Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Colbey looked beyond the obvious beauty of its coloring, finding a compactness that hinted of strength. However, the comparatively narrow chest promised little in the way of endurance, and the slender rump would make it a poor sprinter. Its obvious high-spirited nervousness boded poorly for training.

  “Precious Prince of Gold. A young stallion that would make any warrior a spirited war horse. . . .”

  Colbey paid no attention to the merchant’s sales pitch. Instead, he focused on the chestnut gelding in the opposite stall. Though it had none of its counterpart’s eye-catching color, its coat gleamed. Wide nostrils flared, and its dark eyes looked healthfully clear. Though not the most finely proportioned horse he had ever seen, it surpassed anything he had yet found in Pudar.

  “. . . obvious leader, with sunlight glaring from golden horse and silver buckles—”

  Colbey interrupted. “How much will you take for this one?”

  “Aah!” The merchant brightened at the prospect of a sale. “A fine gelding. Foaled and raised by a sergeant forced to sell to pay off gambling debts. It—”

  Colbey interrupted again. “I don’t need historical references.” The more merits the merchant created, the steeper the price would become. “How much do you want for the horse?”

  “For someone who knows horses as well as you? Twenty gold chroams and worth every one.” It was ten times the asking price of the next most expensive steed in Pudar and more than double the amount the Renshai carried.

  Colbey rubbed at the fur of the gelding’s neck, scowling as he examined it closely.

  Intrigued by Colbey’s interest, the merchant examined the area as well. “What are you looking for?”

  “Gold plating.”

  The merchant’s expression twisted in confusion.

  “I’ll give you six.”

  The confusion disappeared, replaced by a grimace that bordered on rage. “That’s an insult.”

  Colbey sighed, little adept at bargaining. In his youth, what the Renshai wanted, they took. “I’ve only got eight.”

  “I paid more than that myself.” Despite his earlier irritation, the merchant seemed more pensive than angry.

  Annoyance fluttered through Colbey. He sensed a salesman’s game, and he wanted nothing to do with it. Money meant little to him. Had he carried the twenty, he would have given it without argument. This merchant could flatter and weasel all day, but it would not place the money in Colbey’s pocket nor in the seller’s hands. He had wasted a day of travel coming to Pudar from Bruen, hoping to make up that and more by having a mount to ride as well as obtaining enough food so that he would not have to stop. Yet during the past day, he had examined horse after horse, finding nothing suitable until now. And this one he could not afford.

  “I think we can work something out,” the merchant said.

  Hope trickled through Colbey, though it held an edge of wariness. Twenty gold chroams would buy an expensive favor from a warrior, and he would not compromise his honor for anything. Still, it would not hurt to hear the merchant’s proposition.

  “I’ll trade you that horse.” He indicated the gelding. “For the aristiri.”

  Colbey’s gaze went naturally to the hawk. He did not reply, confused by the barter.

  The merchant tented his fingers, a nervousness to the gesture. “Horse for hawk. A fair trade, I think.”

  “More than fair,” Colbey admitted carefully. “Something you own for something I don’t own.”

  Disappointment colored the merchant’s features. “It belongs to someone else?”

  “It’s a bird.” Colbey explained what seemed obvious to him. “I’d as easily give you ownership of the sky or the moon. The aristiri decided to travel with me, and I’d be hard-pressed to stop it if I wanted to. I can’t make it stay with you.”

  The merchant smiled. “This is Pudar. Anything not expressly illegal can be bought and sold. You give me the hawk. I’ll find a way to keep it.”

  Colbey turned his head to examine the aristiri. He did not own the bird, and that alone was reason enough to refuse the merchant’s offer. Yet his need for the horse was great enough to let consideration flit briefly through his mind. Realization accompanied it. Despite his insistence to the contrary, the hawk had become more than a bird that followed him without reason or encouragement. If it no longer accompanied him, he would miss it; and he owed it a debt of loyalty.

