The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Whispers swept the warriors’ ranks. Only one was interpretable. The cliffs gathered a voice with a heavy Northern accent and splintered it in to echoes. “Rache, are these the ones you were expecting?”

  Garn whirled. Mitrian’s heart missed a beat, and the certainty of imminent death swept her before the rhythm corrected itself. She mounted her stocky bay without thought, her eyes locked on the small army blocking the exit from the meadow.

  Gradually, the soldiers shifted to admit a hugely muscled black stallion that dwarfed its rider. The row of bowmen on the cliffs blotted the sun enough to display Rache in vivid detail. Mitrian expected the events of the last year to have aged him decades; she knew Garn and she had changed greatly in attitude and appearance. Yet in his ageless, timeless way, Rache looked no different than he had at Mitrian’s first sword lesson. Not a single crease marred features that blended the hungry promise of a hero with the innocence of youth. He sat, straight and proud, upon his steed, showing no evidence of his handicap other than the contrast between the slender legs and the brawny arms trained to replace them. Functionally short, wheaten hair framed eyes as blue and chill as sapphire chips. To Mitrian, his beauty was breathtaking. The years seemed to slip away, leaving her a dazzled teen secretly thrilled with the rumors that she and her father’s captain were lovers rather than sharing a bond as strong and platonic as siblings.

  Mitrian quelled the urge to dismount, run to Rache, and catch him in an embrace, so it completely unbalanced her when Sterrane did exactly that. Her bearlike companion clutched Rache’s waist, his head against a leather-clad thigh, his shoulder pressed to the glossy stallion.

  Rache laughed, stroking Sterrane’s thick, black hair as if the huge man were a puppy. “He talked you into coming, Sterrane? Inappropriate perhaps, considering the circumstances, but I’m honored.”

  Shocked by Rache’s familiarity with Sterrane and confused by his words, Mitrian did not notice as Garn sprang to the saddle of Sterrane’s white gelding.

  Garn’s challenge rang over the chatter. “So, Rache, coward and son of cowards. Still hiding behind drawn bows, I see.”

  All eyes whipped to Garn. Rache stiffened at the insult. His hands went instinctively to his hilts, and the stallion sidled away from Sterrane. Still, when Rache spoke, he seemed composed. “Garn. Free man.” Trying too hard, Rache stumbled over the words. “You can call me savage, violent, a cruel and bitter teacher. You can call me by any swear word you may have learned. But even you know I’m no coward. Whatever else you feel for me, Garn, you can’t deny that I never shied from your challenge. Never. In fact, Garn, if I had given you a sharpened weapon when you asked for it in the practice room, you wouldn’t be here bothering me now. And I would still walk.”

  Mitrian held her breath, glad to see Garn’s hatred had not driven him to forget about the archers. Hurling gibes or compliments, at least the two were talking.

  Garn granted no quarter. “I see only what I see now. A swordsman hiding from one man behind rows of bowmen.”

  Rache grumbled something unintelligible, but his expression revealed waning control. He twisted far enough to address a one-handed Northern commander in chain mail.

  The other man shouted a foreign command that Mitrian did not understand. The archers on the cliffs lowered their bows, and the soldiers quietly filed back through the pass.

  Garn did not waste a second. The gelding charged, matching the speed of Garn’s sword as it left its sheath.

  But Rache moved more quickly. His stallion lurched around to shield Sterrane from the inevitable battle, and his blades cleared leather while Garn’s was only three-quarters free. Draw speed made no difference. By the time the white horse met the black, all three swords cleaved air. Garn’s attack crashed against Rache’s cross-block with enough force to off-balance the Renshai. Catlike, Rache caught his balance, aided by Bein’s equalizing sidestep, but the maneuver sacrificed his offensive. Garn’s sword hammered at him again.

  This time Rache dodged, apparently not wanting to sample Garn’s inhuman strength a second time. Garn’s sword swept air, gaining momentum in a whistling circle. Both men attacked at once.

  Desperate, Mitrian spurred her mount. The bay leapt for the center of the fray. Mitrian acted half by intent and half by instinct. Of the two, Garn had never needed to learn to pull blows. As a teacher, Rache had learned to react to the unexpected. So Mitrian concentrated on Garn. Her mount shouldered between the other horses, sending the white into a twisted, half-rear while the black stood firm. She saw fear in Garn’s eyes as his sword slammed down on hers with a strength that wrenched every tendon in her arms. The demon’s screams reverberated through her mind as it knew the certainty of her death on Rache’s blade behind her.

