Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Saviar could not, at least not without besmirching her honor. “Are you . . . sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. I’m sure.” For the first time, tears marred her eyes as well, turning them into gray puddles. Unlike Saviar, she did not have fists to blot them.

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Saviar insisted. “I swear it.”

  “Then it was your brother. And you must have allowed it.”

  Saviar had to bite his lower lip to keep from laughing. “It wasn’t Subikahn, either. He . . . doesn’t . . .” Saviar did not know how to phrase the situation. “He’s not . . .” Though not a secret, Subikahn’s sexual orientation was his own business. “Let’s just say he couldn’t have done it.” As he contemplated his own words, Saviar grimaced. They were not technically correct. When Subikahn had told Saviar, he had admitted to having tried sleeping with women. Saviar’s use of the word “couldn’t” might imply that Subikahn had undergone accidental or deliberate castration.

  Chymmerlee did not give Saviar a chance to explain. Screams ripped from her throat, as if every man in the room was assaulting her at that moment.

  The elite guardsman in the room darted to her side and thrust the gag back into place in one smooth motion. As he tied it, Saviar backed away, then turned, and ducked through the curtain. He found the Easterners in various stages of repose, some eating, some tending weapons, others talking in small groups. Weile chatted with two of his men, the slight smile playing across his face the only indication he had heard anything coming from the other room.

  Certain they had all heard Chymmerlee’s screams, Saviar waited for someone to demand an explanation. No one did. They all remained calm, as if such things happened regularly, and they did not appear to stare at him.

  Saviar walked through their silent ranks to hunker down in a corner, an arm across his face. Chymmerlee’s pregnant. The claim refused to take shape in his mind. And she believes I raped her. His thoughts wandered back to his discussion with the Mages of Myrcidë. They had also accused him of rape, and Jeremilan’s hostility toward him suggested their leader believed it; but the aged leader of the Myrcidians had likely gotten the conviction from Chymmerlee herself.

  Perhaps she’s wrong about the pregnancy. Saviar had heard some weird stories: babies happened when men and women stared lovingly into each other’s eyes, when they held hands, when she swallowed a “baby seed.” The ignorance of youth, the discomfort of parents, the shame and secrecy of an unplanned birth planted interesting ideas in children’s heads. Perhaps a stray tale or thought had lodged in Chymmerlee’s mind and caused her to believe in a pregnancy that did not exist.

  The more he considered it, the more sense it made. Chymmerlee was the youngest of the mages; she had never seen a child born. The mages kept no pets or animals, so Chymmerlee would have had no chance to watch a bull or billy perform his job in a pasture or watch a cow or nanny squeeze out the results of their mating. Chymmerlee might have no real idea of how procreation worked, only the stories of her elders.

  Saviar shook his head. The hatred in Chymmerlee’s eyes, in her entire demeanor, had made it clear she understood the concept of rape. That it went beyond the myth of the implanting of an infant in her womb by virtue of a loving stare. For whatever reason, by whatever misconception, Chymmerlee truly believed someone, most likely Saviar, had forced himself upon her in a way that had resulted in the creation of a new life inside of her.

  Saviar’s headshake grew more violent. He could not bear to consider the possibility. He sprang to his feet, this time drawing many an Eastern eye, though he had interest in only one of them. He turned his attention wholly on Weile Kahn. “Would you mind if I went outside for a bit? I need to practice.” It was nothing but truth. Saviar did his best thinking with a sword in hand and a battle, even a contrived one, at the fore. He wanted nothing more in the world than to train.

  Weile Kahn gave no indication he found the request unexpected or untoward. “An excellent idea, grandson’s twin. I could use a spar myself, if you’ll go easy on an old man.”

  Saviar suspected the “old man” would prove spry enough, and he would have a few tricks the young Renshai had not yet encountered. The opportunity intrigued him, though the Easterners did not seem as keen. A couple of them edged toward their leader, and worried frowns scored features usually well-schooled at hiding expression. It seemed an odd time for them to worry for Weile’s well-being. Surely, they knew Saviar meant him no harm, and Renshai never killed by accident.

