Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Modi!” Colbey moaned. He fought for breath. No air came, and he tasted blood.

  The demon mocked him with a high-pitched, broken whine.

  Colbey fought every instinct, forcing his attention from the desperate, natural need to breathe onto plotting. Eventually, his lungs would function. He could not weather another attack. It becomes solid when it attacks. Have to wait for an attack. It heals itself. Have to hit it in a place it can’t heal. Kill it in one stroke, or it’ll kill me.

  The demon’s head narrowed into a serpent’s, with sharp, slender horns jutting from forehead, skull, and chin. Red eyes glared from between them. Its snake’s body matched its head, but it sprouted four clawed legs, bird wings, and a barbed tail. Its mouth splayed open, revealing fangs that dripped venom, and it struck for Colbey.

  Colbey’s diaphragm relaxed, and he sucked air in huge, reflexive gasps. One bite, and it’s got me. He jabbed for the face.

  The demon jerked back with a hiss.

  Colbey flinched taut, channeling his energies to skilled dodges and feints.

  Apparently guarding its head, the demon switched to claw attacks, hammering relentlessly. Colbey parried each strike, not bothering with offense, seeking the opening that would bare the creature’s head or heart. If such a thing has a heart. The demon’s unnatural strength wore on him. Harval slowed.

  Apparently emboldened by the Renshai’s weakness, the demon snapped at him. Colbey riveted his focus on the head, ignoring the claws that closed around him. He drove Harval up and through the creature’s chin. The blade wedged in the demon’s skull, and it thrashed horribly.

  Caught between the claws, Colbey felt bone shudder and give. Nausea struck like physical pain. Then agony slammed him to oblivion.

  * * *

  Sunlight blinded Khitajrah after more than a week ensconced in Westland forest. She shielded her sight with a hand against her brows, excitement, curiosity, and trepidation warring within her. In the distance, she could see the solid blur of a town. A field stretched before her, striped green by the first sprouting of a crop she did not yet recognize. The black soil peeking between buds had grown familiar from the woodlands, but the massive stretch of dark, moist soil left Khitajrah staring in awe.

  Since the southernmost tip of the Great Frenum Mountains that harbored the only pass from the Eastlands to the Westlands, Khitajrah had covered more different types of terrain than she knew existed. She had crossed the barren salt flat that the Westerners called the Western Plains, the battleground where so many Easterners had lost their lives. The land had seemed much like the farm fields she knew, except that no one tended it and she had found no signs of cities or life. She had wondered who owned it, seeking a cottage or palace, unable to believe that land could lie fallow. The Eastlands’ ceaseless battle between the need for more farmland to feed its citizens and the need for more cities to house them had raged since long before Khitajrah’s birth.

  Khitajrah walked through the field, intrigued by the mark each step dimpled into the yielding ground. She moved with a steady caution, careful to remain in the narrow lanes between the crops, even methodically avoiding the occasional misplaced plant in her path. She recalled how she had easily found one of the many passes through the Southern Weathered Range. Since that time, she had traveled through forests more vast and lush than she could have guessed existed. The woods had seemed to stretch into infinity, and she felt certain the entire Eastlands did not contain as many trees as she had passed.

  As Khitajrah continued through the field, she saw a horse-drawn wagon rattling toward the city. She headed toward the sound, guessing she would find a road; without packed earth or stone, wheels would mire in the rich, wet soil. By the time she picked her cautious way around the crops, the wagon had long since disappeared. A pathway of hard-packed earth mixed with crushed stone cut through the field, from the forest to the town. As she stepped onto the roadway, the idea occurred to her that it probably cut right through the woodlands as well. If she could have found it, her walk through the woods would have become shorter and easier. As it was, she might well have passed other towns without noticing them.

  Khitajrah approached her first Westland town, uncertain what she would find or of the reception she would receive. Westerners were unwelcome in the East, and the law permitted, even encouraged, Eastlanders to slay foreigners. Khitajrah hoped she would find a kinder welcome.

