Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  A light seemed to fill Kedrin’s face, and his eyes sparkled. Saviar expected his grandfather to ply him with questions about the seriousness of his intentions. Surely he wished to do so, but he remained true to the conversation instead. “It would seem to me, then, that Saviar should know the extraordinary details of Colbey’s story before he makes such a difficult and momentous decision.”

  Their discussion forced Saviar into consideration. Many times he had wished he had pursued knighthood rather than the intense and single-minded Renshai training. Until his recent discussion with his father, however, he had accepted the lot his parents had given him. It had never occurred to him that becoming both was possible.The fact that Colbey had done so barely seemed reason to change his mind. The immortal Renshai had performed many feats no one else had accomplished, before or since.

  Uncomfortable beneath the sudden scrutiny of father and grandfather, Saviar cleared his throat. “So, Grandpapa. Tell me about Sir Colbey.”

  Ra-khir sat, Kedrin resumed his position of comfort, and Saviar remained in his Renshai-wary crouch.

  “It all began more than three hundred years ago, in the reigns of King Sterrane of Béarn and King Orlis of Erythane. Though nearly eighty, Colbey Calistinsson appeared much younger, with an agility and speed beyond even those one usually associates with men your age.” Kedrin waved a hand in Saviar’s general direction.

  Saviar seized upon the pause. “Because he was immortal.”

  “Yes,” Kedrin said, though a twist in his tone suggested it was only half an admission. “And because he kept himself as well as any man can. At the time, he did not know the blood of Thor ran in his veins. No one did.”

  Saviar nodded, understanding those details well, as all Renshai. As it turned out, Colbey had not known either of his blood parents. His Renshai mother had died in battle, the baby plucked from her womb by Sif and placed in one otherwise barren. He had no siblings; and Colbey still considered the man and woman who raised him, Ranhilda and Calistin, his only true parents.

  Kedrin continued, “The Great War was over, the West victorious over the mighty armies of the Eastlands. The scourge of the North had left the Renshai tribe with only two living members; and, of the two, only Colbey survived the War.”

  Saviar spoke from his Renshai history lessons, “The other was Rache, right? The Einherjar who gave Mama her sword.”

  Kedrin nodded. “And Colbey was traveling through Erythane with a boy about your age, also named Rache as I recall.” He looked askance at Ra-khir, who bobbed his head in assent.

  Again, history filled in the gaps for Saviar. Modern Renshai consisted of three tribes, each descended from a couple from the era of Kedrin’s story. The first, the tribe of Modrey, his mother’s tribe, carried the most ancient Renshai blood. The tribe of Rache, the boy in Kedrin’s story, initially carried no true Renshai bloodline. Rache’s mother, Mitrian, had married Tannin, the patriarch of the third, half-blood tribe. As this information did not seem significant to the story, however, Saviar kept it to himself and gave his grandfather an encouraging look.

  “Rache wound up dueling with and killing a young apprentice knight named Shalfon.”

  “Killing?” The word startled out before Saviar could think to stifle it.

  “Killing,” Kedrin repeated. “Duels to the death were a lot more common in those days, and it is likely that Shalfon set that end point as a condition of the challenge.”

  Kedrin’s open-mindedness pleased Saviar. Most would automatically condemn the outcome as a Renshai succumbing to his violent nature.

  “In the process of cheering on his charge, Colbey insulted the boy’s father, Brignar, resulting in a second duel. There is ambiguity over who actually initiated the challenge, but history records that it was fought immediately and with swords, which suggests that Colbey did.”

  Saviar had to agree with the assumption. Knights displayed far more patience than Renshai, and ancient knights, especially, preferred mounted combat with pikes.

  “In any case, there is no doubt that Colbey won the battle handily, badly humiliating his opponent in the process.” Kedrin looked at Ra-khir, who frowned sourly.

  Sensing a scandal, Saviar understood his grandfather’s hesitation. Yet his own Renshai impatience won out over courtesy. “What happened next?”

  Kedrin sighed but dutifully continued, “I’m afraid Brignar did something . . . unchivalrous.”