  Already impressed with Subikahn’s grandfather, Saviar’s appreciation rose farther. Organizing dozens of men who had little regard for law or order, many imbued with streaks of cruelty and raging bitterness, seemed an impossible feat in and of itself. Saviar could scarcely imagine not only successfully employing them, but creating loyal attachments with genuine fealty. Clearly, these men honestly worried for the welfare of their leader.

  “Of course you may accompany me.” Saviar added, as warning more than information, “I’m sure you’re aware of the intensity of Renshai practices.” During his youth, Subikahn had spent many months with his father in the Eastern kingdom, accompanied by a Renshai torke. Even if he hadn’t watched the daylong training sessions, Weile had surely seen Subikahn practicing for hours afterward. He would know Renshai sparred only with live steel and that Saviar would have enough control to handle any situation without harming his partner. To suggest otherwise was grave insult.

  As they headed through the tunnels and back outside, nausea bubbled in Saviar’s gut. His imprisonment had left his skills rusty and his confidence shaky. He had no idea of Weile’s prowess or lack or what wiles he might throw into his repertoire. Saviar did not worry for his own life; if he could not defeat an aging ganim who had no true designs against him, he deserved to die. His concern involved a faint thought that he might accidentally harm or kill Subikahn’s grandfather. And, while that would leave him horrified and guilt-riddled, it would also turn him into the most hunted man in every kingdom.

  Saviar emerged into the forest and turned. To his surprise, he found no one behind him, not even the great Weile Kahn, let alone his wary bodyguards. Saviar waited a polite moment; but, seeing no sign of the Easterners, he launched into a complicated svergelse.

  Immediately, joy rushed over Saviar, so intense he nearly lost his timing. The sword in his hand felt so natural, so right, as if some magical being had reattached a missing limb. It seemed as if he existed only for this precise moment: the perfect weight of the sword in his hand, every precise movement bringing the svergelse to proper life, his arms and legs entwined in a lethal dance of ecstasy. The sword sped around him like a live thing; he controlled it with the same certainty and power as his own legs. It went where he commanded, no matter the seeming impossibility of the pattern, the need for ultimate strength, a speed that rivaled lightning.

  Nothing else in the world mattered, not the hardheaded Myrcidians nor their magical demands on him, not the prisoners, and only the upcoming war held any other meaning. He moved with a peerless and fatal precision, driving through faceless enemies by the score, taking down imaginary phalanxes despite their well-trained and commanded exactitude. He pictured them as the best militia he had ever faced, competent warriors with deadly speed and accuracy, enormous in numbers and fortitude.

  Saviar had no idea how long he practiced before a real sword joined the myriad imagined ones. Though deep into his fantasy, he still had the presence of mind not to thrust his blade into the real flesh of his living opponent, even while he took down the others around him in bloody splendor. Soon, it was just the two of them exchanging thrust and parry, dodge and strike. The other was good, though no match for a strong, young Renshai, at least not one-on-one, face-to-face. Several times, Saviar drove in, then retreated before dealing the killing blow, even as a nonlethal touch. At last, he found an opening too good to pass up, weaving the tip of his blade through the other’
s fingers to cut the sword from his hand. An instant later, Saviar held both weapons while Weile Kahn skittered safely backward, all the while examining his now-empty hand.

  Though Saviar had followed the man’s every movement, he lost track of Weile in the shadows. He blinked trying to figure out how that had happened, when the Eastern’s voice emerged from behind a copse of nettles. “I’ll never figure out how you do that.” He shook his hand, as if restoring feeling to sleeping fingers. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to take the whole hand?”

  Saviar had to admit Weile had a point. It did require a lot more control to carve a weapon harmlessly from a warrior’s grip. “We reserve that for opponents who don’t deserve hands . . . or a clean death.”

  Weile finally lowered his arm. “Well, I appreciate the compliment.” Though unnecessary, he explained. “That you find me worthy of life and of keeping my body parts connected.”

