The forest thinned as the party walked their horses through one of the few remaining patches of Eastland woods. The thready deer path they followed joined a tightly curving trail, pitted with wheel ruts, hoof hollows, and foot tracks. Both directions led northeast, so Colbey chose at random. The others rode beside or behind him, no one bothering to question his route. Mitrian and Rache festered in the depths of their grief, alternating between sadness and vengeful rage. The others whispered softly among themselves, deferring to their companions’ need for quiet.
Pondering age and the elder he had outlived, now in years as well as time, Colbey could not keep his thoughts from sliding to the younger Renshai who had borne the same name. Since the ancient Episte had died of illness rather than in the savage exchange of swordplay, his name should have died with him. Yet Emerald had called her child for his father’s mentor, ignorant of the conventions. Deeply mired in his religion, as well as its trappings, Colbey had to wonder if this lack of a guardian in Valhalla had doomed young Episte from the start.
Tears welled in Colbey’s eyes at the thought of the child who had been as much son as student, quelled even as they rose by another idea. But I know now that loss of a body part doesn’t bar a brave soldier from Valhalla. Colbey clung to the thought. No man or group could have taken Episte without a valiant battle. Maybe, just maybe, Episte did find Valhalla. His mind ached, needing a certainty he could never have, unless Sif chose to give it to him. He shoved aside his own selfish need to grieve for the hope that Episte had found the haven for the best and most audacious of warriors. Colbey banished tears, mourning all the things he might have said as well as the words he had spoken in their stead. Someday very soon, Episte, we will meet again in Valhalla.
* * *
Gradually, all of the forest disappeared, replaced by sallow fields of churned earth, flat from erosion. Cold hardened the clods into boulders, and the field lacked the wisps of brown stems and crushed stalks that always littered the Westland fields between harvest and planting. Over the centuries, the Eastlanders had stolen the richness and life from their land, sacrificing the forests for sprawling cities and building on farmland so overtaxed that it had become as hard and grainy as wood.
The wide open areas kept nothing hidden, and Colbey did not ride ahead of the others, as was his usual wont. He kept to the road, not wishing to add even a hoofprint to the damage that had already been inflicted on the soil. Where the forest just beyond the mountain passes had reminded him of the central Westlands, the long, open stretches of flatland seemed more akin to the Western Plains. His mind kept seeking the ocean at the end of the beach, somewhere on the far horizon. But he found only a huddled mass of distant stone, the first city of the Eastlands, the one to which the road they traveled led.
As the town drew nearer, Colbey studied his companions. Mitrian kept her head low, mindlessly weaving her horse’s reins between her fingers. Rache and Tannin talked somberly in low tones. Occasionally, the Western Renshai placed a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Vashi rode just behind Colbey, hand permanently affixed to her hilt. At the back, Modrey and Tarah rode together. Arduwyn changed positions frequently, making little moans and gasps of agony, as if the land’s pain hurt him personally. Over time, Colbey’s sharp gaze spotted a pair of figures on the wall surrounding the city. He studied them as he rode, his vision gradually outlining the crossbows on their belts and the swords at their hips.
By midday, Colbey and his companions reined up before the Eastern city. Its bastions and gates dripped an oily green, and the cloudy sky suffocated it in a gloom that seemed permanent and fitting. The guards on the wall wore uniforms of alternating triangles of black and lavender that enhanced swarthy, sun-darkened skin. One called down something to the party in a language Colbey did not recognize. The voice sounded hostile, but the man did not reach for a weapon.
Colbey addressed his companions in Renshai. “Be prepared to retreat if either one goes for his bow.” He switched to a relevant question, “Does anyone speak the Eastern tongue?” Each of the Western Renshai shook his or her head. Colbey waited while Mitrian translated the question for Arduwyn.
Colbey winced. The fact that only one member of the group needed this service struck hard. In a short space of time, they had lost Korgar, Shadimar, and Garn. Non-Renshai among them seemed cursed, and Colbey wondered if Arduwyn’s return might have doomed him as well.
