The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  * * *

  Lying on the straw mattress of a borrowed bed, Garn stared across Mitrian’s shoulder and through the window of their rented cottage. Stars spotted the darkness, paled by the watery light of a full moon. He snuggled against her, enjoying the warmth of her naked back against his chest. His hand, looped over her side, caressed the smooth bulge of her abdomen. The rippling movements of the baby made him smile. My baby. My son. His grin broadened. Born a free man. He relished the thought of the night of passion Mitrian had promised him, despite her condition, after weeks of an abstinence caused by fatigue from Colbey’s practices. He pulled Mitrian closer. I love her so much. His affection for Mitrian had gradually changed from the shy passion and rabid adoration of a young crush to a more mature devotion that grew stronger with the fetus.

  Garn’s joy belied the bitterness the day had brought. Simply being free had been enough to keep him happy in the earlier months spent amid the Westland’s farm towns. He had learned to accept that Colbey would not allow anyone but Mitrian to attend his teaching sessions. Arduwyn stayed with the group only for brief periods of time; usually his appearance meant a feast or a sudden move to another town. From the hunter’s whispered exchanges with Colbey, Garn suspected a method or reason for the diversions, but it was not his way to question. So long as the system kept away pursuit, Garn did not need details.

  Sterrane spent most of his time with Arduwyn, hunting or talking about woodland topics that Garn knew nothing about. The only difference between Arduwyn’s and Sterrane’s patterns was that the larger man returned each night to clean and prepare the meals. Farmers’ talk of crops, sheep, and weather bored Garn, so he spent most of his time alone.

  Accustomed to taking life as it came, without brooding over the future, Garn found himself with nothing to do or ponder most of the time. At least as a gladiator he had had his daily practices, his feuds with guards, and his need to defend his food from his neighbors. The consideration of returning to life as property enraged him, but he had no tasks to pull his mind from such thoughts. Endless peace and peasants’ tedium wore on him. Frustration and the need to banish thoughts that plagued him fueled every minor annoyance into a flaming, uncontrollable rage. He would vent his anger against cottages, furniture, and trees, using his sword or his fists. Once, he had struck a farmer who had sold him a firm, wickedly sour persimmon. The man had fallen, groveling at Garn’s feet, promising him not only his coin back but as many ripe persimmons as he could carry.

  Garn winced at the memory, vividly recalling the terror etched across the farmer’s features. Now, as then, he cursed Rache for teaching him to react to pain with anger, to hit and kill without thought. The Renshai’s name burned in his mind, accompanied by a terrifying thought. What if I hurt Mitrian or my baby? He clutched her tighter, the idea aching within him. I have to learn to control this rage. Understanding followed naturally, a connection Garn could not explain except to say it felt right. I have to kill Rache. Once I do, my temper will be mastered.

  The matter settled for the moment, Garn turned his attention back to Mitrian. The thought of the night of lovemaking she had promised coupled with the soft warmth of her buttocks against his loins brought him to erection. He slid his hand to her breast, tense with the chance to turn an evening of brooding into a night of excitement he had awaited for weeks. He kissed the back of her neck.

  A guttural sound escaped Mitrian’s lips.

  Garn froze, at first trying to decipher what she must have said, denying the truth of Mitrian’s snore. For an instant, Garn considered continuing anyway, but the idea of defiling the woman he loved turned lust to disappointment that flared to rage. He sprang from the bed and snatched up his sword belt from the bedpost. Without bothering to dress, he stormed through the door and out into the night, buckling on the belt as he went.

  Spring breezes caressed Garn’s skin into gooseflesh, but he didn’t notice. At first, he had no idea where to go. Then anger overtook reason, and he stomped a straight path to Colbey’s cottage. He slammed his fist against the door; it shuddered beneath the blow. “Out here, Northman. Now!” He pounded again. “Out now, or I’ll shatter this door and kill you where you lie.”

  “Garn?” The panel muffled Colbey’s reply. “What are you doing?”

  Garn’s head buzzed, and his stomach twisted in anger. “Open the damned door, old man!” Drawing his sword, he hammered the hilt against the oak door.

  From within the cottage, the latch clacked.

  Garn adjusted his grip on the sword.

  The door edged ajar.

