The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  When forest gave way to open plain, Colbey stopped the party. “There’s a town ahead.” He tried to add just a hint of question to his words, hoping to elicit information without frightening the others with his ignorance.

  Only Shadimar took the bait. “A city, actually. Of medium size. It’s called Porvada.”

  Colbey frowned. A city one day’s journey from where we last camped. It’s the first place the Northmen will expect us to go. “We’ll need to change direction.”

  “Change direction?” Garn sounded indignant. “Didn’t you just say the town was ahead?”

  “It’s too dangerous.” Colbey looked out over a plain obviously cleared by fires to a few distant, peaked rooftops. “The Northmen will expect us to go for supplies.”

  Garn stared back, finding Colbey’s conclusion difficult to follow. “Well, of course, they’ll expect us to go for supplies. We’d be stupid to do anything else.”

  Shadimar stood aloof, stroking Secodon’s head. As usual, Korgar had slipped into the vegetation, unseen. Rache huddled between two trunks, his cheeks dirt-streaked in tear lines and his eyes swollen. Mitrian looked from Garn to Colbey and back.

  “They’ll be waiting for us,” Colbey explained.

  “We’ll avoid them.”

  “That won’t be easy.”

  “What choice do we have?” Garn threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’ll go. I’ll kill any Northman who dares to show his face.”

  “There could be dozens.” Colbey wrestled with the dilemma, knowing Garn was right about the supplies yet seeing the danger in a way no one who had not witnessed the headless corpse could. “There might be hundreds.”

  Garn’s gut protested in a loud grumble that traversed its length. “I’ll fight hundreds, then. I’d rather die at the hands of Northmen than of starvation. I’ve known hunger before. I hated it then. I hate it more now.”

  “I’ll go,” Mitrian said.

  “No,” Colbey said, the idea of losing another Renshai tearing at him.

  “No,” Garn repeated.

  Mitrian continued as if neither man had spoken. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. If we all go, the Northmen will know us at once. One person might slip in, get supplies, and leave.”

  Colbey considered. There was logic to Mitrian’s suggestion, and danger as well. “I don’t suppose you know this city. We couldn’t have one of our own wandering the streets looking for a place to buy rations. The law would keep Northmen from attacking in a crowd. In an empty side street. . . .” Colbey let the observation dangle.

  “I wouldn’t have to wander.” Mitrian turned her gaze to the outlying rooftops. “A medium-sized city will have at least one tavern. I can’t get jerked or smoked meat ready for travel, but I should be able to get enough food to keep us until we find a less conspicuous town to—”

  “Quit saying ‘I,’” Garn interrupted. “It makes more sense for me to go.”

  “No one—” started Colbey, but Mitrian cut in again.

  “On the contrary, I’m the only possible choice. Rache needs his training. You and Colbey and Shadimar are too conspicuous. I’m a woman, and I fought mostly at home. Certainly, you and Colbey would be recognized. I might go unnoticed. I’m a Westerner. I look like a Westerner. I talk like a Westerner. I’m the only one born and raised in a Western town in a normal manner, except Rache; and we’ve already excluded him.”

  Colbey dismissed the possibility of sending Korgar. First, Colbey doubted he could communicate the mission in a way the barbarian could understand. Second, Colbey did not yet understand why the barbarian had chosen to follow them, and the Renshai felt certain Korgar might leave as suddenly and unexpectedly as he had come. He saw other advantages to using Mitrian. Surely, the laws of Porvada would preclude violence in its tavern. If the Northmen tried to finger Mitrian as Renshai, they would suffer the consequences. Mitrian’s dark hair and Western dialect would protect her from the allegation in a way the Northmen’s features would not. And Colbey felt certain the laws and citizens would favor a pretty Western woman over a dirty pack of foreign warriors. “All right,” he said, still hating the risks and possibilities. “But go straight to the tavern and come straight back. Don’t take any chances.”

  “I won’t,” Mitrian said. Before Colbey could change his mind, she scuttled into the dusk.

  Garn glared. “How could you do that?”

