The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The guards exchanged wary glances. Neither moved to obey. Nhetorl cleared his throat. “Are you certain, sir? Would you like reinforcements first?”

  Baran’s gaze swept back to Rathelon’s face. “Do you swear that you will do nothing but make the list and meet Garn’s challenge according to the laws of Erythane?”

  Rathelon scowled at the need for oaths. “I do. Until such time as the contest has finished and I’m freed.”

  “Or dead,” Garn finished with a growl.

  Rathelon’s scowl deepened, and he did not bother to look at Garn. “That goes without saying. And so should my honor. Whatever designs I had on the throne, I never hid or distorted them. I didn’t break the terms of banishment, and my men and I worked within our best interpretation of the law.”

  “Free him,” Baran said.

  This time, the Erythanians reluctantly obeyed. They inserted keys into the shackle locks. The irons slid from Rathelon’s wrists, the chains falling in a clanging heap to the floor at his back. Nhetorl pulled the leg fetters free. Without waiting for Rathelon to move or explore his partial freedom, Baran shoved a sheet of parchment, ink, and a stylus into his hands.

  Rathelon retired to a corner to write.

  The Erythanians slid the chains and shackles to the prison exit, metal scraping and belling against the granite floor.

  Garn approached Baran, his voice soft beneath the clamor. “Do you always carry writing implements on duty?”

  “Not usually,” Baran returned. “But I spent a long time thinking about how to respond to the knight’s note. A long time. I considered everything, including resigning.” He drew Garn into the farthest corner from Rathelon. “That’s not the issue now. You—”

  Garn interrupted. “Do you trust Rathelon to give you what he promised? What if he writes down the wrong names? Or none at all?”

  “He’ll do it right.” Baran seemed certain. “He’s a bastard in every sense of the word, but an honest bastard nonetheless. For all his evil, he does live by a code of honor and by his word.”

  “Finished,” Rathelon called out. He handed paper, ink, and stylus to Nhetorl. Unburdened, he headed toward the room’s center, attention fixed on Garn, a cruel smile playing over his lips. “It’s you and I, rodent. You made the challenge; by Erythanian law, you decide the weapon. Choose one that gives you an advantage if you want to live longer than a heartbeat.”

  Garn felt his control sliding again. For an instant, the opponent he faced became a lithe, blond Renshai and the room Santagithi’s gladiator training quarters. He pictured the guards, standing nervously aside with crossbows leveled. Rache had always wielded balanced steel to Garn’s wooden, practice blade. Always, Garn had believed equal weapons would have assured the sword master’s death. Yet, in the end, it had been the simplest weapon of all, Garn’s bare hands, that had crippled Rache. “Advantage? I don’t need one. In fact, let’s fight weaponless, strength to strength. The best man, not the best sword, should win.”

  “Garn.” Baran caught the ex-gladiator’s arm, but the warning came too late. The declaration was made, though the reasons behind it dispersed back to memory and obscurity.

  Garn studied Rathelon’s gigantic form without comment. The Béarnide would surely prove his strongest enemy ever. Yet, he had fought men of all sizes in the pit and placed full faith in his own ability. “Would it even the fight more if I closed my eyes and let you hit me from behind?”

  Rathelon did not grace the taunt with a reply. “You also get to select time and place.”

  Garn decide he’d better consult Baran about this. The captain had gone back to pacing, this time in a line so short it seemed more like a circle. “I’m in no hurry. Take the time you need. As to place, this seems perfect. It’s controlled, and we don’t have to worry about spectators getting offended or underfoot.”

  Rathelon stretched, muscles rippling. The Erythanians backed away.

  Garn also preferred the lack of onlookers. He savored the clarity of mind that had eluded him until Colbey’s teachings. That control had allowed Rache to best Garn repeatedly on the practice floor. Now that power was his. “Here seems as good a place as any other. And now as good a time.”

  The issue decided, Rathelon did not waste a moment. He sprang with the blood frenzy that Garn had overcome. Garn sidestepped too late. Rathelon crashed against him with a force that sent them both tumbling to the stone. Locked together, they bucked and kicked. They rolled, the guards jumping out of their path, and Garn managed to disentangle himself. Both men surged to their feet.