  Garn leapt and swung blindly. His weight flung the door fully open. It struck the wall and rebounded into Colbey’s side. Garn’s sword met Colbey’s, and the clang of steel on steel echoed through the confines of the cottage. “What are you doing alone with my wife? What are you doing that she no longer has the strength or need to lie with me?”

  Hot with jealous rage, Garn did not await an answer. He hammered at Colbey. Every blow met Colbey’s blade or crosspiece. Where the same strokes had once driven Rache backward on the practice floor, Colbey lost no ground at all. Grimly, he stood in the doorway, catching the impacts effortlessly, waiting for Garn to tire.

  Soon, the force of his own strokes wore on Garn. Each blow sent pain burning along his forearms, while Colbey just blocked, patient as a cat. Moonlight glimmered over stern features, striped with the shadows of Garn’s movement, and cold, blue-gray eyes that missed little.

  Garn halted, panting.

  “Done?” Colbey asked, brows arched.

  Garn raised his sword for another attack. Rage flared and sputtered. He pulled the blow in mid-swing, not from lack of strength, but lack of motivation. The fury that had driven him drained away, and nothing replaced it. Lowering his sword, Garn nodded.

  “Wait here.” Fearlessly, Colbey turned his back, though Garn had not yet sheathed his weapon. The Renshai returned to the darkened depths of his cottage. “I think we need to talk.”

  Garn watched the blood return to his whitened fingers, feeling foolish, wondering if Colbey gleaned any amusement from a naked fool who dared to cross weapons with the best swordsman alive. Now angry with himself, he jabbed the sword into its sheath.

  Colbey emerged from the cottage carrying a flaming brand in his left hand, a canvas package tucked beneath the armpit on the same side. Without a word, he strode toward the forest.

  Curious, Garn followed. The Renshai slipped between the trees with little sound; Garn crashed like an army in comparison. Slowed by a deadfall, he lost sight of Colbey. Rushing to catch up, he discovered Colbey seated at the base of an elm, the torch wedged between its roots. As Garn approached, Colbey tossed the pack at the younger man’s feet.

  Kneeling, Garn spread the canvas, revealing four steel horseshoes. He studied them, watching crimson shadows from the fire dance along the polished surfaces. He saw nothing special about these horseshoes other than that they were too clean and straight to have ever been hammered to a hoof. Since Colbey and his companions had descended from the Granite Hills eight months earlier, they had let the horse go barefoot. Seeing no reason or purpose for the shoes, Garn looked to Colbey for an explanation.

  “Which is stronger? You or steel?”

  Garn stared, confused by Colbey’s question. “What do you mean?”

  Colbey motioned for Garn to pass one of the horseshoes. “A simple, straightforward question, I believe. Are you stronger than steel?”

  Obediently, Garn plucked out one of the horseshoes. He clutched it, testing the unyielding surface against the calluses of his hand. “No,” he said. “Steel is stronger.”

  Colbey nodded. He looped a finger around the horseshoe and tugged it from Garn’s grasp. “Correct.” His gaze held Garn’s as his hands explored the steel. “But had you given the other answer, you would also have been correct and better for it. A man is as strong as he allows himself to be, and no more.” Colbey positioned his hands on either end of the horseshoe. Wind drew a
finger of flame toward the older man, who shifted his attention to the object in his fists. “Garn, it would violate the laws and honor of my people to teach you the skills I’m teaching Mitrian and will teach to your son. Do you understand that?”

  “Not really,” Garn admitted. Until Colbey had raised the issue, Garn had never recognized the envy he harbored for the confidence and skill Mitrian was acquiring. He had attributed his anger to the vast quantities of Mitrian’s time that Colbey monopolized, but the Renshai had seen beyond the obvious to Garn’s fascination with and desire for the abilities with a sword that so few possessed.

  “Rache trained you, too. Didn’t he?”

  Just the mention of Rache’s name sent a white line of anger searing through Garn. “Yes.”

  Colbey watched Garn’s reactions with interest, his hands still clamped to the horseshoe. “Rache, not I, decided who would become Renshai by what he chose to teach. I can understand why he picked Mitrian; she has natural grace and a keen eye for movement. Were the decision mine, I would have had difficulty choosing between you. Can I guess you and Rache didn’t get along?”

