“Coward! Coward! Coward!” As the chant faded into the distance, it sounded more like an echo.
Ra-khir would never allow his son to vent his rage on family, so Saviar veered away from their cottage, seeking a quiet corner where Calistin might not think to look for him. He found his solace in a sandy clearing filled with stones, shattered crates, and other bric-a-brac meant to simulate a city battle. Many a misstep had claimed the lives of otherwise competent warriors, and the Renshai practiced in all weather conditions, in darkness as well as light, on hillsides and in the thickest of forests. They spurned any weapons but swords, those forged to demanding specifications, and they learned to use either hand with equal ability. Now, Saviar lashed back into a svergelse fueled as much by fiery rage as necessity. Like all Renshai, he had learned to channel his emotions through his sword arm, skewering and slashing imaginary enemies with a speed his size belied.
But the world refused to narrow wholly to self and sword arm. Saviar found himself thinking about his other brother, Subikahn, his twin, now visiting his father in the Eastlands. It seemed a cruel twist of irony that the brother Saviar loved without reservation had shared a womb but only half his parentage, while the one who provoked him to frenzies shared every droplet of blood.
As a child, Saviar had never questioned this oddity. For the first seven years of his life, the journey to the Eastern high kingdom in Stalmize to visit Subikahn’s father had seemed like a normal and expected vacation. The entire family had gone, Kevral taking over her sons’ weapons training en route and while they stayed at the castle.
Saviar remembered it as a paradise. Though sparsely furnished compared to Castle Béarn, and lacking the murals and carvings, it felt huge and strangely homey. Subikahn’s father, King Tae Kahn, was a small, dark, wiry man with the dexterity and speed of a Renshai who enjoyed romping on the floor with the boys. He seemed more like a friend than a father and indulged them with sweets and toys. He had a constant companion, a silver tabby cat who put up with the children plucking at her ears and yanking her tail without clawed retaliation. When his family’s responsibilities to the knights and the Renshai forced Subikahn to make the trips alone, with only his torke, Saviar found himself missing the Eastern king and castle nearly as much as he did his twin brother.
Now, Saviar launched into a wild sequence of thrust, slash, and parry, his mood evened by exertion as well as his memories of happier days. Later, he had learned Tae had a dark and dangerous past, upon which his parents refused to elaborate. Only then, Saviar began to wonder about the numerous scars the king carried on his body, including lethal-looking gashes on his forehead, across his chest, and directly over his heart. “Scars are a warrior’s badges of honor,” the Renshai often stated, yet Tae never considered himself a competent or deliberate fighter. He dodged questions about old wounds with self-deprecating humor and tried to hide them beneath his clothing.
A blur of gray was Saviar’s only warning. He barely twisted in time to rescue his hilt from another disarming. Instead, the tip of Calistin’s blade tore his sleeve and cut a fiery line along his forearm.
Damn that little bastard! The curse rose to Saviar’s mind without thought or reason. In truth, Calistin was the only brother of the three who was legitimately born.
Calistin drove in without apology. “Pay attention, Savi!”
Saviar retreated, mindful of the practice field debris. He needed a moment to get his bearings, to measure an opponent he already knew too well. “Leave me alone, you annoying little—” Forced to defend another lightning strike, he let the insult go, weaving both swords around Calistin’s one to protect his throat and chest.
Calistin laughed. “You should be prepared for anything, anytime.” His blade skipped circles around Saviar’s, then drove through a nonexistent opening. “Enemies don’t wait until you’re in the mood.”
Saviar managed a hasty riposte that saved his gut. “You’re . . .” He slashed for Calistin, swords cutting empty air, only to find the tip of his brother’s blade in his face. “. . . my only . . .” He batted the sword downward. “. . . enemy!”
Calistin’s sword blazed up faster than Saviar could block, straight for his groin. Demons! Saviar dove, rolling. Stones and rubble jabbed his back, aching through his right hip. He came up in a crouch, still clutching his swords, barely fast enough to bat aside Calistin’s next attack in time.
