Harrit opened the door a crack. “Sir?”
Santagithi looked up. Revived by pain and the staunching of his wounds, he felt more in control. He waved the guardsman into the room.
Harrit entered, offering a rolled piece of parchment.
Colbey bound Santagithi’s leg, and pain made the general wince. “What’s this?”
Harrit shook his head, “I don’t know sir. I found it on one of the Northmen.” He flushed, as if he did not tell the whole story. “I . . . um . . . I thought you should read it first.”
Santagithi’s expression did not change, though he studied the guard’s hesitation. The general placed great emphasis on literacy, and only those men who could read were considered for positions as officers. Clearly, Harrit could not. Perhaps embarrassed by his lack, Harrit had chosen to bring the note to his commander rather than his peers. “Thank you, Harrit.” Santagithi unrolled the parchment, careful to angle it so that he alone could read it:
Surrender the Renshai!
Santagithi muttered a harsh oath, wadding the crude parchment between his fingers until it crumbled into pieces. Surely the six Northmen in his court had known they would die. Likely, they had believed their cause worth the sacrifice, their mission to kill Colbey first and himself second. The haze covering Santagithi’s mind seemed to lift, driven away by the necessity for strategy. He would have to act quickly. Probably, the Northmen would stay their next offensive, at least until they discovered the outcome of the battle in Santagithi’s court. If Tenja’s men had slain Colbey, the king had no reason to attack again. And if they had killed Santagithi, the Vikerians would not expect retaliation until a new leader took command. Probably, they would even try to renegotiate with his replacement.
Colbey pulled the bandage around Santagithi’s leg tight. “So what is it?”
Santagithi spoke slowly, his thoughts distant. “It’s a declaration of war.”
* * *
Two days later, Santagithi and Garn led a hundred mounted soldiers through the Granite Hills. In the lead, Santagithi remained alert, senses no longer even slightly dulled from the incident in his court, though his wounds still throbbed. The sun gleamed from his breastplate and helmet; and, as he moved, highlights spun from the hedge of jagged cliffs on either side of the pass. His followers snaked in a double chain behind him, dressed in their leather uniforms and the bits and pieces of armor they had captured during forays, mostly bucklers, helmets, and shields. Garn rode the flank position, proudly garbed in the mail that Santagithi granted his officers.
So far, things had gone well. Santagithi’s sharp eyes had spotted no movement but that of animals, nothing to indicate that Vikerian spies had seen them. His scouts reported an open way ahead. He had found his own officers the more pressing problem. Jakot and Bromdun had agreed to keep their troops behind to guard the town. They had followed their general’s command without question, though their disappointment had shown through clearly. Mitrian had grumbled about her separation from Garn, challenging her father with a teenager’s rebelliousness and a Renshai’s exuberance. Yet Colbey had proven the most difficult.
Santagithi shivered, recalling the way the Renshai’s cruel blue eyes had seemed to pierce him, as if to penetrate through his words to the intentions behind them. Though he knew it was impossible, he had felt as if the older man read his thoughts as well as his voice and expression. Yet Santagithi had found an argument that worked. Again, he could hear himself speaking words he never believed he would say: “Colbey, our women and children may be the last bastion this town has. No one else has the time or experience to train them, and no one else could do so as quickly or competently as you. For now, and not for the only time, my town is in your hands.”
The scene carved another from the depths of memory, and the familiarity of war helped bring thoughts of his previous captain, Rache, to the forefront. Santagithi recalled a spring day years ago and words he had hurled in anger at a man more son than captain: “You’ve been teaching my daughter to use a sword?! You stupid, pig-headed, overly aggressive, Northie bastard! How dare you! Are you insane?” Then, the idea of training a woman to war had outraged him. Now, it had become necessity.
Santagithi’s ranks plodded silently through barren valleys, up the smaller slopes, and along narrow mountain ledges that made the general grit his teeth until every man reached secure ground. He kept his attention ahead, not wishing to miss any changes or movements from Vikerians or his own scouts. Snow-capped mountains passed into barren crests, then merged into the tree-covered ranges that sandwiched the Granite Hills, their distant peaks disappearing into the heavens for the gods’ pleasures.
