The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The Eighteenth Dark Lord

  Will obtain in his day

  A pale-skinned champion

  To darken the way.

  One destined to betray

  The West and his clan,

  A swordsman unmatched

  By another mortal man.

  Colbey’s mind froze there, strength draining away from the effort of maintaining the contact. Shadimar’s understanding filled in the gaps in Colbey’s knowledge. He knew that the poem came from an origin too ancient and honor-bound to lie. He discovered that the Eighteenth Dark Lord was the Southern Wizard, Carcophan. And, like Shadimar and his sources, Colbey saw how the prophecy had to refer to himself.

  Colbey discovered other things, too. He found the end of a more familiar lyric, one there could no longer be any doubt described himself: “He will hold legend and destiny in his hand and wield them like a sword. Too late shall he be known unto you: The Golden Prince of Demons.” Too late. What does that mean?

  Before he could contemplate this for too long, Colbey found a prediction that distressed Shadimar more, one that promised the Ragnarok would occur when three Swords of Power existed on man’s world at once. Harval was one and Ristoril another. He understood that Ristoril had already returned to its rightful place, but only time would tell if the last Sword had existed on this world simultaneously.

  Colbey’s heart quickened. The total destruction of the world made the claim that he would betray Renshai seem minimal. Yet, for reasons he could not explain, his probe kept returning to the original verse: “A swordsman unmatched by another mortal man.” Desperately, Colbey searched for the loophole. Perhaps, somewhere, there lived a swordsman more skilled than himself, but he did not consider that too probable. A warrior of such ability could not remain secluded long, and Trilless’ certainty had convinced Shadimar. Only one other suggestion presented itself. And, in his excitement and rapidly growing fatigue, Colbey spoke his thought aloud. “If I really am a demon, or part a demon, perhaps I’m not a mortal man.”

  Fogged by an effort that had nearly drained him of physical and mental energy, it took Colbey a moment to find the error in his logic. If I was a demon, the Northmen’s swords could not have drawn blood from me. And they did.

  Even as the thought came, understanding of Colbey’s presence flared abruptly through Shadimar’s mind. The Wizard yelped, panic obscuring his thoughts. Mental barriers dropped like portcullises. They sealed mental and emotional pathways at random, revealing to Colbey that Shadimar could not detect the specific location of his probe.

  Caught, Colbey retreated. His thread of thought crashed against a barrier in his line of escape. His reality wavered, threatening unconscious. Uncertain what the effect of collapsing while ensconced in another’s thoughts would be, on himself or on the Wizard, he drew back and thrust hurriedly against the barrier.

  The wall shattered like ancient bone. Shadimar screamed in agony, collapsing to his knees on the forest floor, and Colbey jerked free. Dizzied, he forced his body absolutely still, unwilling to spend even a fragment of his failing stamina. His mind staggered through a haze of whirling flashes of color. Shadimar’s form went misty, a warped, unidentifiable shadow highlighted by the moon. Secodon whined in terror, standing protectively over his master.

  “Why?” Shadimar said, rising to his hands and knees. Then louder, “Why!” Yet, despite forcefulness and volume, Colbey knew the Eastern Wizard did not expect an answer. And, for the moment, Colbey feared attempting one might drain him of whatever awareness remained. A thought slipped clearly from the Wizard, bathed in an aura of hope. If I gave Harval to Carcophan’s champion, then he has no reason to summon the Dark Sword. The world may yet be safe thanks to my own gullible stupidity.

  Despite the risk, Colbey knew he had to speak. He kept his voice barely above a whisper, still holding his position with grim stoicism. War had made him adept at hiding weakness from enemies. “Wizard, once-brother, I give you back your own words. You once told me that prophecies do not predict the future, only guide Wizards to their responsibilities. Why would you damn me for a prophecy I have evaded?”

