A man next to the speaker grunted. “Santagithi’s dead.”
The soldier spun around to face the other man directly. “How do you know? Colbey made it.”
“What’s left of him.”
Episte whirled, glaring at the speaker. “When Colbey wakes up, he can tell us what happened to Santagithi.”
Tobhiyah snorted. “When Colbey wakes up? What nonsense, child. In three days, we’ve gotten nothing into him but water and a few herbs and only babbling out. The man is dead.”
Episte’s face went purple. Before Mitrian could think to stop him, the teenager sprang in a wild fury. “He’ll outlive you, scum! I’ll see to that!” His sword was a blur that seemed barely to flicker in its course from Episte’s sheath to Tobhiyah’s throat.
Tobhiyah staggered backward, his foot slamming into his bowl. Gravy splashed across stone. The bowl rolled beneath the soldier’s foot, and he fell awkwardly to the floor. The bowl clattered over granite, trailing stew.
Tobhiyah’s clumsiness gained Mitrian the time she needed to step between the youth and the fallen man. Though red-faced, Episte did not press. His sword hovered, clearly meant to intimidate, not to kill.
The woman who had not yet spoken clambered to her feet, avoiding the spilled stew. “Quit it! We can’t be fighting amongst ourselves. Not now. I was a girl when we built our town and chose our most wise and skilled warrior as our leader. Santagithi was young, but he proved his ability well enough in the battles we fought to arrive at and claim our land. He treated us all with respect. He loved us enough to die for us.” Her words echoed in the growing silence, and she seemed tiny amid so many warriors. “We owe it to him to wait.”
The others met her pronouncement with nods and grunts of agreement. Episte sheathed his sword. Tobhiyah backed cautiously away. The woman who had playfully insulted Daegga pulled a rag from the bedding and began to clean the mess with Daegga’s help.
“I have a suggestion.” Galan kept his gaze locked on Episte, as if he feared resistance to his idea. “We can decide what to do based on Colbey. If, gods willing, he survives, we can ask him about Santagithi. If he dies, we will accept our leader’s death as well.”
Rache appeared in the doorway. “Then, maybe you should talk with Colbey instead of about him.”
Joy sparked in Mitrian. Doubt did not allow her to become too excited by the news. “Is he. . . ?” She did not bother to finish.
Rache grinned broadly. “Awake and aware.” Turning, he headed back toward the sickroom. Mitrian followed. As one, the others scrambled after her, trailing down the hallway in a noisy cloud of speculation. Without knocking, they burst into Shadimar’s bedroom, discovering the Renshai propped on the ticking, the Wizard sitting on the floor beside him. A grimy piece of leather filled the Eastern Wizard’s lap.
Shadimar frowned at the interruption, but Colbey grinned tolerantly. His face looked pale, even for his Northern coloring, and blankets covered his torso. “I would be flattering myself to believe all your concern is for me.” He winced with every word; apparently speaking caused him pain. His gaze trailed over the crowd, and Mitrian noticed that the fever had driven some of the coldness from his eyes. “You want to know about your general.” It was a logical guess.
Episte shoved through to the front; his smile seemed to encompass his entire face.
Colbey coughed, and sympathetic pain stabbed through Mitrian. “The news is good and bad. Santagithi was killed. We lost a fine warrior, but take solace.”
Tobhiyah interrupted, voice harsh with bitterness and sorrow. “He died in battle. Yes, we know. Spare us the Valhalla speech. I heard it from Rache. Fifty times was enough. All that matters is he’s dead.”
A hush grew, though whether in horror at Tobhiyah’s disrespect or in honor of Santagithi, Mitrian did not know. Forced to accept her father’s death for certain, Mitrian felt grief crush down upon her again. She dabbed at her moistening eyes, no longer able to deny the truth she had known for days.
Garn broke the silence. “How did you escape?”
