Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Now, Khitajrah concentrated on the memory, sifting out the sweet sorrow that accompanied it. Boldness clearly intimidated animals as well as people. If I stalk it, it may leave to hunt less dangerous game. She headed toward the noise.

  Even as Khitajrah parted the brush, the rustlings recurred some distance ahead. Again, she followed, only to find that the creature had moved once more, this time forward and to her right. Intrigued and caught up in the hunt, she trailed the sound through the tangled brush, certain she followed something though no glimpse or snagged clump of fur revealed it. The overcast sky darkened early, suffusing the forest in gray. Still, Khitajrah only heard the thing she pursued, and no visual movement betrayed it. Then, abruptly, forest broke to the familiar pathway westward. The sounds of swishing brush disappeared.

  Frustrated, Khitajrah went still, listening for signs of the creature she had shadowed. Finding none, she considered. It’s as if it wants me on this trail. Khitajrah remembered asking for divine assistance in finding her way, yet she felt too grounded in human reality to believe a god would take interest in one woman’s choice of direction. One thing seemed certain. Clearly, I’m not dealing with an animal. She glanced up the trail to the west. Much could be said for continuing in the direction it had suggested. Impatience prompted her to continue west without questioning. Yet curiosity, chaos’ as much as her own, held her back. She grasped for its expertise, trusting it more when it came to affairs of gods and otherworld creatures. *You once told me Sheriva did not exist, that my god is a manmade construct.*

  *That’s true. I told you that. And I spoke truth.*

  *Westerners worship lots of gods. Right?*

  *Also true.* Chaos paused, awaiting a point.

  Khitajrah flushed, embarrassed to fall so quickly into sacrilege. *And their gods are real?*

  *Constructs also.*

  Khitajrah frowned, finding an obvious contradiction. *But you claim gods give knowledge to mankind. And supposedly worship you.*

  *Another truth.* Chaos found humor in its own words. *And you worried that I might lie too much.*

  Khitajrah ignored the gibe. *So which are the real gods?*

  Chaos did not answer for some time, but mirth swirled through its silence. It seemed too amused to find a coherent reply. *Mankind spends far too much time trying to second-guess the world, the gods, and the motives of the gods now and in the past. The immortal and omniscient don’t think like humans, and any attempt to project mortal emotion and purpose on outworlders is doomed to fail. Think of the odds, Khita, that any society of men and women just happened upon the right mixture of gods and laws.*

  The possibilities did seem astronomical, although every religion claimed to have gotten its knowledge directly from deities at some point in its early evolution. *So no mortal religion is correct?*

  In its usual circular, frustrating manner, chaos contradicted itself. *Actually, the Northmen have it closest, if you take away their bias toward good. At least, they have the names, general bents, and history right. Why the gods chose to do things that way, I don’t know.* Humor turned to joy. *But I support the asymmetry.*

  Naturally. Khitajrah abandoned this line of thinking, seeing no need to waste more time. For now, she had a decision to make, and philosophical discussion would not help her do it. She returned to the crux of her question. *Is it possible that some sylvan spirit warded me from that other trail?*

  Chaos did not consider long. *Doubtful.* It changed its tack. *Unless said ‘sylvan spirit’ is human. Man’s world is the only one fully grounded in law. Outworlders would have little means or reason to come here.*

  Human. It seemed unlikely. *It would take a sneaky, competent human to stay just out of sight like that.*

  Chaos dismissed the thought. *Such humans do exist, I believe.*

  Human. The idea intrigued as much as it discomforted. Khitajrah had spent years slinking unseen through Stalmize’s roadways and climbing its structures to obtain necessities for less fortunate women. She found it difficult not to think of someone who could do the same in woodlands as a colleague.

