The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Lirtensa closed his hand, and the coppers disappeared into his pocket. “Late teens, early twenties? Long yellow-brown hair? Burly man with lots of scars.”

  The description fit. “Sounds like Garn. What do you know?”

  “He’s been a member of Pudar’s guard force for three weeks now.”

  “What?” The words seemed nonsensical to Nantel. He doubted an animal, even one as wily as Garn, could be trained to the intricacies of guard work. Until now, it had not occurred to him that he and Lirtensa might be discussing different men called Garn. He had never heard the name used by another. Unfamiliar with any conventions of naming, Carad had asked that Rache name his son. Rache had called the gladiator’s child “Galn,” which he said meant “ferociously crazy” in the Northern tongue. Santagithi’s men had found “Garn” easier to say, so it had stuck, to Rache’s amusement. “Garn” was the Northern term for “yarn.” Still, Lirtensa’s description fit, and it made sense that Garn would try to lose himself in the largest city of the Westlands. The fact that he had lived here at least three weeks without Nantel or his men running into him attested to the wisdom of such a decision. “That’s insane!” Nantel shivered, imagining himself as an unsuspecting Pudarian soldier trusting Garn at his back.

  Lirtensa shrugged. “My silence will cost you a silver.”

  Nantel held his tongue while his thoughts clicked into strategy mode. His first idea involved talking to the ruler of Pudar, convincing him of the danger inherent in consigning some of his men’s lives to Garn’s hand. Surely, King Gasir would see the sense in executing Garn at once. Then Nantel frowned. Unaccustomed to slaves and gladiators, King Gasir might not be able to recognize the danger in his midst but might instead mistake Garn’s animal ferocity for courage and see his strength as an asset. “Gods.” The implications rattled Nantel. My men and I are the only ones who won’t underestimate Garn. We’ll have to kill him ourselves and make it look accidental. Nantel instantly dismissed thoughts of capturing Garn alive. There’s no need, and it can only mean losing men unnecessarily. Nantel sorted a silver from the chroams and passed it to Lirtensa. “I’ll need to know Garn’s schedule and his route home.”

  “Two more silver.”

  “What?” The payments had begun to wear on Nantel. Camping outside the walls and hunting their own food had saved considerable sums. Still, the men had had to find jobs to support their taste for beer and other luxuries.

  “You’re asking me to set up one of my fellow guards.” Lirtensa spoke soberly, but Nantel suspected the squint-eyed Pudarian would sell his mother for less.

  Nantel paid.

  * * *

  In the lower corner of the cottage’s backyard, a tangled copse of blackberries looped in a dense circle that screened Mitrian’s sword practices from prying eyes. Simply possessing the sword had marked her as outcast among Pudarian wives, and she saw no need to compound that offense by proving she could use as well as carry it. For now, the sword dragged, dormant at her hip. Snug in a leather pouch strapped across Mitrian’s back, Kinesthe slept while his mother plucked ripened fruit from the vines and dropped them into a bucket at her feet.

  Spears of light stabbed at Mitrian through the foliage. She glanced into a sky ruffled with clouds like fish scales, each tinged red by the setting sun. She frowned, hoping to have the blackberry pie finished by the time Garn returned, yet knowing she could barely have the berries picked by then. She lowered her head, ignoring the shroud of dark hair that fell over her face, and quickened her pace.

  A deep voice crooned behind her. “Alone at last, Mitrian Santagithisdatter.”

  Startled as much by the reference to her father as the sudden presence of a stranger, Mitrian whirled to face a man as pallid as a corpse. A headband of snow owl feathers blended into the white expanse of his hair and robes. Only his blue eyes seemed to retain any color, and those roved over her in an unwholesome manner.

  Recognizing a Leukenyan priest from Arduwyn’s quarrel at the Pudarian gates, Mitrian kept her tone icily pointed. “Go away. I’ll have nothing to do with your pagan god.”

  “Pagan?” The priest laughed. “You’ll learn soon enough. I’ve come for the child.” Despite his words, the Leukenyan kept his gaze locked on Mitrian.

