The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  When Rache still did not speak, Peusen began his explanation. “I apologize for trailing you, though I hope I wasn’t quite as loud as a whole pack of sniveling cowards.” He smiled at the jest.

  Rache made no reply. Recalling Valr Kirin’s talk of Peusen’s bold promise to unite an army of cripples and outcasts, Rache had a good idea why Peusen had come. As confusion dispersed, wrath and despair seeped back into Rache’s consciousness with anger uppermost.

  In the face of Rache’s hostile silence, Peusen’s grin wilted. “My scouts located you in one of the farm towns a few months ago.” He gestured eastward. “It took time for the message to get to me, more time for others to track you and then for me to find you. I only caught up with you today.”

  Vultures, Rache thought. But still, he had to admit Peusen seemed to have organized an impressive network of spies.

  “Let me explain what I stand for, Rache—” He paused, waiting for Rache to fill in his surname and tribe.

  The conversation had gone far enough for Rache. Without bothering to try to recall the lies he had told to satisfy the Vikerian king of his heritage, he jabbed his sword back into its sheath. “Save your breath, Raskogsson. I know exactly what you stand for, and I’m not interested.”

  “You’re not?” Peusen sounded more matter-of-fact than surprised.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then perhaps you don’t know what I stand for after all. Let me explain.”

  “I’ll free you from the effort.” Wanting to be alone, Rache channeled his anger against the Northman. “I know who you are. I’m blood brother to Kirin.”

  Peusen’s brows rose in interest, but he did not interrupt.

  “You’re mustering an army of disabled soldiers to try to show up those who maligned you.” In his rage, Rache did not mince his words. “I won’t have any part of your bitterness. And I won’t be a member of a ragged band of cripples. I’d gladly die before I’d fall that low.”

  Peusen took the insults in stride; apparently, he had heard them all before. “Is that what Kirin told you?”

  Guilt touched Rache. Though his doubts had come clearly through his words, Valr Kirin had shown far more support of his injured brother than Rache’s explanation conveyed. Not wishing to create a blood feud, he clarified. “Just the basic plan. The judgments are my own.”

  “Good. I expected more from Kirin. And, Rache, I expected a lot more from you.” Peusen held his fighting stance as if it were the most natural position in the world. “Do you really think a commander from the army of the high king of the North would accept anything short of competence? I don’t demand any less of my current troops than I did my underlings in the king’s army. I can’t afford to. My soldiers aren’t crippled, Rache, because they choose not to be crippled by birth defects or injuries, banishment or criminal charges against them. History makes no difference to me. I don’t care whether a man lost his leg in war or if a whorehouse wench chopped it off out of spite. I don’t ask if those charged with crimes are guilty or innocent. It doesn’t matter. If he can fight with a Northman’s skill and commitment or can be trained to, he’s in. Otherwise, he’s welcome to stay on as a cook, a smith, a tailor.”

  Rache shook his head, unable to banish the image of a town teeming with limping, leering, disfigured men. It brought to mind his childhood visions of Hel, inspired by his mother’s stories of the realm for those who died from cowardice, illness, or with body parts missing. “I just don’t think cloistering these men is the answer. They need to learn how to get along in the world as it is, not how to hide from it.”

  “Exactly.” Peusen fairly crowed in triumph. “Think, Rache. What’s a soldier banished from a homeland he loves supposed to do? Join an enemy’s army? What can a warrior injured in battle do when his higher ups say he can’t fight because he might get hurt? Or worse, he can’t be trusted with his companions’ lives any longer.” Peusen’s face reddened in anger. “Damn it, Rache, it’s not perfect. But it’s an alternative to never fighting again, to ridicule, or the permanent sanctity offered by that dagger you nearly used on yourself.”

  Rache scowled, annoyed at how easily Peusen had guessed his intent.

  “All my efforts are temporary. But when the Easterners come to the Western Plains, I’m going to be there at the head of the boldest, most capable army of the Westlands. War makes for strange new alliances. Once my men are proven, every general will be clamoring to take their soldiers back from me. If my men wish to leave, they’re free to go. I’ll help them go. And, I’ll be there for the others.”

