Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Saviar closed his eyes and sighed. He tried not to think about the fact that the freedom he currently experienced was illusory and transient. At any moment, the mages could corner him and place him back into the solitary madness of his previous prison. At a time when he struggled to think, he had to watch his every word. “Sir, I know you won’t believe me, but I think you’re mischaracterizing people outside of Myrcidë. Most civilizations have no intention of harming anyone; they, too, only wish to live in peace.”

  A murmur suffused the group.

  By the time Saviar opened his eyes and looked around, he had missed the reaction to his statement.

  Jeremilan’s brows rose into a sea of wrinkles. “You’re Renshai.”

  Saviar would not deny it, though he tried to hide any vestiges of pride. “I am.”

  Another murmur passed through the men, although Saviar felt certain they already knew what he acknowledged to be the truth.

  “And you wish us to believe Renshai don’t want to harm anyone. That they want only to live . . . in peace.”

  Saviar glanced around the room, suspecting many other, possibly all, of the Myrcidians watched him either directly or through their magical, one-way windows. “Sometimes, sir, war is the only true way to peace.”

  Jeremilan shook his head, rolled his eyes. “That’s nonsense. Given that peace is, in fact, the absence of war, how could this be so?”

  Saviar had a ready answer. “Because the absence of war, in and of itself, is not always a desirable thing.”

  Jeremilan’s white eyebrows disappeared beneath his bangs, and the other Myrcidians shook their heads dubiously. “I disagree. Peace is always good and always the objective of a civilized world.” He rose and turned away. “A person of your background can never understand that.”

  Though it irritated him, Saviar ignored the final, grumbled comment. “In theory, peace is always good and always the objective of a civilized world. And if evil did not exist, we could, theoretically, live in a world of unadulterated bliss.” Saviar shook his head, finding it difficult to imagine any group of people this naïve. “But pretending there is no such thing as evil doesn’t make it disappear.”

  Jeremilan whirled back to face Saviar. “We know all about evil,” he said pointedly. “Everyone has the propensity for evil . . . and also for good. We need to bring out the good in everyone and suppress the evil.” He reclaimed his seat. “For example, Saviar, when we debated what to do with you. Some suggested we kill you, but we did not because it would have been an act of evil.”

  Saviar could not help adding, “Instead, you nearly drove me permanently insane, an act of . . .” He cocked his head in question. “. . . goodness?”

  Jeremilan flinched. His fingers curled. “We merely meant to contain you. We didn’t know doing so would cause you any damage. Once we discovered that, we released you from the situation and apologized.”

  Saviar realized he did not want to lose his sanity to make a point. “And words cannot fully express my appreciation for that, sir. Thank you.”

  Jeremilan accepted the gratitude with a single nod. “As I said, we would have found a different solution had we known isolation could induce such discomfort. In fact, our wisest heads are considering alternatives even as we have this conversation.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  “Much deserved.” The patness of the response made it clearly a standard exchange in their society.

  Saviar did not dwell too long on his current situation. At the moment, any alternative to isolating confinement seemed tolerable. “But good and evil are not always so obvious or well-defined. There are times when the same action can be considered good by one group of people and evil by another.”

  “Only if one side deludes itself. Considering something good does not make it so.”

  Saviar could hardly disagree with the latter statement, though he did have issue with the former. “So, you’re saying good and evil are absolutes.”

  Jeremilan did not hesitate. “Within the context of a particular situation, yes.”

  Now, it was Saviar’s turn to find his eyebrows so raised they tangled with his hair. Even the Knights of Erythane wrestled with the ambiguity of right versus wrong at times. They always chose the honorable path, but they did occasionally have to consider which road fit that ethical description. “Then, Jeremilan, you should be able to perfectly define them.”

  Jeremilan pursed his lips and threw a glance around the room. He clearly suspected a trap. “When an action causes death or suffering, it is evil. When it alleviates or avoids causing suffering, it is good.”

