Arduwyn sprang to his feet with a cry that mixed amazement with pain. “How could you . . . ? Why did you let me say . . . ?” Unable to finish a sentence, he whirled and ran into the woods.
“Ardy?” Mitrian rose, wishing she had phrased her disclosure more gently. To try to follow and explain would be folly; he could move through the woods far more quietly and quickly than she. She tried to put herself in Arduwyn’s position. How would I feel if I just spent the evening calling his heritage savage and evil, and he waited until I finished before telling me where he’s from? Mitrian winced at the thought. It did not matter that she had only known Arduwyn a little over a day. She liked him. Friends don’t treat friends that way. Somehow I’ve got to let him know I didn’t mean any harm. There’s no way I can find him. I’ll just have to hope he comes back.
An image flashed through Mitrian’s mind, of Arduwyn running ahead to warn the farm villages and larger towns that dotted the Westlands so they could meet the Renshai with warriors. With no means to stop him, she put the idea from her mind. The conversation with Arduwyn had focused her thoughts enough to clarify the issue and her options. I had placed all my hopes and beliefs on the act of defiance Shadimar mentioned. The act itself was simple, surrendering to one of the most natural and beautiful urges of mankind. The point of decision is now, and the difficulty comes from making a choice not only for myself but for my son. Mitrian sat again. As far as her friendship with Arduwyn, she could only wait for him to make the next move and apologize profusely when he did. For now, she needed to concentrate on her child while the issues remained vivid in her mind.
Only two of the options make sense. I either return home and credit the baby to Listar or I stay with Garn and Colbey. The Renshai’s teachings beckoned, nearly as strongly as her love of home and family. Her relationship with Garn and his right to see his own baby further skewed the decision, but Mitrian banished these biases to consider the welfare of the coming baby. A quiet life as the blacksmith’s son or the wild, ruthless glory of the Renshai. It was the sort of choice the boy should make for himself, but Mitrian knew the decision needed to be made long before his birth. She took scant comfort from the fact that every man and woman is born to some lifestyle and heritage, never of their own choosing. I don’t want my child to die young. The choice should have been easy, but Mitrian could not shake Rache’s words to her father outside her window: “You may want a pretty flower that just sits there, but you don’t have one. Mitrian is every bit your daughter. . . . If you don’t go out looking for death, you never find life.” Chances are a child of Garn and myself won’t be content to sit at home working a bellows and crafting barrel hoops. Can I deny him the chance to become the best trained swordsman in the world as the price for his mother’s love?
Mitrian curled her legs to her chest. Life used to seem so simple when the most difficult decision she needed to make was how to coerce her father’s sword master and archery captain into teaching her their skills. If I’m going to consider inflicting a Northern heritage upon my child, I won’t do it in ignorance. Seeking answers, Mitrian seized the hilt of her sword. She felt nothing, but she knew the demon was there, hovering, waiting for a chance at battle.
Mitrian concentrated on putting her questions into words. “How much of what Arduwyn told me is truth?”
The demon’s presence swelled through Mitrian’s mind, as if to read the impressions left by Arduwyn’s words. Most of it, the demon admitted, a trace of pride leaking through the contact. Renshai have no magic, and the only human blood I tasted was my own after a blow to the face. The rest seems apt enough, taken from a Westerner’s point of view. Renshai tend to mature slowly. It’s just a racial feature, like blond hair and fair skin. We all die young in battle, and, by custom, we name newborns for warriors who recently found Valhalla. Put together, I could see where the Westerners might think we never age. It’s so easy to blame the unknown on demons, so much simpler to explain skill by magic than by superior effort and dedication.
The demon’s use of present tense, as if the Renshai still lived and ruled by violence intrigued Mitrian. She wanted to ask about demons, but she stuck with the more important issues. “And the claims that the Renshai are merciless, cruel, and lacking honor? That’s all true?”
Anger blazed through Mitrian’s mind, its source wholly alien. So easy, the demon said, apparently to himself because he continued in a different vein. Men, Mitrian, by nature are creatures of Law. The Renshai have an honor stronger than that of any other people I have met, just different. What makes honor virtuous is sticking to its tenets while your enemies defy them. A man who dies fighting with his ethics and principles intact dies in glory. To expect your enemies to follow the same code of honor defiles that honor, reducing it to a set of arbitrary rules.
