The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Sterrane could hear other things now, leaves jostling, heavy footfalls against dirt, a mass of movement headed toward the clearing. A horse snorted, the sound explosive in the sudden hush. Shocked and deeply moved by Morhane’s graciousness, Sterrane paid these others no more heed than his uncle did. Words failed him. His fingers closed over metal warmed by Morhane’s body, and he met his uncle’s flinty gaze. All his doubts fled. He did not see Shadimar’s agonized frown, the strained glances passed between Garn and Mitrian, or the vigorous shaking of the woman’s head. Nor did he notice that Morhane’s guards had relaxed slightly as a semicircle of mounted men partially surrounded the campsite behind Mitrian. Sterrane flung his arms around Morhane’s massive waist, feeling the king’s strong arms encircle him as well.

  A touch of air on his back was Sterrane’s only warning. He tensed as a razor-sharp stiletto gouged through the muscle of his lower back. Though slight, his movement saved his spine. Instinctively, he staggered aside. Flesh sliced open, lancing agony through him. Then Morhane leapt back, clutching a knife smeared with Sterrane’s blood, his brown eyes now rabid with rage.

  The horsemen held their ranks. Flent froze. Koska sprang to assist his king, and was instantly cut off by Mitrian. Garn jumped from the tree, committed to his attack. But, still dizzy from his head wound and unused to striking from above, he miscalculated. The side of his sword caught the guard a glancing blow. Garn overbalanced, collapsing into an uncontrolled roll. The guard stumbled to one knee. Garn plowed into Mitrian.

  The wound in Sterrane’s back ached, but the realization of his uncle’s treachery hurt worse. He dropped the crest and signet, catching the haft of his ax, and he launched a powerful upstroke for Morhane’s face. Morhane back-stepped, freeing his own ax. His riposte slammed onto Sterrane’s blade, meeting resistance solid as a mountain. Sterrane bore in, driving the older man back a step.

  A stranger’s voice cut through the din. “Flent! Koska, be still! It’s not your fight.”

  “Majesty!” Pain filled Koska’s cry. Ignoring the command, he lurched for the king and heir while Garn and Mitrian untangled themselves. Accustomed to quick and dirty fighting, Garn made a desperate grab, catching the guard’s ankle. He pulled, sending the bodyguard crashing to the ground, then leapt bodily upon him.

  The realization of betrayal turned to cold anger. Abruptly, Sterrane tugged his ax loose. Unexpectedly freed from opposing pressure, Morhane pitched forward, baring his head to Sterrane’s next strike. Sterrane hesitated, momentarily undecided as he whipped his blade into position. He knew what had to be done. And, once he admitted it, he did not falter. An expression of terror crossed Morhane’s features. Then Sterrane’s blade cleaved his uncle’s neck. Morhane’s dark eyes glazed, and he collapsed to the dirt beside Béarn’s royal crest.

  Koska squirmed, twisting to reverse Garn’s hold. His gaze found the king, and he went still. “Gods!” He made a gesture of surrender.

  Only then did Sterrane register the presence of strangers at the clearing’s entrance. Six white horses fanned into a perfect semicircle, their manes braided and wound through with the gold and blue ribbons that identified them as the steeds of Erythanian knights. Their riders sat, rigidly attentive. They clutched pikes in a rest position, helmets covered their heads, and their swords remained sheathed. Each of their tabards displayed the Béarnian symbol. In the center of their arc, a stomping bay mare and a chestnut gelding completed the formation. The men perched on these horses were large-boned, one black-haired and the other white-haired, clearly Béarnides. The younger wore the colors of Béarn’s royal guard and a blue plume of office; clearly he was the one who had commanded Flent and Koska from the battle. At his side, the richly dressed elder carried no weapon. Surely sent by Mar Lon, these men were no threat to Sterrane, nor would he have cared if they were. Grief stole all concern for his safety.

