The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  As the sun slid over the horizon, the men in the quarry rose. One shouted an alarm. As the Eastern soldiers rushed to their defense, a rain of Western arrows fell upon them.

  Beside Mitrian, Rache stiffened, watching the drama unfold beneath him in silent dissatisfaction. In the quarry, shields appeared like silver parasols. Helmets hugged black hair. And still another volley of quarrels and arrows found their mark.

  “Who’s that?” Mitrian jogged Rache’s arm and pointed into the depths.

  Rache tried to follow Mitrian’s gaze into the chaos. Discovering an unusually ornate helmet, he assumed he had found the focus of her attention. “One of Siderin’s lieutenants.” Even as he explained, another figure seized and held his gaze, an immense warrior encased in metal. A steel helmet hid his head and face. Tines ran in a line from his nose to the fur that partially covered its base. He signaled with broad sweeps of his arm. Rache jabbed a finger toward the figure. “That’s got to be Siderin.”

  From the cliffs, arrows sped for the Eastern King. Most swung wide. Others bounced from thickly crafted armor. Not one found its mark.

  Suddenly, as one, the Eastern soldiers swarmed up the cliffs, avoiding the exit ramp barricaded by Pudarian cavalry. The Western archers retreated, and the swordsmen dismounted and closed. As the Easterners clambered to the hilltops, they met drawn swords. Any head or limb that reached the crest was amputated.

  As much as he loved war, Rache cared little for mass murder, so it did not bother him that, mounted, he could not join the fighters on the cliffs. Instead, he drew back, watching his charges, prepared for any Easterners who cut through the first Western ranks. Garn had leapt from his horse and seemed bored with the ease of killing the climbers. Looking dazed, Mitrian sent man after man to his death.

  Men had dug this quarry, and men would fill it. Butchered bodies tumbled down upon those Easterners still inside the quarry. Some of the falling corpses dislodged climbers lower on the cliffs, who tumbled to their deaths as well.

  As the Easterners massed, they reached the summits in greater numbers. Many fought past the swordsmen, and Rache found himself embroiled in battle as well. His swords flashed through the dawn, like extensions of his arms, and claimed dozens of Eastern lives. Iaplegeans and Pudarians hurried to the ledges to help stem the flow, leaving the ramp vulnerable to counterattack.

  “Hold the ramp!” Santagithi screamed. Though close, Rache scarcely heard his leader’s voice amid the metal and wood harmony of weapons against armor, flesh, and shields.

  Then, as if a giant hand had reached into the flagstone quarry and unscrambled the chaos, a pattern shaped in its depths. A semicircle of Eastern archers faced the Pudarian cavalry at the mouth of the ramp. Though rivaled by this new menace, the cavalry stood its ground. Retreat would forfeit the advantage they had gained by surprise and leave an opening for the Easterners’ escape.

  The Eastern archers fired. The Western ranks held. Men blocked or dodged arrows with shields of bronze or steel. One tumbled from his mount. A horse crumpled and took another down with it.

  Now the Pudarian cavalry charged the Eastern archers. But Siderin’s cavalry slipped through the ranks of his bowmen. The archers fired a parting round over the heads of the mounted soldiers, then were lost among the infantry behind them.

  Rache watched, though the press of Eastern soldiers reaching the summit continued to thicken. With its army spread along the ledges, the Westerners on the ramp were outnumbered four to one. They fought valiantly, but the man-horse barrier across the exit weakened under repeated batterings. A path formed where the Eastern cavalry struck. Slowly, the soldiers of the Pudarian cavalry were driven away, trapped against the sides of the ramp, or killed.

  Bodies rolled down the slope, trampled to crimson masses by the feet of horses and men. As the Western cavalry tottered, Siderin rode into the fray, looking every bit the demon legends called him. His silver-spired helmet had no opening for a face, only a notched pair of holes at the eyes that continued, as slits, to the helmet’s base. His iron breastplate seemed out of place amid waves of ruddy-brown leather.

  As the Easterners shifted toward the ramp, Rache no longer found himself menaced. He watched with concern as King Gasir of Pudar held the ramp with his weakening cavalry. Siderin rode directly for Pudar’s king.

