The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Vashi seemed confused, valiantly tempering her need for action with the need to please her goddess and her torke. When she fought, it would be with forethought and principle. The Cardinal Wizards stood as still as statues. From Shadimar wafted indignation, from Carcophan wicked joy. Tannin studied the archers, measuring their weaknesses. Intuitively, he knew that the major battle was not his to fight. Over it all, a madness fed by bitterness stagnated, converging on Colbey like a physical entity. Though it lacked the sharpness of an actual wound, it was nearly incapacitating.

  Episte laughed, gaze fixed on Colbey. “Who would have guessed the Golden Prince of the jackals himself would be the one too afraid to approach?”

  But it was not fear that held Colbey. Episte’s voice, though changed, opened the floodgates of his own emotions. The feelings of those around him disappeared, leaving Colbey to drown in his own grief, tainted only by a flicker of hope. The truth came together, rewriting history that Colbey had clung to as fact, but an understanding of motivations did not accompany his realizations. He remembered finding the young Northman’s headless body, the scraps of clothing and the beloved amulet beneath it that had made him certain of the corpse’s identity. Now he knew that Episte had performed the grisly murder, taking the head and leaving his own belongings, stealing the dignity from another’s death only to mislead. “Why?” Colbey managed to ask.

  And he knew Episte would tell him. Though Colbey had trained the Renshai never to gloat nor to waste time talking while an enemy found openings, he recognized the intensity of a madness and bitterness that had to be shared. Episte had prepared too long for this moment to sacrifice it for caution or strategy. Surely, he would defy Colbey’s lessons just as he had abandoned the Renshai’s definitions of cowardice and ethics.

  Episte removed the helmet from his head and shook back his golden locks, looking enough like his dead father to be a twin, aside from the chaos smoldering in his eyes. Colbey felt realization shock through his companions, felt Rache’s need for vengeance flutter into an odd conglomeration of fury, sadness, and confusion. Colbey gave his mental talent free rein, not wanting to waste energy channeling or directing it. The need seized him to penetrate Episte’s mind, to break the force that drove or controlled him. But the consciousness he managed to catch radiating from Episte was not a separate force, and it pained Colbey to discover that it was not just goading. It had become Episte. Still, Colbey needed to prove that to himself. He needed not just to hear but also to understand the betrayal. Though he knew it would weaken him, Colbey focused his mental presence directly into Episte’s mind.

  Chaos pressed Colbey, a wild insanity that nearly sent him, screaming, to the floor. At first, it seemed formless and without direction, upending his reason and stealing his sense of self. Then Episte spoke, opening a direct link to the source of the madness, and Colbey was staggered by the impact. Episte’s words rang in his mind as well as in his ears. “You shaped and battered me with your training and your ruthless techniques. Moment to moment, you made me choose between the mother who loved me and the heritage you forced on me.”

  The pathway led to a bitterness that gaped and festered like a dirty wound. Around it, Colbey found only fading sparks of the man whom he had once recognized as Episte. “My father never wanted me to exist. He damned me to Hel with my name, then left me to seek death in some distant war. And you all called him a hero.” Colbey recoiled from the blasting reek of Episte’s malice, desperately examining the surviving pieces of the youngster’s conscience and devotion. “Then I gave my love and trust to a Deathseeker so like my father, only to have him betray me.” Colbey’s mind scarcely registered the fact that Episte had descended from the dais and now stood on the floor in front of it. “You killed my mother, Colbey. Didn’t you?”

  Believing the question rhetorical, Colbey did not answer. He glanced at the last patchy light of Episte’s humanity, finding only ancient fragments of shattered hopes and dreams with origins in early childhood. He caught a momentary sensation of something shapeless, more presence than being. Before he could define it further, Colbey’s legs went weak. Reluctantly, he drew back his mental probe to shift its direction, channeling its energy back to himself to keep from collapsing. Suddenly, a rush of dizziness stole all focus, and he knew he did not have the strength to face Episte sword to sword. He forced himself to meet Episte’s eyes, seeing there a joy that came as a direct result of Colbey’s frailty. Episte reveled in a weakness whose source he could not understand, savoring his control, gloating with an obviousness that flaunted his disdain for Colbey’s teaching in the same way as his armor did. Clearly, his aim was to demoralize and then destroy. And Colbey felt ill-prepared to stand against those tactics. No matter how many times his mind reassured him that he faced a stranger, Colbey’s heart told him this monster was his son.

