“Careful.”
Dropping to her stomach, Mitrian slithered along the dune face. Sand stung the gash in her calf, reminding her of her new limitations without the demon’s instructions. Heart pounding, she peered over the summit.
To the east, between the dunes, Mitrian found a mighty army.
* * *
The sun raised snakes of glare from sand speckled with the blood of warriors. Among the archers, Arduwyn assessed Santagithi’s plan. Valr Kirin led the joint cavalry eastward to overtake Siderin and block a retreat. Rache and Peusen combined their infantries, preparing to march over the first of the paired dunes and prevent an escape to the west. The Pudarians waited, in Santagithi’s command, ready to charge from the north, a wedge to drive Siderin’s army toward the ocean. Presumably to avoid Rache, Colbey had chosen to remain in the tidal marsh with a mixed army, directing the slaughter of Siderin’s skeleton force.
While the warriors took their positions, the archer captain of Iaplege sent the bowmen to the top of the dune. On the captain’s command, arrows rained upon the Easterners. Far closer than at the quarry, the enemy screams tortured Arduwyn. He shot in the second volley. Again arrows plummeted on the forming red chaos. Horrified, Arduwyn missed the third command, blue-gold shaft only halfway nocked when the bowmen fired.
Abruptly, Siderin appeared, hurling a single, guttural syllable. His whip lashed one of his own men.
Arduwyn fired. His arrow glanced from the king’s ornate helmet, and a wave of Easterners swarmed up the dune toward them.
The archers whirled in a startled, ill-timed retreat. For a moment, Arduwyn marveled at the power of a general who could command men to charge against hopeless odds. Then he drew his scimitar as men bore down upon him, and the bowman at his side crumpled.
A sword whistled past Arduwyn’s ear. Afraid to turn his back, he held his ground. His scimitar met flesh, scratching across a swarthy sword arm. But the man still advanced. As Arduwyn straggled backward, a sword lashed for his face. He dodged aside. His foot slammed down on his fallen neighbor, and he tumbled backward. As he fell, something warm and sticky slid across his cheek. The world spiraled. Legs formed a tangled forest around him.
For several moments, Arduwyn did not realize he had stopped rolling. Through a haze, he felt strong hands heft him. Not bothering to identify his benefactor, he swiped at the viscid mass on his face, trying to clear it from his eye. It colored his fingers black.
“You all right now.” Sterrane’s familiar voice floated through Arduwyn’s hearing. The large man lowered the archer to the ground.
“Thank Firfan.” Arduwyn rolled his gaze to Sterrane, still half-blinded and feeling weak. “Help me get this stuff off my face. It’s in my eye.”
Sterrane cringed and knelt at Arduwyn’s side. Tearing a strip of cloth from his tunic, he wet it from his waterskin and dabbed at Arduwyn’s face.
“It could have been worse.” Arduwyn assessed the dull ache of his body. “No sword wounds, at least that I can feel. A bad headache and a swarm of bruises.” He attempted a joke. “I wonder if Bel can stand a black and purple husband.” But the gibe fell short, even in his own ears, reminding him of the family he loved but might never see again. Surely, even Bel can understand my being delayed by the Great War.
Sterrane washed silently, his dark eyes soft with tears.
Fear clawed Arduwyn. “Hey, I’m all right. You said so yourself. I’m alive.”
Sterrane made no reply.
“I am alive, aren’t I?”
Sterrane nodded. He pulled a dagger from beneath his cloak, cleaning it methodically.
Concerned by Sterrane’s strange manner, Arduwyn shrank away. “What are you doing with that?”
A quaver entered Sterrane’s voice. “Lost eye.”
Arduwyn brushed a hand along his face, not daring to interpret Sterrane’s broken sentence. “Lost you? Lost you what? What do you mean?”
Sterrane shook his head, rearranging the black mane. “Half gone.” He choked. “Can’t save. Me sorry.” Tears tumbled from his eyes.
Arduwyn slumped to the ground, too weak to think or care.
Still sobbing, Sterrane set to work.
* * *
From the crest of the dune, Santagithi watched the wild rampage of war below him, missing nothing. Though he showed no emotion to King Tenja beside him, he felt pleased. His men, from the lowliest shepherd to his captains, battled with the furious intensity necessary to win the war. He had brought no cowards.
