The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Awed by Colbey, Arduwyn found the elder’s concern a rare treat. He had never seen the old Renshai worry about his own life and only rarely over any other. The hunter could not help feeling privileged for the elder’s concern, despite the implication that he might be headed toward more danger than he expected. At a time when grief drove him to believe nothing mattered, another’s care for his safety felt good, especially when that other held no ties of blood. And that reminded him of something else.

  Sylva. Pain flooded Arduwyn at just the thought of her name. Bel’s death had driven him to flee; after nearly fifteen years of hearing her talk about that being the way he handled his deepest emotions and problems, to do otherwise would have belittled their love. He had not meant to hurt another that he loved as much. He knew Sylva would understand and that she had the king of Béarn to tend to her every physical and emotional need. Sterrane had more love to give than all the citizens of most villages together. But still Arduwyn hated the pain his need to run had inflicted. He would return as soon as the Renshai had handled their enemy, his obligations to his friends completed. Then, he hoped, he could talk Mitrian into moving near enough to Béarn that he would see her more often than every decade and a half.

  Thoughts of Mitrian naturally brought others of Garn, and Arduwyn’s eye went moist with tears. He banished them with the realization that he had already abandoned Colbey’s advice, forgetting his necessary wariness by losing his mind to thought. He forced his gaze back to the tower, seeing it now as more than a rapidly approaching goal. It seemed out of place against the royal blue of the sky, a tower without a town, each block perfectly shaped and placed so as to make it appear seamless. A curtain wall surrounded it, as carefully constructed as the monument it guarded. The single obsidian tower stretched toward the sky like an ebony arrow.

  As Arduwyn approached the portcullis, he discovered a pair of guards with crimson helmets standing on the ramparts, watching him from sentry stands on either side of the closed entryway. Each clutched a spear adorned with crow’s feathers, trained on the nearing hunter.

  Affected by Colbey’s discomfort, Arduwyn’s will faltered. He called up hesitantly, “I’m a messenger from the West. I’m here to see your king.”

  The sentries gave no response. The spears remained in place.

  Arduwyn searched his mind for the two Eastern sentences Shadimar had taught him before he left, the words now buried beneath other concerns. His heart pounded. “Al aila . . . lessakit . . . a Vestan orlorne . . . rexin.” His Western accent rendered the phrase nearly incomprehensible, but one of the men disappeared from his post and the other lowered his spear.

  Arduwyn dismounted and tethered Frost Reaver to a tree. Shortly, he heard the metallic clicks of the lifting portcullis. The great iron portal lifted to reveal a barren courtyard and a guard in blood red armor. The Easterner snapped a few sounds at Arduwyn.

  Arduwyn shrugged and shook his head, responding with Shadimar’s other Eastern sentence: “I don’t speak Eastern.” The Wizard had seemed certain that the king would have at least one translator, and the LaZarian sentries’ use of the common trade tongue made Arduwyn certain he would find a way to communicate.

  With a frown, the sentry waved Arduwyn toward the tower.

  The courtyard of King Elishtan the Jaded made Arduwyn jittery. The thick, high walls surrounding it trapped air around the tower. It seemed inappropriately warm and stale. Each breath pained, and Arduwyn felt caged. He memorized the courtyard from habit, noting the few sentries who paced the sand-colored desolation between the tower and its wall. Up close, Arduwyn could see the construction of the tower, its blocks framed by perfect joints that left no crack thicker than an eyelash. A gully circled the base of the tower, hemmed by a ledge of piled sand. Apparently, workers had begun to build a moat, abandoning their efforts for the sturdier, more practical defense of the wall.

  Arduwyn had little time to stare. The sentry jerked his head, his dark hair pinned in place beneath the helmet, gesturing his charge through a set of double doors leading into the Tower of Night.

  Once through, the guard took the lead again, and Arduwyn trailed the crimson figure up several large obsidian steps, through a door, and into a corridor lit by an occasional smoking brazier in the stretches between the high windows. Guards in the standard red leather or mail ambled the length of the halls or haunted niches, staring at the stranger with dead black eyes. Shuddering, Arduwyn continued to follow his guide.

