Though touched by the small man’s courage, Santagithi knew Arduwyn would probably come to regret his decision. Still, the general had neither right nor reason to protect the hunter, so he made no protest. He watched the redhead ride into a pack of archers and disappear.
As Arduwyn rode away, Garn and Mitrian pulled up beside Santagithi. Tears filled Santagithi’s eyes as he rose and caught his daughter’s leg with the same affection as he had touched Rache’s. But, where the Renshai’s muscles had withered, Mitrian’s had become as thick as any soldier’s.
Mitrian seized her father’s hand, but Santagithi turned his attention on Garn’s stony features. No emotion accompanied the confrontation; war and its need for strategy swept away all grudges, and the general felt nothing for his daughter’s mate. Still, he could even grant amnesty to Siderin if it meant Mitrian would come home. He cleared his throat, wishing he had the words to atone for years of whips, cages, and forced battles, discarding his own hatred and bitterness for the sake of his daughter’s future and happiness. “Garn, when the war is won, I’d be honored if you and your family returned to my town. You would, of course, be accorded the respect and position that marriage to my daughter demands.”
Santagithi waited, wanting to say much more, yet knowing Garn would respond better to a direct request. To stir any emotion meant reviving deep-seated memories and hatred.
Mitrian, too, watched Garn expectantly.
“I need to think about it,” Garn said, his tone revealing nothing. “After the war is over and certain matters taken care of.”
Garn’s emphasis on the term “matters” did not escape Santagithi’s notice, though it did puzzle him.
No explanation was forthcoming. Catching Mitrian’s hand, Garn rode off into the camp with his wife.
Santagithi started to turn to watch them go and was stopped by the sight of Rache’s stallion only a short distance away. Surely, the captain had heard Santagithi’s proposal to Garn, and the general hoped his attempt to make amends would please Rache.
But the Renshai rode past with a fierce stare. Only a subtle tip of his head showed he even acknowledged his general’s presence.
Though dismayed by Rache’s curtness, Santagithi dismissed it as battle lust. He made a mental note to tell Rache the news about Emerald as soon as time and Rache’s mood allowed it.
* * *
Annoyance hammered Rache until rage disrupted his concentration completely. Endangering the lives of my men, undermining my command in front of my soldiers, attacking an officer in a combat situation. Any of the charges against Garn spelled treason, an offense punishable by death. How could I have possibly believed Garn and I could settle our differences? Now the suggestion seemed ludicrous. Still, Rache found it impossible to forget the hope on Carad’s dying features, the desperate need to have Rache shape his son. Rache fought the memory. Garn will live to the war’s end. I’ll see to that. Then, if he still insists on fighting, I’ll kill him.
A horseman drew to Rache’s side.
Reluctantly, Rache shifted his attention outward, to a youth in the armor of Santagithi’s guards. The features seemed familiar, yet unplaceable, and Rache felt certain he had never trained this soldier.
Sensing Rache’s confusion, the youth identified himself. “It’s Listar.”
The name jogged Rache’s memory. “You’re the one who forged Mitrian’s sword. Beautiful workmanship. Did you craft yours as well?” He held out a hand.
Listar passed his blade to Rache obligingly. “You know Garn well?”
Rache glared sharply, searching Listar’s unscarred face. Convinced the youth had not meant the question as a taunt, he answered stiffly. “Too well.”
Listar brushed hair from his cheeks with nervous strokes. “How good is he? With a sword, I mean.”
The words rankled. Rache reined his temper, convinced Listar’s cruelty was unintentional. “Good enough. Why?”
Listar flushed, momentarily at a loss for speech. Then the words tumbled forth. “He stole Mitrian from me.”
Now more amused than angry, Rache swung figure eights with Listar’s sword, testing the balance and finding it respectable. “Are you certain she was ever yours?” Instantly, he regretted his cavalier attitude. He had nearly forgotten the widespread rumors about Mitrian and himself.
Listar’s knuckles blanched about the reins. “She would have married me.”
Rache saw no need to argue the point.
“When I thought she was dead, I wanted to die, too. That’s when I joined the guard force.” Listar slammed a fist on his saddle. “I will kill Garn.”