  But Mitrian felt the breeze of the sword’s passage against the side of her head. Rache swore, the redirection of a certain death stroke all but toppling him from the horse. Both men went still.

  Even mounted, Garn held the stance of a gladiator, dark and animal-crouched on his snow-colored horse. “Out of my way. Mitrian, get out of my way!”

  Mitrian edged her horse to a position where she could see both men clearly. Rache kept his gaze locked on Garn, eyes flashing with anger as bright as the Pica Stone, an alabaster statue on a steed as dark as a demon. Despite her precarious position, Mitrian could not banish the irony. In the past year, the heroes and villains had become as muddled as the colors representing them. “Quiet, Garn,” she said softly, tears blurring the scene to chessboard patches of black and white.

  To her surprise, Garn fell silent.

  “Can’t you two understand? I love you both so much.” Mitrian saw anger deepen in Garn’s eyes and clarified. “Rache is the only brother I’ve ever had; Garn my only husband. Please. Try to settle this. For me.”

  Garn shook his head, rearranging coarse tangles of hair. His green gaze never left Rache. “You don’t understand. His cruelty took from me not only the life I should have had, but the value of all others. He’s mine, Mitrian. And I’m here to collect my debt.”

  Garn’s words stabbed Mitrian like knives, and she glanced to Rache for aid. But the Renshai sat, grim and silent, on his stallion, sunlight playing through his golden hair.

  Many thoughts raced through Mitrian’s mind at once. She tried to convince herself that if she moved, the men would not attack. Failing that, she prayed for a miracle. Briefly, her gaze found Arduwyn, but he, too, hung on her words. She jammed her sword into its sheath in angry despair. “Fine! If my love means nothing to you, go ahead and kill one another. I’m leaving.” She jabbed a hand toward the entrance to the clearing. “If you come to an agreement, you can find me there. Both of you. If there’s only one left, don’t bother. I don’t want anything to do with anyone who murders my loved ones.” With that, she wheeled the bay and reined her mount toward the entrance, blinded by tears.

  The last voice she heard was Arduwyn’s. “Don’t move, either of you. You’ve got plenty of time to fight. Right now, I need to talk to Rache.”

  * * *

  Riding aside with Arduwyn, Rache did not bother to modulate his voice. “Look, Garn doesn’t know how to listen to reason. The sooner this is finished, the sooner I get to my guard post at the armory.” It was a weak lie. He was scheduled to guard the armory. But the mundane soldiers’ chore paled in significance, especially since any of Peusen’s warriors would gladly take Rache’s place. Even in Santagithi’s command, Rache had always hated guard duty.

  Arduwyn kept his voice low but firm. “How could you treat Mitrian like that? I thought you cared for her. At the least, I’d have thought you had enough respect for Santagithi to treat his daughter kindly.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Rache’s forearms lay, crossed on his pommel, a hand on each hilt. He could not help watching Garn over Arduwyn’s shoulder. “I’m not the one screaming about debts.” A sudden concern struck him, and his gaze flicked about until he found Sterrane. Unharmed, the huge man leaned against the cliffs
, features pouting.

  “No,” Arduwyn admitted. “But you’re not making any effort to compromise.”

  “As opposed to Garn?” Rache kept his gaze on Sterrane until he made certain his friend had not been injured. Once sure, he returned his attention to Garn.

  “Garn’s in a different position than you. He respects you. He can’t help feeling that way, and it’s tearing him apart. For you to stop hating Garn, you only need to forgive him for doing the same thing you would have done in his place. For him to stop hating you requires him to admit that you’re his superior. Garn has to prove that he deserves his freedom. He needs to believe he’s at your level. The only way he knows to do that is to show he’s the better warrior. It’s the only thing you’ve ever competed in before.”

  Rache pursed his lips into an annoyed line. Forgiving Garn had proven difficult enough. To consider him an equal went beyond all sense of honor and propriety. Mitrian loves Garn. She’s chosen to marry him. Memory of the powerful sword stroke that had nearly unhorsed him set him shaking his head in awe. “Garn’s one of the most competent fighters I know. He—”

  Arduwyn’s sharp gesture cut Rache off. “Tell Garn that.”

