Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “We didn’t.” Matrinka was quick to point out.

  “We had enough.” Tae knew they had been fortunate that the enemy had sent only one magic-wielding giant against them in the war, a mistake that would not be repeated. “We now know Chymmerlee and Tem’aree’ay worked together to negate the Kjempemagiska’s magic.”

  “I always suspected that.” Matrinka looked wistfully at Imorelda but did not attempt to move her. “Even before Tem’aree’ay confirmed it at the meeting. The pirates—”

  “Alsona,” Tae corrected. It made sense to call the enemy by the same name they used for themselves.

  “The alsona massed against Chymmerlee during the battle, and she survived only because she had staunch protectors like your son and his twin. She didn’t appear to actually do anything, yet she came out of it utterly exhausted.”

  Tae was impressed. “You noticed all that?”

  One corner of Matrinka’s mouth twitched upward. “When my friends are out risking their lives, and I’m helpless to assist, I try not to miss details. We had already lost Arturo and Kevral and possibly you, not to mention all the beloved guardsmen and soldiers, and our best admiral.”

  Tae found himself nodding absently. The mystery of Chymmerlee begged solving.

  Matrinka returned to the original topic. “Believing communication can exist between cats and humans is not enough, Tae. Darris, Kevral, and Ra-khir also know about the link, and none of them ever managed it.”

  Before they had gotten sidetracked by a discussion of magic, Tae had intended to say more. “We also both happen to adore cats.”

  Imorelda’s purring increased. *Who doesn’t? We’re irresistible.*

  Tae did not rise to the bait. He suspected most of the servants in Béarn Castle had grown to hate cats, no matter their initial feelings about them. Others had no particular affinity, some were afraid of them, a few would as soon drown one as look at it, and some even became deathly ill in their presence. In Tae’s experience, cats seemed to sense fear, loathing, and allergy, deliberately choosing to place themselves in the laps of those who least could stand them. “We share the ability to easily read people’s personalities and moods. I think that helped. I kept imagining what Mior might be saying to you in various circumstances; and, by watching your reaction, and hers, the voice eventually came.”

  “I still think there’s an aspect of love, too.” Matrinka casually reached into Tae’s lap to pet Imorelda.

  The gesture embarrassed Tae. He considered Matrinka a close friend akin to a sister; yet, when she got so near, he could not help noticing her as a woman as well. She had generous curves, a more than ample bosom, and a hand that swept dangerously close to his manhood. “I think,” he managed, “that others might be able to learn to use their minds like we do. Whether everyone has the potential, many people, or only a few, I can’t guess. I’m not sure where to begin.” Tae removed his hands from Imorelda so as not to bump into Matrinka and make things more awkward.

  If Matrinka shared Tae’s discomfort, she gave no sign of it. “It has to start by revealing your relationship with Imorelda. Are you all right with that?”

  “No,” Tae admitted.

  “People will need convincing, so you’ll have to prove it. Some will think it’s a trick, others that you’re insane—”

  “—I know, Matrinka! I’ve thought the whole thing through.”

  Matrinka drew away, into a tense silence. Her expression mingled pain with surprise.

  Immediately remorseful, Tae lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Matrinka. I’m not mad at you; I’m mad at the situation.”

  “We don’t have to tell anyone, Tae. The only people who ever knew about Mior were you, Darris, Kevral, and Ra-khir.”

  Tae knew that as well, but he did not yell again. “Even if we do tell, we might not find anyone else who has the ability. Or we might find people who do but would take months or years to learn to use it.” Tae did not mind revealing the secret to a few, but he guessed a multitude would be necessary. “Say one in ten people has the potential . . .”

  Matrinka got the point. “We would have to recruit at least a hundred people just to find those ten. Of those ten, one might not believe strongly enough, a few more might not have what it takes to develop their potential.”

  “And even those who learned to communicate with Imorelda might not have enough affinity for languages or might not have the sense to use it wisely or it might just take too long.”

  “Too long for what?”