  Mitrian took an involuntary step back. Briars scratched her neck, and she went still, hoping the leather pack protected Kinesthe better than her thin linen cloak did her back. “Come for him? For what purpose?” It was a delaying tactic. Mitrian would sooner have turned over her arm than her baby. From the instant of her first glimpse, she had been assessing the Leukenyan’s abilities by his movements and stance. Already, she had picked out the line of a curved sword, probably a scimitar, beneath the folds of his cloak. Yet, the stiffness of his gestures suggested he was a mediocre swordsman, at best. Whatever source had revealed her parentage to him had badly misjudged her skill. Other possibilities came to her then. Perhaps he’s deliberately making himself look clumsy to put me off my guard. Or he has half a dozen friends in the yard.

  “Enlightenment,” the albino replied.

  Lost in her thoughts and assessments, Mitrian had nearly forgotten she had asked the reason why the priests of Corpa Leukenya wanted her child. Without another word, she plucked Kinesthe from her back and placed him where he would not be crushed or injured if a fight ensued.

  Apparently misunderstanding her gesture, the man smiled. He glided toward her.

  Protectively, Mitrian stepped between the stranger and her child. Her sword leapt into her fist, and she measured the priest’s every action with unhurried deliberateness.

  He stiffened, annoyance clearly mingling with surprise. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  In reply, Mitrian crouched.

  The Leukenyan priest threw aside a fold in his cloak. The scimitar rasped free of its sheath, its razor edge collecting dusky highlights.

  Immediately, Mitrian struck for his wrists. The priest lurched backward, saving his hands. Her blow landed just below his crosspiece, jarring the scimitar from his grasp. Metal thudded to the dirt.

  The world seemed to spin. Mitrian’s vision fogged with illusion. Suddenly, she was surrounded by a blazing village. Through moonless night, fires lit the scene like day. Children who should have clung, weeping, swung swords. Women who should have cowered fought with the strength, skill, and valor of the finest swordsman.

  Mitrian gasped, confused. A rider bore down on her. She blocked his ax, though the force nearly wrenched the sword from her hand. The man’s horned helm marked him as a captain of Northmen. He wheeled his mount and charged again. Mitrian ducked beneath his ax, and her sword caught him full in the chest. Her blade sparked against an iron hauberk that spared his life. He tumbled from his horse.

  Something seemed wrong about the incident but, hard-pressed by the battle, Mitrian did not take the time to place it. The Northman quickly regained his feet and advanced on Mitrian. She parried his ax, but her double ripostes slapped harmlessly against his hauberk and greaves. Still, the fury of her offensive drove him into a burning hall. Smoke stung her eyes. She tripped over an overturned bench and fell against a wall. The Northman struck for her leg. Mitrian dove over the ax, rolled to her feet, and brought her sword across the unprotected back of his knee. A beam in the ceiling cracked. Flaming thatch fell. Mitrian staggered back raggedly to avoid it, instinctively throwing up an arm in defense.

  Suddenly, the demon’s vision released Mitrian. Panting, she stared at the priest who sprawled before her, clutching his thigh. Confusion and the uncontrolled ferocity of her assault brought tears to her eyes. She backed away, noticing several small, red stains spreading across the priest’s white robes.

  “Why?” Mitrian slammed the sword into its sheath and addressed the demon in the gems. “Why?” she screamed.

  The priest stared, wide-eyed. Apparently, declaring her mad, he rolled beyond sword range before clambering to his feet and breaking into a limping, shuffling run toward the city.

  Mi
trian did not pursue. “Why?” she pressed the demon again.

  He did not answer in words. Instead, the trapped soul of a Hel-bound Renshai gave her a taste of the battle joy her madness gave him. Even without explanation, she knew she had witnessed the demon’s last human fight, his final glorious battle among Renshai before infection claimed smoke-seared lungs and he had breathed his last on a sickbed.

  The knowledge did not appease Mitrian’s need to understand. “Why now? Why assail me with visions at a time when I most need my wits?”

  The demon chose speech. Because you became a Renshai in eight months, learning skills it will take lifetimes to perfect. One thing only Colbey cannot teach you, the ferocity that comes with Renshai culture, a ruthless love for battle that comes of living among Renshai since birth.

  Mitrian gathered up Kinesthe and returned him to his pouch, never losing the grip on her hilt that allowed her to communicate with the demon. “I don’t need to revere war to become skilled at it. Maybe the new Renshai need to learn temperance as well as technique.”