  Rache considered. He had no choice but to admire Peusen Raskogsson’s dedication, but he could not picture himself among a unit of outcasts. “I see the good in what you say. I even thank you for the opportunity. It’s just not for me.”

  “Very well.” Peusen’s voice remained level, but his hand clamped to his sword hilt. “Pleased to have met you. Now I have to kill you.”

  Peusen’s statements seemed so incongruous, it took Rache several moments to convince himself he had heard correctly. “What?”

  Peusen crouched, scissor-stepping toward Rache’s mount. “If word of my men gets out, every town in the West will come looking for its missing thieves and murderers. I have to keep you quiet, and the only sure way is to kill you.”

  Rache reined his mount backward. “This is insane.” Uncertain whether to draw his sword or laugh, he tried to reason with the circling general. “I can’t fight you. I—”

  Peusen interrupted. “You’re what? Too much of a coward? Afraid you’ll be slaughtered by an aging cripple?” He lunged for Rache’s leg.

  Rache wheeled his horse, catching the stroke on his sword. His half-hearted riposte met a gracefully competent parry. “I admire what you’re doing. Your men need you. Don’t throw away your life to make a point to me.”

  Peusen’s answer was a wild flurry of attack. Forced to defend, Rache quieted, meeting each stroke and returning two for every one. Years of teaching warriors had trained him in assessing the skills of his opponents. Had Rache been anything but Renshai, Peusen’s ability would have astounded him. Strong and fast, the Northman’s blows seemed committed, yet he recovered every miss, prepared for each of Rache’s ripostes, despite their speed. And Peusen fended the attacks to his injured side twice as ably as those to his left.

  Rache abandoned speech, hard-pressed in spite of the advantage of his Renshai heritage and training. Sadness crowded him, too, the same that came whenever he discovered a competent enemy with whom he would rather swap techniques and war stories than sword blows. Peusen slashed for Rache’s abdomen, opening his own head to Rache’s next stroke. Rache’s blade whipped for the breach. At the last moment, impulse drove him to turn the sword to its flat. Steel crashed against Peusen’s temple, the collision thrumming through Rache’s hands. The Northman crumpled to the dirt. His sword rolled from his limp hand.

  Rache reined his horse as close to Peusen’s sword as possible. Clutching the saddle, he maneuvered himself along the horse’s side until he caught a grip on the hilt, then clambered slowly and painfully back into his seat. Turning, he discovered Peusen rolling dizzily to his knees. The Northman rose as Rache drew up to him, a sword in each of the Renshai’s fists.

  Peusen rubbed at his scalp, and his hand came away smeared with blood. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  Rache opened his mouth to answer, but Peusen spoke first.

  “The truth, Rache.”

  Rache snorted, disgusted with the whole affair. “You want me to say I felt sorry for you?”

  Peusen’s cheeks purpled. He doubled his fist, prepared to battle even without a weapon.

  “But,” Rache amended, “I don’t feel sorry for you at all. You’re crazy, and I don’t kill lunatics.”

  Peusen smiled.

  “You’re also a damned good warrior. Your men need you, and, if your men are half as competent as you, the West needs them. But I’m a better swordsman than you.” Rache spoke fact without a trace o
f pride. “Your sword at my side in war would be useful. Your death at my hands would only be a waste.”

  Peusen’s face returned to its normal color. “Then you’ll join us?”

  “No.” Rache tossed back Peusen’s sword, and the Northman caught the hilt. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotten past my own limitations, and I have to find my own causes. I just don’t think I need your support.”

  “Support?” Peusen shook his head, genuinely surprised. “You did misunderstand me. I’m not trying to steal Santagithi’s captain. I’ve heard what you did for his army, and I just hoped you would help me train my men.” Peusen looked pensive. “If you’re no longer in Santagithi’s command, you’re welcome to join us. You would, of course, start as my highest officer.”

