The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Colbey remained silent until the tale was told. “And Rache? Was he involved in that incident as well?”

  “Rache?” King Gasir turned the scratch into a repetitive stroking of his beard. He dredged the name from memory. “Santagithi’s legendary Northman sword master?”

  “Legendary, sire?” Colbey’s pale features knitted. “Is that how the common man denies hard-won skill these days? In my time, they credited it to lies or magic.” Colbey’s words seemed undirected. “I assure you, sire, Rache is as real as you and I. I wondered if he had a part in the incident?”

  “No.” At least none of the men involved used his name. King Gasir considered whether he should feel offended by Colbey’s reference to the common man. The words did not sting, so he chose to believe Colbey’s intentions were harmless.

  Again, Colbey appeared to read King Gasir’s thoughts. “If Rache was there, sire, you would know him.” Colbey waved a hand so deeply scarred with calluses that it looked as if his sword had never left his hand since birth. “If you would like to unite our units, we’ll need to meet later for strategy.”

  “Here. Over dinner,” King Gasir confirmed. “Bring any officers you might have.”

  Colbey nodded his agreement, turned, and left the courtroom, flanked by a half dozen Pudarian guardsmen.

  King Gasir sagged in his chair. He stared after the retreating Northman, sick with an alien certainty that, weaponless or not, Colbey could have killed every man in his courtroom without a thought. The king shook his head, unable to understand why, despite his lethality, the Northman inspired an awe and trust no logic could explain.

  CHAPTER 24

  War to the Death

  No moon disturbed the inky depths of the forests south of Pudar. Wind ruffled the treetops, dislodging a rain of moist poplar petals over Mitrian and Arduwyn. The woman sat on a deadfall, the ache of her wrists and ankles accentuating the exhaustion of a full day’s travel. In the wrong direction, she surmised, and Arduwyn’s restless pacing made her all the more certain of her decision to confront him. Unconscious during the ride to Corpa Leukenya, she could not have recognized forest landmarks, even if one tree did appear different to her than another. But it did not require a perfect knowledge of woodlands to realize that they were headed due east rather than north and east.

  Even so, Mitrian would have accepted Arduwyn’s choice of direction unquestioningly if not for Sterrane’s gentle suggestions that they veer north and Arduwyn’s obvious discomfort at the mention of changing course. She had never heard the hunter snap at their childlike companion before. Arduwyn’s second reprimand to Sterrane had been enough to silence the huge hermit for the last half day of travel.

  “You’re right,” Arduwyn admitted. “I’m taking a side trip before returning to Pudar.”

  “Why?”

  “I promised someone I’d meet him.” Arduwyn stopped at the far edge of his paced route, his back to Mitrian, as if he actually imagined that explanation might placate her.

  Mitrian yawned. “Who? And where?”

  Arduwyn answered in the reverse order, his reply soft and garbled beneath the rattle of spring greenery. “At the edge of the Southern Mountains. And it’s. . . .” His voice trailed into obscurity.

  Mitrian pressed relentlessly. “It’s who? Speak up, Ardy. I’m tired, and I can’t hear you.”

  Arduwyn spun on his heel. “It’s . . .” He raised his voice. Coincidently, the wind died so that the name emerged louder than he intended. “. . . Rache.”

  Emotion assaulted Mitrian, a wild mixture she hardly dared to separate. Afraid to be overwhelmed by mistake, she forced a confirmation. “Rache?”

  Arduwyn’s reply left no room for doubt. “Rache the Renshai. Your father’s captain.”

  Joy rose in a wild crescendo that dwarfed Mitrian’s other sentiments. Her heart rate quickened, seeming to flutter in her chest. Leaping to her feet, she caught Arduwyn’s hands. “Rache? You know where Rache is? Gods, Arduwyn. I have to see him.”

  Arduwyn’s somber expression raised a reality that crushed Mitrian’s excitement.

  Hurling his hands away from her, she turned. “Rache? Are you insane, or don’t you know? Garn and Rache are bitterest enemies. They’ll kill each other.”

  “I know,” Arduwyn said softly.

  Mitrian whirled, staring. “And?”

  “And?” Arduwyn repeated.

  “Are you saying that’s what you want?” Incredulity and rage raised Mitrian’s voice to a shout.

