The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Colbey leaned against a withered oak, the bark gouging into the light fabric of his tunic. Though he moved with a casual ease that seemed to border on carelessness, every sense remained alert. A part of his mind assessed the location of every soldier and, seeing no threat, discarded the information. Movement inside the tent told Colbey that General Santagithi, too, was still awake.

  Colbey knew that the Renshai’s century without a homeland had been spent gleaning the most elite battle techniques from every culture in existence. Driven first by bitterness and blood lust and later by blood lust alone, the Renshai had blended philosophy and skill into the most successful combat system in existence. Rumors told how the least competent Renshai could fight three of any country’s best warriors and win, and Colbey had never found reason to doubt the veracity of the statement.

  Still, the Renshai’s single-minded devotion to war had goaded them to answer every problem with violence. Renshai rarely lived past their early thirties; the youthful exuberance and vigor of the tribe only fed the cycle. Colbey mulled the situation, forming no judgments. In his time, he had been as eager for combat as any other. A scene emerged from deeply rooted memory. He recalled when the Renshai had finally returned to the North after their hundred years of wandering. The tribal area which had once served as home to the Renshai had become a part of Thortire. So the Renshai spokesman had asked the high king in Nordmir for an icy, barren island that was then called Ti. The king’s reply remained vivid in Colbey’s memory, “Pick a champion from among your people. If he can best my champion, the island is yours. So long as you don’t threaten other tribes, you may live your days in peace.” A strange smile had touched the king’s features then, “But should my man win, your tribe must leave the Northlands and never return.”

  At twenty-nine, Colbey had already been the Renshai’s most accomplished sword master for fifteen years. Yet their spokesman had chosen a challenger from the ranks at random with a bored nonchalance that enraged the king. A young woman faced and defeated the king’s champion. Then, in an ugly gesture of defiance that had galled even Colbey, she had lopped the head from the king’s warrior, stealing from him the glory that came with death. The Renshai had won a homeland that never again bore any name but Devil’s Island. And twenty years later, when the massed armies of the North slaughtered the Renshai, they never truly broke the king’s promise. General/King Siderin of the Eastlands had steered the Northern king to the loophole in his vow. By attacking at night, the Northmen had allowed the Renshai to live their “days in peace.”

  Colbey drew a long sword from each hip sheath, watching the familiar glow of starlight on the blades. Even after sixty-five years, the beauty of the sight never dimmed, nor the excitement that thrilled through him at the melody of steel rasping from its sheath. But the joy of other things had disappeared. Thoughts of some of the Renshai’s actions sickened him, especially the ritual mutilations that had led to their exile. Yet there was a beauty and integrity to the Renshai that outsiders rarely understood. They remained loyal to one another to the extreme of cutting down one of their own from behind to prevent his dying of illness or infection, for a coward’s death would doom a warrior to Hel. Their honor forbade them from using anything but their own individual, physical skills in war; therefore, they shunned armor, group strategies, and any weapon that did not require a direct, hand-to-hand technique. Rache had died of King Siderin’s poison. And that, Colbey had found the most distasteful weapon of all.

  Still, despite the many laws that bound the Renshai, they never expected their enemies to follow the same code of ethics. A man who dies fighting with his principles intact dies in glory. To expect enemies to follow the same code of honor defiles that honor, reducing it to a set of arbitrary rules.

  With that thought, Colbey launched into a svergelse, a series of sword maneuvers practiced alone. Though swifter than his heartbeats, the perfect, committed figures came easily, along with a memory that, to his mind, defined the Renshai’s creed. Before Colbey’s birth, the tribe had worshiped the god Odin as their patron. Then, one day, Colbey’s elders swore that Thor’s wife Sif appeared before them, promising that a child born that day would become the most skilled sword master in history. Three babies joined the tribe that day. The first, a boy, barely met the Renshai’s definition of average before his death in a childhood combat. The second, a girl called Kelrhyne, was hardy and robust. Clearly the object of Sif’s promise, she perfected her first sword maneuver before the other two pulled to a stand. She had breezed through the Renshai training as though it was created solely for her. The third child born had been Colbey.

