The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The sight rekindled Garn’s frustration, and his memories of Colbey gave him pause. Early on, Garn had looked for an easy answer to the aging Renshai’s display of strength. He had examined the steel for flaws and mentally reconstructed the incident in the farm town’s forest down to the minutest detail. He recalled the position of Colbey’s hands on the horseshoe, his grip, the tension of each muscle. Garn remembered how the Renshai had asked him to select the horseshoe, and he knew from his thought that no preceding tampering had occurred. Even if it had, how could Colbey have guessed which shoe Garn would choose?

  Garn lowered his hand, until the gray linen of the apron touched the floor. Always, he had tried to find the power in his body or hoped the answer would come in a sudden flash of insight. Now he recalled how doomed opponents in the pit had occasionally made a last desperate attack with a strength far exceeding any they had demonstrated until that moment. It was a phenomenon Garn had never discussed, but he had learned to watch for it. And his mind had created a name. He called it “controlled hysteria” since it came at a time when most men panicked yet it was fully directed and lethal in its danger, a completely mental strength of will. Now, Garn wondered if he could harness that power without the mortal threat.

  Absorbed by this new line of thought, Garn drifted toward the horseshoes on the table. His heel tangled in the dangling linen, and he stumbled into a chair. The chair lurched with a screech of scraping wood, then thumped back into position. Catching his balance, Garn profaned his clumsiness.

  “Are you all right?” Mitrian’s concerned voice wafted from the loft.

  “Fine,” Garn shouted back. “I just tripped. Nothing’s broken.” He frowned, meaning his words to refer to the furniture, though it applied equally to the horseshoes that thwarted him. Work first, he admonished himself. Later I’ll have plenty of time to channel my thoughts without the guilt of unfinished cleaning hanging over my head.

  “Be careful,” Mitrian returned, a belated warning Garn had hear too often since freedom had exposed him to social conventions. It had always seemed obvious to Garn that, after floundering or falling once, any man would see the wisdom in watching his future steps without friends advising caution.

  No reply seemed necessary, but Garn had learned that Mitrian would expect one. “I will,” he said loudly to end the conversation. Again, he studied the linen apron. An idea seeped into his mind, and his imagination transformed the dingy linen into a hauberk. Skillfully, he lashed the straps taut across his back. Reaching through the doorway into the kitchen, he retrieved the broom, envisioning it as a strange-looking but formidable weapon of war.

  With powerful strokes so low the twigs brushed the floor, Garn drove dust from the kitchen to the living room, around the furniture and against the wall. An evil grin of triumph lit his face. Glancing back to ascertain that Mitrian had not descended the ladder from the loft, he kicked loose a familiar floorboard. Three sure strokes disposed of the dirt. Garn replaced the board.

  Returning to the kitchen, Garn seized the rope handle of the water bucket. Opening the door to the yard behind the cottage, he slipped out into the morning. His mind conjured the tremor that accompanied unseen danger; years in the pit had taught him well. His imagination added the key. The bucket. They want the magic bucket.

  Imaginary bolts sailed around Garn as he sprinted for the stream. Dew-moist grass went slick beneath his feet. The added momentum of his downhill run sent him into an uncontrolled skid. Too late, he noticed a knotted, old woman pounding clothes on the bank directly in his path. Garn dropped the bucket and turned his slide into a dive. His body flew over the crone. He crashed into the icy depths of the river, raising a wave that enveloped her.

  “Here now!” she screamed. “Are you daft?”

  Garn’s only reply was a wake of bubbles. He resurfaced nearly halfway across the stream.

  “Are you daft?” She stood with arms clenched to bony hips, her gray hair wetted into strings on her forehead and trailing droplets like tears across her face.

  Garn suppressed the urge to laugh. “Sorry for the soaking.” He could not help adding, “But isn’t the water grand?”

  “Idiot!” Obviously, she saw no humor in the situation. “You’ve muddied the water. I won’t be able to finish till it settles.” She hurled a half-cleaned smock into the dull, brown water at her feet.

  Garn swam toward shore with steady strokes. “See, old woman, you should thank me. I gave you the morning off.”

  Both laughed, though not for the same reason. The old woman made a gesture of disdain. “At least if you fill your bucket here, you’ll drink mud.”

