The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Concern scored Santagithi’s gray eyes. “Colbey, go home and help Bromdun guard the town.”

  Colbey made no move to obey. “You need me here.” He did not dare probe for Santagithi’s motivation. He had never guessed how much energy his mental exploration would claim from him, and a long time would pass before he dared to use his powers again.

  Santagithi scowled. “We don’t need a staggering, injured officer.”

  The spots before Colbey’s eyes faded, taking the ringing with it. “I’ll be all right shortly.”

  “Good,” Santagithi granted no quarter. “Then you should be well by the time you reach town.”

  “I’m staying with you,” Colbey said.

  Santagithi’s gaze went cold, and he squinted with rage. “Colbey, damn it, you’ll do as I tell you. I’m not asking, I’m commanding it. I’ve never tolerated insubordination, and I won’t start now. Not from anyone. Now, you get your butt on your horse and head toward town, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  A spark of anger flashed through Colbey, then died instantly. As much as he wanted to remain with Santagithi and the other three Renshai, he trusted the general’s judgment too much to question it now. “Fine,” he said, then louder. “Fine, sir.” Whirling, he headed deeper into the cave to find his horse.

  * * *

  Seated on a rock beside the constructed dam, Valr Kirin studied his unit. Two months of building and a week of waiting had made the mixed group of Northmen impatient nearly to the point of mutiny. They milled and fidgeted like children, sparked to violence by the tiniest argument. Again and again, Kirin had stepped between their drawn swords and axes, reminding them to forget the differences between tribes and concentrate on their real enemy.

  “They’re coming!” someone called, and the cry echoed through the ranks. Nervous energy seemed to quadruple in an instant as Northmen scurried to their positions with an efficiency that laid some of Kirin’s fears to rest. Soon, the Northmen would split the dam, its waters would drown Colbey among Santagithi’s dwindling forces, and the war would finally end.

  Valr Kirin smiled, assessing the positions of his men from habit, though his thoughts ranged farther. There had been a time, when he had been the age of these men, that the chance to kill enemies and die in glory took precedence over all. He understood their exuberance, but he also saw beyond it. He had been barely thirty when his older brother lost a hand in battle and, with it, the chance to ever enter Valhalla. Yet Peusen Raskogsson had continued to fight, embracing the same ideals and tenets that he had sacrificed his personal glory to attain. Peusen’s courage had given Kirin strength as well. He had learned to place the goals of morality and preservation of the Northland tribes above his own.

  As the last men slid into place behind the dam, Valr Kirin took his own position on a crag, slightly above and removed from the troop. There, his gestures could be more easily seen and his orders heard. Despite their eager savagery, he knew that the Northmen meant the best. In a land of bleak summers and food-sparse winters, constant skirmishes kept numbers whittled. Young men died in honor so that their women and children could live and so that elders and their wisdom could exist. The infirm nearly always crawled from their sickbeds into the battles. And when the time came for Northern tribes to band together in a cause, they became like brothers.

  Santagithi’s men rounded the bend and became clearly visible. Kirin kept his back flat to the crags, and his Northmen remained low and unseen. A proud figure in mail led a rank of Santagithi’s soldiers in three rows of four. Kirin recognized the captain, Jakot, and the trifling group he led set the Slayer’s nerves jangling. The Northmen grumbled in frustration. They had not toiled so long to ambush only a dozen men. Weapons rasped from sheaths. Before Kirin could shout a warning, several of his men sprang to their feet. Others followed, like an audience joining a standing ovation.

  “No!” Valr Kirin screamed. “Men, hold your places!” Howls of frustration and battle madness drowned out his command. Northern soldiers scrabbled onto horses, sending them leaping over the dam, unwilling to waste two months’ work on a handful of men. They galloped along the creek bed toward the approaching force.

  Jakot pulled up his tiny unit and whirled in retreat.

  “Stop! Back! Now!” Though he screamed his commands, Valr Kirin could scarcely hear himself over the varied war calls of his men. Scrambling down the slope, he vaulted to the back of his own mount, but he did not follow his men to the wrong side of the dam. Instead, he remained behind it with those few warriors who had kept their heads and obeyed their lieutenant.