  Arduwyn cringed, reminding Mitrian that their companions, though sleeping, lay not all that far away. “Of course I don’t want them to die. But they have to meet sometime.”

  “Why?”

  “You heard Colbey. The Great War is imminent. We’ll all have to be there.”

  “So?”

  “You think a Renshai would avoid it? Rache will be there, too.”

  Mitrian missed the connection. “What matter? You’re not making sense. In war, they’ll be too busy fighting enemies to seek each other out.”

  Arduwyn snorted, dismissing Mitrian’s argument. “Do you really believe that, given the choice between decapitating Rache or an Eastern soldier, Garn would choose the stranger? Can you imagine the confusion in the ranks if one warrior turned against a second-in-command on his own side? The potential chaos would be frightening.”

  “I’ll keep them apart,” Mitrian promised. “There’ll be thousands of other soldiers. Maybe tens of thousands. And I’ve kept them apart so far.”

  “You’ve done it so far?” Now it was Arduwyn who shouted. “I’ll bet you haven’t seen Rache since you left home. I’ve seen him hundreds of times, even talked to him once. He followed us all the way to Pudar, and it’s only because of Colbey, me, and a lucky diversion that Rache and Garn haven’t met already.”

  The news stunned Mitrian. “I had no idea. . . .”

  Arduwyn broke in, his voice softer. “Of course you had no idea. They’re both quiet, smart, and quick. In the heat of battle, you’ll never be able to keep those men separated. And don’t think they won’t hunt down one another. You sorely underestimate Garn’s hatred if you think that.”

  Mitrian recovered swiftly. “So, what are you saying? Better to let one or both die now? Before the war? I’d rather take my chances on the war killing one before they meet. At least that death would not be in vain.” The tears seemed to come from nowhere. Before Mitrian realized her fear for the two men she loved, her cheeks were wet, her vision a moist blur.

  Arduwyn put an arm around Mitrian’s shoulder and sat with her on the deadfall. “Mitrian, in war, anything can happen. Here, I’ve got some control over the situation. My intention is to see to it both men survive and come to a truce of some sort. Rache, at least, has shown a willingness to try.”

  Mitrian looked up, her view of Arduwyn’s face marred by multicolored bars of salt water clinging to her lashes. “Garn?”

  Arduwyn dodged the question. “It has to be done. And I promised Rache. It wouldn’t do to break the trust of the one side amenable to compromise.”

  Mitrian buried her face in Arduwyn’s tunic. And cried.

  * * *

  When the first red streaks of sunlight colored the horizon, Arduwyn, mounted on his chestnut mare, led his companions through warm, damp forests of oak and hickory. He identified mayapple, crocus, and the tracks of animals that Mitrian would have missed without his guidance, all the while telling stories of hunts and myths with such beauty that she almost managed to forget her concerns and the pain of her abraded wrists and ankles for a time.

  The forest thinned. Arduwyn drew rein on a trail overgrown with vines and weeds. He pointed to a faded square of gold dye on a tree trunk. “‘The Road of the King.’ Legends say the Eastern Wizard rescued the young prince of Béarn by this route and will return him the same way.” Having imparted that piece of history, he kicked his horse into a slow walk toward the plains.

  Recalling Shadimar’s reference to her helping to re
store the prince of Béarn and glad for the distraction of another of Arduwyn’s stories, Mitrian pressed for details. “Why would a prince need to be rescued?”

  Arduwyn swung his head toward Mitrian, clearly surprised. “I know you lived pretty far east, but you’re still from west of the Great Mountains. That means you live in Béarn’s realm. All Westerners know Valar’s story. Don’t they?”

  “I don’t,” Mitrian admitted.

  “Amazing.” Arduwyn shook his head. “Do your elders teach you anything at all?”

  Mitrian opened her mouth to defend her father’s historical tales, but before she could speak, Garn broke in.

  Resentment chilled his words. “They teach us how to kill. For fun, they force peaceful men to slaughter one another.” He kicked his mount to a trot.