Colbey’s gaze plucked Garn from the group. “After Santagithi and I killed the Northmen who had followed us all, and the general lost his life in valiant combat . . .” Rerouted by the need to mention the glory of Santagithi’s death, Colbey lost the thread of his sentence. “. . . I was sure hundreds of Northmen would soon be upon us. Since I didn’t know the cave, I dragged Santagithi’s body to a random passage. To my dismay, it ended blind. Before I could choose another direction, I heard voices. Trapped and injured, I bandaged my wounds from habit. I never expected to survive them.” He glanced at Shadimar, as if for explanation, but he did not give the Wizard an opening for reply. “The Northmen’s words echoed through the caverns, and I sifted out their plans. Most had circled the cave to wait at the back exit you had already cleared. The others formed a wall, sweeping the passage from front to back. It would have worked, too, except for one detail. I didn’t know how to find the back exit. So I sealed off Santagithi’s body with what rubble I could gather, lacking supplies for a pyre. With no other place to go, I went back to the entrance. Unwittingly, the Northmen had left me a herd of horses from which to choose my steed. As agreed, I rode here. And here I am.”
The old Renshai looked directly at Shadimar. “I could have received a kinder welcome. Your storm nearly finished me.”
Having already defended his tempest to Mitrian, the Eastern Wizard only shrugged. “I’m afraid, Colbey Calistinsson, magic is not as predictable as your sword.”
Bromdun restored command to his superior. “So what now, sir. Do you think it’s safe to return home?”
The crowd pressed forward, eager for Colbey’s reply. Nearly all had left loved ones as captives of the Northmen. Most had left the plight of their kin an unanswered question.
“I think it’s safe for you to return home.” Colbey’s response seemed noticeably odd. By avoiding the term “us,” he had excluded himself, at least. “You’ll need to replace your food stores and anything with monetary value, but I don’t believe the Northmen would harm anyone who didn’t fight back. They may have taken a few children as slaves or gladiators . . .”
Mitrian’s eyes strayed naturally to Garn for his reaction. Discovering most of the others looking in the same direction, she cursed her insensitivity. Garn seemed to handle the attention well, his attention completely on Colbey.
“. . . If you deal with it gently and keep your heads, you may barter those children back. Be patient. The Northmen are strict, but not cruel. They shouldn’t suffer.” Colbey looked out over the survivors. “You don’t have men to spare for fool’s missions or attacks in anger.”
“You’re not coming with us, sir?” Bromdun asked the obvious question. “You’re not going to help us set things right?”
“No.” Colbey lowered himself to the bed, his voice softening. “The rumors that I’m Renshai have always been true. So long as I’m with you, the Northmen will continue to attack. You have enough to do without worrying about going back, unprepared, to a war once lost.” He shook his head. “I would never ask anyone to lie. It would, however, be best if the Northmen believed I was dead.”
Order erupted into a clamor of conversation. Apparently sympathetic to Colbey’s need for rest, Bromdun raised a hand. “Quiet! Everyone out.” As the survivors filed back into the hallway, Bromdun addressed Shadimar. “If we may intrude one more night, we’ll leave at sunrise.”
Shadimar remained in place. “As you wish.”
Colbey waved Mitrian to him. “Stay behind. I need to talk to the other Renshai.”
Mitrian nodded. She caught Garn’s arm, then gestured to Rache and Episte to remain.
The last of the survivors filed through the door, and Bromdun closed the door behind himself and his charges. Shadimar stayed as well. Neither his presence nor Garn’s seemed to bother Colbey.
“You have my tunic?” Colbey swiveled his gaze to Shadimar.
Shadimar raised the tattered, bloodstained rag.
“Such as it is.” He shook it gently, and a medallion slid to the floor on a silver chain. “What’s this?” He hefted it.
Colbey’s gaze followed the jewelry. “I found that around Santagithi’s neck. That close to his heart, a warrior wears only something he treasures. Rache, Santagithi was your grandfather. I thought you should have it.”
Shadimar handed it to Rache, who stared at the medallion on his palm, the chain dangling through his fingers. Episte fidgeted as if in distress.
Mitrian shifted in closer for a better look. She recognized the piece now. “My mother used to wear that.” She reached for it, taking it by the chain, and scooting her hands to the medallion. “It opens. My mother used to keep a lock of Father’s hair in it. She believed that if she kept a piece of him with her, he would always come back from his forays.” Mitrian considered a moment, working the clasp. “And he always did, too.” She opened the medallion. A piece of folded parchment floated to Shadimar’s lap.
“Doesn’t look like hair to me,” Garn stated the obvious, craning for a peek.