  Saviar merely nodded respectfully. He tossed the sword toward Weile.

  Weile snatched it from the air with a quickness and finesse even a Renshai would appreciate. He replaced it in its sheath. “Saviar, we need to talk.”

  Saviar appreciated that, though he longed to return to his svergelse. In truth, he suspected he could practice for three days straight, without stopping to eat or sleep, and still not satisfy his need to practice. “All right.”

  Weile continued, “I apologize if I’m violating Renshai protocol or manners by asking. We can talk and spar or we can talk, then spar. I know your people consider it foolish to do both at once, but you also consider it important to prepare for all eventualities, so you might look at it as an obstacle to be overcome.”

  It was the longest speech Weile had ever given Saviar; he seemed to be a man who saved words until he needed them. Saviar had a feeling he was about to tell Subikahn’s grandfather anything the Easterner wanted to know. Oddly, Saviar suspected that having his wits about him for the conversation was more important than for the spar. “Let’s talk first.” He sheathed his weapon as well.

  Weile headed into the overgrowth, with Saviar at his heels. They were alone as far as Saviar’s well-trained senses could detect, but he realized he had not heard Weile’s arrival, either. The Easterner led him deep into the underbrush, and Saviar knew that, if anyone had followed them, they could not have negotiated the way without considerable noise. Finally, Weile found a reasonably comfortable perch on a gnarled and rotting deadfall. He waited until Saviar took a seat as well before speaking.

  “So,” Weile said. “Tell me everything you know about the Mages of Myrcidë.”

  Rely on only a few maneuvers, and one of those will cause your death. Deliver every blow with the confidence that it will kill, yet always assume your opponent can deflect you. For every attack, there’re multiple dodges, parries, and counterattacks. Draw him into patterns, then catch him off guard with change.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  WEILE KAHN AND SAVIAR approached the residence of the Mages of Myrcidë, one male and one female prisoner sandwiched between them. They had left Chymmerlee at the bunker, a situation that worried Saviar. He had promised to return all three prisoners, and he had no idea what effect the magical sealing of that agreement might have on him when he brought back only two.

  Uncertain how the magic worked, Saviar tried to console himself with the knowledge that he would return the youngest of the mages, too, as soon as the Easterners allowed it. As Weile had already agreed to release her later that same day, Saviar was not overly concerned. Apparently, neither was the magic, because, not only was he not exploding into flame, he felt nothing untoward at all, except for a fluttering in his stomach that he knew had everything to do with anticipation.

  Saviar had seen great men at work before. His Knight-Captain grandfather embraced morality with a violence most men reserved for warfare. He had watched Kedrin negotiate with ministers and kings, and the leader of the Renshai had chosen Saviar as his successor. Though he had personally bargained with men of great import, Saviar suspected he had never seen anything like the confrontation that would take place between ancient Jeremilan and aging Weile Kahn. If he survived it, he would learn a lot about the ways and means of great leaders.

  Usually, the common house of the mages disappeared into the mountains, a blurry image against a backdrop of forest. Without the aid of his magical weapon, Saviar doubted he would be able to see it at all; the combined magics of its inhabitants had kept it secret for too long. Yet, now, it seemed to jump out at him, a simple construct interrupting the otherwise wild and overgrown plain at the base of the Weathered Mountains. Perhaps it was due to the presence of the captive mages who shuffled at his heels, heads low, mouths still gagged to protect him from their magic, hands bound at the small of their backs. Weile brought up the rear.

  There was no sign of Weile’s men, though Saviar assumed they trailed the group at a respectable distance. The fact that he could not hear or see them did not deter this thought; they could move as soundlessly as any forest hunter on the prowl. They would not accompany Saviar and Weile the entire way. Weile had seen to that with a series of commands in a language, presumably Eastern, that Saviar did not understand. Whatever his sword skill, or lack, Weile clearly trusted his ability to escape from a difficult situation alone. Either that, or he was so unaccustomed to failure the thought of it did not occur to him.