  Sterrane’s ax fell from his fingers. His eyes went as vacant as his uncle’s, with no sparkle of triumph. No wicked grin of vengeance crossed his face. The pain in his back seemed unimportant, and he scarcely felt the steady trickle of blood along his spine. He sank down on the nearby stump, his back to his companions and the Knights of Erythane. His shoulders shook rhythmically as he cried.

  * * *

  Sunlight angled through the tallest branches of the pine and elm forest near the Town of Santagithi, lighting the teaching clearing. Colbey steadied Rache, readjusting his grip on a sword that, though crafted short and light for a child, still maintained perfect, proportional balance. Two years old, Rache understood little of Colbey’s teachings; but he seemed to have an intuitive grasp of their importance. His pudgy hands clutched the hilt, fingers remaining where Colbey had placed them. Beneath a mop of sandy hair, eyes as green as his father’s fixed on his teacher, desperately seeking approval.

  “That’s the way, Rache.” Familiar with a child’s short attention span, Colbey gave praise freely. Over time, that honor would become increasingly more difficult to earn. Seizing Rache’s arms, he raised the child’s sword above his head. The movement gained him a glimpse of his other student. Four-year-old Episte knelt before a meandering line of wild flowers, his sword dangling from his hand.

  Rage suffused Colbey. Forgetting Rache, he cleared the distance to Episte in a single bound. Drawing his sword as he moved, he hammered the blade up against Episte’s crossguard. The underhand stroke slapped the sword from the child’s grip, sending it spinning into the air.

  Episte gasped, whirling to meet the attack. He clamped his aching sword hand to his chest, yet still managed to catch the hilt in his left hand before the blade struck the ground.

  Pleased with Episte’s honoring his sword and by the boy’s agility, Colbey found it difficult to scold. Yet, disrespect for a sword master was a crime that could not go unpunished. “Didn’t I tell you to practice odelhurtig?”

  Episte nodded, moisture welling in his eyes. Still clutching the sword, he rubbed his right hand with the knuckles of his left.

  “And what were you doing?”

  “Picking flowers for Mama, torke.” A tear rolled down Episte’s face. Though only half Renshai, he had inherited the racial feature that made him look younger than his age. Already, Rache was the larger of the two. Episte had also acquired his father’s golden hair and blue eyes, though his skin bore the darker, rosier hue of the Westerners. Still holding his sword, Episte crouched, scooping up a handful of purple blossoms. “These would look pretty in her hair.”

  Colbey stared, with a look of withering disdain. “Is this how you would meet an enemy? With a bouquet and a dragging sword?”

  The flowers fell from Episte’s fingers, gliding to the dirt. “No, torke. I—”

  “You are always a warrior first, Episte. You are Renshai.”

  “I wasn’t going to . . . I wouldn’t. . . .”

  Wanting no excuses, Colbey made a sudden lunge with his sword for Episte’s abdomen. Episte tensed, whipping his smaller weapon to block. Steel rang against steel. Colbey threw only enough power into the blow to hone Episte without hurting him. Episte riposted with a flawless odelhurtig.

  “Good.” Colbey redirected the strike with an easy, snaking parry, glad for the opportunity to temper anger with praise. He feigned another jab, at the last moment turning it into a high cut that swept harmlessly over Episte’s head.

  An instant later, Episte ducked to avoid a blow that, if real, would already have landed.

  “A little too slow.” Colbey circled his sword back into a reverse cut, trapping Episte’s blade against his own knee. “Now, I’m going to take Rache home. I want you to stay here and practice odelhurtig. I’m going to return quietly and unseen. If I find you doing anything but training, you’re not going home. You’re going to work all night, and I’m going to sit here and see that you do. Understand?”

  Episte nodded, tears again welling in his eyes.

  Colbey freed the boy’s blade, frowning at the tears though he did not chastise Episte for them. With ti
me, Colbey hoped, Episte would find that crying gained him nothing, and the tears would disappear. He turned his attention to Rache.

  The younger boy still stood exactly as Colbey had left him, in a defensive crouch with the sword raised above his head. His hands had blanched, his arms had gone rigid with strain, and sweat trickled from his brow.