“You’re already dead, by rights.” Calistin let Saviar know he had pulled at least one blow. Though Renshai sparred with live steel, it was the better warrior’s job to weigh his opponent’s skill and pull life-threatening strikes. It would humiliate a torke to kill a student by accident. Every Renshai strived for complete control of every motion, and the sword was merely an extension of the arm. “I let you live.”
Enraged, Saviar lunged at Calistin. “Don’t do me any favors!” He chopped for his brother’s neck, and the left leg a moment later.
Calistin spun aside with ease, dodging both attacks and returning one of his own. This one touched Saviar’s chest in clear warning. With any power behind it, the blade would have cut bone like butter.
Fatal, Saviar realized. Seething, he came to an abrupt halt. “All right, you killed me. Happy?”
“No.” Calistin performed a swirling svergelse with the grace of an angel, a golden blur of lethal power. Even Saviar found himself staring wide-eyed until the blade licked free from its pattern and sped toward him once again.
Believing the battle finished, Saviar scrambled backward in time to redirect the strike. As he swept in for the riposte, he pleaded. “Please, Calistin. I want to be alone.”
Calistin wove between the two blades. “Your enemies won’t care what you want.” He managed three perfect strikes as he spoke.
Saviar sheathed his right-hand blade, blocking only with the other. He was a competent swordsman, capable, like nearly all Renshai, of taking on three warriors from any other culture. Against his little brother, however, he felt like a hopeless clod. He set himself strictly to defense, fending each blow with his sword and biding his time for an opening. When it came, he lashed through it with his bare hand, intending to surprise his brother with a clout on the ear. Instead, his fist glided through empty air, and Calistin used Saviar’s own momentum and a well-placed foot to send him sprawling onto a deadfall. Breath dashed from Saviar’s lungs, bark scraped his lips and knuckles, and the flat of Calistin’s sword crashed across his shoulder blades.
“Once again, Savi, you’re dead.”
Pain ached through Saviar’s mouth, and he tasted blood. As he fought to suck air into his suddenly empty lungs, the urge to throttle Calistin became an all-consuming obsession.
“Get up,” Calistin demanded.
Saviar’s throat finally spasmed open, admitting air. Through it all, he had managed to keep hold of his sword, the pattern of the knurling ingrained against his palm. He did not yet trust himself to speak. He drooled out a mouthful of scarlet spittle. “Leave me alone,” he finally managed.
“Saviar, it’s important you know—”
Saviar rose, whirling on his brother. “By Sif and Modi, go away, Calistin. Leave me alone, or I’ll . . .” He could not finish. A thousand possibilities whirled through his mind, but he had to discard all of them. Violence would never succeed against Calistin, and the only things the younger man owned that mattered to him were his swords. Saviar could do nothing to harm his little brother in any way, and that had nothing to do with honor, morality, or even love.
“But . . .” Calistin sheathed his sword and stared at his brother. The last dying rays of sunlight struck golden highlights from his hair, and he appeared tiny, almost frail. Though nearly eighteen, he still had the proportions of a young boy: skinny with an oversized head, short torso, legs, and arms. Large, blue-gray eyes studied Saviar from baby-round features. He looked more like a lost child than a Renshai warrior. “. . . I’m just trying to help you . . .”
Saviar wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smea
ring a line of blood across his sleeve. He sheathed his second long sword and emphasized each snarling word, “Just. Leave. Me. Alone!” He turned his back on his brother, a sign of grave disrespect, a gesture Renshai used to convey that an opponent had so little skill that even a surprise attack from behind was no threat. At the moment, Saviar would rather die than turn, even if Calistin did assail him again. He strode blindly toward the family cottage, not caring if his brother followed.
The sun crept further toward the horizon, leaving a spray of colors across the sky that Saviar ignored. For the moment, anger would not allow him to enjoy anything, no matter how magnificent. He wove through the crude dwellings to his own, then crashed through the door and into the common room and its familiar sparse furnishings. He slammed the door behind him. Only then, he verbalized his rage, “I swear from the highest mountaintop, to every god listening: I am going to kill my little brother!”
Kevral appeared in the doorway separating the two main rooms. Though in her mid-thirties, she appeared a decade younger. If any silver had entered her short-cut locks, it remained hidden amid the white-blonde strands. Despite two pregnancies, she still had a thin, almost boyish, figure. She held a cleaning rag in one callused hand and a vial of oil in the other. “Really, Saviar? So you’ve mustered an army?”
Startled silent, Saviar flushed. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t know you were home.”
“You’re bleeding.” It was a statement of fact, devoid of concern. Kevral tossed the rag in a perfect arc. Saviar snatched it from the air and held it against his mouth. It smelled oily and tasted sweet and metallic. She had clearly used it to clean at least one of the swords strapped always to her waist, and Saviar could not help feeling honored. Renshai revered their swords, none more so than Kevral. She owned a weapon given to her by the immortal hero, Colbey. The other blade seemed just as extraordinary to Saviar, handed to her by an Einherjar warrior in Valhalla named Rache. The latter blade even had a name, Motfrabelonning, meaning “Reward of Courage,” though it had once borne the name Tisis, “Vengeance.”
Saviar explored the wound as he staunched the bleeding. It seemed to originate from his lips, which now felt torn and puffy. Blood also welled from the slash across his forearm, staining his opened sleeve.
“You were talking about Calistin, right?”
Saviar blew his nose into the rag, glancing at the result to ascertain that it was not also bloody. He was the oldest, by only a few moments in Subikahn’s case, and definitely the largest of the three brothers. “Who else?”
Kevral smiled. “Then I was right.You would need an army to kill him.”
“I suppose.” Saviar had no wish to discuss Calistin’s prowess with his proud mother. “Where’s Father?”
“Drilling.” Kevral referred to the knight training.
Saviar tried to sound casual. The Renshai considered Ra-khir a mediocre swordsman, but Saviar had watched his father duel on the Bellenet Fields with many different weapons and impressive skill. It was a guilty pleasure. Most Renshai disdained the Knights as semi-competent warriors wedded to a rigid and foolish code of honor, even as the rest of the Western populace admired them. Subikahn smiled tolerantly when Saviar spoke of his father’s ability and passion, listening politely though he clearly did not share Saviar’s ardor. Since the Renshai leaders had recognized Calistin’s skill at age six, they kept him so immersed in Renshai swordwork that he had lost all interest in anything else, including his father’s talents. By decree, no one bothered Calistin. He had no responsibilities, no chores, and no distractions. He was expected to practice sword form and craft every waking moment, with or without the guidance of the best Renshai torke.
Rag still clutched to his face, Saviar ran back outside. The sun had set, leaving the Fields of Wrath awash in gray; but the sounds of clashing steel still dwarfed every other. Though anxious to reach the Knight’s tourney field in time, Saviar kept his step careful and attentive. To blunder into a mock battle might result in an ignoble death, and he also worried about Calistin finding him again. One more encounter with the arrogant, little brat might set Saviar over the edge into a madness he could not control.
But no one accosted Saviar as he dashed across the Road of Kings, lined by flawless carvings of bears and statues of the legendary, ancient King Sterrane. Moonlight lit glimmers of quartz in the stonework, making them appear to glow, and Saviar shivered in the cold evening air. Renshai never admitted fear, but Saviar and Subikahn had whispered their childhood trepidations to one another and once avoided those massive memorials. Béarnian carvers had a talent for making their creations eerily lifelike; and, in the darkness, they seemed to move.
Saviar needed only to cross a farm field to enter the town proper, but he chose a shorter route to the Bellenet Fields that took him through the forest. Leaves sloshed beneath his feet, saturated into soup by winter snows, now melted by the thaw. The first green buds graced the tips of some of the otherwise naked branches. The birds had gone to nest, but a strident hoot cut the air directly over his head, warning the animals of a human intruder.
Saviar looked up, at first seeing nothing. Then, suddenly, a massive feathered head whipped around to reveal two glaring eyes, like freshly washed dinner plates. A ghostly form rose soundlessly into the air, resembling a small boy in size and shape. An owl, Saviar realized, watching it disappear into the darkness. He had often considered owls the Renshai of the animal world: swift and graceful, silent and deadly. He quickened his pace. If the night creatures had come out of hiding, it seemed unlikely he would reach the practice grounds in time.
