As they approached, the frenzy of battle intensified even further. Magnus fought wildly to switch positions, even though this opened his defenses. Calistin instinctively charged for the hole. He slapped a would-be killing blow across Magnus’ abdomen, as the general completed the circle. Now, Calistin’s back pointed toward the landing, and a single driving step would lose him the battle.
Damn! The maneuver seemed utter madness. What good to win the spar if one forfeited one’s life? Calistin’s chosen end point allowed such a trick, without penalty; but the ability to drop survival instincts to accomplish it caught him utterly by surprise. As Magnus lunged in for one last backstep, Calistin did the only thing he could. He hurled himself at Magnus.
Calistin struck a form as solid as a brick wall, but momentum won out over bulk. Both men tumbled wildly down the stairs, a flailing ball of arms, legs, and swords. Magnus caught himself first, looping an arm through the railing while Calistin continued to fall, unwilling to release his sword and unable to stop himself without the use of his opposite arm.
Magnus waited patiently on the staircase for Calistin to collect himself. Even more bruised and battered, Calistin leaped to his feet and charged the general, his battle screams ringing through the room.
Once again, Magnus put all his effort into forcing Calistin’s back to the landing, not worrying about defense, opening himself fully to Calistin’s attacks. Calistin avoided Magnus’ deadly strokes, uncertain whether to feel incensed or mightily impressed. He doubted Magnus meant to question Calistin’s competence; they both knew the Renshai had promised not to land a real blow, had bragged that he would not allow the Aeri to do so, either. Simply by choosing such a strange end point, Calistin had obviated any purpose for simulated killing blows.
It was a galling strategy, brilliant in its own strange way. Calistin found himself drawn to Magnus’ deliberate openings, expending effort just to ignore them, to avoid harming his opponent in spar. Emotions bubbled up and were discarded: anger gave way to irritation, then to wonder, admiration, and, finally, amusement. He had agreed not to kill Valr Magnus but never not to cause him pain.
Now, Calistin bore in to cover those holes, smacking shins and anklebones with the flat of his blade. Like a dog at the heels of livestock, Calistin grew relentless, driving Magnus upward until the second of his large feet reached the landing. Only then did Calistin withdraw, looking up at his cornered foe, grinning at his timing. The sun had risen far enough to stream through the window, striking golden highlights from the Northman’s hair. His raised sword made a grand contrast in silver.
Before Magnus could admit defeat, before he could even speak a word, Calistin joined him on the landing to address the staring crowd of Renshai. “Friends, fellow Renshai, I would like to introduce General Magnus Rognualdsson from the tribe of Aerin.”
Scattered, confused applause followed the introduction. Clearly, no one wished to guess Calistin’s next move. They knew him as ruthless, often cruel, and utterly humorless. They had no idea how much the events of the last few months had changed him, enough to stage a battle, to befriend his worst enemy. Without Treysind’s sacrifice, Calistin realized, none of that would have happened.
Looking as uncertain as his audience, Magnus sheathed his sword and executed a polite bow.
Renshai fought wars without pattern or strategy, without commanders and titles. At Béarn’s request, they had a leader, Thialnir, who represented them at the Council and in other foreign affairs. It was a flimsy hierarchy, more important to ganim then Renshai, so Calistin had no qualms about announcing vital information in his own time and manner. “We know General Magnus as the champion of the Northmen, the man who killed my mother and banished the Renshai from the West and their homes.”
Rumbles rose from the Renshai. Other armies might have clashed weapons or shields, but they remained silent. They had no shields and respected their swords too much to risk notching them in anything less than spar or combat.
“Now, we know him, too, as a competent warrior and a man of honor. When my father found proof that deceit had played a role in winning that battle, Magnus retracted his victory, apologized, and nullified the agreement.”
Murmurs suffused the crowd. Clearly, they needed more.
Calistin gave it, “Our banishment is lifted. The Fields of Wrath belong to the Renshai once more.”
A great cry filled the practice room, echoing from the walls and funneling through the two high windows. Calistin suspected they could hear it throughout the entirety of Béarn Castle.
