Santagithi replied with words. “Rache, you’re not even the last of your line. That’s what I was trying to tell you. Emerald bore you a son.”
Rache choked. His handsome features contorted into a harrowed mass of lines. “I should be damned to Hel for bringing a child into this.” His muscles tensed spasmodically, wrenching water from glazing eyes.
Colbey moved aside. His approval was all Rache needed from him, but others still had to make their peace. And now Colbey had other ideas to occupy his mind, two boys who would need Renshai training.
Sterrane moved in, wiping Rache’s eyes with pawlike hands, and Mitrian kissed his forehead lightly.
Surrounded by friends, Rache chose to address his enemy. “Garn.”
Hesitantly, Garn approached.
Though feeble, Rache’s words could not be mistaken. “Carad entrusted his son to me. Treat my son better than I did . . . his. . . .” Rache’s eyes closed.
Garn reached forward uncertainly, clasping a hand to Rache’s shoulder.
Colbey knew that touch was the last thing Rache felt in life. Looking up, he found himself staring at a woman who appeared at Rache’s side. Thick yellow hair fell about her seamless silver armor, and a golden halo threw the rest of the world into shadow.
“Gods!” Colbey staggered backward. A Valkyrie! He threw a defensive hand before his eyes, terrified for the first time in his life. Only brave warriors slain in battle could see such a sight, yet Colbey felt very much alive. And the odd stares of his companions made it clear only he could see the image.
The Valkyrie faded, leaving Colbey to adjust his eyes to the gloom of normal day.
“Colbey, what’s wrong.” Santagithi took the elder Renshai’s arm.
Colbey shook his head, lacking the desire or courage to describe what he had seen. Quickly, he reassembled his wits and outwardly returned to his normal, unperturbable manner. “When a child of our people was born at a time when we had no heroes in Valhalla to name as guardian, we gave them a kjaelnavnir. If, after one year, there’s still no guardian, the kjaelnavnir became the child’s real name. We called those children uvakt, the unguarded. Many of them died in glory, and their names became part of our culture. But it was considered a severe handicap, a likely curse to Hel.” He studied Mitrian. She sat with her head low, stroking Rache’s hair ceaselessly, as if her touch might restore his life. “Your child is still young.”
Quiet gathered. Mitrian seemed not to have heard.
Garn cleared his throat. “My son named for Rache?”
Mitrian looked up.
Garn stared into Colbey’s rigidly intense face. “I think,” Garn said slowly, “I think that. . . .” He considered a long moment. “I think I might like that.”
Colbey swung around to confront Santagithi. “I have two boys and your daughter to train. May I teach them in your town, or must my people return to exile?”
Santagithi’s gaze met Colbey’s, then turned aside. “Renshai,” he said. “My only daughter.” He glanced at Mitrian, then his gaze fell to Rache. “And my only son.” He shook his head in sorrow. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay in my town and under my protection. But the decision as to whether Garn and his family return with you is their own.”
Garn’s lips crushed together, then flowed into a tense smile. With Colbey as an ally, surely he had nothing to fear from the prejudice of Santagithi’s men. “I’ve considered your offer, Santagithi. If Mitrian wants to go home, I’ll come with her.”
Though strained, Santagithi’s answering smile was sincere.
CHAPTER 29
The Legend of Béarn
Steel crashed, now too scattered to drown the break of the surf. Colbey picked his route carefully among the maimed and dead. The ugliness touched even the cruel Deathseeker from Renshi. Few shared his respect for death, nor his hatred for dishonorable or needless casualties. As a youth, he had fought for glory and life. Later, he had fought for glory and death. Now, faced with the burden of reforming a nation, he fought for glory and life again.
Removed from the combat, Colbey watched the final battles amid the scarlet spindrift of the shore. Near the dunes, a cluster of farmers sat in uncomfortable silence, unable to discuss a tragedy they had never been trained to fight. Colbey knew the war would affect them in a way no warrior could understand. Years later, they would startle from sleep, bask in the guilt of having survived what their neighbors had not, perhaps panic at the sight of a sword or fly into violent rages. Their plight awakened pity, an emotion that did not come often or easily. Recalling the conquests of his people, he raised his sword in a vow to Sif: “The Renshai will remain the finest swordsmen in the world, but never again will we ravage lands at peace without cause.”
