Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  If anything, Jeremilan’s expression grew more judgmental. “The Pica Stone . . .” He shook his head and snorted. “. . . an object of ridicule?”

  Saviar did not understand how Jeremilan had drawn such a conclusion. “I think most would consider it the most significant job in human history. The ruler of Béarn is the focal point of the world’s neutrality. Selected wrong, Midgard would drift into oblivion.”

  Jeremilan only grunted.

  Saviar looked over the mages, each lost in deep thoughts of his own, and felt a sense of accomplishment, the type that usually only accompanied a long, rugged, and seamless sword practice. At least now, they believed him, perhaps even understood that the Renshai and Myrcidians were not so different. At long last, he had moved them a step closer to reconciliation, and he only hoped he could continue the momentum.

  Don’t you want the chance to guide your son on different paths than just the one his mother chose for him? You lose that if you decide only to play with him, to avoid the difficult events and discussions in his presence.

  —Knight-Captain Kedrin of Erythane

  RAIN POURED from a turbulent ebony sky, and lightning flashed ragged zigzags through the clouds. Sodden from the crown of his head to the tips of his boots, Calistin Ra-khirsson sliced sword forms that cleaved fog and lines of water, sent armies of soggy leaves pattering from the branches, and strained his limbs as well as his temper. He was used to practicing in all terrains, through any type of weather, yet it seemed as if the gods had banded together to keep the elf-finding party eternally wet and uncomfortable.

  Mud sucked at Calistin’s feet, slowing his perfect and delicate timing. Irritated by his myriad minute mistakes, he pushed himself beyond his usual intense dedication while the others sought the cover of a nearby cave. For once, the water dripping into his eyes and mouth contained little salt, and his imagined enemies spent more time laughing at his technique than falling to the brilliance and timing of his sword strokes.

  With a growl of rage, Calistin drove into another svergelse, feet mired in muck, sword heavy with rainwater, arms aching from repetitive effort. Sick to death of cold and damp, of sticky clothing, of slogging through putrid puddles by day and splashing himself with mire and muck by night, Calistin launched into his maneuver with all the intensity of the demons others named the Renshai and all the finesse of a landed fish, at least in his own mind.

  A lanky youth blundered into the clearing where Calistin practiced, glanced upward, then wildly attempted to lunge out of his way.

  Desperate for a target for his rage, Calistin lashed out at the young man. He barely managed to turn his blade to the flat before it cut the legs out from under the other, spilling him to the ground. In a flash, Calistin was on top of the youngster, the point of his sword pressed to the bared throat and ready for a fatal cut.

  Darby screamed. “Calistin, it’s me! Don’t kill me!”

  It took every bit of Calistin’s self-control to keep from thrusting the blade through Darby’s neck. “You out-and-out simpleton! Have you no appreciation for your own life? How dare you interrupt my practice!”

  Fear opened the boy’s face: nostrils flared, eyes bulging, brow arched to his hairline. Deep in his pale eyes, a flame flickered, then started to flare. Before Darby could say another word, Calistin sensed danger at his back.

  The Renshai whirled, sword slicing, and his blade slammed against steel so hard the contact thrummed into his hands and rang through his ears. Instantly, he withdrew, cutting again. The other backstepped, catching Calistin’s second strike on his blade as well. Again, the impact ached against Calistin’s hands, vibrating to his elbows. He recognized his opponent an instant later: Ra-khir. His father’s features were screwed in concentration, anger smoldering in his eyes. Calistin would not allow even this surprise to upset his timing. Once more, he lunged in attack, sword cutting air with a speed few could match. Ra-khir parried the attack harmlessly aside, even managed a thrust of his own before Calistin’s superior speed forced him back on the defensive.

  Calistin had sparred with his mother on many occasions. A highly competent Renshai, she had bested him consistently until he reached his early teens. For a couple of years after, the battle could go either way, before he became the assured victor. He had never previously crossed swords with his father. The Renshai deemed the knights’ skill unworthy of their acknowledgment, and sword had never been Ra-khir’s best weapon. To Calistin’s surprise, Ra-khir made no effort to rein in his attacks, going at his youngest son with all the severity and strength he might show the bitterest enemy. Calistin appreciated that; he would have found anything lesser a deliberate insult to his skill.