  Trailing the prisoners, Weile gave no indication he had difficulty visualizing the Myrcidian compound either, though he also had Saviar and his captives to guide him. He carried himself with an alert dignity that suggested nothing in the world could harm or upset him. Calm incarnate, he strode toward twenty-three hostile mages as if he did such things every day. Saviar suspected he just might.

  A single figure exited the compound and headed toward Saviar. A study in contrasts, he looked exquisitely nervous, his steps mincing and hesitant, his stride faltering, his head flicking in all directions, as if he expected to be attacked from every side. As he stepped from a patch of shadow into the early morning sunlight, silver glimmers appeared in his beard. Saviar identified Netheron by his mannerisms and movements before he could make out any facial features. Moments later, those became clear as well. The willowy old mage approached cautiously, clearly prepared to cast a spell with the slightest provocation.

  Saviar stopped to allow Netheron to make the first move. Netheron took only one more step before coming to a halt as well, a bit too far for comfortable conversation. That forced him to fairly shout to the group. “Why have you brought a stranger here?” He clearly intended to sound guardlike, but it came out more like dithering.

  Saviar did not bother to look behind him. The others must have stopped as well, or they would have shoved into his back. “I’ve brought no strangers, Netheron. You know Janecos and Paultan. The man at the rear is Weile Kahn, leader of the elite guardsmen of the Eastern kingdom and my brother’s grandfather.”

  Netheron hesitated a moment, calculating words that should not have required much thought. Generally, one’s brother’s anything bore the same relationship to oneself. “Your brother’s grandfather is a stranger to us. You’re oath- and honor-bound not to reveal us to him.”

  “I have broken no promises,” Saviar said, hoping he successfully hid the irritation that Netheron would even think such a thing, let alone suggest it aloud. Under the circumstances, it had to appear as if he had done so. “Weile already knew of your existence and the location of your residence while I was still held prisoner there, incapable of telling anyone. Otherwise, how could he have taken Janecos, Paultan, and Chymmerlee?”

  “Chymmerlee,” Netheron repeated, his features turning frantic. “Where is Chymmerlee?” He peered around the bound figures as if expecting her to suddenly appear among them.

  Weile stepped up beside Paultan and spoke his first word of the conversation. “Insurance.”

  Netheron jerked his attention to the Easterner. “W
hat?”

  “She’s unharmed, and we will return her when the time is right.”

  “When’s that?” Netheron demanded.

  “The time is right,” Weile explained, “when I say it’s right.”

  Netheron stood there a moment in speechless silence. He rubbed at his beard. When he finally spoke, the words seemed too weak to have taken so long to think of them. “She’s unharmed?”

  Weile’s face took on a self-indulgent smile. “I assure you we haven’t harmed her nor will we, so long as you don’t give us just cause.”

  Netheron studied Weile for several moments in another prolonged hush. Then, he glanced at the captives. He cleared his throat. “Please wait here a moment.” He turned on his heel and rushed unceremoniously back into the compound.

  The smile still plastered on his face, Weile turned Saviar a quizzical look.

  Saviar merely shrugged. Nothing needed saying. Jeremilan would not prove nearly as easy to intimidate as Netheron.

  Quicker than Saviar expected, Netheron returned and ushered them toward the compound. “Please come along. Jeremilan will speak with you.”

  Netheron led the group into a familiar front room filled with numerous pieces of matching wooden furniture, all couches, benches, and chairs swathed in pillows. Two additional doors stood at the far end of the room, and Saviar knew how easily those came and went with the mages. One moment, a man could walk into a room, the next, it became an inescapable prison.

  “Please take a seat.”

  Saviar glanced at Weile. He had warned the Easterner about the disappearing doors.

  Apparently unperturbed, Weile chose a sturdy chair heaped with pillows and perched atop them as if accustomed to such seating. Saviar chose the closest place to his right, the farthest corner of a long bench.

  “We’d like some time to examine these two.” Netheron gestured at the captives. “Then, Jeremilan will come speak with you.”