In response to Colbey’s translated question, Arduwyn shook his head regretfully.
“Westerners.” The guard on the wall snorted, using the trading tongue with a dry, Eastern rasp. “There was a time when we guarded those passes. The law still encourages us to kill any of your kind who cross the border without the king’s permission.”
Vashi snarled, threading her horse up beside Colbey’s.
The elder caught her sword hand in warning. “We’ve come in peace.”
“Good,” the other said in pidgin Western. His throaty accent did the flowing language no justice. “We like our enemies to submit without a fight.” His gaze roved over Mitrian and Vashi to rest on Tarah’s abdomen. “Though we do prefer it if the women scream.”
Colbey could feel Vashi’s entire body go rigid with offense and need.
“Be still,” Colbey whispered. Aloud, he kept his voice calmly modulated. “I only said we came in peace. That’s for your safety, not ours. Should you insist on refusing this generous gift, we would be happy to leave your piled corpses to fertilize your land.”
The guards exchanged incredulous glances. “Is that a threat, O He Who Leads an Army of Six?”
Colbey shrugged. “Or a challenge. Your pick.”
Tannin’s horse snorted, pawing the ground. Apparently cued by Vashi’s impatience, her horse pranced, nostrils wide. Colbey’s white stallion echoed his composure, a statue with its statuesque rider.
The guards were silent, faces harsh. They exchanged words in the Eastern tongue. Colbey could catch only a faint aura of uncertainty. Clearly his calmness and his willingness to fight, six against a city, convinced them that he had some hidden force, talent, or weapon.
The first guard spoke again, “Why did you come? What do you want from LaZar?” Black bangs fringed a solidly featured face, and his dark eyes seemed to disappear into the shadow of his sockets.
“May we enter?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Why?”
Colbey shook his head, unwilling to continue with the contradiction. “‘Why not?’ a million times.”
“Huh?” The guard clenched his features in confusion.
Colbey waved his free hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Just saving us hours of fascinating but tedious conversation. Now, if you can’t match a million ‘why nots,’ answer the question, please.”
“We don’t like your kind,” the other said, though whether in response to Colbey’s tactics or his query, the Renshai did not know.
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Colbey abandoned all hope of a coherent answer. “We’re just looking for information.” Placing his free hand in his pocket, he blindly shuffled coins from one pouch to another, then drew the smaller one from his pocket. Opening the pouch, he poured coins into his palm. For effect, he sorted two gold ducats from the silver, then dumped the lesser coins to the ground carelessly. “We can pay.”
The guards’ eyes followed the plummeting silver, then riveted on the remaining gold. Their demeanors softened noticeably.
Vashi went rigid as iron in Colbey’s grip. She spoke in the Renshai tongue. “You’re going to give money to those cowards? Renshai never needed gold!”
“Hush and be still!” Colbey shook Vashi’s arm. The word Renshai sounded reasonably the same in all languages, and no good could come of revealing their heritage so soon. “Our tribe also respects its torke. Every word you speak from now until I’ve settled this will cost you more than you can afford at your next prac
tice. Do you understand?”
Vashi’s hazel eyes blazed, but she did go silent.
“Let me see that money,” the guard said with a caution that did not quite hide his excitement.
Releasing Vashi, Colbey edged forward, motioning the others to remain in place. He tossed a gold coin to the ramparts.
The guard leaned forward and snatched the ducat from the air, nearly falling from the parapet in his haste. Catching his balance, he examined the coin from all sides. His companion reached out a hand, but the first guard ignored the obvious solicitation. They spoke in the Eastern tongue again, their voices growing louder and their gestures more wild, while Colbey waited. At length, the first one addressed Colbey again, still clutching the coin. “What do you want to know?”
“We’re looking for a Northman. He’s heavily armored, a competent soldier, and he bears the symbol of a coiled snake on his hand. Have you seen him?”
The corners of the guard’s mouth twitched into a strange smile, which quickly faded. His companion nodded, as if in encouragement. “Yes,” the first man said.