  Though Khitajrah did not direct her thoughts to chaos, it responded to the general gist. *Guile might give you the answer.*

  The single sentence veered Khitajrah’s thinking in a new direction. Her mind naturally worried the problem, and years of hiding and tracking brought a plan. Her conscience told her that it made more sense to just continue on; she had already lost enough time to on-foot travel and the other’s manipulations. But inquisitiveness and a warped sense of justice intervened. This being had delayed her purpose even longer. If it indicated the wrong path, that interference could become critical. She needed to know who and why, and she relished the chance to match wits with a colleague. He or she would have a good reason or pay for the interference

  The excitement of the challenge wafted through her, its source as much chaos as herself. For now, she did not care. Chaos had presented some interesting points that her lawful upbringing had never allowed her to entertain. So far, it had caused her to do nothing hurtful outside of protecting herself and the son she loved. Her lies had harmed no one; the two men she had killed deserved to die.

  Khitajrah whirled, headed back the way she had come. It took quite some time to find the crossroads; the thing in the forest had led her far astray with its winding course. By the time she reached the fork, the rain had ended. Cold night air washed her wet skin, and a half moon replaced the setting sun. At the crossroads, she did not hesitate. As before, she headed southwest. But she took only a few paces before catching hold of an overhead limb. Tensing her arms, she hauled her body onto the branch. Hidden by a cluster of leaves, she waited.

  For some time, nothing happened. Wind stirred the leaves into a rattling dance, and the cold cut through her soaked dress. Finally, a human figure emerged from the moonlight, approaching, silent and graceful. It moved slowly on the main pathway, apparently tracking her footprints in the moist, black earth. The silhouette revealed a narrow shadow rising above the person’s head, obviously a bow slung over a shoulder.

  The weapon caught Khitajrah by surprise. Curiosity and annoyance had kept caution at bay. Berating herself, she remained in place, keeping her breathing to a calm, easy pattern. Extreme attempts to hide would give her a stiff unnaturalness that might draw the hunter’s attention. Now, more than before, her boldness would become significant. She took some solace from the fact that he traveled alone.

  The figure drew closer. Now, Khitajrah could glean some details. Her perspective gave her little impression of height, but the body seemed narrow, almost skeletal in its lack of bulk. A shock of hair perched atop the head, so short it seemed to stand on end. The style revealed him as male in a way his physique had not. He took the turn onto the southwest path, trailing her foot tracks to their end. Suddenly, he stiffened. His eyes rolled upward, and his head followed slowly. His gaze swept the oak, including the branch where Khitajrah perched, directly over his head.

  “Hello,” she said, the word friendly but not the tone.

  The man sprang aside, drawing his bow and crouching at once. An arrow was put to the string, but he did not draw. “Very clever.”

  “Thank you.” Khitajrah kept her reply short, vying for control of the situation.

  “I wasn’t finished.” The man trained his arrow directly on Khitajrah. “Also very stupid. You’ve trapped yourself neatly, with no means of escape. I can see you don’t have a bow, so you’d better have damn good aim with twigs and leaves.”

  Khitajrah knew a quick and brash retort would serve her best, yet words failed her.

  “Come down.”

  “No.” It was hardly the sage response Khitajrah was seeking, but she found no other.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, clearly finding the biting wisdom that evaded Khitajrah. “Did I accidentally convey the idea that you had a choice?” The arrow remained level. “Very well, my mistake, so I’ll remedy it. This is your choice. Climb down on your own or plummet
down with my help.”

  Khitajrah clung to her belief that courage, however feigned, would serve better than timidity. A chill swept through her. This reminded her too much of her confrontation with Diarmad in the graveyard. Then, she had based her strategy on male pride. What worked once can work again. “Valiant words from an armed man facing an unarmed woman. Tell me, do you come from a line of cowards or are you the first?”

  The man’s jaw clenched. Clearly, she had gotten to him. “Come down. Now. You’re making me regret giving you a choice. It’s not too late for me to withdraw it.”

  Cornered, Khitajrah frowned. About one thing, this man was clearly right. In a tree, she remained trapped. On the ground, she had a chance for escape. Cautiously, she clambered down.

  The arrow traced her route.