Calistin looked at Magnus, expecting a smile but getting, instead, a worried frown. Clearly, something troubled the Northman. Calistin waited until the cheers died down to speak again, “As if this were not enough to assure us the general is a fair man, worth trusting, look at his sword.” Calistin gestured Magnus to unsheathe and raise the weapon again.
Valr Magnus did as Calistin bade, raising the blade to display its glimmering length, its perfect edge, the distinctive large, S-shaped guard a favorite of any Renshai, like Calistin’s mother, who copied the ways of Colbey Calistinsson. Calistin drew and placed his own sword alongside Magnus’. They proved perfect twins, their lengths identical, their simple guards unwaveringly matched, their handgrips the same split-leather, and the pommels shaped like the nose of a cat. As they came alongside one another, Calistin’s felt as if it trembled in his hand. Worried he had lost control of his nerves, Calistin studied the steel. Both swords wobbled ever so slightly, and the reflected light of the sun seemed to bounce perfectly between them.
The Renshai fell silent again, and every eye focused on the swords. Calistin need not have concerned himself. Whatever he saw, whether real or illusion, the entire group saw with him. “His sword, like mine, comes from the hand and sheath of Colbey. He gave this one to my mother, a miracle I never believed would get repeated. Yet, I saw with my own eyes as Colbey relinquished this weapon to Magnus.”
Religious signs swept the crowd. Rare enough any Renshai would ever willingly give up a sword to anyone, but for the great immortal Renshai to do so, twice, seemed madness. The enormity of the tribute Colbey had bestowed upon Magnus could only truly be understood by Renshai.
Clearly uncomfortable with the intense scrutiny, Magnus sheathed the sword again. “Please,” he started. “I appreciate your favor and your kindness, but it is more than I deserve. No man with a shred of integrity could have done anything less than I did.”
Again, a cacophony of voices swept the crowd. One, grumbled a trifle too loudly, came through, “Northmen aren’t generally known for their integrity.”
Valr Magnus’ frown deepened. “I admit that not all of my ilk were convinced by the evidence nor pleased with my decision . . .”
It was gross understatement. Calistin had been present when Ra-khir presented the irrefutable evidence of fraud. At the time, the leader of the Northmen had demanded that either the results stand or another battle replace it. Magnus had refused to act as the North’s champion a second time, had shed the ill-gotten title of Renshai-slayer, had insisted the contract become null and void. He had even apologized profusely to Ra-khir and the boys for killing their wife and mother.
“. . . but I will not stand by while anyone denigrates my people.” Magnus gave a stern look toward the crowd, as if seeking the speaker.
Never one to hide, the Renshai who had spoken stepped forward, revealing himself as Tygbiar. A veteran warrior with a deeply scarred face, he spoke words on the minds of many Renshai, “You can’t deny that blatant Renshai-hating is rampant in the Northlands.”
“I can’t,” Magnus admitted. “And much of it is ignorant and undeserved. But hatred is a two-way path.”
“Eventually.” Kristel, a contemporary of Kevral’s spoke next in a strong feminine voice. “When someone is constantly trying to murder every member of your tribe, you do learn to dislike him. But Renshai do not teach our childr
en to hate in organized schools. We do not have as a spoken and written goal to destroy all Northmen.”
Kristel’s closest friend Nisse added, “If the gods magically disarmed all of the Northmen simultaneously, we would remain at peace. But if they disarmed the Renshai, the Northmen would seize the opportunity to slaughter us all.”
Magnus tipped his head and remained silent, clearly considering the words. Calistin knew the Renshai appreciated that the Aeri general did not dismiss their concerns out of hand. “I wouldn’t, nor would thousands of other Northmen. To dismiss us all as monsters for the actions of a few is bias as unreasonable as that which you condemn.”
Calistin did not point out that the “few” consisted of tens of thousands. “We’re not going to solve centuries of conflict by cornering a good man. Colbey finds him worthy, and so do I.”
The Renshai could scarcely argue with the logic.
Magnus, however, had not finished, “I’ve been put in place as the new Western representative for the Northlands, so you’re sure to see more of me over the coming months.”
