The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Yup.” Rache snuggled closer.

  “Promise?”

  “Pwomiss.”

  “We’re brothers, like Colbey says.”

  “Blood brothers,” Rache said.

  Episte knew the relationship had more significance to Colbey than true brotherhood.

  “Forever and ever and ever and ever.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Talus Fan

  Santagithi paced the lane between his strategy table and the map-covered wall, oblivious to the stares of his commanders that followed his course to and fro. Jakot and Bromdun sat sideways in their chairs to keep from turning their backs on their general. Across the table, Mitrian, Garn, and Colbey remained in silence.

  Thirty-two men dead and eleven more out of combat. Thirty-four if I consider the two killed in my court. The needless destruction enraged Santagithi. And all because I’ve walked into two Vikerian ambushes. Mentally, he cursed himself and the incaution that had cost nearly a tenth of his able-bodied fighting men. This can’t go on. We have to turn the tables before we lose anyone else. He considered King Tenja and the Northmen’s ranks, his mind gnawing at the problem. At the start of the Great War, Tenja had commanded two hundred fifty soldiers to Santagithi’s six hundred. The war had whittled his army to four hundred fifty and Tenja’s to just under two hundred.

  Santagithi reached the far wall and pivoted back to face the door. “Competent, eager soldiers, brave to the point of recklessness.” Santagithi assessed the Vikerians. Then, realizing he had spoken aloud, he explained. “The Northmen, I mean. Dedicated to their leaders like priests to gods and impressed by a skilled warrior to the point of following him to their graves.” Santagithi stopped, spinning to face the map of the Granite Hills. Finger-traced a million times, the familiar passes seemed to leap to bold relief. Only three routes led from Santagithi’s Town to the Northlands, and they all overlapped at some points. “Put Northmen in a straight line, and they’ll hack their way through any wall. But they’re not strategists.”

  Santagithi’s brow furrowed as he worried the information he had just spoken aloud. “Usually,” he added carefully. Suddenly, all of his mistakes came back to the same misinformation. He whirled toward the table. “Damn it, those Northmen aren’t acting like Northmen.” He pounded a fist on the table between Jakot and Bromdun. “Who taught those Northie bastards to think!” Usually, strong emotion in the strategy room inspired creative thought. Realizing he might have just offended one of his own, Santagithi regretted his outburst. He planted both hands on the table, turning his attention to Colbey.

  The old Renshai returned Santagithi’s gaze mildly, a slight smile on his face. He looked more amused than insulted. “Valr Kirin,” he said.

  The reply to his mostly rhetorical question caught Santagithi by surprise. “What?”

  “Valr Kirin,” Colbey repeated. “That’s who taught the Vikerians to think. Actually, he’s probably doing their thinking for them.”

  Santagithi returned to his seat at the head of the table. He remembered Tenja’s lieutenant, a bold, masterful warrior borrowed from the high king in Nordmir. Forced to tend strategy for the combined armies, Santagithi had had few dealings with Kirin Raskogsson, who had led Tenja’s cavalry, a man the Northmen called “Valr,” which meant “Slayer.” However, charged with the Pudarian cavalry, Colbey had spent a great deal of time with Kirin. Then, Colbey’s heroics had stolen the loyalty of Kirin’s followers, and the two had developed an enmity. Now, Santagithi wondered whether this hatred might not have driven Kirin to explore Colbey’s background and, ultimately, led to the current war. “Colbey, I’d like you stay for a while after the meeting to discuss some details about this lieutenant. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep him in mind while we’re planning strategy.”

  Everyone glanced at Colbey, who nodded once.

  Santagithi rarely placed so much trust in any single man. Always, he insisted on personally having every shred of information in order to form the intricate plots that had made his tiny army as competent as those of the massive cities westward. “Currently, we have the advantage of numbers. That may change quickly, especially after this morning’s defeat.” He glanced at Colbey, who nodded again.

  “Kirin knows the difference between vanity and honor. He’ll send them for help sooner, especially since he’s not a Vikerian himself.”

