Stymied, Mitrian nodded reluctantly.
“I’m going to quit my sales job and hunt. I’ll take Garn and Sterrane with me. I don’t want Garn moping over losing another job, and I think he might find the answer to what’s troubling him in the tranquillity of the forest. I always do.” He smiled crookedly. “If I can’t teach Garn to use a bow, Sterrane can bring him on a trap line. Sterrane claims to shoot an accurate crossbow. True or not, maybe Garn could learn that skill instead.”
Mitrian knew Arduwyn would have to exchange a well paying job for a mediocre one. But Sterrane and Garn would bring in more money, so it would even out in the long run. Besides, although he won’t admit it, I think Arduwyn would rather spend the day hunting than selling. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
The guard who had led Mitrian and Arduwyn into the courtroom now told them to leave.
“Home?” Mitrian asked Arduwyn as she turned to obey.
“You go. And tell Garn about his new job. I need to talk to my boss, then tend to a personal matter.”
So soon after Arduwyn’s references to Rache, the mention of a personal matter bothered Mitrian. But she followed his advice, rising from the bench and heading toward Garn. Now that the trial was over and Garn safe, the grief she had held at bay filled her heart with a weight that no reassurances could lift.
* * *
Rache recognized the peaked, black tents of Santagithi’s unit through a tear in the foliage of Pudar’s forest. Beneath him, Bein veered toward the campsite before Rache realized he had given the command. He smiled. The last few strides of forest and the stretch of sprouting field between him and Pudar’s walls would give him time to think of a prank or casual comment with which to greet the roommate he had not seen for nearly a year.
A sound to Rache’s left drew his attention to a clump of briars. Quietly, he swerved around the berry- and needle-laden branches. The maneuver brought a man into view. Zaran stood alone in this isolated patch of forest, urinating into the brush.
Rache drew rein. A branch snapped beneath Bein’s hoof.
Startled, Zaran glanced up, his hands falling to shield his groin. As he recognized the captain, his mouth rounded, and his brows shot up. “Rache?” He let his hands slip to his sides. Then, remembering what he was about, he quickly readjusted his clothing.
“Where’s Nantel?” Rache asked conversationally. He gazed off toward the camp, but branches and vine loops blocked his view.
Silence.
After some time had passed without an answer, Rache turned back to face the guard. He widened his eyes to indicate a reply was expected.
“Good to have you back.” Zaran’s feigned cheerfulness patronized Rache. “We’re headed home. You’ll join us, I presume?”
Rache’s demeanor went hard as flint. “Where is Nantel?”
Zaran stared at his boots. “If you don’t mind, Rache, I’d rather talk about it back at the camp.”
Accustomed to instant obedience, Rache found Zaran’s delay intolerable. “I mind.” He sent Bein into a walk that hooked into Zaran’s only clear path to camp. “I’m still your captain, damn it! I asked a question, and I expect a straight answer. Immediately!”
Zaran hesitated.
Provoked to violence, Rache drew his sword, swung with a precision that sent Zaran’s cloak pin skittering, then sheathed the blade in the same motion. Catching the brooch in midair, Rache glowered at the errant guard.
Zaran staggered, clutching at his throat as he realized how close he had come to death. Had Rache wanted blood, Zaran would have been dead before he saw the stroke coming.
Rache tossed back the pin. “Now where’s Nantel?”
Recovering, Zaran made an awkward, futile grab for his jewelry. The brooch hit the ground at his feet. “Nantel’s dead, all right? He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Rache recoiled, asking the next question from long-ingrained habit. “In battle?”
“Yes, in battle, you . . .” Zaran bit off the insult, still rattled by Rache’s attack. “Does it matter? Nantel’s dead.”
“It matters to me.” Rache spoke calmly, aware something of more significance than a soldier’s death must be bothering Zaran. The news of Nantel’s slaying hit like lead, but Rache would not allow the pain to penetrate until he understood what troubled Zaran. “I need details. Who killed him?”
Zaran shook his head. “Please don’t make me tell you. Not now.”
“Garn,” Rache guessed.
“Mitrian,” Zaran corrected bitterly.