  Shadimar climbed gingerly to his feet, the wolf a quiet sentinel in front of him. His movements seemed uncharacteristically clumsy. He spoke equally softly, wincing with each syllable, like a man awakening from a drinking binge who finds every light too bright and every noise thunderous. “I can believe that a prophecy was thwarted. I cannot believe that a Wizard would have a hand in ruining his own task. Had you told me that Carcophan had come to recruit you and you killed him, then I would believe you had thwarted the prophecy.” Shadimar paused for breath. “Carcophan would not abandon the champion rightfully his without a struggle, the like of which would be beyond your imagination. Anything less would violate his Wizard’s vows. The consequences of that would prove far worse than anything you could do to him.”

  After decades of war, Colbey doubted any struggle could be beyond his imagination, but he appreciated the rational exchange of information, so he let this pass. The need for sleep pressed Colbey unmercifully, but he would not drop the conversation just as he had begun to understand Shadimar’s concerns. “Carcophan has not approached me yet. When he does, I’ll refuse him. He won’t find it easy to take an unwilling champion who wields a sword that can kill him.” He clutched Harval’s hilt. “My friend, I’ll do what’s best for you and the Westlands.”

  A slash of strength returned to Shadimar, born of raw anger. “You’re no friend of mine.” Rage flared, then died without the physical energy it needed as fuel. Still Shadimar curled into his own defensiveness, the entire emotional exchange readable to Colbey. “A friend would not rape my thoughts. No man could have the mind powers you possess. They could only come of chaos. And since only the Cardinal Wizards can manipulate magic, you can be nothing other than a demon. The Golden Prince of Demons. And nothing an unbound demon says can be trusted.”

  The accusation pained and seemed, at the same time, outrageous. “If I had a year of life for every man who attributed my sword skill to magic instead of practice, I could outlive the gods.” Colbey felt his own vitality returning, though he still felt dizzy. “Now you attribute the mental control I’ve driven myself to achieve for seventy years to that same magic.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you knew better.”

  Secodon crouched, his brown eyes fixed on Colbey and his lips pulled away from his canines. Colbey saw the same violence echoed in the Eastern Wizard’s stance. Instinctively, Colbey went on his guard, though the effort sent a wave of vertigo through him. The wolf, Colbey believed, he could handle. He had no experience on which to judge Shadimar’s threat. Logic and observation told him that the Wizards practiced only illusion. Shadimar’s confidence suggested otherwise. “You know what you are.”

  Colbey had tired of hearing those words from men who believed him other than what he knew. Yet when so many with power felt so sure, he could not help wondering whether he was not the one who was mistaken.

  “As did Kirin and Trilless. And so now do I.”

  “We’re no longer brothers or friends?” Colbey needed to know for certain.

  “How could we be?”

  “And I am no longer your champion?”

  Shadimar went silent.

  “Answer me, Shadimar. I have a right to know.”

  The Wizard looked up, his gray eyes cold. The certainty of violence became stronger; it now radiated from his manner and thought as well. “You are still my champion.” The trailing idea came to Colbey as emphatically as the spoken words. Death alone can sever that tie, once made.

  Colbey had tired of the mistrust. It incensed him that a Wizard he had considered a brother had written off not only his life, but his honor, on the basis of an ancient prophecy that Colbey had had no hand in writing. “My death or yours, Shadimar?”

  The Eastern Wizard made a sharp cry of distress, pierced by Secodon’s whine. Shadimar’s hand whipped upward, and he enunciated a foreign string of syllables.
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br />   Colbey hesitated only an eye blink, not wanting to act on a misunderstanding. But the murder in Shadimar’s intentions struck unmistakably and without place for doubt.

  I won’t die like this. Colbey drew Harval and charged.

  Secodon launched for Colbey’s sword arm, but the Renshai anticipated and dodged. He lunged beneath the wolf’s attack.

  The tempo and intensity of Shadimar’s chant changed instantly. Colbey’s sword jabbed true, but he met no resistance. The Wizard and his wolf had disappeared.

  Under ordinary circumstances, Colbey could have recovered instantly. Now, however, fatigue robbed him of all grace, and he did not even try to pull the blow. Momentum carried him into the stump that Shadimar had used as a seat. He toppled over it, not daring to shield his fall. Further deliberate movement would drain the last dregs of his awareness, and he would not let Shadimar return to find him helpless and unconscious. Delicately, Colbey sheathed Harval.