  “How?”

  “You and Garn need to spend some time alone. When you’re finished, there’d better either be two of you or none. Otherwise, the survivor’s in for a lonely life.”

  Rache was skeptical. “Would you have us just send everyone else from the clearing?”

  “Better the two of you should meet somewhere alone.” A strange smile formed on Arduwyn’s face. “Why not while you’re on duty at the armory?”

  The suggestion surprised Rache enough to draw his observation from Garn to Arduwyn. “Wonderful suggestion. Why don’t we just meet in a burning barn with me on foot? Armories have weapons in them.”

  Arduwyn’s tone turned as harshly sarcastic as Rache’s. “That was the definition of armory last I heard. It’s one of the few interests you share. I’ve seen Garn stare at an armorer’s wares in the market for ridiculous lengths of time. And weapons, my friend, give the advantage to you.”

  Rache’s eyes narrowed in consideration.

  “I’ve seen Garn kill without a weapon or even the intention of killing. He’s far stronger now than when I first met him. No offense, but if Garn and Colbey faced one another completely unarmed, I’d put my money on Garn.”

  Rache frowned at the slight to his mentor.

  “But,” Arduwyn continued swiftly, “if either one had a sword, I’d never doubt Colbey’s victory. No matter who started with the weapon, Colbey would wind up with it. Of course, I’m assuming a Northman skilled enough to have become a legend in Pudar has talent approximating Colbey’s.”

  Rache relaxed enough to loose a sardonic laugh. “Thank you for the compliment. If gods challenged Colbey, I’d be hard-pressed to pick the winner. But I do take your point. I’m on duty at the armory at sundown. I’ll tell General Peusen to give you free passage in the town, assuming you can talk Garn into meeting with me.” He reined his horse about. “Oh, and please assure Mitrian I care enough about her to do everything in my power to settle this feud in a way that kills neither of us.” Rache spoke with honest sincerity.

  Arduwyn met the cold blue gaze. “I’m certain,” he said carefully, “you’ll do just that.”

  * * *

  Moments before sundown, Rache reined Bein to a halt before the squat flagstone hut hidden beneath a hill that served as armory to the soldiers of Iaplege. He waved off the current sentry. Untying from the saddle the staves that served as his crutches, he lowered them to the ground, letting them lean against the stallion’s neck as he gracefully dismounted. The black remained still as Rache peeled off tack and collected his staves. A playful slap on the rump sent the stallion wandering a short distance in search of grass.

  Weight balanced on his staves, Rache watched Bein shamble off with a slight smile of pleasure. The horse had served him as no other ever had or, he imagined, could, a lucky find he doubted he could repeat. He hoped, if anything happened to him, the horse would find a master that suited it as well.

  Betrayed by his own doubts, Rache’s smile wilted to a frown. Dependent on the staves, he could walk with a slow, reasonably natural gait. Over time, he had regained strength and sensation to an area just below his knees, though it had become obvious that time would heal nothing more. With his hands burdened, he could never hope to win a battle against Garn. Arduwyn promised to talk with Garn, but what could he say now that he couldn’t have said during the last two weeks? Rache staggered back toward Bein’s saddle and bridle, thinking it might prove safer to meet Garn mounted.

  As if in answer to the thought, hoofbeats rumbled on the pathway to the armory. Garn’s white horse whipped around the bend, its rider a wide, dark blur on its back.

  The previous sentry detected something odd in Rache’s bearing. Apparently judging the approaching rider a threat, he reached for his sword.

  Rache grabbed the other man’s arm. “Relax. I invited him.”

  The sentry regarded Rache curiously. With a shrug, he wandered off in the opposite direction as Garn’s white gelding drew up before the tying post.

  Rache’s capable hand curled about his staves. A familiar wariness coiled his sinews. Ignoring Garn’s dismount and tie, he hobbled to the door, feeling as awkward and defenseless as a newborn fawn. Mentally, he cursed Arduwyn, wondering how the little hunter had talked him into something so reckless.

