The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Shadimar continued, “That creature we fought last night was a demon. It could only have come from four sources, three if you discount me, and I did not call it. Since the Western Wizard is dead, that leaves two. Either Trilless or Carcophan could have called it. The question is why.”

  Colbey lowered the hilt to the ground, balancing the blade against his hand. The Wizard seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Colbey, and the Renshai believed it wrong to interrupt.

  “If he or she had called it for information and lost control, it would have slaughtered his or her followers, then left. And if I could best it by myself, either of them could have done so more easily.” Shadimar stared at Colbey, and his tangible emotions receded. Colbey felt certain the Wizard had come to a conclusion. “That demon was given a task. It was summoned specifically to kill someone.”

  “Who?” Colbey asked, the possibilities few.

  “The one and only person it attacked with intent to kill.” Shadimar rose. “You, Colbey. It wanted you.” He glanced at the Renshai’s bandaged hand. “And had it inflicted more than a scratch, each claw strike would have aged you a decade.”

  If Colbey had sustained a scratch, he dared not envision a significant injury. Still, he did not argue; it was not his way to burden others with complaints about his wounds. Instead, he shook his head, seeing flaws in the Eastern Wizard’s conclusion. “It had me in the cornfield, if it wanted me. Why didn’t it just keep shooting fire then?”

  Shadimar looked past Colbey, at the ladder leading down from the loft. “There is only one explanation. Its task was to kill you and no one else. Failing that, it had to wait until it got you alone.”

  Colbey’s brow furrowed. The noises wafting from the common room below seemed to disappear. “Why me? I thought these were your enemies.”

  “She sees you as a threat.”

  “She?” Colbey prodded.

  “Trilless.” Shadimar paced. “I have to guess it’s her work. The use of a demon screams Carcophan, but the instructions to hurt no one except you fits Trilless perfectly. And there’s precedent. I believe she goaded the Northmen against you.”

  Colbey corrected, fishing for the extent of Shadimar’s knowledge. “You mean against Santagithi.”

  “I mean exactly what I said. Nothing less.”

  Traitor that Emerald was, she was not a liar. Colbey let the knowledge pass. What Emerald had been no longer mattered, except in that she was Episte’s mother. Colbey would never disparage her memory in the boy’s presence. “This Trilless is the Northern Sorceress, right?”

  Shadimar nodded confirmation as he ambled past Colbey.

  “For someone who never met me, she’s been a constant source of trouble.”

  “It’s not personal.” Shadimar turned and headed back the way he had come. “It never is for Wizards. For reasons I don’t yet have the knowledge to fathom, she sees you as a threat to her cause.” One brow arched, apparently in memory of the demon. “Obviously, a serious threat.” He stopped directly in front of Colbey. “Like Wizards, demons can’t be harmed by anything of Odin’s world. Without Harval . . .” He pointed at the sword. “. . . you can’t do anything against your enemies, except die.”

  Colbey’s gaze strayed to the bandage. Had the demon’s claws caused much more damage, he would have lost his hand. He had heard rumors of men living nearly a century, then dying as feeble, twisted gnomes as frail as china dolls. A deeper slash would have left him dead of “age” and handless, barred from Valhalla as the price for a single wound that, without this weapon, he could not defend. Colbey raised the sword again, studying it in the stream of sunlight. It looked no different than before: fire-hardened to Colbey’s meticulous specifications, cold silver steel crafted to kill. Perhaps I will keep you. He directed the thought at the sword, prepared for a mental battle of control and will. Nothing ensued. The sword had no sentience of its own; it would obey its wielder without question or regard to action. It was a tool, like any weapon, yet with potential for greater harm. Is it any difference to own a sword whose balance and sharpness come from magic than to find one as well made by more mundane means?