  “Too long—” Tae caught himself. He had not yet decided to reveal his intentions to Matrinka.

  Matrinka gave Tae a warning look. “I deserve to know everything.”

  Tae gave in. He had little choice. “It’s nothing new. You know I don’t think the Kjempemagiska will wait years to come after us again. The conditions that sent them against us the first time still exist, and the longer they wait, the more time we have to prepare.”

  “But the generals think . . .” Something in Tae’s look made Matrinka change direction. “. . . I mean, they’re experienced fighting men, so shouldn’t they . . .” Again, she paused. “Tae, are you sure?”

  “No, but I intend to become so.”

  “How?” Matrinka’s tone contained a hint of caution that bordered on threat.

  Tae met and held her dark gaze. “There’s only one way.”

  “No!” It was a sharp bark, a royal command lost on one of the few people to outrank her.

  “Someone has to sail to their land—”

  “No!”

  “—and spy on them. Someone who knows their language and has a way to listen in on it.”

  Matrinka rose and walked away, her back firmly toward Tae.

  Dumping Imorelda, Tae followed her. “Matrinka, there is no other way.”

  Matrinka whirled suddenly, and Tae had to back-step to keep from getting knocked aside. A tear rolled down her cheek. “The last time you did that, you nearly died.”

  “I know.” Tae had already resigned himself to his fate.

  “And you were only spying on ships in our ocean. Carrying regular soldiers, not magical giants on their own lands.”

  “I know.” Now Tae turned away. “I just need one more person, someone to keep Imorelda safe and to receive whatever information I can send.”

  “You mean me, Tae.”

  The roles had reversed. Tae spun around, though his eyes carried no tears. “No! It’s too dangerous for you.”

  “More so for you.”

  “Your people need you. You’re a queen, by all the gods.”

  Matrinka did not budge. “You’re a king. Your people need you, too.”

  No they don’t. Tae knew that argument would not fly. “Matrinka, you don’t know how to defend yourself.”

  “Apparently, neither do you.”

  The insult stung. “At least I can use a sword.”

  “Passably.” Matrinka gave that much. “Against a normal human or two. But the Kjempe . . .”

  “. . . magiska,” Tae finished for her. He had taken to throwing around enemy terminology so that at least a few important words would become familiar to those who might have to stand against them.

  Matrinka threw up her hands. She did not need to finish her obvious point. Against Kjempemagiska, Tae’s fair ability with weapons would not help much.

  The tears quickened, twisting down Matrinka’s face. Knowing she needed him, Tae took her into his arms. She felt soft and massive there, pillowing his scrawny frame. “Matrinka, please. I appreciate your courage and sacrifice; I really do. But someone has to make it back with Imorelda and the information. Whoever that is will need far more skill than either of us has.”

  Matrinka calmed in Tae’s arms. “All right,” she finally whispered. “But how will we find this person who can commune with cats, move like a shadow, and f
ight like a Renshai?”

  Tae had no idea. “Let’s start with Tem’aree’ay.”

  Matrinka pulled free. “By convention, she’s not the queen, but she is the king’s most beloved wife. There’s no way—”

  Tae stopped her with a gesture. “Not as my companion, Matrinka. For help finding him. At least, she has some magic and mind-communication skills. How well do you know her?”

  “She’s reclusive, just less so than most elves. But if Griff loves her, she must be special.”

  “Do you trust her with our secret, if I need to tell?”

  Matrinka nodded thoughtfully. “I do.”

  “Can you set up a meeting?”

  Matrinka’s head continued bobbing. “I think so. Where can I find you?”

  Tae grinned. “I’m going to look for Subikahn. I haven’t seen him in several days.” That bothered Tae more than he would admit to Matrinka. He had finally made amends after banishing his only son, and he wanted nothing more than to rekindle their once close relationship. “Then, you know I’ll find you.”

  Matrinka finally managed a smile through her tears. “If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’ll look for your broken corpse under my window.”

  Grabbing Imorelda, Tae saluted. “Good plan.”

  There is no such thing as half a Renshai.