  Garn hauled himself from the water, grabbed the bucket and headed upstream. He would only need to walk a few extra steps, ones he would have to retrace with a full bucket.

  Ignoring his elderly neighbor’s judgmental glare, Garn filled the bucket and headed toward home. As he started up the hill, he heard one last gibe. A faint voice cackled. “I’d venture you and your missy’d clean house with a sword.”

  Garn smiled, aware the woman could have no idea how closely her assessment struck home. Cold, soaked and laden with a full bucket, he struggled up the hill toward home. Dinner would be a lamb stew simmered over a hearth rather than a campfire. A hero who had escaped death as narrowly as Garn imagined he had that morning deserved a few luxuries.

  * * *

  That evening, Garn shoveled spoonfuls of lamb stew into his mouth, proud that its flavor matched the savory richness of the vegetables and gravy Carlithel had served at The Hungry Lion. Yet, after a single taste, Mitrian shoved aside her wooden bowl, screwed up her face, and drew her arms to her abdomen.

  Garn reached for her across the kitchen table. “What’s wrong?”

  Gradually, Mitrian relaxed until the only evidence of her previous pain was her rapid, shallow breaths. “Cramp. Just another cramp. It won’t be long till the baby’s born.”

  Excitement surged through Garn as a tingle that warmed his chest even as the stew settled in his belly. The pregnancy had dragged on so long, it had become routine. Now, the impending baby rekindled the anticipation Garn had known when Colbey first divulged its presence.

  “We haven’t given him a name, Garn.” Sweat sparkled on Mitrian’s forehead, and she had never seemed more beautiful to Garn.

  “How about Garn’s son?” he suggested, only partially facetious.

  “Fine.” Pain creased Mitrian’s features again, and she waited some time before speaking again. “But he’ll need a name of his own, too. Where I come from, we often name children for someone who touched our lives in important ways.”

  Garn frowned. Intuition warned him of the possible consequences of opening portions of memory better left sealed. The men Mitrian had cared for were, almost without exception, ones Garn hated. “We can call him after Colbey.”

  Mitrian shook her head. “Renshai name their children for warriors who reached Valhalla. To call our son after a living Renshai would be insulting.” She anticipated Garn’s next question. “The Renshai believe naming a child after a man who went to Hel dooms that child to a similar fate. Colbey believes all the Renshai who died on Devil’s Island were certainly condemned to Hel by the attacking Northmen.”

  Garn pondered the significance of the statement. Until Colbey’s death, no child could ever bear a true Renshai name. Or Rache’s. Troubled by the turn of his thoughts, Garn tried to redirect the conversation. He discovered Mitrian racked by another contraction and cringed in sympathy until it passed.

  “I’d like,” Mitrian started, and pain made her curt. “To name our baby for someone I love and miss very much. I’d like to name him for my father.”

  The suggestion hit Garn like a stone. Rage seethed within him. His nostrils flared, and his knuckles whitened around his spoon. Seeing the need to control his smoldering temper, he kept his tone flat. “No.”

  Apparently mistaking Garn’s calm for tolerance, Mitrian pressed the issue. “I know he mistreated you. You
have a right to feel bitter. But I love. . . .”

  Fury tightened to a boiling knot in Garn’s chest. Driven beyond sanity, he sprang. Mitrian’s shriek stopped him halfway across the table. Stunned, Garn skidded to a stop. Realization pounded him, unforgiving as a tempest at sea. He muddled through pooled emotions, the frenzy of anger wound through with the horror of what his wrath could have driven him to do. I might have hurt Mitrian. Angry and terrified, he stormed through the back door, his only instinct to find someone or something he could kill.

  Evening shadows swallowed Garn as he prowled the silent streets, blindly fighting the beast raging within him. He cut through an alley wedged between an avenue of smiths and a crumbling temple. It was a route seldom traveled, except by beggars, and Garn had learned to use it to avoid the foreign crowds who thronged the market streets in daylight. Now Garn sought solitude, simultaneously needing to destroy and fearing the damage he might inflict on innocents. The empty market with its odd jumble of tables and crates beckoned. Aimlessly, Garn wandered between deserted stands. By the time he discovered the shelter of an immense, overturned crate, the sky had dulled to a blackness the moon scarcely grazed.