  Episte lowered his voice, a tiny hint of his familiar tone seeping into it now. The jewel-encrusted throne on the dais behind him seemed like a distant background from another world. “When I stood there in the woods, surrounded by dead Northmen, I remembered again the last image of my home and saw things that blind trust and grief had hidden. When I got there, all the Northmen were dead and my mother dying. Only one sword was blooded, Colbey, coward and demon. That sword was yours.”

  Colbey felt certain that a battle in the forest with Northmen could not, by itself, have triggered such intricate details of memory. Something else had happened in the woodlands that day; someone had handed Episte the clues and the answer, then magnified every scrap of ugliness, resentment, and bitterness it found. Colbey steadied his body with his mind, then let it rest. He would need all the strength he could muster just to see that some of the Renshai did not die. He could feel Mitrian’s and Rache’s eyes upon him, awaiting his explanation with the same horrified interest as Episte. Tannin and Vashi continued to measure the archers. An impatience touched Colbey, though he could not quite divine the source. Someone had come within striking range of violence.

  “Tell me that you didn’t kill my mother, and I will let you live.”

  Colbey remained silent, wanting the extra moments to capture the vitality of mind and body. If that feeling of imminent attack came from Episte, Colbey had to be its target.

  “Tell me!” Episte screamed.

  Colbey would not lie, especially not to Episte. “I did kill her. It was—” But the explanation never came.

  With a howl of desperate courage, Vashi launched herself at the wall of archers. “Modi!” A dozen shafts flew for her. More than a few found their point-blank target, but the damage was done. Half the archers needed time to reload, and Colbey struck faster than thought. Near the center of the semicircle, three of the still-armed archers fell dead before they saw him move.

  The room erupted into action as the Renshai plunged into the fray en masse. The archers abandoned their bows, unable to fire without hitting friends as well as foes. Some of the survivors drew scimitars. Half chose to run; these fled through the door. Colbey heard the bronze portal crash closed behind him and the bolt slam into place. Apparently, they preferred to lock their crazed leader inside his court with a pack of Renshai so that the tower would not run with Eastern blood.

  While Colbey, Tannin, and Mitrian slashed through the archers, Rache found the opening the others missed. Where Colbey’s blade reaped the foremost bowman, Rache slipped through, charging toward the dais and the frenzied youngster who paced before it. Though hard pressed by exhaustion to a battle with bowmen that would, under other circumstances, seem scarcely worth fighting, Colbey did not miss the wave of outrage, hatred, and grief wafting from Rache as he passed.

  Colbey dispatched the last of the archers in front of him, trying and failing to channel strength to his body. He stumbled, alert, but physically unable to respond to the lightning fast dodges and strikes that usually came so naturally to him. He discovered that only three archers remained standing, one engaged with Tannin and two with Mitrian. Even as he watched, Mitrian cut dow
n one. Regaining his balance, Colbey turned his attention to the battle at the dais.

  Nearby, Carcophan and Shadimar stood in animated dispute, the wolf circling their feet. Rache’s and Episte’s swords swept for one another in slim arches and circles. For each of Rache’s power strokes, Episte had a block or a parry, and he returned them with murderous slashes far quicker than those of his younger foe. Entranced, Colbey watched both adolescents engage in the finest battle of their short existences. And he wished them both the best.

  Episte was a flame of fury. The tip of his blade bit rents the length of Rache’s body. Repeatedly, Rache’s sword thrusts clanged against the breastplate, unable to pierce it. The armor did not appear to hinder Episte at all. Even with its weight and bulkiness, he outmaneuvered Rache. Two dozen harmless strokes cut air in both directions. Then Episte caught Rache’s sword between his own weapon and one lacquered greave.