Though shocked, Calistin could not help smiling. He could not think of any Northman he would rather have representing them. At least, Magnus did not hate Renshai outright, like so many of his brethren.
“Whatever anti-Renshai prejudice school has drummed into me, I’ll try to overcome; but I will always do what is right for my people. I warn you that may not always gibe with your preferences or needs. However, I’m not going to endorse anything whose soul purpose is to treat anyone, Renshai or otherwise, unkindly or unfairly.” It was not a strong promise but the best Renshai could hope for from any Northman. As Magnus started down the faux castle stairs, Calistin at his side, the other Renshai returned to their spars and svergelse.
“Western representative for the Northmen?” Calistin could not help asking.
Valr Magnus made a deep-throated sound. “It’s a ploy to keep me here, I think. Captain Erik of Nordmir wants to get home first to tell his version of the story.”
Calistin could only nod. He had little understanding of diplomacy or titles, but one thing seemed certain. Erik was responsible for the battle and its original outcome. Erik was the one who had thrown a tantrum in the Council Room when the deception became clear and the contract negated. Compared to him, Magnus had to seem like a dewy-eyed lover of Renshai. “Do you think he’ll lie?”
Magnus shrugged. “He’ll guard his tongue, at least in regard to me. I’m as popular with Northmen as you are among Renshai, and for much the same reason.”
Calistin did not allow himself a smile. His people loved him only because of his skill, while Magnus was not only the martial champion of his race but also a kind and generous man, intelligent, and a competent general. The Renshai revered Calistin as the best of their line, but they did not particularly like him.
It occurred to Calistin that, prior to the war, such thoughts would never have entered his mind. His people expected nothing from him but to improve his swordwork and, hopefully, teach some of them along the way. He could act as he pleased. He had no obligations, no chores, no need for social knowledge or proficiency. He could think what he liked, say what he liked, do as he chose to do without fear of retribution or even negative comment.
Two things had changed him. First, Calistin had been bested in battle by an elderly stranger who had then become his torke, only later revealing himself as Colbey Calistinsson and as Calistin’s blood grandfather. Colbey had exposed an awful truth: Calistin’s soul had been destroyed when his mother had suffered the bite of a spirit spider while pregnant with him.
Secondly, Treysind had died a hero. The Erythanian street urchin had annoyed Calistin for most of a year, trailing him like a puppy, insisting on protecting the Renshai despite having no combat training, infusing rudimentary social skills against Calistin’s will.
For so long, Treysind had managed only to get under Calistin’s feet and skin, gradually and irritatingly forcing the Renshai to reevaluate the way he had chosen to lead his existence. But Treysind’s last act had not only saved Calistin’s life, as he had so long promised, but had turned the tide of the war itself. Treysind had thrown himself between Calistin and a killing blow, causing the Kjempemagiska to slaughter the wrong target. A Valkyrie had come for Treysind’s soul, as they did for all warriors who died in valorous combat. Then, Treysind had made the ultimate sacrifice, giving up his soul, which would have dwelt for eternity in Valhalla, to Calistin.
Calistin shook off consideration of a selfless act he had avoided thinking about for as long as possible. He had no idea how the Valkyrie had made the switch. If she had not told him, called him unworthy of the boy’s incredible sacrifice, he would never have known it occurred at all. He certainly had no intention of becoming weakened by a decision in which he had had no choice, nor did he wish to belittle Treysind’s heroic action.
Soulless, Calistin could never have found Valhalla, the final reward he had dedicated nearly every moment of every day to achieving. In the short time he had known he was soulless, he had suffered a torment beyond any he had known before, beyond any he could imagine. Yet he found himself as much burdened as rescued by Treysind’s miraculous gift. Without it, his death would herald nothing. But, with it, he felt compelled to honor Treysind, to consider his own words and actions and their effects on those around him.
Still uncertain whether to deify or damn Treysind, Calistin simply watched Valr Magnus leave the practice room. He returned to his own svergelse.
