Subikahn’s voice jarred Saviar back to reality. “I know what you’re thinking.”
Saviar’s flush went deeper. He imagined his face was as scarlet and glaring as a bonfire. “I wasn’t thinking anything,” he said defensively, which only made his brother’s smile broaden.
“It’s better this way,” Subikahn assured. “Imagine what might happen if she came home . . . um . . .” Apparently, he sought a euphemism that wouldn’t further embarrass his more honorable twin. “. . . short-skirted, and they discovered the ‘lump’ came courtesy of a Renshai warrior. How far would you go to save your child? Could you imprison a woman and snatch her infant from her bosom?”
Saviar bridled at the bare thought, yet he understood the dilemma. The Myrcidians might or might not feel obligated to slaughter the child. The imaginary child, he reminded himself. He and Chymmerlee had done nothing more than kiss. “There’s no child to fight for. And I don’t think the Myrcidians will come after us to protect their secrets, either. At least, not if we return Chymmerlee alive, as promised.”
Subikahn gave his brother an ironic look. “I think you sorely underestimate the importance they place on their solitude.”
Saviar wondered if he were missing something. Usually, Subikahn caught the subtleties better than he did. “If we return Chymmerlee unharmed, that makes us men of our words. They can hope we will keep their secrets as well.”
“Or,” Subikahn inserted, “they can murder us and assure the safety of their secrets.”
“No.” Saviar found Subikahn’s miscalculation. “Because if they assume we’re oathbreakers, they have to believe we already told the Renshai about them. They might worry our people will annihilate them again, but they know it is only a possibility. If they murder us, however, they will definitely raise the wrath of the Renshai. Their only real hope for their own security is to trust us.”
“Would you?”
“Trust us?”
“Yes.”
Saviar tried to look at the situation from a neutral viewpoint. The Mages of Myrcidë believed they had a common bond of magical blood. They knew Saviar was the son of a Knight of Erythane, that he cared deeply for Chymmerlee, and that Subikahn was his twin. That seemed enough for a reasonable expectation of trust. However, when Chymmerlee returned with the information that he and his brother were also unproclaimed Renshai, none of that would matter. “No,” he admitted. “In their position, I wouldn’t.”
“There is one other option,” Subikahn said with a softness that alerted Saviar. He would not like the suggestion. “We could prevent Chymmerlee from getting the information about our heritage back to her people.”
“What are you saying? You want us to kill Chymmerlee?”
“That’s one option.” Subikahn responded with cool matter-of-factness. “Or, you could entice her to stay. Marry her, perhaps.”
In less tense circumstances, Saviar would have laughed. “I can’t even get her to talk to me.”
“Find a way.”
“I like her, but I’m not sure I love her. At least not yet.”
“It wouldn’t be the first loveless marriage.”
Saviar gave his brother a scathing look. If Subikahn was joking, he gave no sign of it. “I gave my word I would see Chymmerlee home safe, and I have every intention of doing so. The facts are what they are; I can’t change them. I’m going to do the honorable thing and let the consequences fall where they will.”
Subikahn crooked one side of his face, bobbing his head from side to side. “A perfect example of why the good men die young. And why I hope you’ll understand if I don’t join you.”
It is an honor to die delivering a killing blow, but don’t drop your guard just because you believe you did.
—Colbey Calistinsson
CALISTIN RA-KHIRSSON LIMPED into the practice room of Béarn Castle, marveling at its size. It could easily accommodate a small war. On either side of the entrance, racks held practice weapons of a variety beyond anything Calistin could have imagined. The Renshai used nothing but swords; and, though he could defend against anything, Calistin had never seen such an array of polearms, axes, swords, clubs, and hammers. Shields lay neatly piled in front of a shelf covered in wooden objects carved into the shapes of more familiar weapons. He wondered idly why someone might prefer a club in the shape of a sword rather than a solid stick.
