“I remember.” Trilless’ contempt came through clearly. The oldest of the Cardinal Wizards by two centuries, she had witnessed Carcophan’s technique. “I achieved the same results without bloodshed. I filled the sky with colored lightning. They knew my power, and they trembled before me.” She considered both methods briefly. Though they had approached the problem differently, she and the colleague she hated had come to the same conclusion. “Without magic, what can Colbey do?”
Shadimar’s gaze remained fixed on the Pica. The quaracks and Colbey waited, and the swordsman’s patience surprised the Eastern Wizard. “You both survived. That proves there’s more than one way to pass the test of leadership.” Unable to pass up the rare opportunity to correct his companions, he detailed what he felt to be their flaws. “And I used yet another method, one that left me neither vulnerable, nor without followers.” He placed a hand on the Sorceress’ arm. “You earned their obeisance for a short time. But, as your followers, the quaracks would have questioned your pretty fireworks in time. A surprise mutiny might have found you exiled or killed.”
Carcophan’s lips bowed up ever so slightly, his gloating cut short by Shadimar’s next words.
“Carcophan, you were more foolish. If the quaracks were your followers, you wouldn’t need to fear plots or counterattacks. But destroying your followers weakens your armies and bases of power.”
“Indeed?” Carcophan laughed again. “Would the youngest and weakest of the Cardinal Wizards enlighten me with his strategy?”
Shadimar smiled, glad for the opportunity. “I used magic to divine who their chieftain was, then struck down only him. That way, they knew my powers were controlled and efficiently lethal, and I disposed of the one among them most capable of organizing revolt.”
Colbey remained still. He had stopped speaking, obviously finding words futile. Only his eyes moved, measuring the closing enemy.
“Point made.” Trilless acknowledged Shadimar’s technique diplomatically, without a spoken judgment. “There’s more than one way to use magic to turn a horde of enemies into followers. But how do you propose this Renshai should do it? Feeble-minded masses fear what they can’t comprehend: magic, demons, works of chaos. Quaracks have seen swords. As skilled as he is, even Colbey can’t defeat creatures in such numbers.”
But he’ll try. Shadimar kept the thought to himself, bothered by a concept his exploration of Colbey’s mind had revealed more vividly than all of his historical texts on Northmen. Colbey wants to die in battle, while he still can. And his words in this room tell me that he’ll place that goal over passing the Tasks of Wizardry. The implications sent annoyance and concern twisting through Shadimar, though he revealed none of it to his companions. When he had believed Tokar dead, without a successor, he had found no man or woman except Colbey skilled enough to become the Western Wizard. Every moment that the Cardinal Wizards’ number remained at three, instead of the four decreed by Odin, made their world and its peoples more vulnerable to chaos. And Shadimar knew he did not have the power to stand against Carcophan and Trilless alone.
A quarack sprang. Colbey’s sword met it, and the creature exploded into gore. The odor of blood roused its companions to tribal frenzy. A great wave of red-eyed humanoids surged at Colbey, their canines snapping and their nails bared.
Colbey howled, but neither in pain nor fear. His call was a challenge, a demonic cry of pleasure and raw, innocent fury. The claws tore his clothing and his flesh, and every wound made Shadimar ache in sympathy. Yet Colbey did not flinch or acknowledge the pain. His wolf screams echoed through the trees, nearly drowning the coarse croaks of the quaracks. Colbey’s sword relentlessly sliced, severed, and bit. It fed upon the warped creatures with the savage power of its wielder.
The scene in the Pica Stone washed red, as if some alchemist had mutated the sapphire to a ruby. Mar Lon sat in a corner near the door, clutching his lonriset the way a child clings to a favorite blanket. His position gave him a clear, though distant, view of the stone. Trilless turned away under the pretext of stoking the fire; she reviled unnecessary bloodshed. Carcophan stared, fascinated. It was the first time he had watched the old Renshai fight for more than a few moments at a time. Unversed in combat, Shadimar lost Colbey’s movements in the wash of red clothing and blood. He concentrated on the swirling gray blur he knew as Colbey’s left-hand sword, Harval. It dipped and rose, spinning in controlled arcs, then reversing direction in an instant.