Achievement is no excuse for sloth. Past glory is for the dead. A true hero never rests, but always he drives on one deed further.
—Colbey Calistinsson
KING TAE KAHN OF STALMIZE, Eastlands, had never seen so many important people packed into one room. When it became clear the Council and Strategy Rooms would prove too cramped, and the library too delicate, Tae had volunteered his own enormous guestroom. It amazed him how swiftly and effortlessly the Béarnian castle servants had converted his sleeping quarters into a reasonably formal and not-too-uncomfortable meeting place. They had removed the bed, chest, and dressing table, replacing them with tables that did not quite fit together but still managed to create a large and mostly level surface. The myriad chairs surrounding it did not match but formed an eye-pleasing arrangement. Flowers and herbs covered the sickroom smell of healing injuries, and they had left Tae a plush seat in which to rest his battered frame.
Currently, Imorelda occupied the chair, her feline body stretched to fill it, her tail flopping leisurely back and forth across the stuffed armrests. Ignoring her, and the film of shed fur she left on his seat, Tae stared out the window and into the courtyard below. He had seen his son climb the castle walls, fighting an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Tae was the one who scaled walls for sport usually, a treat he sorely missed since his injuries had rendered even simple acrobatics impossible. It seemed absurd that only a week ago he had believed himself definitively dead.
Tae had also seen Subikahn fall, suffering desperate panic until Saviar caught his twin and the two, eventually, walked off under their own power. Awash in icy sweat, Tae had finally understood why the Eastern maid, Alneezah, had hovered around him when he did similarly dangerous and foolish things. For reasons he could not explain, she loved him. And, he was only starting to realize, he cared deeply for her as well.
Now, Tae hobbled to his chair, cursing the pain and stiffness that still assailed him. Slashed to the bone, his right shoulder ached. The healers kept it in a sling, reminding him not to overuse it so it could properly mend. Every breath brought a stab of pain, though it had lessened over time and the struggle became far less fierce since his arrow-shot lung had reinflated. He limped to protect his left thigh, where another enemy arrow had penetrated. A residual headache still distracted him periodically, a memento of his battle with a hungry shark.
Voices in the hall alerted Tae. *I need to sit,* he sent to t
he cat.
Imorelda stretched her sinewy body farther, driving each leg outward, extending every claw. It seemed impossible that an animal so small could take up so much room. *So sit.*
Under ordinary circumstances, Tae would have enjoyed bandying with the cat, but the seriousness of the current proceedings precluded it. He already faced an uphill battle to convince the allies that the massive war they had just won was only the beginning of the battle. Béarn had called up every alliance, every favor at its disposal, to win. The heady excitement of that victory would not be easily quelled.
With a brisk motion of his good arm, Tae scooped up the silver tabby, slipped beneath her, and dumped her into his lap just as the first members of Béarn’s Council entered the room.
*Hey!* Imorelda hissed and fluffed up her fur in protest but did not swipe at him. She stood, ramrod stiff, in his lap. *How dare you!*
As a king, Tae was not required to rise at the entrance of other nobility and chose not to do so. It would only further upset Imorelda if he dumped her on the floor.
Prime Minister Davian, Minister Saxanar of Courtroom Procedure and Affairs, Minister Aerean of Internal Affairs, and Minister Franstaine of Household Affairs entered together, bowed or curtsied to the foreign king, then claimed places around the makeshift table.
Tiny Minister of Local Affairs, Chaveeshia, appeared soon afterward, with her charges: Knight-Captain Kedrin, who represented nearby Erythane, and Thialnir Thrudazisson for the Renshai. After appropriate gestures of respect, the knight returned to quiet discussion with General Sutton from Santagithi. The two had spent much time together since the war had ended. Kedrin had a great historical interest in the ancient strategist for whom the general’s city was named. Those four also took seats around the tables.
Imorelda paced across Tae’s lap, complaining. *I’m a cat, gods damn you, and a friend. I deserve some decency and respect. Whatever possessed you to . . . * She continued in that vein, but Tae did not bother to listen. Soon enough, she settled into the crook of his lap, as if she had personally chosen the position.
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