  Rache’s dedication surprised Colbey nearly as much as Episte’s natural skill, and he doubted most adults would have had the stamina to hold a raised sword so long. Wanting to keep the eagerness to please as natural as possible, Colbey kept his expression and tone neutral. “Rache, you’re done for the day.”

  Rache sheathed his sword. He shook his arms against the ache of returning blood flow, but he did not complain.

  Colbey motioned to Episte, waiting until the older boy started his practice before turning back to Rache. Then, tousling the sandy hair, Colbey steered Mitrian’s and Garn’s son from the clearing.

  * * *

  That night, Colbey hacked through a wild flurry of slash, thrust, and parry, his sword bounding and arching about the practice room near the southern corner of Santagithi’s estate. Once, this plain room and its blade-scarred walls had served as the gladiator training quarters. Here, Episte’s father had taught Rache’s father the tricks and skill that had kept him alive in the pit. Here, too, a hatred had grown between the two men, fueled by Garn’s savage temper and Rache’s unyielding need to make his charge into a survivor.

  The windowless room was now an indoor practice area. Its only door, currently closed, led into a hallway that ended in a door to the outside. Near this larger exit, a chamber filled with pegs and shelves held swords, shields, axes, maces, bows, and spears of sturdy design; these replaced the fighting gauntlets, wooden practice blades, and ancient, notched and battered swords that once served the fighting slaves. Outside, the cages that used to hold wary killers more like animals than men now contained only Santagithi’s dogs. Those gladiators too unstable to free had been presented to King Tenja of the Northern tribe of Vikerin to join his troupe. Santagithi had seen to it that, when Garn returned, he would find no sign of the life he had once been forced to lead.

  Colbey’s blade moved in a silver blur, stopping only when he paused to assess a killing blow, and his thoughts moved with equal speed. As before, he dedicated his session to Sif, requesting the support that would reassure him that he had chosen his methods of instruction well. He had trained Renshai for fifty years, yet it never seemed to get easier. And, in the nearly two-decade gap since the Renshai had been all but annihilated, Colbey had trained no one but Mitrian and himself. He knew that the fine line between driving a swordsman to his best effort and discouraging him must not be broached, especially with the two boys who were nearly all that remained of the once great Renshai.

  Colbey switched to techniques designed to use against mounted opponents, committed leaps and spinning back-kicks that violated the rules of keeping both feet on the ground for stability and ease of movement. Filled with prancing jumps and spirals, the Renshai maneuvers seemed more like dance than combat; but the punctuating sword jabs and sweeps added the deadliness stolen by the limitation to rapid changes of direction. His specialty, Colbey had created most of the Renshai’s horseback techniques, as well as those designed to meet mounted enemies when on foot.

  A knock on the door disrupted Colbey’s practice. He landed in a defensive crouch, the single sword angled before him. Despite hours of continuous svergelse, his voice emerged barely winded. “Who is it?”

  A female voice wafted from beyond the portal. “It’s Emerald.”

  Episte’s mother. Colbey sheathed the sword, surprised by the visit. Since he had begun his daily teaching sessions with Episte, she had only deigned to speak with him once. “Please. Come in.”

  The door creaked open, and Emerald stepped into the training room. Her oval face supported plain features framed by dark hair. Her cheeks looked hollowed, as if she had once weighed much more than her slender figure indicated. She wore a blue dress belted at the waist; and, though thin, she sported none of a warrior woman’s firm musculature. Her brown eyes seemed soft, but her pursed lips and tenseness betrayed anger. And her tone matched her manner. “Episte says you hit him today.”

  Colbey remained calm. “Hitting is not part of my teaching.”

  Emerald hurled the door. It slammed closed with a bang that echoed through the room. “Are you calling my son a liar?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “No.”

  Emerald glared. “You say you didn’t hit him. He says you did. So you are calling him a liar.”

  The situation had come full circle. Colbey stared. “Did I say that?”

