Rache had not known anyone with such consistent enthusiasm since Mitrian. Every one of Peusen’s soldiers knew his handicap and had come to terms with it. Rache found his knowledge in constant demand, discovered a respect so intense it bordered on embarrassing, and he enjoyed the challenges of revising techniques to fit varying deficiencies without sacrificing defense or ability. The Renshai’s way of life had made them masters at healing and therapy. For a handful of men, Rache had designed programs that strengthened wasted limbs to normal. These were his greatest triumphs.
Still, though Rache had found a happy niche, it was not his niche. He would not have traded his time among the soldiers of Iaplege, but his loyalties lay far to the east. Privy to the conversations of others crippled as adults, Rache recognized the mistakes, made by both the victims and their loved ones, that had broken up marriages, alliances, and friendships. He had heard how each of Peusen’s soldiers went through a period of internal strife before coming to terms with his illness or injuries. Yet, discovering the normalcy and necessity of such a self-absorbed phase did not appease Rache’s conscience for having become intolerant of his friends’ support. I misinterpreted a lot of concern and help as interference and took offense at offhand comments.
Rache’s Renshai upbringing had taught him to channel his life to his sword and the single goal of death in glorious combat. He could let nothing stand in the way of that mission, but Renshai heritage did not preclude enjoying life, its loyalties, friends, family, and pleasures.
Forest loomed ahead. Bein slowed to a walk, calmly picking his way between trunks and over deadfalls while his master remained lost in thought. One at a time, Rache addressed the many specters that haunted him. First, he considered the mother who had sold her soul for him. The decision to run was hers not mine and made with all the world’s best interests in mind. When she died, she was fighting and intact. If Odin chose to send her to Hel, it’s not my place to question. But I don’t know for certain, and I have reason enough to believe she went to Valhalla, instead.
Rache lowered his head, laying his mother’s memory to rest after seventeen years of dodging grief. Sorrow descended upon him, but it was bittersweet. Renshai celebrated those among them who reached Valhalla, and Rache could not cry for a mother, long dead, who his reminiscence now placed in Valhalla.
Bein tore mouthfuls of leaves from the trees they passed, showering Rache with dew. The captain’s consideration turned to Episte’s words: “The Westlands has many villages you could serve with your sword; find one that recognizes the value of your skill, though not its source.” Rache had always considered the allegiance he swore to Santagithi and his town to be inviolate, a tribute to a torke who had given his time to the very last hour training Rache as a child. His mind drifted to a day more than a year earlier when he had lain, dizzy and paralyzed, on a pallet of straw. In a flash of bitterness and frenzied frustration, Rache had revealed enough that, had Santagithi questioned, he would have discovered his captain’s Renshai heritage. Yet Santagithi had dismissed the words, forgiving Rache’s outburst as quickly and easily as the heritage he had unwittingly all but revealed. Rache winced at the memory, hating the cruel epithets that shock and grief had driven him to utter against Santagithi.
Rache thought about the final angry exchange with Santagithi before the captain had ridden off to find Mitrian. Santagithi was grief-stricken. He probably had no more understanding of what he was shouting than I did after Garn crippled me. Rache shook his head, wishing he shared Santagithi’s instant insights and logic. I could have put him at ease the same way he did for me. Instead, I let his words hurt me and left him to brood over his mistake.
Self-directed anger welled up in Rache and, with it, a promise to correct the errors he had made. I vowed to lead Santagithi’s men to war. If he’ll have me back, I’ll go. But first I have to make one last effort to retrieve Mitrian.
In Rache’s new state of insightful reasoning, many possibilities for Mitrian’s actions presented themselves, one more than the others. I’m forgetting adolescents don’t always act like rational adults. Probably, Garn raped her. Perhaps she clung to him because she had no one else or she was more afraid of the town’s reaction than of him doing it again. Rache frowned, finding it difficult to believe any woman could fear punishment more than sexual molestation, but he did not forget that his perspective on gender differed vastly from that of Santagithi’s citizens.