  Saviar stared. He could drive a merchant’s wagon through the holes in that definition, without scratching the sides. He used a familiar situation, clearly decided in Renshai culture long before his birth. “Let’s say a friend is dying from a slow, horribly painful injury. Is it evil to kill the friend or good to alleviate his suffering? Is it good to keep him alive as long as possible or evil to force him to remain in pain longer than necessary?”

  Jeremilan had an easy answer. And a smile. “I seem to recall a pair of brothers who came to us in that precise predicament. Chymmerlee kept the wound in stasis, so it didn’t worsen, and you asleep so you didn’t feel the pain. When she got you here, we worked together to heal you.”

  Saviar sighed. He had not intended to use himself as an example. “But you have options the rest of us don’t. For us, a lethal wound is invariably fatal. We do have herbs and healers, but their uses and skills have limits far smaller than your magic.”

  “You can still keep them as comfortable as your herbs allow until they die naturally.”

  Saviar did not like the direction the conversation had gone. To all Renshai, Valhalla was the ultimate goal. To die outside of battle condemned a warrior’s soul to Hel, and no Renshai could permit another Renshai to die a natural death. Saviar still did not understand why Subikahn had allowed Chymmerlee to bring him to Myrcidë rather than granting Saviar a proper death before the infection stole his consciousness. Of course, if Subikahn had done so, Saviar would not be sitting here trying to talk sense into Myrcidians. “Healers are rarely nearby precisely when you need one, and knowing the proper herbs and amounts requires training most people don’t have.”

  Jeremilan refused to concede the point. “Then you should train more healers. No one should have to suffer needlessly.”

  Saviar realized Jeremilan could never truly envision himself living in a nonmagical culture, and continuing to argue this particular point would get him nowhere. Saviar had faced the Myrcidians in debate before, when he had tried to convince them to assist in the previous war. Then, he had told them the continent could not survive without their assistance, while Jeremilan felt certain they could. As the Myrcidian had clearly won their original argument, Saviar suspected convincing the Myrcidians had only become more difficult. At least, it now seemed he would have the opportunity.

  Rain poured from the cloud-darkened sky, pattering musically against the leafy canopy. Curling, autumn leaves held water like cups until it became too heavy. Then they detached, dropping their sodden contents always onto Ra-khir’s head, or so it seemed to the Knight of Erythane. Protocol dictated he keep himself as tidy and clean as circumstances allowed, but nature seemed hell-bent on leaving him dripping and out-of-sorts. Remaining immaculate had never been Ra-khir’s forte; but, now, he felt particularly incompetent. Some unseen force dragged mud onto his stallion’s white coat, and the wind seemed singularly bent on untying the ribbons bedecking his mane and tail, in stealing Ra-khir’s hat, and in instantly undoing any small rearrangement he made to maintain some semblance of knightly dignity.

  At his side, Darby actually seemed to enjoy the weather. His cloak hood shed the rain and neatly covered any untidiness in the rest of his clothing. His calm chestnut plodded through the mud as if made for it; if any clung to the gelding’s dark le
gs, Ra-khir could not see it. Water made its red-brown coat shine.

  Ra-khir found some solace in remembering his own time in training. Knight-Captain Kedrin had worked him harder than any of the others, demanding a perfection he could never quite achieve. Day after day, he collapsed from exhaustion. Day after day, he improved. Despite the effort, or perhaps because of it, he had only positive memories of his education. He had cherished the time spent with an amazing father stolen from him in his youth. The more he had learned about Kedrin, the more he had come to admire and love him, the more he tried to emulate him.

  Ra-khir glanced over the other members of the party. Tem’aree’ay looked about in wonder, her hands alternately outstretched and a smile etched on her features, allowing the rainwater to flow down her face and neck into her sodden clothing. He knew Alfheim had had no weather; the temperature stayed essentially constant and precipitation never fell from the sky. Elves also seemed impervious to cold, so he supposed the uncomfortable sensations that kept humans indoors during rainstorms might not bother elves. Ivana, too, seemed to enjoy the rain, bouncing on her pony and making repetitive noises with each movement. After a week, even the horses had become accustomed to her sudden squeals, twitching back an ear but otherwise unresponsive.