  Within six strokes, Calistin had the upper hand, forcing Ra-khir to tend solely to defense. A sudden jab sent the knight reeling backward. A jutting tree root snagged his heel; and, as he stumbled, Calistin disarmed him. In an instant, he held both weapons. One more drive opened Ra-khir’s leg to a quick trip and shove. Ra-khir tumbled to the ground, both swords at his throat.

  Unlike Darby, no fear showed on Ra-khir’s face. His cheeks reddened, and rage clearly strained the boundaries of his courtly and mannered training. He surely realized Calistin could kill him in an instant, might do so purely from instinct; but he gave no notice of the danger. With a careless toss of his hand, he batted the blades aside, rose with impressive agility for a man of his size, and glared into Calistin’s eyes. If he felt any shame for his defeat, he gave no sign of it. His rage clearly stemmed from other sources, ones Calistin could not yet identify. He had become more adept at reading people, but he still lacked the skill that came so naturally to most.

  Without a word, Calistin handed Ra-khir back his sword.

  The Knight accepted the weapon. Then, his hand lashed out.

  Quick as he was, oriented to survival, Calistin never thought to move. Ra-khir’s hand caught him a sharp blow across the cheek that surprised more than stung. In all of his eighteen years, Calistin could never remember his father striking any of the boys. His own rage building, he ran a hand along the offended cheek and dodged his father’s intense, green-eyed gaze. Though clearly boiling, Ra-khir spoke in a calm, deadpan voice, “You can’t behave like that any longer.”

  Calistin had no idea what his father meant.

  Ra-khir’s massive hands seized Calistin’s shoulders, simultaneously gentle and firm. “Your mother and I, your brothers, your entire tribe had lofty goals for you. In helping you to achieve them, I failed you as a father.”

  Now, Calistin could not help meeting Ra-khir’s gaze. The mix of emotion forming in them was unfathomable to Calistin, but the passion was obvious. Whatever lesson he intended to convey, Ra-khir believed it with all his heart, needed for Calistin to understand.

  “You received support without discipline, patience without sternness, love without responsibility.”

  Calistin did not agree. He felt his own anger building, even as Ra-khir’s seemed to disperse. “You know nothing of Renshai training. It’s all discipline, sternness, and self-responsibility. No maneuver in the history of the world was ever performed well enough to please Mama.”

  “I’m not talking about your mother or your weapons training.” Ra-khir did not bend a bit. His grip on Calistin’s shoulders tightened, though he surely did not believe he could restrain the Renshai. “I’m talking about life, about you as a human being.”

  Calistin still could not fathom his father’s point. He was Renshai first and foremost. Swordcraft and Valhalla were the only things in life that truly mattered.

  “A good father does what’s best for his child, regardless of others’ plans for him. I modeled decency, kindness, and honesty in the hope you would learn them, but allowed you to treat me with disrespect and derision. The Renshai expected nothing but the best swordsmanship from you—no manners, no chores, no humility, no . . . humanity. And you never disappointed them.” Ra-khir lowered hims
elf to Calistin’s level, eye-to-eye, head-to-head. “But I never said a word when you disappointed me.”

  Until a few months ago, Calistin had never concerned himself with what others thought of him. A tirade like this one would have left him laughing in contempt. Then, Treysind had opened his eyes to a previously hidden world with a lecture not so different from Ra-khir’s. Since the boy’s soul had come to inhabit him, Calistin had seen things he never noticed before, had come to recognize emotions, occasionally even to empathize. His father’s words cut as deeply as any sword stroke. I never said a word when you disappointed me. For the first time in Calistin’s life, he realized his father’s opinion of him mattered. A lot.

