The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Colbey nodded solemnly, more in response to his own thoughts than the other’s words. Apparently, the Northman who called himself Eksilir, the Exiled One, hated Renshai enough to set the town of Sholton-Or upon them. Obviously, he had hoped the citizenry would fill them with arrows as soon as they approached the town borders. Had I not been in my present mood and ranging far ahead, we might have lost one or two, at least, and slaughtered more than a few townsfolk in retaliation. The intricacy of the plan astounded Colbey. Northmen fight with weapons, not tactics. Immediately, the exception presented itself to him. Valr Kirin. However, he knew without need to ponder too long that, even had the Nordmirian lieutenant been alive, he would never have stooped to evil. Northmen’s laws forbade rape and violence against those who offered hospitality.

  The man continued, oblivious to the turn of Colbey’s thoughts. “In front of the entire town, the Northman laughed at us. He stole the chieftain’s own horse and slaughtered the seven warriors we sent after him. Good fighters, all of them. Veterans of the Great War.”

  The townsman’s words put the last piece in place. A Northman destined to betray the West and his clan. A swordsman unmatched by another mortal man. Colbey harbored little doubt that the Northman with the mark of the coiled serpent was the same one who had dismembered Episte and, most likely, the one who had set the man trap that had injured Mitrian. Any Northman who dishonors the dead so completely, who would rape and lie, has already betrayed not only his tribe, but the tenets that unite the North, no matter how loosely, as well as his religion and his gods. That last thought hit home, and Colbey cringed at the questioning he had done since the appearance of the Valkyrie at Valr Kirin’s death. It’s not the gods and our religion that need questioning, it’s some of the arbitrary rules and restrictions placed on it by men. To hold Sif responsible for our own folly would be the most serious of mistakes.

  Still, though Colbey believed he had found Carcophan’s champion, one part of the description did not fit. A swordsman unmatched by another mortal man. The phrase had circled Colbey’s head so many times, the syllables held a rhythm all their own. Who is this Northman more skilled with a sword than I am? Despite the danger, Colbey could not help but feel intrigued. The idea of matching blades with one whom the gods and Wizards considered the better swordsman became an irresistible challenge. If he could get the other to fight fairly, he might finally find Valhalla.

  Colbey dropped the thought as more urgent concerns came to the forefront. Soon his companions would reach Sholton-Or, probably to be set upon by arrows and spears.

  The man cleared his throat, breaking a long silence. “Will you help us against the coming threat, Lord Knight?”

  “Yes,” Colbey said. Then, more thoughtfully, “But not from here. I have companions waiting for me to get supplies and return.” He did not specify, not intentionally misleading, but not minding if the townsman believed Colbey traveled with other Erythanian knights. He pulled a handful of gold from his pocket. “If you can escort me to a food seller, I’ll buy supplies and go.”

  The townsman lowered his head, clearly unsatisfied.

  Colbey finished carefully. “My companions and I will see to it that the Golden-Haired Devils don’t attack your town.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get you what you need.” He accepted Colbey’s money, mouth gaping at the quantity the Renshai had pulled from his pocket so casually. He headed for the door, stopped, and turned. “Thank you,” he repeated. “Do you have a name, Lord Knight?”

  Colbey thought it better not to say. If Sholton-Or had veterans of the Great War, they would surely know him by reputation. “No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t.”

  * * *

  Loaded with foodstuffs, Colbey met his companions just outside the farm town and led them in a looping arc around it.

  “Seven veteran soldiers,” Rache repeated, clearly awed.

  Colbey scowled, not liking the youngster making a hero of an evildoer, no matter how competent his sword skill. “And I’m a demon from the netherworld.” Colbey guessed that some of his irritation stemmed from his own fascination with the vicious Northman he guessed was Carcophan’s champion, but finding its source did not alleviate his annoyance. “You mustn’t believe everything told to you by frightened townsfolk. The Northman might actually have fought one drunken sentry and six children.”

  “Or one man at a time,” Mitrian suggested practically.

  Garn laughed. “While they slept.”

