The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “And you would have lost money.” Garn spoke with soft rancor.

  “No,” Rache replied equally softly. “You know I never placed bets on the gladiator matches. You know because you learned and remembered every comment you ever heard from or about me. And threw the worst parts of my life back at me every chance you got.”

  Garn spoke with the sudden monotony of a phrase that had become habit. “A man must learn all he can about his enemies.”

  Rache let his hands glide naturally back to his sides, scarcely daring to believe his self-sacrifice, though feigned, had earned him the chance to talk. “But a man should choose his enemies with the same care he chooses friends. I taught you to survive.”

  Garn’s sword whipped downward.

  Rache tensed, but the blade slammed against the floor an arm’s length from his body. Steel scraped stone, raising a line of sparks.

  “You taught me to kill without remorse!” Garn screamed. “You rammed your savagery into me until slaughter became a habit I still can’t escape.”

  “And you believe murdering me will make you less of a killer? One more death will erase all the ones that came before?” Rache struggled to a sitting position on the floor, no longer caring if Garn retaliated. “I simply taught you how to fight and to survive the violence neither of us could avoid. The savagery was your own, and not necessarily something to be reviled either. Without that audacity you call savagery, you would never have become my finest student.”

  Garn’s voice dropped to a growl. He had obviously tired of talk. “You’ve never been kept like an animal. You can’t understand.”

  “Can’t I?” Rache thrust his left arm upward with a suddenness that sent his sleeve sliding back to his elbow. Over time, the shackle’s scar had faded nearly to nothing, yet Rache realized that Garn knew the pattern too well to mistake it.

  “You?” Garn did not complete the question.

  Rache obviated the need. “I fought in the pit. Once. Yes. The Northern king tried to keep me as a gladiator rather than a soldier because he was stupid. Santagithi did the same to you because he believed you were too uncontrollable to serve as anything else. Over time, I might have convinced him of his mistake, until your hatred and desire for vengeance proved him right.” Rache paused to let his words settle. “Bitterness destroyed your chance at freedom once. Are you going to let it do so again? If you slay me and survive, you’ll lose your wife and child. And you will be hunted.”

  Garn grimaced. “I’ll have no peace until I kill you.”

  “The peace you seek doesn’t exist.” Rache spread his arms. “If you won’t listen to reason, then kill me and be done with it. I’m sick to death with this feud. If it costs my soul to teach you that nothing good comes of vengefulness and unfaltering resentment, at least you’ll learn this lesson well.”

  Garn raised his sword.

  Rache held his breath, certain this time he had misjudged.

  But Garn’s weapon sagged in his hand. “I can’t. Not like this. Not without knowing.”

  There was no reason to clarify. Garn can’t kill me until he’s proven to us both that he’s the better warrior. Rache understood Garn without the need to ask. He fought a smile, his own competitive edge raised by the thought. And I have to know I’m still better, too. “Listen, Garn. We can kill one another any time. Someday, maybe we can get Mitrian to let us have that fight, though chances are it’ll prove nothing. No matter who lives, he’ll always doubt, always wonder how much of his victory came from skill and how much from luck. Nantel never won a spar against me, yet every time he gained a trick, he challenged me again. And he was never a fraction of the swordsman you are.” Rache studied Garn questioningly, hoping the gladiator had gleaned the unspoken lesson, that competition was healthy and normal, even among friends. “You might be able to best me.” The confession came hard, but Rache managed to keep the skepticism from leaking into his tone.

  Garn frowned, saying nothing.

  “For now, as long as we’re stuck here, I might as well show you the armory.” Catching the doorjamb, Rache hoisted himself to his feet, then gestured Garn inside.

  Garn hesitated, scowling. Then, apparently seeing the wisdom in Rache’s words, he entered Iaplege’s armory.

  Rache gathered his remaining staff and followed.