  The swords whirled about Colbey, veering with a speed that kept them invisible. Even the flashes of starlight shifted too quickly to betray their positions. He recalled how, at five years old, he had been told about Sif’s promise. Immediately, he had made a vow. If Kelrhyne was destined by gods to become the most skilled sword master in history, then, by setting his goal to best her, he would become the finest swordsman possible, constrained only by time. Now, remembering, Colbey smiled, spinning into a complicated kata designed for battling hordes of enemies at once. From that day, he had forsaken everything but his swords. He had spent every moment of every day drilling sword maneuvers until exhaustion battered him into unconsciousness. Over time, his parents discovered that no promise of reward nor threat of punishment could drive Colbey to fulfill the mundane duties of life. He would rather practice than eat, would rather hold his sword than another person, and would rather train than sleep.

  By the time Kelrhyne died in brazen glory, Colbey had become the best. Therein, Colbey knew, lay the fundamental difference between Renshai and other men. For, where others would simply say that Colbey had been Sif’s Chosen One all along, the Renshai still believed Sif had specified Kelrhyne; and they revered the dedication that had allowed Colbey to thwart a god-voiced prophecy.

  Colbey plunged into a wild flurry of strike and parry, both arms arching and driving with equal mastery, his body weaving in a finely coordinated dance. His thoughts jarred back to the present. The responsibility of recreating the greatest of all tribes from a Western townswoman and two young boys gnawed at him. The honor, glory, and skill of the Renshai must live on. Fifty years of training the world’s best swordsmen had made him confident of his abilities. That he could make them competent, he harbored no doubts. The uncertainty came with thoughts of what philosophies to instill, what purpose the Renshai would have in the new order of the world. The only possibility that made any sense at all to Colbey was to have the Renshai become soldiers for hire, to fight for money or glory, but only where the cause was right. And to make allies where before they had only enemies.

  As easily as the idea came to Colbey, it brought with it no fanfares or certainties. Logic told him the decision was right, yet he wanted something more, approval from a deeper portion of his being or from the golden-haired goddess who guided the Renshai. Colbey whipped his swords into a forward cross block, then whirled, slicing opposite loops to meet imaginary opponents beside and behind him. Faster than thought, he spun again, gliding the blades through controlled, committed arcs. Like all of the Northern deities, Sif took her sacrifices on the battlefield, and Colbey had delivered hundreds of Easterners to her in the Great War. Afterward, he had recited his quieter, more personal prayers alone beside a campfire. Now, seeking guidance, Colbey dedicated his practice to Sif, sincerely trying, as always, to make it his finest effort. The elderly Renshai twirled and lunged, his swords carving the air in flawless arcs, lines, and ovals, a lethal whirlwind of flashing gold and silver.

  Sif never directly answered Colbey. He sought only the peace of mind that he had always truly believed came from the goddess, though he had no proof but faith. Now, a pinpoint of light sparked before him. Gradually, it grew and spread, widening to a vast, shapeless glimmer. Colbey continued his practice, creating a grand new sword maneuver in his exuberance. He kept his attention partially on the glowing object, uncertain
whether to attack or painstakingly avoid it. Never once did he question its presence. That his goddess would send him such a sign was an honor he dared not belittle with doubts. Other realities touched his subconscious. He knew that Santagithi had emerged from the tent and sat watching Colbey’s prayer, deferentially silent and still. A few of the Pudarian soldiers stopped to stare from a distance, nudging one another and passing whispered comments. Yet these things seemed of so little consequence, Colbey ignored them.

  The light surged and sputtered before Colbey. Still uncertain of his role, he finally decided to bring a sword stroke through the image. As tentative as the decision seemed, Colbey never jabbed or cut without a full commitment to the blow and its consequences. The blade cleaved the glow. Fully powered, it met no resistance. A gold-white star flashed from the steel like a highlight, then disappeared, and the glimmer flared suddenly into the form of a woman in black leather.