All annoyance fled Colbey as he followed this new lead. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing,” the guard said, interest flickering in his black eyes. “Unless you can prove it’s worth something to you to know.”
Money meant nothing to Colbey. He emptied the remaining contents of the pouch to his fist, ducats spilling into a neat pile. Again, he shuffled the silver to the ground. Without bothering to count the gold, he divided the stack approximately in half, pushing one part back into the bag. The other coins he threw, one by one, to the guards. “You get the rest when I get a satisfactory answer.”
“You’ll get a satisfactory answer when I get the rest,” the guard insisted. His companion grinned, nodding brisk agreement.
“If I give you the rest, I’ll get no answer at all, will I?” Colbey closed the pouch, replacing it in his pocket. “Nothing, I can get for free.”
“Very well.” The guard gave in quickly. Clearly, he had not expected Colbey to agree to the terms, though he had felt the need to try. “A few days ago, the only Northman I’ve ever seen rode to the Tower of Night, the home of our king, Elishtan the Jaded. It’s a single black tower a day’s journey north of here. On a clear day, with a good vantage point, you can see it from here.” He pointed, but LaZar’s walls blocked Colbey’s vision.
The other guard sneered. “He was a friend of yours, perhaps? I’ve heard that our lord removed the insolent, blond head from his shoulders. That Northmen exist bothers him.” His gaze wandered over Colbey to the more classically Northern-looking Tannin, then found Vashi, Rache, Tarah, and Modrey in turn.
Colbey ignored the implication, concentrating on the Easterner’s inflection. Accent made it harder to judge, but the answer still seemed too pat, almost rehearsed. Not wanting to put himself at too much risk, he made a shallow scoop into the other’s mind. He found a vague aura of deceit and a strong, racial prejudice, but no obvious attempt to lie. It seemed more as if he was speaking words that another had given him, but he had his own doubts as to their veracity.
“Thank you,” Colbey said. As promised, he tossed the pouch of gold to the guardsmen. Then, leaving Arduwyn to cover the party against parting crossbow shots, Colbey circled them around LaZar. Behind him, Colbey could hear the rattle of the guards clambering down from the wall for the cast-off silver. The Renshai headed north.
* * *
Colbey and his companions skirted the filthy crumbling cottages that spread from LaZar like roots, growing sparser as fog obscured the walled city. Pallid fields gave way to scraggly clumps of trees and brush that shamed the term forest. Here, between widely-spaced, twisted trees, Colbey called the party to a halt to start their many lessons. Accustomed to the routine, Arduwyn started working on the camp, while the Renshai formed their singles and groups.
Mitrian prepared methodically. She placed a callused hand properly on her wolf’s head hilt and drew with a casual routineness that defied interest.
Though Colbey understood her sorrow, he could not tolerate it without undermining the training he had instilled in her for nearly fifteen years. No matter his mood or even his need to die, Colbey had never entered a practice without giving his all to it. To do otherwise would mean a serious offense, not only against his swords, but against the gods. Leaving the others to practice svergelse, he pulled the widow aside.
Late afternoon sun rays sloped through the scant array of trees. Bare branches swayed in a winter breeze, rattling a quiet song. Chaff clung to the trunks, caught after wind threw it, unhindered, across the flat, bleak landscape. Mitrian stared at her feet.
“What’s keeping your mind from your sword?” Colbey asked gently.
Mitrian said nothing. Her head sank lower.
“Talk to me. What’s bothering you now?”
Mitrian looked up suddenly. Tears welled, obscuring her vision. “Death doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”
Colbey hesitated, not certain whether Mitrian intended for him to answer the question or not. He deliberately kept his reply vague. “In some ways, death means everything to me. It depends on whose death it is and when and how that death occurred.” He tried to steer for the crux of the problem. Mitrian’s radiating emotions did not make her intention clear. “These tears are for Garn?”
It was an innocent question, misunderstood. “Of course they’re for Garn! Who else would they be for?” She sheathed her sword.
