“What do you want from me?” Rache used the common trading tongue, the most widely spoken second language of the continent.
“I want you dead!” The assassin hurled a sword at Rache.
Having just used the maneuver himself, Rache was prepared. Easily, he parried the weapon in midair, smacking it to the ground in front of him. He retrieved it, aware he might find use for an extra weapon.
“I want you cut into pieces and fed to the ravens.” The albino pitched a rock at Rache’s head, then another.
Rache batted each aside with his sword.
“It no longer matters that I was hired to kill you. You murdered my friends, and you’re going to die.” Another two rocks sailed for Rache in rapid succession.
Rache knocked them aside. He doubted pointing out that the assassins had attacked him, not the other way, would gain him any reprieve, so he did not bother to raise the issue. Usually, he frowned on chatting during combat but this wait and parry technique was slower than crossing swords. “Hired to kill me? Why?”
The assassin made no reply. The remaining rocks spilled from his grip, and a warped smile crossed his features. Turning, he headed for the woods.
Ideas tumbled through Rache’s mind. What’s he going for now? Reinforcements? More things to throw at me? Reversing one of his swords, Rache set back to work burrowing beneath his horse. As its life’s blood trickled into the dirt, the animal’s fight became weaker, its kicks less furious. Rache did not delude himself. For all his sword skill, pinned and crippled, it would only take one boulder to crush him, one bow and a handful of arrows to finish him from a distance.
As the ground loosened, Rache managed to get the edge of his sword against the strap holding his leg to the saddle. Slicing it, he inched free. Movement splashed pain through his back and hips. He bit off a cry, unable to contain the grunt that followed. For an instant, the agony paralyzed him. Pain is anger. Battle rage. Gritting his teeth, Rache chose speed over dignity. Modi! Instead of a controlled crawl, he rolled toward the forest edge, pain flashing white sparks through his mind.
Rache had spun only halfway to the first trees on the edge of the woods when hoofbeats pounded through his ears. Hope rose, but it was guarded. A friend? Another assassin ? Rache twisted for a better look, aware a Northern stranger might be just as apt to rob and finish him as to help him. He caught sight of the albino’s features over the head of a huge, chestnut stallion.
Rache froze, aware he would need to judge his timing well. The odds seemed hopeless, but it never occurred to him to surrender. The only cowardice in battle is dying without giving my enemy the best fight I can. He forced the assassin’s threat of dismemberment from his mind. If I’m condemned to Hel, it won’t be because I died a coward.
The horse galloped toward Rache. Snide, confident, the assassin did not even bother to draw his weapon. The steel shod hooves should serve well enough.
As the horse bore down upon him, Rache rolled, slashing. The albino ripped his mount aside, narrowly evading Rache’s sword stroke. Wiser for the near disaster, he wheeled the beast for another pass.
Rache twisted, bulling through the pain. Tree. I need a tree. The horse can’t gallop through a tree. Awkwardly, he half-rolled, half-slithered behind a pine, working into a sitting position as the assassin laughed.
“Yah, cripple!” The albino made the word sound like the basest insult. “You’ll tire before the horse does. The more trouble you give me, the more pieces I’ll cut you into when this is over.” He awaited a reply.
Rache did not give one, unwilling to waste energy exchanging taunts.
Viciously, the assassin kicked his mount into a gallop. The horse whipped by Rache; this time its legs passed beyond sword range. The assassin’s blade cut for Rache. The Renshai dodged. But before he could resettle himself, the horse made a pass from the opposite direction on the other side of the tree. This time Rache barely dragged himself aside in time. The horse whirled for another attack.
Rache tensed. But the assassin dismounted, casting about the ground as if in search of something. Rache flattened his back against the trunk, tucking his legs to the side. He watched intently as the albino hefted a boulder nearly the size of his head and carefully remounted with it. The horse surged toward Rache. As the gap between them closed, the assassin bowled the rock at Rache.
Rache dodged, too late. The stone caught him square in the chest as the horse raced past. Breath dashed from his lungs. Ribs snapped and impact sprawled him over backward. He screamed, the sound distant. Ringing obliterated the assassin’s cry of triumph. Darkness pressed in from all sides. Strength drained from Rache in a rush, and the swords fell from his grip. Only one spark ignited through Rache’s fading thoughts. To lose consciousness is certain death. Desperation strengthened his resolve. He clawed through the curtain that sapped his senses. Vision returned, slowly, waveringly, then the world came into blinding focus. A charging brown blur bore down on him.