  An Easterner lunged for Rache.

  The Renshai parried easily. His riposte swept a fatal gash through the warrior’s throat, and he looked up in time to see Siderin’s flail whip toward King Gasir. “No!” Rache shouted. Even if he had been close enough to be heard, his warning came too late. The spiked, iron ball claimed helmet and head from the Pudarian king. Gasir plummeted from his horse, blood ebbing from his tattered neck. And Siderin’s weapon severed the last link in the chain of men on the ramp. Like a river through a broken dam, the Eastern force gained freedom from their flagstone tomb.

  “Forward!” Rache commanded. His mount plunged toward the ramp, and he did not look back to see which of his men had followed. He reached the ramp as the last of Siderin’s infantry was making its escape. The fragmented Western cavalry strove to reform its barrier. With Rache’s reinforcements, they stayed the flow from the quarry, cutting off the last three dozen soldiers from the Eastern ranks. The Renshai recognized Garn among his men.

  “Drive them into a pack.” Rache pulled up his horse to change direction. “Then retreat and let the archers have them.” He bore in, directing warriors with the ease of a dog herding sheep.

  As the Easterners bunched, the Western warriors withdrew, one by one. Soon even Rache retreated. But Garn still fought, apparently driven by fervor of battle. And with one of their soldiers engaged, the archers held their fire.

  Accustomed to obedience, Rache felt the first stirrings of rage. As Garn cut down another man, Rache drew to his side. “Pull out!”

  Garn continued to fight, his strokes swift and competent, his green eyes blazing.

  “Damn it, Garn, I said retreat.”

  Oblivious, Garn fought on.

  Rache knew he had to draw Garn out quickly. To tolerate insubordination meant to lose the respect of his men, some of whom already seemed hesitant about following a cripple. He understood the need to explain rank and cooperation to Garn, yet speed had to take precedence over diplomacy. Rache seized the bridle of Garn’s horse. “Control yourself, Garn. You’re not in the pit!”

  Garn recoiled as if whip-struck, and Rache managed to steer them both clear of the Easterners. The archers dropped their volley.

  And Garn whirled on his commander. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” He hacked for Rache’s arm.

  Rache jerked back from Garn’s bridle, and the blade nicked his fingers, stinging. He drew his own sword and blocked, barely in time to catch Garn’s next attack. The force of the blow slammed Rache sideways. Only a simultaneous shift by the Renshai and his stallion kept him in the saddle. “Garn, stop!”

  Enraged, Garn hammered for Rache again. This time the Renshai dodged, not eager to experience Garn’s strength again. He returned with a Renshai maneuver that missed Garn’s wrist by a hair’s breadth. “Don’t be stupid. If I don’t kill you, Santagithi’s men will.” Rache tried to disengage.

  But Garn bore in with a feigned high sweep that reverted to a jab. Rache responded with a parry, intentionally drawing Garn even closer. “Damn you, Garn. Listen! When this war is finished, you and I will fight to the death. Fairly. Your skill against mine. Until then, nothing interferes with my charges’ safety or their lives. Including Mitrian’s. Do you understand that?”

  Garn paused, his strong features flushed, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  Rache spoke even more quietly, though his message carried the same note of command. “The self-control you claim to seek won’t come from killing me. It’s inside you.” He muttered mostly to himself. “If you haven’t already destroyed it.” Wheeling Bein, Rache rode for the ramp, now addressing his soldiers. “Men, grab horses where you can. We need to catch
our troop.”

  Mitrian rode up to Rache at the quarry mouth, and they headed south together. Though she could not have heard the verbal exchange, Garn’s antics must have told the story. Rache saw tears in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 27

  Renshai Rage and the God of Wrath

  As evening caught up with the Western infantry, Santagithi’s horse bunched with anticipation, its sinews as taut as its rider. Though he had led many warriors to glory with impetuous glee, he felt no joy this night. During the raids on barbaric neighbors, he had fought with the same fevered frenzy as his men. But in this war, he understood the need to keep his distance from the line, to direct the strategies that would often need to change at a moment’s notice. The Western forces had already lost one of its generals and could not afford another.