  Oddly, Mitrian’s suggestion had turned Garn’s thoughts to his own father, a mountain of muscle and sinew he had barely known. Carad had turned his only son over to Rache to name and raise and train to predator instinct and murder. Life and death in the pit. That’s all my father deserved. Self-deprecation touched Garn’s thoughts. Perhaps that’s all I ever deserved as well. Tears hot with anger and grief stung his eyes. Huddled in a corner, Garn did not notice he had company until the other spoke.

  “Ya go’ troubles, sson? I can help. Here.” A scraggly, old man knelt beside Garn, shirtless, barefoot, and dressed in rags. He offered a battered tin cup. The area reeked of urine and wine.

  “Go away.” Garn glared. “I’ll kill you.”

  “No, you wone.” The old man’s word slurred.

  Surprised by the other’s fearlessness, Garn studied him. Sparse white hair hung to gaunt shoulders, and he watched Garn with yellow-brown irises nearly invisible against jaundiced whites. “If you were the killin’ type, you wouldna warned me. An’ killers don’ cry.”

  “I wasn’t crying.”

  “Have a drink, sson.”

  Garn glowered through moist eyes, but he took the cup and drained it in one gulp. It burned a path to his stomach, the worst wine he had ever tasted. But, afterward, he felt calmer.

  Taking back the cup, the old man scrambled to the far end of the crate. Shortly, he returned with two full cups and handed one to Garn. “Bess stuff inna world, wine is. People say it’s evil. When it wears off, you still got problems. Well, I says everyone’s got problems, but you got no problems while you drink. People who don’ drink gots problems alla time. I drink alla time an’ got no problems atall.”

  Garn gulped down his wine and laughed. He waited for the old man to refill it, then choked down another cup full. “Some people would call drinking all the time a problem.”

  “Sson,” he said, smiling at Garn’s empty cup. “Some people’d call bein’ young an’ strong an’ fer-tile a problem. Hell, some people’d call bein’ a god a problem.” Taking both cups, the stranger scuttled across the crate again.

  Garn called after him. “I don’t believe in gods. And what do you have there, a tavern?” The wine soothed, quelling his anger, and he felt happy to the edge of jubilation. Suddenly, his comment struck him as uproariously funny, and he broke into peals of laughter.

  The elderly stranger chuckled with him. “Keg. And you can fill your own now.” Passing Garn’s filled cup, he sat, setting his drink between crossed legs. “Good you don’ believe in gods. Not that they’re not there,” he added quickly, making an awkward gesture of supplication just in case. “But man’s gotta rely on hisself. You know, believe in what he’s doing, even if no one else does.” The man frowned, as if to take stock of his own words.

  To Garn, the world seemed to move in slow motion. He found something familiar and important in the old man’s statement, but the wine turned it into silly whimsy. He drank another cup only slightly less quickly than before.

  Forgetting his decree, the old man accepted Garn’s empty cup and wandered back to refill them both. “I can do anything I want.”

  Garn laughed, recalling something dim about horseshoes. “I don’t think that’s true.” He accepted the wine but, feeling dizzy, set it aside.

  “I could,” insisted the old man. “Anything I wanted.”

  “Could you stop drinking?” Garn grinned wickedly.

  The man smiled. “Why would I want to do a damn fool thing like that?”

  * * *

  Hands jostled Garn. Lights exploded in his head, each accompanied by a flash of pain. The slam and rattle of rising stands and wares whisked into place made Garn’s head ache almost as much as the shaking hands. “Garn! Wake up, you fool.”

  The voice annoyed Garn more than anything. He staggered to his feet, made an awkward grab, and caught cloth. Winding his fingers into the fabric, he hoisted a weight that squirmed in his grip. Garn opened his eyes to a bleary, gray dawn. Arduwyn dangled, straining to extricate the front of his cloak from Garn’s fingers. Beyond him, Sterrane watched impassively. Merchants and their helpers scurried to place their crates and goods before the morning crowds arrived. There was no sign of the elderly man who had shared his wine.

  “Garn, let go. It’s Arduwyn.” The hunter twisted free of Garn’s hold. Dropping lightly to the ground, Arduwyn scuttled beyond Garn’s reach. “You have a son, Garn. Garn, are you listening?”