Rache suppressed a smile, lowering the sword. His feud with Garn made Listar’s seem insignificant. “Listar.” He tried to keep his tone gentle. “You’ve no reason to seek death any longer. If you fought Garn, he would kill you.”
Listar shook with a fury so raw, Rache could feel it. The youth’s voice grated. “Are you challenging the competence of Santagithi’s guards?”
Rache checked his own rising rage. “I trained Santagithi’s guards. And I taught Garn to fight before you could lift a hammer. He’s a born slayer. As for you, well, you just handed your only sword to a man you scarcely know.”
With a cry of fury, Listar lunged for his weapon.
Rache arched the sword in a graceful circle. The flat crashed harmlessly against Listar’s armor, in warning. Then Rache returned the sword without bothering to draw one of his own, confident he could meet any attack Listar might launch. He ran a hand over his knee. “If Garn could do this to me, imagine what he could do to you.” Wheeling, he rode away, leaving Listar to contemplate his words in a wash of vengeance and humiliation.
* * *
At the head of the Eastern cavalry, King Siderin ran a hand through pitch-colored hair matted with sweat. They had ridden through the night and well into the day. Foam dripped from his mount’s nostrils, and the mingled odors of horses, men, and blood stung his nose.
An approaching scout waited until his king replaced his helmet, then slowed his mount to Siderin’s gait.
Casually, the king unslung his whip, enjoying the subtle intimidation. “Speak.”
The scout’s hands trembled. “Sire, the men are growing weary.”
Rage boiled through Siderin. His whip snapped air, and the scout’s horse danced sideways. The Western army had massed apparently overnight, destroying strategies that had taken years to create. And the Southern Wizard, Carcophan, seemed to have disappeared. “The men have no reason to sleep. After the war, many will never awaken. Warriors don’t tire till the battle is won.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Have we identified the Western force?”
“Sire, they appear to be several loosely bound regiments rather than a single army.” The scout cleared his throat, gaze fixed on the scourge in Siderin’s wide-veined fist. “I believe the Golden-Haired Devils are among them.”
Siderin whirled toward the scout. “Renshai? More than one?”
The scout shrank away. “There’s a single tribe of Northmen, sire.”
“What makes you think they’re Renshai?”
The scout glanced at the sky in silent prayer. “My liege, one rode through our infantry without taking a single wound. He killed two of our officers.” The scout cowered, though Siderin listened patiently. “Only one of the Golden-Haired Devils could use a sword as he did.” Despite his words, his voice held no admiration.
Siderin coiled and uncoiled his whip. The sun scattered fiery highlights across his polished helm. His eyes glittered like obsidian chips in a sea of silver. “What about Rache?”
“No one’s seen him yet, eminence. The assassin’s been sent, and we’ve set up several communication chains.”
Siderin considered, absently massaging Carcophan’s vial through the leather of his pocket. He had distributed half of the poison to one of his quietest and stealthiest soldiers, with orders to deal with Rache. But Siderin had kept the remainder for himself. He wondered about th
is new threat. Even compensating for exaggeration, any man who could ride through an army’s infantry unscathed would prove a formidable enemy. “What other news?” His gaze swept the horizon.
“The enemy is still riding directly behind us. Strangely, though they could catch us, they seem to be keeping a constant distance.”
Siderin’s grip tightened. The muscles of his forearm bulged. “How long have you noticed this?”
The scout recoiled. “Since last evening, sire.”
“Fool!” The whip lashed the scout’s back.
Through leather, the stroke could feel little worse than a slap, but the scout cringed like a beaten child.
“Have the infantry gather a barricade. Trees if they can find them. Dead horses. Corpses. Whatever they can find. We’ll make a stand in the marsh grasses.” He pointed to a distant forest of cattails. “Go!”
The scout spun his mount to avoid another blow.
“Carcophan be slaughtered!” Siderin bellowed to his last lieutenant, behind him. “Harrsha, there’s salt in the air. They’re driving us to the ocean. But it’s not over yet! This war will still be won.”
The leather thong whistled through air, slashing across the rump of Siderin’s mount. The beast surged forward. The Eastern cavalry beat at their fatigued horses to follow their king. And the scout rode toward the infantry. Siderin promised victory, Siderin was Sheriva’s Chosen One, and Siderin was never wrong.