  The functional battle garb detracted nothing from a face and figure that redefined Colbey’s feminine ideal. Long blonde hair spilled free in the spring wind, so thick and saffron that it seemed like strands of spun, metallic gold. She clutched a gleaming broadsword that lashed abruptly for Colbey’s head.

  For a fraction of a heartbeat, Colbey hesitated. The lack of reaction from the spectators told him that he alone saw the image. If she did not exist, he had nothing to fear from her attack. If she was a manifestation of his goddess, then he would die on her sword with honor. But not without a bold and glorious fight! She deserves that much. And so do I.

  Colbey flicked his left sword into a block, boring in rather than retreating or dodging. Her blow crashed against his left blade with an unexpected strength. His right sword swept beneath her guard. She leapt backward into a crouched defense, her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure over features that clearly revealed surprise. She skipped to the left, as light and quick as an animal and with a grace that might have sent a practiced dancer into a jealous rage. Colbey did not press his offensive, instead using the instant to assess her potential. Already, he could tell that she would prove the most potent threat he had ever faced. And the challenge thrilled him.

  The woman remained crouched, patient as eternity. Colbey waited, too, content to enjoy the fatal beauty of even her slightest movements. He made an almost imperceptible gesture, indicating that she should take the next attack.

  The woman laughed, the sound deep and resonant yet still somehow feminine. Suddenly, she lunged. Colbey sidestepped the jab, then returned a double stroke of his own. She met the attack with a snaking parry that redirected both of his blades.

  Now, Colbey laughed, too, feeling carefree and as vibrant as a child. More than fifty years had passed since any opponent could meet him stroke for stroke. Even the next best Renshai had never returned more than one attack for every two. He rescued his left sword from her maneuver, using what little remained of its momentum to catch the knurling of her hilt near her fingers. Torn from her hands, the sword pinwheeled between them. Colbey’s other blade driven toward her abdomen seemed certain to land.

  Horror flashed through Colbey’s mind as her sword neared the ground. By Renshai tradition, a sword was the most important and deeply personal part of a warrior; to let an honored opponent’s sword touch the ground was considered the basest insult. Instantly, he whisked his right sword into its sheath. He dove for the falling weapon, catching the hilt a finger’s breadth before it hit the grass.

  Colbey’s gaze lost his opponent for only the barest fraction of time. Yet, when he looked up, a sword clenched triumphantly in each hand, three cold steel blades in the hands of three identical women slammed down toward him.

  “Modi.” Colbey called to Sif’s son, the god of battle wrath. From infancy, he had been taught to shout the name whenever he or his people needed an extra burst of blood lust. Decades of training responded to Colbey’s need. Rage surged through him, bringing strength like a second wind. He rolled, parrying despite the awkwardness of his position. He felt the blades scratch down the two in his fists, felt the swishing pass of the third as it missed his skull by a finger’s breadth. He spun to his feet, slashing a furious barrier of metal between him and his three opponents.

  “General Colbey!” The cry seemed distant and unimportant, yet it jarred Colbey’s concentration. The triple images of the woman blurred.

  No! Colbey forced his attention back, needing this fight which was the greatest challenge of his life.

  “General Colbey!” The Pudarian voice grew louder, followed by Santagithi’s sour reprimand.

  “Be still, soldier. It’s not polite to interrupt a man’s prayer. Nor wise, if his gods hold him in half the regard that I do.”

  “Prayer.” The Pudarian snorted. “He’s just practicing.”

  The women faded to oblivion, leaving only a pale outline of light. The sword that had been hers disappeared from Colbey’s hand. Three women. Three sparring partners. Three other Renshai. Colbey pounced on the significance of the number, narrowing his concentration, trying to recreate the phantom that must have come from his imagination. Still, he could not let go of the possibility that his sparring partner had been a divine manifestation of Sif.