  Rache frowned, his current thoughts of Santagithi and his men unpleasant. He wondered if Peusen was humoring him by putting him in a different category from his other misfits. But the expression on Peusen’s face seemed sincere. Rache’s mind drifted to the past, the years among his own people, the massacre that took all lives but two, and Colbey’s rejection. He thought of the time, effort, and caring that had gone into whipping Santagithi’s men into a small but able fighting force known throughout the Westlands and the kinship that had goaded him to train Mitrian. Other things came with the memories: Garn’s taunts and the blow that had crippled Rache, his mother’s soul sold for a prophecy, Mitrian’s kidnapping and her apparent decision to marry Garn rather than return to the people who loved her. So many things still to be done, though Rache’s reasons for achieving them had disappeared. The realization prompted a question. “Why are you doing all of this? Why are you training yourself and your men when you know you can’t ever . . .” Rache trailed off, recognizing the tactlessness of his query before he completed it.

  “. . . go to Valhalla?” Peusen finished.

  Rache stared at his horse’s mane.

  Peusen laughed. “Leave it to a Northman to remind me of that indecency.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rache started, but Peusen waved him silent.

  “Don’t you think I’ve agonized about it? There’s nothing you could say so nasty that I didn’t already think it. At first, the idea haunted me. I mean, why do anything when even if I’m killed in the bloodiest, most glorious conflict ever, the best I could achieve is a coward’s death?” Peusen glanced into the sky, as if to challenge deities. “Then it occurred to me. What if our ancestors were wrong? Why should the gods punish a loyal follower for a stroke of bad luck that has nothing to do with cowardice? What if loss of a body part doesn’t really bar a brave warrior from Valhalla?”

  Horrified, Rache could not keep from interrupting. “What!” He dared not contemplate Peusen’s ramblings further. Like laws, the tenets of religion simply were. To challenge the deep-seated beliefs about dismemberment dooming a man to Hel brought all other truths into question as well. Worse, it meant that the Renshai had been banished and, ultimately, obliterated for a misconception. Rache shut that thought from his mind with a suddenness that added volume to his voice. “That’s sacrilege!”

  Peusen shrugged. “Maybe. But if it is sacrilege, what risk am I taking to challenge? I’m already damned to Hel.” He raised the stump of his hand. “And, anyway, what kind of honor comes from fighting only to avoid Hel or for the rewards of Valhalla? Now, I’m free. I can believe our priests are wrong and that, even lacking, I can reach Valhalla. Or I can keep the old faith and fight only for my own honor and my own pride.”

  Rache winced. The words made his own thoughts of suicide seem all the more petty and selfish. Peusen is right about the honor. No matter what the others think, I have causes. Whatever the price, I’m going to see to it that Santagithi’s army doesn’t forget the skills I’ve taught. I will avenge myself on Garn, and Colbey will know he trained no cowards. Whatever the true nature of the prophecy, my mother’s soul will, at least, buy my presence at the Great War, even if it means leaguing with cripples. History had taught him that, despite its diverse cultures, the West had a strong faith in leadership and could band quickly and cooperatively in times of war. He studied Peusen in the shadows of the clearing. “All right. I’ll help.” He clarified quickly, “But I have other things to do, too, so I’ll need your permission to come and go at will without some crazed Northman threatening my life every time I do.”

  “Granted,” Peusen said. He resheathed his sword, trying to look nonchalant. But he could not completely hide his smile.

  * * *

  Mar Lon Davrinsson trotted over the sun-baked roadway toward the boulder from which he had first played for Abrith. Now called the Rock of Peace, it had become a symbol of stability and dedication for Mar Lon’s band of peace champions, as well as their meeting place. Over the months, their ranks had swelled to the hundreds, a growing flock of young men who followed the bard like a father and chanted his songs like prayers. At times, the intensity of their devotion frightened Mar Lon, but he could see nothing harmful about sanctioning peace, whatever form this service took. Once they’ve spread the cause, once the Easterners and Westerners learn to live in harmony, my followers will have no more need of me. For now, if my person and my songs give them a figurehead, I have little choice but to let them fawn.