  Suddenly, Jakot swerved from the path, forcing his horse up the side of the mountain, his men at his heels. The Northmen gave chase, the horses on both sides floundering up the rocky slopes. Once on the crest, Jakot waited only until his men reached safety. “Now!”

  Men rose from positions on the summit, rolling boulders on the trailing Northmen. No. Valr Kirin cringed, sick with understanding but helpless to protect the men who had disobeyed his command. Yet he did not have long to ponder. An army with Garn and Mitrian at the head galloped over the crags toward those Northmen still behind the dam. Kirin studied the enemy troop pouring down upon them and the few remaining Northmen. “Retreat!” he commanded. “This way. Quickly.” He made a broad gesture designed to direct the Northmen in the creek bed as well as those behind the dam to safety. Less than two dozen soldiers rushed to their lieutenant’s command, nearly all of them Vikerians far more accustomed to following him. The others charged into battle with a ferocity that transcended numbers, eager to die in glory.

  Valr Kirin paused, allowing his men to catch up. On the far side of the river, he scanned Santagithi’s ranks in relative safety. He watched with sadness as Santagithi’s army dispatched the few remaining Northmen at the dam. From there, they removed key logs and sprang the Northmen’s trap upon those warriors still in the creek bed. A foaming snake of water crashed through the ruins of the dam, swallowing the Northmen. A quick count and a glance at the leaders confirmed that Santagithi had brought about two thirds of his remaining manpower and that Colbey was not among them. “Come on.” Charged with a mission, Kirin retreated with dignity, taking his most loyal charges with him, racing to link up with his reserves. Though seventy-three Northmen had lost their lives, Valr Kirin knew that his men had to have won the larger battle. And maybe, just maybe, Colbey Calistinsson was already dead.

  * * *

  The miles passed swiftly beneath the hooves of Colbey’s horse. Gradually, the wary prickle returned to the edges of his thoughts, sweeping the fog of fatigue into a shrinking, central knot. Early, he thanked gods that he met no opposition on the roadway; he had not dived into the thickest part of every battle for longer than seventy years only to die enfeebled by his own mind. Exhaustion made him careless, and he made little effort to disguise his person or his presence from Northern scouts. Surely, had anyone seen him, they would have attacked.

  Colbey drew deeper into the Granite Hills. With the incremental return of strength to his body and mind, he became suspicious. He had not expected to meet armies, but he had anticipated attacks by single Northmen and small groups along the way. Whatever his title or level of skill, almost any Northman would have to test his courage against a Renshai’s, even if it meant death. Unless they fear I would dismember them. The thought bothered Colbey. Enemies or not, the Northmen were kin of a sort, and he hated to think that they had become cowards afraid to face a man approaching eighty.

  The Granite Hills disappeared swiftly behind Colbey, and he glanced back to memorize the positions of caves before entering the pine forest just south of the mountains. His last chain of thought bothered him. His age had become an obsession that rode him without mercy. He had lived the span of three Renshai, yet death of any kind seemed unable to find him. His hair remained full, free from the recession that gave Santagithi an aura of dignity, many strands still gold among the white. His vision remained as crisp and clear as always, his cold
blue gaze unmarred by cataracts or the watery film that seemed to haunt most elders. Somehow, beyond all possibility, his sword skill and agility seemed only to improve with practice and time.

  When oak and elm began to appear among the evergreens, an acrid odor pinched Colbey’s nostrils. Fire? He glanced about, seeing nothing in the near vicinity. He kept his gaze trained ahead, in the direction of Santagithi’s Town, alert for the first signs of a blaze. For some time, he saw nothing. Then a braid of smoke twined over the forest, and the wind hurled the odor of burning thatch into his face. The town. Colbey dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, hoping Santagithi’s women had not forgotten the tricks he had taught. The horse surged forward, charging through a clumped interweave of branches. Colbey ducked flat to its neck, protecting his face, and the leaves slashed harmlessly across his tunic.

