The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Call off your dog. Or Miyaga dies.” Garn had no intention of carrying out his threat. Unsure whether the king would even care about the girl’s life, Garn waited, tense as a coiled spring.

  No reply. The dog’s legs bunched beneath it. Its hackles spread.

  Sweat broke out on Garn’s skin, but his voice remained steady. “So be it.”

  A rambling, Western voice came from beyond the curtain. “Bosh.”

  The dog paused.

  “If you’re dead, you can’t hurt Miyaga.”

  Garn’s attention remained on the dog. “I’ve given her a slow poison. Only I know the antidote. She has until morning.”

  “You’re lying.” Anger entered the other’s tone, but Garn believed he heard doubt as well.

  “Would you risk Miyaga’s life on that hunch?” Cautiously, Garn reached for the wine, uncertain where to take the stalemate. To spirit Morhane from his room to show him Miyaga’s abnormally deep sleep meant risking the king shouting for his guards.

  A hand slithered through a slit in the silks. Its next to last finger bore the king’s signet ring that Sterrane had described. On it, an exquisitely detailed gold bear clutched a milky gemstone with a black center, a unique pearl discovered in a monstrous, ancient oyster that must have engulfed a smaller one. The hand parted the curtain, revealing a dark eye fringed by a black brow as thick as Garn’s thumb. The other man studied Garn. Then, apparently noting the lack of an obvious weapon, he poked a bearded face through the slit. Curly black hair sprinkled with gray formed a coarse mane about craggy features. A medallion with the Béarnian royal crest nestled against his beard. “You’re lying,” he repeated.

  The dog stalked forward again, now dangerously close to Garn. “Six elephants around a tree. A giraffe with its head wrapped in vines. . . .” Garn began a calm recitation of Miyaga’s mural to prove that he had just come from her room. He broke off suddenly, finishing with a command. “Call . . . it . . . off!”

  “Bosh, here!” the man said.

  The dog sidled to its master. Its ears twitched toward Garn, and its thick tail fell in supplication.

  Though relieved, Garn did not drop his guard. He studied the man before him. His sleeping robe shimmered purple in the veiled lamplight. His figure and features reminded Garn of Sterrane, though this man held himself with far more grace and confidence. The black locks, liberally flecked with gray, fell past his shoulders. His wide girth proclaimed wealth. The signet ring made the identification certain. Clearly, Garn had found the king.

  “Who are you?” Morhane asked. “How did you get past the guards?”

  “Sit here.” Garn indicated the jeweled chest.

  Morhane hesitated a moment, then strode from the dais without a hint of fear, purple robe swirling about his ankles. He paused before the chest.

  “Sit.” Driven to paranoia by the king’s composure, Garn swept the room with his gaze. Stepping cautiously around the king, he tore open the curtain. A metal-framed bed sat upon the dais, empty except for a rumpled pile of furs. For an instant, Garn thought he saw movement further in the room. His head jerked toward it, but he saw nothing out of place.

  The dog growled. Morhane took a seat on the chest, tapping it with both hands. “This box holds more gold than you could carry.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  A faint noise scraped beneath Garn’s words. He spun toward the sound, seeing nothing.

  Morhane made a sudden noise. The dog launched itself at Garn.

  Garn whirled to meet the attack, slammed suddenly by a beast that weighed nearly as much as he did. Teeth gashed his right forearm, then clamped onto flesh. Garn turned a pained scream into a gasp, the dagger thudding to the ground. He staggered, jerking the dog off-balance. He lashed his left hand up to its throat and strained against it. His foot lurched against the knife, sending it skidding across the planks.

  The dog bore in, its teeth crushing through muscle, seeking bone. Agony roused anger, and Garn drew on the strength that Colbey had taught him to find within himself. He kicked, driving his foot into the beast’s gut. Garn’s flesh tore. The dog hurtled through the air, crashing into the wall. Bone snapped, and it slid to the floor, limp.

  Blood trickled from Garn’s arm with a heat that only fueled his rage. The battle had placed him between Morhane and the only door, and he remained there, green gaze boring into the king. “You idiot. Is this how little you care about your granddaughter?”

  Morhane’s mouth split into a cruel grin of triumph that seemed horribly inappropriate. An instant later, Garn knew without the need to look that someone stood behind him. The tip of a blade gouged his spine. “Don’t move.” The speaker radiated a confidence Garn dared not challenge. He froze.