The ocean roared against the beach. Two dozen riderless horses stampeded in a herd across the sand. Chestnuts, blacks, and bays kicked up their heels as they ran, led by a solid buckskin, its dark mane flying, stark contrast to its golden hide.
Even with his thoughts distant, Colbey recognized the stocky lead horse. Siderin’s horse. Suspicion sparked, he spurred his mount. Quickly, the long-legged bay narrowed the distance between itself and the weary herd.
Within twenty strides, Colbey drew up beside a gaunt chestnut. As his horse adjusted its pace to match the herd, Colbey measured the pack with his gaze, knowing horses nearly as well as swords. Reaching out, he seized the chestnut’s mane and slithered to its back. From there, he sprang to a more centrally located gray. He was rewarded by a glint of steel at the middle of the pack. An armored form crouched on a sable horse, shielded by the running herd.
Carefully, Colbey leapt to a chestnut beside the black. “Very clever, Siderin.”
The general sat up suddenly. Demon’s eyes shone from a human face darkened in the shadow of his helmet. “Renshai,” he whispered. “Carcophan was wrong.” His hand whipped from his pocket, and he smashed a vial over the spines of his horseman’s flail. Clear liquid oozed over the head.
Poison. Colbey remained still, trusting his speed and training, letting his enemy make the first strike.
“And prophecies can be thwarted.” The metal ball thrashed for Colbey.
Quicker than sight, Colbey drew. The chain enwrapped the blade. The links ruptured on its razor edge, and the weapon’s head flew free.
Siderin swore, tearing at his sword. Still chain-wrapped, Colbey’s blade crashed against the general’s breastplate. Siderin lurched, then caught his balance as his sword whipped free.
Blade locked on blade. With his left hand, Siderin pulled a dagger and lunged. Colbey blocked with his free arm. The king’s wrist struck Colbey’s. Something on the blade splashed Colbey’s hand, burning like acid. More poison, he thought, rubbing it off on his clothes before it could work real damage. “You have the morals of a swamp rat.”
Siderin laughed, a sound like rasping steel. “This from a Renshai.” His sword and dagger plunged. Colbey parried both, hating the general as he never had any opponent before. Reeling, he returned the strike. His blade struck sparks from a mailed shoulder. Smoothly, he reversed the stroke, slamming aside Siderin’s sword. The dagger nicked Colbey’s sleeve and ripped through the flesh of his mount.
The beast screamed, lurching. Though forced to tend his balance, Colbey wove defensive patterns with his blade. The horse stumbled. Unable to take his gaze from Siderin’s weapons, Colbey leapt blindly. Even as he moved, the horse collapsed beneath him.
Leather scraped Colbey’s legs. A stirrup cracked painfully against his shin, then he was mounted awkwardly in front of a saddle. Siderin’s sword jabbed. The dagger raced upward.
Can’t die of poison. Colbey swung to block the dagger first. His blade tore the knife from the king’s grasp, then met the sword a finger’s breadth from his throat. His riposte blazed for Siderin.
Suddenly, the Easterner stiffened. Surprise flashed through his eyes. Colbey’s sword lashed through a cleft in the armor, hurling Siderin from his mount.
Catching the rei
ns, Colbey flicked into the saddle and yanked until his horse fell to the back of the herd. It tossed its head, trying to regain its control and stay with the herd. Colbey hauled on one rein, forcing it into a tight arc until it had no choice but to stop. As its herd mates thundered away, Colbey steered it to Siderin’s body at a walk.
Dismounting, Colbey examined the remains. Hooves had shredded Siderin. One had dented the masterwork of iron that the king had used as a helmet. Colbey hefted it, surprised by its weight. “The steel lives on, Siderin, but you’re dead. Just as well. What glory could there be in watching venom win the battle for you? What skill does it take to let your armor fend blows? I fear a day may come when men wear steel shells like turtles, and the contest is won by the man strong enough to raise his arms and his sword. What joy . . .?” The sight of a bloody feather protruding from Siderin’s neck cut short Colbey’s self-indulgent speech. Some unseen archer had stolen Colbey’s victory, just before the killing blow.