  Colbey watched Mitrian go until she blurred to a single dark splotch. “Because you were right. And she was right, too.”

  “Maybe. But her life is worth too much to risk.”

  Worth. The word seeped into Colbey’s consciousness, raising an issue he had not considered until that moment. Not wishing to face Garn’s wrath, Colbey kept the thought to himself. I just sent Mitrian to buy supplies with nothing but her sword and the clothes on her back. The idea rankled, yet Colbey forced it to rest. Of them all, Mitrian had the most experience with money and payment. He felt certain that she had considered the problem as well. And he hoped she had a plan.

  * * *

  Mitrian entered the city of Porvada with a caution that bordered on paranoia and with reservations that she had hidden well from Colbey and Garn. As she stared at the neat rows of cottages and shops, so like those of the town in which she had been raised, she let caution usurp the grief that had dampened every thought and movement. The fire-cleared plain brought her to a jumble of rocks that ringed the periphery of the cobbled streets. Stepping over the piles of smaller stones, she headed down the largest roadway.

  Dusk colored the sky purple-pink, and buildings of varying shapes and sizes broke the skyline in dark squares, arcs, and triangles. Crude wire fences penned scant herds of sheep and pigs between cottages. Mitrian kept her head low to hide her features, though she let her long, red-brown locks fly freely in the breeze. Pulling her hood over her head in midsummer would draw attention unnecessarily. No one would question the presence of a dark-haired woman on the streets of a Western town. The few Northmen who might recognize her could do so only after a long, studied scrutiny of her face. And she hoped racial features would make all Westerners look as similar to Northmen as Northmen did to her.

  As Mitrian continued down the unfamiliar roadway, men and women passed her without a second glance. A misplaced familiarity made her shiver. She might have been traversing the main road of Santagithi’s Town, except that her father and his people would have gawked at a woman carrying a sword. Though the women in Porvada carried no weapons, they seemed to take no particular interest in nor insult from Mitrian. For her part, she kept the wolf’s head hilt buried beneath a fold of her cloak, concerned that the Northmen might recognize the unusual craftsmanship and the damaged topaz set as eyes.

  At length, Mitrian came upon a pair of men in matching brown pants and tucked, yellow shirts. Both had rich chestnut hair, hacked short, and broad Western features. A broadsword hung from each man’s belt.

  Presuming them to be guards, Mitrian approached. She used the Western trading tongue. “Hello. Could you tell me where I could find a tavern?”

  One man smiled, his teeth a brilliant white in the gathering grayness. He pointed further up the main path. “Just a few more buildings. On the right.” He twisted, staring in the direction he had indicated. “You can just see it there. The one past the cooper.”

  Mitrian craned her neck toward the indicated landmark. The buildings all looked strange and forbidding, a line of huddling shapes behind which Northmen might lurk. Though she did not see the tavern, she could make out the barrel-shaped sign over the cooper’s shop.

  The other man turned Mitrian a gap-toothed grin. A grimy hand kneaded his sword hilt, then slid toward his thigh. “If it’s companionship you seek . . .”

  His condescending tone coupled with the obscene gesture aroused anger. Anticipating trouble ever since leaving her companions, Mitrian instinctively placed a hand on her own hilt. Then, recognizing the danger of such an action, she forced her grip lax and smiled dryly. “It�
�s not.” She hurried off, not wishing to antagonize guards. Their response told her what sort of women frequented this tavern, and she did not relish the need to deal with strange men’s solicitations. Still, she dared not waste time seeking another tavern when she had found one so close. No need to upset Garn, Rache, or Colbey. If they come looking for me, we won’t escape without a heated battle.

  As she trotted past the cooper’s shop, Mitrian found the next building dilapidated, its paint peeling and its door splashed with mud. She paused, wondering whether the guards had steered her in the wrong direction for the fun of harassing a foreigner. She might have believed the shop abandoned if not for a sign swinging from a single nail above the doorway. Dirty and weathered to jagged planks, the sign held lettering that had faded beyond Mitrian’s ability to read it; yet its vaulted shape had become symbolic of bar signs throughout the Westlands.