Saviar raced from the forest onto open ground, startling a ground dove into whirring flight. There, he found only the hulking figures of tourney fences. No man or animal stood upon the fields. Damn. He started to turn to leave, but need held him in position. He could not return to the Fields of Wrath now, not with Calistin waiting to pounce on him and his mother still lauding her youngest son’s skill. Saviar could never admit to Kevral that, sometimes, not too often, he wished he were anything but Renshai. To speak such words would wound her deeply.
Instead, Saviar headed toward the Erythanian stables where the Knights of Erythane kept their horses. Since the day he had earned the title Apprentice Knight, Ra-khir had insisted on tending to his own white charger. He trusted no groomsman to do as thorough a job on his beloved and hard-earned Silver Warrior.
Unlike the Fields of Wrath, the streets of Erythane lay deserted after sundown. Smoke rose from the cottage chimneys, and the savory aromas of cooking meat, grains, and breads filled the empty spaces. Saviar’s gut churned with excitement. Renshai practiced hungry and thirsty or on a full stomach, all conditions that might exist in a real battle. They rarely ate as families, instead snatching mostly raw foodstuffs from communal stocks as the urge struck them. No Renshai knew how to hunt or fish, how to tend vegetables in small plots or massive farms. It was all time better spent honing swordcraft or cleaning and sharpening blades. Every moment dedicated to swordplay meant an improvement in ability or endurance. Every one given to cooking, sleeping, talking, playing, or resting was considered wasted.
At length, the familiar shape of the stable came into Saviar’s view. Not much farther along, he saw the Knight’s Rest, a high-scale tavern that catered to the upper class. Many of the unmarried knights gathered there after a grueling day of drills, and Ra-khir sometimes joined them. If Saviar could not find his father in the stable, he might at the Knight’s Rest. At the least, they could walk home in the darkness together.
Upon reaching the stable, Saviar poked his head inside. The sweet, distinctive odor of horses wafted to him, and the snowy forms of the knights’ chargers showed vividly against the darkness. One of the animals nickered and snorted, the sound rising over the background din of crunching hay. Letting himself inside, Saviar walked quietly down the row, stroking whichever heads rose to look at him over the half-doors of their stalls. He paused longest in front of his grandfather’s mount. Ten years old, Snow
Stormer bore the same name as his predecessor, a tribute the mischievous stallion had not yet earned. Saviar had watched, fascinated, as Knight-Captain Kedrin mourned the loss of the animal that had borne him through so many journeys, practices, and battles during his then-twenty years as a Knight of Erythane. Accustomed to Renshai, Saviar had never before seen a grown man cry.
A shrill whinny shattered the near-stillness from halfway down the second lane, followed by Ra-khir’s voice. “Give me that, you rascal!”
Saviar smiled and quickened his pace, tucking the bloodstained rag into his belt and knotting his tattered sleeve. As he turned the corner, a lantern lit Silver Warrior prancing an excited circle, a fancy hat with an arched plume perched precariously upon his head. Ra-khir watched the horse’s antics, still dressed in his practice uniform, damp and covered with dirt. He held a brush white with horsehair in one hand and a rag in the other. His red-gold hair lay in hopeless disarray, sweat-plastered and smashed in patches where the hat had once perched jauntily. Even the look of consternation could not mar the rugged handsomeness of his features: eyes the green of polished emeralds, his features bold and chiseled, his cheekbones high and fair. Saviar never considered himself good-looking; yet, when he took the time to study his father’s features, it startled him to think he closely resembled this paragon.
“You’re a bad, bad horse.” Ra-khir’s gentle admonishment held none of the seriousness of his words.
“Either that,” Saviar said, leaning against a nearby stall, “or he’s an embarrassingly disheveled Knight of Erythane.”
Ra-khir jerked toward his son, and his cheeks flushed visibly, even in the darkness. He smiled warmly, revealing a row of teeth that matched the brilliant fur of his steed. “That description would fit either of us.” He indicated his muddy, crumpled uniform with an all-encompassing gesture. “My father would kill me if he saw me this way.”
Flight of the Renshai Page 3