The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Thoughts wafted to Colbey from the nearest sentry. Bored, he explored them, finding the man unusually alert and restless for a soldier on a routine watch. Curious, Colbey probed, discovering an awe that bordered on fear; he, it seemed, was the source of the sentry’s discomfort. The Renshai suppressed a smile of amusement. He held a neutral stance, defensible, yet in no way coiled or threatening, hoping to put the man at ease.

  The mind-reading ability had come to Colbey eleven years past. Shortly after the Western Wizard had informed him that the tribe of Renshai had been massacred five years earlier, a madness had descended upon Colbey. It had taken the form of driving obsessions, voices in his head, and glimpses into the past and future. One by one, he had crushed the intruders and the seeds of insanity they represented, systematically destroying them with the same competence and control he used on the battlefield. At first, he had believed that the madness itself caused him to accidentally catch stray thoughts of people around him, ideas that he later discovered he had read verbatim. Since every voice had disappeared, he realized that each winning war had honed his mind in the same way every battle enhanced his skills. Now, he was just beginning to explore the possibilities of a mental tactic that went far beyond the philosophy and mind over body mastery he had learned since infancy.

  The guards stood in stony silence. The one Colbey had studied shifted uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny. Santagithi stood with his head raised, his gaze following the sweep of stars across the heavens.

  Shortly, the tent flap jiggled, then folded aside. The Pudarian who had escorted Colbey and Santagithi peeked through the opening. “General Colbey, Prince Verrall will see you now.” He gave Santagithi an apologetic glance. “Sir, he asked for the general alone. He would be happy to meet with you later if you feel the need.”

  Colbey glanced at Santagithi. The Western general’s expression did not change, but Colbey sensed discomfort in his companion’s demeanor. Though he had no reason to think the prince meant him any harm, the decision to meet after dark and Santagithi’s casual insistence on accompanying Colbey made him careful. He trusted Santagithi’s instincts.

  Inexperienced in affairs of state, Colbey chose his words cautiously and kept his tone respectful. “Please thank his grace for seeing me.” Since the prince had called for him, Colbey guessed his gratitude was unnecessary, but it helped him lead into his request. “Please also inform him that Santagithi has come along as my . . . as my . . .” The idea of Colbey needing a bodyguard seemed ludicrous. Unable to think of a better word, Colbey found an equally absurd one. “. . . my retinue. Anything the prince can say in my presence, he can say in front of Santagithi.”

  The Pudarian stared, as if waiting for Colbey to admit he was joking.

  Colbey made an exaggerated gesture of dismissal. “Go on. Tell him.”

  Reluctantly, the Pudarian retreated.

  Colbey glanced at Santagithi, hoping he had not offended the general. Though they had become fast friends, they had only known one another since the war. And, where Colbey’s title was wholly military, Santagithi was leader of a country as well. “Sorry about the retinue thing,” Colbey whispered.

  A tight-lipped smile ruined Santagithi’s otherwise somber expression. He spoke as softly, “You must think much of my abilities to consider me an entire retinue.”

  Colbey suppressed a chuckle. In his attempt to sound as respectful as possible, he had not realized he had used the plural.

  The Pudarian’s head again appeared through the slit. “His grace again asked to see his general alone. He has promised to tend any business with the other general afterward.” He addressed Santagithi directly. “Or before, if you prefer, sir.”

  “With all due respect . . .” At the moment, Colbey estimated the amount due as a spoonful. “. . . you know Santagithi has no business with the heir. He came with me. Verrall can see me with my retinue or not at all.”

  Apparently briefed for this contingency, the Pudarian did not bother to consult the prince again. He sighed in resignation. “Very well, then. Both of you come inside.” He exited, holding aside the flap.

  Santagithi and Colbey entered together. The spacious area enclosed by the canvas surprised Colbey. Prince Verrall sat in a crude, wooden chair in the center. Behind him, straw and blankets lay neatly spread as bedding. To his left stood a pile of supply crates. To his right, a series of crates surrounded a huge stump that served as a table. A dozen Pudarian soldiers armed with swords were positioned around the prince, and two boys in peasant garb waited behind the chair.