Corpses littered the ground around Colbey, enough to make Shadimar wondered whether or not he had underestimated the Renshai once again. For a moment, he dared to hope that Colbey could reap his way through the entire tribe of quaracks. Then his vision opened to encompass the bigger picture. The creatures still filled the extent of forest and Pica, and more came to replace every one killed.
Shadimar lowered his head. Mar Lon’s eyes went moist and he huddled, his position revealing all of the despair the Eastern Wizard did not dare allow himself to feel or show. Soon enough, it seemed, the Westlands would be lost forever.
CHAPTER 5
The Task of Leadership
After hours of slash, thrust, and parry, Colbey’s war joy gave way to fatigue. Uncountable wounds throbbed into one torturous ache. Not a single quarack moved with half the speed of his swords, but he could not guard every direction at once. They overwhelmed him with numbers, slipping and clawing over the corpses of their companions to attack with tooth and nail. Fluid from a forehead wound blinded Colbey, and blood loss finally dizzied him, stealing the endurance he had developed over half a century. He fell to one knee on the stacked bodies.
“Modi!” Colbey screamed, the wrath god’s name driving a second wind through him, as it always did. He leapt to his feet. Dodging a sweeping clout, he drove a blade through an animal throat, secure in the knowledge that he had given his all to a battle he would soon lose. He strove to assess every movement around him through eyes stung to blindness by blood.
Unexpectedly, Colbey found himself with an opening in the tide of enemies. The attacks against him eased, then ceased altogether. He swung in wild figure eights to keep the next wave at bay while he cleared grime from his eyes with a sleeve. Quaracks still surrounded him, though the closest all lay in scarlet death. The others knelt, their bulbous skulls touching the ground. Their strongly radiating emotions told Colbey they were engaged in some sort of religious ritual.
They chanted, their not-quite-human lips slurring the syllables. It took Colbey an inordinately long time to identify which god they called: “Loki! Loki! Loki!”
“Damn.” Colbey gathered his reeling wits, and what little strength remained, taking the time to reposition for another round of battle. He had never known gods to directly answer a summons. Although Sif had twice sent manifestations to Colbey to advise him, she had never directly joined a battle or engaged in conversation with him. Still, the Cardinal Wizards’ contention that he had entered a god-mediated testing ground made him wonder. He waited, suspecting that the quaracks had turned to gods because of Colbey’s own cry for Modi. They could not know that it was not Modi himself that Colbey had sought, but the battle-wrath the god inspired. Nor could they have guessed that the shout had incited Renshai on battlefields throughout history.
But no crazed, blond god stormed down on Colbey. Nor did the quaracks renew their attack. Gradually, the Renshai’s dazed mind cleared enough for him to realize that he had become the central figure of the quaracks’ ceremony. Apparently unaccustomed to swordsmen with Colbey’s skill, the quaracks had mistaken him for a god. Colbey had never compared himself to any deity; he would have considered it a blasphemy. Now, faced by adoring worshipers, the cruel and agile god of mischief did seem to fit his description best.
Once Colbey realized the quaracks’ misconception, he turned it to his advantage. Feigning strength and inner calm, he casually wiped blood from his swords, glaring about at the oddly-shaped faces. Exhaustion battered at him, even with this simple movement. It took nearly all
of his concentration not to stagger. A fullness ached through his head, dimming vision. Weakness made his head sag, but Colbey fought fatigue. If he lost consciousness, he would lose the illusion his sword skill had gained him. And the quaracks would shed their fear and murder him.
Hesitantly, one of the quaracks rose and edged toward Colbey.
The Renshai made a brief, short gesture with his sword, conserving energy yet making his threat clear. In response, the creature shrank back, but it did not retreat. Slowly, without menace, it raised its right hand and uncurled its stubby fingers. A copper ring lay in its palm. It took a cautious half-step toward Colbey.
Memory seeped through Colbey’s fatigue, and the ring sparked Shadimar’s words: “Successful completion of each task yields a ring of Wizardry. Once you have any given ring, the task is considered completed, and the next begins.” Afraid for his own tenuous consciousness, Colbey waited until the quarack moved within easy reach. Then, placing both swords in one hand, he plucked the ring from its rest and dismissed the man-creature with a wave.
