The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Garn shrugged. “Colbey killed nine warriors, starting bare-handed, and he wants to be your teacher. You couldn’t hurt him in his sleep.” Despite Garn’s bold denial of a life of violence, his tone betrayed a tinge of jealousy. “If he’s really your teacher and you kill him, fine. He wasn’t such a good teacher then, was he?”

  Mitrian threw up her hands in dismay. She could understand Garn’s attitude; he would have considered destroying his teacher a triumph. But his words sounded like cold savagery, and she wanted him to grasp her more cultivated viewpoint. “I like Colbey. I want him to become a friend as a well as a teacher. I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Hurt him?” Garn’s features went slack, revealing no emotion. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he drew Mitrian against him before the smile formed. She felt him quiver rhythmically against her in quiet laughter.

  * * *

  Rain lashed Arduwyn between twisted scrub pines and locust, the droplets pelting the leaves like drumbeats. The raggedly sparse mountain forest gave the little hunter scant shelter from the storm, and the paucity of trees made him feel open and naked. Usually, he preferred facing his strongest emotions alone; but this time his seclusion brought no solace. Water trickled coldly beneath his cloak and shirt. His heart felt heavy, and he was uncertain exactly who or what he missed.

  Stubs. Arduwyn tried to place the blame for his discomfort on having left his donkey with Renshai. But his hatred would not rise against the Golden-Haired Devils who had ravaged the Westlands, and his people, decades before his birth. As much as he tried to deny his attraction, he had found a certain charm in Garn’s strange combination of brutality and naiveté. Mitrian’s forthrightness and her concern for an escaped slave who, if nothing else, understood survival was touching, and she displayed an innocence that in some ways eclipsed Garn’s own. Sheltered, Arduwyn decided. Each in a different way. And then there was Colbey.

  Arduwyn shivered. Confident, competent, and merciless, the Northman typified nearly every story of Renshai the hunter had ever heard. Yet Arduwyn also felt oddly, almost irresistibly drawn to Colbey, like a moth to flame. Unlike the insect, Arduwyn pondered his lethal fascination, wading through his own awe and fear to discover a dangerous charisma he could only attribute to magic. Only Colbey’s whitening hair and creased features did not fit the tales of Renshai remaining forever young, yet age did not hamper him. Colbey moved with more agility and grace than a warrior in his prime.

  Clouds blotted out the moon and stars. The rain pounded harder, a constant musical assault upon the leaves and stone. Arduwyn hunched deeper into the folds of his cloak, scanning the cliff face for an overhang or cave that might provide protection. The crags of the Granite Hills seemed like an endless shadow. Arduwyn sighed and kept moving, his mother’s words churning through his mind to the rhythm of the rain: “There comes a time when everyone needs friends. You have to learn to be nicer to people.” She had spoken the words to Arduwyn since early childhood, meaning well, suffixing each repetition with suggestions to make him a better, more likable person. Her advice had its benefits and its price. Arduwyn had learned to give people what they wanted and to tell them what they wished to hear. It had made him a salesman of considerable skill, the type of man to whom people took an instant liking. But in the long run, it always came down to the same thing: Arduwyn preferred the forests to human company. And in the characteristic way of humans, rather than believe Arduwyn loved the woodlands more, his friends would always assume he loved them less.

  Arduwyn clambered along a narrow ledge of stone, avoiding an open meadow for the shielding bulk of a hill. Oddly, his desire for solitude and the forest came from a father who placed family and country above both. A successful hunter and exemplary bowman, Arduwyn’s father had taught his oldest son the wonders of archery and the Erythanian forests, showing him the natural formations of stone and tree and the simple logic of its animals. It was not enough to demonstrate deer paths and tracks, he indicated the locations of drinking holes, briar beds, fields and vegetation that led the animals to choose their route. The father opened a world few men understood; the son took the teachings one step further. He learned to move silently through brush, how wolves selected their quarry from a herd, and why the doe charged off, leaving her scentless fawn utterly still and unguarded. And Arduwyn’s single-minded dedication turned him into a far better archer than his father.