Still, over time, sorrow overtook Santagithi. Each death seared like a blade through his own flesh. It meant the loss of a loyal follower, suffering for another widow and her hungry children. The burden would fall upon the survivors. Never before had Santagithi taxed his townsfolk. Instead, he relied on the revenues of traders, war spoils, and the gladiator competitions. For the sake of his daughter’s consort, he would put an end to the pit fights. And a long time would pass before he led another foray.
Forcing away thoughts that did not directly affect the war, Santagithi selected warriors from the masses. He found Mitrian at Rache’s side, both slashing with a grace that made battle look more like a dance. Mitrian’s style mimicked Rache’s too closely for coincidence. Yet a stranger might not correctly label master and student. Mitrian’s strokes held a smoothness not wholly attributable to her smaller size and sex.
Relieved by her competence as well as her decision to fight near a seasoned veteran, Santagithi let his gaze shift to Garn. Compared to Rache, Garn’s strokes seemed ponderously slow. But each powerful blow dealt death to an Easterner.
Santagithi’s gaze swept the battle. Near the center, Shadimar sat proudly on his mare, the wolf languid at its flank. The center of a war seemed an odd place for a weaponless old man, yet no one disturbed mage or wolf. Warriors avoided him. When the battle tide brought men near the Eastern Wizard, their swords passed harmlessly by him.
Santagithi continued to stare, until a battle cry at the opposite side of the combat drew his attention. There, Colbey fought with the brazen intensity of a suicide. His thunderous sweeps cleaved a path through the thickest of the battle. Behind him, many warriors echoed his war song, caught up in his killing frenzy. Still, the old Northman’s attacks seemed directed, and his gaze kept leaving his opponents to fall longingly upon a figure in the distance. Santagithi searched for Colbey’s target.
Near the second sand dune, amid a cluster of Eastern warriors, Siderin gestured boldly. Sun rays scattered silver highlights from his armor. Suddenly, he broke through the troops and raced over the dune, his cavalry close behind.
“Colbey! After him!” Santagithi spurred his horse down the embankment. Sand showered the infantry below him. Staying at the sparse edge of the battle, he galloped his horse after the fleeing general. As he slashed at Easterners, he hollered orders to his officers. “Rache! Follow them and to the west. Jakot! Garn! The infantry.” He shot through the war zone, then up and over the second dune and to the east. There, Colbey and his men drove the Eastern cavalry back toward the battle. Siderin’s army would not escape in that direction. Surely, the final battle had begun. Between the dunes, Siderin’s infantry was doomed. Only his cavalry remained to defeat.
Poised between two battles, Santagithi drew aside. King Tenja pulled up beside him, and two Pudarians, finished with the battle between the dunes, rode toward the beach.
One was speaking. “. . . at least a dozen beyond those reefs, and in formation.”
“Only a dozen,” the other replied as they passed. “Send Colbey alone.”
As if in answer, the Renshai galloped past, in the direction of the Pudarian’s gesture.
Santagithi called to his captain. “Jakot, get some men over there.” He waved after Colbey.
As Jakot rushed to obey, King Tenja seized Santagithi’s arm. “Will you aid a madman?”
Surprised by Tenja’s sudden malice, Santagithi replied evenly. “Colbey’s an ally. The men may think he’s a god, but we know no
one man can defeat an army. It’s to our advantage to keep him alive. He inspires the men.”
Disapproval leeched into Tenja’s tone. The rubies in his braids glowed the color of the bloodstains on the beach. “But when one of his brash acts kills him, it’ll destroy morale.”
Santagithi pulled free, finding the king’s sudden rancor distasteful. “Then I will see to it that Colbey lives.”
* * *
Rache knew that Siderin’s infantry between the sand dunes was falling because, over time, the number of Westerners on the shore swelled. With Mitrian at his side, the Renshai raced through enemy troops, meeting all the resistance a meteor encounters as it streaks through the heavens. His swords pranced, claiming lives. And Mitrian was holding her own as well.
As the last warrior directly before them fell, Rache glanced to the right. Through the thinning enemy troop, he saw Siderin’s last lieutenant exchanging blows with Listar. The blacksmith’s son caught each strike on his sword, scarcely recovering in time for his next block. Outmatched and forced to tend defense, he was unable to return a single attack. “There!” Rache gestured, spinning to come to Listar’s aid.
