Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  It was a reasonable question. Saviar supposed even a true Knight of Erythane would have difficulty suppressing the urge to do exactly that in his situation. “If you’re still not satisfied with my word, surely you trust your magic. When Subikahn and I left you, we agreed we would release Chymmerlee as well as keep your existence and presence a secret. You wanted to seal that oath with magic, but my brother would not allow it. Clearly, such promise-binding magic exists.”

  “It exists,” Jeremilan said, without elaboration. “You would have to agree to bring our missing Myrcidians back alive and well. Also that you would return to our captivity.”

  Saviar considered the words carefully. “I can’t do that, sir.”

  Jeremilan’s silver brows shot up.

  Saviar explained, “How can I promise to deliver safely people whose current status isn’t known? They could already be dead or maimed or injured. I could spend my life looking and never find them.”

  Jeremilan continued to stare, clearly unhappy with the answer.

  When neither of the others spoke, Saviar continued, “I can promise to do everything within my power to bring them back alive and well. I can also promise to return to your captivity, though I can’t agree to remain there indefinitely.” Saviar supposed a more savvy man would not have mentioned the latter part of the agreement. He would simply have returned, then found a way to escape. However, he had no intention of entering an agreement through trickery or bad faith. “I can’t remain here, inactive, while the many other peoples of this world fight for their existence against a terrible enemy.”

  Again, Saviar stopped short of the full argument. The Myrcidians might not realize that others would, eventually, come for him. It might take them a while to locate the magical settlement, but it could not remain hidden forever. At the very least, Subikahn knew exactly how to find him, and his twin did not espouse the same tight honor as Saviar and Ra-khir. It was not in the Myrcidians’ best interests to hold him too long against his will. “So my part of the agreement would be to do everything within my power to locate your three missing companions and bring them back alive and well. At that time, I will also return to captivity.”

  Jeremilan rubbed his chin, apparently finding a loophole Saviar did not consider. “You need to add that you’ll accomplish this as quickly as possible. Otherwise, you could wait until your eightieth birthday to start looking.”

  Saviar did not see how that jibed with attempting to bring them home alive and well, but—again—he did not see a reason to waste time arguing. Adding a time limit would make things more equitable, and as he had no intention of cheating them, he saw no reason not to comply. He also wondered if ancient Jeremilan really understood normal human lifetimes. Eighty, indeed. Why not a hundred? “Fine, put a time limit on it. Just don’t make it impossible.”

  Jeremilan studied Saviar so intently it made the Renshai uncomfortable, as if the ancient eyes could see through his tissues to his very soul and marrow. Saviar tried to keep his own expression mild. Despite the old man’s rampant paranoia, Saviar had nothing whatsoever to hide. Finally, the elder’s lips parted. Words emerged, sounding rusty and hesitant. “And for our part of the agreement?”

  Saviar hesitated nearly as long as Jeremilan. What emerged surprised even him, “I can do that?”

  Jeremilan sighed, as if worried he was giving away another precious secret. “The strength of the binding lies in the equity of the agreement.”

  Saviar wondered if Jeremilan realized that he would never have surmised such a thing on his own. He would not even know whether or not the spell was cast, let alone its power to constrain him. The Myrcidians could simply pretend to cast the spell and tell him any violation would result in slow, agonizing death with no chance to obtain an afterlife in Valhalla. He would have no way to discern the truth of the claim, and his honor would hold him to the task with or without active magic. He could not help noticing how isolation had shaped Myrcidian society. Their suspicion of outsiders, especially Renshai, seemed to know no bounds; yet they often came across as blindingly naïve, perhaps from the way they had learned to rely on one another.

  Realizing Jeremilan was still awaiting an answer, Saviar attempted to craft one. “I’d like a promise that, if I try my best but fail at this mission through no fault of my own, no punishment or blame will ensue. I’d also like some assurance you won’t hold me indefinitely: that, if you won’t assist in the war, you at least won’t prevent me from doing so.”