  Garn’s head throbbed, making thought impossible. “A son,” he repeated dully. “Mitrian’s son?”

  “Of course, Mitrian’s son. Your son.” Arduwyn directed his next statement at Sterrane. “Tell Brugon I’ll be late. I’m taking Garn home.”

  Without reply, Sterrane hurried off to obey.

  Garn’s stomach clutched. He winced, gathering enough of his wits to question. “How’s Mitrian?”

  Arduwyn offered a hand. “A little mad at you. Otherwise fine.”

  Dizziness staggered Garn, and only Arduwyn’s dexterous shift of balance spared them both a fall. “The baby?” Garn asked.

  “A beautiful, blond boy. Mitrian’s been calling him Kinesthe.” Arduwyn pronounced it Kin-es-tay. “It means strong in . . .” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, to Garn’s infinite relief. “. . . Renshai.”

  Garn tottered.

  “This may not be the best time to tell you,” Arduwyn continued, “but I found you a job I think you’ll like. You’re now a Pudarian town guard.”

  The word “Renshai” spoken so near to “guard” bothered Garn, especially in proximity to “mad” and “blond.” “Take me home,” he said.

  Arduwyn kept a hold on Garn’s arm, leading him through the maze of merchants’ stands in a reproachful silence.

  Garn followed, glad for the quiet. His head was pounding too hard to listen to anything more Arduwyn might have to say. He let his lids sag closed, though his mind traced the route with a residual alertness that even the aftereffects of wine could not dull. Arduwyn dragged Garn back the way he had come: down the market avenue, through the alley to the street of their cottage.

  Arduwyn stopped before the door to Garn’s and Mitrian’s residence, prodding Garn to the wall. “Wait here. Let me talk to Mitrian first.”

  Garn stumbled, lolling against the mud and stone wall. The granite felt comfortingly cold against his cheek. Before he could reply, Arduwyn had entered. Garn heard the hunter call out a greeting.

  “I found Garn, and he’s not even hurt much.”

  Then the door banged shut, cutting off the rest of the conversation.

  Garn closed his eyes. His breathing fell into a deep, rhythmical pattern very like sleep. The still, near-stuporous state soothed his aching head.

  Shortly, the door creaked open. Garn’s eyes flickered open to see Arduwyn gesturing him
in with broad sweeps of his arm.

  Garn dragged himself inside, aware he should take part in an event of significance, but managing only to momentarily stave off his need for sleep. He approached Mitrian and the carefully wrapped bundle in her arms. “I love you,” he said, then collapsed on the cottage floor.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ambush

  Rache Kallmirsson’s huge black stallion crossed the plains and forests north of Iaplege at a steady, tireless lope. The gait combined the speed and ease of a trot with the smoothness of a canter and had been unfamiliar to Rache until the previous week when his appreciative students had presented the stallion to him. Rache’s two-sword, mounted method of combat required a horse capable of taking commands from other sources than the reins, and the complete lack of strength or feeling in Rache’s feet and calves limited his means of control. Always before, Rache had needed to retrain each horse he rode to his spoken and kneed signals, some with little success. But this time the bond between beast and rider had formed immediately. In one session, he had taught the stallion to respond to shifts in balance, pressure, and voice. Within days, the two had learned one another’s patterns well enough to work as a team. It seemed to Rache as if he had only to think of a route and his horse would take it; Rache’s cues had become that subtle. It was not Rache’s way to name animals, but this horse was special enough to earn, within a week, his loyalty and the name Bein, the Northern term for “legs.”

  Bein’s fluid gait had become routine to Rache in the days since he had set out from Iaplege, but his own thoughts were even more so. Repeatedly, he had examined the last year of his life like an artisan seeking flaws in a carpet crafted for a king. A month and a half among outcasts and cripples had taught him much, their lessons different than he had ever imagined. Rache had worried that he would find limping, unbalanced troops plagued by aggressive insecurities and feigning wholeness with a denial easily sparked to violence. Instead, Rache had discovered nearly seven hundred and fifty soldiers, thirty of them women, with varying Western backgrounds and one uniting feature: a feverish, impassioned need to become the best warriors they could despite the odds against them.