  Mar Lon clutched the lonriset to his chest, quickening his pace. The first, furled sprouts of the growing season poked from the soil in neat rows on either side of the roadway. The perfume of damp earth and new growth made Mar Lon giddy with joy. Spring always brought pleasant memories, breaking the long, cold depression of winter. This year the renewal portion of nature’s cycle seemed to mean far more, boding strength to a small band of peacemakers whose numbers grew with each passing day. He reveled in the warmth of the sun, realizing as he did that its position in the sky meant he was late. He would be the last to arrive. Yet even this did not dampen his spirits. His followers never seemed to mind. In fact, he had found that on those occasions when he came too soon, several of the youngsters would go out of their way to come even earlier the following day in order to be there to greet his arrival.

  An aristiri hawk sang a trilling melody, and a mimic bird copied the sound, its voice rasping and its notes a half tone flat. Mar Lon smiled, reminded of an old saying: “When the aristiri finds his voice and loses his appetite, look for a woman.” Mar Lon always loved the changes spring brought to the animals. Woolly winter coats gave way to silky smoothness, the fur in crisp, bright colors not yet bleached by a year of sunlight. And the first birds’ mating songs put their winter croaks and shrills to shame. The need for constant hunting kept the aristiri hawks silent through the winter. Then, each spring, their voices exploded forth in patterns too beautiful for memory to fully contain.

  Yet even as Mar Lon reveled in the music of one of the few mortal creatures more talented than himself, something struck apprehension through him. Buoyed by the events of the last few months and the coming of spring, it took him several seconds to recognize the source of his discomfort. As close as I am to the Rock of Peace, I shouldn’t hear aristiri. A large, noisy mass of people should scare the shy hawks away. And, as the thought rose, Mar Lon realized he had also drawn close enough that he should be able to hear the rumble of his followers’ conversations, if not specific words.

  Concern quickened Mar Lon’s pace. He raced around curves in the roadway, the silence becoming more ominous as the stone came into sight. Even from a distance, he could see that only a single person awaited him, perched upon the Rock of Peace. The other sat in silent stillness, his form obscured by distance. Mar Lon halted in his tracks. A dozen possibilities drove through his mind in half as many seconds, from the concern that he had come late enough for his followers to go searching for him to the nightmarelike terror that some horrible accident had befallen them all. Surely the one remaining will have the answers. Mar Lon broke into a desperate run, clutching the lonriset to his abdomen.

  As Mar Lon drew closer, details became more apparent. The mysterious person on the rock was tall, lean, and
broad-shouldered, a grown man. At first, Mar Lon thought he looked upon a blond, and the pale hair seemed out of place near the Eastern town of Rozmath. But as he came closer, he saw that the shoulder-length locks were a dappled gray. He wore a silk tunic and breeks of an ancient style and cut. Yet, somehow, they made him look regal. Beside him, a cloth bag lay balanced on the stone. As Mar Lon approached, the man rose and called a greeting. “Ah, Davrin. You’re late.”

  Breathless, Mar Lon pulled up a polite distance from the stranger. “Mar Lon,” he gasped. “Davrin . . . is . . . my . . . father.”

  “Yes, of course.” The man fixed a pair of catlike yellow eyes on the bard. “After a few centuries, you all seem the same. Surely, you were named for your great great-great-grandfather Martenil and your great-grandmother Lonriya.” His hands fell idly to the cloth parcel, outlining a vaguely round object in its depths.

  Mar Lon saw no need to discuss his history, so he used his turn to speak to try to catch his breath instead. The stranger’s words made it clear he was a Cardinal Wizard, and Davrin’s descriptions clinched the identification. Though Carcophan had sanctioned Mar Lon’s stay in the East, the bard’s heir had never met any Wizard face-to-face. Fear kept his pulse rapid, making it twice as hard to recover his wind.

  “I hear you’ve been stirring up trouble.”

  “No.” Mar Lon sucked in a deep breath. “Not trouble.” Another breath. “I’ve been stirring . . .” He cursed his struggling lungs; they took all force and sincerity from his words. “. . . peace.”

  Carcophan smiled, taking a perverse pleasure in Mar Lon’s broken speech. Clearly, it made his own gentle calm seem all the more powerful. “In this case, the two are the same.”