  Modi’s blood wrath and mental ferocity were as much factors in the Renshai’s success at war as their swordcraft and honor. To remove those things would reduce Renshai to the level of ordinary, capable swordsmen. Like Garn. Colbey’s ability does not come from practice alone.

  Caught off-guard by the demon’s reference to Garn, Mitrian did not gather her arguments clearly. “So says you.”

  The demon lurched in for the closing stroke. And so says Shadimar. Why else would he have given you the only magic sword on the world of Law to use in the Great War?

  Stranded without retort, Mitrian broke contact, hefted her bucket with a violent tug that sent berries tumbling over the sides, and headed for home.

  * * *

  Garn trotted along the market streets, senses half-tuned to merchants closing their last sales and the pound and rattle of stands coming down for the night. The crowds had dispersed to a last, stubborn trickle as patrons retired to cottages or inns for the evening meal. After a full day of patrolling the upper east side, where most of the foreigners stayed and lived in the rowdy, careless comfort of furlough, Garn felt pleasantly tired. His sword seemed heavy at his hip. Now off-duty, he wore street clothes, carrying the tan linen shirt and britches of his uniform in a sack tied at his belt. Unlike Santagithi, King Gasir made a distinct separation between his town guard and soldiers; the latter wore reinforced leather. In case of war, the town guard would become the elite forces while men who plied other trades most of the year would form the main body of Pudar’s army.

  Initially, Garn had held trepidations about life as a guard, concerned he might see Rache and Nantel in every leader and a fettering of his freedom in every command. But the duties had come easily, and, with them, a sense of self and well-being. Foreigners came to him for guidance, trusting a town guard rather than the rabble on the streets. The citizenry greeted him with sincere pleasantries, glad of his presence. Though a handful of the guards watched the new man in their midst with mistrust, others instantly accepted their king’s decision. Garn found himself with dozens of friends where before he had only three.

  A smile creased Garn’s face as he turned the corner from the main street into the familiar alleyway. Only one man occupied the area now, an elderly male dressed in filthy rags who leaned against one wall. He looked Garn over as the ex-gladiator entered the alley, studying him with more than casual interest.

  The beggar’s intensity raised Garn’s guard. He slowed, returning the excessive attention in kind.

  The beggar seemed not to notice. As Garn came to him, he extended his hand, a jeweled cloak pin clutched between his thumb and forefinger. “Please,” he hissed. “Hold this.”

  The request seemed harmless. Accustomed to fast trust and strange requests in his past several weeks since joining the guard force, Garn accepted the trinket, then looked expectantly at the beggar.

  The nearly inaudible whisk of wood against fabric sent Garn into a spinning crouch. Five men barred the entrance to the alley. Garn recognized them at once. Though nearly a year had passed, Nantel’s homely features were indelibly etched in the ex-gladiator’s memory. He knew the other four also, but it was the sight of Nantel and his drawn bow that scattered Garn’s thoughts in an explosion of homicidal frenzy.

  “Thief!” someone shouted.

  Nantel’s arrow whistled through the air.

  All thought escaped Garn except for hatred and the deep-rooted demand to survive at any cost. Springing backward, he seized the beggar and dragged the old man before him like a shield. The arrow struck home, driving the stranger limply into Garn’s arms. There was no time for remorse. Garn had never needed to work as a team, only to survive. Recognizing that distance made him helpless against arrows, Garn dropped the beggar, tore free his sword, and rushed Santagithi’s guards with a bull bellow of fury.

  Another arrow cleaved air. Garn dodged, but not far enough. The point drew a gash along his arm, flaring pain that only fueled his rage. Nantel’s men closed in to protect their leader as Garn fell upon them like a wounded wolf. His sword slashed a red line through one’s chest. Unprepared for the complete commitment of Garn to battle, the first fell dead without a return stroke. Another twisted, escaping Garn’s savage swipe more from luck than skill.

  Nantel tossed aside his useless bow, and it skittered off behind him, clattering on cobble. Drawing his sword, he elbowed for a position among his men.

  Garn jabbed a knee into an attacker’s groin. The guard doubled over, baring his head to a hilt stroke that shattered his skull. Spots swam before Garn’s vision. One step closer to Nantel, he gave himself fully over to battle lust.