  The passage twisted, wove, and joined others. Arduwyn followed, growing more skittish by the moment. For its shape, the tower seemed to hold too many passages, and it took him longer than it should have to realize that several of these curved and slanted. Over time, they had spiraled upward several floors.

  At length, the guard brought Arduwyn through a doorless entryway and into a room palely-illuminated by a single, arched window that, even from a distance, Arduwyn could see overlooked the courtyard. Another sentry stood, rigid, at the opening, a sword at his belt and a spear in his hand. A matching couch and chair faced one another, clean to the point of unwelcoming sterility. The closed stuffiness goaded Arduwyn naturally to the window, despite its guard. Looking out, he discovered that he had ascended higher than he had expected. He looked down from a height of four of Béarn’s castle stories. Far below lay the partially excavated moat, ringed by piled sand and puddled with brackish rainwater.

  The two Easterners chatted briefly. The one who had escorted Arduwyn turned and trotted back down the corridor.

  The other addressed Arduwyn directly in the trading tongue. “What’s your message?” He scratched languidly at his red mail shirt and leaned on the spear.

  Arduwyn passed the rolled sheet of parchment, uncertain of its contents. He could not even read the languages he spoke, and Shadimar’s Eastern lettering looked like a random series of dots and slashes. “It’s for King Elishtan.”

  “Elishtan,” the guard repeated, then laughed. “I didn’t know your lords were golden-haired. Wait here for the king’s reply.” He pointed to the embroidered couch, the piece of furniture nearest Arduwyn and the window.

  The guard’s words jarred. Arduwyn nodded politely, gritting his teeth as the sentry swept through the door and into the corridor. The Renshai had chosen him as messenger because he did not look Renshai or Northern. He also suspected no one else would enter the tower unarmed. Now he felt like a deer in shifting winds who fleetingly scents hounds. Why would the king’s name bring such an odd reaction from his guard? And what about the name would indicate the sender of the message? The question seemed all the more germane since the sentry had not even glanced at the parchment. Something about the use of the king’s name told him things it shouldn’t have. Sensing a trap, Arduwyn slipped across the room, glancing to the right and left down the corridor. Seeing only the message-carrier’s retreating back, moving in the opposite direction than the one from which Arduwyn had come, he padded silently after this familiar guard, determined to find answers.

  Arduwyn’s journey did not take him far. The corridor widened and ended abruptly at a bronze door adorned with a gold carving of a rearing cobra. The set jade eyes formed a strange contrast that the flickering braziers turned into movement. The gaze seemed to follow Arduwyn’s every step.

  Though he knew it was illusion, Arduwyn sucked air through his teeth and cowered against the wall. Only now, it occurred to him that he had wasted his time following the guard. Even if he managed to walk inaudibly through the corridors, he could not become unseen to slip through the portal. And even if he could, he could not understand their Eastern speech.

  Yet luck came to Arduwyn. The man who carried his message flicked the door shut carelessly. The bronze panel clanked behind him, but it did not latch. Arduwyn crept nearer, hunching into the shadow of the portal. Through the crack, he saw red leather shifting in random patterns. Finding the man who carried his message by the soft chitter of his armor, Arduwyn tracked him to the far end of the room. To his amazem
ent, the Easterner used the Western trading tongue.

  “My lord, the Renshai sent a one-eyed messenger with this.”

  Arduwyn heard the dull crackle of parchment. A high-pitched laugh rent the air, falling into a deep silence.

  The sentry cleared his throat, obviously unnerved. “Should we send a reply?”

  “A reply? Yes, we will send them a reply.” The voice seemed out of place, thinner and lighter than the Easterners’ guttural accent. He spoke the trading tongue with the lilting pattern of a Westerner. “Send them their messenger’s head.”

  Arduwyn staggered, and his heart shifted into a fluttering pattern that stole his breath and his ability to think. He did not wait to hear the closing amenities between king and subject. His mind would not function, unable to contemplate an order that transcended laws unbroken since the beginning of time. Arduwyn’s legs took over. They carried him recklessly quickly through the widened passage. As he passed the gilded room in which he was to have waited, his frenzied mind leapt to life to warn him of the futility of racing, unarmed, through a tower with guardsmen prowling the hallways.