  —Thialnir Thurdazzisson

  RAIN SLAMMED THE WESTERN FORESTS with a force that bowed the slimmer trees and sent seed pods and petals pattering to the mushy ground. Huddled beneath his sodden cloak, Saviar hugged his growling gut, cursing the situation, the knights, and the weather. Once he recognized Chymmerlee’s error, he had lost the option of following his fathers’ command to return home. Saviar knew the way to the magical mountain village that housed her people, and Chymmerlee appeared to be lost.

  At first, Saviar racked his mind for ways to subtly steer the group without revealing his continuing presence. Before he came up with a workable plan, however, he began to wonder if Chymmerlee’s misdirection of her escort might be deliberate. She would never lead anyone, no matter how honorable, to the precise location of the Mages of Myrcidë. At least, not since she and Subikahn had carried Saviar’s comatose form there.

  Saviar guessed Chymmerlee would part company with the knights when she came near enough to find her own way safely home without tipping off the Erythanians to the actual location of the mages’ compound. As he became more convinced of her intentions, he grew more patient. Soon enough, the knights would leave, and Chymmerlee would have no choice but to listen.

  Buoyed by the thought, Saviar threw off his cloak. The rain hammered him, but with his clothes already soaked through, it did not bother him the way it had when he was still partially dry and had hopes of staying that way. Exertion quickly drove away the icy prickles of the raindrops. Better than sweat, the rain bathed his limbs for the wind to carry away the excess heat generated by the intensity of his svergelse.

  Saviar practiced hard, trying to revel in the hardship, as his many torke taught. Becoming the best meant practicing on every terrain, in every circumstance, the more difficult the better. Enemies did not wait for the sun to shine, for flat ground, for an injury to heal. If he gave his all, this practice would only make him more competent to battle in the pouring rain. When any intelligent foe would know to stay indoors and not bother Renshai.

  A hilt in each hand, Saviar darted, lunged, and swept. Modeling his practice on the recent war, he charged enemies all around him, hampered by the closeness of allies and the sheer numbers and desperation of those who wished him dead. He charged the masses in front of him, mindful of those behind and, always, aware of the location of the Knights of Erythane and their charge. He spun to face a sword stroke from behind that nearly pierced him, flying back around to keep other imagined foes at bay.

  Motfrabelonning sliced controlled zigzags through the air while his other weapon complemented its movements, now thrusting leftward to catch an enemy mid-sneak, then up to parry another’s attack. For hours, Saviar immersed himself in svergelse and the created chaos of a fantasy war. Gradually, the rain ceased, leaving the ground a sea of ancient shed leaves and mud that sucked at his boots and threatened to steal them.

  The sun poked out from behind the clouds, and the drip of rainwater off the leaves gradually slowed to occasional trickles. Saviar sheathed his swords and dragged out his waterskin, knowing no better time to fill it than immediately after a rain, when every crack and crevice gathered fresh water. He could hear movement and voices at the knights’ camp. Quickly he topped off his waterskin, then capped it and put it away. He crept nearer, trying to catch as much as he could of the conversation.

  Limited by his ability to move quietly, Saviar could only catch snippets of conversation. They clearly prepared to part company with Chymmerlee, and he sensed great reluctance. He heard each of the knights ask her, more than once, if she would allow them to escort her home. Earnestly, they implored her to let them meet her family, to no avail. Chymmerlee would tell them nothing of her people, would not permit a meeting, and insisted on walking the rest of the way alone.

  Saviar had to smile. He knew she would never relent. He had used all of his own persuasive ability to beg the Mages of Myrcidë to assist the combined armies in the war. They had resisted him even when they had believed him one of them, a partial answer to the inbreeding problem. They would never listen to the knights.

  At length, Ra-khir and the others acceded to Chymmerlee’s demands. No longer needing to hear them, Saviar climbed a distant tree to watch the separation, to gain a clear idea of the routes they would take. While the knights gathered the last of their belongings and prepared their horses for the trip home, Darby and Chymmerlee embraced fondly.