  “Put your hands behind your back.” The bodyguard spoke fluent Béarnese, yet his accent reminded Garn of the dialect used by the regular citizens of the trading city of Pudar.

  Garn hesitated less than a second, yet that was too long.

  “Now!” the man said. He did not shout, yet the authority in his voice became nearly irresistible. Clearly, he was the thing that had twice flitted across Garn’s peripheral vision, using Morhane and the dog to mask his progress.

  Garn searched for his dagger. It lay on the planks, halfway between him and the king.

  Morhane laughed. “What took you so long, Mar Lon?”

  Almost instantly, cold steel jabbed Garn’s back, a grim, nonverbal warning from a guard forced to address his king instead of reinforcing his threat. “Sire, I timed it as well as I could. Are you displeased?”

  Garn dove, rolling, for the dagger. Scooping it into his hand, he spun into a crouch, the movement splashing blood from the dog’s bite on his arm.

  Mar Lon charged, meeting Garn as he rose. The sword tip poked the base of Garn’s throat. Even as Garn whipped up the dagger to meet the attack, his mind registered the grim certainty of death. The world’s slowest warrior could bury the blade into his windpipe before he could complete his defensive strike. Still, he finished the arc from momentum and habit. Years in the pit had taught him not to consider the consequences of defeat. Death only meant an end to the cycle of hunger, chains, and forced murders, the slashing agony of whips and the pounding bruises or stinging blade cuts inflicted by enemies. Day after day, battle after battle, he fought for no better reason than survival, to continue a life he hated because he had no other.

  For reasons Garn could not fathom, Mar Lon hesitated. Garn’s dagger rang against the sword hard enough to jerk it sideways. The tip raked Garn’s throat, drawing blood. I should be dead. He could have killed me. And he should have. Mar Lon ripped the sword from Garn’s block, reversing into an arching upstroke. Garn met the attack with a brutal twist, parrying it harmlessly aside. Mar Lon feigned a long sweep to Garn’s head, changing to a sudden jab for his abdomen. An abrupt dodge and lunge was all that saved Garn. He did not press his advantage, instead risking a sideways glance at Morhane. The king still sat on the chest, watching, fully trusting the ability of his guard.

  Garn assessed his opponent. Mar Lon stood half a head taller than Garn, about average for a central Westerner though small for a Béarnide. He wore leather gauntlets molded to his fingers, designed to protect his hands without hampering his agility. His quick responses and movements revealed sword mastery, but his hesitant, not quite committed style betrayed inexperience. Well trained and naturally agile, but mostly untried. Garn filed the information away. Surely I can use that against him. Garn tensed, aware Mar Lon had every other advantage: familiarity, support, and a longer weapon that would soon tip the odds completely in his favor. I have to move fast. Have to do something unexpected or I’m dead for sure.

  Mar Lon slashed for Garn’s chest. Garn shuffled backward. Risking his fingers, he surged in with the dagger. His shorter blade scratched down the longer one, locking the sword against his cross guard. Twisting, Garn threw off the weapon, driving a foot into Mar Lon’s leg.

  Mar Lon dodged, savin
g his knee. For an instant, he lost control of the sword’s direction.

  Garn seized the moment. Flipping the dagger to his left hand, he sprang into extension, reversing his direction. The knife hovered at Morhane’s throat. “Don’t move.” He used the trading tongue, gaze flicking from Morhane to Mar Lon.

  The king went rigid.

  Mar Lon regained control of his weapon, then stopped. Sweat trailed strands of dark hair across his forehead. Hazel eyes swiveled to the king, requesting guidance and receiving none. He lowered the sword but did not sheathe it.

  Garn knew he stood in a tenuous stalemate. Clearly, his capturing King Morhane was no longer a possibility. His options had narrowed to three. He could try to use Morhane as a hostage to slip from the castle, though he doubted he would get far, considering Morhane’s retinue of guards. He could surrender and hope curiosity or cruelty would goad the king to keep him alive for information or torture. The third possibility seemed the most useful to Garn, one he once would have chosen without the need to consider. With a single stab, he could kill King Morhane, opening the way for Sterrane’s rule, but guaranteeing his own death on Mar Lon’s sword. Only one dagger cut lay between Garn and completing his mission, if not in the most ideal fashion, at least in a successful one.