  Once on the trail, Khitajrah studied the man before her. Closer, she could see that he stood a few fingers’ breadth taller than her, although she guessed she might outweigh him. His strange, spiky hair was red. The oddity caught and held her attention. She had seen brown- and sandy-haired Westerners. Rumor claimed that most Northmen sported white or yellow hair, the color of wheat stalks in summer. The hue of this man’s stubbly locks seemed like no color nature had planned for anything but sunrises and blood. In contrast, his single eye bore the same dark hue as most Easterners’. A brown silk patch covered the other. His cheekbones jutted from a thin face that more flesh might have made handsome. She guessed his age was close to hers.

  He studied her equally thoroughly before speaking. “Who are you? And where are you headed?”

  Khitajrah’s gaze drifted to the nocked arrow, then back to the man. “My name’s Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow. I’m called Khit—” Catching herself, she cut off the second syllable to keep the name sounding more like the Westerner’s “Kayt.”

  “Kay-t,” the man repeated, putting the same overemphasis on the “t.”

  Having given her name, Khitajrah begged the same courtesy. “Who are you?”

  The man stared. “You really don’t have much feel for this, do you? Let me explain. This is an arrow.” He inclined his head toward the shaft, without taking his eyes from her or his hands from the weapon. “It can punch a hole in whatever vital organ I choose at the distance you could run in eighty heartbeats. Now, the deal is, the person on the feathered end asks the questions. The person on the point end answers. With that in mind, where are you headed?”

  Khitajrah developed an instant hatred for the stranger. Chaos waffled, uncertain. Still, she had no reason to lie, so she told the truth. “Béarn.”

  “Why?”

  Now, Khitajrah found reason for falsehood. “Just visiting.” The twisting of the truth came easier than it had before, due either to practice, to working through her aversion to it, or to a general dislike of the man before her.

  “Who?”

  The question seemed nonsensical. “Who what?”

  “Who are you visiting?”

  *The king,* chaos offered.

  Startled Khitajrah spoke aloud. “What?”

  “Who are you visiting?”

  *The king. If he thinks you’re a personal friend of the high king, he’ll have to back down.*

  *I’m not telling him I know the king,* Khitajrah snapped back. *I don’t even know the king’s name. He’d catch me for sure.* She addressed the red-haired stranger. “I’m not visiting a someone. I’ve just always wanted to see the high kingdom.”

  “You’re an Easterner.”

  The observation seemed to come from nowhere. “I’m aware of that,” Khitajrah returned. “Did you think it would surprise me?” She considered adding something about whether or not anyone had told him he had red hair, but she abandoned the idea as unwise.

  The arrow retreated slightly. “What’s an Easterner doing here? And what business could you have in Béarn?”

  Khitajrah sighed, disliking the circles the questioning seemed to be taking, though she realized her evasiveness had some bearing on the matter. The delay made her more irritable than frightened. As fear ebbed, she became aware of the rumbling protestations of her stomach. She had not yet eaten dinner. The cold night air sliced through her wet dress, making her shiver. “Look, archer without a name. I have as much right to be here, on this road, as anyone. As far as I know, I haven’t broken any laws. If you want my money, here.” She reached into her pocket, emerging with the two Eastern coppers that remained from those she had taken from Diarmad. She held them out to the stranger, hoping he would advance to get them. She still carried a knife that he apparently had not noticed or considered. Up close, it would prove a far better weapon than his bow.

  The stranger did not approach, but he did lower the bow. “Put your money away. I’m not a bandit.”

  Having gained this small victory, Khitajrah pressed. She sensed a twinge of regret in his demeanor, and chaos encouraged her to take full advantage of it. She also caught a faint odor of horse about him, and she hoped she would find a way to buy or borrow the animal. “So you just stop innocent people at arrow-point to delay them and ask questions?” She returned the coins to her pocket, using the movement to locate the knife in the folds of her cloak.

  “Not usually.” He kept the bow low, but his eyes explored Khitajrah again. Despite the darkness, his demeanor told her much. She had learned to read mood from gesture in order to counter her son’s unhappiness, to find those Eastern women who most required her help, and to anticipate her husband’s wants and needs. From this red-haired stranger, she detected a lonely sadness that did not fit his boldness. She also thought she saw a spark of interest in his single eye.