  Marisole huddled so deeply into her hooded cloak, Ra-khir could not have recognized her had he not already known who rode the steadfast, bay mare. The rain did not seem to concern Calistin, either. He remained alert, as always, without allowing any part of his clothing to interfere with his sword arms. Valr Magnus looked as confident and handsome disheveled as he did in his usual state. At least, he had stopped chatting with Calistin to cast glances around the forest and their route.

  Reminded of his own adolescence, Ra-khir felt empty and uncomfortable. For him, it had been a period of getting to know and learning to respect his father in a way that had only grown with time. In contrast, his own sons seemed to have abandoned him. He had tried his hardest to always put them and Kevral first in his life, teaching them morality and respect, serving as an ever-loving and courageous example of the way a man should live his life. Though Ra-khir had never treated them differently for their varying paternity, he had found Saviar the closest to him in every way. Not only did they bear a striking resemblance, they had similar personalities and tastes, and Saviar had seemed as instinctively drawn to knighthood as Ra-khir.

  Though it made a certain amount of sense, it had often bothered Ra-khir that the son with whom he felt the closest bond was also the one who shared his bloodline. Such trivial things as ancestry should not matter. He had always tried hardest to reach Calistin, the one everyone believed shared his bloodline, the one who, he had been given to understand, would never know about his blood father.

  The more Ra-khir tried, the less Calistin seemed to appreciate his efforts. The boy had mostly ignored him and openly maligned the Knights of Erythane. And now, at the time of life when Ra-khir had become closest to his own father, Calistin appeared to have rejected him entirely for the company of the man who had gleefully killed his mother. The situation felt all the more painful for the brief glimpse of humanity Calistin had revealed on the Fields of Wrath and during their longer discussion of women that had followed at home.

  Valr Magnus rode up beside Ra-khir. At the moment, Ra-khir had no interest in speaking with anyone, but no one less so than that particular Northman.

  When the knight ignored him, Magnus trotted ahead, then veered toward Ra-khir, forcing Silver Warrior to slide to a stop on the muddy trail. Slop churned up by the stallion’s hooves peppered his usually snowy white sides and belly. Forced to confront the last person in the world he wished to speak with, Ra-khir flicked his gaze to the Aeri general.

  Magnus did not seem to notice the hostility in Ra-khir’s expression. “According to the map, I think we would make better time if we took the south fork.” He gestured toward a path that currently ran essentially parallel to the one Ra-khir had taken.

  Ra-khir frowned. His training would not allow for sarcasm or rudeness, especially while on duty, which he essentially was at all times on this particular mission. He licked lips wet with rainwater and studied the Northman carefully. “Are you familiar with this part of the world?” Though asked benignly, the question was loaded with unspoken malice. Any Northman would have only one reason for having come to this remote area, as part of the group that had chased the Renshai during their exile with the hope of slaughtering all of them at a time of relative weakness.

  “Well, no,” Magnus said. “But I have studied the map.” He clamped a hand to his left chest, and Ra-khir could make out the shape of rolled parchment beneath his cloak. “The Western Plains lies at the southernmost tip of the continent, so it only makes sense the shortest distance would . . .” Apparently sensing some discomfort, Valr Magnus slowed his explanation to focus on the knight. “. . . be . . . southward.”

  Ra-khir said nothing.

  Apparently feeling obligated to fill the silence, Magnus continued, “According to the map, this path leads straight to the passes, while this other route . . . curves northward first.” His gaze swept Ra-khir’s face, apparently trying to tease out some indication of the knight’s emotional state.

  Trained to hold his features neutral for hours, Ra-khir deliberately kept Valr Magnus guessing. Though not terribly polite, it could scarcely be considered outright rude to do so. “I’ve traveled this way quite recently, and I can assure you I’ve chosen a suitable route.”