I need to find Mitrian and reassure her. Whatever it takes, I’m going to get her home willingly, even if it means claiming Garn’s baby as my own. Pain flashed through Rache’s chest, but he dismissed it. The idea of raising Garn’s child hurt. Years of protecting others from his Renshai heritage had made the thought of calling any child his own revolting. But by accepting Colbey’s training, Mitrian had already condemned her infant to being Renshai. If it’ll get Mitrian back, I’ll take responsibility, even if it means marrying Mitrian, learning to love Garn’s child, or my own banishment. I owe Santagithi that much.
Rache’s decision to head north had come from logic. Alone, Garn would hide in woodlands; the chances of tracking him would be slim. Mitrian was another matter. Pregnant and traveling with friends, she would seek out a city. It made sense that she would choose Pudar, the largest city in the Westlands, the only one about which she had heard detailed stories. For the sake of vengeance, Rache hoped he would find Garn as well. But for Mitrian’s welfare, he prayed that the gladiator had left her long ago.
The forest broke to farmland. From his instructions, Rache knew he was still a full two days from Pudar. He kneed Bein back into a lope, his thoughts turning to the other friend he knew was probably in or near the trading city. Now Rache’s anger at Nantel seemed foolish and misplaced. Nantel’s earned my respect forty times over. If he followed me, it could only have been at Santagithi’s insistence. The image of Nantel’s coarse, mustached features made him smile. Though never well-liked, the archer captain had won his men’s deference honestly, through skill, hard work, fierce loyalty, and infallible common sense. Rache alone had challenged Nantel’s rages with sarcasm, and it had allowed him to find a deeply moral, kindly part of the archer that few others saw. Of them all: Mitrian, Santagithi, Emerald, his guards, Rache missed his roommate the most.
Rache patted Bein’s glossy neck. It seemed strange that the people he had respected, like Colbey, Nantel, and Santagithi, had always been rebels trying to find a niche in a world of false hopes and illusionary truths, a world that crushed all who did not fit neatly into its narrow vision of humanity. Soon enough, boy. Rache wound his fingers through the stallion’s inky mane. Things will come together when I reach Pudar.
Rache rode onward.
* * *
Candles guttered in the antler-shaped, copper brackets that decorated the walls of the taproom in The Dun Stag Inn. Smoke swirled through the confines, muting the press of beer-guzzling foreigners to lacy shadows, but their shouted boasts and curses blended to a blustering crescendo that was not so easily ignored.
Alone at a corner table, Nantel sipped his beer, watching the wild horde of revelers with icy detachment. In the past, he had always enjoyed the trading parties he led to Pudar, a change of scenery and a month of business that passed more like holiday. But six months ensconced in the ceaseless whirlwind of the market city had grown tiresome, driving him to a bitterness quelled only with good Dun Stag beer and relative isolation. Dazzled by glitter and constant parties, the ten men under Nantel’s command had become lethargic, requiring his sharp tongue and temper to drive them to the daily practices that had been simple routine in the Town of Santagithi.
A massive Bruenian jostled Nantel’s table, sending his beer into a sloshing dance that soaked the archer’s hands. Light flashed golden from hoop earrings. The Bruenian glared, breath fetid with cheese and alcohol, as if daring Nantel to comment on his clumsiness.
For an instant, the archer captain considered the challenge, then, just as quickly dismissed it. A commander in a
foreign city should not initiate violence over personal frivolities, and it had never been his way to act in any manner but well-plotted caution. Wiping his hands on his breeks, Nantel let the indiscretion pass uncontested. The Bruenian muttered something dark in the Western tongue that Nantel did not understand, then disappeared back into the crowd.
Nantel smiled, reminded of a less peaceful incident in Santagithi’s tavern. Rache had barely reached seventeen, though in his strange, slowly maturing style he looked closer to twelve. While he and Nantel discussed the merits of slashing versus stabbing over bowls of soup and mugs of beer, a loud-mouthed traveler from Pudar had swaggered into the tavern.