  Destined to betray . . . his clan. Colbey lay still, considering the words of the prophecy. It can’t mean me. I would never stand against the Renshai. Yet the direction of his earlier thoughts, while on watch, bothered him. Before Valr Kirin’s death, Colbey had never thought to question the basic tenets and foundation of his theology and the Renshai’s place within it. In fact, he had quelled the questions of those who dared to doubt, at times with violence. Ungrounded superstition. And how much more of my religion is the same? He thought about the Renshai then, the wild, savage tribe he had known as a child. It bore little comparison to the scraggly band of six that now called themselves by the same name, half of whom had never learned a single of the sword maneuvers that distinguished the Renshai. All lacked the lunatic, frenzied need for battle that stole meaning from all in life except the chance to die in glory. By choice, Colbey had trained the savagery away, replacing it with a morality based on thought rather than arbitrary rules. And now he scarcely recognized the tribe he protected, nurtured, and called his own.

  Colbey remained in place, trusting his instincts to warn him of Shadimar’s return, not even wasting the shred of vitality that forced alertness might cost him. His mind returned him to a day among central Westland farm towns and wearied Pudarian soldiers. He had placed the question of the Renshai’s future to Sif, and her presence made him certain that he had trained her people as she preferred. Yet among Renshai, Colbey had become the piece that jarred, the last, ruthless remnant of a tribe that had softened its tactics, if not its rigid pursuit of perfection in sword technique. Mitrian knows the Renshai maneuvers, and she has an imagination that will drive her to create more, even as she masters those she knows. She can teach and lead.

  One by one, Colbey’s foundations and trusts had shattered or disappeared. He had done nothing he considered wrong, yet he had betrayed one blood brother and lost the trust of the other. For all he had tried to devote his body and soul to the Renshai, he had gathered his own personal foes even as the tribe shed the ones they had acquired through centuries of brutality.

  Colbey banished these concerns for closer matters. He remained in place, considering. Though exhaustion made his thoughts seem fuzzy, simply thinking did not tap his stores of energy like active mental intrusions. So now I have two enemies among Odin’s Wizards. The challenge intrigued as well as bothered him. Seeking death, he could not fear consequences, so long as he had a hand in them. The prophecy seemed indisputable, particularly when bolstered by the driving, pounding certainty of Shadimar and Valr Kirin. They believe I will become a servant to Carcophan.

  Colbey considered, drawing on his own experience with prophecies and Wizards’ interpretations of them. During the years when the madness had assailed him, before his mind had conquered it, glimpses of future actions and consequences had plagued him. Goaded by the certainty that Episte’s father would die if he and Colbey were reunited, Colbey had spent months dodging Rache Kallmirsson’s pursuit. Later, Colbey had come to Rache, drawn by the younger Renshai’s death call. Colbey revived images of the last full-blooded Renshai, other than himself, lying in sands turned scarlet from his own blood. The picture seemed bittersweet. Though the end of an era, Rache had died in the glory of battle, as Renshai were meant. The Valkyrie that had claimed Rache’s soul left no doubt that, though poison had had as much claim on his life as the sword stroke that had infused it, he had reached Valhalla.

  Intact. The thought came instantly, from years of faith, though now it drew Colbey into a current of bitterness. He forced it aside for the point his memory had raised. It was not our reuniting that killed Rache; his wound would have proved fatal whether or not I answered his call. All the glimpse told me was that Rache would die when we met again, not that our reunion would lead to his death. My fears added the cause to the effect. The conclusion came naturally. If I could make such a mistake, why not the Northern and Eastern Wizards?

  Colbey had never considered himself a brilliant thinker, and it seemed nearly sacrilege to place his musings at the level of Wizards directed by Odin. Still, exposure to Shadimar and his assertions told Colbey that, despite their centuries and scholarship, the Cardinal Wizards were fallible. When Carcophan tried to thwart the prophecy that a Renshai would kill Siderin, he sent his assassins after Rache. Equally wrong, Shadimar believed Mitrian was that Renshai. None of their grandiose magics revealed me. Colbey’s memory added a detail that still annoyed him. And even I didn’t kill Siderin. Arduwyn’s arrow stole that victory. Once again, Colbey saw how vagaries in the Wizard’s prophecies could be misinterpreted. The version that he had heard simply called him the hero of the Great War, never directly stating that he would kill Siderin, only that he would receive the awe and credit. Whether I wanted it or not.