  Santagithi raised his gaze to a sun ringed with colored haze and reveled in the bittersweet odor of victory. Slowly, he turned his attention to the stately man who rode at his side. King Tenja of Vikerin had the sharp manner of a Northman but lacked Rache’s wild exuberance. Rubies and colored beads glittered amid his war braids.

  “Fine warriors, your Northmen.”

  The fair general nodded. “And your men as well.”

  Amenities brief but completed, Santagithi continued. “We’d better camp. We left most of our bowmen and many soldiers at the quarry.” Mitrian among them, he recalled miserably. Despite Rache’s and Shadimar’s assurances and his own bold promises, Santagithi despised the thought of his daughter in battle. “Our cavalry can herd the Easterners toward the ocean while the infantry rests.”

  King Tenja nodded. He shouted a few gruff commands in a Northern singsong, and the march slowed to a crawl. A Northman rode forward, presumably to relay the message to Valr Kirin and the cavalry.

  Santagithi reined in and dismounted. Men sprawled across the plain, seizing their last chance to sleep before the next battle. Tenja, too, clambered to the ground, and the generals tethered their horses side by side before reclining at the base of a scrub pine. As they discussed strategy, all other concerns fled Santagithi’s mind, replaced by the smooth, familiar blend of wisdom and experience.

  * * *

  Hours later, blue-black evening framed the rising crescent of moon. A horse threaded through the sleeping camp; and its rider, a Northman, reined to a halt before Tenja and Santagithi. The sky emitted just enough light for Santagithi to recognize the scout’s features frozen in fascination.

  Alarmed, Santagithi rose. “You bring news?”

  “Yes, sire. From the cavalry ahead.” The scout dismounted and knelt before his king. He stared through Santagithi, his thoughts distant. “Things are going as ordered. Valr Kirin is riding at the heels of their infantry. They’ll have no rest tonight.”

  Santagithi returned to his seat, smiling with ruthless calculation. Without sleep, the Eastern army would be in poor condition to fight at the edge of the Southern Sea. “Any casualties since the quarry?”

  The scout chewed his lip, considering a question that should not have required thought. “No, sire. Not on our side.” His blue eyes gleamed. “Because a god has come to help us.”

  Shocked silent, Santagithi studied the scout through narrowed eyes.

  King Tenja settled against the twisted tree trunk. “A god, Harold? What makes you so certain you’ve seen a god?”

  Harold sat on his folded legs, his hands trembling at his sides. “He just seemed to appear, mounted on a bay that snorted storm clouds from its nostrils, and right between Siderin’s cavalry and infantry. Then he charged toward us, trampling Easterners or reaping soldiers like weeds on his sword. And that sword never stopped. With respect to my liege and commander, Valr Kirin never swung a weapon with such speed or skill.”

  Santagithi frowned. Accustomed to his own scouts’ direct, factual reports, he found the Northman’s embellishments intolerably burdensome. But he could not quell curiosity. The Vikerians were fascinated by and revered Tenja’s Nordmirian lieutenant. Any man who could steal a Vikerian’s loyalty from Kirin would need to be competent indeed. But not a god. Despite the presence of the Eastern Wizard, Santagithi could not believe deities would descend from the heavens. At least, he would not believe it until he saw one with his own eyes.

  Harold continued, enthusiasm undiminished by Santagithi’s hostile expression. “As the god broke through Siderin’s infantry, two Eastern lieutenants pursued him on horseback, heedlessly stomping their own men. Too far away to come to the god’s aid, I thought he was dead. But the god calmly wheeled his mount and charged.” Harold loosed a strained chuckle. “The bay flew as if winged—right over the lieutenant’s horse! Its forehooves struck the Easterner’s forehead, throwing him from his mount. Dead. Then the god killed the other lieutenant with his sword and finished by battling and slaying a half-dozen Easterners at once, even before we could come to his aid.” Harold glanced from king to general, apparently seeking some mirror of his own excitement.

  King Tenja leaned forward with interest, but his voice remained quietly composed. “Harold, this god. Can you describe him?”

  The scout bowed his head, turning to the courteous behavior forgotten in the fever pitch of his zeal. “He looked like Thor, sire. Or Frey, perhaps, sire. His hair glimmered gold and silver, cut short.” He raised his head proudly. “A Northman, of course, sire. And his sword skill. . . .”