  Weapons, shields, and armor of a myriad of cultures lay in neat groupings on tables spread throughout the room or hung from fasteners on the walls. Iaplege’s mixed population combined as many martial crests and styles as it did citizens. Accustomed to the sight, Rache paused to shut the door while the steel captivated Garn the way a shiny coin draws the attention of a raven. Suddenly, Rache might have disappeared while Garn’s head jerked and paused, studying the array of weapons. Reverently, he ran a hand down a spike erupting from the iron bell of a horseman’s flail. His eyes followed the delicate curve of a glaive before the swords beckoned.

  Rache leaned against his staff while Garn admired a great sword nearly as tall as himself. Grasping its hilt in both hands, Garn swung impulsively.

  Caught in the blade’s path, Rache dropped to the floor. Steel whisked through the air where his head had been.

  “Garn! Put it down!” Rache shouted, uncertain whether the attack had been intentional. It seemed unlikely after Garn had sacrificed a far simpler opportunity. And the movement appeared too slow, deliberate, and obvious to fit Garn’s style.

  Garn answered Rache’s unspoken concern by gently lowering the sword.

  Rache tried and failed to guess Garn’s purpose. The green eyes revealed nothing. “Surely you know not to swing that large a sword in a small room. A weapon like that isn’t made to wield indoors.” Cautiously, braced between tables, he rose.

  Garn stared at the blade in wonder. “Who would wield it indoors or out? What giant could handle this?” Garn used the tone he had reserved for the few instances when Rache’s lessons had grown interesting enough for him to put aside hatred for the sake of knowledge.

  Surprised but not fooled by the change, Rache replied. “A man no larger than you used that sword. The Iaplegeans say he came from beyond the ocean and died long ago. I don’t know if it’s true, but the sword he left is real enough.”

  “One sword.” Garn’s gaze devoured the many racks and tables. “How did so small a town acquire so many?”

  Rache licked his lips, keeping his attention on Garn’s features though they told him little. “Nearly all the Iaplegeans are warriors wounded in battle. They bring armor and weapons. The ones who die leave them.” Alert to every movement, Rache examined Garn’s thick, scarred arms. It struck him how much Garn resembled his gladiator father, yet his motions seemed smoother and more animal-like. “We also made or bought weapons in preparation for the War.”

  Garn’s attention became fixed. Rache’s gaze followed Garn’s. On a table, amidst breastplates and greaves, lay a pair of fighting gauntlets. Approaching it, Garn placed his hand in one lacquered glove, nestling the steel grip against his heavily callused palm.

  Rache had laced similar gauntlets so many times, he instinctively drew closer to help. He caught himself, but not soon enough.

  “So familiar, eh, Rache?” Garn’s eyes burned with the fierce intensity that had meant a bloody death for many adversaries in the pit. He lifted the other gauntlet, and the blades flashed like ghosts in the dim light wafting through cracks in the flagstone.

  Rache leaned uneasily against a table, hand resting on one sword hilt. “I once gave you weapons as a superior. Now let’s examine them as equals.” Doubting the words could soothe Garn, Rache kept his guard up. Things were easing so well. Thor’s wife, why did he have to notice those gauntlets?

  Garn clapped the blades together, oblivious to Rache’s words. He folded the gauntlets across his chest. Slowly, he swept his right hand across his hip and followed with a punch to the same side. He continued with a series of blocks and strikes. Veins swelled in Garn’s arms and neck, but his face remained relaxed. It seemed as if Ga
rn’s soul had left his body, and no life looked out from behind his glazed eyes.

  Fascinated, Rache watched, assessing him automatically. The pace is not that of a gladiator. The deliberateness and control were never there before. Nor the power.

  Again, Garn crossed his arms, simulating prayer. Mistrust tightened Rache’s hand on his hilt.

  Suddenly, Garn drove the blade on his fist deep into the maple column supporting the room. He slipped the gauntlet from his wrist, leaving it impaled in the wood.

  “Sif and Modi,” whispered Rache, eyes wide in disbelief. Impressed despite himself, he drifted toward the pole. Confident of the strength he had developed in his upper body, he wrapped one arm around the pole, dropped his staff, and seized the metal frame inside the gauntlet. Bracing himself, he pulled. The blade did not budge.

  Shocked, Rache yanked harder with no more success. Obsessed, he threw his weight into the task until his muscles ached and his skin went clammy with sweat. For all his efforts, the blade remained in place.