  Jeremilan waited patiently, clearly expecting more.

  Saviar could think of only one other thing to demand, and he already knew he would not get it. Simply asking would result in an argument that would only waste time and put Jeremilan back on the defensive. There was no possible way the ancient leader would agree to be magically bound to force any of his people to assist in the war. However, Saviar realized, accomplishing the mission might gain him far more goodwill and put him closer to that goal.

  Saviar also considered asking for his weapons, but he knew such a request was folly. He could probably convince Jeremilan that he would have a far better chance of getting the three missing Myrcidians back with a weapon. However, if the ancient leader went to retrieve Saviar’s swords, he would discover the missing one that Subikahn had taken, which would surely cause further delays and problems. Though he felt naked without a sword, Saviar knew his Renshai training would prevail.

  It was a well-known proverb: “If there is a sword and a Renshai in the same room, no matter who wields it, the sword will find its way into the hand of the Renshai.” If Saviar wound up in a combat situation—and he doubted he would—he felt certain he could win whether or not he started with a weapon. It seemed far more likely the missing Myrcidians had simply wandered off and become trapped by some natural phenomenon: a landslide, an unexpected hole, a falling tree.

  When Jeremilan still waited expectantly, Saviar shrugged. “That’s it.”

  Jeremilan raised a silver eyebrow.

  Saviar felt obligated to explain. “This may seem like a difficult task to you, but I’m looking forward to it. I’m bored to death sitting here waiting for you to decide my fate. I’d rather die rescuing people I scarcely know than sit here wasting away physically and mentally.” He added truthfully, “Anything I want from you would have to come willingly and because someone convinced you it was the right thing to do. I’m not going to obligate anyone, through magic, to something he or she would not choose to do.”

  Jeremilan’s other brow rose beside the first. He tipped his head, clearly contemplating Saviar’s words. At first, Saviar dared to hope the ancient leader was finding the wisdom in them, realizing Saviar’s point was so morally correct that the Renshai knew the Myrcidians would, eventually, see its necessity. Then, it occurred to Saviar he had probably insulted the old man, albeit backhandedly. His words could also be interpreted as suggesting that what Jeremilan intended to do, by forcing Saviar to comply through magic, was ethically repugnant. Also, it could be seen as condemning the very art of magic, the process on which the Myrcidians based their worth and their lives.

  Jeremilan frowned, but he did not rise to the bait. Either he believed Saviar’s insult was unintended, or he saw it as more trickery. Either way, he neither chastised nor relented. He made a sharp, strong gesture toward the invisible opening, and three male Myrcidians came through it.

  Braced for the inevitable promise-binding, Saviar focused on the individual words of the agreement. He suspected exact phraseology would take precedent over intent, and he needed to make certain he had not committed himself to something impossible, unethical, or just plain stupid.

  The whole process took nearly half an hour, and Saviar felt as if he had suffered through one of the knights’ extensive procedural affairs. The magic required the use of a language he did not understand, and he suspected the Myrcidians also switched to their own tongue to communicate issues they did not wan
t him to hear. But the wording of the promise came through clearly enough. Saviar agreed to doing everything in his power to bring the three missing Myrcidians back to their home alive and well. When he returned them, he would surrender himself back into their custody. He also promised to return the missing Myrcidians as swiftly as possible, no matter the condition in which he found them; and, if he could not locate them, he was to return without them within one week’s time. In return, Jeremilan agreed to release Saviar from his captivity in time to assist in any hostilities that threatened the peoples living within the rulership of Béarn.

  There followed a lot of words Saviar did not understand, the tingle of magic that did not appear to harm him or leave any lasting effects. In the end, he remained in the room, facing eight Myrcidians, some male, some female.

  “Finished?” Saviar asked calmly, though he could barely contain his excitement. He could scarcely wait to feel the kiss of cold air against his skin, to see the natural light of the sun, to smell loam and rain and leaf mold. If he found nothing better, he could fashion a stick into a sword; its weight in his hand, no matter how unbalanced or bulky, would bring the lost reality back to his practices.