Gingerly, Colbey eased the arrow from the general’s flesh. It broke off in his hand, a painted shaft with three rings: two gold and the last royal blue.
Colbey threw back his head, enraged. “Arduwyn! You bastard child of a weasel! When I catch you, you’ll freeze in Hel!” Colbey scanned the dunes, hands balled to fists.
But the red-haired archer had wisely chosen to disappear. Colbey saw nothing but the bodies of the dead.
* * *
Garn perched on a dune, staring at a beach that the setting sun striped red and white. Corpses littered the sand, twisted gory lumps that little resembled the anxious warriors who had begun the war. An injured soldier moaned, his steady complaint pierced by an occasional clang of distant steel as the final, scattered battles played out their course. But, for Garn, the war was over. And other things had concluded as well.
Rache is dead. The thought failed to soothe, though it brought no sorrow either. The Easterners and their poison had robbed Garn of the chance to prove himself the better swordsman. Still, he did not begrudge Rache the death in battle he had sought for so many years.
Few religious tenets made sense to Garn, least of all the obsessive care Colbey and Mitrian had taken to see that Rache’s body went to pyre with all its parts intact. Clearly, if there was some sort of post-death paradise, whether the Northmen’s Valhalla or the Westerner’s Yonderworld, a man’s body remained behind, along with its flaws. If a soul has no visible form, how can it fit a man’s body exactly? If the gods are so damned powerful, why couldn’t they give him a new leg? And, why would a one-armed soldier have any more difficulty in Valhalla then here?
Garn shrugged, tossing the questions into the same, unanswered part of his mind that wondered why, if the gods were real, they tolerated so many violently strong and varying opinions about them. He questioned why Sheriva didn’t use his mighty fist to smash the Western army. If the Northerners’ Odin had created the world, how could the Westerners’ Ruaidhri or the Easterners’ Sheriva have done the deed? And why would Ruaidhri allow a faithful follower like King Gasir to die while the atheist Garn lived on? Garn had heard priests of varying religions defend inequality by saying that men could not comprehend the vast wisdom and reasons of the gods. And the ex-gladiator dared to question why anyone would waste his time trying. Or worshiping.
It made as much sense to Garn to believe that the ground and sky simply were, that the world itself, and the people in it, made their own consequences. In fact, it made more sense because it did not imply the presence of deities who, despite supposedly infinite wisdom, ignored stupidities and injustices plainly obvious even to Garn. Yet though Garn disdained the gods, all of whom had ignored his prayers for freedom in his days as a gladiator, he respected Mitrian’s and Colbey’s faith and the intensity of their belief. They seemed reasonably pleased by the manner of Rache’s death. So how, Garn wondered, could I be otherwise?
Still, Rache’s life had meant more to Mitrian than it ever had to Rache. Since his death, she had become a crazed stranger. One moment, Garn found her on the verge of tears. But, when he tried to hold and comfort her, she pounded his chest with her fists in a blind fury of rage, blubbering something about how she should honor instead of mourn a brave warrior slain in battle. If Mitrian knew joy for Rache’s demise, Garn hoped he would never see her grief-stricken; and if what she displayed was sorrow, frustration and guilt had riddled it with violence. She seemed to need solitude to sort her feelings. So, despite or because of the fact that he loved her, Garn left Mitrian to her own company.
Garn buried his chin in his hands and studied the crimson and black of the ocean, wondering if its colors reflected the dusk or the blood of so many slain in its waters. As he stared, death struck soundlessly, the breeze of steel slicing air his only warning. Garn recoiled. A blade scratched down his arm, tearing his tunic, then embedded in the dune.
Garn sprang to his feet, pawing for his sword. Had he moved any more slowly, the stroke would have opened him from head to abdomen.
The other wrenched his blade free in a spray of sand.
Garn crouched, drawing his weapon, expecting to meet swarthy features and flinty eyes. But the man he faced was no Easterner. Blond curls hugged his head in sweat-damp ringlets, and his pale eyes looked as wild as any gladiator’s. Listar.