  Colbey lowered his head respectfully. Santagithi bowed, and the prince answered with the same courtesy. “I didn’t expect the pleasure of your company, too, Santagithi. Please, accept my hospitality. My business is with my general.” He waved toward the table and crates. The boys scurried in the indicated direction to tend to Santagithi even before he arrived.

  Colbey opened his mouth to protest again, but Santagithi squeezed his arm in warning. “Let it lie, friend,” he hissed, barely audibly. “There’s something to be said for compromise.” He spoke aloud, “Thank you, Verrall.” Without further comment, he took the seat closest to the prince and facing Colbey.

  The peasant boys talked softly with Santagithi, then trotted off to attend some request. The prince turned his attention fully on Colbey. “First, General, I and all of Pudar would like to thank you for your leadership and your dedication to our effort in the war.”

  Colbey glanced toward Santagithi, seeking clues to the proper formalities. But the town leader slouched with his head resting on a hand propped on the table. Legs crossed, he watched the proceedings with mild curiosity. As Colbey’s delay stretched past politeness, Santagithi raised his brows.

  You bastard. Colbey knew Santagithi was gleaning some amusement from the situation. “You’re welcome.” Colbey could think of nothing better to say, but the ensuing hush encouraged him to continue. “Your uncle, King Gasir, was a good man and a decent soldier. He died bravely. It was my pleasure to honor his only request to me, that, in the event of his death, I lead his army in the war.” Colbey stopped, hoping he had said enough.

  “Sire,” the nearest Pudarian hissed at Colbey.

  Surprised by the address, Colbey glanced at his escort.

  Prince Verrall continued, apparently unaware of the exchange. “As you know, King Gasir had four nephews. Though I am the second in age, my father was the king’s next eldest brother, while my cousin was born of Gasir’s youngest brother. I am, by law, the heir.” He studied Colbey with an intensity that seemed to bear no relation to his words.

  Colbey nodded, rapidly losing interest.

  “I am concerned my cousin may try to claim the Pudarian throne.”

  Again Colbey nodded. He watched one of the peasant boys thread through the prince’s entourage with a mug of wine for Santagithi.

  “Do you understand the situation, General?”

  Colbey’s brows knit in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. The situation seemed obvious enough for a senile street beggar to grasp, and he wondered if he should take offense at the question. “It seems terribly clear, yes.”

  “Sire,” the Pudarian guard whispered more forcefully.

  “What?” Colbey hissed back.

  The soldier emphasized his point with an abrupt gesture with both open hands. “Sire. Call the prince ‘sire.’”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” The guard’s voice rose an octave, serving as both outraged repetition and query.

  “Why?” Colbey repeated with vexing calm.

  The guard wore a bemused expression somewhere between shock and horror. His cheeks looked aflame. “Because. Because that’s what you call him.”

  Colbey saw no reason to further antagonize the sentry, aside from a mild curiosity about whether the man could become so enraged that he ruptured the vessels in his face. “Sire,” he added, the belated title lost beneath the king’s next words, which was just as well. Frustrated at being drawn from his p
rayers for matters that held no interest for him, Colbey had muttered the word with a disgust that even his melodious Northern accent could not soften.

  “As commander of my troops, you will, of course, see that any rebellion Bacshas might instigate is quickly laid to rest.”

  “Bacshas is your cousin,” Colbey guessed.

  The Pudarian guardsman’s face flared to purple. As he opened his mouth, Colbey said simultaneously, “Sire.”

  Santagithi uncrossed his legs, sitting straight in his chair. He seemed as interested in the exchange as the prince.

  “Yes,” Verrall confirmed. “Bacshas is my cousin.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Sire,” Colbey said politely. “But I’m not interested.”

  The room quieted.

  The prince seemed to have difficulty finding words. “You would not put down a Bacshas-backed rebellion?”

  “No, Sire.”

  The hush deepened. Even the rare click of the guards’ armor disappeared.