  Abruptly aware of the power of the man at his back, Rache felt fear grip him like a vise. Still clutching the pole for support, he whirled.

  Garn’s eyes flared green fire. He smirked, patient as a cat with a certain kill.

  Rache cursed his incaution. He gripped a table behind him, gaining the stability to retreat.

  Garn advanced.

  Rache drew his sword.

  Garn smiled. His attention fixed on the ceiling. His fingers closed about the handle of the gauntlet, and he drew it from the beam with ease.

  Rache gasped, body still taut for battle. His heart pounded in his chest.

  Garn laughed. “Your whips broke me so many times. Just once, Rache. Just once, I wanted you to fear me.”

  Rache said nothing.

  Garn returned the gauntlets to the table. His manner had changed from hunched to confident, from compliant to regal. For the moment, he was fully in control. And he knew it. “Colbey taught me some things, too.”

  Rache licked his parched lips several times, mouth so dry he thought he would never swallow again. Garn’s revelation angered him. As long as he knew another Renshai lived, Colbey had no right to teach any of the maneuvers to outsiders, especially not to Rache’s enemies. Gathering his staff, he pointed it at Garn. “Tell me what he taught you. I have a right to know.”

  Garn turned away. “As much as Colbey saw fit,” he said cryptically. Hefting a scimitar, he swung it.

  Rache’s tension receded. He laughed without malice. “I see he didn’t teach you any of the sword skills.”

  Garn scowled.

  “Even I showed you better than that. A scimitar has only one cutting edge. You have to keep that edge forward.” Rache paused, smiling to take the sting from his words. He had never needed to soften his teachings before, but it seemed foolish to antagonize Garn now. “Strong, clean stroke, though,” he conceded. “If you were facing an opponent, you’d have bludgeoned him soundly.”

  Garn glanced from the scimitar to Rache. “Perhaps the great Renshai sword master would lower himself to spar with a man who can’t tell a sword from a club.”

  Rache hesitated, uncertain whether Garn meant spar as a euphemism for fight.

  Apparently guessing Rache’s concern, Garn clarified. “Instead of your life, I’ll claim only a glass of ale when I win.”

  The request seemed in earnest. Rache could not dismiss the curiosity that welled within him. Crippled and against Garn’s newly developed strength, am I still the better swordsman? Still, he worried that ego might turn the contest into something more deadly. Neither of us could accept the other’s victory. Could we? He shook his head, his excuse lame. “I know your repertoire too well. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Afraid?” Garn teased with the same lack of hostility as Nantel once used to goad Rache. “I’ll take that drink as soon as you get off duty. You must have an alehouse.”

  Rache balanced on a sword’s edge of indecision. He knew their relationship had reached a turning point. Garn’s demonstration of inhuman strength and his glimpse of terror in Rache’s demeanor seemed to have drained the hatred festering within Garn. Yet Rache knew that a lifetime of whips and oppression could not be forgotten in a day. He studied the ex-gladiator, ignoring the craggy musculature, focusing instead on the emerald eyes. There he found emotions he could not immediately recognize. Directions of thought that came to Garn naturally required Rache to assess and counter-assess in the seconds social propriety granted him to answer the challenge. From Garn’s expression, Rache guessed the man had gained a new perspective. No longer a slave glaring at his weapon master, Garn had become a free man in the presence of a competent teacher. Surely, Garn understood the implications of a union in the same manner as Rache often wished he could meet the most skilled enemy warriors over a drink and discuss sword strokes rather than exchanging them. Garn is Mitrian’s husband. Maybe, just maybe, we can turn this malice into tolerance. If we can get through this, we can get through anything.

  “So be it.” Rache grabbed a scimitar from a nearby rack and braced his body against a table. This time, it was interest and hope rather than pride that answered Garn’s challenge. And this time, the odds were against Rache. On horseback, Rache knew he could still best Garn. But without mobility, quickness did him little good against Garn’s strength.

  Garn sprang forward, sword low to drive Rache from the supporting table. Rache parried and riposted. On the defensive, Garn abandoned his strategy. His blade swept at neck level. Rache dove over Garn. As he tumbled, he slapped Garn’s back with the flat of his blade.