  Colbey swiftly tired of the word games he had started. “It matters little.” Armed with this new information, he wished Shadimar was still with them. At the least, the old Wizard could interpret the significance of the coiled serpent. Still, thoughts of the Eastern Wizard bludgeoned at his already foul temper. If I could trace this evil champion so easily, surely Shadimar could have done so as well. No friend or brother accuses another without testing every other possibility first. “We have supplies. I see no reason to ride near Sholton-Or.”

  Garn nodded in agreement.

  Vashi the Rebellious fidgeted restlessly on the back of her mount. Her green-brown eyes scanned the horizon from a high-cheeked, oval face, and her tawny hair swept into war braids. Youth stole the sharpness that age promised her features. “Renshai need no reason to slay men but the joy of it!” She stared accusingly at Colbey, as if to deny him the title of Prince of Demons.

  Colbey ignored his new student. He saw no need to explain his motives, and he had no patience for an overeager deathseeker, though others often accused him of the same flaw. Despite Vashi’s grumbling, he led the Renshai and Garn around Sholton-Or, toward the Western Plains and the passes to the Eastlands.

  * * *

  Back in the ruins of Myrcidë, Shadimar stood on the straw pallet that had served as Colbey’s recovery bed, his elbows propped on the ledge of the jagged window. Wind swept through the opening, whipping his white hair and beard into disarray, and its dampness plastered strands to his cheeks. Rain drummed steady patterns against the stone rooftops. Lightning snaked and forked across the horizon, accompanied by thunderclaps that slammed the Eastern Wizard’s ears. He did not bother to consult his books. A decade of study told him he would find no answers there to what troubled him. In a new situation, he had no choice except to set precedent; but all the pieces had not yet come together. And unless and until he made some assumptions, he feared they never would. For a Cardinal Wizard to act in ignorance, especially so near the prophesied Age of Change, is madness.

  Shadimar lowered his face, grasping the back of his head to stem the last persistent pain from his run-in with Colbey Calistinsson. Carcophan’s champion. It seemed impossible. Shadimar had befriended and trusted the aging Renshai, and the deceit stung with an intensity he had not known since his mortal years. Nowhere in his reading had he ever seen reference to two Cardinal Wizards taking the same man or woman to advocate their causes, nor did the lack surprise him. In a world filled with humans, it seemed impossible that two Wizards, supporting different causes, could find the same human dedicated to what each represented. Carcophan’s champion. Shadimar clamped his hands tighter. Of all the possibilities I considered, that one, I missed.

  Secodon circled, then plopped down at Shadimar’s feet. He sighed deeply, head heavy on his master’s boot.

  Shadimar refused to berate his own lapse. It made little sense for the neutral Renshai to league with the Southern Wizard, and becoming Carcophan’s champion still did not explain Colbey’s mind powers. There’s something else here. Something I’m still overlooking. And Trilless, too. Shadimar released his head, stretching his arms to encircle as much of the makeshift window as possible. He stared at the sky. Lightning flashed, leaving its branching presence etched against his retinas. His thoughts seemed to pulse with the thunder, gathering data in concentric shells that raised more questions than they answered. One flaw in the pattern intrigued him, and he dredged up the idea that Colbey had pondered while in the Wizard’s mind, the foreign thought that had reveal
ed his intrusion: If I was a demon, the Northmen’s swords could not have drawn blood from me. And they did.

  Where the paradox had stumped Colbey, the explanation came easily to the Eastern Wizard. At most, he’s part demon, and there’s enough humanity left to injure. But as the chaos strengthens within him, he may become nearly impossible to kill. Shadimar knew he had to act quickly, yet he also knew he could not afford to make an error. Odin’s laws strictly banned him from attacking another Wizard’s champion or any mortal whose death might have significance to the world. Yet if Colbey harbored chaos, none of the Wizards had any choice but to kill him. Shadimar hated the dilemma. If Colbey had become Carcophan’s champion as well as his own, then Shadimar and the Evil One would have to band together. Working alone, Odin’s laws would bar each from slaying the other’s hero.

  Still, other facts did not fit the tapestry of truth Shadimar tried to weave, and each plausible guess seemed to contradict another. Since the claw strikes of Trilless’ demon had not appreciably aged Colbey, Shadimar had little choice but to believe that the old Renshai had become something other than a mortal man. But to accept that possibility meant that the prophecy concerning Carcophan’s champion might not apply to Colbey, despite Trilless’ certainty.