The blacksmith’s son rushed Garn.
Side-stepping, Garn deflected with a broad sweep. Listar’s surprise attack enraged Garn, yet he fought for the self-control he had promised himself would accompany Rache’s death. The wound in his arm ached. “Listar, don’t be stupid. Mitrian has always made her own decisions. Even if you killed me, she would never have you.”
“You’ve done something to her.” Listar lunged, cutting high. “You tricked her into becoming someone else.”
Garn battered Listar’s flailing sword to the ground and pinned it beneath his own. He glared into Listar’s flushed face. “There was a time when I would have killed you before I could think to do anything else.” Garn felt his restraint slipping and bolstered it with remembrance of the animal savagery he wanted to escape. “If you really care for Mitrian, talk to her. Trust the choices she makes and her reasons. If she really wants you instead of me, I won’t fight you.” The words came easily. Garn never doubted Mitrian’s love or loyalty.
With a condescending toss of his bronze hair, Garn freed Listar’s blade, turned his back, and strode along the dune. It was the ultimate insult, demonstrating contempt for Listar’s skill by making the threat of a weapon at his back seem trivial. Garn had seen the blacksmith’s son in action, and did not doubt his own ability to counter any attack. Still, he was no fool. Ears attuned to any noise from behind, he basked in the warm glow of triumph, not over Listar, but over his own barbaric instincts. Rache had proven right about so many things, especially those issues that pertained to war and sword training. But when he claimed Garn’s self-control would not come as a result of his death, Rache had made a mistake. Since the Renshai had spoken his final words, Garn had not lost his calm composure over mind and body. Despite his outrage, he had left the impudent youth alive on the dune.
The sound of shuffling feet behind Garn interrupted his thoughts. A sword whistled through the night air. Dropping to one knee, Garn whirled and slashed. His sword tore open studded leather and flesh.
Screaming, Listar collapsed, leaking entrails to the splattered sand. As Garn raised his sword for a killing stroke, a line of blood wound along the blade.
“Garn?” Mitrian’s call sounded close.
Garn froze. Listar’s screams became frenzied, and he writhed like an injured snake.
“Garn?” Alarm entered Mitrian’s tone. She appeared over the dune’s crest at a run.
Guiltily, Garn sheathed his sword, stepping in front of Listar as if to hide the twitching, shrieking man.
Mitrian skidded to a stop, staring at the figure behind Garn. Her sword dangled from her hand. Slowly, she walked forward, as if drawn. Her face revealed no emotion.
Garn fingered the
tear in his sleeve, not knowing what to say. The scene told its own story.
Listar’s screams fell to sobbing moans. Blood trickled from his lips. “I . . . just wanted what was mine. You belong to . . . to me. Not some slave’s bastard.”
Rage boiled in the pit of Garn’s stomach. He lowered his head, starting the sequence of mental exercises that he used to empty his mind before attempting to break a horseshoe. A sword stroke now would only hasten the inevitable. To all intents and purposes, Listar was already dead.
Mitrian’s cheeks flared. The hand on her sword hilt lost all the color her cheeks had gained. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Emotion robbed her tone of the sincerity she obviously felt and intended.
Garn recognized the rage that had ebbed and flowed through Mitrian since Rache’s death, and he recoiled from it.
Mitrian’s sword whipped upward, then claimed the life of its crafter so quickly that Listar’s expression never changed.
Garn watched helplessly as Mitrian slumped to the ground. The hilt fell from her grip, and she wept like a child, curled on the sand.
Kneeling, Garn took Mitrian in his arms. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I killed him. You just dealt the mercy stroke. . . .” He continued to talk, though he knew his comforting fell on deaf ears. She might never admit it, even to herself, but Garn knew her tears were less for Listar than for Rache. Renshai tradition did not allow her to weep for one who had earned Valhalla, but it said nothing of mourning a foolish youth who had forced her hand against him.
Garn hugged Mitrian closer, felt her arms tighten about him, and knew his presence meant far more to her than his words.
* * *
Night inked the sky, and campfires dotted the beach like candles in a tomb. Warriors broke into groups to talk or sleep, while others combed the beach for injured companions.
The Last of the Renshai Page 68