  Garn felt his control slipping. He fought rage with humor. “That would be the world’s largest understatement.”

  Colbey showed no expression.

  Thinking it safer to change the subject, Garn questioned. “How could I be stronger than steel?”

  Now, Colbey smiled. “Garn, let me pay you for the time I’ve stolen from you and Mitrian. I discovered this thing myself. It’s not one of the secrets of the Renshai, so I’m free to pass it to whomever I will. But I have to warn you. No one I’ve taught it to has mastered it.” He examined Garn’s forearms. “You already have the advantage of strength. I’ll give you the key, but it’s up to you to practice and to find your own potential.”

  Garn suppressed a smile, amused by Colbey’s solemnity.

  Apparently oblivious, Colbey continued. “The secret to power is to find the weak point. If you see no weak point . . .” He closed his eyes. “. . . create one.” As he spoke the final syllable, Colbey snapped his hands apart. The horseshoe broke into two equal pieces.

  Garn stared, slack-jawed, unable to think of anything to do or say.

  Colbey rose, dropping the broken steel at Garn’s feet. “I’m an old man, more than three times your age. At this, Garn, you can surpass me.” He stepped from the circle of torchlight.

  For some time Garn stared, unmoving, at the halves of the horseshoe. He listened for the sounds of crackling leaves and breaking twigs that would signify Colbey’s departure. He heard only the whistle of wind through trees; he did not experience the wary prickle that would warn him if someone watched from the brush. Colbey had gone in silence.

  Garn’s fingers closed about the shards of steel, and he raised them to his face. He scrutinized the break. Each piece was as thick as two of his fingers together, without hollows or flaws. He pocketed them.

  “Scarce forty, if that,” Garn muttered sullenly. “That’s not quite twice my age.” Even the flecks of silver in Colbey’s hair could not convince him otherwise. An old man might best me with a sword, but at this I cannot lose. He pawed a fresh horseshoe from the pack. Settling between the roots of the elm, he worked his hands along the steel until he found the most natural position. Drawing a deep breath, he squeezed his lids shut. He released the air in a grunt of effort, throwing all his bodily strength into this single action. Opening his eyes, he held the horseshoe to the torch’s glow. He had not even bent it.

  Annoyance threatened to become fury. Garn braced himself for a second attempt, and a third. At the finish of each, he grew weaker and the steel stronger. Garn funneled his mind and body to the task as the torch flickered lower. His struggle sheered the calluses from his fingerpads. Ruts in the steel gashed his flesh, but pain and blood did not deter him. The need to prove himself became an obsession and, as such, it became inexorably linked to the single other project that haunted and frustrated him. A day will come when I master steel and my temper. And that day, Rache, I will destroy you as well. Garn prepared for another attempt.

  The fire died as the torch burned to nothingness.

  CHAPTER 16

  Pudar

  Perched upon a crag in the Great Frenum Mountains, the Southern Wizard, Carcophan, studied the proud ranks of the Eastern army as it snaked along the eastern base of the range. At the head of his cavalry, King Siderin rode a heavily muscled, dun stallion. The general’s breastplate gleamed, so well forged it seemed a part of him; the tines jutting from his helmet and bucklers made him appear more like a demon than a man. His broadsword girded his waist, a darkly spiked horseman’s flail was slung from a hook on the saddlebow, and a whip jutted from his grip. Siderin’s top officers, Harrsha and Narisen, rode at either hand, each in command of a phalanx of twenty-five hundred men. They, too, wore iron breastplates and helmets, but they lacked their general’s regal bearing.

  Siderin’s other three first officers herded the infantry in a tight formation, their unadorned helmets easily visible amidst waves of swarthy features and red-brown, lacquered leather armor. Carcophan identified two dozen brigade leaders by their darker uniforms and leather helmets with blue plumes. The brigade leaders relayed their commanders’ orders, holding the formation in a perfect lock, their men accustomed to instant obedience though the journey to the southern passes of the Great Frenum Mountains would take another three months.