  Colbey saw the death stroke coming. If Rache wrenched downward, he opened his head to Episte. A leaping back-step would give Episte a free stab at Rache’s chest. An instant’s pause would place the younger completely at the mercy of his frenzied brother. Apparently, Rache saw the same stalemate. “Modi!” he screamed, lowering his sword and dropping his body together. Episte’s blade whistled overhead, so close it tore some of the sandy hairs from Rache’s head. Rache sprang backward and to his feet. Colbey could see the sweat flung by the movement, colored red by numerous superficial wounds. Rache’s motions had become nearly as awkward as Colbey’s own; the intensity of his concentration and the constant need for attack and parry had sapped the young Renshai of strength. With the new vitality that certain death brings, Rache howled and plunged for Episte.

  Mitrian ran her sword through the last of her opponents, pulling the blade free without bothering to watch the Easterner fall. Instantly, she spun, eyes riveting on the battle by the dais. With a cry of horrified alarm, she raised her sword and charged.

  Colbey swore, stepping clumsily into her path. “Mitrian, no. It’s not your battle.”

  Mitrian skidded to a stop. Her feet slipped on the blood-rimed floor, and momentum carried her into Colbey. She caught her balance with wide flailings of her arms. Then, bearings regained, she glared at Colbey. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of my way!”

  “It’s not your battle,” Colbey repeated.

  Several braziers had been scattered during the fight with the archers, leaving much of the room in darkness. Rache’s and Episte’s swords became pulsating dazzles of steel in shadow.

  “Not my battle!” Mitrian screamed. “That’s my son!” She tried to veer around Colbey, but he shifted to block her path again. “No!” she shouted. “No!” A look of horrified understanding crossed her features. “You bastard! You’re so damned interested in their technique, you don’t want anyone interrupting your pleasure. Rache’s my child. I won’t let him die for your amusement.” She lunged, jabbing for Colbey’s abdomen with deadly accuracy.

  Anger gave Colbey new strength. He drew and cut in one movement. Their swords rang together. Instantly, the elder reversed the direction of his attack. The tip of his sword claimed the wolf’s head hilt, and Mitrian’s sword spun to the floor. Though he had plenty of opportunity to honor the blade by catching it, Colbey drew his other sword instead. Mitrian’s sword crashed, ringing, to the floor.

  “Modi!” Mitrian dove for her hilt.

  As her hand closed over the familiar haft, Colbey slammed a booted foot down on the blade hard enough to pinch her fingers between sword and floor. “That’s the last time anyone tells me what I am or why I do what I do! When Renshai lose respect for a torke, there is nothing more for him to teach. But this one last lesson you will learn.” Keeping his foot in place, Colbey motioned Mitrian to her feet.

  Reluctantly, Mitrian released her sword and obeyed, rage still radiating from her person as well as her expression.

  “Rache has the right to live or die by his own hand, with his honor intact. If you fight for him, you turn him into a coward.”

  “But—” Mitrian started desperately.

  “There are no exceptions.” Colbey met and held Mitrian’s gaze. “You are not a Renshai only when it suits your needs. Law and glory does not change just because it involves your son. The better swordsman will win. And the other will die a man. Don’t buy your son’s life at the price of his honor.”

  Mitrian lowered her head, not quite hiding her tears.

  “When their battle is finished, then you can challenge, if you feel the need.” Colbey released Mitrian’s sword. Cut to the heart, he considered the potential of the two young Renshai who had once found solace in one another’s presence but now thirsted for one another’s blood. Together, they could have made the Renshai great. Now, brother against brother, they would die. It was an old, tired, familiar irony. Always, it seemed, those who could form the most undefeatable alliances became the most powerful of enemies. The most capable warriors solved their problems with swords instead of a heated argument over mugs of mead. Colbey watched the battle, regathering the strength that came with rest.

  * * *

  Rache felt as if his sword had quadrupled in weight, and sweat stung every part of his body. He and Episte exchanged strokes as swiftly as when the fight had begun, but the deadly accuracy waned as they both wearied. Rache made another futile stab for an opening in Episte’s armor. Again, Episte caught Rache’s sword against his greave.