  Garn choked on the irony. Now that he had a wife he loved, a child that was a part of him, and a safe haven in a town that had once kept him a slave, he was about to die for a king who had, so far, shown little interest in reclaiming his throne. Garn recalled sitting before a campfire at the end of the Great War, remembered Shadimar telling Sterrane that the time had come. He recalled how a look of terror had crossed the heir’s gigantic features and how he had refused the Wizard like a child on the verge of a tantrum.

  Mar Lon shifted ever so slightly, studying Garn, seeking an opening.

  “Be still.” Garn’s grip tightened, and he despised his own pause. The dagger poked Morhane’s flesh, indenting the swarthy flesh. Rache had taught Garn never to hesitate, that battlefield decisions should be instantly made and executed as quickly as the thought rose to mind. But Garn had little experience with strategy. Always before, his only decision had been to kill or to be killed. Never had he held so much more than his life at stake. He pictured Mitrian, large-boned, with masculine hands and feet, yet beautifully slender and graceful. The Renshai sword maneuvers that Colbey and the elder Rache had taught had granted her a skill any warrior would envy, but it had only enhanced the arcs and curves that, to Garn, made the female body seem so perfect. Mitrian had paid a price for her skill. Since Garn had gained control of the temper that had committed him to life as a gladiator, he noticed that the Renshai training had claimed Mitrian’s gentleness, replacing it with a savagery that Garn hoped she would learn to control, as he had.

  Suddenly, Morhane stiffened.

  Cued, Garn whipped his attention to the king, too late. Steel flashed from the king’s sleeve. A needle sharp blade gashed Garn’s wrist, severing part of the muscle. The knife toppled from his hand. Pain speared through his arm, sparking rage. The familiar primal desperation overcame him, throwing him into blind, murderous rage. He slammed his fist into the king’s head, feeling flesh give beneath his knuckles. Morhane slumped. Garn whirled to face Mar Lon.

  The bodyguard’s sword cut a gleaming arc. Garn lurched toward it, prepared to duck under and bolt for the door. The blade curved abruptly inward, slapping into Mar Lon’s gauntlet. The last thing Garn expected was for the guard to hit himself. Surprise stole his timing. And, when Mar Lon grasped the blade, lashing the hilt in a full stroke for Garn’s head, it caught him fully off his guard. Steel crashed against Garn’s temple. White light exploded in Garn’s head, stealing thought and vision. A sensation of falling trickled through to him. Then darkness pounded him into oblivion.

  CHAPTER 3

  Béarn’s Justice

  Garn awakened to an agony that throbbed through his head and the significant, but lesser pains of his injured arm, wrist, and fingers. Not daring to move, he assessed his surroundings through closed eyes. He lay on a stone floor warm from his body, and he recognized the linen touch of his tunic and breeks against his skin. He felt the familiar, heavy pinch of shackles around his wrists and ankles. He tensed at the restraints, even that simple movement flashing pain through his head. Nearby, he heard another man breathing. Other noises wafted to him as well, distant and muffled by stone: an intermittent, wailing moan; clanking metal; and garbled voices with Béarnian accents.

  Cautiously, Garn opened his eyes. His blurry gaze found bare stone walls and a single oak door, bound with brass. Between him and the exit, Mar Lon crouched with his sword drawn. He met Garn’s stare, saying nothing.

  Garn struggled to a sitting position, hindered by dizziness as much as by the fetters that clamped his hands together behind him and the shackles that encircled his ankles. He exaggerated the difficulty these gave him, using the time and movement to test their strength. The bonds would hinder escape, but they could not prevent it. He had worn manacles the day he broke Captain Rache’s back, and the weighted steel had only added power to his blow. The memory of that incident remained vivid in Garn’s mind, though the rabid sense of triumph that had accompanied it had soured. Then, they had fastened his arms before rather than behind him. And Rache had hurled himself in front of the strike to protect Santagithi’s other captain, believing himself quick enough to avoid Garn’s hammering fists. It was the only time that Garn knew Rache to misjudge an opponent, and it had cost the Renshai the use of his legs. Now, in a dark, squalid corner of Béarn’s castle, Garn hoped Morhane’s personal guard would also underestimate him.