  Emerald tossed up her hands in disgust. “You didn’t have to say it. Either you hit him or you didn’t. One of you is lying.”

  “Or one of us misinterpreted what happened.” Colbey continued to study Emerald, wondering why she bothered him with trivial matters that did not concern her. He did not interfere with the foods she chose to offer Episte nor the way she tucked him into his bed at night. And she had no right to intrude on his training. “I knocked a sword from his hands. Perhaps the only word he could find for that in your language was ‘hit.’”

  “Well, perhaps he could speak my language better if you didn’t confuse him with your foreign tongue.” Emerald’s volume rose to a shout. “And, by the way, it’s not my language, it’s the language of this town and this part of the world. What need does he have for a weird tongue spoken by a bunch of barbarians he’ll never meet?”

  “It’s part of the training.” Colbey saw no reason to continue the conversation. He had a practice to finish, and this woman had passed beyond polite composure. “If you’ll excuse me.” He waved his fingers at the door.

  Emerald ignored the hint. “And I suppose it’s also part of his training to teach him about pagan gods? I’ve spent too much time giving him a proper religious upbringing to let you ruin it with savage, tribal mythology.”

  Colbey’s arms tensed, hovering near his sword hilts, and his blue-gray eyes went nearly as dark as Emerald’s own. He battered down fury, maintaining the perfect self-control and discipline derived from years of training. To strike in anger means to strike without mastery. “I think it would be best if you left now.”

  “No,” Emerald said, though she did take several backward steps, nearly pressing her back to the door. “No! I’ve had enough! Episte is my son, not yours.”

  “That’s true, though he means as much to me.”

  “No! I love him. I’m his mother, by Suman. I love him in a way no one else but his father possibly could. And his father is dead.”

  Colbey folded his arms across his chest. “Bloodline and love are unrelated. To love someone only because he shares your blood is as hollow and meaningless as loving someone only because he’s young and beautiful. To a Northman, an unrelated blood brother becomes more important than kin, since the bond is based on honor and merit, not inescapable coincidence.”

  Colbey’s words inflamed Emerald. “Don’t preach at me! I’m not one of your students. I am Episte’s mother. I decide what Episte does or doesn’t do. And his time with you is finished.”

  “What?” Colbey hoped he had misinterpreted her intentions.

  “Perhaps you’re having trouble with the language?” Emerald’s tone became sarcastic. “Let me say it in words you can understand.” She adopted a parody of the melodious Northern accent, speaking the trading tongue with the loud, emphasized pronunciation she might use with the near-deaf. “You are no longer Episte’s teacher.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I not only mean it, I should have said it a long time ago.”

  Colbey sighed, sizing the woman up from habit. “Then you leave me no choice but to kill you.” Despite his words, he made no motion toward his swords.

  All color drained from Emerald, leaving her as pale as any Northman. “What?” />
  “I’m going to kill you now.”

  Emerald shivered back against the door. “You can’t. . . . You wouldn’t. . . .”

  Colbey continued to study Emerald calmly. “I can run you through in one stroke. I could decapitate you as quickly, if you prefer, but I see no reason for the dishonor. Or the mess.”

  Emerald found her voice, though it emerged as a pinched whisper. “I’m a woman.”

  “That means nothing.” Colbey remained in place, annoyed by Emerald’s change. Clearly, all of her shouting and threats had been false bravado and bluff, easily called. “Half of the finest warriors in my tribe were women.”

  “But this isn’t your tribe.” Emerald crushed her spine against the door, cowering behind one raised arm. “I’m unarmed.”

  “I have an extra sword.”

  “I don’t know how to fight!” Hysteria flooded Emerald’s voice. She burst into tears, sliding to the floor. “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Colbey watched the groveling woman in silence, and her cowardice disgusted him.

  “I didn’t mean it.” Emerald fixed glazed, pleading eyes on Colbey, cringing behind her hands. “You can train Episte. I won’t do anything about it. I won’t say anything about it again. I promise.”