  As if to help Colbey make his decision, the aristiri drove its beak into the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

  Sudden, sharp pain shot through Colbey’s arm, though the bird drew no blood. He stiffened, resisting the urge to strike the source of the attack.

  Its warning given, Formynder rocked back into its balanced position, its talons as gentle as ever.

  Despite his predicament, Colbey laughed. “The bird has made its wishes clear.” He rubbed at the bite, and the aristiri watched his fingers move.

  “No trade?” the merchant guessed.

  “No trade,” Colbey confirmed, dropping his hand to his side.

  “No horse.” The merchant indicated the gelding, drawing Colbey’s attention to it and the proportions that had sold themselves.

  Colbey shook his head sadly. “If I come into some money, I’ll return.”

  The merchant scowled, obviously annoyed over the wasted time, yet still interested enough in the aristiri to hold irritation from his words. “Or if you change your mind about the hawk. Think about it. If it’s not yours, what do you have to lose?”

  “My neck, for one thing.” Colbey touched the site of the bite again, though the pain had nearly disappeared. “Thank you.” He headed for the door.

  By the time Colbey emerged from the barn, the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. The crowds had dispersed, as if by sudden magic. The scratch of drawing tarps and the clatter of collected objects replaced the rumble of conversation and the cries of men and women peddling wares. A gray haze settled over the streets, obscuring the once-gaudy stands to dark blobs covered with blankets or canvas.

  Colbey passed the closing shops and stands, ignoring the exchanges between merchants discussing what items had sold well that day and predictions about the tastes of Pudar’s current mass of visiting foreigners. He had wasted another day searching for quality he could not have afforded. One way or another, he decided, he would leave in the morning on the best horse his money could buy. But Crossroad Fyn’s gelding still held a place in his thoughts. If he could raise twenty gold chroams this night, he might still buy it. And he knew of only one place to win or lose a fortune that quickly.

  Colbey headed from the market area toward the upper east side that catered to foreigners on holiday. Once he had found himself some food and a place to stay, he would visit one of the all-night gambling houses. Sparing enough to buy room and board, as well as what he needed to purchase a mediocre horse, he would have little remaining to gamble. By the same token, he had a pittance to lose and much to win.

  Though light, the aristiri’s continuous presence on his shoulder made it ache. He kept the staff in the same hand, hoping to support the additional weight more comfortably.

  Shortly, Colbey came to the Dun Stag Inn. Composed of identical logs, stained black, its dark exterior enhanced the brightly lit interior. Thick glass windows warped light into a glaze, disrupted by the shadows of patrons shifting about inside. Noise sifted through every crack in window or door, the surflike rise and fall of conversation audible, though individual words were not. A pair of stone wolves guarded the entrance, their ears pricked forward and their tails low. The tavern sign swung from a pole extending from the front of the building. The name, “Dun Stag,” scrawled over the silhouette of a massive buck, its antlers branching beyond the arched semicircular confines of the sign. Beneath this ancient, proud painting, the wolves seemed out of place, a newer addition to the tavern grounds. Almost certainly, the wolves represented the common symbol of the combined Westlands armies in the Great War. The Béarnian craftsmanship seemed f
lawless.

  Colbey passed between the statues and approached the door. Seizing the handle, he pulled the panel open. A wave of sound struck him, painful in its sudden and intense volume. Patrons chatted in loud voices, laughing at jokes that the sober would have found scarcely worth a smile. Light spilled through the crack he had opened, diffusing into the darkness. The suffocating odor of alcohol churned Colbey’s hunger into nausea. Stepping inside, he let the door bang shut behind him, the sound swallowed into the din.

  Fifteen tables filled the Dun Stag, in three rows of five. Currently, most of the patrons clustered on stools at the bar, as if the effort of carrying drinks or calling a serving girl might prove too much of an effort. Of the tables, eight supported patrons in groups of two to nine. Most bore the brown hair and medium frames of area Westlanders. Dressed in their best linen, these gawked at the other patrons and few sported weapons. Those who did limited themselves to what they could afford: unadorned shortswords and knives. Colbey guessed these Western travelers came only for the experience of bragging to friends about the famed Dun Stag ale and its rowdy clientele.