  Carcophan smiled. Evil’s day had nearly come, and Siderin seemed equal to the task. The general’s scouts brought pleasing news. The clannish Northmen seemed certain to refuse aid to the Westlands during the Great War. In exchange for gold, King Morhane had agreed to keep the armies under his direct command neutral, blithely unaware Siderin would claim Béarn’s kingdom at the war’s end. Siderin’s patience had left the Western generals and kings complacent. Most had expected the war a decade or more earlier, and they had lost faith in Wizard’s prophecies. Without the Western Wizard’s influence, the central cities near Pudar had civilized themselves into decadence. Only Santagithi had kept his soldiers honed with skirmishes against neighboring towns and barbarians too isolated to understand prophecies or band together in war. But Santagithi’s Town was too small to concern Carcophan. Except for one soldier.

  Rache. Carcophan scowled, joy swept away by that single name. The last Renshai. The only one left to fulfill the Western Wizard’s prophecy. Carcophan’s last vision of Rache seeped back into his mind, the captain’s usually functionally short, blond hair swept into wild tangles, his breeks and jerkin tattered, blood- and travel-stained, his once proud head low in despair. No doubt, the Renshai’s indifference to his appearance paralleled his loss of interest in life. A Wizard’s champion crippled, physically and emotionally. How? Only three explanations came to Carcophan’s mind. Either Tokar is dead, his successor is weak, or he’s staying in the background trying to make me believe he’s gone, hoping Siderin and I will become smug and make mistakes.

  As the sun touched the highest peaks of the Great Mountains, the soldiers broke into units, busily preparing their camps for the night.

  Carcophan dismissed his final thought as madness. Even the eldest Wizard could not be that patient or subtle. Among the Cardinal Four, Carcophan was considered a rebel; two and a half centuries as a Wizard had taught him only a modicum of forbearance and lost him none of the exuberance that drove him to prefer brute force and instant solutions over finesse. He could not keep himself from the thought of the quick and simple fix, one killing spell that would remove the prophesied obstacle to his champion’s victory. Yet, as all the Cardinal Wizards, Carcophan held his Wizard’s vows more sacred than even the cause of evil that Odin had assigned him. To lose the Great War simply meant revising his strategies, perhaps training another champion for himself or his successor; to forsake the Wizard’s vows fashioned by the gods, he believed, foretold the world’s destruction.

  Carcophan waited, ignoring the Eastern soldiers’ quiet efficiency, instead watc
hing the sun evolve from yellow to orange to red, its dusk washing the crags with rainbows. His assigned task was finished; he had trained and guided Siderin. From the day the Eastern army left the royal city of Stalmize, Carcophan’s vows bound him to step aside and let the mortals fulfill their own destinies. He had no assigned role in the war itself, and he preferred it that way. Before his initiation to Wizardry, he had once been a soldier of moderate skill, and Carcophan knew the joy of slaughter might drive him to take a direct hand in the battle, the ultimate violation of his vows. He could only hope he had chosen his champion well and instilled an immorality in Siderin’s followers that time would not undermine.

  As the sun slid behind the mountains like a droplet of blood, the odor of cooking meat and tubers perfumed the air. With a sigh of regret, Carcophan transported himself for his last talk with his champion.

  Without fanfare, Carcophan materialized at Siderin’s campsite. The general-king sat on a log before the fire, his tent at his back and his top officers clustered around him. The suddenness of Carcophan’s appearance sent Harrsha and Narisen lurching to their feet. Their swords whipped free with admirable speed, but, immune to the blades’ danger, Carcophan paid their wielders no heed. Only a slight stiffening of Siderin’s frame revealed Carcophan’s entrance had startled him, and he gained his composure instantly. His helmet, whip, and chain flail lay at his feet. Sweat and the previous weight of the helmet plastered coal-dark hair to his face. Yet, even disheveled, Siderin’s imperial features made him look dangerous and wholly in command. Patient as always, he waited for Carcophan to speak first.

  In no mood for the usual spar for dominance, Carcophan sprang directly to his point. “We need to talk.”

  Siderin said nothing, but his dark gaze rolled from one officer to the other. As one, Narisen and Harrsha bowed respectfully, then retreated beyond the edges of the campfire. Still silent, King Siderin regarded Carcophan. The general’s dark gaze met Carcophan’s cat-yellow one, locked in a perfect stalemate.