  Footsteps thumped behind Arduwyn. He dodged into the doorless waiting room, gaze racing faster now than his pounding heart. He saw no place to hide. Keeping his eye on the doorway, he backed toward the window. Climbing to the sill, he studied the four-story drop, the distant walls, and the sparse but beckoning forest beyond it. Logic told him he would probably not survive a jump.

  The Eastern guardsman entered the room, eyes riveting directly on the red-haired Erythanian. Apparently, Arduwyn’s demeanor cued him to the hunter’s knowledge, because he smiled without explanation. The guard’s hand moved to his hilt as he headed toward Arduwyn, no longer holding the spear. “You miserable little eavesdropper. Perhaps you do deserve to die.” His sword rasped from its sheath.

  Arduwyn whirled to face the guard. All fear disappeared as the fight reflex took over. He crouched, prepared to battle to his death. Once, he had faced down the Golden Prince of Demons. He would not quail before any lesser threat.

  The guard closed and latched the door. He pushed aside both chairs, leaving himself a clear, straight path to the window. With a series of deft pushes, he slid the couch directly before the door. He turned, staring up the long, now-empty lane to the hunter.

  Arduwyn measured the distance to escape. Even if he could divert the guard, it would take an interminable amount of time to open the door. Delay would not do. To survive, he would first have to incapacitate the guard. Even buoyed by gathered courage, Arduwyn hated his odds. Even if he carried a weapon, he had little hope of winning a battle against a trained soldier working on the orders of his king.

  The guard advanced, stance low, gaze fixed on Arduwyn and alert for any movement.

  Again, Arduwyn spun, intending to measure the fall to the courtyard once more, as if time might have changed it.

  The guard charged.

  Startled by the sudden attack, Arduwyn twisted, misjudged his footing, and fell through the arched window.

  Air thundered and surged around Arduwyn. Instinctively, he attempted to twist to meet the threat. Before he managed to rotate halfway, he struck the ground. His right hand and hip sank into the side of the sand pile. His shoulder crashed into a rock, and the fall slammed the breath from his lungs. He half-rolled, half-slid down the piled sand and into the water, gasping for air, the slope breaking his momentum in stages. His lungs would not expand, and the effort shocked pain through snapped ribs. The certainty of death brought a jolt of panic.

  Air wheezed into Arduwyn’s lungs. He gasped it madly, despite the agony this ran through his ribs. Surging to his feet, he staggered into the courtyard. His right arm hung, limp and useless, and he tasted blood. Wild with panic, he barely felt the pain. He ran.

  Angry Eastern shouts erupted from the window above him. A spear cut the air over and behind him, landing near enough that he felt the shaft against his ankle. A daze cloaked thought. Pain ached through his chest. Blood bubbled from his nose and mouth, churning nausea. Arduwyn fixed his gaze on the cut stone steps that gave the sentries access to the ramparts. And ran.

  Arduwyn felt as if he had slipped into a dream where his legs moved, but the scenery changed in slowed motion, as if the ground simply scrolled beneath him. Then, he came to the base of the wall and scrambled up the stairs. Abruptly, a thought cut over the dull chaos clouding his mind. How long will it take the sentries on the wall to discover me? How long before some bowman takes me from the ground? He climbed, too one-track to even glance back for pursuit until he stood on the ramparts.

  Once there, he hesitated, confused. The drop from the wall to the ground was greater than the one he was lucky to have survived. The spindly forest encroached on the wall, welcome despite its sparseness. Finally, Arduwyn spread his attention to peripheral as well as forward vision, and he shifted his head to his blind side. The sentries on the ramparts sped toward him. From below, a spear tore his tunic and a furrow of skin from his back. With a desperate cry, he dove from the parapet.

  Arduwyn’s right arm did not obey him. He flailed with the other. His hand closed over a hemlock branch, the quills tearing his fingers. The trunk bent, slowing his fall, modestly bearing the hunter’s weight to the ground. Pain-wracked and sobbing, Arduwyn crawled into the safety of the forest.