Again, Santagithi found himself on a shelf so narrow that his horse snorted with every step, its head bowed nearly to the ground. To his right, cliffs towered. To his left, the Hills opened into a canyon that seemed bottomless, crags protruding along its length from the mountains on either side. Attentive to his path, Santagithi kept his gaze lowered to the treacherous footing. By his scout’s report, it was a long stretch, though fully passable.
Suddenly, a rumble touched the wariest edge of Santagithi’s hearing. Before he could shout a warning, a boulder careened down the mountainside, dragging a horse and its rider into the canyon. A mass of rubble followed it down the slope. Avalanche? Santagithi’s mind dismissed the possibility at once. His scouts had reported a solidity to the rock face that precluded the possibility, which was why he had chosen this route.
More boulders crashed down the hillside, every one clearly beginning its course from the summit. Ambush! Fury exploded across Santagithi’s thoughts as he realized the gravity of his mistake. There’re Northmen on that crest.
The ranks broke. Guardsmen fled in panic while Santagithi screamed for order. A stone slammed toward the general. Diverted by a jutting outcrop, it swept the horse behind him from the ledge. Its rider pinwheeled over the side. Santagithi made a desperate grab, managing only to touch his guard’s fingers before momentum carried the man to his death.
Anguish clotted Santagithi’s anger, and strategy came to him as naturally as breathing. The ledge extends too far. We can’t outrun them. We’ll be helpless if we try. He studied the cliff face, calculating instantly. “Take the hill!” Santagithi drew his sword, jabbing it toward the tumbling boulders. He wheeled his horse, charging along the path to relay his order himself, even as stones swept his men from the ledge.
Garn hesitated. Then, to Santagithi’s relief, the ex-gladiator kicked his horse toward the crags. The animal plunged up the granite slope, floundering but making definite progress. “Come on!” Garn spurred his men with insults instead of commands. “Move, you cowardly bastards!”
“Fastin! Marly!” Santagithi remained below, prodding horses with the flat of his sword and men with his tone. “Draw those weapons, or you’ll face worse than stones.”
Santagithi’s horse thundered across the farthest edge of the path, a finger’s breadth from a fall. Trusting the surefooted mount he had used for years, Santagithi goaded his men without heed to his own danger.
Gradually, the soldiers fell back under his control. Though it seemed like certain suicide, they trusted and obeyed, charging up the cliffs and dodging the falling rubble as best they could. Below, Santagithi heaved a sigh of relief, hoping for the best. Under Garn’s supervision, the first wave of Santagithi’s soldiers met an incredulous band of Northmen clutching boulders instead of swords. Though outnumbered, Santagithi’s men, chosen for stealth and skill, had many advantages over Northern marksmen. Hooves and slashing swords found their mark. Unable to mount their horses fast enough, the Vikerians discovered that a galloping steed slays as quickly as a boulder. When Santagithi gained the crest, he discovered his men embroiled in a slaughter.
The film of trampled bodies on the slope belied the true tally of the dead. Many times more warriors had plummeted to their demise in the jagged valley below. A few of the Vikerians mounted horses and fled, but Santagithi estimated that eight d
ozen of their companions found death. His own army fared better. Fifty-seven bedraggled swordsmen sorted themselves out from the corpses. A hurried search uncovered eleven more, injured more critically. Santagithi waited while his guardsmen supported their injured companions across the withers or behind the saddles of their mounts. With many Northern horses in tow, Santagithi and Garn led the ranks back to town.
Santagithi said little, his mind spinning from self-directed anger to outrage against the king he had once trusted as an ally. Then another portion of his thoughts kicked in, assessing the wisdom of the Northmen’s strategy. Santagithi had lost more than thirty men, yet the outcome could have proven far worse. His mind sifted ideas, seeing the flaws in the Vikerians’ plan and finding ways to plug those gaps and reuse the strategy to his own advantage.
