Valr Kirin gathered his shattered composure, his voice subdued. “Why not have the bowmen shoot into the marsh? The Easterners’ screams will tell us whether they’re still in place.”
Even Arduwyn saw the flaw in that plan, and Jakot echoed his concerns exactly. “And waste their few remaining arrows? No, my friend. Without disrespect, I’d join Colbey’s mosquitoes.”
“And I, brother.” Peusen spoke with apology. “We haven’t much time, and I can’t think of a better plan. Kirin, keep your troop out. Have your men watch that Siderin’s cavalry doesn’t work its way behind us. I’ll send a message to our infantry. The sooner they arrive, the sooner this business is finished.” He and Colbey rode off to organize their army.
Arduwyn worked his way toward Kirin as the Northerner confronted Jakot. “You saw that maniac fight. Colbey doesn’t know strategy. He’s a wanton, chaotic killer.” Valr Kirin’s bitterness came through beneath a sincere concern for his men. “And he can’t be much older than I am. Did his mother do battle with him directing from the womb?”
Jakot tried to remain impartial. “His methods are unorthodox. . . .”
A Pudarian captain interrupted. “He’s sixty-five. I asked him.” His gaze followed Colbey admiringly. “Best damned swordsman I’ve ever seen.” He kicked his horse to follow his commander.
“Damned, indeed,” Kirin finished. “One of Hel’s own children.”
* * *
Colbey’s plan went into action with startling quickness. For hours, Arduwyn waited at Valr Kirin’s side, watching hordes of Western cavalry plunge blindly into the cattails. Seconds later, most reemerged with bloodied swords. Unlike Peusen and Jakot, Colbey did not hang back to direct his men. Gold-white hair flying, he dodged in and out of the marsh, working with his mount as if linked. The horse swerved effortlessly, responding to commands Arduwyn could not see. Blood splattered Colbey’s shirt; it dyed his sword crimson and ran in rivulets down his arms. Arduwyn’s sharp eyes discerned rents in Colbey’s clothing.
Beside Arduwyn, Valr Kirin scowled. But the furrowed brow and sharp, sad eyes revealed that his concern was for the men rather than his feud with Colbey. Still, he watched the Renshai elder with the same interest as Arduwyn.
Colbey’s steed broke from the cattails. It wheeled with an abruptness that nearly required it to fold in on itself. Its hoof skidded through the mud, and it floundered. Colbey howled. He slid halfway down the side of his horse, his sword grazing the ground, his other hand wound in the beast’s mane.
Arduwyn gawked as Colbey worked his way back into the saddle. Finding its footing, the horse slowed to a walk. At its rider’s urging, it completed the turn and sprang into the weeds. Colbey flung back his head in a spray of blood and sweat. “Modi!” he screamed. “Modi!” A scarlet gash opened the back of his shirt in two long flaps.
Arduwyn sucked air through his teeth. “Colbey!”
Valr Kirin went rigid. His gaze remained where Colbey had disappeared into the marshes. “Modi,” he repeated, with none of the Renshai’s emotion. “I haven’t heard that cry since we rid the world of the devil tribe from Renshi.” His hawklike features drew into a grimace, etching his expression into vengeful lines.
Arduwyn’s stomach soured as he realized the direction of Kirin’s thoughts, but he shoved concern aside for a more urgent one. Colbey’s dive into the cattails seemed to last unusually long. He’s dead for certain this time. Arduwyn wrung his hands, surprised by rising grief. For all his harshness, Colbey had proven himself a moral and trustworthy ally, one Arduwyn would sorely miss.
Even as Arduwyn recognized his distress, Colbey returned from the weeds, and the pounding march of approaching infantry froze him before he could make another charge. Santagithi’s voice cut clearly over the rustle of weeds, the screams, and the war cries. “Bowmen, let our soldiers out. Then fire a few flights. Spare your arrows. We’ll need them later.” He turned to address the other leaders. “Get the cavalry back. Council!”
Gradually, the cavalry disengaged from the marsh grasses as the infantry joined them on the plain. Arduwyn rode down Colbey on his way to the meeting. “You’re not joining council till I tend that wound.”
Colbey shrugged. “From the look on your face, I’m guessing it looks worse than it is.” Meticulously, he swept blood from his sword, paying no attention to the gore jelling on his arms.
Both men dismounted. Arduwyn stripped the shirt from Colbey’s back, poured water over a gash that extended from shoulder blade to buttocks, and used the rags to hold pressure against it with both hands. Though long and deeply into muscle, the injury had not penetrated to the spine.
“Try this.” Colbey rummaged through his pocket and passed a packet of creamy, black salve. Sinews shifted like knots beneath Arduwyn’s palms.
Arduwyn accepted the offering, holding it between his fingers as he continued holding pressure against the wound. “I think you should be more cautious. A stray arrow or spear could kill even you.”
Colbey swiveled his neck about to make certain no one listened. “No Renshai should ever get as old as me.”
“No law says Renshai have to die young. It’s just a consequence of the way you live. Among a warring tribe, only the most skilled survive. Right now, the West needs skilled men.” Arduwyn worked over the wound with Colbey’s salve.
“You have a point,” Colbey conceded. “But I told you before that if Rache and I ever met, he would die. I know that the same way I knew the Easterners planned to ambush us in the tidal marsh. I can’t explain it.” He winced as Arduwyn poked a tender spot. “With the infantry and cavalry together, avoiding Rache will become impossible. I have to die.”
Arduwyn wanted to dismiss Colbey’s fear as superstition, but the Renshai’s concern and past experience proved too compelling. “We need you against Siderin. Now I admit the source of my information is questionable, but I’ve been told that a Renshai will be the hero of the war and will be the one to fight the Easterner’s demon king. I suppose that could mean Rache, but the soldiers’ awe of you leads me to believe otherwise.” He fumbled through his effects for bandages, then extracted a clean tunic from amid Colbey’s packs and water skins. “Of course, Sterrane isn’t the best reservoir for wisdom and knowledge.” Arduwyn bandaged the wound, knotting cloth around Colbey’s torso.
“I think you underestimate Sterrane.”
“Huh?” Arduwyn found the words startlingly incongruous. “How does one underestimate a twenty-three-year-old child?”
“Oh, I admit he’s unsocialized and very naive. He tends to break everything down into its simplest components. But I think that has more to do with his upbringing and philosophy: ‘Do good and trust others to do the same.’” Colbey donned his tunic and headed toward his mount.
Arduwyn trailed after Colbey, dazed. “But the man can hardly put two words together.”
Colbey framed a coarse smile. “Lots of people don’t learn foreign languages well. Perhaps if he used his native tongue, he might speak as fluently as you and me.”
“His native tongue?” Arduwyn followed Colbey to his horse. “What tongue is that? He seems to use Western and Common trade with equal clumsiness.”
“I don’t know,” Colbey admitted. “But I do believe that some higher force wanted me to find Sterrane. The instant he joined us, I lost the urge to travel through the Granite Hills. I don’t think that’s coincidence.”
Arduwyn dropped the issue for a more important one. “Wait, there’s something else.” He caught Colbey’s stirrup. “Choose the gods you call on with care. Kirin suspects you’re Renshai or I’m the worst archer in camp.”
“Archer?” Colbey teased, pulling free. “I’d say bowman. But, with practice and a full quiver, perhaps you’ll hit something.” Laughing, he kicked his mount into a canter.
You bastard. Deftly, Arduwyn nocked an arrow and shot for one of the water skins that bobbed at Colbey’s side. The shaft sped true. The bag burst, and a tide of water soaked Colbey’s leg.
For a silent moment, Arduwyn knew terror. “Sorry,” he said with feigned sheepishness. “Missed again.”
CHAPTER 28
The Eyes of the Dead
Mitrian watched Rache’s horse prance from one edge of Santagithi’s infantry to the other as he roused the farmers and cattle herders for combat in the tidal march. “Soon we’ll begin a battle far different from the one at the quarry. You won’t see the enemy until you’re upon him, and you’ll have little time to strike. Make sure it’s one of Siderin’s, then hit fast and hard. You probably won’t get a second chance.”
Beside Garn, Mitrian kneaded the hilt of her sword, reassured by Rache’s charismatic presence. Garn’s stoic silences could only have hurt morale, and she felt as unprepared as any weekend warrior. When my father made the two of us commanders under Rache, he must have trusted that we would never need to use that authority.
As if in answer to the thought, a familiar thrill ran along her arm. Mitrian tensed, fighting the demon images that might follow. Don’t do it. Don’t you dare. Surely, to give in to hallucinations now meant death in the marsh grasses. Yet Mitrian could not help seeing the soul in the gems as a safety net, an alternative if fear or inexperience froze her in battle.
I can help you.
No, Mitrian thought. Then, more forcefully, No! This is my battle, and I’m going to fight it. Colbey had taught her that the mind controlled itself above all else. The sword would not have her. You promised. And my threat was not idle. I have enough enemies without struggling against my own weapon as well. One spark of your war wrath and, I swear, you’ve fought in your last battle.
I can help you, the demon repeated. Softly, beneath the words came another question, so subtle Mitrian felt uncertain whether it emanated from the demon or her own thoughts. If you abandon this sword, where would you get another?
Oblivious to Mitrian’s mental conflict, Rache continued. “Remember, if we lose here, we lose more than our lives. If not checked, those Eastern animals will ride at will through our homelands, and there’ll be no hiding. They’ll slay our children, disgrace our women, and despoil our land. We’ve no escape but victory. Even in death, our souls will know the pain of our families. Fight like your world depends on it. It does.”
A cry rose from the masses. “Death to Siderin!” Others picked up and echoed the words until the dunes seemed to ring with the name of the enemies’ king.
Rache rode to Mitrian and Garn, apparently trusting the threat of Siderin’s infantry to quell Garn’s personal grudge. “Soldiers will seem to appear from nowhere in the weeds. Always, the men will worry that they’ve slaughtered an ally instead of an enemy. In front and mounted, we won’t have that problem.” His eyes gleamed with excitement. His left hand rested lightly on the hilt of one sword. With the slightest provocation, Mitrian knew he could strike with more speed and venom than a viper.
The bowmen sent their last flight.
As the archers retreated, Rache charged. “For the West!”
Mitrian’s horse plunged into the cattails at his heels. The mare rocked sickeningly, but Mitrian did not dare to see what it had struck. A face graced by a crop of sable hair appeared suddenly. She slashed downward, and the head cracked open. First blood. Not too bad. Then weeds wrapped her sword, nearly wrenching it from her sweat-slicked grip.
Swearing, Mitrian wheeled and tore at the hilt. Pain seared her calf with an abruptness that all but unhorsed her. Her sword tore free of its leafy bindings, and she continued its motion in a backhand stroke. The sword crashed against the man who had injured her. He collapsed, lost in the marsh.
A short distance ahead, Rache slashed, battle screaming, through the cattails, swords weaving in arcs of red and silver.
Waves of nausea weakened Mitrian. She kicked her horse. A shriek rose and echoed, a soldier trampled beneath her mare’s iron-shod hooves. The horse lurched, tripping over the corpse. Mitrian vomited. A weapon thumped against the side of her horse, sending it skittering sideways. As Mitrian whipped her sword for a strike, the world folded into darkness, then reemerged, glaring in its detail. Colors intensified, a forest of green tipped with brown and broken by flesh tones; scarlet streaks of blood seemed artistically beautiful in comparison. Madness seized her, a wild frenzy of battle that overwhelmed all sense of purpose, except to kill. “Modi!” she screamed. “Modi!”
Mitrian swung into the cattails, this time using the give of their tops to bounce and redirect her blow. Steel tore into an Easterner’s neck. Scarcely slowed, she surged into a pocket of soldiers. Sweat darkened her jerkin as she hacked her way to Rache’s side. The Renshai wall plowed through the marsh, three glimmering swords capering in a crimson dance. Rache swerved to meet an enemy attack, and Mitrian found herself alone again, except for the all-too-real presence of the demon.
A movement in the brush seized Mitrian’s heightened attention. Spurred beyond thought, she slammed her blade down on a dark-haired skull. The man staggered back. Gray eyes met Mitrian’s from a young face, barely of age. He wore the silver and black leather of Santagithi’s civilian volunteers. A look of terror and betrayal crossed his features briefly. Then he crumpled.
Mitrian’s blood ran cold, shocked suddenly from the demon’s control.
An accident. Mitrian, it happens.