  “That’s one!” Rache used another table to pull himself to his feet.

  Garn froze, stunned. His lips formed a fierce scowl. Then the ends twitched upward, and he laughed. “I never dreamed you’d throw yourself onto a stone floor for a mug of ale. Now that I know how seriously you take your drinks, the next match is mine.”

  Bracing himself against the table, Rache awaited the next onslaught. Garn rushed him. Rache’s scimitar darted out to meet the attack. Dodging aside, Garn struck. Rache parried. Garn disengaged as Rache swept his scimitar overhead. Garn’s next blow shattered the table leg. Table and Renshai collapsed amid a shower of decorative shields. Metal belled and rolled across the floor. Pointing the tip of his weapon at Rache’s throat, Garn smirked. “Even,” he said. “Shall we try one more?”

  Rache examined the carnage doubtfully. Cracks wound through the tabletop, its sword-hacked leg splintered. Shields lay in wild disarray against the walls and tables. “Tables cost more than ale,” Rache said, needing the deciding spar every bit as much as Garn. “Oh, Hel. I’ll need a new foundation, if you please.”

  Garn caught Rache’s shoulder and escorted him to a table in the middle of the room. A chill shook Rache at the touch of Garn’s hand, the same hand that had broken his back and left him crippled.

  Oblivious to Rache’s distress, Garn retreated. He held the scimitar in both hands and sighted along the unsharpened edge. Engrossed in the charade, Rache circled his blade around his head.

  Garn’s eyes darted with exaggerated wariness, he danced several paces closer. Then, with a resounding war cry, he charged Rache. Rache flung himself over the wooden table. A row of swords crashed to the floor.

  Rache used a corner of the room to gain his feet. Garn leapt onto the table. He raised his scimitar, growling with mock savagery. “Now, Renshai pig, time for you to die!”

  As Garn poised to spring, Rache saw a movement behind the ex-gladiator. The door wrenched open, revealing a troop of Iaplegeans, Mitrian, Arduwyn, and Sterrane among them.

  “Garn, no!” Mitrian screamed.

  Garn whirled.

  Rache lunged forward and tapped Garn’s side with his sword.

  Garn spun to face Rache, knocking a greave from the tabletop. He pirouetted back to Mitrian. “Damn you, wench! You lost me a mug of ale.” Garn clambered from the table and helped Rache to stand.

  Rache chuckled merrily a
s he accepted his staff from Garn. “It was only a spar.” His smiled wilted as he noticed the seriousness and size of the troops filing into the armory.

  Mitrian glared at Arduwyn. “A spar?” She took Garn’s arm. “Good thing I came when I did. That spar looked awfully real to me.”

  “You came in the third match,” explained Garn. “I won the second, but the old man got lucky in the first.”

  “Lucky,” Rache started, ignoring the more obvious insult, but he broke off as the Iaplegeans pulled weapons and armor from the racks. “What’s going on?”

  One of Rache’s students answered as he plucked his shield from the spilled chaos on the floor, a confused expression on his face as he stared at the broken table. “Scouts say the Eastern army will reach the Western Plains in three days. Word is, Pudar’s been mobilized, also Western towns as far as the Great Mountains. Even a tribe of Northmen.”

  Vikerin, Rache guessed. He tried to find Peusen in the chaos. Soon, the one-handed general would have to face his brother, Valr Kirin, and his own past. Rache only hoped the Northern general’s lot went easier and as successfully as his own dealings with Garn. “Take whatever weapons you can use,” Rache told Garn.

  “I have a sword,” Garn drew his weapon. “That’s all I need.”

  “Let me see that.” Rache examined the notched edge with disgust. “You’ll need a better weapon than this.” He chose a flawlessly crafted broadsword more suited to Garn’s power strokes and handed it to Garn.

  Dropping his longsword, Garn accepted the blade.

  “Mitrian?” Rache turned to the woman.

  Men continued to funnel into the armory until the room seemed to ring with voices and the clatter of armor and weapons being examined and tested.