  “Who do you serve that Morhane’s gold can’t buy you?” Mar Lon studied Garn intently, and Garn returned the scrutiny. The guard wore mail beneath a tunic of blue decorated with the tan bear that was Béarn’s symbol. A cap with a royal blue plume identified him as an officer, and he still wore the leather gauntlets. Garn could see why a man who wielded his sword by the blade might need to protect his hands. The thought made him frown, the facial movement causing another wave of pain. The ex-gladiator had raised dirty fighting to an art form, yet he had never seen such a technique, not even from the master swordsman, Colbey. And why should I have? Like me, Colbey fights to kill. What possible purpose could this guard have for hitting me with the hilt instead of the blade? Garn tried to assign reason to action, but the blow to his head muddled his thoughts.

  Little experienced with conversational conventions, Garn let the pause hang long beyond propriety before answering. He spoke in the same tongue Mar Lon had used, the Trading language. “I don’t serve anyone. And I never will.”

  Mar Lon looked perplexed. He kept his sword drawn, the blade resting across one knee. “What’s your name?”

  Garn declined to answer.

  Mar Lon’s face creased further. He tried a different tack. “I’m Mar Lon. I’m the current bard.”

  Garn said nothing, unfamiliar with the term “bard” and confused by the guard’s decision to volunteer information to one he should have been questioning. The oddities of the man’s manner made Garn cautious, and the fog that hazed his mind made even simple concepts difficult to grasp.

  Mar Lon pressed. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Garn shook his head and immediately wished he had not. The throb intensified. He winced.

  Mar Lon flinched in a response Garn could only interpret as sympathetic. “Hundreds of years ago, my forefather angered the gods with his curiosity. In punishment, Odin cursed him with a driving need to know everything, yet to pass the knowledge on only in song. We’re musicians.” He paused, one brow cocked, awaiting some comment from Garn.

  Long years of listening without speaking made Garn a poor conversationalist. Uncertain what Mar Lon expected from him, he remained insolently silent. He noted that the need to play an instrument might explain Mar Lon’s caution with his fingers, but he saw no reason to announce this observation aloud. Surely, Mar Lon alrea
dy knew his reason for using gauntlets.

  When he received no response, Mar Lon kept his gaze locked on Garn as he spoke, as if to gauge the response to each word. “Odin also saw to it that the current bard, male or female, became the closest personal bodyguard of the king of Béarn.”

  Garn returned Mar Lon’s attention stare for stare, though the effort dulled his vision. Garn had no idea why Mar Lon continued to talk about himself, but he feigned interest. Behind his back, his fingers explored the fetters, the attempt reawakening the pains in his arm, wrist, and the fingers bruised by the trapdoor. For an instant, their sharpness stole his attention from the pounding in his head and the dense fog that smothered his thoughts. Someone had tied bandages across the dog bite as well as the gash the king’s stiletto had raked across his wrist. The cloth added bulk to Garn’s meaty forearms, making the shackles unnaturally tight. His tactile exploration told him that the weakest point was the chain between the cuffs, yet breaking even that would require a burst of mentally-enhanced physical strength. He lowered his head, trying to dredge power from his innermost core, as Colbey had taught him.

  Mar Lon continued, “My grandfather served King Buirane, then his son Valar. My father protected Valar, even through Morhane’s coup. But once the fighting was over and Morhane proved the survivor, he had no choice but to guard the new king, no matter how Morhane came to power. Had Valar survived, it would have become my lot to serve his heir. And I would have done so with honor.” He fell silent.

  Garn raised his head to Mar Lon’s earnest and somewhat urgent glance. Though inexperienced with puzzles, Garn was gradually placing inconsistencies together and trying to find sense in them. He could have killed me, but he didn’t. Garn concentrated on the grinding in his head, aware Mar Lon must have pulled the blow that grounded him. He could have killed me twice, at least. For the moment, Garn put escaping on hold. He’s volunteered useful information without pressure. And he’s all but pledged his services to Sterrane. Two possibilities seeped sluggishly into Garn’s concussion-slowed mind. Either he’s guessed who I’m working for and he’s trying to join our cause, or he’s trying to get me to trust him so I accidentally betray my friends. Preparation for breaking his bonds was forgotten as Garn struggled with a decision he felt ill-equipped to make. To keep Mitrian safe, he knew he would do better not to place faith in the goodwill of a stranger, especially one so obviously trusted by an enemy. Yet to pass up the opportunity to have an ally inside the castle seemed folly, especially with his own wits blunted. “My name is Garn,” he said, uncertain where to go from there.