Rache, perhaps. Yourself. Colbey thought it crass to mention the possibilities, again hoping the question had been rhetorical.
“You can recover from a loved one’s death overnight, but I can’t. He’s gone, Colbey. Garn’s gone, and he’s never coming back. The world will just go on as if nothing happened, but Garn is dead.” Mitrian buried her face in her palms, a tear winding between her fingers.
Colbey fidgeted, wishing he had brought Arduwyn. Though Colbey believed he felt emotion as strongly as anyone, he had never done well with comforting or putting those feelings into words. “Mitrian.” He curled an arm around her shoulders. “In my time, I’ve seen a lot of friends and loved ones die. Some of them, I had to kill myself.” He studied his own scarred hand, haunted as much by the memory of slaying Korgar as by sparing Garn.
Mitrian’s words came muffled. “If you’re going to tell me it gets easier, don’t.”
“I wouldn’t lie. To you or anyone.” Colbey’s own words raised bitterness, and the memory of Shadimar’s accusations returned to sour his mood. “The family we’ve lost over the last few months has hurt worse than any I can ever remember. Ever. You survived Rache’s death and your father’s. You know the pain never goes away, but it does neither the dead nor you any good to dwell on it. Life has to take precedence.” Colbey waited, certain he had not said anything she did not already know.
Mitrian’s demeanor still clearly radiated vague discomfort, but now Colbey could tell something more than dealing with the death of friends and family bothered her. He could almost feel her search for the words to explain. He waited patiently, allowing her the time and space she needed.
“I guess it just seems that much worse because they died in vain.” Shuddering breaths interrupted Mitrian’s explanation. “Episte and Garn are gone. It’s one thing to die for a cause, but we haven’t gained anything I can see. We’ve lost two friends, three if you count the barbarian. We lost my father’s town, not to mention my father and more of his guards than I care to think about. Now we’re looking for a place for the Renshai, and all we have is a wasteland full of people eager to kill us. And we can’t even enter their towns.”
Colbey knew a pang of guilt, wondering how much his own depression had tainted the group’s successes. “You gave the Westlands back the finest, fairest high king they could ever have, as well as finding Sterrane advisers and friends like Mar Lon. We’ve defused a centuries-old feud between the Renshai and their cousins in the North. We’ve even managed to make a
llies in the West.” To Colbey these feats seemed nearly incalculable. “You’ve given the Renshai new faces and a new style, approved, I believe, by the goddess herself. Don’t lose sight of the huge victories for the losses. Few causes worth winning were ever won without bloodshed.”
Mitrian rubbed tears from her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice sounded more solid and stronger. “But why the Eastlands?”
“Why not?” Colbey asked. Then, realizing it made him sound like the LaZarian guard, he added an explanation. “The war whittled down their population, and there’s space. And, as racially intolerant as the Easterners seem, they don’t hold any specific hatred against Renshai. For all their open-mindedness to most cultures, the Westerners do. But, if you’d rather, we don’t have to stay here. We do, however, have to face the Renshai’s last, real enemy.”
“Last enemy?” Mitrian denied the description.
“The Renshai will always live with prejudice. But, for now, this Exiled One is the only enemy I know willing to actively hunt us down.”
Mitrian pulled a rag from her pocket and wiped her nose. “Who is this Exiled One? Why would he hunt us? How can he do all those dishonorable things?”
“I have ideas, but I don’t know for certain.” Colbey’s speculation had not taken him far. He had no choice but to attribute the Exiled One’s actions to madness. No sane man could violate the gods’ codes or men’s laws. Colbey had seen chaos spark men’s actions twice in the recent past: once when Olvaerr had broken his father’s vow, the other time when the Erythanian knight had broken his code of chivalry to attack Colbey, outside of a challenge and from behind. But Brignar was dead, and Olvaerr did not seem worthy of the title of “unmatched swordsman.” “I do know this. Soon, there will be another battle. One or more of us will almost certainly die. But, no matter the methods of our enemy, the Renshai will live or die with their honor intact.”
The Western Wizard Page 61