  Colbey internalized the question, seeking Sif’s guidance. He received nothing direct, but his thoughts did shift slightly to a statement Shadimar had made indirectly: “Like Wizards, demons can’t be harmed by anything of Odin’s world.” If Harval can kill demons, then it can kill Wizards as well. Colbey considered the significance of his realization, and it made him smile. You started this feud, Trilless. You had best hope I don’t finish it. Again, Colbey flipped the weapon, this time catching the hilt. He slid the Gray Blade into the sheath it had occupied before the breaking. Its presence felt good.

  * * *

  Colbey chose a secluded clearing amidst the corn stalks for his practice, a circular burn apparently left by Trilless’ demon. Black stubble crunched beneath Colbey’s boots, and Harval flickered between the rows of stalks. He concentrated on single-blade patterns and thrusts. Though he hated letting one limb lie dormant, Colbey’s herbal studies allowed him to understand the need. First, the injury needed to heal. Sudden, committed movements would hamper his body’s restorative powers. Once the wound had closed, rehabilitation could come later.

  A feeling of presence touched Colbey first, a distant sensation of another’s staring. So soon after the demon’s attack, it made him leery; but he continued his practice without a break in stride. The svergelse gave him an excuse to have his sword drawn, and he saw no need to alert the other to his vigilance. So far, nothing about the being made it seem overtly malicious. His mind told him that the approaching creature was human. So long as he held a sword, Colbey believed he could handle any warrior in existence.

  Colbey performed a dexterous series of blocks, immediately followed by quick-slashes, reveling in the balance of the weapon in his grip. The person came closer. The elder Renshai could follow the unknown’s passage by the line of bowing corn tassels and the faint thump of stalk against stalk. As the other came to the edge of the clearing, Colbey lowered his sword. He caught a flashing image of blue cloth among the greenery. Episte shoved aside a pair of stalks in his path and looked in on the clearing. His gaze rolled from the scorched vegetation to the bandage on Colbey’s hand, and stopped there.

  Colbey sheathed his blade, pleased to see Episte despite the disruption of his practice. The apology he needed to give the youngster held a significance that hounded him, yet comforting, emotion-laden speeches had never come easily to him. He considered his words carefully, certain the right ones could strengthen their relationship regardless of the discomfort on both sides that would invariably hamper the initial proceedings.

  While Colbey studied his method, Episte blurted without preamble, whatever approach he had rehearsed en route lost in a sudden boil of emotion. “Is that the hand you hit me with?”

  Colbey followed the youngster’s attention to the bandage. Shadimar had given Colbey a poultice, claiming its use once daily would undoubtedly prove enough to heal a scrape. Shadimar’s lack of sympathy and insistence on understatement confused Colbey, and the concoction had had no instantaneous effect, though it had deadened the pain. As to Episte’s question, Colbey did not need to ponder long. Ever since he had struck his student, the impression of the contact seemed to linger on his flesh, a hot and ugly reminder. “Yes. Same hand. Poetic justice, isn’t it?” He flashed a mild smile, trying to lighten a difficult exchange.

  Episte’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Everyone makes mistakes, Episte. One’s own flaws are the hardest to recognize. The honor comes with admitting and atoning for those mistakes.” Colbey personalized the apology. “I’m sorry, Episte. You were right about the demon.”

  Episte’s tone did not change. It remained hurt and resentful. “You should have believed me.”

  “I should have,” Colbey admitted.

  “You called me a liar.”

  Colbey resisted the urge to defend his action. Surel
y even Episte had to see how farfetched the story must have seemed. “There’s a virtue to accepting apologies, too, Episte.”

  Episte ignored the warning. “You hit me. I never thought my torke would hit me. Especially in the face.”

  Colbey could feel the first stirrings of his own anger, nearly lost amid the tide of guilt. Though he reviled what he had done, he could not undo it. Yet the incident could not rest until Episte acknowledged his regret. “I said I was sorry. I am.”

  “I never thought my torke would hit me.”

  “That’s enough. I know what I did.” The repetition fanned Colbey’s growing annoyance. “You’re insulting my apology.”

  Episte turned away, rubbing at the site on his cheek where the blow had landed. Still, he did not permit the apology.

  Frustration drove Colbey to strike back in kind. “You’re not blameless either.”