  Shame came first, a wash of acid that burned Calistin in every part. Irritation followed swiftly, directed less at Ra-khir and more at the boy who had ruined his life. Treysind’s sacrifice, inconceivable to most, had finally granted Calistin a soul; yet with that gift had come more baggage then he could bear. Calistin had loved life inside his selfish shell. Unburdened by the cares of others, or the effect he had on them, he had maintained a perfect existence, admitting only that which made him more skillful, more powerful. Treysind had ruined that utopia forever. No matter how Calistin closed himself off, Ra-khir’s words would follow him. Calistin had achieved so much, yet it all came tumbling down with a single slap and his father’s verbalized regret.

  Trained to answer anger with killing, Calistin did the only safe thing he could. He walked away. Intent on venting his fury on imaginary enemies to keep him from doing so on all-too-real friends, he moved as far as he could before launching into svergelse of his own making. The standard techniques of the Renshai no longer required the concentration he currently needed; yet even his inventions did not fully distract him this time. Wholly against his will, Calistin overheard the conversation that followed.

  Valr Magnus spoke first, in a commanding voice that brooked no nonsense or rebuke. “You were out of line, Ra-khir.”

  “Oh, was I?” The tone revealed a tense jaw and gritted teeth. It was more challenge than question.

  “Calistin didn’t do anything that any Renshai, some might argue any truly dedicated warrior, wouldn’t have done in the same situation.”

  Calistin drove harder into his practice, trying to distract himself from a discussion he did not mean to overhear. He knew he could move farther away, that he ought to do so, but he had to hear Ra-khir’s reply.

  “So . . . I should just allow him to slaughter innocent companions?” Ra-khir’s voice sounded flat, toneless, unrevealing. Calistin had the feeling his father was leading the general into a trap.

  Magnus either did not notice or did not care. “If Calistin had wanted Darby dead, he had ample time to kill him. He was merely teaching the boy an important lesson.”

  “Is that so?” Ra-khir was still holding back. Calistin had grown accustomed to his father’s patience, his ability to hold his tongue when any normal person would launch into a verbal, if not physical, attack. But the slap and tongue-lashing he had inflicted on his son already proved that even a Knight of Erythane had limits. As unschooled in human emotion and reaction as Calistin was, even he knew now was not the time to push Ra-khir.

  “You’re a lucky man.” Valr Magnus sounded genuinely wistful. “I would be proud to call Calistin my son.”

  Warmth suffused Calistin. The words should have made him happy, but he took no pleasure in them for reasons he could not explain. He drove himself to more intricate maneuvers in the hope the voices would disappear from conscious thought. It enraged him that such a thing could distract him from total immersion in his svergelse. Until recently, he had never cared a bit about what others thought of him, what they said when they spoke of him.

  “I’m proud of all of my sons,” Ra-khir proclaimed, without a hint of self-satisfaction and clearly including Subikahn. “But that doesn’t mean I allow them to do dangerous, obnoxious, or inappropriate things without comment.”

  “When you chase a bird, you expect it to fly. When you disturb a Renshai—”

  Ra-khir did not allow Magnus to finish. “What you rightly know of Renshai couldn’t fill the eye of a needle.”

  Calistin nearly lost his timing. He had never heard his father hurl a deliberate insult, even one so mild. The point was not lost even on him. From infancy, Northmen learned little but lies and exaggeration about the Renshai, trained to despise them as something less than human.

  Magnus rose to the bait. “That’s not fair, Ra-khir. By Northern standards, I’m a Renshai lover. I . . .”

  The general lapsed into a silence that seemed inappropriately long. Calistin had little understanding of nonverbal communication, had no basis on which to imagine the scathing look Ra-khir conferred upon Magnus. The Renshai did pause to glance in their direction, wanting to assure himself that Ra-khir had not silenced Valr Magnus by force. He could not picture the Knight of Erythane losing enough control to leap bodily on another person outside of a formal duel or warfare.