No other name could have stunned Rache so. “What?”
“Mitrian killed Nantel.”
“Why?”
“She claimed it was an accident. She was defending Garn. Kadrak’s sword, defending a gladiator? The two of them also ‘accidentally’ killed four of Santagithi’s guards. Who taught that girl to fight?”
“Modi.” It was the first time Rache had used the god’s name for emotional rather than physical pain, but it had the same effect. Rage slashed through him, goading him toward berserk, violent action.
“Who?” Unfamiliar with the name yet apparently tuned to Rache’s sudden anger, Zaran backed up several paces. Twigs whipped and snapped against his cloak.
“Garn’s not a man or a gladiator or an animal. He’s a demon.” Rache’s knuckles blanched around the reins. “He poisons everyone and everything he touches. Me, Mitrian, Nantel, the unity of Santagithi’s guard force.” He wheeled Bein.
“Where are you going?” Zaran shouted.
“To rid the world of a demon,” he called over his shoulder, uncertain whether Zaran had even heard him.
Bein broke into a canter.
Rache had nearly reached the gates of Pudar when a man leading a donkey sidled directly into his path. Bein drew up with a snort and a half-rear that sent Rache lurching against the base of the saddle. Rache regained his balance, swearing viciously.
“Rache? Is that you, Rache?”
Startled by a stranger who knew his name, Rache reined Bein to a halt and studied the man. Though small and thin, he met Rache’s frost-blue eyes without fear. Gaunt cheeks framed a thin nose, and the stubbly, red hair made an odd contrast. Although the man’s features were unfamiliar, Rache recognized Arduwyn by descriptions garnered in Western farm towns.
“I’m Rache,” he admitted. “Why . . . ?”
Arduwyn interrupted, speaking in rapid-fire Common. “Thank the gods, it’s you. I’ve been looking for you for months. Literally months. Where have you been?”
More accustomed to the lazy drawl of Santagithi’s Town, Rache found himself several words behind Arduwyn. Some of Peusen’s warriors who had come from larger Western cities, like Pudar, spoke with a similar monotonal, crisp speed, though none as hastily as Arduwyn. The rapidity of Arduwyn’s delivery made Rache’s pause seem interminable. “What?” he finally said, his anger dispersing as Arduwyn demanded his complete attention.
Bein snorted, and the donkey crept toward the stallion tentatively.
“You know a Northman named Colbey, I presume?”
Cold clenched Rache’s chest. Forced to confront the probability that his torke, the man he respected most in all the world, was ashamed of him, Rache had dismissed the master from his mind. To have it thrown back at him so casually caught him defenseless. The last of his rage trailed away like smoke from a snuffed candle. Carefully, he nodded.
Accepting Rache’s gesture as a positive answer, Arduwyn explained. “Colbey rode south about a month ago. He said to expect you and to send you to him when you came. He didn’t seem to think it would take this long. If you hurry, he might still be there.”
Bein and Stubs snuffled loudly at one another’s muzzles.
Colbey took precedence over anyone or anything Rache knew. It was all he could do to keep from kicking the black stallion into a gallop randomly southward. “Where?”
“At the northern base of the Southern mountain range. About halfway between Erythane and the Perionyx River.”
Bein trumpeted a shrill challenge that sent Stubs into a wild, backward scramble so sudden it unbalanced Arduwyn. He flailed his arms, tripped over Stubs’ hoof, and crashed, rump first, to the ground.
Tension fled Rache in an explosion of laughter.
Arduwyn leapt gracefully to his feet, glaring at Stubs, his dignity soiled and at least one of the arrows in his back quiver snapped near the base. The feathered end of its shaft rolled to the dirt, vividly revealing Arduwyn’s personal colors: one royal blue ring followed by two of gold.
Rache’s laughter choked to silence as he recognized a crest he had been trying to trace for months. “You,” he said accusingly.
Something in Rache’s demeanor sent Arduwyn scurrying back. Bein edged forward, keeping the gap between Rache and Arduwyn constant.
Realizing he could never outrun a horse, Arduwyn went still. “The longer you delay, the less likely you’ll find Colbey.”