Visitors that far east were rare enough, and Nantel had good reason to recall this man’s face. The Pudarian had stood tall enough to be imposing but not enough for the ungainly proportions of a giant. Ruggedly handsome with his shrewd, dark eyes, straight nose, and square-cut chin, he seemed the type accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. His gaze had skipped over the wholly male congregation in the tavern, dismissing smiths, hunters, and off-duty guardsmen with a half-smile and a glare of condescension. “My name is Dilger,” he announced in the common trading tongue with a heavy Western accent. “I’m from Pudar.” He spoke as if just mentioning the city name placed him leagues above this assembly of ignorant savages.
The rabble stared, conversations forgotten. Rache alone seemed unaware of the newcomer’s presence. His explanation to Nantel never faltered. Only the archer’s captain sat close enough to catch Rache’s gaze slip briefly toward the stranger. Apparently summing the Pudarian’s competence with that single glance, Rache dismissed him as harmless.
The Pudarian continued, voice resonant in the near-silence he had inspired. “I come from the greatest city in the West, and I’m a swordsman of incomparable skill. Perhaps, for enough silver, I might be persuaded to teach you farmers to wield a blade.”
Nantel recalled how the newcomer’s words had inflamed him. He leapt to his feet. At the other tables, the men, all too familiar with his rages, cringed at the coming onslaught. “Listen you arrogant wisule’s bastard! Who in hell do you think you are?”
Dilger turned to face Nantel directly, a cocksure grin on his chiseled features. “Ah! My first volunteer.” He sized Nantel up contemptuously. “You look like you have a lot to learn.”
Nantel’s fist had drifted to his sword, but Rache had moved more quickly. Instead of the familiar, wrapped-leather grip, Nantel’s fingers closed over the captain’s hand.
“Calm down, Nantel.” Rache spooned soup into his mouth with his free hand and whispered. “The dolt is just flapping his lips.” He raised his voice, addressing Dilger now. “Please go on. I’m enjoying this immensely.” Dropping his spoon, he leaned forward as if in expectation.
If Dilger recognized Rache’s sarcasm, he paid it no heed. “Good to see your young, at least, recognize talent. I was a student to none other than the great Belzar, the best sword master who ever lived!” He paused, as if accustomed to gasps of awe. But the name meant nothing to Nantel, and he was willing to bet none of his companions had heard it before either. “Belzar used to fight armies single-handedly. It was he who chased the Golden-Haired Devils back to the North. I am but a shadow of his greatness, but I could still teach you more in a fortnight than you all know together.”
Nantel fumed in silence, wise enough to realize Rache was steering Dilger toward a fall.
“Really?” Rache seemed deeply thoughtful. “I’m from the North. I’ve heard of the savage, Golden-Haired Devils. We called them Renshai. But who’s this Bell-ringer fellow?”
Snickers fluttered through the common room.
Dilger scowled, closing in on Nantel’s and Rache’s table. “Belzar,” he corrected.
Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Nantel joined the exchange. “Belzar, Bell-ringer. What’s the difference?”
Rache cut in, his tone louder, but still composed. “Look, Dilger, is it?” The Renshai gave the name the musical Northern pronunciation, so it came out sounding more like Deel-ga.
“Dilger.” The Pudarian restored the flat, Western inflection.
Rache did not attempt the name again. “You’ve made a mistake. Santagithi’s guard force is well-trained in many weapons, especially sword.”
Dilger snorted. “Farmers and barbarians. You wouldn’t know well-trained if you sat in the presence of it . . . obviously.”
“Then, perhaps the great sword master’s shadow would consent to fight one of our children.” Nantel indicated Rache with a brisk wave.
Rache’s glare was Nantel’s only warning. Before he could guess the sword captain’s intention, Rache swept his soup into his companion’s lap.
Hot liquid splattered Nantel’s breeks. He sprang to his feet, swearing.
Apparently taking Nantel’s sudden movement as hostility, Dilger drew his sword, the steel a white flash in the candlelight. Abruptly realizing his danger, Nantel pawed for his hilt.