An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Mitrian’s stomach. “Do you think he left us a message, knowing he would die?” The idea of a note from the grave made her excited and queasy at once.
Colbey shook his head. “He didn’t have time to write anything. At least not since before we left for the final battle.”
Shadimar unfolded the parchment.
“What’s it say?” Rache tried to read the words upside down in Shadimar’s grip.
“It says . . .” Shadimar read: “Why Nantel will let Rache choose his swords from this day forth.”
“What?” The words seemed wildly out of place, nothing distantly approaching anything Mitrian had expected.
Shadimar turned the parchment, orienting the letters in their proper direction for Mitrian. He passed the message to her.
Mitrian read, nodding to confirm Shadimar’s recitation. She recognized the handwriting at once. The elder Rache’s pen strokes had the same competent precision as his sword strokes. “Episte’s father wrote this. Decades ago, I’m sure.” Her face screwed into a knot of confusion. “Why would my father carry it?” She waved the page by one corner.
Episte pinched a loose edge, and took it from Mitrian’s hand. He studied the parchment, as if to glean some understanding from the handwriting, if not from the words.
Suddenly, Mitrian’s question no longer seemed apt. She wanted to describe the man behind the writing, to make Episte know the love and loyalty that would cause a leader to keep an ancient scrap of paper to remember a long dead captain. She wanted to describe the savage courage and beauty that had made Episte’s father attract followers and enemies like a flame draws moths. Yet, she knew that Episte had heard the descriptions and stories so many times before. She passed the medallion back to her son.
“How appropriate,” Colbey said softly. “A memory from both of your grandparents and from your guardian at once.”
Rache tugged at the parchment. Episte released it with obvious reluctance, his gaze rolling to the floor. He said nothing.
Rache refolded the parchment, replaced it into its compartment, then snapped the medallion shut. He studied his older, smaller “brother.” “I have my memories of my grandparents and the knowledge of a guardian hero in Valhalla. That’s more than enough.” Taking the medallion, he pressed it into Episte’s hand. “Brother, I think you should have this.”
Episte stared at the offering, palm open and fingers spread. He looked up, meeting Rache’s gaze. The two boys exchanged nervous smiles that had meaning only for siblings. “Thank you,” he said, at last, fingers closing over the medallion. His voice roughened, betraying impending tears. He turned away from the other Renshai.
Mitrian took a step forward to comfort the teen, then thought better of it. At sixteen, Episte would probably resent her intrusion. Alone, he could gain control of his tears more easily. Instead, she turned her attention to another who had also said something that, she felt, needed supporting. “Colbey, you know that anywhere you go, the Renshai will come with you. And Garn, too, of course.”
Garn stood behind Mitrian, placing his hands on her hips to indicate that he agreed with her decision, though she had not consulted him.
Colbey tucked his hands behind his head, apparently too weak to sit up again. “Of course.”
Colbey’s matter-of-fact pronouncement struck Mitrian momentarily speechless. She had expected him to at least go through the polite motions of pretending the choice was hers, to acknowledge some sacrifice to her giving up what remained of the town in which she had been born and raised.
Colbey seized on Mitrian’s silence. “The Renshai need to find a place where we can live and practice without enemies to interfere. North and east would be best, I think.”
“North and east,” Garn repeated incredulously. “That’s toward the Northmen.”
“Only if we stay on this side of the Great Mountains.” Colbey made a looping gesture to indicate travel to the Western Plains, through the passes of the Great Frenum Mountains and into the Eastlands.
“The Eastlands?” Mitrian shivered, every racial memory coming to the forefront. Legends of the Great War, now over, had long preceded her birth. Since infancy, she had been taught to hate the evil Eastlanders, to understand that they might, one day, destroy the West. “We can’t go there.”
“Why not?”
Mitrian wondered whether Colbey had lost his faculties in the battle. “Because they’re evil. They’re the enemy. They’d kill us just for entering their part of the world.”
Colbey chuckled. “They wouldn’t be the first to find Renshai don’t die easily. Remember, they just lost a war, too. They’ve had more time to rebuild, but I can’t see them being eager to battle with anyone right now. So long as we put up a strong defense and make it obvious we’re not going to start anything, I think they’ll leave us alone.” He pulled the blanket nearly to his chin. “Northmen, on the other hand, the Easterners won’t tolerate. I don’t think Valr Kirin or his charges would follow us there.”