  Prince Verrall’s features flushed, nearly to the color of his sentry’s. He leaned forward in his chair. “General, are you aware your words are treasonous?”

  The hands of the prince’s guards inched toward their sword hilts. This did not escape Colbey’s notice, nor did he miss the growing expressions of fear on several faces. All of Verrall’s men had seen Colbey in battle.

  Colbey remained calm, seeing no significant threat from only a dozen Pudarian soldiers. “Sire, I admit that the Trading tongue is not my first language, but I believe I do know the definition of treason. I’ve not raised a hand against you. Surely, there’s nothing treasonous about resigning my command.”

  The sentries fidgeted. Santagithi sat with the mug clasped between his palms; he had not yet taken a single sip. The prince looked stricken. “So you would resign your command and lead Bacshas’ forces against me?”

  “No.” Colbey corrected the misconception. “I am resigning my command so I can go to Santagithi’s Town. Pudar’s politics are not my concern.”

  A glimmer of hope appeared on Verrall’s face. “You’re not going to back my cousin?”

  “No.” Colbey glared at his Pudarian escort, pronouncing the next word distinctly for his benefit. “Sire.”

  “Then you will back me.”

  “No.”

  The prince lapsed into a frustrated silence. Though bored and impatient to return to his practice, Colbey waited to be dismissed.

  “Why not?” Verrall asked, at length.

  Colbey glanced at each of the dozen guards in turn. Not one held his gaze. This time, the Renshai thought it best to begin with the title of respect. “Sire, I’ve already told you I plan to return to Santagithi’s Town with him.”

  The prince leaned forward, guarded hope again showing in his bearing. “Santagithi and his soldiers would be shown the hospitality due visiting dignitaries. They’ve been away from home several months already. A week or two, even a month or two, longer won’t make much difference. And the trading city will give them a well-deserved vacation and a place to buy presents for their wives and families.” He glanced in Santagithi’s direction as if to confirm the invitation. It had become common knowledge that, when Santagithi sent his yearly trading party to Pudar, the guards clamored for the opportunity to go.

  Santagithi continued to cradle his drink. Apparently not wishing to interfere with Colbey’s decision nor insult Prince Verrall, he gave only a brief, noncommittal nod.

  Colbey ignored the nonverbal communication. “With all respect, Sire, that’s not the issue.”

  “And the issue is?” Verrall encouraged. Thick brows arched over dark eyes, smoothing the middle-aged features.

  “That I’m not involving myself in Pudar’s politics. May I go now, Sire?” Colbey clamped the sentences together so quickly, it took the remainder of the men in the tent a moment to recognize his sudden shift of topic.

  “No.” Prince Verrall made a crisp gesture to his men. The two nearest Colbey shifted inconspicuously behind him to block the exit.

  Colbey followed the men’s passage by sound. Until they drew weapons, they would prove no danger to him. He left their presence and movements to his subconscious, which had already processed and chronicled the skill of each soldier by his stance and his gait.

  “Colbey, I’m no fool . . .”

  Colbey stared in stony silence, believing that any man who needed to say such a thing obviously was precisely that which he denied.

  “. . . you’re a Northman fighting for the West. Obviously, politics alone don’t concern you. You willingly pledged yourself to my uncle. I’m his heir. Why do you refuse me?”

  Colbey lowered his head in consideration, but found no words to soften the blow. “Sire, it would be best if I didn’t say.”

  “But you will.”

  “Will I?”

  “I think we would both find it preferable to sitting here staring at one another all night.”

  Colbey frowned. What kept him in the prince’s tent was not force or threat of violence, but protocol. He considered leaving, aware he could probably move quickly enough to forestall any immediate retaliation. But Santagithi had more ground to cover, and it seemed unfair to put a friend in danger in the name of simple defiance. Besides, Colbey had just committed the Renshai to finding allies and to a future as swordsmen for hire. Antagonizing the king of the Westlands’ largest city did not seem prudent, yet Colbey saw no way to avoid it.