  * * *

  Darkness filled the Eastland forest near the Tower of Night. A crescent moon and a spread of stars added a few shades of gray to the otherwise complete blackness. Tight to the ground, Colbey glanced through the skeletal mesh of barren branches, studying the wall surrounding the tower and the gleaming silver of its portcullis. Frost Reaver stood near the gate, head low in sleep, his white hide clearly visible in the hovering night.

  To Colbey’s right, Mitrian and Rache waited in silence. To his left, Tannin, Shadimar, and Vashi chatted quietly. Modrey and Tarah had remained behind to guard Arduwyn and tend to his wounds, though Colbey suspected those three had little to fear from Carcophan’s champion anymore. The Northman had drawn the Renshai to his lair. Now it made sense to make them meet him on his territory and on his terms.

  Colbey frowned, studying the pair of moonlit red helmets that peeked over the battlements on either side of the portcullis. Sneak tactics bothered him. Since his first battle at the age of three, the Renshai had attacked in forthright boldness, though the forewarning meant enemy arrows took down several Renshai before they reached the battle. Yet, here, Colbey saw the need for stealth. The Renshai’s feud was only with the Northman who called himself Eksilir, the Exiled One. He saw no need for the last few Renshai to die, nor for taking the lives of too many innocent guardsmen. Once they had reached the Northman, the battle could begin in earnest. Sword to sword. Renshai to Northman. Honor to dishonor. One to one. Anything more would violate the tenets sanctioned by the gods. Worse, it would violate my own sense of fairness, and I won’t do that at any cost.

  The decision haunted Colbey, and he knew it would cost dearly. His conscience told him that the payment for that choice would be his own life, but that did not ease his mind. So much could happen, and he dared not underestimate the cruelty, malice, and chaos of his opponent, a swordsman unmatched by another mortal man.

  “If we’re forced to retreat, I’ll mount Frost Reaver and do battle while the rest of you escape. We’ll regroup at the camp; or, if they discover that, at the boundary between East and West. Mitrian, when I’m not there, you’re in charge. I expect you to obey any last order I might make. After that, carry on like Renshai. With honor.”

  Mitrian studied Colbey, her expression somber to the edge of fear. The war in Santagithi’s Town had ended too similarly for her to miss the comparison. She looked away, saying nothing, and a concept came from her thoughts to Colbey. It was a vow of unity, a silent promise that the Renshai would live or die together.

  The idea bothered Colbey, but he did not chastise. Honor was not an absolute, and circumstance would have to determine the outcome. />
  “What about the sentries?” Tannin kept his gaze and the conversation on the matter at hand. “If we come too close, they’ll sound the alarm.”

  Colbey said nothing, returning his thoughts to the guards. Rache and the Wizard remained in place, unmoving.

  In the hushed stillness of winter night, Vashi fingered her sword. “Renshai thwarted by sentries? Bah! Let’s battle their gate and notch our swords upon their helms. Let their black walls run crimson. . . .”

  Colbey waved her silent. “I think I can take one of them from here. I’m not sure I can get both, though. The other may scream.” He considered the mental effort such a task would involve. During the war that had killed Santagithi, Colbey had stabbed into Valr Kirin’s mind hard enough to pain the Nordmirian officer. He had no idea whether he had the mind power to kill a man, but Colbey knew he did not need to kill, only to knock the other from the parapet. Still, he hated the cost. To weaken myself before a battle is folly. Yet he saw no other way. If we fight these guards sword to sword, we will fight every other guard in the tower. Too many will die for the cause of a feud only between Renshai and one man. And we may become too engrossed to face our real enemy.

  Logic told Colbey the necessary tactic, yet still he balked. By Renshai tenet, to creep up on these men unannounced and slay them is wrong. The same is true of using arrows or spears. But there is no precedent for mind attacks. Colbey considered at length, while his companions fidgeted. He took his memory back to the reasons for those laws, trying to find the logic that formed their basis. Always, the Renshai honor came from pitting skill against skill. Though the tribe had learned stealth from barbarians like Korgar, they had never considered that a proper combat technique, since an opponent could not directly fight it with stealth of his own. Raining arrows down on enemies meant the likelihood of a lucky shot, rather than a skillful one. And neither of those required true, taxing effort.