  As the village came fully into sight, Khitajrah’s attention riveted first on its central structure. Two towers rose from an otherwise boxy dwelling. Other buildings surrounded it in four concentric circles, becoming smaller and squatter further from the middle. The outermost ring consisted almost exclusively of simple, thatch-roofed cottages, but they did not sprawl onto the field as the Easterners’ cottages did. It gave the town a solid, compact feel. Though no larger than LaZar, and lacking the Eastern city’s walled fortifications, the Western town appeared stronger. Khitajrah attributed that to its cleanliness and the unity of the dwellings. She continued toward it.

  Soon, Khitajrah could make out figures walking through the city streets. Uncertainty clutched at her, and she hesitated. The idea of facing a mass of hostile strangers made her queasy, and she fought down the images of townsfolk chasing her down with swords and pitchforks. Only then, she recalled that she still carried Diarmad’s sword. Certain it would not make a positive impression, she removed his cloak, the weapon, and its belt. Kneeling in the roadway, she wrapped the sword into the cloak in a bulky, misshapen lump. She lashed the whole onto her back, hoping it looked like extra clothes or supplies. The effort reminded her that she needed both, as well as a full meal and a warm bath. She hoped that the few coins she had found on the veterans in the graveyard would pay for lodgings and a meal, and that the villagers would not find their Eastern mintage offensive.

  When Khitajrah rose, she discovered half a dozen men walking toward her from the village. She froze, the strangeness of her situation immediately sparking the worst possibilities. She forced herself to think logically, studying their dress and demeanors for clues. They wore cloaks of brown and green over homespun tunics and breeks. Two carried longbows, three had similar bows slung across their shoulders, and the last carried a handful of sacks and a huge, empty pack. Arrows with varying crests filled their quivers. They moved with a casual briskness, their attention, at first, on one another. As they came closer, all eyes riveted on Khitajrah. Their pace did not change.

  Hunters. Just hunters. Khitajrah willed herself forward, trying to look composed, with little success. Though she still wore her dress, she felt naked without Diarmad’s cloak to hide her gender and features. Her thick, black hair and swarthy skin would reveal her heritage at once. In the Eastlands, had six hunters come upon her alone, she would have run in terror and considered herself lucky to emerge undamaged. Now, she held her ground, secretly wishing she had not bound the sword.

  The men stopped as they came upon her. One said something in a language she did not understand.

  Khitajrah retreated a step, hating herself for the obvious weakness. She shook her head.

  The same man spoke again, this time in the common trading tongue. “Did you come from Wynix?”

  “No,” Khitajrah admitted, although she did not offer more information. “What’s the name of your city?” She gestured toward the town.

  The men shuffled their positions so they could all see Khitajrah clearly. Although this blocked her path, nothing about their demeanors seemed threatening. A different man, the one carrying the sacks, replied this time. “Ahktar.”

  “Ach-tair,” Khitajrah repeated, her thick Eastern accent changing the vowels and adding a guttural.

  The men laughed. “Where are you headed?” another asked.

  “Ach-tair,” Khitajrah said again.

  This time, the men broke into howling laughter.

  Khitajrah smiled, enjoying the interaction, even at her own expense. She preferred becoming the brunt of a verbal joke to the crueltie
s the Eastern men would have inflicted on a Western woman.

  The first speaker gasped for breath. “What do you hope to find in Acccch-tayr?” He mimicked Khitajrah’s pronunciation poorly, but it still made his companions laugh harder.

  “For now, a good meal would be nice.”

  One of the men in the back made a fluttering motion to indicate that they had a job to do and his companions should continue. The same speaker addressed Khitajrah. “Look for the men in tan, single-piece outfits. That’s our town guard. They can direct you.” The men stepped aside to let Khitajrah pass, then continued on their way.

  Khitajrah went by, then turned to watch the men. One glanced over his shoulder and gave her a friendly wave. Embarrassed to be caught staring, she whirled and headed back toward Ahktar. Her mood soared, and she fairly skipped down the pathway. She had a feeling that she would like the Westlands and its attitudes. The encounter had gone almost too easily.

  The road took Khitajrah to just outside the periphery of the village, then funneled into narrower lanes that wound between the houses. Paddocks of horses, pigs, and goats lined the boundaries, their pastures green. Chickens fluttered between the fences or pecked at crumbs in the streets. Crude shacks sheltered plows and wagons from the elements. Citizens wandered the walkways in singles or pairs, carrying jugs or unloading hoes and pitchforks from the carts. Aside from the bows that the hunters had carried, Khitajrah saw no weaponry, and she felt glad of her decision to place the sword out of sight.