The sparring room consisted of a wide variety of areas simulating everything from open terrain, to deep woodlands, to castle interiors. Calistin had heard that the men who designed it had done so for the convenience of the Renshai who served as bodyguards to the Béarnian princes and princesses. If so, they had done a stupendous job. Calistin could scarcely wait to try out every aspect of the room, other than the variety of shields and weapons.
Apparently, the same idea had occurred to every member of Calistin’s tribe. Renshai scrambled up and down a spiraling staircase, steel flying at one another’s faces. Renshai bandied back and forth over a field of simulated debris. Renshai fought wildly in an open area, in a boxed-in room full of battered old furniture, across a floor pocked with holes and cluttered with timbers. Hard-pressed to find a place to swing his sword, Calistin contented himself with watching, for the moment.
Once the others noticed him, they would make an opening for the most able Renshai warrior. With his broken left arm splinted and in a sling, Calistin would likely find more challengers than usual, people who believed they might actually best him. His battle with the enemy’s only Kjempemagiska had left him battered and aching all over his body. He wanted nothing more than to engage in svergelse, practicing sword forms quietly and utterly alone, but he doubted he would get the chance. He had not become the best by hiding from his injuries or coddling weakness. As a torke, he had forced his students to push themselves past exhaustion, past pain, and to focus most fervently on vulnerabilities.
At the moment, Calistin looked anything but menacing. Renshai had become more diverse over the centuries; but he typified the classic appearance of the ancient tribe. At eighteen, he looked some four to five years younger, his eyes a steely blue-gray, his hair golden, his skin as fair as that of any true Northman. Dark bruises and clotted gashes showed clearly where his tunic did not cover them. Renshai spurned armor, shields, and other unnatural defenses, relying only on their own quickness and skill.
When no one challenged him after several moments, Calistin headed for a position on the far edge of one of the practice areas, not caring whether he chose one with indoor or outdoor obstacles or none at all. It suddenly occurred to him why no one was demanding a spar with their war-weakened champion. They, too, suffered from battle wounds and exhaustion; they saw no advantage to sparring him in what would ultimately prove a match as uneven as usual. And, even if they did manage to defeat him, everyone would ascribe the victory to Calistin’s injuries.
Calistin launched into his first svergelse, immediately cursing the splints that immobilized his left arm. He would have torn them off, but he was wise enough to realize that, if he did not give his arm the chance to heal, it never would. Four or five weeks of rest would bring it back nearly as good as new. Though it might seem more like twenty-eight days of wretched frustration, it was still preferable to his arm healing crookedly or not at all.
The room went suddenly silent. Ordinarily, Calistin would not have noticed such a thing while caught in something as all-consuming as swordwork, but only something of significant danger would distract Renshai from spar. Every eye had turned to the entrance, so Calistin looked there are well.
A large, well-built Northman had entered. Massive, handsome, and also war-bruised, Valr Magnus threw an enormous shadow over the myriad racks of weaponry. Seemingly oblivious to the Renshai’s sudden change in demeanor, the general of the Aeri army examined the stack of practice shields.
The Renshai waited to see what Calistin would do. As the champion of the North
men, Valr Magnus had planned to challenge Calistin in single combat. Through a combination of deft maneuvers by the Northmen, and pride from the Renshai, Magnus had wound up facing Calistin’s mother instead. The battle had gone her way until skullduggery disguised as an accident had allowed Magnus a fatal stroke. Over the next several months, Calistin had chased Magnus halfway around the world with the intention of humiliating the brute before slaying him fairly in combat.
The war had disrupted Calistin’s plans. Thrown uneasily together, the two warriors had found more common ground than anyone could have anticipated and, ultimately, became dedicated war partners and even unlikely friends. When the time finally came for their battle to the death, neither wished to fight it any longer. Valr Magnus had been the only one capable of assisting Calistin against the Kjempemagiska in the war. Side by side, they had fought the giant and nearly died together.
As visions of that battle swept down on Calistin, he forced them away. Usually, he savored war, its memories his pride and his joy. But he had lost another friend in that encounter, one whose loyalty he had never appreciated and whose courage he had never respected. He could not bear to think of Treysind, not now, maybe not ever.