The demon paused, allowing Mitrian time to absorb his words before continuing. True, the Renshai grant no quarter in combat; a brave warrior worthy of Valhalla would never beg for mercy. It is true we demoralized Northmen by hacking apart their corpses and sending them to Hel, taking all glory from their battles; but a courageous opponent who proved worthy of the fight was always left intact. Renshai honor comes from battling with nothing but our bodies and our swords. Biting, kicking, spitting all fit within the tenets of that honor. We announce ourselves when we attack, and we rely on nothing but our own skill. We never ask our opponents to fight without armor or only with swords. Nor do we complain when their cowards kill us from a distance with arrows or their scouts quietly stab us, unannounced and from behind. Honor, Mitrian, is relative. All manner of men, from the most righteous Northman to the most decadent Easterner follows a code of his people. Odin saw to that when he banished Magic and its creatures, its demons, to another world.
Mitrian could not help targeting the demon’s last revelation. “So magic is . . . ?” She trailed off, allowing him to finish her sentence.
Formless, chaotic. Lacking honor, as you said.
“And demons?”
Creatures from the world of Magic. Apparently catching Mitrian’s train of thought, the demon clarified. I’m not a demon in the true sense. I was a man once, a Renshai whose name died with me since I can never find Valhalla. But I only exist because of magic, so I suppose I’m a demon in that sense.
Mitrian recalled the description of the Eastern king who was destined to begin the Great War.
The demon answered before Mitrian could put her inquiry into words. My knowledge is limited to what I knew before the Wizard placed my soul in the gems, the information I’ve gleaned about magic, and what the Wizards have told me about the Renshai. But the chances that this general is a demon are so remote as to be impossible. Demons are too unpredictable, too ephemeral to unite or lead themselves or men. Even the Cardinal Wizards can scarcely control demons for more than short periods of time.
Realizing the topic had deviated from her decision, Mitrian released the hilt. The demon’s presence disappeared, leaving her to her own thoughts. There was still much she did not understand, but one thing seemed certain. I’m going to make an informed choice. Before I subject my child to it, I’m going to undergo Colbey’s training myself. At the least, the old Renshai can prepare me for the battle Shadimar promised. At the worst, I can refuse the training for my son. Strengthened by her decision, Mitrian sprang down from the rock and headed for life as a Golden-Haired Devil.
CHAPTER 14
Mountain Man
A dark line of clouds rolled over the moon, bringing the threat of rain and compressing the camp to the thick ball of illumination supplied by the campfire. Mitrian emerged from the woods to find Colbey and Garn arranging hare meat on the flames. Both men looked up at her approach.
A pained look crossed Garn’s face, and he stood. “I’ll get more wood.” Turning away from Mitrian, he trotted to a glade on the opposite side of the crags and disappeared into the gloom.
Mitrian winced, aware she would need to win back Garn’s trust. But, for now, she had another matter to att
end to. She fixed Colbey with the hardest stare she could muster. “Fine. Teach me.”
Colbey rose. No expression touched his features, but his blue-gray eyes mirrored a cruelty beyond anything she had known. Despite Mitrian’s attempt at ferocity, it was she who looked away as the Northman spoke. “I want you to understand something. Rache and I will certainly have different methods of teaching.”
Recalling Rache’s descriptions of his teacher, Mitrian nodded. The words “brutal,” “uncompromising,” and “intimidating” came to mind along with the phrase “hard as flint and half as human.” But Mitrian also remembered that Rache always maintained a deep respect for his teacher and spoke of him in a tone of reverence. Could Colbey really be the same man?
If Colbey read Mitrian’s thoughts, he gave no indication. “Doubtless, Rache was easier than I will be. He taught you simpler maneuvers, and he didn’t have the time constraints of a growing baby and a coming war. This is going to be the most frustrating, difficult, annoying thing you’ve ever done in your life. And that’s the way it should be.”
Again, Mitrian nodded. She kneaded her sword hilt, but the demon seemed as interested in Colbey’s words as she was.