  Knowing Colbey as every Renshai did, Saviar guessed. “Colbey taunted Brignar, didn’t he?” A likely scenario came to the fore. “Oh! He turned his back on his enemy.”

  “The ultimate gesture of a warrior’s disdain, yes.”

  Saviar presumed the rest, gasping at the enormity of Brignar’s infraction. “And Brignar attacked him? From behind?”

  Kedrin grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”

  The rest was obvious. Colbey would not have forgiven the crime. “And died.” Saviar’s brow furrowed. After that, the trail of understanding broke. “But how . . . ? Why would the Knights of Erythane want Colbey to . . . after he just killed . . . ?” He studied his grandfather’s striking features, sucked in by the utter pallor of those white-blue eyes. Do my eyes really look like that?

  “It was old law,” Kedrin explained. “Long established and only changed within my lifetime.” He casually fixed a crease in his sleeve. “When a man bested a knight in fair combat, he earned the knight’s position. Once he pledged himself to Erythane and Béarn, he received the position, title, and steed.”

  “Frost Reaver.” Saviar had long known the name and color of Colbey’s beloved stallion. It had always seemed strange that a Renshai would choose to ride a beast of such standout brightness, yet Saviar had simply dismissed that as one of the many oddities of Colbey Calistinsson. “Could that be the same horse?”

  “It is.” Ra-khir blurted, then covered his mouth, eyes wide.

  Kedrin only laughed at the interruption. “You’re off-duty, Ra-khir. Feel free to speak your mind, even if it is ill-timed.”

  Ignoring the obvious sarcasm, Ra-khir obeyed. “Like the gods, he eats the apples of Idun to stay forever young. I’ve ridden him.”

  Now it was Saviar’s turn to barge in without thinking. “You’ve ridden Frost Reaver! You’ve ridden Colbey Calistinsson’s horse!” Kedrin’s story no longer mattered. Saviar had to know. “When? How?” He did not leave time for answers before adding accusingly, “How come you never told us?”

  Ra-khir shrugged and flushed and smiled simultaneously. “The time was never right.”

  “And now?” Saviar could not let the matter rest. He wondered how many other incredible things his father had never found the right time to tell him.

  “If you wish.” Ra-khir studied his own mount, grazing pleasantly on moss and leaf sprouts. He had not bothered to tie the stallion; Silver Warrior would not stray. “When Colbey embarked on his mission to save the world, he gave me Frost Reaver.”

  “Gave you . . . ?” Saviar’s voice cracked.

  “When Colbey survived despite even his own expectations, I gave him back his horse.” Ra-khir winked. “There’re few things more pitiful than a pleading immortal, especially a Renshai immortal.”

  Saviar dropped to his haunches, shocked silent. He had heard about his parents’ exploits, their missions to rescue the West, his mother’s visit to Valhalla. He also knew that Kevral and Ra-khir had fallen in love during these deadly excursions. But he had never heard that his father had a personal relationship with the Renshai’s most cherished hero. Unable to wrap his mind around this stunning admission, he pushed his thoughts back to one he might. “So Colbey . . . pledged his allegiance . . . to Erythane and Béarn?”

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” Whether Kedrin referred to Ra-khir’s admission or Saviar’s question, he did not know. “Colbey did so swear in an informal ceremony before the King of Erythane. Remember, at that time, he was pledged to help protect the Westlands anyway, and he trusted the man who became Béarn’s greatest king. Ste
rrane and Colbey were close friends.”

  Saviar took the information a step further, “And Colbey was nearly eighty years old. He couldn’t possibly have guessed he would go on to live another three hundred years.” The implications seemed staggering. “So . . . has anyone ever called him in to fulfill his knightly pledge?”

  Ra-khir grinned viciously. “He’s never taken guard duty, if that’s what you mean. Colbey’s title is not commonly known, even among the Knights of Erythane.”

  “To my knowledge, no one has called Colbey in for any reason, then or since.” Kedrin put a more serious spin on the question, “Who would dare?”

  Who, indeed? Saviar wondered, yet he also knew that in times of great trouble men sometimes resorted to desperate measures.