  As Colbey raced toward the town, the reek of burning timbers intensified. The pine gave way to oak, hickory, and maple. He kept as close and quiet as possible, avoiding the whipping branches and the huddled groups of soldiers slinking between the trees. Most had Northmen’s golden braids, though others were too far to identify. At length, he reached a clearing near the one where he trained the Renshai. Brambles outlined two sides, dotted with green berries that would darken as spring turned to summer. Alerted more by instinct than sound or movement, Colbey pulled his mount to a walk.

  Shortly, Bromdun’s voice hissed through the thistle, speaking the Western trading tongue. “Sir, come here. It’s safe.”

  The promise of security only made Colbey more cautious. He circled the brambles with all of his senses alert. At length, he came to one of the unprotected sides. There, a dozen bowmen sat or lay in various stages of alertness or repose. Four pikemen protected the two open sides. Recognizing every man, though not all by name, Colbey relaxed. “What’s happened?”

  The archer’s captain rose. His miserable expression and massive form gave him the air of a carved gargoyle perched defensively on a bastion. “Northmen descended upon the town in hordes like I’ve never seen. They took the town.” Tears of rage filled the captain’s eyes. “They’ve got some of the women and other women’s children holed up in the citadel. This is the last of the guards.” He gestured at the scraggly looking band around him. “The Northies know we’re here, but they’re leaving us alone for now.”

  Colbey studied the men with Bromdun. He had found little cause to get to know the archers well. Still, in a town so small, he had become at least vaguely familiar with all of the them. All four of the pikemen he knew as competent soldiers.

  Having finished his report, Bromdun moved on to another matter. “Emerald made it known that she needed to see you. She said it was urgent.”

  Colbey frowned, finding the summons curious. Probably, Emerald would beg him to keep her son safe and away from the town and the Northmen. Still, she was the mother of Renshai, if not one herself, and he had little choice but to attend her, if possible. “Where is Emerald?”

  “Probably at her cottage.” Bromdun straightened his mail. “Mostly, the Northmen are letting the women, children, and elders go about their business, except for the hostages.” His dark gaze found Colbey’s; and, though it was not proper for him to request information from a superior unsolicited, he did so anyway. “How is Santagithi?”

  “Well, last I knew.” Colbey appreciated the distraction, certain that fatigue must still be dampening his mind, if not his body. He dismounted, addressing one of the archers he did know by name. “Galan.”

  The archer approached, a tall, wiry soldier with bright hazel eyes. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take my horse. Santagithi and the others are on trail three, about a quarter of the way north. I want you to tell Santagithi what happened here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Galan mounted quickly, arm threaded through his bow.

  Bromdun frowned, but he did not contradict. “Where are you going?” His words were clearly meant for Colbey.

  The Renshai looked toward the village, seeing only distant glimpses of cottages between the trunks and trailers of smoke. Apparently, the fires had been small and scattered, meant mostly to scare the civilians into obedience. Emerald’s cottage lay on the eastern side of the town in a line with many others. “I’m going to speak with Emerald.”

  “Sir!” Bromdun said, the word an exclamation of disapproval and surprise. He shied slightly. Years of training with Santagithi had taught him never to question authority. He would not have probed Santagithi’s motives, but he did challenge Colbey. “Forgive me, sir. But you don’t know what it’s like there. There’re Northmen everywhere. If you wait for Santagithi—”

  Colbey frowned, his loyalties never in question. A Renshai’s mother needed to see him. No matter their personal differences, he would not fail her. “Did Emerald say her concern could wait?”

  “No, sir,” Bromdun admitted. “She said it was urgent.”

  “Galan, be on your way.” Colbey gestured toward the Hills, then slipped around the brambles and headed for the town.

  Stems brushed Colbey’s tunic, then bounced back into place, their young leaves rattling in his wake. Accustomed to quiet movement through forest, Colbey ducked low, placing his feet cautiously to avoid twigs scattered through the mush of dead leaves that formed the forest carpet. He moved like an animal, lithe and sinuous despite his age, though he made less noise. The woodlands seemed eerily silent; apparently even the final, desperate skirmishes had ended. Colbey caught glimpses of Santagithi’s Town between the trunks as he walked. A few, selected dwellings lay as litter-strewn ash, smoke still dribbling from the rubble. Most of the cottages stood intact, looking like proud sentinels beside the ruins of their neighbors.