  Now Arduwyn cringed, hating the memories that followed. Unconsciously, he slid an arrow from his quiver, running a finger along the faded crest. He recalled when a lone buck had come to the forests of Erythane, its fur white as a hen’s egg. For two years, Arduwyn had followed it, fascinated by its choices, seeing himself in the way it remained alone, without challenging the structure of the herds. Then someone else had seen the animal, and the king of Erythane decided its pelt would bring him luck. Arduwyn and others had tried to argue that the buck was a gift from the gods, a symbol of fortune that should be left alive and free, but to no avail. For the previous eight years, the high king, Morhane, who had overthrown his brother, Valar, in neighboring Béarn, had stifled the Erythanian ruler’s power. In some twisted manner, the Erythanian king saw the permanence of that deer on his courtroom wall as a symbol of his own mastery, a demonstration of the small amount of control King Morhane had left him over his own country.

  Rivulets trickled down Arduwyn’s forehead, trailing wet strands of copper-colored hair. He pressed against the rocky hillside, his search for shelter more intense. He recalled how the king had offered a generous reward that sent hunters of all abilities streaming into the Erythanian forests. Arduwyn had avoided most of them, springing traps that posed a danger to men or those that might maim creatures without holding them. He found deer injured by wild shots that had crawled away to die. These he finished, bringing the meat and fur home to feed and clothe his multitude of siblings. The white deer changed its haunts and pathways, and it remained at liberty.

  Failure only fueled the Erythanian king’s desire for the white buck. He had gathered the finest archers, hounds, and horses for a hunt. Arduwyn was among those called to a challenge and reward he could not resist, even if the king had given him a choice.

  Now in rain-soaked hills far east of his birth home, Arduwyn remembered how the hunters had quibbled over dogs and horses while he spent his days, as always, in the forest. He had freed the instincts men bury, traipsing the forest like a wild thing. Gradually, he found the buck again. Its natural movements and haunts became his. As the days passed, he learned. When the time of the hunt came, Arduwyn did not ride among the other archers. Instead, he chose a likely site and listened to the distant baying of the pack, knowing he waited in the path of the fleeing animal. He kept an arrow nocked to the string of his bow.

  The deer had not disappointed Arduwyn. Before the morning sun shifted westward, the buck bounded toward him, its snowy coat speckled with mud. A frothing hound panted at its heels, and Arduwyn could see the mounted hunters still some distance behind. The deer tensed as it sensed Arduwyn’s presence. It halted abruptly, so close Arduwyn could have touched its trembling forelegs. In the instant before the hound sprang for its flank, its eyes met Arduwyn’s. Russet and soft, they seemed almost human. Before he could think, Arduwyn aimed and shot. The arrow flew straight, piercing the hound’s eye. The dog collapsed in a bloodless heap, and the buck disappeared into the forest, never to be seen in Erythane again.

  Arduwyn veered around a jagged outcropping, mind filled with the memory of a panicked run home, aware the other hunters had witnessed his act of treason. The king’s guards had come, demanding his head, and, fortunately, they had taken the rest of Arduwyn with it. Though quiet, his three days in the gray dampness of the dungeons nearly drove him mad for one last glimpse of the sun and trees, but it only made him certain of the appropriateness of his actions. He had spared the deer a similar fate or worse.

  The ugliness of the purgings in Béarn had left the Erythanian king with a softer sense of just
ice. Rather than claiming Arduwyn’s life, the king chose to banish him, allowing the hunter to take one item of value. He had selected his donkey, Stubs, and never regretted the decision. The animal worked willingly, never betraying him or haranguing him over the time he spent in the woods. She was simply Stubs.

  And I left her in the hands of Renshai. Arduwyn sighed, aware his thoughts had come full circle. Renshai. He shook his head, splashing water over his face. The claim seemed ludicrous. The Renshai had left the West forty years ago, and the Northmen were rumored to have destroyed the tribe more than a decade and a half ago. Still, there seemed little doubt Colbey was exactly what he claimed to be. But Mitrian? Arduwyn considered her dark hair, Western features and speech patterns doubtfully. Is this some sort of new cause, a group that uses the Renshai name to inspire fear? He thought of the cult that had sprung up in the last decade near Pudar at Corpa Leukenya. Its priests had seemed to come from nowhere, albinos with guttural accents who worshiped a god with a man’s body and a bird’s head. Their alienness had created a sense of danger that drew Pudar’s rebellious youths until the temple held more Westerners than albinos. Is this Renshai claim the same thing ? A crazed but charismatic Northman recruiting outsiders to revive the Renshai tenets of violence?