Raised, like most Northmen, to despise Renshai, Valr Magnus now stood in a precarious position. Calistin knew the general could prove either a valuable ally or a bitter and dangerous enemy to the Renshai. Calistin’s actions might well determine which.
Sheathing his weapon, Calistin stepped forward to acknowledge the Aeri general. “Valr.” The word literally meant “Slayer,” and the Northmen reserved it for their greatest swordsmen in history. The first Valr had earned his nickname as a prolific killer of Renshai.
Valr Magnus turned to face Calistin. His expression gave away nothing. Apparently, he also knew and cared how much lay at stake. That boded well, in Calistin’s mind.
The room seemed to collectively hold its breath. All sparring and svergelse ceased. Every eye found the two men, one tall and broad, the other childlike in form but deadly as a pack of wolves.
“Calistin,” Valr finally said, his tone as unrevealing as his expression. He selected a large, broad practice sword, its balance awkward and its edges blunted.
In a single movement, Calistin sprang up beside the general and placed a restraining hand on his wrist. “Not that one.” He inclined his head toward the sheath at Magnus’ hip.
Magnus looked startled. He spoke softly, barely above a whisper. “You’ve changed your mind again? You want that battle?”
“Just a spar,” Calistin replied as softly. “But a good one: well-crafted sword to well-crafted sword.” He gave the practice weapon a disdainful look. “That’s a worthless lump of wood.”
Magnus crooked a brow. “Most practice weapons are. That’s what keeps friends from inadvertently injuring one another.”
Calistin shrugged. “We can handle pain.”
“What about accidentally killing one another?”
Calistin’s jaw tensed, but he threw off anger. Magnus spoke from ignorance not any intention to offend. “That’s a grave insult,” he informed the general. “I’m a torke. If I can’t control my practice strokes any better than that, then to what purpose do I serve my students?”
“I’m more concerned about me,” Magnus grumbled, which only further irritated Calistin.
“If I can’t keep you from killing me, I deserve to die.”
“That’s not what I . . .” Valr Magnus seemed to realize that everything he said was only worsening the situation. “Very well. Real weapons . . . but . . . still a spar?”
Calistin nodded.
“And the end point?”
Calistin considered. He glanced around the room, noting the variety of terrain, the angle of the sun trickling toward the window, the many Renshai standing like statues, their attention gravely focused on the two men amid the racks of practice weapons. “First one to drive the other to the highest point of the room wins.”
Magnus’ brows flung upward. Clearly, he had never heard such a suggestion before. For that matter, neither had Calistin; he had made it up on the spur of the moment, with just a trickle of an idea in mind. He sometimes sparred a hundred times in a day and had often spiced up endpoints to keep them interesting. His own best torke had added knocking one’s opponent on his ass in the dirt to his repertoire. For ganim, non-Renshai, there were three usual choices: first blood, first would-be fatal maneuver, and death.
Valr Magnus merely nodded. Likely, he felt questioning would only risk offending Calistin again. “Where do you want to start?”
Calistin knew the other Renshai had not heard their soft discussion. They had no way to know whether the fight was spar or genuine. To keep them guessing, Calistin roared, “Here! Now!”
Magnus’ sword cleared its sheath in an instant. It seemed to gather the meager light from the windows, flashing vivid silver as it lunged for Calistin. Calistin sprang aside easily, certain Magnus had not used his full speed or strength. Apparently, the Aeri general still worried about sparring with live steel.
Without bothering to free his own weapon, Calistin hissed. “Stop playing and fight like a man.”
“It’s only . . . I don’t want . . .”
Calistin glared, daring the Aeri to finish that sentence. “You couldn’t hit me if I had two broken legs! And a blindfold!”