The clouds bunched tighter, hemming in the firelight. A light drizzle fell, each droplet a cold touch on Mitrian’s face. “For tonight, I need to get to know you and your repertoire,” Colbey said, reaching for her weapon. “Let me see your sword.”
Assailed with doubts, Mitrian hesitated, hand looped over the crossguard. Will Colbey recognize the magic? The demon ? Does its power go against the same Renshai honor that causes them . . . us . . . to shun armor, defeating enemies with nothing but individual skill? Bereft of alternatives, Mitrian drew and surrendered her sword. Shadimar did claim it as the only magic sword currently in existence. How could Colbey know? But then, how could Colbey have known about the baby?
Rain pattered on the steel while Colbey studied the blade, glancing along the sharpened edges, testing the balance by its feel in his hands.
Mitrian held her breath.
Colbey returned the weapon. “Very nice.” Turning, he chose a position within the circle of firelight devoid of rock outcroppings or ledges. He kicked aside a few loose stones to open a practice area confined by cliffs. “Show me what you know.” He faced Mitrian, drawing his sword.
Mitrian chose her favorite disarming maneuver, Gerlinr, the one she had mastered in Rache’s cottage. She lunged for Colbey, whipping her sword at his abdomen. Colbey blocked. Reversing her grip, Mitrian looped her blade in an outside sweep, then cut up for Colbey’s fingers. Colbey dodged. His free hand licked out, catching Mitrian’s hilt below her hand. He pivoted, continuing her stroke, and wrenched the hilt from her grip. Completing the spin, he brought his own sword into a defensive position, slashing hers high. Mitrian leapt backward, too late. Her blade in Colbey’s fist whisked over her head, raising the hairs in the breeze of its passage.
Smiling, Colbey returned Mitrian’s sword, obviously pleased, though Mitrian could not understand the cause. He took that sword from me like a branch from an infant. Apparently, he had seen potential in what she hoped was her skill but suspected was her audacity at choosing a disarming maneuver against a swordsman of his skill.
Colbey did not reveal his reasons. “Try again,” he said.
This time, Mitrian sacrificed flashiness for practicality. She sprang, executing an overhead strike. Colbey blocked with his crossguard, smacking her blade to the left. Before she could think to stop him, he had his grip behind hers on the wolf’s head hilt. Again, he flicked her sword from her hand into his own. A weapon in each fist, he crouched, held the position momentarily, then tossed back Mitrian’s sword. “Again,” was all he said.
Mitrian caught her hilt, her manner now wholly cautious. She circled, always moving, seeking an opening. Colbey stood still, casual and relaxed, though his gaze followed her every motion. He seemed bored, and his lapse sparked rage in her. Mitrian felt slow and cumbersome, like a possum attacking a lynx. I’ll have him this time. I just need patience.
Suddenly, Colbey’s sword flipped upward. Mitrian raised her sword instinctively to block. Colbey’s blade spun back down. Its flat tapped her thigh. “Don’t just stand there.” Colbey’s voice emerged as an angry roar. “The first rule of fighting: You always attack! The best defense is to have your opponent bleeding on the ground. Then you’re safe. You never stand there. You always attack!”
Enraged, Mitrian thrust for Colbey before he finished speaking. He blocked to the outside and caught her sword arm at the wrist. A pivot step brought him close enough so his shoulder touched hers. He spun, dragging her into a circle that drove her, facedown, into the stone. Mitrian dropped the sword, rolled and scrambled to her feet, weaponless once more.
Colbey finished his speech without missing a beat. “If you don’t know how to use the sword, if you make mistakes, you can learn. But I can’t teach boldness. If you’re too much of a coward to strike, I can’t help you.”
The practice continued as the rain drove down. Repeatedly, Mitrian attacked; and, each time, Colbey either left her dumbfounded or lying on the ground with him holding both swords, never disarming her the same way twice. At length, he called a halt to the exercise. “Fine, I think you’ve learned your lesson about taking a sword away from an opponent. Now, we’ll just spar for a bit.”
Mitrian bit her lip, not allowing herself to show the concern raised by Colbey’s suggestion. So far, he had simply defended and still made her look like a child. How could she hope to stand against a mixture of offense and block?