  Garn drew up beside Rache in the doorway. The ex-gladiator wore his sword at his hip and a face that revealed nothing. The blank pall was a trick Rache had taught Garn to keep him from projecting his intentions to his opponents in the pit. Now the icy lack of expression unnerved Rache. Still, the larger man’s weapon remained in its sheath. Garn seemed to have no plans to slice Rache down. Yet.

  Rache unlocked the door and pushed it open, balancing on the opposite staff. A movement flashed through his peripheral vision, Garn’s sword whisking free. Before Rache could shift his balance, cold steel crashed against his staff. Wood snapped, the pieces skittering across the armory floor. Support abruptly lost, Rache collapsed, rolling to his back to face certain death. His hands flicked instinctively to his sword hilts.

  Garn clenched the haft of his longsword in fists gone white with strain. The blade hovered over Rache, positioned for a killing thrust through the throat. Yet it did not fall. Against all of Rache’s teachings, Garn had apparently chosen to gloat rather than kill.

  The fool. Though his own life was at stake, Rache could not quell the disappointment of seeing a competent student make a fatal error. Carefully, he measured a sudden twist to the nearest table, considered how fast he could draw his own weapons. But cued by Garn’s silence, Rache froze. Killers don’t pause, and braggarts don’t stand in silence. Whether Garn realizes it or not, he’s confused. For once, I need to use my head instead of my sword.

  The sword hung motionless. Garn’s features mingled need and uncertainty.

  Rache overpowered training and survival instinct with will. “Are you going to let bitterness destroy all the good you’ve accomplished?”

  Garn’s cheeks twitched. His eyes narrowed. “So this is how it ends? The mighty sword master begs for his life?” The thought seemed to please him.

  “Is that what you believe, Garn?” Rache could not keep disgust from his tone. “You never used to be stupid. To belittle your teacher is to discredit all that he taught you and all that you are. And what honor is there in killing an enemy who is only a coward?” He snorted. “If you’ve learned nothing more about self-respect and glory than grounding a cripple with a surprise stroke from behind and slaughtering him without a fight, then perhaps you don’t deserve the freedom and love you’ll surrender for this so-called honor. I’ve never known Santagithi nor his daughter to pronounce an idle threat. Is my death really worth losing your wife and child?”

  Garn’s mouth bunched. His voice became a hiss, poisoned with a malice b
eyond all reason. “I hate you and all you’ve made me into. Your death is worth any price.” Still, he did not complete the killing cut.

  Encouraged by Garn’s lack of action, if not his words, Rache uncurled his palms from his swords. Cold from the stone floor of the doorway chilled through his tunic. “If that was so, when Mitrian pushed between us you wouldn’t have pulled your blow. You would have hacked through her to get to me.”

  Garn said nothing. His gaze never left Rache’s eyes.

  Doubt about his own diplomatic skills caused Rache’s voice to slur. The words came only with difficulty. “Garn, if you truly believe my death will have some profoundly good effect on your swordsmanship and your life, so be it.” Rache hoped Garn would mistake the somberness of his expression for sincerity. “My life is worth the sacrifice.” Rache spread his arms, fully opening his defenses to Garn’s attack, faking surrender though his eyes measured the distance to the nearest table.

  Garn’s forearms hardened. The sword raised a finger’s breadth, then stopped.

  Rache forced himself to remain still, quietly judging the split second timing required to block Garn’s death blow.

  “Why!” Garn’s shout made it clear he had to know. “Why would you let me do this?”

  “Because of a man named Episte. As skilled as Colbey was and is, Episte taught me more. He sacrificed his soul for the time it bought him to train me. He convinced me that any dedicated teacher would do the same for his most skilled student.”

  Garn chewed his lip in consideration, the sword still hovering, though his arms must have begun to ache with the strain. Slowly, the implications became clear. “You’re saying I’m your best student?” His surprise radiated clearly.

  “Was that ever in doubt?”

  Garn stiffened. “But you betrayed me.” His volume rose with each accusation. “You chained me. You called me an animal.”

  “I never betrayed you.” Rache knew to which incident Garn referred without need for consideration. “I got you away from the townsfolk in the only way I could without causing a lot of senseless slaughter. And before the trial, I argued to the point of mutiny to keep you free.” Rache saw no reason to deny the truth of Garn’s other accusations. “As to the chains and insults, had I not used them, you would have learned nothing. Without training, your courage would have become only directionless barbarism. You would have died in the pit.”