  Episte spun back, hurt instantly replaced by rage. “So now you’re holding me at fault for getting hit by you?”

  “No. I’m holding you at fault for attacking your younger brother at the festival.”

  Episte avoided Colbey’s eyes. His mouth opened, then snapped closed. He spoke in a flat tone indicating building anger. “Rache told you that?”

  Colbey kept his gaze fixed on Episte. He had regained the upper hand, yet that was never what he had sought. “The farmers told me. And Garn gave me details.”

  “It was spar.” Episte defended himself.

  “Spar indicates a willingness on both sides. What Garn described didn’t sound like that.”

  Episte chewed his lower lips, still dodging Colbey’s gaze. “It’s none of your business. What happened at the festival is between Rache and me.”

  The disrespect further enraged Colbey, and the immediate importance of the apology receded. “First, there’s a reason why the Renshai tongue doesn’t have a separate word for teacher and sword master. If you learn nothing else, I would have you understand this: Violating the bond of brotherhood is every bit as dishonorable as striking a student. Second, whatever you think of what I did once, I’m still your torke; and you will address me with respect.”

  This time, Colbey’s cold eyes caught and held Episte’s, though not for long. The teen glanced away swiftly.

  “Do you understand that?”

  Episte went perfectly still, gaze on his boots. “Yes, torke,” he said, his tone expressionless and unreadable.

  “You will apologize to Rache.”

  “Yes, torke.” The blandness of the response indicated that Episte was responding without listening to or considering the demands and questions.

  Still short of the needed acknowledgment, Colbey pressed one last time. “Did you understand my apology?”

  “Yes, torke.”

  “Do you have anything to say, Episte?”

  Colbey held his breath, hoping his student would take a moment to give the question the consideration it deserved.

  But Episte’s response came equally quickly. He did not modulate his voice in any way. “No, torke.”

  Colbey hesitated, fingers unconsciously massaging Harval’s hilt. He could not force his apology upon the boy, yet the absence of acceptance left a hollow in his gut that made him feel incomplete. It was not a need to have things settled so much as a need to reestablish, and to enhance, the bonds beyond blood they had once shared. From this point on, he had no choice but to leave the initiative in the youngster’s hands. “You’re dismissed, Episte.”

  “Yes, torke,” Episte said in the same monotone. Without another word, he spun on his heel and headed from the clearing.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Demon’s Mark

  Colbey and his students, Garn, Shadimar, and Secodon set out from Greentree that day, their bellies full of festival leftovers and their packs crammed with rations for travel. The farmers knew their herds well enough to recognize the earliest signs of improving health. And, if the lack of a corpse failed to convince them of the demise of Flanner’s bane, the charred porch left little doubt that the Renshai and the Wizard had confronted the creature and survived.

  Gradually, the fields of the farm town merged into a vista of oak forest. Well-rested and fed, the horses threaded easily between the trunks, choosing deer trails and more open routes whenever possible. Freed from the burden of hunting, Mitrian chatted animatedly with Garn, who seemed thrilled at the companionship. The two younger Renshai rode ahead or halted, exploring every nook and hollow that might catch a teenager’s fancy. Even Shadimar seemed uplifted. His features lost some of their craggy solemnity, and he occasionally spoke to the wolf, where it perched on his horse’s rump.

  Only Colbey seemed alone, a prisoner of the body that had served him unfailingly for seventy-six years. He bore the scars of countless battles, the worst of which still puckered the skin across his chest and side. In the past, Colbey’s natural defenses had always repaired the breaks, cuts, and illnesses, with the help of a handful of herbs. But, despite Shadimar’s poultice, the claw strikes of the demon did not heal.

  Unwilling to alarm his companions, Colbey kept his hand bandaged. When traditional herbs failed, he led the party in wild loops for legendary cures, without explanation. The salivary gland of a black squirrel gained him nothing more than the sap of a maple mixed with river tar. As the wound worsened, Colbey lost the will to unwrap the bandage every day, and pain forced him to wield a single sword, right-handed. Unconsciously, Colbey used his students as an outlet for his frustration. Episte and Mitrian appeared eternally tired, and Rache became haggard due not only to the added violence of the old Renshai’s training, but also to Garn’s insistence that he learn the use of other weapons as well.