Not to me. Gods, not . . . to . . . me. Mitrian drew her dagger, uncertain what to do with it, knowing only that she wanted to rid herself of the Wizard’s magic.
Mitrian, think! You can’t disarm yourself in battle.
Frustration flared to hatred. Mitrian knew the demon spoke the truth, yet she could not bear the thought of dealing with its blood lust another moment. I killed one of my own men! One of my father’s soldiers! Anger drove her to the violence she had just denounced. She slammed the base of her knife down on one of the topaz gems that formed the wolf’s eyes.
The Renshai’s soul jerked within her mind. Mitrian. What are you doing ?
Mitrian struck the gem again.
Think. Listen. Panic blazed through the demon. You’re surrounded by enemies!
A worse enemy attacks me from within. Had she spoken aloud, Mitrian would have hissed. The dagger crashed against the gem once more. A crack wound through the yellow stone.
The demon’s scream filled Mitrian’s mind, deafening. Its presence seemed to peel away; its voice trickled to a whisper. So cold. So cold. Then it was gone.
Mitrian froze, the dagger poised. The sword clenched in her fist seemed unchanged, its edge sharp, its haft a perfect fit in her palm. Yet it seemed as empty and hollow as a corpse. What have I done? The knife slipped from her grasp, tumbling into the cattails.
“Mitri, to your left!” Rache’s voice shattered Mitrian’s daze.
She responded sluggishly, raising the sword as Rache bore in to her defense. His blades rose and fell, hacking down an enemy in the grasses. He pulled up beside her. “Are you well?”
Mitrian made no reply, nor did Rache seem to expect one. He caught her horse’s bridle. “Come on. We need to keep in front, or we run the risk of crushing our own soldiers.”
Rache’s words struck home. Mitrian winced, driving ahead with him. “Where’s Garn?” she managed at length.
“Last I saw, he’d veered off into the Pudarian infantry.”
Mitrian looked up sharply.
“He’ll be fine. He’s just used to single combat. Can’t expect him to understand formations.” Rache spoke gently, incompletely hiding bitterness at having to defend Garn and his fighting style.
Rache drew in suddenly, hacking at a dark head. Almost beneath Bein’s hooves, a horse stumbled to its feet, then whipped into a rear.
Bein danced backward. “Mitrian!” Rache shouted. “We’ve struck cavalry.”
Discovered, the Eastern cavalry mounted and raced toward the war in the cattails. Mitrian turned to follow, but Rache seized her arm. “Let our cavalry have them. If we give chase, we’ll be behind or among Siderin’s
troop. Our own men may attack.” Thoughtful pauses in Rache’s speech made Mitrian cautious.
“From the quarry, I got the idea Siderin’s army was larger.”
Rache scanned the marsh as his horse ambled forward. “I was thinking the same thing.” The weeds ended abruptly, and his horse’s hoof sank into mud. “Hoofprints.” He pointed ahead. “There they go over the dunes!”
Mitrian craned her neck, shielding her eyes from the sun. A few foot soldiers disappeared over the crest of a dune. “I don’t understand.”
Rache pulled a shell horn from his pack and blew a shrill blast. “We’ve reached the tidal plain. While our cavalry played their infantry, Siderin waited for the tide to recede. He left us to battle a skeleton force while he escaped across the flats. Probably now they’ll ride east or west between the sand dunes.”
Rache reined up on the edge of the plain.
Mitrian smiled, trusting the captain at her side. “What now?”
Rache stared over the dune. “I just signaled Santagithi. He should get here soon. For now, we’ll follow. See if we can’t find out exactly where they’re going.” He slapped his mount to a run.
Mitrian followed.
The horses’ feet pounded the sand to eddies. At a trot, they careened across the grime to the bottom of the first dune. There, Rache stopped again. “We need to take a careful look over the dune. . . .” He trailed off apologetically.
Confused by Rache’s regret, Mitrian hesitated. It came to her suddenly that the person scouting would need to dismount, and she felt a warm flush of guilt. It’s Garn’s fault that Rache can’t do the spying, yet he’s feeling responsible for putting me in danger. “I’ll do it.” She dismounted before Rache could clarify, trying not to notice his withered legs.
The Last of the Renshai Page 66