  CHAPTER 6

  Leadership can be taught, and wisdom can be gained; but character comes only from the heart.

  —Knight-Captain Kedrin Ramytan’s son

  THE STORY OF SIR COLBEY Calistinsson consumed Saviar’s thoughts as the three men traversed the highway between Erythane and the mountain kingdom of Béarn. It seemed odd to the young Renshai that he continued to mull the details long after reality sprang to the fore and begged dismissal of the whole idea. The fact that Colbey had accomplished some feat made it no less impossible, and even the great hero of the Renshai had fallen into this situation wholly by accident.

  So, Colbey had killed a man, one of hundreds or, more likely, thousands. He had lived in a much different era: when a Renshai’s adult status was determined by a kill, not competence with a test. History spoke of a time when, banished from their Northern homeland for barbarism, the Renshai had wandered through the West and East, slaughtering for supplies or, merely, for fun. War was a Renshai’s life, his satisfaction, and his glee. And it had stoked a hatred that existed even to this day, centuries after its inception and long after the Renshai had turned to more peaceful means of obtaining their necessities.

  It was during this period of isolation and exile that Colbey had been born and raised, and he brought the flavor of his upbringing into his adulthood. With a bargain and a battle, the Renshai tribe had regained a piece of the North, from that point on referred to as Devil’s Island. Bitter about their loss, the combined armies of the North had attacked the island in the dead of night, slaughtering nearly every Renshai. Only much later, the shattered remnants of the Renshai had re-formed in the West from the three tribes, only one of which had a full complement of original Renshai blood. The tribe of Modrey. My mother’s tribe.

  Now riding behind his father, on Silver Warrior’s broad rump, Saviar strained new muscles and let the scenery scroll by without notice. His swords tapped his legs with every stride in a steady pattern: left, right; left right. He appreciated their touch; without them, he felt as naked as any Renshai would. He sighed, understanding the improbability of his double dream yet unable to let it go. He wondered why Ra-khir had fueled his desire by using Colbey’s status as both Renshai and knight to whet his son’s curiosity. Even the immortal Renshai had not undergone the intensive training currently required by the Knights of Erythane.

  Kedrin, Ra’khir, and Saviar had passed several other travelers on their way to Béarn. Most stepped aside with courteous bows for knights as respected as the Renshai were reviled. Now, as they topped a low rise, Saviar glimpsed a wagon around his father’s broad back. It sat, lopsided, by the roadside. Freed from its traces, the horse grazed the ditches. Two ragged men stood in the center of the roadway, waving at the knights.

  “What’s this?” Ra-khir whispered.

  Knight-Captain Kedrin murmured just as quietly. “Someone appears to need our assistance.”

  The knights reined their steeds in front of the men, who immediately started bowing and bobbing, as if facing royalty.

  Saviar’s troubling thoughts disappeared, replaced by sudden curiosity. He said nothing, taking his cues from his father and grandfather. They had a job of vast import awaiting them in Béarn, a summons from the king to obey. They could not afford to allow a simple broken wheel to delay them, yet they seemed prepared to do so. Curious where the path of honor would lead them, Saviar watched in silence.

  “My lords,” one called, a tall lean man with a mop of sand-colored hair and skin darkened by the sun.

  Before he could finish, the other cut in. “My lords, my lords.” He bowed deeply, his arms scarred and thick, his face craggy. Though better than average height, he still fell short of his lanky companion; and he sported tightly trimmed dark hair.

  Perhaps to forestall an endless stream of greetings, Kedrin did not wait for the men to make a request. “Do you need help fashioning another wheel?”

  “No, sir!” the second one said swiftly, with a tone akin to horror. “We would not ask your esteemed selves to assist with such a menial chore—”

  “Rather,” the first interrupted, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his slender throat. “We wondered if you could save us the full trip to Béarn.”

  The second cut in again, his tone suggesting that he found the other man’s gall upsetting. “Not that we deserve such consideration . . . but we understand the Knights of Erythane . . .” He paused with a deep swallow, as if prepared for his companion to leap in before he finished, just as he had done.