But, having imparted one important lesson, Colbey seemed content to exchange a series of strikes, assessing Mitrian’s skills at various heights and angles. At times, he thrust his blade along her side or beneath her armpit, slapped her with its flat or whisked it over her head to demonstrate breaches in her defense. Rain soaked Mitrian, plastering her hair to her forehead. Then she found an opportunity for a wild overhead stroke. Her blade slammed toward Colbey’s head. Instead of blocking with his usual agility, he went still, completely opening his defenses.
Horrified, Mitrian pulled the blow, her blade hovering a hand’s breadth over his head.
Colbey’s pale cheeks flushed scarlet. His crosspiece crashed onto Mitrian’s blade hard enough to drive her hilt into her hand, loosening her grip. Colbey seized her sword in his free hand, tore it from her hold, and hurled it at her feet. “If you’re not going to use the sword the way it was meant to be used, let it lie in the dirt until somebody picks it up who’s willing to use it! You never pull a blow! If this had been a real fight, you should have split me to the chin.” He indicated the path of the blade through his head. “Every time you draw that sword, it’s a real fight. If that’s as seriously as you’re going to take my teaching, to Hel with you! Go back to your goddamned town. We don’t need another Renshai to die.”
Colbey’s tirade astounded Mitrian. “But,” she gasped. “But I didn’t want to hit you. How can you teach me if you’re dead?”
Colbey threw up his arms in annoyance. “You didn’t commit to any of your blows. Do you think I’m dumb enough to open my head to a cut I know is going to fall?” He jabbed his sword into its sheath. “So not only do you think I’m old, you think I’m stupid. I saw you weren’t finishing any of your blows. I knew your sword would stop. I even knew where it would stop.”
From around a fringe of wet hair, Mitrian stared at her sword on the ground.
“At first, you don’t attack. Whenever you do swing, you don’t put enough effort into the blows to cut through one of those rabbits.” He indicated the fire, protected from the rain by an overhang. Mitrian followed his gesture naturally, and noticed that Garn had returned and was sitting on a nearby rock, listening intently. “Rache might have taught you some things. But there’s one thing he didn’t teach you, and that’s how to use the damned sword. To hit, you have to swing. You’re not giving haircuts. You’re trying to kill people. Think about what
would have happened in that bar if you had pulled your blows.” Shaking his head in disgust, Colbey started toward the fire. He tossed one last warning over his shoulder. “If you ever do that again, I’m going to take your sword away, break it, and give you a stick instead.”
Tears welled in Mitrian’s eyes. Soaked, tired, and humiliated, she crossed the clearing and took the seat beside Garn, leaving Colbey to tend the hares.
Garn seemed to take no notice of Mitrian. His gaze remained fixed on Colbey in silent wonder.
Guilt tightened in Mitrian’s chest. Her night with Garn seemed like an eternity ago; so much had happened in the last few days. In her life, she had met only two men she knew she could grow to love: Rache and Garn. Yet since she and Garn had made love, she had dismissed him as less than human in much the same way as her father and his guards had done. I know how special, how different Garn is. Yet when the time came to think of permanence and eternity, I barely considered him fit to raise his own child. The thoughts came easily to Mitrian’s mind, but the lingering discomfort of Colbey’s chastisement kept words at bay. Unable to verbalize her apology, Mitrian draped an arm across Garn’s shoulders and snuggled closer. He had changed into the tunic and britches Arduwyn had purchased in Dvaulir. Garn smelled pleasantly of evergreens and clean, wet leather, and he felt warm against her despite the rain-soaked fabric.
For some time, Mitrian and Garn sat together in a quiet broken only by the sizzle of droplets on flame and the crackle of twigs as Colbey shifted the rabbits in the fire. Finally, Garn spoke. “You know, he’s right.”
Expecting something soothing and romantic, Mitrian found Garn’s words nonsensical. She met his gaze. “What are you talking about? Who’s right?”
“Colbey’s right. You shouldn’t have pulled your strokes. Any of them.”
Mitrian let her hand slide down Garn’s back to the ground. “But it was just a spar.”
The Last of the Renshai Page 35