“You’re a Northman,” Garn reminded. He glanced at the other Renshai. “Episte looks enough like his father to be a Northman, and I think Mitrian managed to give Rache every drop of Northern blood Santagithi had.”
Colbey did not budge. “Westerners come in a lot of different types. We don’t act like Northmen, and I’m the only one with an accent. I think the Easterners will know the difference.”
Garn remained relentlessly practical. “We don’t speak their language.”
“I speak enough to get by. And at least a few of them will know the Western trading tongue.”
Shadimar cleared his throat. “I speak Eastern. If the Renshai will have me, I’d like to accompany you.” His expression was even more serious than usual. “Colbey, I think I may take you up on your offer, after all.”
Colbey’s brows rose in question. When the Wizard did not clarify, the Renshai addressed the first request. “We’d be honored to have you.”
Shadimar ignored the compliment. “I have enemies, too. My presence may place you in grave danger. Any champion of mine will attract my enemies as well.”
Colbey laughed, a deep rumble of wry mirth. “Are you implying that we’re safe without you? Are your enemies worse than hundreds of Northern soldiers hunting Renshai or the warriors of every nation who consider us such a threat that they kill their own for speaking our name?”
Shadimar met Colbey’s gaze with a silent glare of fury. “Yes, they are. Will you still have me?”
Mitrian glanced back and forth, placing a hand on Garn’s arm. She felt certain that Colbey and Shadimar were discussing matters that went far beyond what she had heard. No matter Shadimar’s enemies, she felt safer with the Wizard.
Colbey did not consider for long. “The enemies of my brother are my enemies already. We’re more powerful together than apart.”
Garn fidgeted. Apparently having regained control of his emotions, Epist
e returned to Rache, placing a hand protectively on the younger boy’s shoulder.
“Very well,” Shadimar said. “I think we’re safe here. We’ll leave as soon as you feel well enough to travel.”
Episte placed the chain around his neck, and the medallion disappeared beneath his tunic.
Colbey closed his eyes, clearly worn out by the conversation. Shadimar herded Mitrian, Garn, Episte, and Rache from the room.
PART III
CARCOPHAN’S
CHAMPION
CHAPTER 18
The Journeys Begin
The Northern Sorceress, Trilless, sat cross-legged on the floor of her stone-walled cottage, a tattered, ancient book in her lap. The Northern Sea had splashed against the protective wall for centuries, gradually rounding the contour to the smoothness of a dolphin’s head. Waves crashed, roiling the waters of the fjords. Yet Trilless’ home had stood for centuries, protected from above by the ragged cliffs and from below by the water animals that were her minions.
Books littered the single table of Trilless’ library, many more scattered across the floor. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling along every wall, holding tomes that ranged in age from millennia to months, from the width of a finger to the breadth of all ten. The one in her lap made the next oldest volume seem infantile. It was as old as magic, written by the first Northern Wizard ten thousand years ago. The binding had hardened like stone, and the title had long ago worn away. Trilless scanned each page with an attention that stole meaning from time, place, and person. Sound turned to silence. Her vision ended at the edges of each page. Dry, airless pressure had kept the book intact, and the simple act of turning a page allowed it to crumble to powder. The strongest of her magics could not rescue the ancient leaves any more than she could retrieve a man from death.
Trilless finished scanning, pausing with a sigh. She guessed that the time she had sat reading and, from painful necessity, destroying the artifact could be measured in days. Still, she paused before touching, despising the feel of the first Northern Wizard’s written wisdom disintegrating between her fingers. For the thousandth time, Trilless reminded herself that her predecessors had transcribed and updated this information through the millennia. Every word and reference in the ancient tome had become incorporated into another volume. Every word, except the words that Trilless sought, a prophecy spoken by the first Southern Wizard at a time when he was just learning to use his talent. Trilless’ discussion with the demon had raised a distant whisper of memory amid her collective consciousness, a glimmer of remembrance that involved the eighteenth Southern Wizard, Carcophan, and a pale champion of near infinite skill.
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