  At length, Khitajrah sighted two men in tan, single-piece uniforms. She followed them with her gaze to where they stopped in an alleyway to help a woman rescue a chicken from a rain barrel. Seeing her chance, Khitajrah trotted over to them, arriving just as one of the men caught the bird by the feet and heaved it from the water. He clutched it upside down until it went dormant, water streaming from its dirty white plumage. Attentive to the hen, neither the woman nor the guards seemed to notice Khitajrah.

  “Excuse me,” Khitajrah said in her clearest trade tongue.

  All three looked up. Their stares went from startled to curious in an instant. “Who are you?” demanded the guard clutching the chicken. Water plastered his dark hair, and the droplets discolored his uniform in a stream of spots. His green eyes found Khitajrah’s brown, and the color intrigued her. They looked strange and animallike.

  When Khitajrah gave no answer, the other town guard spoke. “Do you need something?” He sported short, sand-colored hair, but his eyes looked as dark as any Easterner’s.

  “Well . . . yes,” Khitajrah stammered, encouraged as much by their lack of complete antipathy as by any particular courtesy. “I’m looking for a place to eat and sleep.”

  The second guard pointed down the alleyway, then crooked his finger to indicate a right turn. “Second row. Third building. That’s the inn. You come from Wynix?”

  “No.” This second mention of the same town intrigued Khitajrah. “Why?”

  The first guard righted the chicken, then dropped it to the roadway. It ruffled its feathers indignantly, then scooted around Khitajrah and out of the alley. “’Cause if you’re used to big city inns, this one’ll seem pretty unimpressive. Foreigners don’t come to farm towns, even ones as big as Ahktar, except wandering from a trading city. Especially now, what with us still recovering from the War and such. Pudar’s farther, and you didn’t come from that direction. So it only makes sense you came from Wynix.”

  Recovering from the war? Khitajrah became fixed on the phrase, hearing little after. The vast, fertile croplands and the plump chicken the guardsman had so casually rescued seemed worthy of rejoicing, not complaint. The Eastlands did not support such bounty in the best of times.

  The Western woman remained by the rain barrel, watching the conversation without making a sound.

  The sandy-haired man added, “But you didn’t come from Wynix. So where did you come from?”

  Trapped by her own ignorance, Khitajrah hesitated. Then, realizing she had no real way to divert the question, she told the truth. “Stalmize.” She gave it the Eastlands’ pronunciation, Stahl-meez, rather than the Western, Stal-mihz.

  The wet guard grunted. “Never heard of it.”

  His companion shrugged.

  Khitajrah felt a need to shift the direction of the conversation. Both guards seemed less than a decade younger than herself, which meant either or both might have served in the Great War. Surely, they recognized her heritage, but she saw no reason to let them know how recently she had emerged from the lands of their enemy. “I’m just passing through, not visiting.” Khitajrah doubted she had changed the subject far enough. “I’m looking for someone.”

  That seized their attention at once. The one who had freed the chicken wiped his wet hands on his pants, smearing a line of dirt and water. “Someone in particular or just a random someone?”

  “A man called Colbey Calistinsson. I’m told he’s Renshai.”

  The woman gasped a sudden breath, clutching her chest.

  Cued by the other’s horror, Khitajrah back-stepped, suddenly cautious.

  “What did you say?” The darker-haired guard’s manner changed abruptly. All friendliness disappeared from the men’s expressions.

  Khitajrah cleared her throat, mind racing. She searched for chaos’ guidance or explanation, but it seemed to have completely disappeared from her mind. “I said I was looking for a man . . .” She measured their reaction to each word individually. “called . . . Colbey . . . Calistinsson.” She wondered if this Renshai had committed some heinous crime that his name induced this reaction in Ahktar’s citizens.

  The Western woman glanced rapidly from guard to guard. “She said it before. You heard her say it.”

  The sandy-haired guard frowned at the woman’s display, then encouraged Khitajrah to continue. “After that. What did you say after that?”