  “Modi!” Rache doubted the same maneuver would work twice, so he relied on speed. He leapt backward. For the second time, Episte’s sword whistled over Rache’s head. Rache knew that stroke should have claimed his neck. Episte could easily have taken his life. If Episte had missed, it was because he wanted it that way. If Rache still lived, it was because Episte had not yet chosen to kill him. The older teenager was toying with him as cruelly as Colbey had played the Erythanian knight.

  Humiliation transformed to wild fury. Rache fought his final, desperate battle with dignity, mixing uniquely perfect Renshai techniques with the less directed power attacks that Garn had taught him. No matter Episte’s methods, Rache promised himself that he would fight the best battle he could. He would avenge his father’s death and Colbey’s honor, and damn the cost. Years of love transformed into a hatred heated by Episte’s decision to belittle as well as to kill.

  “I loved you, damn it. You were my hero.” Rache’s own words brought him a second wind. He rained hammer blows on Episte, each relentless surge driving Episte backward. For the first time, Rache was in control, and his mouth twisted in a howl of triumph.

  Episte’s foot met the obsidian stair of the dais. He parried as he climbed, weaving a wild web of defense. But Rache did not pause until he pressed his opponent against the jeweled wooden chair that served as a throne. A sudden pang of guilt rose then, driving Rache to the very hesitation that Colbey warned against, that had cost many men their lives. “You killed my father!” Now Rache knew no mercy. He lunged, thrusting with all the power he could put into the blow.

  Episte dodged like an eel.

  Instead of flesh, Rache’s blade cleft nothing, then embedded deeply into the wooden base of the chair. Episte’s blade sped for the hilt of Rache’s sword and Rache’s fingers.

  Rache sprang backward to avoid the blow, disarming himself. Episte advanced. Nearly helpless, Rache retreated. His foot came down on empty air, and he tumbled down the dais stairs. His head banged against wood, and the steps stamped bruises across his limbs. He crashed to the floor, prone, aching in every part of his body. Instinctively, he tensed to roll and rise. Episte’s booted foot jarred into Rache’s back, sprawling him. The sharp nip of a blade at the base of Rache’s neck foretold his death. He dared not move. He steeled his mind for death, knowing in his heart that he had given his all.

  The sword flicked across the back of Rache’s neck. He felt a momentary pressure at his throat, then the medallion he had worn since the battle near Greentree slithered free of his tunic.

  Epist
e gasped and then he gave one wrenching sob and began to speak, his voice cooing and childlike, the soft alto he had used before time and puberty had deepened it. “No, Episte. You can’t kill Rache. He’s your brother.” The sword slipped from his shaking hand. He pulled the helmet from his head and tossed it to the ground. Episte sank to the floor, arms wrapped around his legs, his face hidden against his knees. And he wept.

  Rache rose hesitantly and stared, with absolutely no idea of what to do next. The certainty of death had stolen the anger and vengeance that had driven him. The sobbing, huddled figure at his feet seemed too pitiful to kill, and it reminded him of the Episte he had known more than a decade ago. Uncertain whether to comfort, ignore, or kill, Rache turned to Colbey for guidance.

  Corpses littered the courtroom floor, along with shattered and overturned braziers. Blood painted the floorboards red. Rache spotted Vashi among the bodies, pierced by more arrows than he bothered to count. Tannin kept a hand clamped around the fletching of a single arrow in his chest, unsure how to remove it. Mitrian returned Rache’s gaze, a cautious smile on her face. The Wizards still stood in conference, their demeanors solemn. They had taken no direct hand in the conflict.

  Colbey gave Rache no answer. His aging features twisted in agony, and a tragic warmth filled his blue-gray eyes. As he passed Rache, he clamped a hand to the younger Renshai’s arm. Though silent, the gesture conveyed an approval that, for a time, stole all of the pain from Rache’s battle. Colbey rarely gave praise, and its scarcity made it priceless.

  Leaving Episte to Colbey, Rache turned to give his mother a hug, then help her tend to Tannin’s wound.