  Santagithi continued in his usual gently authoritative manner. “He is a Northman. To them, war is religion.”

  The Pudarian’s tone went icy. “With all respect, General, I need to speak with the other general, not with you. Prince Verrall wishes Colbey now. His grace must not be left waiting.”

  The light winked out. Annoyance suffused Colbey, and he glanced directly at the speakers for the first time. Santagithi stood with one foot propped on a weathered stump. Dark blond hair flecked with gray fringed features just beginning to wrinkle. Tall and broad, he towered over the darker Pudarian soldier, yet the smaller man glared back with a look of controlled defiance. Colbey, not Santagithi, was the leader of Pudar’s army, and the man seemed determined to make that point clear.

  Colbey jabbed his remaining sword into its sheath. “Prince Verrall will not wait for a man to finish his prayers? Then ‘your grace’ has none. What does he want?” Colbey did not mince words, nor question semantics. King Gasir of Pudar had died in the war, leaving no direct heir. Of his four nephews from two brothers, Verrall had legal claim to the throne. Until his coronation, however, he could not use the title “king,” so he had chosen “prince.”

  The Pudarian blanched beneath Colbey’s intense scrutiny. “He . . . his grace wants to speak with you as soon as possible.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Very well,” Colbey sighed in resignation, the conversation sounding almost too vivid and real in the wake of his holy experience. “Take me to him, then.” Colbey had no interest in politics, and royalty meant little to him. The other seventeen Northern tribes, and most of the West’s largest cities, were separate monarchies, each country organized under a high king. But the Renshai had never had a government. For the rare matters of diplomacy, they had chosen whoever seemed the best speaker for the occasion.

  “This way, sir.” The Pudarian turned, relaxing as he no longer had to confront Colbey’s cruel features and hard blue-gray eyes. He headed toward the center of the camp.

  Colbey followed, and Santagithi joined him. The broadboned Westerner dwarfed the slight Renshai.

  Colbey smiled. “You would join me?” They wound between trees and tents.

  “I think it would be best.”

  “Your company is always a pleasure, but you don’t often offer it.” Colbey could not help asking, “Do you think I’m in danger?”

  “Do I think you are in danger?” Santagithi’s mouth twitched upward. He cleared his throat, as if to make one of his ringing diplomatic or strategic announcements. “Isn’t that rather like worrying about a wolf being attacked by a flock of starving hens?”

  Colbey chuckled, watching the back of the Pudarian’s shaking head. It went against Santagithi’s usual tactful finesse to insult anyone, espe
cially within earshot of a soldier so closely linked to the prince of the West’s largest city. He tried to guess the reason as they finished the trip in silence, and he believed he understood. For Santagithi, the war had proven taxing—physically, mentally, and emotionally. He had lost both of his captains to death. Despite being Renshai and a cripple, Rache had been like a son. The second had been Santagithi’s confidant. His only daughter had run away from home with Garn, the gladiator who had paralyzed Rache. Nearly a year later, the Great War reunited father and daughter, only to reveal that she had borne him a grandson, married Garn, and, taught by Colbey, she had become as skilled at war as any of his soldiers. Named the West’s prime strategist, Santagithi had had to orchestrate the Great War, coordinating armies of mixed backgrounds and even a single tribe of Northmen. The lives of thousands of men, and ultimately of their wives and children, had lain in his hands. Even the kings and generals had pinned their hopes on the man that the Eastern Wizard had called their finest strategist. Now, Colbey suspected, Santagithi simply needed a chance to shake off the lead weight of responsibility heaped upon him.

  The Pudarian came to halt before a huge, enclosed tent in the center of the camp. Four Pudarian guardsmen stood watch at the corners, each clutching a bladed pole arm that Colbey’s sword-skewed education did not allow him to identify by name. The Pudarian escort nodded to his on-duty companions, then addressed Colbey and Santagithi. “One moment, please, sirs.” Raising one folded tent flap, he disappeared inside. The canvas flopped back into place behind him.