  *He thinks you’re pretty. And I think he respects your courage as well.*

  Khitajrah flushed, embarrassed as much by the man’s unspoken compliment as by a third party noticing the attraction. *Well, he’s not pretty at all. And I told you before, I’m not interested in marrying again.*

  *Who said anything about marriage? He thinks you’re pretty. That gives you the upper hand. Take advantage of him.*

  *What?*

  *Take advantage of him,* chaos repeated, though Khitajrah had understood the words well enough. It was the intention she questioned. *Take whatever he offers, then take whatever else you want.*

  Khitajrah frowned, still not fully comprehending, but her need to keep her attention externally focused did not leave time for contemplation.

  *These Westerners complain about recovering from the War, and yet they have so much. Why shouldn’t you take your share of a bounty they don’t appreciate?*

  Khitajrah ignored her internal companion. “I’m cold, tired, and hungry. And now I’m also late. Apparently, you didn’t just want to kill an Easterner, or you would have shot me from a distance. You don’t want my money. Did you lead me in circles and threaten my life just so I’d have to stand in the cold dressed in wet clothes?”

  The man flinched, caught staring at the way Khitajrah’s rain-wet clothing hugged her curves. He became inordinately focused on her eyes, and the embarrassment apparently stole his conversational skill as well. “No.”

  Khitajrah pressed. “If not for you, I’d be halfway to Béarn by now.”

  The man shook off his discomfort, defending himself. “You’d be halfway to nowhere. You were going the wrong way. The main path leads to Béarn.” He gestured toward the route onto which he had twice directed her. “I was trying to help you.”

  “Oh, sure,” Khitajrah challenged. “And you knew I was headed for Béarn before you talked to me.”

  “It was a logical guess.”

  “What’s that way?” Khitajrah pointed beyond the stranger.

  He hesitated, then answered carefully. “A town.”

  Now the man’s actions started to make sense. “Your town?”

  “No.”

  Suddenly, all reason seemed to disappear. “So, if I put this all together, I get a man misleading, delaying, and threatening a woman he doesn’t know in order to lead her away from a town that’s not hi
s.” Khitajrah shook her head, her brash annoyance no longer the slightest bit feigned. “I’m short on supplies. When you were sending me in circles for my own welfare, did it ever occur to you that I wanted to find a town and restock before continuing to Béarn? In fact, did it ever occur to you that I have the right go where I want to go? Did you think I’d attack this town and destroy it all by myself? Or did you think my Eastern blood might leap from my body and taint these poor Westland people? Maybe you thought I wanted to sleep through a cold night in soaked clothes and waste my last night of food. Or maybe you thought I had nothing better to do than worry about when some obnoxious, nameless archer put an arrow through me.”

  The man slipped his arrow from the string, clutching bow and shaft in the same hand. “Are you quite finished?”

  “Until I get some answers, yes.”

  Clearly, he had paid attention, because he addressed her questions in the order she had raised them. “First, I have more supplies than I need. I can’t stand meat going to waste, and I’m more than willing to share. My camp isn’t far. You can dry yourself and your clothes before the fire. You’re welcome to stay, and sleep in a warm, dry place.” He kept his single eye fixed on her face. “As to the town, I told you it wasn’t mine. Believe me, I wasn’t protecting it from you. Quite the opposite. You’d have to look far to find a group of people half as savage. And as to your Eastern heritage, well, forgive me for noticing. Although I’ve got one, it doesn’t take a sharp eye to tell you look different and talk different. Seeing those differences doesn’t make me racist. Not seeing them would make me blind. I would have done the same for a Northern or Western woman.” He added quickly, to cut off her other possible protestation, “Or even for a man.”

  He turned suddenly, heading back the way they had come. “My camp is this way. You’re welcome to join me.”

  Khitajrah paused. As if to help her make the decision, the wind rose, icy against her wet clothing. She trotted after the man. “All right. Fine. I’m coming. But it’s just for warmth and the food you promised. I don’t need a man for protection. And if you touch me, you’ll regret it.”