The quarack scuttled back to its fellows.
Colbey studied the ring. It was small and crudely fashioned, marred by hammer marks. Some artisan had etched shallow runes into its surface, and their intricacy contrasted sharply with the rough-hewn craftsmanship of the ring. It read:
“A leader must earn loyalty.”
The phrase seemed trite to Colbey, the wisdom too obvious to ponder. With a shrug, he fit the trinket to his finger.
Instantly, the quaracks and their forest muted to green-brown blurs, streaked red. Colbey blinked to clear his vision. Even as he did, the colors crushed together, blending to a uniform gray that defied identification or outline. Colbey’s vision disappeared, taking with it sound, smell, and touch. Even the natural sensations he had known since birth disappeared: he could not divine the locations of his own arms and legs in relation to his body. His grip felt nonexistent, devoid of the reassuring press of the swords he had carried since infancy, and he could not even find the normal touch of clothing against his skin. Wildly, he grappled for orientation. His hand touched something solid, and he pressed his back against it, waiting for situation and self to resolve.
* * *
In the meeting room on the Wizards’ Isle, with Trilless, Carcophan, and Mar Lon as fellow witnesses, Shadimar watched mist swirl through the Pica Stone. Its glaring blue muted to the gray of winter clouds. Then, suddenly, the haze exploded to a breathtaking mass of color. This, too, faded, then the sapphire’s depths cleared to reveal a bleak scene, completely unlike the preceding splendor. Colbey crouched against the wall of a small, stone room without windows or doors. A mass of green fire capered in the center of the floor, fed by no fuel or wind. It threw sickly highlights across Colbey’s ashen face. And, for the first time Shadimar could remember, Colbey seemed to have lost his grace and confidence.
Colbey’s tunic still hung in tatters, but his many wounds had healed. The Renshai seemed oblivious to the gods’ gift. His left hand hovered defensively before him. His right hand explored his empty sword belt frantically. Suddenly, his head snapped upward, and he stared at the granite ceiling like a priest beseeching the heavens. “Damn you, Wizards! I spit on you all. There’s no task in the world that’ll turn me into a coward and make me hide behind magic!” His fist slammed the wall. “You put me here. You might be able to keep me here till I finish what you ask. But when I get free . . .” He trailed off, leaving the threat unfinished.
Secodon whined softly at his master’s feet.
Shadimar stared at the display, unable to fathom the reason for Colbey’s rage. True, Tokar had forced the title of Western Wizard upon Colbey. The current Cardinal Wizards had sent him to the tasks rather suddenly, but not wholly without warning or preparation. Colbey had boarded Captain’s boat of his own free will, aware of the fate that awaited him once they reached their destination, at least in a general sense.
Apparently having ascertained that he was alone in the room, Colbey paced furiously. “No one takes my swords!” he screamed at the ceiling. “Not without killing me first.” His tone softened, but it remained equally threatening. “You can call me a Wizard. You can insult me. But this is the greatest outrage of all!” Again, he plucked at his empty sword belt.
Suddenly, Shadimar understood, and Colbey’s anger only seemed more misplaced and ludicrous. The old Renshai faced the most grueling perils of his life, tests that would strain every ability available to him, tasks created by gods to single out the four most powerful mortals in the world at any time and to make them nearly invincible. And here Colbey stood, shaking with fury over the loss of two swords the gods would return, if not by the next task, certainly by the conclusion of the Tasks of Wizardry.
Trilless nudged Shadimar. “Doesn’t he know?”
Her words awakened a familiar guilt that sprinkled through Shadimar, easily banished. He had realized long ago that Colbey’s ignorance of enchantments and their workings would cause other difficulties in addition to the inability to throw spells. Unlike those who had attempted the tasks before him, he could not inherently know that placing the rings on his fingers would transport him from one test to the next and that he was at the mercy of gods between them. It had seemed simple enough to tell him, yet Odin’s Laws were specific regarding what information an apprentice received before undertaking the Tasks of Wizardry. Shadimar suspected these facts did not appear among the others because they seemed unnecessary rather than from any need to keep them secret; an apprentice with magical training would divine the details on his own. Shadimar had agonized over the decision of whether to explain to Colbey these small trappings the Renshai could not guess for reasons that were no fault of his own. But, as always, law had to prevail.