  King Tenja waved the scout silent before he could launch into another awed oratory on the Northman’s competence. The king’s hard mouth twitched into a smile of amusement. “Thank you, Harold. Tell Kirin we’re waiting for the archers we left at the quarry. We’ll catch the cavalry when we can. Meanwhile, his orders stand.” The king hesitated, glancing to Santagithi to confirm the strategy.

  Santagithi nodded absently. Tenja’s words had reminded him of Mitrian’s, Rache’s, and Sterrane’s absences, and he strained for the sound of hoofbeats that might signal their return.

  “Dismissed.”

  The scout paused, seemingly torn between obeying his king and the excitement threatening to overwhelm him. Rising, he mounted his horse. As he kicked it to a canter, he called over his shoulder. “A god is here, sire! And I’m glad he’s on our side.”

  King Tenja stiffened at the scout’s defiance, then laughed as he rode from sight.

  Santagithi grinned. After Rache and Nantel had left, he had grown accustomed to unquestioned obedience. His men lacked the healthy, if annoying, exuberance trained into Northmen from birth. “You don’t really believe there’s a god fighting this war.” He tried to keep his voice flat and nonjudgmental, not wishing to offend the Northern king.

  “I think,” Tenja replied carefully, “that there’s a lunatic Northman trying to find Valhalla. He’s not one of mine. Otherwise, Harold would have known him by name.” He faced Santagithi directly, brows raised in question.

  “I have only one Northman among my ranks. And Rache’s still back at the quarry. As far as I know, there’re only two other Northmen here, both generals. Surely any commander would know better than to hurl himself into the center of combat.” The sentiment emerged more like a question than a statement.

  King Tenja hunched forward, his face a mask of annoyance. “It’s not Kirin’s brother. Harold would have mentioned Peusen’s missing hand, if only because one of our gods is one-handed. It has to be Colbey.” His musical, Northern pronunciation smoothed it to “Cull-bay.” His forehead lapsed into creases as he mulled over the name.

  “He does fit the description,” Santagithi admitted. “I don’t care much for his methods, but any leader who inspires the men this much should be encouraged.” I guess. With King Gasir dead, Santagithi doubted he had the authority to stop Colbey anyway. As general of the largest army, the brazen Northman held the West’s highest rank.

  The hoofbeats of the stragglers rang like thunder to Santagithi. “Please forgive me, sire.” Without further explanation or pausing for a reply, he swung aboard his mount, wove through the wary stillness of blood-caked wa
rriors, and met the newcomers as they arrived.

  Most of the new arrivals were archers. These Santagithi sorted by troop, then sent to join their cavalry. The archers broke around the general in a harried line, and Santagithi sought familiar faces. He found Sterrane first. His hair and beard wrapped his face in limp strands. Blood slicked his reins, and exhaustion pressed him hard enough that his huge head sagged.

  A wave of pity washed over Santagithi. A victim of more worldly men since childhood, Sterrane had many more trials to face after the war was won. The general’s discomfort flared to guilt. He, too, had used Sterrane, risking a life far too important to lose. Even Shadimar’s support and the realization that the assassination mission had benefited Sterrane at least as much as any leader failed to soothe him.

  As Sterrane pulled up before Santagithi, the general clamped a tattered, swollen hand between his own. Sterrane fell against him, unable to gather the strength to speak. “Forgive me,” Santagithi whispered. “I asked more of you than I had a right.” Dismounting, he lowered Sterrane to the ground, pulled his own blanket from his horse, and spread the fine cloth on the ground. “For the rest of the war, you’ll remain behind the battle lines. Until this war is won, you’ll stay with the generals.”

  Another pair of hands helped Santagithi arrange Sterrane on the blanket. The general followed the arms to a scrawny figure in torn, dirty leather. He met Arduwyn’s gaze. “You’ve earned rest, too. Stay with Sterrane.”

  Arduwyn frowned. “No, sir, I can’t. As an archer, I can fight at a distance in safety.” He stroked the bow across his shoulder, but Santagithi’s gaze found the scimitar strapped to his belt. “I’ll join the cavalry.”