  Colbey saw fewer of the people who had given the Dun Stag its reputation. At one table, a cluster of three middle-aged men wore the black leather of Pudar’s army, their ancient jerkins stained and stretched by bulging guts they had developed since the war. One clutched a mug of ale between his thumb and single remaining finger. A scar twisted another’s face from one missing eye to his opposite cheek. Each of these carried a sword, their sheaths as old and battered as their armor. One sheath had cracked, revealing a notched and tarnished sword edge. The split leather grip had peeled from another’s hilt, hanging in a curl that insulted Colbey’s sensibilities. A true warrior would never neglect his sword. It looked to Colbey as if these men had never changed clothing or manner since the Great War, drinking nightly and living off the glory of the stories they shared between them or created for the attention of the young.

  Colbey saw no Northmen in the inn, though he had looked more from habit than concern. Once, the Northmen would have openly attacked him en masse, simply for being Renshai. But Valr Kirin had vowed an end to the feud between Renshai and the other seventeen northern tribes in exchange for single combat with Colbey. Though their leader had died, a victim of his own challenge, the Northmen would never violate their honor. Still, Colbey knew that did not exempt them from personal vengeances against individuals of his tribe. Though he no longer walked among Renshai, Colbey knew he would take the brunt of that hatred. And he preferred it that way. He was all that remained of the wild tribe that had mutilated neighbors and slaughtered its way through the Westlands. The new Renshai deserved the peace its predecessors had shunned.

  Colbey headed for a table near the back, not wanting to tarry too long in the doorway. As he moved, he assessed the last few of the Dun Stag’s patrons. He recognized the swarthy, dark features of an Easterner, richly dressed in silks studded with gems. Clearly, he was a merchant, selling the gemstones that were the East’s most desirable and precious commodity in the West. He had chosen a table well away from the wounded soldiers. Two men large as Béarnides sat at his either hand, watchful, one dark as the merchant and the other sandy-haired. Colbey counted thirty-two patrons and guessed the common room could hold twice that many uncomfortably. Of the bar’s seven women, three sat among the gawking Western visitors, two served drinks, and the remaining two wore the tight clothing and overly friendly expressions of barflies or prostitutes.

  Colbey took his seat, leaning the staff against the wall near his hand. Though he kept his back to the wall, he chose his position so that the table did not trap him into a corner. It seemed rude to claim an entire table for a single individual, yet, for now, the bar seemed the more popular place. Formynder hopped from Colbey’s shoulder to the tabletop. It walked to a position between Colbey’s hands. Cocking its head, it looked directly up at him.

  Colbey met the aristiri’s gaze, studying the black rim that looked like a tiny string of beads around its eye. Intelligence seemed to radiate from its depths, as well as a beauty that sank to the core. On a woman, those eyes could captivate any man. On a man or woman, they would have inspired trust. Their appeal was far more profound than color. Colbey had seen eyes that precise shade on many Northmen and a few Westerners as well. But the power of the aristiri’s eyes seemed tangible, revealing an inner strength of character and person that drew him like a starving wolf to a feast.

  “Can I get something for you and your . . . bird?” The voice came from directly in front of Colbey.

  Caught admiring a hawk with the intensity of a lover, Colbey flushed. He glanced at the speaker, a pudgy young Western woman in an apron. Sweat trickled from her forehead, trailing a strand of honey blond hair.

  As the heavy odor of alcohol became familiar, Colbey’s appetite returned. He also detected the smells of venison and bread beneath the ale. “Dinner, please. And ale, of course.”

  “Of course,” she repeated, smiling. She turned her attention to the aristiri, studying it curiously.

  When the serving girl did not move for several moments, Colbey cleared his throat. “If you’re waiting for him to order, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  It was the barmaid’s turn to blush. Red tinged her olive cheeks. “I’ll get that ale.” She turned, apron swirling about her wide hips, and headed for the bar.