  As Mitrian stood staring and considering, the door swung open. Two men stumbled out and onto the street, laughing, their clothing stained and reeking of ale. Seizing the opportunity, Mitrian peered inside. She caught a quick glimpse of crowds, all men, huddled around tables. Candles reflected from polished glass and pewter. No fire lay in the grate; summer heat and hordes of patrons warmed the room well enough. Painted walls of pale blue and white made a cheerful contrast to the unkempt exterior. Mitrian wondered if the look had been created intentionally. The earthy, corroded exterior made the interior seem so much more inviting. The door banged shut, leaving her once again in the darkening street.

  Emboldened by her glance, Mitrian pushed the door ajar and slipped inside. She noticed details that her flash of a view had not revealed. Shelves filled one wall, lined with bottles, bowls, and flasks. A doorway had been cut into the center of the shelving. By the chime of pots, she guessed that it led into the kitchen. Before it, two men poured mead from flasks to bowls and mugs, and half a dozen long-legged barmaids carried the drinks to tables.

  Those men nearest the door fell silent. From the corners of her vision, Mitrian saw them exchange nudges and whispered comments she could not hear. Ignoring them, she crossed the floor quickly. She tried to look nonchalant, but managed only a self-conscious shuffle across the barroom, where she took a seat at the nearest empty table.

  Once settled, Mitrian scanned the patrons. Most were Westerners, dark-haired, muddy-eyed natives in ragged farm dress. Many carried weapons, to her surprise. A few even wore armor of leather, without the studs that her father’s officers had worn on duty. Most of the others sported the simple homespun of men who preferred work to war. She saw only one other female patron. A scantily-clad, aging woman wandered from table to table. Her clothes sagged around her thin frame. Surely, she had once made her living seducing men in the tavern, but time had stolen her beauty.

  The men seemed far more interested in the drink-touting beauties. Repeatedly, Mitrian watched the girls smile tolerantly at leers, pinches, and propositions. As she studied the crowd, one of the barmaids approached. “Would the lady have something to eat and drink?”

  Mitrian tore her gaze from the others reluctantly, not yet satisfied with her inspection. She looked up into a face nearly a decade younger than her own twenty-nine years. The barmaid wore a haughty smirk that suggested she guessed Mitrian’s profession was the same as the other female patron. Though she carried no money, Mitrian’s hunger bested her common sense. Recalling the sheep and pigs that she had passed, she ordered accordingly. “Mutton and wine, please.”

  “At once, lady.” The barmaid scurried toward the bar.

  Not yet ready to contemplate payment, Mitrian examined the crowd more thoroughly. At the next table, four men spoke the Western tongue in loud tones interspersed with laughter. Beyond them, a press of working men carried on a heated discussion. Mitrian could not understand their words, but they waved their arms wildly as they made their points. Then her gaze riveted on a table of wanderers she had not previously noticed, and the workers were forgotten. In the far corner of the room, three Northmen sat drinking beer.

  Mitrian clasped the edge of the table, keeping her face in shadow and cursing the male domination that would make her a center of attention. The Northmen looked conspicuous with their braided yellow hair and savage faces. She wondered why she had not noticed them before, attributing it to their stillness and choice of position. A sword girded each waist, and a pair of long bows leaned against the table. Two of the Northmen sported travel-darkened leather. The third wore a corselet of iron rings. A beaked nose jutted from an otherwise ruggedly handsome face. He was clean-shaven where the others were bearded, and golden clips in the shape of lightning bolts adorned the bands that wound through his braids. Mitrian had seen Valr Kirin only once before, from a distance, but his description had lodged in her memory.

  Mitrian’s hands fell into her lap as she considered the futility of her predicament. At the time, standing in a secluded forest with the people she loved and the protection of the best swordsman in existence, the decision had made sense to her. She had wanted to be alone for a time, to escape the lead weight of grief that seemed interminable. As much as she had cared for Episte, she found her thoughts straying protectively to Rache. Occasionally, joy had spiked through her pain, inspired by the relief that she had not lost her own son, and this emotion made her feel ugly and evil. She knew it was wrong to place her own bloodline before the orphaned child the gods had so graciously handed to her. And she also knew that, before the Renshai became fully settled, she would almost certainly lose Colbey and possibly others that she loved as well.