Clutching the tree, Rache hauled himself to his knees. “Modi!” he forced himself to scream aloud. But his reserves were already overdrawn, and the rush of battle madness scarcely powered an urgent lunge for the stirrup. Rache’s fingers closed on leather and fabric, a piece of the saddle in his left hand, the assassin’s pants leg in his right.
Surprised and frightened by the abrupt weight imbalance, the horse jerked to a stop and stiffened. Wildly, it back-stepped, throwing its head up. Tossed off-balance, the assassin tried to counter. Rache seized the moment. Using the strength of arms trained to serve as legs, he climbed the stirrup. Releasing his grip on the assassin’s pants, he caught the man’s belt and yanked. The man tumbled from his seat. An instant later, Rache let go of the saddle and dove on top of the fallen enemy.
Rache pinned the assassin’s sword wrist with his left hand, then drove his right into the man’s nose. Reversing the strike, he ripped his nails through the pale blue eyes.
The assassin screamed, hands clutching at his face. Finding a knife in the white man’s belt, Rache drew, stabbing beneath the ribs and into the diaphragm: once, twice, three times. The screams died to breathless moans. Then the pain Rache had forced aside crushed in on him. Darkness hammered him, unyielding, and Rache scarcely managed to roll off the assassin before he lost consciousness.
* * *
Rache awakened in the gray wash of twilight and with a suddenness that stabbed pain through his entire body. Moaning, he rolled to his stomach and immediately wished he had not. The movement intensified the aches and throbbing, shooting a line of white hot agony along his spine. Each breath jabbed into his lungs. He moaned again.
Gradually, the pain settled into patterns. The dull throb of his left hip and shoulder seemed to come from abrasions. The back pain, though sharp, radiated off-center. Torn muscles. From the double stab of pain that accompanied every inhalation, he guessed two ribs had snapped. And bruises covered his body. Blood smeared his hands, little or none of it his own. Nothing fatal.
Having assessed his injuries, Rache turned his attention to his surroundings. The assassin’s corpse sprawled within reach and the dark lump that was Rache’s horse lay, unmoving, a few lengths beyond the body. Rache’s swords sat beside the pine tree at the edge of the forest, the tip of one resting on the hilt of the other. The assassin’s horse grazed by the roadside, its leg threaded through its own dangling reins.
Rache would have liked to have secured the horse, but the need to limit his movements and conserve strength sent him first to the assassin. He raised the knife, pressing his fingers to the dead man’s neck. No pulse met his touch. Cleaning the blade on the albino’s shirt, Rache slipped the knife into his own belt and rifled the dead man’s pocket. Someone hired him. Maybe I can find out who. His search yielded only a handful of silvers, a mixture of Western and local coinage, and a crudely carved ivory figurine, vaguely man-shaped but lacking ears or hair and with a long, beaklike nose. Rache pocketed what he found, hoping but skeptical that the statuette might serve as a clue.
Professionals. About this, he harbored no doubt. Intelligent, careful plotting, working in threes, and revealing nothing, even when my death seemed a certainty. Leaving the assassin, Rache crawled toward the dead horse. I could hardly expect them to carry a contract with their employer’s name. But why would anyone want me dead badly enough to hire assassins?
No answer came to Rache as he drew up to his horse and levered his supplies from its back. Looping the strap across his shoulder, he wriggled painfully toward his swords. The only recent enemies he could recall making were on the battlefield where hatreds were short-lived and rarely personal. And Garn, of course. The idea made Rache smile, despite his discomfort. Even if Garn could have managed the complexities of hiring assassins, he would never have had the time or opportunity. And if Mitrian is, in fact, with him freely and willingly, she would never have let him. Arriving at the pine tree, Rache jabbed the swords into his sheaths. He headed for the horse. His thoughts seemed to have gone full circle, leaving him tangling with the problems that had so obsessed him as to make him carelessly fall into the assassins’ well-set trap.
But this time, Rache forced his consideration onto the closer danger. Who were these assassins? Though not well-traveled, Rache had gained a reasonable grasp of racial differences from living in Santagithi’s Town where the people came of diverse heritages. He could understand why the Vikerians had mistaken the assassins for Northmen; their fair, almost milky skin, pale eyes and blond hair fit no other racial group so well. But their sun-damaged cheeks suggested they came from a land of warmer weather, their hands seemed smaller and more delicate than the usually beefy-fisted Northmen. Their features were thicker, their noses shorter and broader. Aside from coloring, they seemed more suited to the far West or the East, or perhaps even as far south as Erythane.
Rache reached the horse. It was grazing placidly, having managed to extract its leg from the reins. Without help, heaving the pack to its back and scrambling up to its saddle seemed impossible. He recalled how the beast had panicked when it felt his weight on only one side, but he also remembered that it had frozen rather than bolted. Seizing the reins, he tugged. Unaccustomed to receiving commands from the ground, the animal balked at first. Then, gradually, it allowed itself to be led into the forest, placing its hooves carefully so as not to trample Rache’s trailing legs. Hemmed in by trees, the animal pranced nervously but did not buck or run as Rache clambered up the side flaps and maneuvered himself and the pack into the saddle. He soon had the supplies secured. Trusting his own shifts of balance and the remaining strength in his thighs to keep him in place, Rache slapped the horse into a canter toward the tribal town of Dvaulir.
The delay bore down heavily on Rache’s soul. So close. I almost had Mitrian and Garn. Now they could be anywhere. He realized something more. The survivor from the tavern had run before the battle was finished. A dozen down, still some to go. Maybe Garn or the Northman claiming to be Renshai was killed. Or Mitrian. Rache’s heart skipped a beat, and his lips worried into a frown. None of the possibilities pleased him. Of course, saving Mitrian’s life takes precedence, but Garn is mine. To let anyone else kill him would be a tragedy.
As the mountains flashed past, Rache turned his thoughts to the mysterious Northman. If he is, in fact, Renshai, I should know him. He considered the description the survivor had given. About forty years old. Mentally Rache added fifteen years to account for the Renshai’s racial feature of appearing younger. In his fifties? Possibly sixties. Rache’s frown deepened. The Renshai’s recklessness and joy of battle invariably killed them by early adulthood. Aside from Episte, who had been rumored to be a hundred and, to Rache’s childish assessment had seemed every day his age, the oldest Renshai Rache had known was his master, Colbey, then in his late forties. Excitement suffused Rache as the math worked itself out in his mind. Late forties. Sixteen years later. It can’t be. Of all of my people, Colbey was the one most certainly dead.
Rache forced his mind back in time, contemplating events he had long ago tucked away in a pocket of consciousness he had vowed never to disturb. The tragedy on Devil’s Island had come back to him in flashes too quick to deny and in dream, but never with the detail he called up now. As a boy, he had felt so certain of Colbey’s demise that his adult self never thought to question. Now he remembered that his vision of Colbey on his deathbed came of childish delusion, not fact. Of all the Renshai, Colbey had always been the most audacious. He knew war and nothing else, no responsibilities but those of improving his battle craft and passing the knowledge to his students. In his younger, peaceful days, he would often leave Devil’s Island, using an assumed identity to join distant tribal skirmishes or pirating raids. It was far more likely that he set off on some personal adventure and completely missed the assault on Devil’s Island.
Still, Colbey’s sudden and secretive departure did not seem to fit all the facts. Suspecting he did not have all the information necessary to draw an accurate conclusion, Rache turned his thoughts to Colbey. An image of his childhood hero filled his mind. In spar, the older man’s every movement seemed crisp perfection; he could assess an opponent’s repertoire in a single stroke. Another chance to be trained by the greatest swordsman this world has seen? Rache laughed, afraid to believe his luck. Then his responsibilities shifted to the forefront, and the smile died. I should return home. I need to let Santagithi know Mitrian is in no danger. If she remembered even one of the Renshai maneuvers I taught her, Colbey will accept her as one of us. With Colbey’s protection, Garn can’t hurt her, and neither could half the armies of the West all gathered together. Still, the memory of Santagithi’s last command weighed heavily on him: “If you don’t return with my daughter, don’t return at all.” Surely, Colbey will bring Mitrian home. He’ll want to reunite the Renshai as fully as possible, and Mitrian has no reason to guess I’m anywhere but in her father’s town.