  Colbey returned his gaze to Formynder, feeling foolish for having attributed so much personality to a bird. Still, he could not help the way the hawk’s name came to his mind at the sight of it, rather than the generic term “bird” he used when discussing it with others. Its loyalty seemed unwavering, in a way no man’s or woman’s ever had. Clearly, it trusted him. And, oddly, where argument had failed, the hawk’s blind faith brought the very doubts the Wizards and staff had tried to instill. What does it mean when the most learned condemn a philosophy that the ignorant embrace?

  Colbey’s self-confidence rose to combat skepticism. Arduwyn had tried to enlighten the Renshai about nature’s rhythms and cycles, the unwritten laws of behavior that seemed to unite weather, plants, and animals into a single, sentient entity. Mar Lon believed that the shortest lived first noticed the need for change, and few animals had a life span approaching that of mankind. If men can see the need for change faster than gods, why shouldn’t animals realize it even sooner?

  The staff tapped gently against Colbey’s thoughts, seeking an entrance that he denied. The ideas required consideration that he alone could sort. Unbalanced advice would only skew, whether toward itself or in counterbalance.

  A shadow over the tabletop served as Colbey’s earliest warning of company. A group of five men approached him. Each wore the tan shirts and britches of Pudar’s guardsmen, and they edged closer with obvious hesitation.

  Colbey skimmed his memory briefly, trying to think of some thing he might have said or done to attract the attention of guardsmen. Since his arrival in Pudar, he had only spoken with horse merchants and the serving girl; and he had argued with none of them. More likely, the guards’ presence had something to do with events from the distant past. During the Great War, Colbey had served as King Gasir’s second-in-command. When Gasir had died, Colbey had become general of the Pudarian army, the largest of the Westlands forces. After the war, Gasir’s nephew, now King Verrall, had tried to talk Colbey into keeping the military title in the hope of aborting possible rebellion backed by one of Gasir’s other three nephews. Burdened with responsibilities of his own, Colbey had refused.

  Thirteen years later, Colbey still recalled how Verrall had dispelled each of Colbey’s cautious excuses until he had cornered the Renshai into admitting the truth: “Sire, if you don’t have the power to claim your throne without me, what makes you think you can keep it after I’m gone?” Even then, Verrall had not quit. Enraged by the very words his persistence had forced from the Renshai, Verrall had accelerated the audience into a violence that only Santagithi’s quick thinking had averted.
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  Formynder stood at Colbey’s left elbow, watching the men approach with the same calm interest as the Renshai. Soon, the guardsmen came close enough for a detailed examination. Colbey recognized four of the five from the war, and the glances they exchanged suggested that they now knew him as well. Still, their manners revealed uncertainty as well as hesitation. Throughout his day in Pudar, Colbey had kept moving and avoided eye contact, hoping to dodge recognition: soldiers’ awe or the king’s wrath. Either would delay him, and neither had purpose.

  The guardsmen stopped just within comfortable speaking range. Colbey noticed that the volume of conversation in the common room had diminished with their entrance. Most eyes rolled to the center of the guards’ attention, and their focus bothered the Renshai. Except in battle, he preferred to remain anonymous. Among Northmen, any warrior would feel obligated to test his mettle against a sword master in spar. Though confident of his abilities, Colbey preferred his own practices and schedule to that of every overconfident, would-be hero.

  The central guardsman spoke, a hefty, bearded Pudarian who, Colbey recalled, had had a weakness when it came to defending his left side in battle. He used the Western trading tongue. “Excuse me, sir.”

  Colbey nodded, saying nothing. He wanted some hint of intention before revealing anything.

  “We . . . um . . .” The guard glanced to the men at his left and right for support. The first did not move, a tall but narrow axman whose style and lack of strength seemed more suitable to a single-edged sword. The other, a small, competent swordsman, nodded supportively. Of the remaining two, Colbey knew only one, an archer. The other looked to be in his early twenties, too young to have fought in the war. The speaker switched tacks. “You look like a man we know from the War.”