  Two weeks outside of the farming town of Greentree, Colbey found himself too troubled to sleep. He took first watch that night. The sky formed a film of gray, tapering to pink at the horizons. The moon hovered like a blood spot, dull compared to the campfire’s light and heat. Colbey looked at the withered shadows of the trees. His gaze dropped slowly to the ground, passing over each of his sleeping companions in turn, then flickered across the layers of cloth that enwrapped his left hand.

  Colbey looked away. Again, he stared into the distance, but his focus always returned to the same thing, like a fishing line cast outward and always reeled back. The silver disappeared from the sky, replaced by a darkness spoiled only by the dwindling fire and the diffuse glow of the moon. Time passed in a throbbing cycle. The pain of the wound had become too familiar, and deeper with time. From the position of the moon, Colbey knew he should awaken Mitrian for her watch; but he saw no reason to disturb her while he could not sleep. And he knew he had no choice but to look upon his hand.

  Once made, the decision allowed him to notice something that had slipped past his gaze before. Swollen red streaks ran along his arm, their edges just beginning to show beneath the bandage. Once discovered, the infection filled his thoughts, and he could not turn away again. Despair threatened to overwhelm him. He had outlived his peers by nearly five decades. He had dedicated his life to his swords and accomplished more than any Renshai before him. Nothing remained except to train his successor and die in glory; but Colbey knew now that he would lose his hand and his arm and, therefore, his chance to enter Valhalla. Moments passed like days while Colbey stared at his inflamed hand, knowing it would soon steal the dignity from life and the honor from death. The other Renshai deserve better than a ravaged old man condemned to the frozen wastes of Hel.

  Colbey unwrapped the bandage. He could combat a dozen Northmen at once and enjoy the challenge, yet it took all of his courage to look upon his own hand. Once he did, he could not tear his gaze from it. Its back had become a grossly swollen mass of clotted blood and fluid. His fingers had shriveled and purpled, becoming black at the tips. All about it crept the red rash.

  “Days.” Only one solution presented itself to Colbey. I have to die in battle, before the infection claims my hand. His thoughts raced. I have to find a town in these dense, forsaken
woods, an army to attack and a war in which to die. Once a threat, death became a mellow promise, and the aching in Colbey’s hand gave way before the strength of his mind. Yet guilt rose to spoil the serenity that should have come with the decision. To kill innocents to preserve my place in Valhalla would undermine all I’ve tried to do to recreate the Renshai and restore the honor stolen through decades of wanton killing.

  A swishing noise snapped Colbey’s attention from his thoughts. Instinctively, he leapt aside, and a dozen arrows fell about the scarlet flicker of the campfire.

  “Up!” Colbey screamed. He scattered the coals with a wild kick that plunged them into darkness. “Scatter,” he whispered gruffly. “They can’t take us all!” He added quickly in Renshai, “We’ll meet back at the damaged tree.” It was a landmark all of his companions would remember, a lightning-struck oak with barkless stripes running down its trunk that they had passed during the day. Hoping Mitrian would interpret for Garn, Colbey headed directly for the bowmen.

  The Renshai’s feet made no sound on the carpet of greenery that wound beneath the trees. His eyes adjusted to the more complete darkness, and he slowed his pace to think. Without the guidance of the fire, night would foil the archers’ aim, and they would need to draw hand weapons to battle. Having lost the advantage of surprise, they would need numbers to fight Renshai. Colbey’s mind traced the trajectory of the arrows, and memory told him that the shafts had come from many directions. If so, the enemy would need to regroup.

  With the stealth of a predator, Colbey doubled back on his trail. In the distance, he heard some indiscernible calls. A closer movement froze him. An instant later, he heard musical voices using the Northern tongue: