Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m no longer interested in or capable of taming wild horses. The heart wants what it wants when it wants it, but I’m keeping my mind open. A calm and beautiful woman who will love me and my sons, who can prepare a tasty meal, who will dedicate herself to me as I will to her would suit me fine.” Ra-khir added carefully, hoping it was not too much, “And I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

  Tiega lowered her face, but not before Ra-khir saw her flush, recognized a smile. From the corner of his eye, he could see Darby’s expression brighten as well. He knew the boy liked him and already thought of him as a replacement father. Keva’s mouth slid open, and she turned to look at her mother. Apparently, Ra-khir had made his point a bit too transparently. He had not intended it to be something children saw through. Only Calistin did not change his expression. He looked around at the others, though, at least recognizing he had missed something they found obvious.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Ra-khir studied his callused hands. “I was wondering . . .” he started, finally getting to his business. He had rehearsed the question, but, in the wake of their current conversation, it no longer seemed casual. “. . . if you would consider moving to Erythane.” He added, too quickly, “I mean to be near Darby and all. During his training.” It did not come out as smoothly as he had planned.

  Tiega chuckled. “We’ve been discussing that possibility since Darby went off to become a knight. If you remember, we talked about it when the two of you left. You wanted us to wait until after the war.”

  Ra-khir found himself even more embarrassed. “Well, yes. But I wasn’t sure if you remembered. Or if you might have changed your mind.”

  Tiega glanced at Keva, who nodded. “We’ve already decided to move. Now, it seems, we have even more reason to go.” The mother stared at his face, apparently waiting for him to meet her gaze.

  Ra-khir was not ready; but, politely, he did so. Her eyes enraptured him, fiery blue against strikingly long and dark lashes. A surge of something akin to panic slid through him. He had not intended his words as a proposal.

  Apparently sensing his discomfort, Tiega continued, “I mean, I’d like to get to know you better. To see if we might . . . mesh well enough . . . to . . . to . . .” Her cheeks turned a neat shade of scarlet that only served to compliment her milky skin and pale eyes.

  Ra-khir cursed himself for making her feel awkward. “. . . attempt a courtship?” he finished lamely. They were acting like inexperienced adolescents fielding a first crush. He wanted her on a visceral level, propelled by the kind of desire even a manner-driven Knight of Erythane found difficult to control. For all of his life, women had thrust themselves at him, had referred to him as dashing and handsome, a gift his father and Saviar shared and which he often considered more of a curse. He never knew if they craved him only for his looks or his status. Now, he hoped, he was not making the same snap judgments, a terrible mistake. Tiega was beautiful on the outside, but the inside mattered so much more in the choice of a lifelong mate.

  Darby whispered something to Keva, and the girl giggled, breaking the spell.

  Ra-khir quickly looked away, clearing his throat. “Well, then. Can you ride?”

  Tiega sat up straighter and glanced at her children, silencing Keva. “We have the donkey and cart, and I won’t have any trouble purchasing a horse. We still have plenty left from the war spoils Darby scavenged.”

  Soothed by the routine of making travel arrangements, Ra-khir rose. “I told everyone we’d head for the meeting hall tonight. I suppose we should be on our way.”

  Tiega would not hear of it. “Not until after supper, Sir Ra-khir. I promised a warm stew on your return, and I’m a woman of my word.”

  Calistin licked his lips. “I’d appreciate a stew, ma’am.” He looked askance at Ra-khir who sat back down.

  “It sounds delicious, and I never break promises.” Ra-khir had not actually vowed to share that stew, but the details did not matter. He wanted to stay, and this gave him good reason. “But I’m afraid we’ll need to leave immediately afterward, if only because I’m always, necessarily, a man of my word. We’ll meet back here in the morning.”

  “You and Calistin will spend the night here.” It was a command, not a question.

  Ra-khir looked up, scandalized. “My dear lady, we can’t do that. It’s not . . . proper.”

  Tiega slapped him.

  Instinct brought Ra-khir to his feet, but he could do nothing other than look surprised and hurt.

  Red circles of anger appeared on Tiega’s cheeks, and her eyes blazed. “How dare you suggest I would do anything improper!”

  “I wasn’t suggesting . . . I mean I wasn’t thinking . . .” Realizing he was babbling, Ra-khir started again. “I didn’t mean we would do anything improper. Just that people might think—”

  “I don’t give a damn what some fool chooses to believe. Anyone who knows me or anything about the Knights of Erythane won’t make ridiculous assumptions.” Tiega indicated a curtain pushed flush against the wall. “I’ll bunk with Keva. Darby and Calistin can share, and I’ll expect you to act like a gentleman and stay entirely on the men’s side of the divider once the lamp goes out.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ra-khir said meekly. He touched his stinging cheek with a hand warmed by the hearthfire. “I would never betray my honor or that of the Order.” He glanced at Calistin to find his youngest son smirking, evidently enjoying his father’s consternation. Darby looked at the ceiling. If the interaction amused him, too, he gave no sign, remaining true to his ongoing training. Keva hid half her face behind her upraised hand, but she couldn’t completely conceal her grin. “My only concern is the number of questions and issues the townsfolk raise. We might return quite late.”

  “We’ll leave you the area on the door side. If we’re asleep or indecent, we’ll have the curtain drawn, of course.” Tiega added to Darby, “Stoke the fire when you get in.”

  “I will, Mama,” the boy promised.

  “Then it’s settled,” Tiega said in a voice that made it clear she would brook no debate. “After super, Ra-khir and Darby will head for the meeting hall.” She swung her gaze to Calistin. “Are you planning to go with them, Calistin? Because you’re welcome to stay.”

  Ra-khir retook his seat, surprised to find himself inordinately interested in Calistin’s reply. Given a choice between listening to villagers regale a Knight of Erythane or joining common womenfolk, a Renshai, especially a consummate one like Calistin, would have to find either excruciatingly boring.

  Calistin managed one of his rare genuine smiles. “I’d love some stew; it smells delicious. After supper, I’ll need to practice.” He patted a hilt affectionately. “When that’s finished, I’ll be glad to help you out anyway I can while Papa and his squire do . . .” He hesitated, “. . . whatever it is knights do.”

  Ra-khir shrugged. “I’ve raised him eighteen years, and he still has no idea to what I, and his grandfather, have dedicated our lives.” Not wanting to sound bitter or insulting, he added, “Not that he hasn’t dedicated himself at least as passionately to the Renshai. It’s not likely you’ll see him, or his swords, before moonrise.”

  Tiega turned Calistin a motherly look. “He’s an adult, Ra-khir. He can come and go as he pleases, and he’s welcome here anytime.” She winked at him. “And if he happens to bring a few spare pieces of firewood with him, it’ll be greatly appreciated.”

  “I’ll do that,” Calistin promised. He sounded almost happy to be asked, which caught Ra-khir off guard. Back home, no one expected anything of Calistin other than full commitment to his swords. Requesting any chore or favor that might distract him was akin to sacrilege.

  Ra-khir could not help wondering if the attainment of a soul had anything to do with the changes he saw in Calistin. He considered them overwhelmingly positive, though whether the Renshai, as a tribe, would agree remain
ed to be seen.

  When hatred is strong, when generation after generation has distorted history far beyond truth and made it seem as if aggressors were victims, it can spawn a hatred so intense that it defies any logic.

  —Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son

  THE FIELDS OF WRATH little resembled what Saviar remembered from his childhood. He rode around the edges, confused and uncertain, wondering if he had somehow miscalculated its location. Repeatedly, he checked his landmarks: the Road of Kings with its weathered rock statues lay northward, the mountain city of Béarn to the west, and Erythane directly north of the king’s city. The woodlands surrounding the once-barren plains that had served as the Renshai’s home still looked the same. Only the plains themselves had changed.

  Though the Fields of Wrath belonged to Erythane, it was Béarn’s king who paid the Renshai to guard the royal heirs, to remain at the beck and call of King Griff and King Humfreet should enemies attack either city or the kings face a difficult situation best solved with violence, or merely its threat. The Renshai used this money to hire Béarnides to build and maintain their necessary structures, to commission the finest blacksmiths to forge the Renshai swords or to buy necessities such as food, kept in communal stock.

  Now, the cottages sagged and crumbled, lacking basic maintenance. Snot-nosed, barefoot children chased one another, squealing, along dirt pathways swathed with thistles. Men and women in tattered homespun lounged at open doorways, occasionally shouting at their idle offspring but making no move to physically handle them, even when several hurled stones at Saviar or taunted him in the Erythanian tongue.

  Weeds had overgrown the open training areas, and the ones deliberately left wild had become impenetrable. The door to the communal storehouse swung, creaking, in the wind. What little food remained inside it looked fouled and worthless, overcome by mice and rats. The Fields of Wrath reeked of sewage and rot. Having invested nothing in the buildings, the furniture, foodstuffs, the land, the current inhabitants seemed unconcerned about its future. Or, apparently, their own.

  Saviar found himself staring, but not for long. The more time he spent unmoving, the bolder the current citizenry grew. The adults joined the stonethrowing, adding sticks, lumps of hardened clay and chunks of broken furniture. Clearly, this was not just a warning; these strangers intended him harm. Soon, Saviar had little choice but to attack or retreat. Slaughtering them seemed far more satisfying, but they clearly wanted him to do so, which made him cautious. From their gibes, they knew he was Renshai, knew he could cut them down like so much chaff, knew he could slaughter all of them and barely break a sweat. If they wanted him to attack, then doing so would somehow serve their interests. Whatever their reasons, he did not intend to oblige them.

  Saviar withdrew to the Road of Kings. At his back, he could hear their raucous cheers, their hoots of derision. He did not have a full command of Erythanian, but he knew “Renshai” when he heard it, and he felt reasonably certain they prided themselves on chasing off an armed invader, taunting him with a parade of insults that included the nastiest of all: fegling, their word for coward. Imbued with patience, Saviar ignored them. They were baiting him, and he would not allow rage to overcome logic.

  For an explanation, Saviar knew he needed to turn toward Béarn or Erythane. In the past, Béarn had shown a greater propensity to welcome Renshai, so he trotted down the Road of Kings, so named because an ancient wizard had taken the route to restore the rightful heir to Béarn’s throne long after a coup had put a crown on the head of a usurper. It led to the heart of the mountain kingdom.

  Anger finally descended on Saviar, not at the name-calling but at the devastation these worthless strangers had caused to his home, the casual disrespect they heaped upon the stronghold of the Renshai. Where are they? He worried for his grandparents, his friends, his brothers. It would only take a handful of Renshai a few moments to dispose of the pathetic band of malcontents who had taken over the Fields of Wrath. To violently displace the Renshai would require the combined armies of the Westlands, and Saviar could not see them leaving willingly a second time. Even if they accepted another challenge like the one that had killed his mother, they would have done it with infinitely more caution. Even an unfair fight was the Renshai’s to lose. Nothing short of trickery could win the battle for anyone else.

  Other thoughts followed swiftly. Saviar realized his absence might have worsened the situation. Thialnir relied on his judgment in situations requiring finesse, and if someone had banished the Renshai, they needed every member of the tribe to assess the circumstances and assist any move. Even that made little sense. Only the King of Erythane had the authority to expel an entire group of people from his sovereign land.

  Ignorant of the current state of the Renshai, Saviar wished he had not left Weile, his followers and Jeremilan until after they had met with King Griff. At the time, it had seemed logical for him to head to the Fields of Wrath. Weile needed to return the Pica Stone, and the eldest of the Mages of Myrcidë had business that would, hopefully, result in his people assisting the forthcoming war. Now, Saviar’s decision to head out alone seemed like folly.