  Shadimar sighed, his speculation taking him back into the broad circles he had learned to despise over the past decade. Only one thing had finally become undeniable. The Western Wizard was dead, and no one had stepped forward to claim the title. Finally, the time had come for Shadimar to gather his peers. The position had lain idle for longer than twelve years; surely, no one could accuse him of acting in haste. At the least, he would feel better having another to help handle his doubled responsibilities while he continued the necessary research. I still haven’t found an apprentice who comes close to Colbey’s potential, but there’s no choice any more but to settle for second best.

  Having made the decision, Shadimar’s distress eased somewhat. Gently he extracted his foot from beneath the wolf, turned from the window, and prepared to summon Swiftwing.

  * * *

  Arduwyn caught up with the Renshai party before they reached the Western Plains that had once served as a battleground. The little archer entered the camp during Mitrian’s and Garn’s watch, slipping among the party with no more noise than his shadow. Yet Colbey saw him. The old Renshai rested little these days. Finding it difficult to fall asleep, he nearly always took first watch. Despite being the last to lie down, he always awakened long before sunup, staring at the patterns the stars and moon drew in the sky and suffering his thoughts.

  Between the whispered exchange Arduwyn passed with Mitrian and the grief, self-pity, and sense of responsibility wafting from Arduwyn, Colbey read the entire sad story. Still, its significance paled beside the concerns plaguing Colbey, and he offered no solace. He hoped his silent acceptance of the hunter’s presence and his companions’ appreciation for the redhead’s talents would prove enough. Colbey guessed that the trap that had injured Arduwyn was placed by the same Northman who had injured Mitrian and set up the ambush at Sholton-Or. The poisoned arrow did not surprise him; it only added one more concern to a rapidly growing list.

  Autumn stretched into a winter that seemed little different to Colbey. The southern Westlands received less snow than the Northlands did in springtime, and he felt comfortable in the same light tunics and breeks he had worn through the year. Mitrian, Garn, and Rache added only linen cloaks to their wardrobe, but the Western Renshai and Arduwyn doubled the weight of their clothing.

  Dark-skinned Eastern war parties assailed them twice upon the Western Plains. In these skirmishes, Colbey proved his prowess to the satisfaction of even Vashi. While caught up in battle, he sliced and slashed with his usual sure strokes and near-berserk exuberance. But when the battles were won, he would lapse back into his thoughts, fettered by the only thing that could contain him: his own doubts.

  Even with Mitrian’s help, Colbey’s need to train five students kept travel time to a crawl. Arduwyn’s hunting saved them from needing to find towns and supplies, but the time he took to carefully prepare every leftover scrap for travel added more delays. Winter had become long familiar when the party slipped through one of the rare passes through the Great Frenum Mountains and into the Eastlands. Straying from the path, the party found forest so like that of most of the Westlands as to be indistinguishable. A standard sword lesson made the transition seem even less noticeable.

  * * *

  Awakened for the predawn watch, Garn sat with Mitrian, watching the sky stretch, monotonously gray, through the treetops. Clouds diffused the moonlight, hiding the stars beneath a continuous blanket of mist. Garn spoke little, and Mitrian remained silent, too, apparently afraid her voice might disturb her companions. She leaned against Garn, and her warmth comforted. He looped his arm around her waist.

  A distant rustle sent Garn into a crouch. He jerked up his head, scanning the wall of trees.

  “What?” Mitrian whispered.

  Garn rose, waving her down. Again, he heard the rattle of brush, too loud for a curious fox. “I heard something. Stay and keep guard over the others. I’m going to find out what it is.” Without waiting for confirmation, Garn slid soundlessly between the trees.

  Mitrian’s uncertainty chased him. “Garn? Don’t you . . .”

  But Garn had disappeared too quickly for her to continue. He glided through the woodlands, wishing he had more light. He no longer heard the noise, and, as he crept farther from the safety of the camp, he began to wonder whether it had been a figment of an overactive imagination, sparked by a new and unknown land. Not wanting to separate too far from the others, he turned back. As he moved, a gleam of silver cut the corner of his vision. He whirled, but it disappeared as completely as the sound.