Rache rode on, knowing he needed more information before making secure conclusions. Even the most skilled and agile warrior in the world could fall prey to bad luck, superior numbers, or a well-placed arrow. And, if pressed to his own defense, Colbey could not protect Mitrian, nor would he necessarily try.
Rache’s arrival in Dvaulir forced him to set aside his thoughts. The incident in the tavern had put the town on alert. Three hard-faced soldiers armed with swords and spears met Rache at the border. “Who are you, stranger?” The guard emphasized the last word, giving it the same distasteful pronunciation the assassin had used on “cripple.” “And what do you want here?”
Understanding the Dvaulirians’ caution, Rache took no offense. “My name is Rache.” The survivor’s ride to inform the Vikerians of the events in the tavern suggested the two tribes were allies, at least for now. “I’m coming from Vikerin. I’m a blood brother to their Nordmirian captain, Valr Kirin.”
The guards’ expressions softened, but they remained rigid and at attention.
“Did the enemies who attacked your tavern escape?”
The guard who had spoken nodded curtly. “Yes.”
“Do you have men to spare for the chase?”
“No.” One of the others answered forcefully, as if awaiting the question. “Not this close to harvest.”
Rache guessed the unspoken part of the Dvaulirian’s assertion. The loss of fifteen warriors would sorely weaken a tribe as small as the Dvaulir. In the North, where allies and enemies changed almost as frequently as the seasons, further weakening the village by sending more fighting men in pursuit would be madness. Rache could almost picture the leaders of neighboring tribes drawing straws to see who would get the privilege of attacking Dvaulir while its soldiers rode after a Renshai. “I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about what direction they might have gone in or which pathways to try or to avoid.” Rache felt the Dvaulirians deserved an explanation. “You see, the dark-haired man is an escaped slave and. . . .”
The guard cut in with a brisk gesture of his spear. “A gladiator. Yes, we know all that.”
T
he remainder of the description died in Rache’s throat. Did one of the Vikerians ride off ahead to tell them about me? He shook his head, believing King Tenja would have had the courtesy to inform him. “Who told you?”
“A group of Westerners came by soon after the murderers left. We spoke with their leader. He told us everything.”
Confusion rode Rache and a sense of discomfort, the source of which he dared not consider too carefully. Aware of the dangers of an invalid conclusion, he questioned further. “Could you describe this leader?”
The guard studied Rache, as if trying to read the intent behind the inquiry. Then, apparently deciding to trust a Northerner over a foreigner, he responded. “Dark, curly hair, muddy eyes, strange features. He had a mustache but no beard.” He seemed amused by the combination.
Nantel. Horror rose first. The fool will get all his men killed. He could imagine Nantel attacking Garn, and Colbey slicing down Santagithi’s guards in twos and threes, believing them enemies. Then outrage quivered in Rache’s chest, flaring to wild anger. His face went hot, his features tightened, and he felt certain his cheeks had flamed to red. “Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth. Savagely, he jerked his horse’s head around, not wanting to subject the Dvaulirians to rage that was not their due. The animal wheeled with a startled snort, almost unseating him. The near-fall only fueled Rache’s rage. Santagithi sent Nantel! Quickly, Rache reined into the mountains, out of the Northmen’s sight, but not before his thighs clamped the horse so tightly, the little feeling left in his legs disappeared, the reins bit into the hollows of his knuckles, and his nails gouged into his palms.
Santagithi sent Nantel. Nantel! After sixteen years, this is the trust I get. Rache threw back his head, howling his frustration, hearing the echoes reverberate from the cliff faces. “Damn you!” He screamed the words so loud, they burned his throat, his broken ribs stabbing his lungs. Pain only enraged him further. “May all the gods damn you to Hel!” Seared by his general’s treachery, he wanted to mean the words, but he could not. Too much affection had grown between Rache and his adopted home to degenerate into hatred in an instant, too much devotion to the town, too much love for its folk and respect for its leader. So now the truth comes out. Let’s all pity the poor, helpless cripple. Gods, Santagithi. Of all people, I thought you understood. But now I see it was all a lie, a game to you. Humor the dumb, pathetic invalid, then stab him in the back.
The Last of the Renshai Page 32