  Khitajrah’s brows knit. “I’m told he’s Renshai?”

  The guards glanced nervously back and forth. “What’s your name?” the green-eyed one asked.

  “Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow. I’m called Khita. Why? What’s wrong with repeating what I’m told?”

  The dark-haired guard made an almost imperceptible nod, and the other worked his way to Khitajrah’s opposite side. The Western woman pressed her back to the wall, standing as far away as the alley allowed.

  The sandy-haired man’s voice became monotonal and businesslike. “Khita, you are now in the king of Ahktar’s custody. By joint law of the West’s leagued farm towns, quote, ‘any person speaking the word . . .’” He cringed at the need to speak it himself, “‘. . . Renshai within the boundaries of any town, except in the official capacity of enforcing the law, is subject to maximum penalty under the law,’ unquote.”

  The formal speech in a language she scarcely knew confused Khitajrah, though the threatening manner of the guards did not. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

  “It means,” the other guard interpreted, “that you are under arrest. If you’re found guilty, you will be sentenced to die.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Mainland

  Colbey awakened covered by sheets. Shadows whirled before the muted light of an oil lamp strung from a gimbal ring. The floor rolled and bucked beneath him, and every swaying motion sent waves of pain through his chest, back, and abdomen. His cheek felt on fire. Where am I? Instinctively, Colbey’s hands drew to his hips where he found neither his swords nor his belt. Gone. He opened his eyes, studying his unstable quarters. He lay on one of the room’s three cots, and no one occupied either of the others. Leather bound books crammed into an open case. A sturdy wooden table with four chairs filled the center of the room. A narwhale horn above the bookcase clinched the location. Apparently, he was in the cabin of the Sea Seraph. That reality brought a sudden flood of memory. I killed the demon. He smiled. Pain flashed through his skull with the movement. But I’ve lost my swords. And the staff, too. Am I a prisoner?

  Colbey tried to rise. His vision
swam, and vertigo drove him back to the bed. Every muscle ached, and each breath jabbed the shattered points of ribs into his lungs. He could move freely, limited only by the agony that lanced through him with every insignificant movement, but he had not yet tried the doors to the galley or deck to see if anyone had locked him in the cabin.

  A pressure tapped against Colbey’s mind, seeking entry. The sudden realization of a presence defensively snapped closed his thoughts. Gradually, he managed to pry open his barriers enough to let the other touch the barest edges of his consciousness. It came to him with emotionless gentleness, providing information without demands or accusations. *I am here,* it told him, and understanding accompanied the declaration. The staff that Colbey had accepted from the Keeper awaited him beneath his cot. *I am here.* Though its sending seemed quiet and gentle, rock stable, the power beyond the message defied boundaries. It promised control of the world and its people, yet it did not differentiate whether staff or Renshai would become master.

  Having determined the staff’s location, Colbey blocked its further contact from his mind. It was a symbol, a tool, and he would carry it. But he would use it only as the need arose. To give the instrument power or judgment would undermine the balance he had accepted both staves to establish and protect. Like good and evil, law and chaos knew only extremes, and either would struggle for utter dominance. Colbey believed it was the job of the Cardinal Wizards to represent these extremes, but ultimately to maintain balance.

  With that thought in mind, Colbey knew he was expected to champion the staff with every scrap of mortal and Wizardly ability. But he had seen the effect of extreme and sudden chaos on Episte Rachesson. Carcophan had given the Black Sword to the young Renshai, the third Sword of Power to appear on man’s world at once. With the weapon had come a blast of magic that scrambled and destroyed the youngster’s mind, infusing a bitter madness too strong to expel. Grief and rage accompanied the memory. Colbey’s fists clamped closed, and he forced his mind to another significant truth. Though advocating assigned causes seemed inevitable to the other Cardinal Wizards, Colbey saw the flaw from which tradition blinded the others. Maintaining the world’s balance by having immortal opposites scramble for power works only so long as their abilities are nearly equal, minor or temporary shifts in the balance are safe, and all of the parties follow the same rules. The fallacy seemed glaring and blatant. Once chaos becomes introduced into the system, there can be no rules, at least not for him who champions it. The method breaks down without a central anchor to maintain balance.