  Garn’s heart quickened. His muscles tensed, and he stalked a vision he was unsure he had truly seen. His path took him to a gloomy clearing, where the intertwining boughs of spruce blocked sunlight from all foliage beneath them. At its edge, Garn waited until his eyes adjusted to its more expansive darkness, untouched by even the disseminated moonlight. The clearing looked empty. Sword in hand, Garn entered it.

  Leaves crunched to Garn’s right. He spun to face a short, lean figure that stepped into the clearing. Heavy furs fell back from the other’s shoulders to reveal a pointed buckler and a breastplate that caught what little light penetrated the spruce boughs. Lacquered iron greaves and high, doeskin boots covered black, silk breeks. A fur-lined helmet on the stranger’s head obscured most of its face; what little Garn could see looked unwrinkled and ghostly pale.

  Garn raised his sword defensively. “Who are you?” He considered shouting, but judged that he had gone too far and through too dense brush for his companions to hear much. He wondered if that had been the other’s intention from the start.

  The stranger made no verbal reply. The stance revealed him as male, though his size seemed more suited to a woman. He drew a finely crafted longsword and cut for Garn.

  Garn leapt back, dodging, then riposted for the stranger’s neck. The swords locked. The other’s size belied his strength, and his swiftness was awesome. The armored man retreated from the block and lunged before Garn saw the maneuver coming. All Garn’s skill scarcely parried the attack.

  Enraged, Garn went on the offensive. He sprang for the stranger, driving the point of the longsword to the ground with his broadsword. The stranger’s body fell against him. The barb jutting from the buckler dug into Garn’s shoulder. The pain seemed insignificant, but the ease of the maneuver embarrassed Garn. As much from anger as desperation, Garn threw his full weight back against the armored man, driving the buckler deeper into his own flesh. A bizarre, licorice odor wafted over him, a smell Garn knew well, a drug used to induce savagery in gladiators.

  Garn’s rush off-balanced the stranger. He thrust a leg between Garn’s. A deft twist worked Garn’s power against him, and the ex-gladiator went airborne. He crashed to the ground, swearing as he
rolled. Staggering to his feet, he whipped up his sword, wondering why the fatal blow never landed.

  Brush snapped and crackled from two sides, one retreating and one approaching. Garn whirled to meet the coming threat and found himself facing Mitrian and Colbey.

  Garn spun, darting glances in all directions, but his assailant had disappeared. “An armored man attacked me,” he explained briefly. Now that the battle had ended, he envied the other’s battle garb and the training that enabled him to use armor as a weapon.

  Colbey’s gaze followed Garn’s. “Northman?”

  Garn recalled the pallid skin he had seen through the helmet’s eyeholes. He also believed he had caught a glimpse of a yellow lock of hair. “I think he was.” Garn’s lips felt painfully dry, and he licked them repeatedly. “Anyone got some water?”

  Above the chattering of crickets and the whirring calls of foxes, Garn heard another sound.

  Apparently, Colby heard it as well. “Horse.” The Renshai addressed Garn. “He’s riding northeast. We’ll track him in the morning. Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Garn said, though his head buzzed with an exhaustion far out of proportion to the quickness of the fight. “Just a scratch.”

  Vashi and Tannin reached the edge of the clearing.

  “Did he have the coiled snake symbol?” Mitrian asked.

  Her words seemed jumbled to Garn. His mouth burned, and his need for water became desperate. “He was wearing gauntlets.” Speaking made his lips crack. “I . . . couldn’t see. Water, please. Give me some water now.”

  Tannin passed his waterskin. As Garn drained the contents, Colbey’s features became noticeably alarmed. Protectively, Garn glared. Desiccated eyes blurred the Renshai into a warped, vicious parody, a demon hell-bent on stealing the water necessary for life. The voices of his companions transformed to blood-wild cheers; the spruce-rimmed clearing became the gladiator pit. Garn’s eyes blazed emerald madness. A dull ache pounded through his body, pulling in all directions, as if to tear him apart. Hands seized him, the grip of an enemy. Kill or be killed. Garn drew his sword and sprang with a howl.