  Saviar’s heart pounded as he watched them, and he bit his lower lip hard enough to taste blood.

  Then, Ra-khir called so loudly his voice carried even up into the tree. “Savi.”

  Saviar froze. His heart rate quickened, like a drum beat in his ears. He sees me. He could not understand how. True, he was watching them, but only through a small hole in a cache of fully-leaved branches. And Ra-khir seemed so far away.

  To Saviar’s further surprise, his father walked away from his hiding place and into the clearing beneath an umbrella of trees. Darby and Chymmerlee pulled apart as Ra-khir approached and carried on a conversation with Darby. Faint laughter touched Saviar’s ears, then Ra-khir put a fatherly hand on Darby’s shoulder and walked with him back to the horses.

  He meant Darby. Saviar’s blood felt like fire in his veins. He called that kadlach by my name. His jaw ached, and he found his teeth clenched. Bark gouged the gripping fingers of his left hand, his right clamped to the hilt of Kevral’s sword. It seemed impossible that a boy who had come from nowhere had so easily stepped into all the best parts of his life.

  For a few moments, Chymmerlee watched the knights and squire ride back toward Béarn, their white horses and bright tabards clear despite the tightly clustered trunks and branches. A pack lay at her feet. She hefted it with clear effort, plopping it down on a deadfall. Opening it, she rummaged through, removing packets of food, multiple waterskins, two dry cloaks, a tinderbox, a knife, a faggot of kindling, and twine, a gift from the knights to get her safely home. Smiling, she shook her head and sorted the objects, leaving many behind, including the tinderbox and kindling, all but one skin of water, and the twine. Shedding her sodden cloak, she put on one of the dry ones and left the other two behind. She pulled the considerably lightened pack over one shoulder and headed eastward.

  Saviar shinnied down from the tree and sneaked to the clearing, shoving everything she had left into his own pack. He followed at a safe distance. She still had a full day’s journey to the village, and Saviar knew better than to accost her when the knights might still see her magic, might hear her scream. They would not go far. Likely, she had made them vow not to follow, and they w
ould never dishonor their word. However, they would remain as near as their honor allowed, prepared to return to her in a crisis.

  Chymmerlee seemed in no hurry. The sun dried her long chestnut-colored hair, but humidity left it curled and frizzy. There was a natural grace to her movements as she brushed gingerly through branches, trying to avoid wetting her fresh clothing, hopped over deadfalls, and looped around copses. She had none of the Renshai’s sinewy poise nor the flowing dexterity of a dancer. It was a unique style, one that Saviar would recognize even from a distance; it simply defined Chymmerlee.

  When the knights had been escorting her, Saviar had suffered from an anxious impatience. Now, it seemed to leave him entirely. He could, and did, watch her all day without interfering. At intervals, she paused to check landmarks or to pick leaves and berries from familiar bushes. Saviar grabbed one of the food packets at random, never taking his eyes from the mage. He tasted little of the jerked meat he shoved into his mouth and chewed only enough to safely swallow, but it did soothe the ache in his gut.

  When Chymmerlee settled down for the night, she did not bother with a fire. She paced a circle around her sleeping spot, mumbling something Saviar could not fully hear or comprehend. When he touched his sword, he saw the glow of her aura and the steady light of some sort of magic surrounding her. She slept within its confines; and, still, Saviar waited. He had no idea what might happen if he disturbed the magic, but it seemed wiser to wait for morning than to risk setting off something he did not understand.

  Worried Chymmerlee might sneak off during the night, Saviar slept little, while Chymmerlee seemed quite comfortable alone under the stars. By morning, the ring of magic had dwindled away, but Saviar did not bother the mage while she performed her morning toilet. He ate a bit more of her castaway food and tried to make himself look presentable. This proved more difficult as he had no dry change of clothing and only the extra cloak the knights had given her did not reek of travel and mold. His red-blond locks had gathered knots, twigs, and brush. He used most of his gathered water to wash the filth from his face and hands.