  Rathelon swung with the incaution and fury of a cyclone. His fists thudded repeatedly against Garn’s skull, causing flashes of pain that burned like fire. Garn returned fewer blows of better aim. Rathelon clawed for Garn’s eyes. Garn offset the attack with an arm, and the Béarnide’s nails opened Garn’s forehead. Through a veil of blood, Garn jolted a fist into Rathelon’s face. Impact staggered the Béarnide.

  Gasping for breath, Garn leaned against the wall, not bothering to press his advantage. Rathelon swayed momentarily. Suddenly, he threw himself at Garn. His superior weight bowled Garn over and bore him to the ground, the breath slammed from his lungs. Rathelon’s hands latched onto Garn’s throat.

  Garn’s hands jerked instinctively to the thick wrists. He tightened his neck to a solid cord. Still, Rathelon’s fingers gouged into the mass of taut musculature, and Garn fought for breath. The imminence of death filled his head, and the significance of the battle with it. Baran’s counting on me. Panic touched him, but he borrowed the strength from his mind to amplify his body’s power. So much more than my life or death lies in the balance. Both men held their grips. Suddenly, Garn shoved upward, and Rathelon’s wrists gave.

  Rathelon sprang back with a howl of pain. His shoulder blades slammed against the slime-coated wall, turning his cry into a broken gasp. Garn gulped a haggard breath, then plunged onto his opponent. His knee crashed into Rathelon’s groin, and the Béarnide stumbled. Garn jolted the ball of his hand against Rathelon’s nose, driving bone into brain. The Béarnide’s eyes blazed, then went dull. He plummeted, dead before he hit the ground.

  Bruised and battered, Garn swayed dizzily amidst Baran’s hazy, unrecognizable words. Then he fell into oblivion.

  * * *

  That night the moon was nearly full, so dawn brought little change to the brooding wasteland on which Colbey and his companions had camped. The change came from elsewhere. A proud, helmeted figure on a chestnut charger descended from the cliffs, with two men riding at his flank. They made no attempt to hide from the Renshai encampment, and none of the three carried a bow or arrows. Colbey supposed that this was the reason that the guards behind the cave, Rache and Tannin, had allowed the Northmen to ride, unhindered, toward the camp.

  Colbey checked his own companions. Arduwyn and Shadimar watched the approaching figures carefully. Secodon crouched, soundless. Mitrian had awakened, her blue eyes open, though she made no movement that might reveal her alertness to the newcomers.

  Colbey turned his attention back to the approaching Northmen. He recognized the one in the lead as Valr Kirin, knowing him by the solid set of his body and the smooth efficiency of his few movements. The Northmen pulled up their horses a polite distance from the camp that would require strong or loud voices for conversation. There, Valr Kirin slid the metal helm from his head, freeing a mane of silver-tinged, yellow hair. Blue eyes lay widely set above a hawklike nose. His usually broad mouth was set in a grim slit. His gray linen shirt did not rest flat against his chest, and Colbey knew it covered light armor. His woolen britches and cloak bore intricate embroidery. Many emotions wafted from him, yet they came individually, pure and separate, with none of the confusion that usually accompanied such a vibrant mixture. Colbey found a hatred so thick and raw it seemed primal, as sanctioned by nature as a predator’s hunt for food. To Colbey, it typified the Northmen’s long-standing hatred for Renshai, a feud that had lost meaning generations past. Yet Valr Kirin’s
hatred seemed far more specifically focused than that of the men flanking him. Clearly, the Renshai as a tribe no longer galled him. It was only Colbey.

  Without the need to probe, Colbey read more. He found a calm and ordered fear that seemed more like hopeless necessity. With it came knowledge of impending violence, hemmed and defined by an honor so distinct it could never be circumvented. Colbey understood that Kirin would fight, but not until the rules and circumstances had become clearly defined. If the Northmen planned a trick or a trap, Valr Kirin was not a part of it. His morality would not allow it. Beneath it all, Colbey discovered a grim certainty without so much as a pinhole of doubt. Whatever Kirin’s cause, he followed it with a faith stronger than religion. To Colbey, this seemed the man’s most extraordinary talent as well as his biggest flaw. The old Renshai could not help admiring a man so willing to fight and die for his convictions, no matter how much they opposed Colbey’s.