  Colbey continued to creep through the forest, remaining low, his footfalls making little sound. As he circled eastward, spiraling toward the town, he could distinguish figures in the streets. Women openly wept over sprawled bodies. A child toddled around the homes, hoarsely screaming, “Mama! Mama?” Colbey used the call to mask the sounds of his progress, reaching the border of the town. Even his experience did not make him callous to their plight, though it had become familiar enough to keep him from dropping his guard to tend to the lamenting widows and orphans. For now, this seemed as good a time as any for them to grieve; the Northmen would not harm them.

  Tucked behind an ancient oak, Colbey studied the scene for some time, seeking war braids, helms, armor, or movement that did not bear the slumping quality of sorrow. He saw no Northmen, and that bothered rather than pleased him. Apparently, the Northmen had already taken what they had come for and left. Yet Colbey found himself unable to relax. He had accepted it as luck or divine intervention that he had come upon no enemies while tired and injured, with his wits dulled. But his luck seemed to be holding too well. The lack of forest creatures suggested that battles or soldiers had filled these woods not so long ago.

  Colbey dashed from the forest to the cottage closest to the border. Back pressed to the wall, he waited for an attack or a shout of recognition. No new sounds touched his ears. Keening wound through the streets, punctuated by crying, and he could hear distant, muffled conversations in Western voices. Still, Colbey did not drop his guard. He edged around the building, gaze probing the streets, hearing attuned to catch any sound out of place for battle aftermath. Discovering nothing, he slipped to the next cottage.

  Time and cautious effort brought Colbey, apparently unseen, toward Emerald’s dwelling. As he crept around the nearby butcher’s shop, he discovered that the home between it and Emerald’s lay in charcoal ruin. He studied the blackened beams, the ashes scattered with sparkles of brass and tin that had once served as utensils and hinges. Heat haze glimmered around the site, blurring Emerald’s cottage, and the last tiny plumes of smoke curled from the wreckage. Seeing no movement, Colbey sprinted for Emerald’s home. He flattened to the stone. An elder’s sobs covered the quieter noises of the gutted village, including Colbey’s passage.

  A flap of leather stirred in the lig
ht spring breeze. Colbey inched along the wall to it. Waiting until a gust flipped the covering, he peeked through the opening. He caught a glimpse of Emerald, rocking quietly in her chair. He saw no one else. She seemed tense to the point of pain; but, under the circumstances, her discomfort seemed normal. Quickly, Colbey moved to the front of the house and checked the latch. Finding it tripped, he pushed open the cottage door.

  Even as Colbey pressed his weight against the panel, a feeling of peril assailed him. A sound, a movement, or instinct, he did not know which alerted him. Naturally, his hands fell to his hilts. His swords skimmed free before he thought to draw them. Three Northmen in mail met him in the doorway, another three behind them. A massive broadsword smashed against his lighter blade, easily blocked. He whipped his opposite sword across its wielder’s throat. The man collapsed, as Colbey caught the other two Northmen’s blades on each of his. He reversed the direction of both swords, stabbing one through the links and into a Northman’s gut. He slashed the other a long deep cut across the face, twisting to dodge the attacks of the second rank and draw his blade free at once. Seeing movement from outside now, he kicked closed the door and spun farther into the main room of Emerald’s cottage.

  The three remaining Northmen charged without hesitation. The first hacked for Colbey’s head with a powerful downstroke, closing his defenses with a battered steel shield. Colbey planted a kick on the man’s shield, sending him stumbling to the floor near the door to Emerald’s sitting chamber. From the corner of his eye, Colbey saw Emerald moving toward the fallen man. He hoped she remembered some of the war tricks he had taught her and the other women, that she could handle the fallen soldier. Already he heard footsteps at the door, and a low thrust from one of the two Northmen before him stole his attention.