  Arduwyn frowned at his own conclusion. Mitrian seemed too kind and peaceful to join an organization solely for the purpose of wreaking havoc on innocents. If Colbey’s intention was to start such an organization, it seemed far more logical to enlist Garn. One thing seemed certain. I have to return. I won’t abandon Stubs out of fear. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out Mitrian’s garnet. I’ve never cheated anyone out of money, and I’m not going to get a reputation for it now. I either have to keep my promise or return Mitrian’s gem. And though slower to admit it to himself, Arduwyn felt drawn to a couple he already considered his friends and a Northman who fascinated as well as frightened him.

  Arduwyn thought of families like his own scattered throughout the Westlands, the host of children who would die if Colbey followed the violent way of his people. I need to warn the Westlands. Don’t I?

  Even as the conclusion arose and Arduwyn accepted the responsibility, he spotted the dark mouth of a cave against the cliff face to his left. Relieved for even this rude shelter, he stepped inside.

  The rain disappeared to a rattle on the outer stone. Warmer air swirled through the confines, an unexpected luxury whose source Arduwyn did not try to guess. The air smelled of damp and moss. Beneath it, he caught a whiff of stale smoke, but attributed the odor to his own clothing. Shivering, he shed bow and quiver, then spread his cloak to dry. A glimpse of movement from deeper in the cave caught his eye.

  Startled, Arduwyn snatched up his bow, deftly fitting an arrow to the string. A shadow lumbered toward him on two legs, its indistinct outline revealing a furry torso and a dark mane. A bear? Arduwyn hesitated, uncertain, training the arrow on the beast’s neck. “Don’t move,” he shouted, hoping his voice might frighten it.

  The creature went still, though whether because of Arduwyn’s words or coincidence he could not guess. As his eyes adjusted to almost total darkness, details became visible. He faced the largest man he had ever seen. The tangled mane and coarse hair covering the stranger’s face were the man’s own. The remainder of his fur he had gotten from animals. He took another step toward the cave entrance.

  Arduwyn stepped back, catching his heel on his discarded cloak. He stumbled, fought for balance, then fell to his knees. The arrow slipped from his fingers, clattering on the stone floor. Hastily, he retrieved it, fitting its notch back to the string as he scrambled to his feet.

  The bearlike man’s laughter rumbled through the cave. Apparently, he judged Arduwyn’s competence by his most recent display.

  Arduwyn flushed, lowering his bow, though he kept the arrow trapped on its rest with a finger. He had heard of barbarian tribes living in the forests further south but had never come upon any. He knew some of those tribes were violent toward strangers, but this lone man seemed harmless enough. “Hello,” he said in the Western trading tongue. “I’m called Arduwyn.”

  The black-haired man did not answer, nor did his actions reflect any understanding. He made a benign gesture that seemed to indicate Arduwyn should follow, then turned and headed around a bend in the cave.

  Arduwyn considered. The huge stranger’s laughter had sounded amiable. Now aware the cave was occupied, Arduwyn realized the smoke he smelled came from a campfire deeper inside. Its warmth beckoned. He glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance where the rain hammered stone. I can always run. Turning back, he found the stranger had disappeared around the corner. Cautiously, Arduwyn returned the arrow to its quiver, draped the bow over his shoulder and shuffled forward.

  When Arduwyn turned the corner, he discovered the man sitting on piled skins before the fire. A woven basket lay beside the stranger’s thick knees. Behind him, a chipped, steel-bladed ax stood propped against the back wall.

  “Hello,” Arduwyn tried again.

  In response, the huge stranger proffered the basket. Purple juice stained the intertwined boughs, and berries nearly filled it. Some berries lay broken open to reveal meat lighter than their skins.

  Is he deaf and mute? Arduwyn accepted a fistful of berries out of politeness. But when he popped them into his mouth, the rich mixture of sweet and sour fruit reminded him he had not eaten since breakfast. Perhaps he’s just deaf or mute. Arduwyn frowned at his assumption. The stranger lacked the mannerisms Arduwyn associated with hearing loss; he did not focus on Arduwyn’s lips to determine when he spoke or to try to interpret the words. Neither did the stranger exaggerate his gestures. Apparently, he lives alone. Maybe he just never learned the proper social conventions.