Mitrian spurred her mount, but the beast responded sluggishly. Listar retreated with a cry. The Easterner’s sword glanced off his armor, but the impact unhorsed him.
Harrsha’s sword jabbed for Listar but fell on Rache’s blade. Mitrian slashed. The Easterner dodged. His riposte crashed against Rache’s sword again. Rache slashed with his other weapon, but it slid off a buckler. Both men swung simultaneously.
Mitrian jabbed through Harrsha’s guard. The enchanted blade bit into the Easterner’s face, driving him from the saddle and tearing Mitrian’s sword from her grip.
Rache smiled at the irony, Siderin’s last officer claimed by a woman. He watched Listar rise, the Renshai tending Mitrian’s defense while she retrieved her weapon. With only a nod to the youth, Rache waved Mitrian toward the Southern Sea. “Come on.”
Westerners pummeled the weakened Eastern army into the ocean. Rache and Mitrian joined the throng at the water’s edge. The horses stepped high, uneasy with the waves tossing against their knees. Though the majority of the Easterners on the beach had come from the cavalry, an unusual number now fought on foot. Rache noticed this peculiarity, but he did not pause to ponder. Instead, he herded Easterners deeper into the ocean. The surf roiled with human flesh, dyeing the sea wine red. The impending end of a long battle crazed both armies. Spurred by undeniable victory, the Westerners met the desperate frenzy of Easterners fighting for their lives.
Rache chose a trio of leather-clad men, one mounted. His sword lashed for a swarthy head. As he raised his arm for a killing blow, a metallic flash broke through the waters. The Easterner’s face twisted in shock. His head bobbed beneath the surface. It reappeared almost instantly, tattered shreds where his legs had been.
Sharks! “To shore!” Rache wheeled.
All along the beach, men screamed. The Westerners retreated, and, instantly, the heat of combat changed. Faced with the choice of battling men or sharks, Rache’s two opponents charged the Renshai. Rache killed the one on foot with a single strike. The other rode by, bolting across the sand toward the distant dunes.
“No!” Rache slapped the flat of his blade across Bein’s rump. The stallion hurtled after the Easterner like a wild, black arrow seeking its target. Rache leaned to the glistening neck as he narrowed the gap. Sand flung up by the Easterner’s horse’s hooves stung Rache’s face. Above the roar of wind in his ears, he could hear the soldier screaming words in his guttural language. He thought he heard his own name more than once, but dismissed it as impossible.
The dunes heaved back into sight. The coarse tail of the Easterner’s mount whipped Rache’s hand, and the Renshai raised his sword. Still at a gallop, both beasts plunged up the sandy slope, splattering grit to the beach below. A sudden, horrible thought jolted Rache as they topped the crest. We’re moving too fast. Concerned for Bein, he reined, but too late. As one, the horses sailed through the air. In soft sand, they landed half ton bodies on ankles no thicker than a man’s.
A crack sounded, aching through Rache’s ears. Bein lurched, then went down. Rache flew over his horse’s neck. He landed on a broken corpse, skidded to the sand, then rolled from training. Bein. Gods, Bein. You served me so well. What have I done? Grief warred with guilt, numbing the battle joy that had filled him moments before. Only bruised, but nearly helpless without his mount, Rache scanned the valley for his opponent. Bein lay on his side in the sand, neck twining like a serpent. Nearby, the Easterner’s mount kicked, a mad thing in pain. Its rider crouched, his dark eyes locked on Rache. A smile crossed the swarthy features, and he lurched to his feet, sword in hand. Again, he shouted something unrecognizable that seemed to include Rache’s name. This time, his voice echoed between the dunes.
Using one sword as a staff, Rache pulled to his knees. Then, driving the blade into the sand, he inched to his feet, supported by the tripod of metal and withered legs.
The Easterner studied Rache’s clumsiness with a chuckle of triumphant amusement. Brandishing his weapon, he closed the distance between them.
Rache breathed a prayer. “Mistress Sif, mighty shield maiden, mother of battle and goddess of my people. Just this once let me stand.” His hand trembled on the hilt of a sword he had raised so many times in her name.
The Easterner charged.
Rache edged the tip from the ground. Immediately, he unbalanced forward, but the little strength remaining in his legs held. Rache stood, gritting his teeth, unable to thrill to the frenzied cadence his heart beat against his ribs. He’d never feared death, only that it might not find him worthy.