  On the other hand, Calistin could still scarcely believe Ra-khir had struck him. The blow ached on his cheek the way no previous injury ever had. He had taken his share of the sides of blades to his head, nicks, slashes, tumbles, bruising hits during teaching and spar, yet none had ever pierced him so deeply. His father’s comment brought back memories that had meant little to Calistin in the past. Ra-khir was a good father, quite possibly the only non-Renshai capable of raising three Renshai boys without descending into madness. Their welfare, their happiness had always meant more to him than to themselves, including Kevral’s. Ra-khir had seen to it they wanted for nothing, even as they treated him like an inferior, incapable of understanding what drove them. Instead, he knew it most of all and loved them all in spite of it.

  Magnus began again, “I’m not downplaying your accomplishments or minimizing your marriage, Ra-khir. I just mean I acknowledge the humanity of Renshai, understand their passions and ambitions, recognize that they’re not so different from any other fully dedicated Northern-based warrior. Calistin and I are as alike as brothers. Our skills and abilities were recognized early and cultivated, at the expense of others. We have a kinship based on—”

  Ra-khir’s tone was ice. “I am Calistin’s father. You are the murderer of his mother in an unjust duel.”

  Mama. Something snapped inside Calistin. The fury he had held in check since finding Valr Magnus in Aerin burst to the fore. No longer in control, Calistin turned from spar to battle in an instant. Charging back to the clearing, he hurled himself on Magnus.

  The general managed a dodge, more instinct than skill. His own sword was instantly grasped in his hand, as if by magic. The two crashed together, ringing like the aftermath of deafening thunder. Strong and quick, Valr Magnus set to his defense, meeting Calistin’s lightning attacks with deft weaves, evasions, and parries. Swift as a weasel, Calistin came at the Northman from every direction at once, never bothering to tend his own defense. He did not need it. Wherever the other sword cleaved, he was not there: swiftness incarnate, never still, as unpredictable as raw chaos.

  Calistin had no idea how long the battle lasted. Driven by a hot frenzy of assault, he knew nothing but the deadly motion of their dance. Bigger, stronger, more experienced, Valr Magnus had all the classic advantages; but Calistin had the one that mattered, the maneuvers of the Renshai. In the last several years, no mortal had ever bested Calistin, and Magnus would not prove the exception. It only took one mistake, one tiny opening, and Calistin seized upon it. He cut through Magnus’ defense, between his fingers, and the sword flew from his hand.

  In his current state of mind, Calistin would have preferred to let the sword fall, to dishonor his opponent by stomping it into the mud; but doing so would disgrace the man who had given it to Magnus, Colbey himself. Instead, Calistin caught the hilt in midair, the moment it took to do so allowing Magnus time to draw another weapon.

  “N
o!” Ra-khir’s command cleaved the fog of Calistin’s rage as nothing else had done. Though spoken as if to a wayward dog, it had the proper effect. Calistin and his opponent froze in position.

  Ra-khir stepped directly into Calistin’s path, without producing a weapon of his own. He displayed no fear, fully confident Calistin would not harm him. Calistin caught the message inherent in his choices. Valr Magnus got Ra-khir’s back, a symbol of disdain. In Renshai culture, doing so implied that the other was unworthy of attention. Either Ra-khir believed himself a better swordsman than the general or he fully trusted Calistin to protect him.

  Not wanting to disappoint his father again, Calistin lowered his arm and sheathed his sword. Still clutching Magnus’ weapon, he waited. Behind Ra-khir, Magnus put away his second sword.

  Reserving his concentration solely for Calistin, Ra-khir spoke softly. “I’m sorry.”

  Calistin stared, uncertain what to say or do.

  Ra-khir continued, “Not for what I said to you, because you needed to hear it. I’m sorry for what I said to General Magnus that set you against him. It was unchivalrous and inappropriate. I should not have let my emotions overtake my honor.”

  At the moment, Ra-khir little resembled a Knight of Erythane, his hat missing, his face and tabard smeared with mud, his hair a tangle of filth. Never in his life had Calistin seen his father this disheveled, not even immediately following the war. Suddenly struck by an urge to laugh, Calistin felt his unreasoning anger dissipating. With no idea what to do or say, he returned Magnus’ sword and wandered back into the rain for svergelse, this time making absolutely certain he could not hear what anyone else was saying.