  Unwilling to lie, Colbey ran the risk of offending with words or with silence, and he chose the former, hoping that it would save time and that the prince would remember he had pressed Colbey to speak. “Sire, if you don’t have the power to claim your throne without me, what makes you think you can keep it after I’m gone?”

  The guards exchanged nervous glances. Santagithi frowned, suddenly intent on the conversation.

  Prince Verrall recoiled as if struck. Then his features creased in outrage. “You think I’m weak.”

  Having spoken freely, Colbey saw no reason to back down now. “I’ve seen you fight. You’re not King Gasir.”

  “You think I’m weak?” The prince seemed locked on the phrase.

  Though he had little experience with smoothing strained relations, Colbey tried. “I don’t mean to be offensive. It’s probably just my upbringing. Northmen revere heroes. Kings nearly always serve as their own generals. Those who don’t run the risk of losing their followers to their generals. It’s not malicious,” Colbey added quickly. “It’s just that good people tend to reward competence, in war and in leadership.”

  Colbey paused, distracted by a realization that he had never before considered. The Northmen were, by definition, the followers of good and the Easterners followers of evil. Yet though their motivations always clashed, often the end results were similar. The Eastern cities banded beneath a single king who, if not a skilled warrior as well as a powerful presence, could lose his throne to a stronger soldier. Self-motivated, the Renshai had paid little attention to the divisions. And though a tent in the Westlands seemed an odd place to consider philosophy, Colbey could not help noting that pure good and evil, like genius and madness, might prove so opposite as to become too alike.

  Prince Verrall pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. “And you? I imagine you believe you would be powerful enough to rule Pudar.”

  Colbey hesitated, the concept so foreign he had never considered it. The answer was obvious. “Certainly, Sire. But I have no inter—”

  “You arrogant wisule!” Verrall leapt to his feet, using the vilest insult Colbey knew. By calling him after a rodent so skittish it would abandon its young rather than face a threat, the prince had accused Colbey of cowardice. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  Even had Colbey deigned to grace the rhetorical question with an answer, the prince did not give him the opportunity.

  “You speak of might. You talk about generals usurping kings. You won’t support the rightful heir to Pudar, nor even his conniving cousin. C
learly, what you plan is treason! You want the throne for yourself!”

  The accusation seemed too ridiculous to answer. Tossing his hands in exasperation, Colbey turned to leave. Even as he moved, he caught a glimpse of the prince beginning a gesture to his guards. His other hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

  Colbey spun back to face the threat.

  Santagithi hurled the contents of his mug. Wine splattered over the Prince of Pudar, staining his silks and leathers. Purple droplets wound across features that went nearly as dark. His hand whipped from his hilt, waving in flustered outrage. Sputtering, he turned on Santagithi. “Why? How dare. . . !” Apparently remembering he was addressing a man with as high a rank as himself, he kept accusation from his voice. “Why?”

  The guards formed a circle around Colbey, but they kept their distance and did not pull weapons.

  Santagithi stood, large and dangerous even when compared to a tent full of soldiers. His voice sounded more booming than usual in the stunned hush that fell over Verrall’s warriors. “I apologize for the soaking, but I found it necessary to rescue a dozen innocent men from death, and you, too.”

  “From death?” Verrall shook off wine by snapping his arms through the air. “What death?”

  Colbey folded his arms across his chest, awaiting Santagithi’s explanation with bland curiosity. Around him the guards squirmed, obviously unnerved by his casual disinterest in them.

  “If anyone in this tent had drawn a weapon, Colbey would have had no choice but to take it from him. I doubt he would have sheathed his unblooded.” Santagithi’s level tone surely did more to dispel tension than his words.

  But Verrall took offense. “So you think I’m weak, too.”

  “No.” Though he addressed the prince, Santagithi’s attention strayed to the soldiers as he assessed a threat Colbey had naturally considered from the moment he had entered the tent. “I’m not a Northman. I can see strengths Colbey would never understand. What you lack in sword skill, you make up in wisdom and diplomacy. And I know you’re shrewd enough to realize that nothing good could come of attacking the hero of the Great War.”