The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Yet the solution seemed simple to Colbey. “Why don’t you give Garn something to do that he enjoys?”

  “Like what?”

  “I hardly need to be the West’s top strategist to know that Garn appreciates a good fight as much as any warrior, and your army wouldn’t suffer from having another skilled swordsman. Why not ask him to join the guard force?”

  Santagithi rested his elbows on the table, his chin sinking into his palms. “How can I ask Garn to fight for me after so many years in the gladiator pit?”

  Colbey laughed. “I don’t think it’ll be as difficult as you think. Garn’s a born slayer. If he had stayed a free man and you had asked him to fight in the pit for the glory and honor of this town, he might very well have done it. He only hated not having a choice. If you asked him, I think he’d become a guard. A fish needs little excuse to swim.”

  Santagithi’s fingers drummed his cheeks, and his gaze went distant as he turned his thoughts inward.

  Colbey continued, “Garn’s fascinated by weapons of every kind, and I’ve seen him stare at Jakot’s armor long past the point of politeness. He still tries to refine the techniques Rache taught him, and with some success. I can’t help Garn. First, I have too many training responsibilities of my own. Second, I know almost nothing about many of the weapons he chooses. A little guidance and discipline could turn him into one of the best soldiers you’ve ever had. And into a good teacher as well.”

  All of Santagithi’s fingers stilled, except one. The last tapped his jawbone with all the speed and force the others had lost. “But can I trust him? One wrong word could reawaken all that I’ve fought to put behind us both. And what if something triggers that god-given savagery of his?”

  Colbey gathered the chess pieces, placing them on the board without bothering to sort color or location. “Garn’s worked hard to control that temper of his. He hates it as much as you do, not only for what it’s made him do, but because it destroyed his life.” He placed the last piece on the board and sat back. “Let’s face it, Santagithi. Is he really that much more savage than either of us? Most stable Westerners think of war as a necessary evil that disrupts their jobs, not as a job.”

  Santagithi took the bait without thinking. Idly, he sorted chessmen, placing them in their proper starting positions on the board.

  Colbey smiled, pleased by the normality of the general’s routine. Deep consideration bothered him far less than the disruption of procedure by an obsessive planner. “There’s always danger in saying the wrong thing to a strong man, especially one in whom you have so much emotion invested. But you’ve been pacifying personality conflicts for decades. If you say the right things, you have much to gain. Would you rather lose Garn to an accidental offense or from boredom? It’s hard to imagine you being unwilling to take a chance with—”

  The game room door swung open suddenly, and a young, on-duty guardsman named Kloras appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”

  Immediately, Santagithi’s confusion cleared, and his posture returned to its usual, dignified configuration. “Yes?”

  “A courier from Vikerin requests an audience, sir.”

  “Vikerin?” Santagithi’s brow furrowed. Colbey knew that the general had not heard from the Northern tribe in the year and half since they had exchanged congratulations and compliments at the conclusion of the Great War and their joint victory on the battlefield. Santagithi waved. “Have him wait in my court. I’ll be right there.”

  The guardsman backed from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Santagithi glanced at Colbey, presumably for advice on the Vikerians’ possible motives or on procedure. Few Westerners had any political dealings with the Northlands, and Colbey’s background gave him knowledge others would not have.

  Colbey shrugged to indicate ignorance. He had no way of knowing the Vikerians’ reasons, but the sending of a messenger did not sound hostile. Usually, Northmen declared war by charging a city with drawn weapons and in full battle regalia, howling like wolves.

  “Would you like to come along?”

  Colbey tried to find a polite way to bow out of the responsibility. Without threat of violence, he had no interest in politics. Still, he owed Santagithi a debt of friendship. “Do you want me to come?”

  Apparently some of Colbey’s reluctance came through, because Santagithi looked surprised. He pushed his chair back, legs scraping wood floor with a grinding noise.

  Colbey explained. “I just sent Garn to gather my students. I’m not good with diplomacy, as you know.” He smiled at the memory of the discussion in the tent of Prince Verrall of Pudar. “And I don’t think the Vikerian king’s lieutenant cares much for me.” Colbey pictured Valr Kirin, his hawklike nose jutting from a rugged face that looked as if it never smiled. The lieutenant had proven a superior warrior, one of the finest non-Renshai Colbey had ever seen. The Vikerians had claimed Kirin the Slayer as the greatest hero of all time, until Colbey had joined the nearby combats. Then their allegiances had shifted to the old Renshai, prompting an animosity and competition between the two leaders that had threatened to erupt into violence.

  Colbey still recalled Arduwyn taking him aside to chastise him for the Renshai tradition of calling upon Modi, the god named “wrath,” when wounded or when the battle tide had turned against them. From infancy, all Renshai were trained to respond to the shout with renewed vigor, to fight not through pain but because of it. Valr Kirin had fought in the war that devastated the Renshai. Nowhere, Colbey guessed, had the Renshai’s battle cry been voiced with more frequency or fervor. Arduwyn’s words struck home: “Choose the gods you call on with care. Kirin suspects you’re Renshai or I’m the worst archer in camp.”

  “Very well.” Santagithi rose, his tone calm and reassuring. His voice made it clear that he did not consider Colbey’s refusal in the least offensive. Had he felt strongly about Colbey’s presence, he would have commanded, not asked. He leaned his head toward the chessboard. “We’ll play in earnest tonight. Remember this day, Colbey, because you’ve won your last game.”

  Colbey met the taunt with one of his own. “Battles are won by deeds, not words.” He raised the black queen. “She may not look strong, but this woman is quite the warrior. Do you think you can handle her?”

  Santagithi took the piece from Colbey’s hand, examining the stone from all angles with a frown of concentration. Suddenly, he flung the queen across the room. It struck the far wall, ricocheted to the floor, and skidded under the table at Colbey’s feet. “No problem.” He headed for the door.

  * * *

  Santagithi hurried through the familiar, unadorned hallways of his citadel and toward the courtroom. He could still feel the impression of the smoothed stone queen against his fingers, and the idea that he had thrown it both bothered and pleased him. His rigid personality obsessed over the concept of hurling a piece that he had protected for so long and leaving it on the floor where it might get stepped on or lost, yet the strategist in him clung to the image of Colbey’s open-mouthed expression. Surprising the old Renshai did not come easily; it might affect his play that evening. And Santagithi trusted Colbey to replace the queen in her proper position on the board.

  As Santagithi whisked past familiar doors, his mind released thoughts of chess strategies for the more urgent matter of a Vikerian visitor. He could not guess King Tenja’s intentions, so he did not try. Speculation could only send his thoughts spinning off on inappropriate tangents. When he discovered the message, he would deal with it as necessary.

  By the time Santagithi stopped before the courtroom door, chess and the thrown queen had fully disappeared from his mind. The guard captain, Jakot, awaited him at the door. He wore the mail shirt that Santagithi accorded his on-duty officers under the black and silver tunic and black breeks that formed their uniform. A sword girded his hip. Gray sprinkled the sandy hair at the captain’s temples, and his beard had turned mostly white. He stood as tall as Santagithi. Heredity and hard work had graced him with bulk. H
is dark eyes seemed weary, his face permanently etched into an expression of somber competence. Jakot had found it difficult enough to fill the position that Rache had held for eleven years. The depth of Santagithi’s depression between the time of his daughter’s disappearance and the start of the Great War had heaped more responsibilities onto Jakot. At thirty-four years old, he appeared nearer to fifty, and he had surrendered any semblance of a social life to dedicate himself to his position and to his leader. He snapped to attention as Santagithi halted. “May I accompany you, sir?”

  “Of course.” Santagithi placed his hand on the door-knob, but paused before turning it. His brow furrowed. “Are you expecting trouble?”

  “No, sir.” Jakot stepped to his general’s side. “But I’ve never heard of Northmen coming south before, except Rache, of course. Better to prepare for trouble and meet none than to let it catch you unaware.”

  So long as preparation doesn’t make you twitchy and quick to resort to violence. Santagithi kept the thought to himself, trusting his captain’s judgment and not wishing to lecture. For all his size, the sandy-haired captain was slow to anger. The general pulled open the door, gesturing Jakot inside before him.

  A matched pair of tapestries depicting both sides of a war were tacked to the back wall, the colorful interweave seeming out of place on the otherwise bleak stone walls. Santagithi’s guards had brought them as a present from a highly successful trading session in the city of Pudar. Just in front of the tapestries, Santagithi’s chair perched upon a wide, low box that served as a dais. Three similar chairs formed a semicircle before it. Currently, a lone Northman stood near the center seat, clutching a rawhide cylinder bound with brass. He watched Santagithi. Six guardsmen waited, three along each side wall. Though armed with individual weapons of preference—four longswords, an ax, and a scimitar—they did not crowd or threaten the Vikerian. Whenever possible, Santagithi tried to keep his courtroom comfortable, despite its plainness.

  Santagithi traversed the room swiftly, with dignity but without formality. Jakot accompanied his general most of the way, stopping at the chairs, a polite distance from their guest. Santagithi mounted his dais.

  The Northern messenger remained motionless, though he watched Santagithi’s every movement.

  “Good morning and welcome,” Santagithi said, using the West’s common trading tongue.

  Apparently accustomed to the decorum of Northern royalty, the Vikerian knelt, his head bowed.

  The gestured embarrassed Santagithi. He considered himself a leader, not a superior. “Please. Sit, my friend.”

  The Vikerian stood. “Si-re, my-eh name is Ivhar Ingharrson, and I-eh bring two messages from King Tenja of Vikerin.”

  Though so thick it sounded like a parody, the Northman’s accent was pleasing to Santagithi. Rache had been like a son to him, and too many years had passed since he had heard the melodious intonation of the North in a young man’s voice. “Please, speak freely, Ivhar. And there’s no need to call me ‘sire.’ I’m not a king.”

  Ivhar seemed confused. The leader of each of the seventeen Northern tribes was called a king, regardless of his wealth or power. “King Tenja sends his deepest and-eh sincere wishes for your realm to flourish beneath your most-eh just and noble rule. . . .”

  Santagithi forced himself to concentrate on the Vikerian’s stilted speech, aware how much more difficult court formality must become in a foreign tongue. Ivhar’s grip on the rawhide case made it clear that he carried the more important message, and Santagithi remembered the verbosity of Northern scouts from the Great War.

  After a few moments that seemed twice as long, Ivhar finished. “I-eh must deliver this.” To Santagithi’s relief, the Vikerian stepped forward and placed the container into his hand.

  Santagithi peeled wax from the end of the cylinder, undid the catch, and withdrew the parchment. He read silently, careful not to disclose any expression:

  Lord Santagithi:

  Years have passed since we fought side by side in the Westland marches. Our skjalds still sing of Santagithi’s wise heart and strong arm around Vikerian fires. The bonds between men who have warred as allies are not easily broken. I have torn at my beard many nights rather than tell you of the hurt you inflect upon us. The time has come.

  You are harboring one who would call you friend, then slit the throats of your children in their sleep. Stories of Renshai are never spoken at night and, in daylight, only whispered, for their dishonor is too great. We no longer have any doubt that the man you call Colbey is Renshai. Slay him or deliver him to us. Act quickly, or his deceit will ruin both of our peoples.

  I trust you will take the appropriate action.

  King Tenja of Vikerin

  Santagithi’s face grew hot, and he struggled to control his rage, keeping his features a tense, but blank, mask. He sat for several moments without moving or speaking, until he felt certain he seemed outwardly composed. He gestured to the young guard who had informed him of the Vikerian’s arrival. “Kloras, take Ivhar to the dining hall and show him the hospitality befitting a king’s messenger.”

  Kloras snapped to attention. “Come with me.” He motioned to the Northman, then headed for the exit. Ivhar trotted after him.

  Santagithi waited until the door banged closed behind them before confronting Jakot. “Find Shadimar and tell him to meet me in the strategy room at once. Alone.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jakot prepared to leave, but Santagithi beckoned him close. Obediently, Jakot approached.

  Santagithi lowered his voice to a whisper. “See to it Colbey and the Vikerian don’t see one another.”

  Jakot’s brows rose in question, but he did not speak. When Santagithi did not clarify his odd request, Jakot did not press. With a shrug, he headed for the exit.

  Santagithi allowed anger to swarm down on him. That the Northmen would still hold a grudge against the Renshai for events that had occurred decades ago made them seem ridiculously petty. But the idea of an ally trying to dictate who could live in Santagithi’s citadel enraged him. Despite the flowery wording, Santagithi sensed threat beneath Tenja’s request, and he knew without the need to consider that it would leave no room for discussion or compromise. Waiting long enough for the messenger to pass well beyond sight, Santagithi stormed from his court, hearing the guards erupt into whispers behind him. He slammed the door closed.

  It would serve the bastards right if I did give them Colbey. Still clutching the message and its container, Santagithi stomped down the corridor toward the entrance to his citadel. At the head of a legion of my finest. Although the image of Vikerin razed and Tenja fleeing, half-naked, through the snow seemed pleasant now, Santagithi would never react in his current mood. And he saw the danger in any action but compliance. Tenja will settle for nothing short of Colbey’s life. If I refuse him, there will be a war. We may be able to best Vikerin, but we can’t vanquish the entire Northlands.

  Outrage gave way to brooding. Santagithi left through the front door, carefully closing the thick, oak panel. The autumn breeze felt unseasonably cold against his flushed skin. A group of guardsmen practiced pole arm maneuvers in the grass. In the distance, Santagithi could hear the thunk of arrows hitting the rotting stumps the archers used as targets. He ignored the sounds, passing the sparring guards with a grunted greeting. He tore open the door to the guards’ quarters with a violence that loosened the hinges, then let it crash shut behind him.

  Voices echoed along the hallway. A door opened to Santagithi’s left, and a guard stood framed in the doorway. Startled to find Santagithi so close, he hesitated before opening his mouth. By the time he prepared to call a greeting, Santagithi had passed beyond the range of anything short of a shout.

  Within a dozen strides, Santagithi came upon the door to the room that had once belonged to Rache and Nantel. As always, he stopped. More than a year had passed since he had bothered to open the door. This time, he felt an urge to go inside, and the need to wait for Kloras to deliver his message and for
Shadimar to arrive supported the decision. Without hesitation he entered, using his foot to snap the door closed behind him.

  Most of the objects Santagithi found belonged to Nantel. After his crippling, Rache had been moved to a cottage in the village, to recover under Emerald’s care. The main room held a table with two chairs. A hearth formed an opening in one wall, an empty pot swinging from the spit. Cupboards filled the area above and to either side of the fireplace, the rancid odor wafting from them convincing Santagithi that the time had come to clean the room. An old keg sat near the doorway into the second room. A layer of dust covered the table. Through it, Santagithi could see a wine stain. A crack spidered along the upper surface of oak, a remnant from an angry blow with a sword hilt or a heavy mug, almost certainly Nantel’s work. The archer captain had always had a volatile temper.

  A pair of carefully hammered nails supported the hilt of a sword and a hand’s length of broken blade. Santagithi crossed the room to examine the odd decoration. Brown blood still etched the crack where the blade met the crosspiece. A curled shred of parchment balanced on the hilt, words scrawled across the surface in Rache’s fine hand: “Why Nantel will let Rache choose his swords from this day forth.”

  The familiarity of the writing and the choice of words cut through Santagithi’s rage, allowing bittersweet memory in. Clearly, Nantel’s sword had broken because he had bought an inferior weapon, at least in Rache’s opinion. Santagithi remembered the blacksmith’s complaints that it cost him three times more in materials and time than he got paid to craft swords that met Rache’s demanding specifications. Santagithi pictured his young sword master, his golden hair flying, since he had always refused the helmet his rank accorded him. The black jerkin he wore instead of the officers’ mail had become more familiar and right than the routine black and silver uniforms of the remainder of the army. An emptiness filled Santagithi. Though years had passed, he could not suppress a tear. He thought of the respect Rache had always held for the greatest of all sword masters, Colbey, the man who had trained him as a child. Over the years, Rache had become as much a son to Santagithi as Mitrian was his daughter. I can’t do anything more for Rache, except to keep true to his memory. I will not betray his teacher.