence seemed all but impossible. Obviously, he had come upon Mitrian wherever she had gone to think about and control her temper. She probably chose the clearing near the South Corner where I taught her, never guessing it would put her right in the wolf’s path. Anguish touched Rache. He knew Mitrian had carried a sword. Surely, she had fought; she might have beaten Garn if skill was all that mattered. But the gladiator had strength and experience to use against her, and he had learned to move as quietly as the animal he had become. Rache shook his head, hating the current direction of his thoughts.
In the Renshai culture, sword training began from the day a toddler could walk and his short, thick fist could grip a hilt. He became an adult the moment his sword took an enemy life. The concepts of childhood and play made little sense to Rache, and Mitrian’s adolescent outburst even less. He could understand her need. Had someone tried to deny his lessons from the greatest of all sword masters, Colbey Calistinsson, Rache would have done everything to see that he again became worthy of those lessons. Until he did, he would find another torke or drill himself with svergelse, sword figures practiced alone. But Rache would sooner hurl himself on an enemy’s spear than shout hurtful words at or show any disrespect for his torke.
Weariness dulled Rache’s movements and clotted his mind. The possibility of losing time to sleep bothered him, but Garn, too, would need rest. It’ll do me little good to catch Garn if I’m too tired to fight him. He recalled how the gladiator had squashed opponents in the pit, the hammer blows that had driven Rache on the practice floor and how, still chained, the tremendous arms had crippled him with a single strike. Anger lent Rache a second wind. Santagithi’s threat faded beneath thoughts of a far more dangerous enemy. Exile from the town Rache loved paled beneath the exile from glory Garn’s escape promised. Rache understood Santagithi’s concern was necessarily for Mitrian; Rache worried for her, too, and would see her home. But his battle could not end there. Every woman Garn hurt, every free man he killed, every sin or crime he committed must be assessed against Rache’s soul. Garn was my responsibility.
Rache reined his horse into the woods and toward the town, aware he would be closely watched by scouts or sentries. Evergreen needles rattled from the leather of his britches and added to the myriad of scratches over his arms and ribs. The aroma of pine raised ancient memories, forcing a new concern to the forefront. A long time had passed since he had cause to use the Northland tongue or that of the Renshai tribe. He would need to speak cautiously and not confuse the two. If the Northmen recognized him for what he was, his danger became far greater than facing Garn, weaponless, in the pit. Also, like it or not, Rache represented the Town of Santagithi. The right words could gain Santagithi a valuable ally; the wrong ones could incite a war. Against Vikerin alone, the odds might prove even, but the Vikerians might be able to coax neighboring tribes onto their side while Santagithi’s town had no strong allies on which to call.
By the time these thoughts ran through Rache’s mind, the forest opened to reveal the southern boundary of a wheat field and a road winding into the town. From the hilltop, Rache had seen no guards. Now, eight warriors clad in chain stood at the border, glaring at him. Three carried halberds, and they all wore swords at their hips. Beyond them, Rache could see dwellings of rock chinked with mud and moss. Surrounded by a granite wall, a single, larger building rose from the center of the village. One of the soldiers addressed Rache in the language of the North. “Who are you, stranger? And what do you want in Vikerin?”
Rache drew up his horse a respectful distance from the guards. “I’m from a town to the south.” Rache waved vaguely over his roan’s rump. “My name is Rache.”
The Vikerians exchanged glances and whispered comments, though Rache had not yet stated his purpose. Uncertain why his name should inspire a response, Rache froze. Do they remember me from the escape in the high king’s court? He frowned, doubting the possibility. None of these men should have been in Nordmir, and I was a child then. Only Arvo knew my name, and I killed him. Other ideas flashed through his mind. My name is one the Renshai used; but at the time of my birth other tribes used it as well. Now Rache fretted. I haven’t kept up with the conventions of the North. Perhaps they abolished all Renshai names. My heritage does make me seem younger than I am. His thoughts raced, and he fingered the hilts of his swords. The idea of fighting eight enemies at once usually would have excited him, but now he had a higher purpose to fulfill, a responsibility to Santagithi, Mitrian, and a world upon which he dared not loose Garn.
The same soldier who had spoken before addressed Rache again. “Captain Rache? From the Town of Santagithi?”
The melodious Northern tongue caused the guard to shift the accent of Santagithi’s name from the second to the first syllable, and the “i’s” acquired the long “e” sound.
Under other circumstances, Rache might have found the verbal mangling humorous. For now, he was too surprised. “You know me?”
Again the men exchanged looks. “We know of you,” the halberdier said.
Rache waited, hoping the man would continue and reveal the reason.
But the halberdier took a different direction with his questioning. “Which tribe are you from, Rache?”
They know. Rache felt suddenly strangled. In battle, he always reacted quickly and without need for thought. But he had little practice with conversational parrying. In the last sixteen years, he had had no need to recall the names and locations of Northern tribes. Suddenly, his mind emptied of all but Renshai. “Excuse me?” he delayed.