“Who are you working for?”
“Working for?” Arduwyn blinked twice in succession. “What are you talking about?”
Rache had tired of games. Patient banter was not his style. Without warning, he whipped one sword from its sheath with his right hand and signaled Bein to the opposite side.
Instinctively, Arduwyn recoiled leftward, his gaze on the blade.
Rache made a lightning quick grab with his left hand, twisting his fingers into the linen front of Arduwyn’s shirt. Using the strength of arms trained to serve as arms and legs, he hoisted the little hunter to a seat in front of the saddle. Keeping his arms wrapped around Arduwyn’s throat, Rache signaled Bein with his knees. The stallion galloped toward the forest.
As the horse whirled, Rache caught sight of the town guard near the gate, watching gape-mouthed. He dismissed them as harmless. By the time they chose to pursue, they would have no means to judge his direction, and Bein could take them well beyond Pudar’s jurisdiction before the guards could find mounts to give chase. Even if they caught him, two town guardsmen would prove little challenge to one annoyed Renshai.
Stubs bleated frantically twice before settling down to graze on the sprouting crops.
Arduwyn did not calm so quickly. “Firfan! Rache! What the hell are you doing?”
Rache tightened his grip, and Arduwyn fell silent. Bein plunged into the brush, wallowed through a dense tangle of vines, then came to a halt in a clearing just beyond sight of the town walls. Rache raised the sword so it fell clearly into Arduwyn’s sight. “Now talk. Who hired you?”
Arduwyn gurgled something unintelligible to indicate that Rache’s arm was uncomfortably tight around his windpipe.
Rache removed his arm from Arduwyn’s neck. He twisted the sword so that sunlight flashed from the steel. “Fine. I won’t hold you. But if you decide to jump down, you’d better hope you’re faster than me. And my horse.”
Arduwyn rubbed at his neck gratefully. “I’m not going anywhere. Remember? I was the one who stopped you to talk.”
“Who are you working for that keeps sending me in the wrong direction?” Rache wound his fingers into the extra folds at the back of Arduwyn’s shirt. “Answer quickly and truthfully or, I swear, I’ll give you an ear to ear grin via the throat.” He shook the sword once.
“Colbey,” Arduwyn admitted. “I’m working for Colbey.”
“Why?”
“Because I told him I would, and I’ve heard Renshai get violent when they think they’ve been lied to.”
Fully aware of Arduwyn’s sarcasm, Rache clarified. “I meant why as in ‘why is Colbey avoiding me?’”
“I don’t know.”
Rache’s grip tensed. The sword rose.
Arduwyn twisted far enough to roll one dark eye in Rache’s direction. “I don’t think he knows either. He cares about you and doesn’t want to see you come to any harm. That I know. And he seems to have some weird, unexplained fear that if the two of you meet, you’ll get hurt.”
The explanation made little sense. Tiring of Arduwyn’s lies, Rache lifted the sword until cold steel touched the hunter’s throat. He felt Arduwyn go rigid. “The truth, archer. What’s the matter with you city folk? Death doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“Please.” Desperation crept into Arduwyn’s voice. His hands clutched Rache’s wrist. “I’m telling the truth.”
“There’s more.”
“I’m sure,” Arduwyn agreed. “But Colbey didn’t tell me any more. I’m not certain he really understands it himself.”
Rache lowered the sword thoughtfully. “So Colbey’s in Pudar?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“I promised Colbey I wouldn’t tell you.”
“I can kill you,” Rache reminded.
“Colbey could do worse.”
Rache went silent, stymied. It made little sense for Arduwyn to fear a distant menace more than a Renshai with a sword at his throat. Yet, familiar with Colbey, Rache believed he understood. “He’s not south. I just spent the last month close enough to the location you said Colbey was at that I would have seen him if he was there.”
Arduwyn nodded perceptively. “I didn’t know. That was my mistake.” His stance relaxed slightly as he considered Rache’s words, but he did not question why Rache had spent a month in supposedly uninhabited territory.