* * *
The Western Plains stretched to a horizon scalloped by dunes, its sand scarred by the passage of myriad hooves and boots. For the sake of his horse, Arduwyn held it to a slow walk, though he fell behind the other archers. He knew the war would not begin until the infantry finished resting and joined them, so he saw no need to hurry. The agony of over-tested sinews had dulled to a throb, accentuated, whenever he moved, by the shooting pain of pulled muscles. The scimitar dragged, like dead weight at his side.
Arduwyn sighted the Western cavalry at midday. They rode in a line wilting due to the weariness of its men. At one end, Jakot led Santagithi’s troop, a wave of studded leather that spanned two hundred men. Directly opposite, Peusen rode among his mismatched band of cripples and outcasts, his ranks as tight as the fifty Vikerians beside him. Led by Colbey, about a thousand Pudarians filled the gap between the Vikerians and Santagithi’s ranks. Whispers raged through the line, and Arduwyn noticed that men from other Western troops had joined the Pudarians, notably Northmen. Behind the cavalry, the bowmen bunched, trying to match the swordsmen’s trained precision with little success.
Colbey. A vague feeling of dread prickled through Arduwyn at the sight of the Renshai, though the two men had long ago made their peace. Silvered hair barely reached the nape of his neck, and the short locks in front feathered away from his eyes. The style clashed with the Vikerians’ war braids, though he looked nonetheless a Northman. Surrounded by war-trained horsemen, Colbey appeared small, scarcely taller than Mitrian and half Garn’s breadth. His soft cotton shirt and breeks emphasized his slightness, strange beside the armor and shields of his followers. Still, he was their leader. A golden power seemed to radiate from him, and Arduwyn felt certain Colbey was the cause of the Pudarian troops’ growth. To the hunter, he seemed like a raging fire, awesome but with the potential for great evil.
Arduwyn picked his way through the cavalry without disturbing it. Though his bow and half-depleted quiver singled him out as an archer, he moved with such grace and quiet caution that no one questioned his presence in the ranks. As he wove between Vikerians and Pudarians, he discovered that the leader of the Northmen, a well-proportioned warrior with a beaklike nose, was also staring at Colbey, bearing an unconcealed expression of rancor. Quick to follow gods and heroes, Northmen were equally quick to find new ones. Arduwyn wondered if the lieutenant resented his followers’ natural attraction to Colbey.
Hoping to catch Colbey by surprise, Arduwyn approached deliberately from behind. As he drew near, the Renshai’s shoulders stiffened. With the tense caution of a deer who scents a cougar, Colbey turned his head. His gaze flickered over the troop behind him, then zeroed in on Arduwyn. His lips parted in a savage smile, and he crooked a finger to summon the archer.
Unsettled, Arduwyn rode to Colbey.
“I said you’d find a place in the war.”
Bothered by a trace of mockery in Colbey’s tone, Arduwyn answered coolly. “And I never doubted that. We’ve all found a place.”
“Mitrian and Garn?”
Arduwyn scanned their route, long plains interrupted by a stretch of tidal marsh. A wall of cattails obscured the sand. “They’re with Santagithi’s infantry. And the rest of your army. King Gasir was killed.”
Colbey said nothing.
Expecting Colbey to ply him with questions, Arduwyn found the silence disturbing. He broke it swiftly. “Who’s he?” He tipped his head toward the Northern lieutenant.
Colbey looked in the indicated direction. “Kirin? He’s Vikerin’s commanding officer. A fair swordsman, too, from what I’ve seen.” Colbey tossed the description lightly, but Arduwyn knew that a “fair” from Colbey was an extraordinary compliment.
“Rache’s with Santagithi’s infantry, too.” Arduwyn stared at the ground, watching the shallow imprints his horse’s hooves left in the soggy ground before the marsh.
“With Garn and Mitrian?”
“Yes.”
“With Garn?” Colbey stressed again.
“They seem to have come to an agreement.”
Colbey made a thoughtful noise in his throat. Arduwyn would have passed it off as a response to his revelation except that the Renshai’s attention became suddenly, fanatically rooted on the marshlands ahead.
“What’s wrong?” Arduwyn followed Colbey’s gaze to waves of long-stemmed marsh weeds. Nothing seemed amiss.