  Two men stepped out of the forest onto the road ahead of Saviar, then stopped, as if waiting for him. The Renshai’s gait did not waver as he approached. Simple travelers, he supposed, though he would have preferred highwaymen. He would appreciate the opportunity to work out his frustrations in a flurry of swordplay, no matter how short. He assessed them as he drew closer. They sported dark clothing, worn close; it would not hinder them in a fight. Both had straight, black hair. They recognized him the same moment he did them.

  “Saviar!” Weile’s men called in unison.

  Saviar would have liked to return the greeting, but he did not know their names. During their weeks of travel from the middle Westlands, he had learned that Weile’s men valued their privacy. They spoke little; and, when they did, they most often used either the Eastern tongue or some sort of personal code Saviar had no basis to decipher. He had not managed to root out their names, personal references or titles. “Hello, there, friends.” It took effort to expel the words, let alone sound anything more than vaguely disappointed.

  If the men noticed Saviar’s discomfort, they gave no sign. Not that he could ever read them. They were all masters of subtlety. “Come with us, please. Weile sent us to find you.”

  Saviar did not bother to question how they had done so. He had made no effort to hide, and he supposed Weile might have sent others out searching as well. There could be only one reason why the leader of the East’s elite guardsmen sought him out so soon after they had separated. He knows what’s happened to the Renshai.

  The two men waited for Saviar to reach them before leading him into the forest. The trees held leaves in a wash of colors: brilliant crimsons mingled with greens that ranged from rich jade to glaring emerald, with every shade of yellow and brown between them. A carpet of leaves from previous winters crunched beneath their feet, hiding roots and fallen branches to trip the unwary. The Easterners moved easily, almost soundlessly. Renshai maneuvers included techniques for moving quietly through any terrain, but Saviar’s current mood made him shun the required concentration. He shuffled through the debris, not caring how much noise he made.

  One instant, they were traipsing between trunks and clambering over deadfalls, the next Saviar found himself surrounded by olive-skinned, dark-haired men who moved like shadows. Suddenly, Weile appeared beside him, as if wisps of wind had come together to form the man. “I’m sorry, Saviar,” Weile said softly. “Had I any idea, I would never have let you go off alone.”

  Saviar had no patience for riddles. “Idea of what? Where are the Renshai?”

  Weile crouched against a deadfall and motioned for Saviar to do the same.

  Saviar drifted toward his twin’s grandfather but did not wish to waste even the time it would take to settle into a defensible position. He asked as he moved, “W
here are they, Weile?”

  Weile went straight to the answer. “Many are in Béarn, serving their time as guardians or preparing for their rotations.”

  Saviar crouched in front of Weile. Normally, only one or two Renshai of the proper gender guarded any particular prince or princess. From Weile’s description, it sounded as if several Renshai had come simply to train and wait.

  “Others are on special assignments. For example, Subikahn is due back from a spying mission with his father, and Calistin went to Elves’ Island with Ra-khir.”

  That caught Saviar’s attention. Calistin was never Ra-khir’s first choice for a traveling companion. Likely, he would have taken Saviar had his eldest son been available. I should be with him. For the second time that day, Saviar realized the discomfort his long absence had caused others, first Thialnir and now Ra-khir. If I had been here, would the Renshai have gone missing? Impatience overtook him. “Where are the rest of the Renshai? You’ve not accounted for a couple of hundred, at least.”

  Weile sucked air through his nose. “Saviar, they’re in Erythane’s dungeons. Awaiting trials.”

  That left Saviar with more questions than it answered. “Trials? How many trials?”

  “As many as there are incarcerated Renshai. Or nearly so.”

  Saviar could only stare, awaiting more information. As always, Weile was even more patient, so Saviar finally pressed. “Trials for . . . what?”

  “Murder, mostly. Mayhem. Assault.” Weile smiled crookedly. “The usual, Saviar. But you and I know the true crime here is ‘breathing while being Renshai.’”

  Saviar dropped lower. “So what’s going to happen to them?”

  “That’s up to the king and courts of Erythane.”

  Saviar did not know what to say.