The Easterner howled a challenge. Rache was silent. The ensuing second passed like an hour while Rache assessed his rushing opponent, calculating abilities and disabilities in an instant.
The Easterner’s blade plunged for Rache’s head. Rache blocked with an upstroke and returned the strike. His blade cleaved the Easterner’s neck. He collapsed, blood spraying the sand then dropping to a steady wash.
For a moment, Rache basked in triumph. Then an almost inaudible rustle from behind compelled him to turn. Slowed by his crippled legs, he had scarcely moved when agony tore into his side. A blade’s impact hurled him violently to a clear stretch of sand. His own sword tumbled from his grip. “Modi! Modi! Mo-deeee!” The cry tore from his throat before he could suppress it, slamming him with a fresh, hot dose of battle madness. He estimated damage as he hunted for its source. His attempt to spin had not stopped the blow, but it had diminished the damage. If he could staunch the bleeding, he might still live. Yet the wound seared in a way no cut had before. Pain blurred thought and vision. A warrior in ruddy leather raised his sword for a killing blow.
Rache’s head buzzed, too heavy to hold. A glimmer of metal caught his eye. He forced his hand toward his sword through sand scarlet with his own blood. Every vein in his side felt on fire, and his left hand was going numb.
The Easterner’s blade plunged. Rache caught his hilt and slashed upward with all the power he could muster. His strike met flesh. The Easterner’s sword dropped harmlessly to the sand, and he fell, whirling in uneven arcs before Rache’s hazed sight.
Rache knew he had to bind the gash in his side, yet his limbs would not obey him. He felt his consciousness waver. “At least I took him with me.” Pain spasmed through him, driving him into a twitching seizure. Then agony dissolved to an inner peace.
* * *
Though nearly deafened by death screams, Colbey heard Rache’s call. The anguish and sincerity in the voice slammed battle wrath through him; he sliced a path through the Easterners. And though he believed it would doom Rache, he could no more ignore the plea than his own survival instincts. A Renshai needed him. And Colbey would be there for him. Without heed to his followers, he left them to their scattered battles and rode for the dunes.
Colbey passed Garn on his way, embroiled in single combat wit
h a bearded horseman. Colbey cut the Easterner down with an overhand stroke, then gestured to Garn to join him without explanation. The ex-gladiator followed.
When Rache’s scream did not recur, Colbey detoured toward the dunes to gather Santagithi and Sterrane. The two men perched on the sand, apart from the killing, overseeing their warriors. Arduwyn sat nearby, clutching his knees to his chest. A crudely-wrapped bandage encircled his head, covering one eye. Colbey drew up. “This way.” He gestured. “Rache needs us.” Without waiting to see if they followed, he spurred his horse down the slope and into the valley between the dunes.
Shortly, he found Mitrian’s horse grazing on sparse clumps of plain grasses. She knelt on brown-stained sand, surrounded by corpses and looking nearly as pale as the head she cradled. Behind Colbey, Santagithi and the others went still, leaving a silence complete except for the gentle trickle of Rache’s blood on the sand and the distant sounds of battle.
Dismounting, Colbey pushed past the others and caught Rache’s head. Breath stirred limp strands of hair around his face. In an instant, Colbey surveyed the wound, estimated the loss of blood, and found Rache far paler and stiller than the sum of his injuries. Poisoned. Rage boiled through him. Cheaters and cowards. What an ugly, dishonorable way to kill . . . and to die. Afraid to lose the last thread of Rache’s life, he knelt and slapped the white cheeks with enough force to redden the skin.
Mitrian recoiled in horror. Sterrane’s growl warned Colbey that he did not approve.
Rache’s eyes opened to slits. “Rac-kee.” He slurred out his own name.
Colbey smiled, certain Rache had mistaken him for his own namesake in Valhalla. “It’s Colbey.”
Rache’s eyes twitched, framed by wrinkles. “Torke. So, it’s true. I’m not the last Renshai.”
Colbey nodded, though he doubted Rache could see the gesture. “No. But one of the finest.” He saw potential in every sinew of Rache’s honed body. But the last hope for the Renshai to continue with even a splash of its warrior blood lay a finger’s breadth from death.
The Last of the Renshai Page 67