Colbey reined in his horse. “Halt!” His gelding’s hooves skidded rents into the mud. Behind him, the Pudarian cavalry ground to a stop. The other commanders held their men as well.
Peusen rode to Colbey’s side. “What’s the matter?”
“Easterners.” Colbey stroked his beardless chin. “In the grasses.”
Peusen regarded the forest of cattails with the same skepticism as Arduwyn. “You’ve seen them?”
“I feel them.” Colbey continued to stare at the weeds.
A breeze ruffled the tops into a brown wave, then dropped to stillness. Arduwyn frowned, trusting Colbey’s instinct enough to believe.
Valr Kirin loosed a scornful snort. “You feel them? Feel them? This is nonsense.” He kicked his mount forward.
“Wait,” said Peusen.
Outranked by his brother, Kirin drew up. Hostility practically emanated from him.
“We need a bowman,” Colbey said.
Arduwyn glanced over to find Colbey’s stare directly on him. Disliking the term and hoping to dispel some of the tension, Arduwyn complained. “Bowmen shower arrows on an enemy in the hope that one might hit a target. I believe you want an archer.”
“I want you to fire into the weeds.”
Arduwyn fingered one of the few shafts remaining in his quiver. “Blindly? I stand corrected. You do want a bowman.” Nonetheless, he drew the arrow, nocked it, and loosed it into the cattails. The shaft parted stems, and Arduwyn waited for the scattered rustle of its fall.
The sound did not come. The arrow had struck something and embedded. Yet no cry of pain followed.
Valr Kirin glared.
“Again,” Colbey said.
Arduwyn positioned another arrow. This time, he fired in a gentle arc. The arrow plummeted, met by a broken human scream. Firfan, there are men in there. How could Colbey know?
Arduwyn received no answer, nor did he need one. He had spent too much time with Colbey to mistrust the Renshai’s instincts.
“Council,” Peusen suggested, and the officers drew together behind the ranks of their men.
Arduwyn followed, reining up a polite distance from the conference that still al
lowed him to catch most of the strategy.
Peusen’s precise, Nordmirian accent rose above the others. “We have to wait for our infantry. We can’t fight Siderin’s entire army without them.”
“The marsh grasses are too damned thick.” Jakot’s crisp Western dialect seemed out of place amid the Northern generals. “But if we camp and wait, the Easterners could leave the marsh without us knowing it and head West. While we’re preparing for attack, they’d be in our homes making slaves of our families.”
Valr Kirin spoke with calm logic, his bitterness brushed aside for the needs of the war and his men. “Their army outnumbers our cavalry three to one. If we attack, they’ll decimate us and leave before our infantry arrives.”
At an impasse, all looked to Santagithi’s captain, as if years of exposure to the West’s prime strategist might have imparted even more years of experience.
But Jakot shook his head wordlessly.
Arduwyn raked through his own thoughts, finding no answers. He considered the use of scouts and spies, aware they were probably already deployed.
“Mosquito attacks,” Colbey said.
Eager gazes shifted to the Renshai.
“Our cavalry can drive into the grasses, harass the Easterners, then dodge out. That way we can keep them in place and on the defensive until our infantry arrives and we can launch a full-scale attack.”
“Too risky.” Valr Kirin opposed the plan.
Arduwyn cringed, aware the Northman had undermined what Renshai hold most dear: violent war with unlimited risk.
Colbey’s voice gained volume. “If you fear danger, fellow Northman, then stay home. I’ll lead those men brave enough to follow.”
Fury turned Kirin’s tone acid. “I’ve seen your methods, lieutenant.” He emphasized rank, apparently to remind Colbey that the ideas of others in the group took precedence. Apparently, he did not yet know of King Gasir’s death. “They’re too perilous for my men. I think we should leave strategy to those with more experience.”
Even from a distance, Arduwyn knew the look Colbey turned on the Northman was savage with contempt. “I judge my abilities and those of my enemies before I choose strategy. If I die, I’ll find Valhalla never having fought a coward. When I lead men, I measure their skills. I would command no one else to do the things I do.” He lowered his voice until Arduwyn strained to hear him. “And as to experience, I’ve led men to war since before anyone else in this conference was born.” He turned to Peusen. “General?”
The Last of the Renshai Page 65