  Dumbfounded by Garn’s bitterness, Mitrian stared after him. She had not heard him make reference to his years as a gladiator since their night together in the Granite Hills. Giving Arduwyn a weak grin of apology, she caught up to Garn. “You’re a free man. With a wife who loves you and a child.” Mitrian’s words brought home the bitter ache of leaving her infant behind but also the joy she’d felt when she learned for certain that he was safely in Pudar. She knew she would see Kinesthe again soon and that he could not rest in safer arms than Bel’s, but those comforts hardly seemed enough. Forced to tend Garn, she pushed concern for her child aside. “The only chains that bind you now are the one’s you’ve made with hatred.”

  Garn did not meet Mitrian’s gaze. “I have one more thing to do before I’m truly free.”

  “More?” Mitrian took his arm, trying to guess the task that obsessed Garn. “You’ve toppled a god. Surely you could break a horseshoe if that’s what ails you.”

  Garn raised his head, but he stared through Mitrian. “I harnessed that strength for a purpose.” Unconsciously, he tensed, and the muscles in his forearms swelled. “I won’t be cheated.”

  The distant, feral glow in Garn’s eyes frightened Mitrian. “Garn?”

  “I will kill Rache.”

  Mitrian’s blood seemed to turn to ice. All color drained from her. How could Garn know where we’re going? It came to her suddenly that Garn was reacting to his own mastery of strength independent of Arduwyn’s choice of route. Still, his timing seemed uncanny. Chills racked Mitrian. She huddled deeper into her cloak as despair blossomed into anger. Her grip cinched tight on Garn’s flesh. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

  Garn’s head snapped toward Mitrian.

  “You’re free. Nantel is dead. Rache is crippled. You’ve destroyed two of the few people I’ve ever loved. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Destroyed? Not . . .” Garn seemed to have great difficulty speaking the name. “. . . Rache. He’s not destroyed until he can’t fight.” His stare went beyond Mitrian. “Before I kill him, I’ll make certain he never finds Valhalla.” He added carefully, “And he knows it.”

  Garn’s words crushed Mitrian into silence. For the first time since she thought she had come to understand him as a scared teenager fleeing an oppression that was also the only home he’d ever known, Mitrian hated Garn. It pained her to admit a mistake. Perhaps Garn is every bit the animal the guards described him to be. The thought brought warm, fierce tears to her eyes. Perhaps he only married me to avenge himself against my father. Mitrian gritted her teeth, letting outrage flare until her vision washed red. Then reality slashed through, belying the direction her thoughts were taking. Garn’s love and tenderness over the past year could not be denied. Her memories of him remained strong, direct contrast to the side of himself he chose to show her now. How can this be the same man?

  Engrossed in thought, Mitrian did not notice when Garn pulled free of her grip. Her first recognition that Arduwyn had ridden up beside her was the closeness of his voice when he began his story:

  “For many years, the mountain kingdom of Béarn was ruled by a succession of benevolent kings.”

  Mitrian raised her hand, her intention to silence Arduwyn. Then, hoping but doubting a story could take her mind from the painful maelstrom of thought that assailed her, she let him continue.

  “The land prospered. The Béarnides grew strong and robust. Eventually, the remainder of the Westlands accepted the Béarnian ruler as their own.”

  Though Arduwyn told the tale with his usual skill, Mitrian heard it as if from a great distance. They continued riding as he spoke, but she no longer noticed the beauty around her as they journeyed across the plains into low mountains. She recalled only a vague story of twin princes, Valar, who, as eldest, claimed the kingship and Morhane who usurped the throne by violence and tried to destroy his brother’s line. Arduwyn finished his tale with the legend of a single survivor of the carnage, a middle child of Valar’s seven sons and seven daughters, a boy rescued by the Eastern Wizard. If the West won the Great War, the prince, Arduwyn said, would return to claim his throne.

  The forest opened to a lush valley. Uprooted trees and oddly shaped boulders lay scattered before the entrance. Steep cliffs stretched toward the sky in two rows, like giant’s teeth guarding the vale. Apparently drawn to the open ease of riding the grassy area, Garn steered his chestnut straight into the clearing. Arduwyn hesitated, apparently made uneasy by the enclosing mountains. Less suspicious, Sterrane and Mitrian trailed Garn, and the clop of hooves behind them cued Mitrian that Arduwyn had swallowed his uneasiness and followed.