  “I think it’s time to call in our allies as well. Jakot, I want messages sent to King Sterrane in Béarn as well as to Prince . . .” He corrected himself. “. . . King Verrall in Pudar.”

  Colbey smiled.

  Santagithi tapped his fingers on the table, bothered by the knowledge that months would pass before a messenger could reach Pudar and many more months before Verrall could send an army. The trips to and from Béarn would take still longer. “Colbey, you said Shadimar has a falcon who carries notes. Do you think he’d let us borrow it?” Santagithi considered the possibility of using other animal messengers. Any land creature would take as long to travel as a man on horseback, and it could only deliver, not speak, its news. He doubted any of the many songbirds that flitted about the Westlands could make the journey safely, even if he had the time to teach it and it had the intelligence to understand its mission.

  “We can only ask Shadimar.” Colbey sounded doubtful. “So far, my two experiences with Swiftwing make me think he only carries notes from Wizard to Wizard. You know how Shadimar can be about sharing things, even a simple explanation, with mere mortals.”

  Santagithi thought he caught a tinge of bitterness in Colbey’s voice and made a mental note to question the Renshai later. “It’s worth trying.” Instantly, Santagithi saw a way to handle two situations at once. “Mitrian, you’ve been to Shadimar’s ruins before?” Still uncomfortable with the idea of his daughter at war, Santagithi grasped at the chance to send her elsewhere.

  “Yes.” Mitrian fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, no, actually. I went there once in a really vivid dream that became real and . . .” Realizing she was babbling, Mitrian fell silent, flushing. “I’m sure I could find him.”

  “Good. Jakot, I still want the messengers dispatched as soon as possible. Send a group of three each way. Pick good horses and good horsemen. Stealth wouldn’t hurt, and at least one in each group should know how to fight reasonably well.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jakot said.

  Santagithi followed up with the plan that had trickled into his mind just after the Vikerians’ ambush and had only now come to fruition. “When we were out there on the ledge and the first boulders fell, what was your earliest thought?” Santagithi looked at Garn, the only other officer present at the time.

  Though Santagithi’s gaze clearly fell on him, Garn looked to the left and right, as if to make certain. “That more might be coming?” When Santagithi continued to stare, Garn tried the bowmen’s scattershot approach, throwing out as many answers as possible in the hope of a single bull’s-eye. “That the Northmen were too cowardly to come down to us and fight like men. That we needed to be ready to dodge. That we needed to get off that ledge as fast as possible.” He added one more, apparently to appease Santagithi. “That we were damn lucky to have the West’s prime strategist leading us, because otherwise we would have all been killed.”

  Santagithi made another mental note, to keep Garn’s title honorary and to make certain his son-in-law always remained under his or Jakot’s direct command. At least he does seem good at inspiring the men, and he doesn’t panic. “My first thought was that it was a natural rock slide.”

  “That, too,” Garn added lamely.

  Santagithi continued as if no one had interrupted. He rose, walking to the map. “But I knew the terrain too well. Here, those boulders could not have fallen by accident.” He indicated the area of the encounter with a finger. “But here . . .” He traced three triangular areas on the slope of the most direct route between Vikerin and home. “. . . at the base of these mountains . . .” He swept a hand over a series of r
idges above and beside the trail. “. . . are a series of talus fans.” He looked up to ascertain that his officers had followed.

  “Talus fans?” Mitrian said, as if on cue.

  Jakot answered first. “Natural, loose collections of stone and debris.”

  Santagithi turned back to the map. “Up here . . .” Again, he indicated the higher slopes above the trail. “. . . we could set up a trap similar to the one the Vikerians sprang on us, but using the steepest slopes and the talus fans. We might be able to destroy the remainder of their army before they can gather allies. Gentlemen, if this is successful, we might end the war in days.” The idea made Santagithi smile, though briefly. “But it’s not going to be easy. First, we have to give them a reason to take this particular path. Second, we need them closely bunched, not with scouts and formations spread beyond the region of the fans.”

  Jakot rose, studying the map. “It is the shortest route. Maybe if we could anger them enough, they might choose speed over caution.”

  Garn yawned, clearly bored with the talk of strategy. “Maybe if we ambushed their king in his own court. That might anger them to reckless stupidity.”