  The sandy-haired man went quiet and allowed the other to complete his thought. Saviar forced himself not to smile. Their juggling act between desire and concern for offense amused him.

  “. . . are wise and fair judges of conflict.” He added swiftly, sweat visibly beading on his face, “We understand that we are not worthy of those most beloved and trusted by kings, but . . .”

  Kedrin tried to help. “But our time is less valuable than King Griff’s, and you’re hoping to spare him the need to listen to your dispute in the royal courtroom.”

  The dark-haired man pulled at his collar, and his grimace softened to a hopeful grin. “Well, yes, sir. Only if you agree, sirs. Despite my neighbor’s words, we’re not concerned for our need to travel, only for wasting His Majesty’s precious time.” A flush covered the tips of his cheekbones. “Not that I think your time isn’t of great import, sirs, as well.”

  Kedrin replied agreeably. “Only less so than that of the king.” He did not await an answer. “A fine and noble thought that does not require explanation.” Removing his plumed hat, Kedrin performed a grand flourish. Saviar finally allowed himself a smile, this time in admiration. He had seen both knights make gestures of this magnitude before, but they never ceased to amaze him. “I am Captain Kedrin, son of Ramytan, Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Griff.”

  The peasants executed bows that looked awkward after

  Kedrin’s display. The dark-haired one with the scarred arms answered first, “Honored captain, my name is Eshwin, and I’m a breeder of fine horses.” His gaze drifted to the white chargers for the first time, and he gave a nod of appreciation.

  “Tirro,” the other said, giving another long-legged bow. “I’m his neighbor, a farmer.”

  Saviar watched intently, uncertain where to expect the proceedings to go and glad he did not have to make the decision. Though dismissed as simple by most Renshai, the honor of the knights was filled with ethical conflicts and dilemmas on a daily basis. It seemed ignoble to discharge the problems of even a lowly peasant without fair hearing, yet the captain of the Knights of Erythane could not spend his every waking moment judging every decision of the un derclass. Glad he was not the Knight-Captain, Saviar felt content to watch without preconceived notions or expectations.

  Unlike Saviar, Kedrin seemed unburdened by doubts. “I will grant your request,” he said, “but only if you agree to two conditions. I will cite them, and you both may decide whether you will abide by all or none. If either of you refuses, no judgment shall be rendered.”

  The peasants glanced at one another with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

  “First,” Kedrin said, his voice boomi
ng, his presence strong and overwhelming, “You will both agree to accept whatever decision we make, without stipulation or question.”

  The men nodded swiftly but said nothing. Tirro shuffled nervously from foot to foot.

  “Second,” Kedrin said, in the same grand voice, “this is not a matter worthy of a captain or a well-established knight, so I will put the matter before the youngest of us. Our knight-in-training.”

  Shocked as much by the title as the realization that his grandfather had just put the onus on him, Saviar felt a wave of terror strike him. He froze, unable to speak, his mind stammering denials that never made it into words.

  Tirro’s gaze went to Saviar. “I agree to these terms.”

  “As do I.” Kedrin’s proclamation clearly did not bother Eshwin. Neither seemed to notice the abject horror that held Saviar dumb and unmoving.

  “Very well.” Kedrin motioned to the men again, not bothering to look at the effect his words had on his grandson. “State your cases. Eshwin first, please.”

  It all happened so quickly, Saviar had no time to think or protest. Before he knew it, the short man cleared his throat and began: “Three years ago, I bought a well-marked mare of sound confirmation and quality at a rather hefty price. I had obtained a magnificent stallion previously, and I intended to become a breeder. After the second season without a foal, however, I declared my only mare barren.”

  Kedrin looked at Tirro. “Do you agree so far?”

  Tirro gave one long nod. “I do, sir.”

  Saviar’s mind raced. He forced himself to focus on every word and tried to ignore the pounding of his heart, the worry that turned his mouth dry as cotton. He had no time to consider his grandfather’s motives, only to concentrate on the details coming at him at galloping-horse speed.

  Eshwin continued, “My neighbor had recently lost his elderly plow horse and asked where he could find a replacement. My mare seemed worthless to me, so I sold her to him at a pittance . . .”