The words reminded Rache of the actual clue that had tipped him off to Arduwyn’s lies. In his excitement, he would have accepted the location Arduwyn had specified if not for the discovery of the crest. And, thoughts of the arrow reminded Rache that he had been seeking the archer to thank him, not threaten him. “Actually, I hate to admit it, but your mistake was saving my life.”
“Huh?” The sudden shift in manner obviously confused Arduwyn. He strained his neck to an awkward angle that allowed him to partially meet Rache’s gaze.
“In the eight months I spent tracking Mitrian, I knew I was being hunted, too. I thought it was just those white assassins and their followers. Things sometimes got fast and confusing during those fights, but I’m a competent enough swordsman to know when someone dies before I cut them. I dug this out of one corpse’s chest.” Sheathing his sword, Rache rummaged in his pocket, drawing out the feathered end of a dirt-encrusted piece of arrow. Though faded, Arduwyn’s blue and gold crest was unmistakable. “Thank you.”
Arduwyn kept his tone light, as if fearing to offend with his joke. “You have an unusual way of showing gratitude. In the future, I’d be happy to accept your thanks from the ground.”
Rache ignored the gibe. “There were others following me too, a rotating team of scouts from a small army. One of them was even blind. By tracing my progress from sound, he never got close enough for me to spot him. In any case, I spent the last month sorting through the army and trying to match this crest to its owner. I should have guessed you followed me, too. But when I already had an answer, it never occurred to me to look for another.”
Gently, Arduwyn turned around on Bein’s withers so that he faced Rache.
Rache tried to put his thoughts back on track. “Wait, Arduwyn. If Colbey’s not in Pudar, and you’re working for him, why are you trying to keep me out of the city?”
Arduwyn hesitated.
“Don’t think about that lie too long. I might catch on.” Rache played on an ancient joke that the speed of a man’s swordplay was indirectly proportional to the quickness of his wit.
“I’m not making things up.” Arduwyn’s brown eyes held Rache’s blue ones with a perfect glimmer of sincerity. “I’m just trying to think of a gentle way of saying this.”
Rache granted Arduwyn time to gather his thoughts.
“All Mitrian saw was a gr
oup of men attacking the husband she loves. It wasn’t until after she killed Nantel . . .” He trailed off, apparently to see if he was the first to deliver the news to Rache.
Rache nodded to indicate he knew and to encourage Arduwyn to continue.
“. . . that she realized who the attackers were. Now that the trial is finished, she’s inconsolable. I never knew Nantel, but if he was as competent and loyal a commander as everyone says, than his death was a bitter loss to the combined forces of the West.” Arduwyn broke off, as if realizing his word choices had become too flowery for the occasion. “I’m saying the Westlands lost a good warrior for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Mitrian is miserable. Garn and I are upset because she’s miserable. And Nantel is dead. No winners, Rache. Just losers.”
Arduwyn’s underlying message came through loud and clear. Rache frowned. “So what are you saying? I shouldn’t enter Pudar because Garn and Mitrian might kill me? I don’t think they could.”
Arduwyn shifted, seeking a comfortable position reversed on Bein’s withers. “I won’t argue prowess, except to say that under Colbey’s tutelage, Mitrian’s sword skill has improved faster than I thought possible. And Garn’s been practicing in some more unusual ways. In any case, I don’t think there’s any way she could come upon you fast enough not to recognize you before she attacked. If she hurt you, it would be with full knowledge of who you are.”
“So much the better. We don’t have to worry about a repeat of what happened with Nantel.”
“So much the worse,” Arduwyn corrected. “I thought you liked Mitrian.”
Rache took offense. “I love Mitrian. She’s more sister to me than any blood relative. I want what’s best for her.”
“And what’s best for her?”
“Getting her out of the hands of a viciously brutal gladiator and escorting her back home to the people who love her.”
“All right.” Arduwyn accepted the scenario and worked it from the other side. “So what’s best for Mitrian is to watch her beloved husband murdered by her ‘brother.’ Then, she and her baby should be dragged to a home where the townsfolk will disdain her for her one focus in life, her sword. And her son will always be a viciously brutal gladiator’s brat.”
The Last of the Renshai Page 54