  The comment struck too close to home. As always, Santagithi reined his temper. “Effective, Garn, but it’s already been done.” He glanced at Colbey.

  The Renshai rose, his expression even more stern than usual. Apparently, he had wrestled his conscience for the suggestion he was about to speak aloud. “Do you still have the bodies of the Northmen killed in court?”

  “We could dig them up.” Santagithi said nothing more, curious about Colbey’s plan.

  “I believe I can enrage even Kirin. If you can set the trap, I can bait it. All I ask is that you let me be there to see the results.”

  Santagithi frowned. The idea of Colbey’s presence at the talus fans did not bother him. Stationed high above sheer mountainsides covered with shifting debris, his men should not become embroiled in hand-to-hand combat. At worst, the Northmen would escape the trap, and the plans would come to nothing. His concerns stemmed from what Colbey might mean by “bait.” “Fine,” he said, at length. “But first, we’ll discuss this plan of yours when we talk about Valr Kirin. If I think it’s too dangerous, we’ll find another.”

  Colbey smiled knowingly. “General, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  * * *

  Familiar with the magical tempest that warded Shadimar’s ruins, Mitrian had the foresight to wear a heavy, hooded cloak and to pack a well-protected change of clothes; but that did not fully spare her from the rain. She led her mare past the two headless statues that stood sentinel before the long-dead city of Myrcidë. Dripping trails from her clothing and wet hoofprints betrayed their route. Lightning spidered the sky behind her, and thunder echoed between the granite walls and arches of the inner streets. Shattered stonework littered a courtyard that Mitrian remembered from her dream. Blueberries dotted the vine-choked walls and bushes filling the stretches between crumbling, ancient pillars and monuments. Mitrian smiled at the darting songbirds gorging on the berries, their beaks and talons purple-smeared. Their skimming flight from bushes to statues to walls unnerved Mitrian’s horse, so she hurried through the open area and down the streets and alleyways.

  The horse whinnied nervously, head low as it picked its way over and around the fragments. Each blast of thunder sent it into a rigid standstill. Gentle coaxing and movement away from the lash of the storm convinced it to continue; but, each time, its first few steps became short, stiff jumps. Its antics worried Mitrian. The last time she had visited, her mare had calmed the instant it entered the ruins. The closer they had come to Shadimar, and the longer they remained, the more secure the horse had become. Of course, that was a dream, Mitrian reminded herself, though every feature of the ruins seemed exactly as she remembered it.

  Mitrian came, at last, to the vast, roofed hall that formed the entrance to Shadimar’s home. There, she found a heavy stone door blocking her way. A curl of parchment balanced on the grisly brass face that held the door’s ring.

  Mitrian stopped, uncertain where to go. At the time of her other visit, Shadimar had met her here; and he had left the door open. Looping the horse’s reins around a pillar, she approached the door. She knocked, the stone chafing her knuckles. The sound scarcely reached to her own ears. Certain the Eastern Wizard could never hear her through a door this heavy, she pounded as hard as she could with the side of her fist. The breeze of her motion sent the parchment fluttering to the ground at her feet.

  Stooping, Mitrian picked up the note. She had no intention of reading it, certain it concerned private matters between Wizards. But she glimpsed her own name at the top. The writer had used the common trading tongue in a fine, easily legible hand. Curious, she read:

  My dear Mitrian:

  I apologize for the soaking and for the wasted trip. I find myself engaged in matters of grave importance, and it may take years before I return. Rest assured, I could not have helped you in the matter of your visit. The messenger falcon, Swiftwing, is not mine to lend.

  Please pass my regards and my sympathy to Colbey and your father. I will keep abreast of the events in your town. If and when Santagithi truly needs me, I will be here.

  Shadimar

  Mitrian pocketed the note, a shiver of supernatural discomfort fluttering through her. She had spent nearly two years in the Eastern Wizard’s company while they researched, plotted, and carried out Sterrane’s return to his throne as well as the journeys to and from Béarn. In all that time, he had performed only one feat she considered magic, the sky pictures he had summoned to accompany Mar Lon’s music. Yet a gift for illusion did not explain the strangeness she always felt in his presence nor his foreknowledge of events he should have no way of predicting.