The bard, Mon Lon, sat in the corner, furiously scribbling notes. Occasionally, he shifted his position to catch a glimpse of the scene in the Pica.
Trilless did not await an answer. “He should know. If for no other reason, the previous Western Wizards would tell him.”
Carcophan laughed, the sound rich with ancient evil. “He has none of their memories. The collective consciousness of the Western Wizards was destroyed. Had you done your research, you would have known that.”
Caught off-guard by Carcophan’s knowledge, Shadimar stiffened.
Trilless glared at Carcophan over Shadimar’s head. “That’s impossible.”
“By definition, lady, truth is never impossible.” Carcophan gloated, reveling in his minor victory.
Tired of his companions’ bickering, Shadimar waved them silent, focusing his attention on Colbey. “I’ll explain later.”
The color had returned to Colbey’s cheeks. His hands fell to his sides awkwardly as he consciously avoided the touch of his empty sword belt. He approached the fire, and its steady glow shed grave highlights across his face. Through the flames, Shadimar could see the spark of silver that was the ring of endurance. The green tint from the fire made the ring appear tarnished.
Colbey stopped abruptly, motionless as stone before the fire. The flickering green light seemed more alive than the man standing in front of it. Recollection of his own trial brought Shadimar vivid memories of pain, and he tried to guess the Renshai’s thoughts behind the ugly scowl collecting on his face.
He probably thinks we could just wave an arm and quell the fire with magic. Shadimar shook his head. If only it had been that easy.
Colbey circled the fire, studying it from every side. Then, having returned to where he started, he removed his battle-torn silk tunic and stood only in his breeks. Though Colbey was small in height and breadth, every muscle of his exposed chest and abdomen lay explicitly defined. Holding the sleeves of the tunic, he flipped the silk upward. It spread above the fire. Colbey whipped it suddenly downward, blanketing the flames. Emerald-colored flickers jabbed through the cloth. In an instant, the tunic darkened, flared, and fell to ash. Colbey jerked back his hands, retreating a few paces.
Mar Lon flinche
d in sympathy, clutching his lonriset protectively. Shadimar regarded his colleagues. Under other circumstances, Carcophan might had laughed in scorn at the Renshai’s efforts. But, apparently, even the Southern Wizard recalled the agony of the test of endurance. His gaze followed Colbey’s every movement. Trilless clenched her fingers on the table, her thoughts otherwise well-hidden.
The ring sparkled, a single star unwinking in the green expanse of the fire. It taunted. Absently, Colbey reached to his flask, where he would have carried a waterskin in war time, though surely he suspected he would not find one. Shadimar knew that the gods would have barred it, just as they had his swords. He knew only one way to pass this trial.
Suddenly, Colbey’s jaw went rigid with defiance. He flexed his fingers, and his left hand hovered over the fire.
Trilless and Carcophan observed without expression. Shadimar watched, too, trying to detach himself from the comparison to his own trial. Though he failed at banishing remembrance, he did manage to fully maintain his outward composure.
Colbey’s hand darted forward, met the flames, and slowed, as if he pushed through an element with far more substance. With a shocked cry, Colbey jerked his hand to safety.
Colbey examined his hand. Again, he studied his few remaining possessions: breeks and sword belt. Shadimar guessed that he sought some object he could use to prod the ring free. Shadimar also knew the Renshai would not find one; the gods would have seen to it. He watched as Colbey came to the same conclusion, and both men returned their attention to the fire. The blaze whirled in a condescending dance, as if daring Colbey to challenge it again. Colbey stared at his hand for several moments, unblinking, as if mesmerized. Then, he lowered his head in preparation. His hand snaked into the fire and, again, strained slowly toward the ring.
Trilless loosed an involuntary grunt, covering the lapse with a more dignified clearing of her throat. Carcophan said nothing, but his face drew tight. Though charged by an onslaught of predecessor memories, Shadimar found no other’s pain that could compare with his own firsthand recollection.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 9