But Rache moved more swiftly. Springing past Dilger’s guard, he slapped the sword aside. His hands bashed Dilger’s ears in a cuff that sent the Pudarian lurching to one knee. The sword clanged to the floor, its tip slivering wood. Rache slammed his foot down on the blade and kicked it under the table. Retaking his seat, he slid Nantel’s soup bowl to his place and continued eating as if nothing had happened.
Fully humiliated, Dilger staggered to his feet. His gaze flickered over every man in the tavern, avoiding direct stares. Having ascertained that no one was going to attack from behind, he approached Rache with infinitely more respect. “Might I have my sword back?”
Rache looked up expectantly.
“Please,” Dilger added harshly.
Rache reached beneath the table and came up with the sword without groping. He handed it, hilt first, to its owner. As Dilger’s fingers curled about the grip, Rache tugged it back gently, drawing the Pudarian a step toward him. “Go home to your teacher and apologize for not learning what he tried to teach you.” Rache released his grip.
Suddenly shed of opposing pressure, Dilger caught his balance with an ungainly backstep. Whirling, he rushed from the tavern. Apparently, he had begun his return journey immediately; Nantel had never seen the man again.
Now in the Dun Stag, Nantel grinned at the memory of a guard captain who, after sixteen years of shared quarters, had become closer than either of Nantel’s brothers. He could not help but compare methods of command. Nantel’s temper flared like dry kindling at the slightest affront. His men had learned to obey his simplest decree to avoid his shouted onslaughts. Yet it took more than a mildly serious indignity to drive him to action. Conversely, Rache kept his composure far longer, but the line between anger and violence was fine and easily fractured. His men followed his command more from awe than fear of punishment. For a time, Nantel had envied his companion’s skill. Later, friendship had displaced jealousy. Nantel learned to accept that each was a competent captain in a different way; for all his sword skill, Rache had become only an adequate bowman, and the natural competitiveness of allied warriors channeled into harmless pranks.
Homesickness touched Nantel then. He wiped beer from his mustache with the back of his hand, feeling a wash of sadness enhanced by alcohol. Watching Rache shattered physically had pained him, but the emotional deterioration that had resulted from that blow had ached in Nantel like an open wound. No one had worked harder than Nantel to reestablish Rache’s familiar confidence, yet he had to wonder if he had pushed too hard. To goad Rache to the best his handicap would allow was one thing. To make him believe an ego and constitution newly built from crystal could take the punishment of his iron will was folly. Nantel knew in a way Santagithi could never understand that Rache should have been allowed to chase Garn alone. Success might finally remove the restless drive to prove he was still a man. Failure would force Rache to understand his limitations, teach him to deal with them or to wither in self-pity. The former would take care of itself; the latter, Nantel hoped he coul
d handle.
Awash in memory, Nantel scarcely noticed the short, round man until he stepped within easy reach. Recognizing Lirtensa, a particularly obnoxious Pudarian guard, Nantel glared.
Oblivious to Nantel’s annoyance, Lirtensa snagged the chair beside the archer with his toes and clinched it toward him. He plopped into the seat. “Nantel, what’s the name of that fellow you’re looking for?”
Nantel’s expression softened despite himself. Months had slid by without sight or news of Mitrian, Garn, or Rache. “Rache?”
Lirtensa raked a hand through greasy tangles of hair more dirty than brown. His blue eyes seemed locked in a permanent squint. “Not the Northman. The other one.”
Nantel straightened. “Garn?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Nantel’s heartbeat quickened. “What about Garn?”
Lirtensa held out a callused palm rimed with filth, demanding payment.
“Ruaidhri’s balls, Lir.” Nantel was in no mood for games. “You’d better have something important to say or I’ll hunt you down, kill you, and take my money back.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a copper chroam, and dropped it into Lirtensa’s hand.
Lirtensa let the coin sit, silently waiting.
With a sigh of annoyance, Nantel plucked a handful of chroams from his pocket, passing the coppers one by one until a stack of half a dozen filled the little man’s palm.
The Last of the Renshai Page 50