  Turning from the Eastern Wizard’s door, Mitrian headed back to her mount.

  * * *

  Valr Kirin Raskogsson stood before the Vikerian throne, his war braids hissing against his jerkin with every movement. He studied King Tenja from a face hardened by age and war. His hawklike nose and piercing blue eyes heightened the predatory look of his features. “Sire, there’s a matter we need to discuss.” Kirin plucked at the hilt of his sword, hoping the words that he needed would come to him in time. When he had requested an audience that morning, he had felt certain that they would. Now, standing before King Tenja, the king’s adviser, and his bodyguard, Kirin found himself nearly speechless, glad for the lack of spectators.

  King Tenja perched on his throne, a gaudy trinket adorned with lesser stones that were buffed and polished to appear like gems. His gray-tinged braids swung about his muscled neck. He wore a shirt and matching cloak of fur-trimmed silk that defined a physique trained to war. To his left, his pale, frail adviser watched Kirin expectantly. Named Alvis, the aging, balding Northman seemed lost in a wolfskin wrap. To the king’s right, the massive, ugly bodyguard stood with his hands crossed over his chest. From beneath his horned helmet, Eldir regarded The Slayer with the same dead-eyed indifference he grudgingly granted every man. His ax-bladed pole arm rested against the wall, within easy reach.

  When Valr Kirin did not go on, King Tenja encouraged. “Speak freely, Kirin Raskogsson of Nordmir. We have fought side by side and at one another’s backs.”

  Valr Kirin knew that the king’s words meant that he was trusted not only as a subordinate, but as an ally. It only made his pronouncement more difficult to speak. “Sire, you know that I spent some time recently on the Northern shore of Asci.”

  “Summoned by one who claimed to be the Northern Sorceress. Yes, I know that. Did something happen there?”

  Kirin glanced about the room, from its rough-hewn, empty rows of chairs, to the wooden doors painted to look like metal and the awkward carvings that mimicked the wealth of the Western Kingdoms. “Something of a sort, yes, Sire. Lady Trilless alerted me to a danger far more extensive than even you and I had guessed.” He glanced up suddenly, hoping he had not become too presumptuous by pla
cing a limit on the king’s speculation. He did not want to offend. “Sire, she claimed that, if not destroyed, Colbey is destined to annihilate all goodness, all Northmen, and, possibly, the gods themselves.” Kirin swallowed hard.

  King Tenja sat in silence for a moment. Alvis became even paler. Eldir remained stony-faced, revealing no emotion at all by his features, though his hand caressed the bulbous hilt of his sword.

  “Sire, she believes that the Southern Wizard will try to see to it that Colbey fulfills this prophecy. And also that Colbey will pursue it viciously and with malice, even at the cost of those he loves.”

  The king’s hands balled into fists, and the veins swelled beneath sun-damaged skin. “As if a Renshai could love anything, except the destruction he reaps. We’re doing what we can to kill the Renshai. Did you tell her that?”

  “Yes, Sire.” Valr Kirin nodded. He looked at his feet.

  “There’s more?” King Tenja prodded, though surely he had heard enough.

  “Yes, Sire, there is more.” Valr Kirin forced himself to meet the king’s gaze, having come to the part that he knew would make the king most uncomfortable. “She asked me to become her champion. Her cause is goodness and morality. How could I refuse such an honor?”

  “So you accepted her offer.”

  “Gladly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Valr Kirin plucked at the sword at his belt, recalling when Trilless had handed Ristoril to him. The simple scabbard hid a blade that shone like the midday sun, its purity a constant, reassuring presence at his side. “Sire, it means I have to place the cause of right and principle above all else.”

  King Tenja’s eyes narrowed as he interpreted the meaning of Kirin’s pronouncement, as it pertained to Vikerin. “You mean that you serve her first and us second.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, Sire.” Valr Kirin measured the king’s mood, and he found it discomfited. “But, for now, Vikerin’s cause and hers are the same. There’s no reason to think that would change.”