“Which tribe?” the man repeated, watching Rache’s reaction curiously. “There’s a lot of tribes who would like to claim blood with the Northern hero of the Westlands.”
Rache stared, speechless. Do they know about the prophecy ? He shook his head, settling yellow hair nearly as tangled as Garn’s. If they did, they would also know I’m Renshai, and they would kill me. Afraid to say something incriminating, Rache would have preferred to remain silent. But seven pair of eyes watched him expectantly in the shadows of the pines. “Hero?” Rache tried. “I don’t understand.”
A different halberdier spoke this time. “I’ve met some of your men at the tavern in Pudar. The way they talk, you’ve vanquished armies by yourself. They say you spar their best three at a time, best them, then tell each one his mistakes.” The other Vikerians nodded agreement.
Rache snuffed a sigh of relief. “They exaggerate.” The latter description was true, but Rache felt it better not to encourage the stories. A common legend stated that one Renshai possessed the skill of three soldiers, and he could not afford to provoke supposition. Besides, any admission of skill would encourage No
rthmen to challenge, and Rache could not spare the time for duels or spars. “My men are loyal, and they’re not used to Northern enthusiasm. I’m just a soldier.”
“And Odin is just a god,” one man said. The others laughed. “I once saw Nantel fight. I believe he’d know a good swordsman, and he claims you’re the best.”
Rache could think of nothing to say that would neither sound immodest nor insult Nantel. He had known the city of Pudar served as a trading route for citizens of all types, even the occasional Easterner, but he did not know Nantel had befriended Northmen. He imagined it was a loose affiliation, soldiers bragging in a foreign tavern then forgetting the incident on the return trip. Even so, Rache’s men must have lauded him well. Attempting diplomacy, Rache turned the compliment back on the Vikerians. “The best means little without a time and place. If Nantel had grown up among Northmen, he might not be so easily impressed by me.”
Rache changed the subject before the others could reply. “I’m in a hurry. I was sent after an escaped slave who abducted Santagithi’s daughter. Last I saw, he was riding a red-brown horse with dark points. Have you seen him?” Rache did not bother with a description. The Vikerians would have noticed passing strangers. Both Mitrian’s and Garn’s dark hair and Western features would have singled them out in the Northlands.
The Vikerian guards exchanged negative glances and shrugs. The halberdier who had done most of the talking gestured Rache forward. “My name is Riodhr. None of us has seen them, but King Tenja would know better. I’m certain he would want to meet you, Captain.”
Rache frowned at the delay. He had no wish to offend a tribal king, but the idea of letting Garn escape pained him even more.
Apparently noting Rache’s consternation, Riodhr continued. “It won’t take long. While you talk and rest, we can get you a fresh horse and supplies.” He eyed Rache’s bare chest with concern. “Either Santagithi’s Town is a lot farther south than I thought, or you left in a terrible rush.” Stepping forward, he reached hesitantly and nonthreateningly for the bridle of Rache’s horse, watching for a reaction. When he received no challenge from Rache, Riodhr seized the leather, heading toward the village. “If King Tenja likes you, he may send out some scouts to help you locate this slave and princess.” He gave Rache a meaningful look. “Captain, three men came asking about you just yesterday. Our king knows the details. I think you should hear them, too.”
Intrigued, Rache allowed his horse to be led, knowing all of Riodhr’s suggestions made sense. Rache needed sleep and rations, but he could not fathom why men would have come seeking him, especially in the Northlands where he had not set foot since childhood. Since Riodhr had not specified the nationality of those men, Rache could not begin to guess their purpose.
Riodhr released Rache’s horse long enough to make several broad gestures. The Vikerians separated. Three remained to guard the borders of the town, another two ran ahead, presumably to make arrangements, and the remaining two walked near Rache’s horse as Riodhr led it down the road into Vikerin. Despite the late summer season, angry winds whined against them, and Rache knew the weather was sharper farther North. Though brown, the height of the grasses edging the pathway told Rache of a successful harvest in a land of bleak, unreliable weather. Cottages lined the road. Smoke drifted from the chimneys as the inhabitants cooked breakfast, fighting a morning chill that would grow far crueler with winter.
Riodhr stopped before a wrought gate of silver metal that led to the larger building Rache had seen from the woods. In front of it, a pair of sentries regarded him with unbridled curiosity. Beside them, gaunt sheep grazed at stubble in a paddock. Riodhr left Rache’s side to speak with his fellows in voices too low for Rache to decipher.
The Renshai yawned. Hunger growled through his gut, and his head felt heavy.
Riodhr returned. “King Tenja is eager to share breakfast with you. If you’ll dismount here, these men will tend your horse.” He indicated the guards.
Rache’s gaze fell to the straps lashing his legs to the saddle. “I’d be honored to meet your king, but I can’t dismount.” Bitterness welled for the first time since he had realized he could still fight. The familiar reserve that ebbed through him in times of duress reassured him, and his tiredness receded. “I’m crippled.” His own words brought home the gravity of a situation he could no longer blame entirely on Garn. When Rache chose to cross the Granite Hills, he knew the manner of men who dwelt beyond them and his own limitations.
Riodhr’s eyes widened, and he gaped at Rache’s legs. The guards’ gazes, too, riveted on the disabled limbs.
Rache waited, hating their stares. He considered wheeling his horse and galloping from town. But Riodhr still clutched the bridle of the horse, and Rache doubted the Vikerians would take well to a legendary stranger trampling one of their military leaders. I need supplies, rest, and as many allies as possible. And who, by Sif, would be searching for me? Rache made a polite noise in his throat.
Guiltily, Riodhr jumped to attention. Apparently angered by his lapse, he rounded on his men. “Don’t stand there,” he snapped. “Get a cart for the captain and tell the king we’re on our way.”
The gate sentries remained in place. The two who had accompanied Rache and Riodhr tore their gazes from Rache’s battle-stained britches and trotted into the castle.
A stilted hush followed their disappearance. Riodhr squirmed, obviously wanting to speak but not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry,” he tried at length.
Rache unbound his legs, wondering whether the Vikerian meant his words as an apology for his stare or as a condolence. Uncertain, Rache did not know how to reply, and the silence grew even more awkward.
After what seemed like hours but was only a few moments, one of the guards returned, towing a small cart constructed for bringing goods into the castle. At Riodhr’s gesture, the three guards lifted Rache from his mount and eased him into the cart. Riodhr grabbed the front and steered, apparently preferring to turn his back on Rache in his embarrassment.
The bottom of the cart sloped downward, and Rache’s buttocks slid into the hollow. Forced into an undignified position, he rearranged his legs into a more natural angle, feeling like a roasted pheasant being escorted to the king’s table. Riodhr rolled Rache through an antechamber painted with mosaics, past a sitting room, and into a meeting area with a crumbling fireplace. Colored to seem metal, wooden doors stood propped open between the rooms, and flickering candles sat in sconces or on tables. After Santagithi’s simplicity, the furnishings seemed gaudy, a mockery of the richer, civilized countries in the far west. Riodhr brought Rache to a set of double doors. The creak of the ancient wheels grated against Rache’s raw nerves.
The guard accompanying Riodhr opened both doors, and Riodhr pulled Rache’s cart through them. The three guards who had preceded Riodhr and Rache stepped out of the way to let the cart inside the dining room. Behind an age-darkened table surrounded by chairs, three men eyed a meager feast. In the center, King Tenja wore gray-tinged blond braids that fell about a thick neck. Well-set eyes and cruel lips gave him an air of stern command. An expertly tailored suit of fur-trimmed silk draped a physique trained to war. Riodhr bowed. “Your majesty, King Tenja,” he said both as respectful greeting and introduction.
Though glad his handicap exempted him from bowing to a Northman, Rache lowered his head politely.
Riodhr introduced the other men. “Alvis, adviser to the king.” He gestured toward a thin, pale Northman clad in wolf skins and sitting to the king’s left. “And the warrior, Eldir.”
To the king’s right, the massive, ugly Eldir did not acknowledge the introduction. He regarded Rache with dead, blue eyes and an aloof indifference. Despite the promise of a friendly meal, he wore a sword at his hip and a sword-bladed pole arm rested against the wall by his right hand. Suddenly, Rache appreciated that Riodhr had not forced him to relinquish his own weapons before entering the king’s presence. The guards remained at attention.
The king address
ed Rache first. “Well met, Captain.” He indicated a place across the table, the only empty seat with a plate before it.
Riodhr rolled Rache’s cart to the table, and the guards shifted closer. Quick as a cat, Rache grasped the chair back and hoisted himself into it before the guards could reach to help him.
A strange smile played over King Tenja’s lips. He dismissed the guards with a wave but addressed Riodhr before the commander could slip through the door. “Let the Slayer know Rache’s here.”
The Slayer? Ice seemed to wash Rache’s skin into gooseflesh. He glanced up quickly, but only Eldir met his stare, the warrior’s expression hard, unchanging, and unreadable.
“Yes, sire.” Riodhr slipped from the room after his men and closed the door behind him.
King Tenja met Rache’s gaze. His voice remained friendly, and he answered the Renshai’s discomfort with eyes crinkled in curiosity. “I know you’re in a hurry, Captain, so I won’t keep you long.” As he spoke, Alvis quietly ladled food onto the king’s plate. “We’ll keep this meal quick and informal, and I’ll refrain from asking some of the many questions I have for the heroic Northman of the Westlands.”
Alvis filled Rache’s plate next. The aroma of wheat meal, meat, and bread made Rache’s mouth water and increased the protestations of his empty stomach. “I appreciate that, sir.” Instantly recognizing his mistake, he corrected it. “Sire.” The difference was cultural. Aside from the Renshai, the leader of every Northern tribe was called “king” no matter how few his followers. Santagithi had always preferred the title leader to king and his name to either.
Alvis frowned, but the king seemed to take Rache’s error in stride. “Just one question before we exchange necessary information. Rache, which is your tribe?”
The Last of the Renshai Page 23