  “I bring a challenge I think you’ll accept, Bolboda.” Valr Kirin’s voice boomed, pitched to carry over the distance between them. “And I’d like to exchange vows.”

  It seemed only fair to meet Valr Kirin partway, and Colbey disliked the need to shout. Holding his reply, he kept his gaze fixed on the Northmen as he moved to the horses. He did not bother with a saddle, only bridled Frost Reaver and mounted. He glanced at the Wolf Point hilltops, picking Rache’s and Tannin’s still figures from the shadows. Turning, he studied the rest of the party. Mitrian stood, no longer feigning sleep. Shadimar remained still, the wolf quiet at his side. Arduwyn had slipped into a tangle of charred boughs, and Colbey did not see Korgar.

  Finally, Colbey looked back to Kirin and his entourage. Slowly, without threat, he approached, reining the Erythanian charger just beyond sword range. “Kirin, I’m willing to hear your challenge, though there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why do you call me Evil Bringer? I’m only trying to keep what’s left of my tribe alive in peace. You, however, want to destroy us for some ancient crime of our forefathers, and men and Wizards call you good. There’s no justice in that.”

  “I serve justice.” Valr Kirin stared, features locked in a scowl. “I know what you are and what you champion. Your lies may fool your followers, but I see through them, because I know the truth. Wizards and their sources cannot lie. Whatever intentions you claim, your future avows evil and destruction for Northmen and Renshai alike. I have no choice but to oppose that.” His gaze traveled to Shadimar, and his brows rose in anxious question.

  Colbey could only see the Wizard from the barest edge of peripheral vision, but he could tell that Shadimar’s demeanor stiffened. The old Renshai could not help wondering whether Shadimar could also read the suffocatingly intense sincerity radiating from Trilless’ champion. Clearly, Kirin believed every word he spoke with an unshakable certainty that nearly convinced Colbey. Maybe, just maybe, Trilless sees something in my future that even I could never guess.

  Though Valr Kirin continued to probe the Eastern Wizard, his words could only be meant for Colbey. “My grudge is no longer with your people, it’s with you. It is destined in the truest sense of the word, in the oldest text of the Wizards. You will betray and ruin the Renshai as well as us.”

  Anger descended on Colbey. When anyone questioned his courage or skill, he simply showed them the error of such thought. But that any man might believe, even for a moment, that he would work against the Renshai seemed an insult too base to contemplate. Still, to deny the accusation would prove nothing. To his followers, his actions through the decades would say more than Kirin’s words ever could. As to Kirin’s followers, Colbey did not care what they believed.

  The rest of Kirin’s accusation came carefully. “I see no reason for more than one Northman’s death nor for any skilled swordsmen to freeze in Hel. This feud is ours, Colbey, ours and the Wizards we serve, though you claim to deny your master.” He passed his gilded helmet to the man at his left, a nervous, squinty-eyed youth who appeared no older than Rache. “I serve goodness, and you’ve sold yourself to evil. I have no choice but to destroy you before your deceit damns your people as well as mine. If I fail, I only hope the Renshai will come to understand what you are before it’s too late.” His soft, pleading gaze flitted from Mitrian to Shadimar.

  Both looked away.

  Valr Kirin’s words did little more than confuse Colbey. “You’re crazy, Kirin. Or, at best, sadly misinformed. My loyalties lie with the Renshai and with Shadimar. If you have no feud with them, then you have none with me. We can end this now and both live in peace.” Colbey studied the man before him without blinking. He hoped that his words demonstrated how much the Renshai had changed, how other principles had joined the insatiable love for battle hammered into him since birth.

  Kirin lowered his head, breaking the contact. For a moment, Colbey thought the Nordmirian would cry. “Trilless said you would lie to the end. And convincingly. I should have known that one so long among the exiled Renshai could not escape the same dishonor that drove them to mutilate their cousins.” He again met Colbey’s eyes, his own blue orbs blazing. “From this moment forth, if the gods will allow it, I declare Northmen and Renshai at peace. We will stop hunting you, if you will allow my men to return to the North unhindered.”