  “Oh.” Magnus backed his horse toward the center of the road, until it no longer blocked Ra-khir’s way. “Sorry. I just thought—”

  Calistin rode up. He had, apparently, heard enough of the conversation to join it. “Papa, it’s true you recently passed this way, on this route, but you were tracking us then. The Renshai chose this path because we wanted to avoid the towns and villages along the way. Thialnir worried a mass of Renshai might frighten them or drive them to attack us. With this small group, and a Knight of Erythane among us, we shouldn’t have any difficulty taking the shorter route, even if it is more . . . civilized.”

  Calistin had an undeniable point and, for reasons Ra-khir could not explain, that only irked him more. “Thank you, son.” He emphasized the final word, for Magnus’ benefit. “I appreciate you’ve given the matter good thought, and your observations are well-reasoned. However, while having a Knight of Erythane along will ease the minds of the villagers, they will insist on feeding us, provisioning us, tending to our horses—”

  Valr Magnus interrupted, “Those all sound like great arguments for the south fork.”

  Ra-khir tried not to relish drawing the Northern general into his trap. “—finding as many ways as possible to delay us. Every town will insist we spend the night, regale them with heroes’ stories, judge their every small dispute.”

  Darby and the others gathered around to listen to the conversation without adding to it.

  Valr Magnus’ brow crinkled. “Can’t you brush such things aside? Surely, they’ll understand we’re on an important mission, in a hurry.”

  “If I had the manners of a barbarian.” Ra-khir deliberately stopped short of directing the insult, of accusing Magnus of exactly that. “I’m honor-bound to assist those in need, important missions notwithstanding.”

  Valr Magnus used a flat tone indicative of building rage. Ra-khir’s manner, though never obviously provocative, still served its purpose. “So, if you’re on your way to an active war, and some fiend nicked a baby’s rattle, you would have to track down the thief first?”

  Ra-khir sighed. An enormous part of knightly training included tackling the trickiest moral dilemmas of the universe. Etiquette required him to answer the question, though it clearly mocked him and his ilk. “Not necessarily. How I responded would depend on the details of the circumstances.”

  “What if you were heading for the wazz-jar?” Calistin used a vulgar euphemism for a cha
mber pot.

  Ra-khir expressed his displeasure at his youngest son with a single, crooked brow, though subtlety had never worked on Calistin in the past.

  This time, however, Calistin shut his mouth.

  Ra-khir was in no mood for humor. “If you’re done maligning what I am and do, I’ll leave the decision in your hands. We could gain a few days taking the southern fork, but we’ll probably lose even more to the need to socialize. I’m happy either way, but I’ll leave it up to the rest of you.” Ra-khir dismounted, handed the reins to Darby, and wandered into the forest for private ablutions.

  When Ra-khir returned, he found the others circled up, using their cloaks like great wings to shield the map. At the sight of him, Valr Magnus rolled up the parchment and stuffed it beneath his cloak, while the others separated.

  Ra-khir mounted swiftly, trying not to look at the mud splattering Silver Warrior’s hide. Ordinarily, decisions regarding the route did not concern him. This time, oddly, he found himself anxious to hear the others take his side.

  Valr Magnus did so. “I believe we’re all agreed to stay on our current path. We can consider the shorter, more populous route home, when we’re more concerned about supplies than speed.” He looked at Ra-khir. “Does that work for you, Sir Knight?”

  Ra-khir accepted the earnestly spoken honorific in lieu of an apology. “That sounds like a fine plan.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Darby fidgeting and worked out the boy’s issue without much contemplation. “If no one minds, I’d like us to ride through Keatoville on the return trip. We need to check up on Darby’s family.”

  Everyone responded at once. Ra-khir heard a couple “not at all’s” and at least one “absolutely.” That, and the happy grin stealing over Darby’s face, made him certain he had made the right decision. Appeased by the confirmation of his route, his apprentice’s joy, and the promise of seeing Darby’s attractive and intelligent, widowed mother again, Ra-khir continued through the pouring rain in a much improved mood.