  The huge man seized a handful of berries and crammed them into his own mouth. Arduwyn watched him chew, looking for evidence of awkwardness, something to indicate the stranger had an abnormality of his tongue or palate. But the bearlike man ate with a casual ease, despite a trickle of purple juice that twined through his beard. He offered the basket to Arduwyn again.

  “Thank you.” Arduwyn accepted more berries. A language problem ? He sifted through his knowledge as the huge man continued eating. Raised on the Western tongue spoken in the towns west and south of Pudar, Arduwyn also knew the trading tongue fluently and enough Northern to impress the few Northmen who had come by the stands he had helped work in Pudar. People east of the Great Frenum Mountains had a language of their own, but few Westlanders knew any of its words. The stranger did not look swarthy enough to be a misplaced Easterner. Arduwyn ate thoughtfully, one or two berries at a time. Aside from the possibility that this silent mountain men was a barbarian with only a tribal language, Arduwyn knew the stranger most likely spoke the trading tongue.

  Clearing his throat, Arduwyn met the stranger’s large, dark eyes. “Can you understand me?”

  A grin split the black beard covering the man’s face. He nodded once.

  A breakthrough. Arduwyn continued on the same tack. “You can.”

  No reply. The dark-haired man munched another handful of berries.

  Frustrated Arduwyn considered. So far, the stranger had reacted only to a direct question. “Can you speak?”

  The man nodded again.

  Arduwyn awaited the natural verbal response that should follow. When none came, he smiled, studying his companion. Despite his size, the hermit seemed harmless. Huge eyes sat, widely-spaced, across a broad, straight nose. A pink glow fanned chubby cheeks. He kept his hands clasped shyly in his lap, his legs tucked beneath him. All right. Let’s try a query that can’t take a yes or no answer. “What’s your name?” Realizing that would only require one word, Arduwyn added, “And why do you live alone in a cave?”

  “Me Sterrane,” the man announced proudly. “And this home.”

  The gigantic man’s childish voice and manner nearly made Arduwyn laugh. He bit his cheeks, and several moments passed before he found enough control to spe
ak. Even then, he only managed to say, “Very nice, Sterrane.”

  Sterrane grabbed his ankles and rocked in place, looking even more infantile.

  The warmth of the fire slowly penetrated Arduwyn’s soaked shirt and britches. Its comfort made him feel sleepy, and Sterrane’s gentle manner threw him further off his guard. The mystery of a hermit in the mountains had drawn Arduwyn’s attention from his troubles. He accepted the challenge of initiating a conversation, hoping for a longer respite from the discomfort that had haunted him since Colbey announced his tribe. And this feeble-minded innocent deserves to know he has Renshai near his door. “Pleased to meet you, Sterrane. You might want to stay in your home, your cave, a few days.”

  Sterrane said nothing, but he went still and looked at Arduwyn quizzically.

  “There’s a Northman out there who may cause some trouble. I don’t know that he’d hurt you, but better to stay out of his way.”

  “Northman?” Sterrane repeated.

  Arduwyn leaned closer conspiratorially. “He claims to be Renshai.”

  “Renshai.” Sterrane lumbered to his feet. “Renshai? Where?”

  Arduwyn pointed vaguely northward. “Camped at the forest’s edge.”

  “Renshai.” Sterrane snatched up his ax and ran halfway to the mouth of the cave before Arduwyn realized he had moved.

  Terror ground through Arduwyn, and he realized his mistake. Firfan’s bow! The idiot is going to challenge Colbey by himself. He sprang to his feet, chasing after Sterrane, pausing only to gather his cloak from the jagged floor. “Wait. Wait, Sterrane! You can’t go. . . .”

  Sterrane disappeared into the rain and darkness, and Arduwyn stumbled after him. Colbey will hack Sterrane apart. Thoughts tumbled over one another. What if Sterrane goes into some blind rage and kills Mitrian? Arduwyn skidded through the cave mouth, listening for some sign of passage. But Sterrane’s shy awkwardness seemed to have vanished. Despite night’s blackness obscuring the crags, he moved swiftly and nearly in silence. Arduwyn caught a glimpse of a hand as Sterrane headed northward. He followed, mostly from memory of his route.