It was a challenge no warrior could stomach. Magnus lunged in earnest at his smaller foe. Calistin jumped, and Magnus’ sword cut the air where Calistin had been. Calistin landed on a table, sending practice weapons sliding, smashing against one another, and slamming to the floor. Gaze fixed on Calistin, Magnus backstepped farther into the practice room. Clearly, he did not want to drag the fight into the castle or give Calistin the chance to pounce on him from above. “You don’t have to prove it. Leave the leg breaking to your enemies.”
Screaming a battle cry, Calistin charged the length of the table to hurl himself toward Magnus. Only then did he bother to draw his own sword.
Magnus seemed willing to stand back and wait, then abruptly seized the opening. Airborne, Calistin could not change his momentum. Magnus swept the flat of his blade into the path of the flying Renshai.
It took most of Calistin’s strength to curl defensively beneath the sword, then fling out his legs and uninjured arm to backhand his blade against Magnus’. Harmlessly deflected, Magnus’ blade circled back for another strike; but Calistin had already landed.
“Stop playing,” Valr Magnus repeated Calistin’s gibe verbatim. “And fight like a man.”
Calistin grinned. Ordinarily, he would never have performed unnecessary acrobatics in combat. For once, he wanted something showy and wild to entertain the other Renshai and assure them that he would not allow his injuries to hamper him. “Fine,” he said. With blinding quickness, he launched an attack at Magnus, his sword flickering in all directions.
Caught in the onslaught, Magnus retreated, parrying and dodging, nothing left for offense. He had just enough agility to avoid the floor debris and the other Renshai, most of whom skittered out of his way. No one wanted to bring down Calistin’s ire by affecting the tide of battle; Calistin would win fairly or not at all. Anyone who made that victory suspect would pay dearly for the offense, possibly with his life.
Abruptly, Magnus turned a deft parry into a strong attack, thrusting viciously. The suddenness and uniqueness of the maneuver surprised even Calistin. He sprang aside cleanly but lost his attack advantage just long enough for Magnus to go on the offense. Blows battered down on Calistin with a speed that belied the Aeri general’s bulk. Quick as a gnat, Calistin eluded every stroke, not daring to take one on his sword. He could not risk hurting his working hand. Then, gradually Calistin took control again, body weaving through the flurry, sword darting in to put the Northman on the defensive again.
“Nice,” Calistin could not help admitting. Calistin was th
e better swordsman; with one notable exception, he always was. Yet Magnus had a talent he had never witnessed from a ganim before. Others had given Calistin a real battle, but all of those had been Renshai or had come at him in such droves that the distraction had worked to their advantage. As an Outworld creature, the giant Kjempemagiska did not count as a human adversary any more than a god or demon would. Calistin suffered an uncharacteristic twinge of sadness at the accident of the Aeri general’s birth. Started as a toddler, allowed to learn the secret maneuvers, Magnus would have made a highly competent Renshai.
Curious, Calistin guided the battle through all sorts of terrain and long into the morning. He did not want the battle to end. As time went on, Magnus seemed more antsy, his intention to force the battle onto the simulated spiral staircase more obvious. Calistin knew the older man could match his own endurance, if not his skill; but Magnus seemed less eager to spend the entire day engaged in a single spar.
Pity. With a blow to Magnus’ side that would have been considered a would-be fatal one had they chosen a different end point, Calistin switched positions. They still headed toward the staircase, though now he had become the sheepdog instead of the ram. Magnus seemed not to mind the defensive position, so long as it drew them closer to their goal. The sooner they approached the highest point in the room, the less time until the contest finished.
Once both men’s feet touched the staircase, the pace of the combat increased mightily. Swords blurred into flying webs of silver. Right arm hampered by the wall, Calistin again cursed the splints that immobilized his left. The perfect two-handed training of the Renshai failed him when he only had one available, but that did not stop Calistin. He threw himself into the spar as he would a battle, careful only not to harm his opponent with the same sharpened steel that had claimed the lives of so many. He fought in flawless arcs, using the wall as a springboard and the rail, at times, as a short-term perch. Gradually, at his own measured pace, he drove Magnus toward the landing.
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