  The concept shivered through Mitrian. She considered herself wholly Renshai, yet she still clung to some of the moralities and concepts with which Santagithi and her mother had raised her. As many times as she told herself that she could accept the deaths of Colbey, Garn, and Rache, so long as they went down in glorious combat, the reality of the agony she felt for Episte made her question her emotional strength. Though Colbey had given no details, the means of the teen’s death did allow her to mourn. But Mitrian had come to realize that far more than the method of Episte’s slaying upset her. She missed Episte. She could scarcely imagine life without the natural skill that she had coveted, without the careless grace that had reminded her so much of the boy’s father, and without the soft-spoken gentleness, the sensitivity that flared to sullen, bitter rages. She could not help wondering whether her lapse made her a poor excuse for a Renshai. She wished she could be as strong as Colbey. It might be worth his stony coldness not to hurt so much.

  Recognizing that her thoughts had shifted to the matters she had come to escape, Mitrian forced her mind to a more urgent dilemma. I’m in a tavern with Northmen, including Valr Kirin. We desperately need supplies, but I can’t even pay for the meal I ordered for myself.

  Enmeshed in these concerns, her attention riveted on the Northmen, Mitrian did not notice the man who came up beside her until he spoke in the Western trading tongue. “Hellooo,” he slurred.

  Startled, Mitrian looked at the speaker, a stout, middle-aged Westerner with a crooked smile. The stench of ale on his breath made her cringe. She made a wordless sound of repugnance, then added, “Go away.”

  The man stumbled backward. His smile faded. “Hozzz-tile wench.” He tottered several steps further, stepping on his own feet as he moved and catching his balance with a hand on the back of a chair.

  “Yes. Now go away.” Mitrian sighed, glad that the incident seemed so swiftly finished.

  A neatly dressed man at the table beside Mitrian jumped to his feet, his short sword hissing from its sheath.

  Mitrian recoiled, her own hand falling to her hilt. She did not draw.

  The armed man flicked the tip of his blade to the drunkard’s throat, though the other held no weapon and was obviously too intoxicated to defend himself. The drunkard made a garbled noise of defense.

  “How dare you insult a lady.” The well-dressed man maintained an air of dignity, but Mitrian guessed that his intentions were no more honorabl
e and far less amusing. He tossed his next line to her. “I’ll take care of this wretch, ma’am.”

  The man’s antics infuriated Mitrian. She had tried so hard to remain inconspicuous despite her sex, and this stranger professing to defend her honor had destroyed any remaining shred of privacy. Uncertainty exploded to outrage. She sprang to her feet. At this point, she wanted to be left alone. With every eye in the tavern already on her, it no longer mattered how large a scene she created to achieve that goal. “I can defend my own damned honor!” Her sword whipped from its sheath. Using a basic Renshai disarming maneuver, she wrested the sword from his hand, catching the hilt before it struck the floor.

  The drunkard made a hasty retreat that sent him sprawling over a chair. The well-dressed man recoiled in stunned surprise, studying his hand for the damage most disarming maneuvers would have inflicted.

  Mitrian sheathed her sword and took her seat in a single motion. She had caught the man’s sword out of habit, not from any specific respect. To remedy the lapse that had grown from years of training Renshai, she dropped the other’s sword to the floor deliberately. It struck with a clanging thump. With the ball of her sandal, she kicked the weapon back to its owner, turning her back to him to augment her disdain. She suspected that all of the conventional warrior insults were lost on this man, who had probably seen little, if any, combat. Still, they made Mitrian feel better, and her movement did give her a nonchalant position from which to view the Northmen while showing them only a partial profile. She watched the three resume their meal and conversation, like the remainder of the men in the tavern. They had paid her no more heed than the others, yet that was too much for Mitrian. Silently, she cursed her misfortune, knowing that she could only partially blame the drunk solicitor and her false protector. She had not handled the situation as well as she should have.