* * *
Straw covered the floor of the loft bedroom nestled amid the eaves of Emerald’s cottage. A pair of filled mattresses and pillows stood side by side, pressed against opposite walls. Episte Rachesson balanced on the top rung of the ladder, the light from candles in the main room casting the barest edge of his shadow into the dark loft. Rache sat on the leftmost mattress, his thick legs crossed and his sword lying, unsheathed, in his lap.
Episte liked the rare times when his younger friend stayed overnight. Though they spent much of the day together, they found no time to talk or play during Colbey’s lessons. Afterward, Episte had little energy for anything more than talk, and the childish chases of his peers through the streets of the town held scant appeal. Like brothers, he and Rache shared a language and experiences few could understand, and none of those others were children.
Episte tucked his knees to his chin. He spoke Renshai to keep the conversation private, though they were alone. “So what’s it like to really stab someone?”
Rache looked up, his sandy hair sliding into his eyes. Having learned both tongues at once, he could switch back and forth more fluently than Episte. “Hard,” Rache said, his young voice scarcely sounding the consonants. He ran a hand along the flat of his blade with gentle reverence, well trained. “Like stabbing . . .” His face screwed into a twisted parody of consideration. “. . . rocks almost.” His green eyes met Episte’s blue, darkness blurring them both to gray.
Episte nodded, at once proud and jealous of his “brother.” “You should have seen those Northmen. All hacked up and bloody and stuff.” He imitated vomiting, using the trade common, child’s euphemism for a nauseating spectacle. “It was bleffy.”
Rache turned Episte a reverent look. “They tried to kill my grandpa.”
Episte nodded agreement, the conversation at an end. “I’m going to ask my momma for a drink of water.” He started down the rungs.
Gently, Rache lay his sword on the mattress, then leapt to his feet. “Wait. I want water, too.” He trotted after his brother.
Episte waited at the bottom of the ladder. Already, Rache stood as tall as he did, and the younger child out-weighed him. But the girth of Rache’s limbs made them seem stubby, and it would take him years to master the coordination that came naturally to Episte.
Episte glanced around the living room while Rache descended. He had expected to find his mother here. Candles in metal holders flickered from shelves higher than Episte’s reach. No one sat on the chest that served for storage and as a piece of furniture. Beneath his mother’s winter clothing lay the last remembrances of Episte’s father: a leather jerkin speckled with the ancient stains of dirt and blood, a wheel, a hilt from a broken sword, and a poignard and buckler stripped from a dead enemy. Across from the chest, his mother’s cushioned rocker sat empty. Above it, a thick leather flap closed off the room’s only window.
“Momma?” Episte said tentatively. Once she had tucked him into bed, Emerald did not allow him to go further than this room. Two exits left the area. He walked to the one into the hearth room, peeking around the corner with a caution that kept his hands and feet in the living room. He found the hearth room dark and empty. Crossing the room, he glanced through the other exit. The blanket still covered his mother’s mattress, undisturbed. A lantern burned on the bedside crate.
Episte turned to find Rache standing on the cushion of the rocker, brushing aside the flap. Moonlight spilled through the crack, and a muffled conversation entered with it. Recognizing his mother’s voice, Episte clambered up beside his blood brother.
“. . . so the old bastard calls Rache a man now. Can you imagine a child scarcely out of diapers forced to be an adult?”
The voice that followed belonged to one of the female villagers, a close friend of Emerald’s with two daughters a few years older than Episte. “Is he calling Episte a man, too?”
Rache fidgeted, sending the chair into a bucking lurch that nearly threw the children. Episte reversed his equilibrium, clutching his “brother” to help the youngster keep his balance.
Emerald was speaking. “. . . can’t be good for his self-confidence to have a baby half his age considered a man while he’s still just a child.”
Episte kept a firm grip on Rache. He knew his mother was talking about Colbey, Rache, and himself. In general terms, he understood that it bothered her that Rache had become blooded first. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that his time would come soon, too; but he did not want to get in trouble for being downstairs after bedtime.
Emerald’s tone went bitter. “Leave it to Colbey to teach that killing someone makes a boy into a man. Pah!” She spit. “Killing someone only makes a boy a killer.”