  Still, the wording that Colbey had gleaned from Shadimar left little room for interpretation. It clearly stated that the world’s greatest mortal swordsman would become Carcophan’s champion. And, unless and until I die, that can only refer to me. No pride accompanied the thought, only a certainty that came of reality too strong to deny. Neither Shadimar nor Trilless cares to listen to me. Perhaps Carcophan will. The idea intrigued Colbey. I would not turn against the Westlands without just cause, especially to support an absolute. Perhaps I’ll find that just cause in the Evil One’s explanation. If not, then I will kill him, and the others, too, if necessary. For reasons he could not explain, the thought pained Colbey, plaguing his conscience in a way no slaying ever had before. Even the realization that he would not kill unprovoked did not ease his mind. If Carcophan won’t come to me, then I have little choice but to find him.

  The night deepened. Shadimar did not return, and Colbey guessed that the mental effort of constructing barriers had drained him as fully as Colbey. Carefully, Colbey rose and dragged his weary body back to the camp.

  * * *

  Demons taunted Arduwyn’s delirium, their bodies shimmering and shifting in manlike parodies, their wolf heads slobbering trails of dark blood across the sands of the Western Plains. Arduwyn flailed wildly with a hand crooked into a claw. The demons retreated. Their fang-filled mouths gaped in soundless laughter. They advanced on him again.

  Arduwyn screamed. He scrambled backward, his sudden movement bringing a hovering, yellow sphere into view. He willed it closer, knowing without comprehending reasons that it could aid him in his battle against the creatures that tormented him. It held a power and consequence he could not define, the same lethally irresistible allure that a flame holds for a moth and Colbey held for Arduwyn. The globe remained, a round, floating form beyond his grasp, but its relationship to the elder Renshai remained clear, in a way Arduwyn could only understand in dream.

  The demons prowled closer, lips peeled from eyeteeth and amber eyes hypnotic in their depth. Arduwyn banished the creatures to peripheral vision, his concentration centered on the sphere. In halting jerks, it glided toward him, dipping and rolling over the heads of the demons with a slowness that maddened Arduwyn to a frenzy of desperation. Life itself rode on that sphere, one with far more s
ignificance than his own. The air grew fetid with demon breath, sapping Arduwyn’s remaining strength. He reached for the orb, but it swirled just beyond his grasp. He screamed in frustration, shouting repetitive, shrill syllables that held no meaning, even in his own mind. He turned his focus fully to the words, willing understanding.

  Gradually, the words grew comprehensible, and Arduwyn’s own crazed voice rang through his ears. “What day is it? What day is it? What day is it?”

  “The eleventh morning of the Month of Bright Stars in the eleventh year of King Sterrane’s reign.” The not-quite-familiar voice spoke the words in a weary, hopeless tone that implied he had answered the question many times. “Long live our king.” The platitude followed in a monotone that stole all sincerity from the words.

  The significance of the number came gradually. “Eleventh!” Arduwyn sat up. He lay on a low pallet in a room so small that the walls seemed to close in on him.

  A man whirled to face Arduwyn, obviously startled by his reply. The hunter recognized the soulful dark eyes, the gray stubble of hair, and the large-pored face of Béarn’s court physician. “Arduwyn! Ruaidhri’s ever-eternal mercy, you’re well.”

  Arduwyn heard the physician’s words as if from a distance, his brain still centered on the date. She gave me until the twelfth. Bel gave me until the twelfth of this month! “The eleventh? It’s really the eleventh?” Arduwyn held his breath, sanity hinged on the other man’s reply.

  The physician continued as if Arduwyn had not spoken, apparently believing the hunter was still shaking off the aftereffects of his delirium. “I thought our king’s eyes would swell to the size of pomegranates. First another death, after we thought we were finally rid of the consumption. Then you. Seeing his majesty cry hurts something in me. It’s like stealing a bone from a puppy. I had to send him from the room, you know. And your daughter, too. I couldn’t work with—”