  Jeremilan nodded. “I assume you want to know what happens if you violate your oath.” He added carefully, “Or if we do.”

  Saviar shrugged with a nonchalance he did not have to feign. “What for? I’ve never broken a promise in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. If I died horribly for doing so, it would be nothing less than what I deserve.”

  Murmurs swept the group, and even Jeremilan turned pale, utterly speechless.

  Saviar headed toward the invisible exit, knowing he could not pass through it without the aid of magic. “May I start now?” He felt driven but not, as far as he could tell, because of any unnatural source. It was the familiar eagerness of a man too long in one unwelcome place, of a warrior who felt as if his strength, stamina, and cunning were withering.

  A woman standing near the entrance glanced at Jeremilan, who nodded. She uttered more of the strange, guttural syllables that had come to symbolize magic in Saviar’s mind, then gestured for him to walk through it.

  Though a bit skeptical, Saviar walked into the space, fully expecting to slam his face against a solid wall as he had so many times before. This time, however, he swept right through it as if the boundaries had never existed. He found himself in a familiar drawing room that he recalled from his first, friendlier visit to the Myrcidians’ communal dwelling, when Chymmerlee had tended his festering wound, his blood poisoning, his fatal fever. It all seemed so long ago, another world and another lifetime.

  Once there, Saviar had no difficulty finding his way through the adjoining rooms to the world outside the compound. He fairly ran, ignoring the furnishings and the stares that followed him. He could scarcely wait to plow through the doorway and into the fresh air. He imagined the sun beaming down on him, dew drops sparkling amidst slender-bladed fang grass and fields of wildflowers, broken by the squat shapes of bushes and the taller, more slender trees swaying in a gentle breeze.

  Instead, Saviar found himself enveloped in swathes of fog, penetrated only by an icy drizzle and anemic patches of sunlight. The trees bowed in an intermittently howling wind, leaves rattling and trunks groaning. Heavy with gathered rain, the bushes sagged. Mud interrupted the fang grass in rain-battered patches, and the wildflowers were closed tightly into well-protected buds. Saviar laughed and fairly danced in the rain, enjoying the cold droplets, the dim light, the ripple of the breeze against his face and funneling through the sleeves of his cloak to encase him in a chilly blast. What once might have seemed a discomfort felt like an old friend. Weather! How I’ve missed you.

  Knowing the eye of every mage was trained on him, Saviar reined in his excitement, pulled up his hood, and trudged into the cold, damp terrain. Within a few steps, he discovered a sturdy branch, broke it down to proper size, and jammed it into his too-long empty sheath. At any other time, it would have seemed a poor substitute for a sword. Now, Saviar reveled in carrying it, so much so that he left it in place only a moment before drawing it repeatedly as he walked, accustoming himself to the feel of it, adjusting his draw to its weight and balance. In his mind’s eye, it was a sword, albeit a poorly made one. He would trade it in when he could; for now, it was better than the nothing at all that had plagued his days and nights for longer than he would have thought he could stand.

  The Myrcidian’s magical dwelling disappeared the moment Saviar left it. He did not bother to look behind him; he had previously experienced the phenomenon, and he had no wish nor reason to do so again. He knew the Myrcidians would continue to watch him until he passed beyond their sight, perhaps enhanced by magic. So he waited until he had traveled far beyond that point before bothering to get his bearings. Only then, it occurred to him he might need to find the missing Myrcidians alive just to fulfill his promise to return. He did not know for certain if he could find the essentially invisible dwelling without their assistance.

  The Myrcidians rarely left their dwelling for any reason. Even if they did, they would not have paths or roadways that could lead a traveler randomly to their home. The ground beneath Saviar’s feet ranged from marshy to rocky, from sloppy to rife with roots and deadfalls. Forest closed in all around him, a mixture of old and new growth trees entangled with vines. The shade of the trees discouraged undergrowth, except where the branches opened to reveal dappled sunlight. Copses flourished in places, disappeared in others, and some held terrible thorns as large as daggers.