These words Episte comprehended. He glanced quickly at Rache, but his little brother seemed more intent on his balance than the conversation.
The neighbor rushed to the child’s defense. “Now, Emerald. Rache’s a sweet little boy. You’ve said yourself you love him like a second son.”
“Well, I’m sorry.” Emerald’s tone contradicted her words. “But the last thing that boy needs is a violent crazy man turning him more savage than his bloodline already does. After what happened with Garn, you’d think Santagithi would be more careful. That boy has his father’s eyes and his father’s size. Do you doubt that he’ll get his father’s temper as well?”
Now Rache cocked his head, listening. “They’s talking about us?” It was more question than statement, though to Episte it went without saying.
“Yes.” Episte made a quieting gesture. Their brief conversation had already lost him the neighbor’s reply. But Emerald’s words came clearly to Episte. “That’s because you didn’t see what Rache was like after Garn broke his back. You didn’t have to watch the most beautiful hero in the world struggle to remain a shadow of what he had been.” Emerald’s voice quivered as she lapsed into tears. “Colbey’s training hammered into him since infancy the need to die in glorious combat, and my Rache never learned to find any of the simple pleasures in life. Everything he did, he did in the grandest fashion possible, until a wild, vicious animal of a slave turned him into a cripple. Then, just because that slave marries our leader’s daughter, suddenly we’re supposed to trust his temper.”
Stunned, Episte remained still, sorting the story as his mind grasped it.
“Now, Emerald . . .” the woman started, but Emerald could not quit.
“Damn it, I was there after Garn killed his playmate. What happens when little Rache flies into one of his father’s rages and hurts Episte?”
“Emerald, you’re being ridiculous. Rache isn’t three years old yet.”
“And he’s already helped kill a man.” Emerald drove her point home. “Garn was only ten when he slaughtered Mukesh, and he hadn’t had any combat training from that senile old Northman.”
Episte had heard enough. He pressed the flap tightly to the window, clamping the conversation into an indecipherable buzz. “Come on.” He squeezed Rache protectively, dragging the child from the chair. He tried to thrust his mother’s words from his mind, but they returned again and again: “What happens when little Rache . . . hurts Episte.”
Episte knew t
hat his mother had to be wrong. He thought of all the times that Emerald and Colbey had contradicted one another. His mother always claimed that it came of Colbey’s strange background, that Episte should learn swordplay from the old Renshai but nothing more. Colbey said that Emerald sometimes put being a good mother ahead of the truth. He claimed that she meant well, but that Episte should not believe everything she said. Their differences confused Episte, but Renshai and mother had raised him. He had no choice except to trust both and to hope he would one day get big enough to understand.
At the bottom of the ladder, Rache turned. “My daddy made your daddy not walk?”
The question startled Episte. Having grasped only part of the conversation himself, he had not expected Rache to get even that much. “I think so. Let’s get back upstairs.”
Rache climbed. At the third rung, he stopped, arching his head backward to look at Episte upside down. His baby fine hair covered his shoulders like a cloak. “What’s a slave?”
“I don’t know.” Episte nudged Rache. “Come on. Go up. You’re blocking.”
Rache scurried to the top of the ladder, then whirled, meeting Episte partway up. “I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”
Episte accepted the words as a challenge. “You couldn’t if you wanted to. I could beat you with a sword in my butt.” He trotted up the ladder, shoving Rache aside, surprised by the amount of strength it took.
Rache giggled, moving aside. “What if I had a sword in both . . . each . . . every hand?” He waved his arms excitedly. “And in my feet?” He stuck his toes in Episte’s face as he crawled through the loft opening. “And in my butt?”
“I’d still beat you, turd toes.” Episte kicked Rache’s feet out of his way, then crossed the room and lay on his pallet.
Rache followed, hesitantly glancing between the beds before ignoring his own pallet and crawling in beside Episte instead.
Rache’s body cramped Episte against the wall; but, for now, he felt better for the boy’s presence. “Neither one of us will ever hurt each other. Right?”
The Western Wizard Page 28