  The vow pleased as well as startled Colbey. Still, it did not seem to follow naturally from Kirin’s prefacing statement. “That’s all that we’ve ever asked. I have no problem making this promise. Nor my companions, if their word means more to you.” Colbey responded carefully, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

  “You and I will fight. Win or lose, we free your hostages unscathed. But, should you refuse my challenge, my men have orders to kill the Western Renshai.” He raised his hand and rolled his eyes heavenward. “I swear by Thor, my men and I will honor this vow. Our battle is not finished until one of the two of us lies dead.”

  Colbey paused to think, seeing no flaws in the bargain. So long as he took Valr Kirin’s challenge, the Renshai could not lose. No matter who triumphed, his people would have what they sought: freedom for themselves and for the captives. The Renshai risked only one thing, Colbey’s life, and they no longer needed an old man who should have died decades past. Since Colbey claimed full ownership of that life, he consulted no one before making his decision. “Lady Sif, goddess of Renshai, hear me now. Your people will join this pact as Kirin spoke it. May you cut down anyone who betrays it.”

  Valr Kirin continued to study the sky, but he kept his prayers silent. At length, he passed the reins of his stallion to the man at his right and slid from the chestnut’s back. Colbey unbuckled and freed the bridle, balancing it across Frost Reaver’s withers. He commanded the charger to return to camp. The horse nuzzled Colbey’s arm, then obediently turned and headed toward the others. By the time Colbey turned back, Kirin had chosen a likely battleground on the forest turned graveyard, out of range of archers from either side and where horses would not risk injury from a wild stroke.

  The young man who had ridden at Valr Kirin’s left also dismounted, passing his reins to the other Northman. He approached Kirin, first handing him a pair of brass-studded gauntlets, then the helmet.

  “Thank you, Olvaerr.” Kirin lowered his voice nearly to a whisper, yet the depth of the silence around them, unbroken even by the normal sounds of an awakening forest, allowed Colbey to hear. “If I die, carry on. Keep your sword arm worked and your honor unwavering.”

  “May Thor steer your arm, Father,” Olvaerr replied as softly. He clasped Kirin’s wrist so tightly both of their hands blanched. Then, rather than turn away, he pulled his father into an embrace that lasted only seconds. The love that radiated from both came strongly to Colbey, tearing at him. It brought memories of Episte and what might have been, and Colbey knew an envy that nearly brought him to tears. For all that he had done and those that he had killed, if he could have lived only one part of his life again, he would have found a way to retract striking Episte and would have shown the boy his love instead. The memory ached
within him. Colbey waited until the embrace had finished and Olvaerr had stepped away before heading toward the Nordmirian lieutenant.

  Valr Kirin set his helmet in place, then pulled on the gauntlets. Legs braced, stance defensive, he watched Colbey’s approach.

  Colbey stopped directly before Kirin. “We can still call this off.”

  “We can’t,” Kirin replied, without hesitation. “You know what you are.”

  Colbey believed that he did, yet Kirin’s impression seemed so alien, he needed to understand it. He tried to grasp answers from the emotion radiating from the Northman, but all he could read was a direct certainty that Colbey would spread Carcophan’s evil on a rampage through all parts of the world. Again, Colbey found himself caught and drawn to that unwavering conviction that left not the tiniest shred of doubt. Never in his life had he believed in anything with such sureness, nor would he have guessed it possible for any man. Even his faith in Sif had moments where it grew shaky, and he questioned. Though he knew it was folly to weaken himself before battle, Colbey could not resist probing just a little deeper.

  Colbey’s journey into Val Kirin’s mind gave him an intensified feel for the emotions that had, already, seemed powerful. He followed the raging torrent of certainty to its root: the Northern Sorceress, a source that could not lie. The facts supported Valr Kirin’s assertion. The most ancient prophecies of the Wizards named the world’s greatest mortal swordsman as the champion of Carcophan’s evil, a Northman who would betray his tribe. Colbey froze there, feeling strength drain from him in a steady wash, yet unable to pull away.

  Abruptly, a presence severed Colbey’s mental tie to Valr Kirin, as quickly and sharply as a sword cut. The suddenness nearly sent Colbey tumbling backward, though he caught his balance with a clumsy step tempered by fatigue. Before him stood the woman who had sparred with him during his prayers on his return from the Great War. A scowl scored her unearthly beautiful features, and her voice reverberated with power. “Believe in what you are, Colbey. To intentionally drain your strength before a contest is cowardice of the worst kind.” As suddenly, she disappeared.