The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  One of the seated Northmen snickered. “What’s the matter, boy? Your wife afraid you’ll get beat up?”

  The local who had insulted Garn added, “After we cut you and the old man into pieces, we’ll drag her out in the woods and rape her till she screams for mercy.”

  The bandits’ attack still strong in her memory, Mitrian clamped her jaw shut. Her hand fell naturally to her hilt. Immediately, red rage suffused her, alien yet stronger than any emotion of her own. The Northman’s laughter mocked her, as challenging as war drums. Before she could think, the demon had control. She whipped her sword from its sheath and slashed it across the Northman’s belly. A scream tore the air. The man pitched to his knees, hands clutching at the intestines leaking from the wound. Completing the Renshai maneuver, Mitrian slammed her blade down on the injured man’s head. He went taut, voice snapping off in mid-scream, and crashed to the floor, convulsing.

  In a half-second that passed like an eternity, Mitrian realized what had happened. Garn stood, stunned. Then, as one, every sword rasped from its sheath, except one. A smile crawled over the stranger’s features, and he did not draw.

  “The bitch killed Thorwald!” One of the Northmen on the benches sprang at Mitrian. He spoke in the Northern tongue, but she did not stop to consider how she understood him. She tensed to meet the attack. But before it came, the unarmed stranger stepped quietly between them.

  The attacker’s sword hammered for the stranger’s head. The older Northman moved with a speed that belied his age. He slapped the blade aside with his bare hand, grabbed the attacker’s sword wrist in his other and used the local’s own momentum to haul him off-balance. Committed forward, the attacker staggered. The older man ripped his grip backward, fingers grinding into pressure points. A second later, the older man held the sword, slicing it across his attacker’s throat. The Northman clutched his neck, blood splashing between his fingers. He started to crumple, but the older man shoved him over backward, callously clearing the way for his next attack. The stranger crouched, clutching his opponent’s sword, his own weapon still in its sheath.

  To Mitrian, the old man’s maneuver would have been too fast, audacious, and competent for belief, but the demon’s battle madness and euphoria sent her to a dizzying height of excitement. Renshai! The demon identified his own at once. And, though accustomed to skill beyond most men’s imaginings, the ability of the old man impressed even the demon in the Wizard’s gems.

  “Renshai!” This time, the cry issued from one of the Northmen, and the others echoed it like a battle chant.

  Suddenly, Mitrian was forgotten as every man in the tavern converged on the aging stranger. The old Northman used a reverse grip to draw his own sword from his left hip with the hand on the same side. He blocked the first attack with his captured sword, thrusting his own beneath the other’s guard and up under his rib cage. Even as other blades stabbed toward him, the older man flipped his grip to forehand. He flicked a double jab at another Northman. The local blocked the attack to his face, but the second sword pierced his abdomen. Without pausing to see whether his blow had landed, the Renshai spun, catching a Northman’s blade in a cross block. Half a heartbeat later, he spun his right sword from the block and buried the other in his opponent’s face. Three men lay dead before Mitrian had a moment to realize she was menaced, too. Others sprang for Garn.

  One of the locals from the benches screamed down on Mitrian, apparently preferring her challenge to that of the man reaping his companions like weeds. The Northman’s sword plummeted. Mitrian caught his blade on her own, and the force nearly drove her to her knees. Laughter rumbled above the bell of swordplay, the demon’s joy escaping Mitrian’s throat. Another numbing blow pounded Mitrian’s blade. Rache’s training had not prepared her for the actuality of combat, but the demon knew what to do. He shouted maneuvers she should try, but the names he spouted in Renshai held no meaning for her. She gained nothing from him but the battle madness that let her defend without thought and attack without conscience.

  The Northman kept his strikes big and looping, relying on his superior strength to herd Mitrian backward. She met each attempt with a block or parry. The blows crashed against her sword, hard enough to make her arms ache. Her spine touched mud-chinked wood, pressing the sweaty sleeping gown against her back. She strove to create an opening and saw nothing but flashing steel. The demon’s presence screamed a maneuver that echoed through her mind, but she could not understand him. The Northman’s sword raced for her head.

  Mitrian brought up her sword, but the blades never touched. She used the movement as a diversion, then ducked beneath his raised arms. Pivoting free, she cut at his side. The Northman blocked, redirecting the strike up and outward, a high maneuver. Instantly, Mitrian changed levels and slashed at his legs. It was the first low cut of the combat, and it caught her opponent off-guard. He leapt backward, but not before Mitrian’s blade nipped across his shins.

  The Northman crouched, his stance gone cautious. He had realized he was no longer facing an uncertain girl, but a woman finally coming to understand her combat training. Mitrian went on the offensive. She swept for his chest. He countered, stepping into her attack. The swords locked, the combatants close, and the man pressed. His superior weight and strength drove Mitrian backward, and a sudden shove slammed her into the wall. Breath surged from her lungs. Her consciousness quivered. Her legs went rubbery, and the demon’s inspired blood lust turned fuzzy. The Northman raised his blade for a high stroke intended to split her.

  Mitrian’s head buzzed, the demon’s anger stinging. As the Northman drew up his arms, she sprang in and underneath them. Too close, his sword tore harmlessly through the air where Mitrian had stood. She spun off behind him, whisking her sword back and across his thigh. Tendon severed, the muscle curled into a ball beneath his breeks. The Northman crashed to the floor. Rolling, he swung for Mitrian, but she stomped on his blade, pinning it to the floor.

  “Kill him,” the demon hissed.

  Mitrian felt like she was emerging from the depth of nightmare.

  “Kill the enemy!” the demon said again, its voice in her mind filled with frustration. “Don’t hesitate too long.”

  The edges of Mitrian’s thoughts tinged to red. She struggled against the demon’s command, needing to prove her free will to herself. She kept her gaze locked on the man before her, aware a glimpse of the carnage in the tavern would snap whatever control she still had. Apparently, the demon could infiltrate her mind; it had filled her with images, battle madness, and had tried to delineate strategies. But it could not dominate the sword or her physical person. Whatever killing I performed, I did by my own hand. She shivered, sobered by the thought.

  And your own skill, the demon added, though Mitrian did not share its pride.

  “Mercy,” the man on the floor gasped. Sword disabled and unable to walk, he was nearly helpless.

  Another voice joined the conversation. “Show him the same mercy he and his people showed the women and children of our village.”

  Engrossed with her own problems, Mitrian had almost forgotten she was not alone. She glanced toward the voice. The aging Renshai leaned against one of the barrels, casually sipping his ale as if oblivious to the scarlet splashes streaking the walls and floors and the powerful odor of fresh death. Across the room, Garn was engaged in a wild fistfight with the last of the Northmen. Bodies lay scattered across the floor, some of them in grotesque, folded positions.

  A wave of sickness passed through Mitrian. She gagged, and the demon seized on her lapse. Hatred flared through her and, before she could think, she jabbed the point of her sword up and under the Northman’s chin. His eyes closed, and he sagged.

  Dropping her sword, Mitrian sank to the floor beside him. The intensity of demon-inspired killing rage sapped her of strength. As adrenaline ebbed, so did all emotion. Her limbs felt floppy. The realization of what she had done brought tears to her eyes. The mingled odors of blood, death, alcohol, and urine made her stom
ach lurch. She vomited until her gut emptied and her throat burned. The memory of the impact of her sword against flesh remained, a ghostly impression stamped into the muscles of her hand. She could feel it hovering, a tangible brand, imprinted for eternity. I killed a man. Two men.

  Yet Mitrian dared not forget that was what she had wanted. It’s good, right? She needed someone, something to confirm the question, yet her sword lay embedded in a dead Northman, and her own mind could not endorse what she saw as evil. And it seemed that the demon could only communicate when she made contact with the gems. She reached for the hilt but stopped short. It made me crazy. It made me instigate a fight. Do I really want to touch it?

  The aging Renshai seemed to read Mitrian’s thoughts. “I instigated that fight, not you. You simply took the first life.”

  Shocked by the man’s insight and near duplication of her thoughts, Mitrian studied him again. His features appeared hard but handsome, framed by glimmering, golden hair, flecked with white. His blue-gray eyes chilled her. He no longer wore the helpless, innocent expression, though whether because he had lost it or whether, having seen him in action, Mitrian could no longer believe in it, she did not know. Of course he acted calm and careless. He never perceived fifteen Northern warriors as a threat. The idea seemed madness. This man, this Renshai makes Rache’s skill look paltry. Mitrian’s mind blanked. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, she could never have conceived of such a thing. She looked away. Needing something to center her concentration on, she counted bodies.

  Panting, Garn drew up to the Renshai’s side, his previously torn and fouled buckskins now even more so. “Good fighting,” he said, the understatement so vast it sounded ridiculous.

  “You, too. You’ve raised dirty fighting to an art form.” The Northman smiled to show he meant no offense. “I’ve seen a lot, but this is the first time I’ve seen a man break an opponent’s face with his forehead.”

  Mitrian cringed, not daring to let her mind form the image. “I only count fifteen bodies, including the proprietor. Someone’s missing, probably gone for help. We’d better leave.”

  The Northman tore a rag from a corpse’s homespun and handed it to Mitrian. “Here. Clean your sword.”

  Mitrian accepted the cloth, glancing reluctantly at her sword. Dare I touch it? She knew she had to make a decision now. Wield it and let it control my mind or use a normal sword and take the chance I’ll freeze in combat. Mitrian frowned. My death can serve no one. For now, the sword and I need one another. Later, perhaps, I’ll give it back to Shadimar. Obediently, she hefted the weapon and cleaned the length of the blade. Beneath the layer of grime, the steel still shone, its edge honed and without a single notch or flaw. Disgustedly, she flung the dirty rag away.

  The stranger said something in a language Mitrian did not understand.

  At first, Mitrian thought the aging man was talking to himself, but the demon intervened. “He said, ‘Well met, friend,’ in Renshai.”

  Mitrian looked up.

  “Tell him thank you.” The demon supplied the syllables for Mitrian. But when she tried to imitate them, they sounded heavily accented and choppy.

  The Northman laughed, returning to the trading tongue. “I don’t know whether to curse or love your teacher. You’ve not learned our language, and your swordcraft is far from adequate. But apparently even the Western Wizard can make mistakes: I’m not the last Renshai.” He clasped Mitrian’s forearm in a gesture of greeting. “My name is Colbey Calistinsson. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Mitrian nodded, unable to think clearly through the maelstrom of questions that filled the void left in her mind by confusion and dispersing excitement. Yes, she thought. More, I believe, then either of us realizes.

  The trio headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  White Assassins

  A crazed swordsman who claimed to be Renshai and a pair of dark-haired foreigners. The description ran through Rache’s mind until it became an obsession, a wheel of thought spinning with each landing of his horse’s hooves. Sandwiched between the Granite Hills and the Northern forests, the road remained generally passable, even at a gallop. Pine trees and barren crags whisked past. The wind struck coldly against Rache’s face, and anxiety drew that chill deep into his marrow. They cut down a dozen warrior Northmen in as many heartbeats. A massacre. One survivor, a coward who ran.

  Rache tried to shake the memory of the Dvaulirian scout jabbering the news as he passed on his route to warn Vikerin. But the more Rache tried to focus on other things, the stronger his fixation grew, until it pushed all other thought from his mind. The scenery passed unheeded. Even Rache’s usual natural alertness was dulled by the intensity of his concentration. A couple of dark-haired strangers, male and female. And the descriptions fit Garn and Mitrian perfectly. Rache frowned, forced to accept the fact that Mitrian seemed to be traveling free, willingly staying with Garn. Maybe she’s scared and clinging to the only man she has. Yet that did not fit with what he had heard, that the two had banded together to kill. Something’s wrong here. I’m missing some piece of information that can fit this all together.

  Not daring to contemplate too long, Rache turned his thoughts to the Northman who had claimed Renshai kindred. Obviously, he’s lying. I’m the last Renshai. Episte confirmed that with an ear count. Still, Rache could not discard the idea. According to the survivor from the tribal town of Dvaulir, a middle-aged Northman had barehandedly disarmed a soldier and killed him with his own weapon, then murdered several more in the space of time it took the others to react. Renshai. Rache shook his head. Even accounting for exaggeration, what else could he be? More than a decade had elapsed since Rache had allowed his thoughts to dwell on a past he could not change. He dug deep into his memory for Episte’s words: “Eight Renshai missing, and I dared to hope. Then the other reports came in: four corpses charred beyond salvaging, mostly babies, three bodies lost in the Amirannak Sea. That left only one.” Episte believed that one was me. All these years I never thought to question. Yet I was one of the bodies the Northmen counted as lost in the Amirannak!

  Understanding struck Rache as hard as a physical blow. Lost in his thoughts, he missed seeing the movement off to his left, the swipe of a sword at his horse’s forelegs.

  Rache felt the crash of impact; the blade bit deep into his horse’s legs. The animal tumbled. Tied to the saddle, Rache was flipped with it. The horse landed on its side, Rache’s left leg crushed beneath it, the pain racking through his shoulder and hip all but incapacitating. The horse thrashed, unable to gather its shattered front legs. Suddenly, two armed men rushed Rache, each white as bleached bone.

  “Modi!” Rache gasped from habit. One sword lay trapped beneath him, its hilt gouging his waist. With a reversed grip, he managed to whip the other free with the hand on the same side.

  The first attacker cut for Rache’s face. Awkwardly, Rache blocked, jerking his head aside. Desperate positions call for desperate measures. Quick as a striking snake, he grabbed the man’s leg in his left hand. He jerked, flinging the albino over his head. Rache slashed for the man as he sailed past and crashed into the horse’s flailing hind legs. From the resistance, Rache knew his blade had met flesh, but he did not pause to check. Instead, he swung in a blind frenzy to back off his other opponent. The assassin sprang beyond sword range.

  Now the man who had ambushed Rache approached from the direction of the horse’s legs.

  So there’s three of them. Rache ignored the newcomer. He can’t get past my mount. Rache hated letting his horse suffer, but the animal’s panicked kicking was all that protected his legs. Don’t die on me now.

  Cautiously, the albino extracted his companion from the buffeting hind legs, assessing the situation with a single word in a language Rache did not speak.

  Dead, Rache hoped. Unconscious, at least, or he’d be screaming.

  While the albinos dragged their injured companion aside, Rache slashed free the strap that held his right leg. The increased mo
bility allowed him to draw his second sword. But before he could maneuver the sword’s tip beneath the horse that pinned him, the assassins attacked, one from the front, the other from the back. Leading with their swords, they jabbed at Rache, careful to let only their blades fall within his reach. A sword in each fist, Rache rolled back and forth, parrying each stroke in a wild frenzy of movement, always keeping as much sword contact as possible. Got to do something. Can’t keep this up all day. Rache’s arm was already growing tired from fighting gravity in a sideways position, and each movement brought a new wave of pain from his leg. He was forced to strike twice as many blows as either opponent, all of them committed, fast, and frenzied.

  I have to change the odds. Rache tensed. As the assassin in front of him stabbed, he waited until the lunge was almost completed before executing a parry that guided his enemy’s blade to the dirt. Instead of blocking the other assassin’s stroke, Rache dodged, smacking his second sword onto the grounded blade. The weapon jarred from the albino’s grip. As Rache whipped around to counter the assassin behind him, he hurled the sword in his right fist. The sword hurtled, spearing through the albino’s gut. The man crumpled, screaming.

  Twisting back, Rache seized the ground sword.

  Weaponless, the remaining assassin backpedaled beyond Rache’s reach.

  Rache followed the man with his eyes, aware the last of the three would not underestimate him. The albino muttered a few words in his strange, guttural language; though spoken at normal volume, the sound muted to a whisper beneath the shrieks of his dying companion. Gently, the uninjured assassin hauled away his friend. The screams faded to moans and howls, then disappeared in the forest.

  Alone, Rache used the tip of one sword to hack at the dirt beneath his writhing horse. Slowly, the earth yielded. But before Rache could chip away a path to his trapped leg, the albino returned, holding his companions’ swords and a handful of rocks.