  Saviar came to a halt. In theory, the mission had seemed relatively simple. He imagined he could thwart any natural or human enemy that threatened the missing Myrcidians. He had focused on his forthcoming freedom, on the sheer delight of leaving the dank walls that had imprisoned him for so long. He had even looked forward to the rescue, whether as simple as lifting them from an entrapping hole, helping the injured limp home, or as complex as forcing robbers to release them, complete with a few rousing battles. He had refused to dwell on the difficulty he might have just locating the missing people, not because he had never considered it, but simply because it seemed the least of his concerns. Now, it became the all-encompassing problem.

  Where to look. Where to look. Saviar truly had no idea how to start. Without pathways or roads, they could have walked in an infinite number of directions, stopped only by the natural phenomena that fully blocked movement. Except, Saviar realized, they could have used some sort of magic to penetrate prickly barriers or overgrown plant materials or to ford any stream. They had gone missing, which meant they had probably done something foolish, something a man more experienced with woodlands and the outdoors would never consider doing. Chymmerlee had once told the twins she was the only Myrcidian who routinely left their dwelling, and only a few did so even occasionally. He had to hope she had enough forest wisdom not to do something so inexplicable that someone like Saviar, who had spent most of his time outside since infancy, would never even imagine it.

  A branch snapped. Though muffled by the howl of wind and the rattling dance of the trees, it alerted Saviar. In an instant, he had his makeshift sword in hand, his posture crouched, his eyes scanning the misty brush. They were on him in an instant, three swarthy men dressed entirely in black, even their swords dully colored to resist the glints of sunlight.

  Always hyperalert, Saviar got in the first strike, his branch hammering the fingers of one attacker. The man swore, losing his grip. Saviar barreled in, head slamming the other’s chest, free hand snatching the real sword from its reeling owner. He dodged the anticipated attacks of the other two, then spun to face the three again. Low and ready, with a sword in his left hand a stick in his right, Saviar got his first close look at the swordsmen. The one he had overpowered scrambled for purchase on the slippery ground, face contorted in pain and rage. The other two stared at Saviar but did not press.

  Patient as a snake, Saviar
waited for them to make the next move, which they did not. All four stood in position, as if some whimsical god of winter had frozen them solid.

  Another figure glided from the brush, and Saviar pivoted to keep all of them in his field of vision. “Saviar,” the newcomer said in a vaguely familiar voice. “It’s all right. We’re allies.”

  As if to demonstrate, the two men still holding swords sheathed them, and the fourth clamped his injured hand in the other, pain obvious on his face.

  Saviar kept all of the figures in his peripheral vision to focus fully on the newcomer. His first impression, of size, vanished under scrutiny. The man was not large, though he gave the impression of it in the confidence of his stance and the command in his voice. He had straight but short jet-black hair, liberally sprinkled with silver and wholly white at the temples. The eyes were dark, almost black, large, and hard as diamonds. The features were craggy, those of a man well into mid-life or even beyond, and Saviar felt certain he knew those features, though he could not quite place them.

  The leader did not wait for Saviar to recognize him. “Saviar, it’s Weile Kahn, Subikahn’s grandfather.”

  Saviar’s jaw sagged, and he found the captured sword in his sheath without remembering placing it there. He let the stick fall from his hand. “What . . . what . . . are you doing here?”

  Weile snorted. “We came to save you, of course. Did you think I’d leave you at the mercy of a band of ignorant mages?”

  “But how did you even know—” There was only one answer, and Saviar did not like it. Clearly, Subikahn had betrayed his honor. Saviar clamped his mouth shut. He did not want to hear the answer spoken aloud.

  “Come,” Weile said. Keeping a wary distance from Saviar, watching him as they moved, Weile’s followers approached their leader.

  Even Saviar took two steps forward before catching himself. “I can’t go with you. I’m on a mission, and I’m magically bound to complete it.”