  Mitrian and her companions had scarcely crossed half the meadow when a mounted figure glided from a crack in the base of the crags. Sunlight reflecting from stone glazed him into an unidentifiable, dark shape, and the voice that rumbled between the cliffs was unfamiliar. “Halt! You’re entering private territory. State your business.”

  Stunned silent, Mitrian did not think to stop Garn from answering.

  The ex-gladiator’s violent mood came clearly through his words. “We’re headed home. Just passing by. Get out of our way.” He took the stranger’s abrupt appearance in stride, though surely he realized the route home deviated from the one he had taken to get to Corpa Leukenya, if only because he had not met any similar challenges en route.

  “Turn around, then.” The man waved a spear, the movement of his arm casting his face momentarily in shadow. Only then, did Mitrian notice one eye socket was empty. “You may not pass.”

  Apparently annoyed by the formality, Garn spurred his mount. “Try and stop me.”

  “Garn, wait . . .” Mitrian started.

  The stranger gave a hawklike call as Garn’s horse lunged forward. A wall of arrows fell from the cliffs.

  Mitrian screamed. Garn drew up. Arduwyn edged to the ex-gladiator’s side. “Be still.” He kept his gaze fixed on rows of drawn bows on the cliffs. “If they had wanted to kill you, they could have. You can barter better alive than dead.”

  A second horseman joined the first, then another and another. Soon a small army grew behind him, lean, hard men with sober faces dressed in armor of rings, scales, or leather. Mitrian’s hand slid to her sword. The demon’s presence filled her, coiled and questioning. Its excitement combined with her own, heightening her senses until several oddities became clear. Some of the soldiers before her had missing limbs, other had scarred visages that made Nantel seem beautiful. Most looked like normal men, but even those inspired a discomfort that went beyond facing an army of enemies with only three allies.

  “Easy, Garn,” Arduwyn whispered, catching the bridle of his companion’s horse. “Anything is preferable to death.”

  Garn stared straight ahead. “I’d welcome death before capture.”

  Before the implications of Garn’s words touched Mitrian, he kicked his horse savagely. It sprang forward, torn from Arduwyn’s grasp.

  “No!” Mitrian screamed. The image of Garn filled with arrows made her dizzy with concern, but only one shaft sped for him. It lodged behind the horse’s ribs and sank deep.

  Garn’s mount lurched and tumbled, legs jerking. Garn hurtled. He twisted as he fell, land
ed on his side and lay still.

  Gods. Mitrian caught at her face, staring, afraid of what she might see. Cautious of the archers, she dismounted and knelt at Garn’s side. Up close, she watched him struggle for the air the fall had battered from his lungs. The horse kicked in a death frenzy, alone and untended.

  No one spoke. Gradually, Garn’s breathing eased. As Mitrian’s concern ebbed, she dared to wonder why only one archer had fired at Garn. Her mind traced the trajectory of the arrow to its source. Arduwyn. Horrified, Mitrian glanced at the flailing horse. The tiny piece of shaft protruding from the wound revealed the edge of a royal blue crest while the arrows of the warning volley all bore double red rings. How could he! Mitrian craned her neck toward her trailing companions, latching her gaze onto Arduwyn. “Traitor.” She snarled. “You could have killed him.”

  Arduwyn lowered his bow and his head. She expected him to rattle something about how the bowmen on the cliffs would certainly have killed Garn if Arduwyn had not felled his headstrong companion first, or to point out that he had, after all, shot the horse and not the man. But Arduwyn wisely chose a regretful silence that allowed Mitrian to turn her attention back to Garn.

  Mitrian watched Garn settle into a normal breathing pattern, immobile, as he mentally explored his body for injuries. Against her will, her mind filled with images of the guardhouse warmth and another still figure on a pallet of straw. Suddenly, she felt as protective as a mother bear. Arduwyn’s idea of uniting Garn and Rache before the war became the madness of a known betrayer. Whatever it takes, I’ll have to keep one of them from the War.

  Eventually Garn rose, limping back to the party.

  Mitrian followed. “Are you all right?”

  “Just bruised,” Garn grumbled. He sounded disappointed, obviously unaware of Arduwyn’s treachery.

  Mitrian clung close, afraid he would try to rush the soldiers again. Husband and wife paused beside Sterrane’s white gelding and faced the strangers again.