  * * *

  Garn’s war cry and the chime of steel sent Mitrian into a sprint toward the alleyway before she could think to put Kinesthe in a safe place. At the far side of the alley, she skidded to a halt. Peering down the darkened through-way, she recognized Garn’s darkly muscled form. Moonlight flashed from waving steel as Garn staved off a gray blur of attackers. Aware she could do Garn no good by coming up from behind him, she sacrificed time for position and hoped he could hold out a few seconds longer.

  Mitrian careened down a parallel roadway, listening for the muffled sounds of combat, frightened that, at any moment, the alley would grow silent as a wave of strangers overwhelmed her husband. She collided with a teenaged boy hard enough to drive him a step backward and her to her knees. Stone sliced the fabric of her underbritches. She struggled to her feet, swearing, forgetting her manners in the heat of the moment. The other dodged from her path, too awed by a sword-bearing, foul-mouthed woman to challenge her.

  Every moment wore like an hour upon Mitrian. It seemed like days before she whipped around the corner and momentum hurled her into combat. Spurred by demon blood lust, she drew and cut in one movement. The blade chewed a fatal gash into one man’s back before he even realized he was menaced. Mitrian’s follow-through severed the tendons behind another’s knee. That one spiraled toward her as he fell. Dark eyes met blue. Mitrian recognized Nantel as her blade plunged for his chest. And there was no doubt he had identified her, too.

  Nantel tensed to roll even as Mitrian struggled to pull the blow. But Nantel was pinned between a corpse and his companion’s legs, and Mitrian had learned her lessons well. The sword scarcely wavered before plunging deep into Nantel’s chest.

  “Gods!” Mitrian screamed in anguish. She dropped to her knees at Nantel’s side. Once free of the sword’s haft, blood rage disappeared. She felt empty, a child lost in a foreign city. The one familiar face belonged to her father’s archer captain, the eyes rapidly glazing.

  Outnumbered, the last of Nantel’s men whirled and fled.

  Nantel groped blindly for the blade in his flesh. Instinctively, his palm closed over it and he pulled, not noticing that his grip slashed his fingers. Then, apparently at peace, he caught Mitrian’s hand in a grip warm and sticky with blood. He spoke, his words nearly lost in a scarlet foam that
burbled from his lips. “He loves you.”

  Mitrian’s grip tightened, and she closed both hands over Nantel’s. She wanted to apologize but granted Nantel’s right to speak first, before death claimed him. She wondered who the archer had meant by “he.” Garn? My father?

  “How could . . . you . . . betray . . .” Nantel trailed into silence.

  At first Mitrian thought he had died. Tears welled, and through a blur, she could see the red stain on Nantel’s chest still widening. She had already mentally finished his sentence with “me,” so his last word caught her unprepared.

  “. . . Rac . . . he.” A shudder racked Nantel’s body, then he went utterly still.

  Mitrian’s vision washed to a teary, red glare, and it took her several seconds to realize the source of the color. The gems in the wolf-hilt of her sword had changed from their usual bland yellow to the fiery scarlet of sunset. The demon lay still, silently respectful of Mitrian’s need to mourn.

  Nantel said nothing more.

  CHAPTER 21

  King Gasir’s Court

  Grief and guilt held sleep at bay. When exhaustion finally overtook Mitrian, it brought a restless stupor glazed with terror. Something chased Mitrian through her dreams, a creature so terrible she dared not turn to identify it. Instead, she traced its pursuit by its ceaseless cry, “yulkilafren,” words but not quite words, a message just beyond her ability to grasp. She raced onward. As the substance of nightmare thickened, she could no longer run but was forced to swim through air dense as water. Behind her, the thing drew closer.

  “Yulkilafren, yulkilafren, yul-kil-a-fren!” Horrified, Mitrian flailed, desperate to quicken her pace. Painfully slowly, she bounced across the grass on her father’s hilltop as the being closed the gap behind her. “No.”

  Suddenly, Nantel appeared before Mitrian. He wore the same joyfully pensive grin she recognized from her first bow lesson, when he had realized he could let Rache lead the archers on the coming foray. Mitrian skidded into his grasp.