Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Colbey threw himself eagerly into the practice, losing none of the excitement for it that he had known since infancy. Just the thought of practicing alone with his sword brought a thrill that neither time nor familiarity could dull. It did surprise him that the pleasure of finding a good companion, possible romance, and a new focus for his life only compounded the joy of a battle, simulated or real. He had seen so many give up their dreams because becoming skilled took too much away from the routine pleasures of living. Many times, he had rejected romance for the opposite reason, because it might interfere with his effort to always become more proficient. Now, he knew both as excuses. Having skill and family required only two people willing to stand behind one another’s aspirations as well as their own. It remained to be seen whether he and Khitajrah fit that description, but she had given him cause to try to love again.

  The aristiri perched on a low tree limb, watching the practice with bright blue eyes that seemed interested and eager. Colbey moved with his usual swiftness. Nevertheless, his sharp gaze did not miss the humanity, profundity, and vigor that seemed to draw him into the cavernous depths of the hawk’s eyes. Though he knew it was impossible, the bird seemed intrigued by every maneuver, as if judging it. Though he sensed no hostility, the scrutiny made him uncomfortable in a way that seemed ridiculous. Although he had practiced in front of strangers before, it would shatter the laws of Renshai to teach their maneuvers to others, whether by accident or intention. It made no sense to concern himself with the attention of a hawk; yet, for reasons he could not explain, he wanted to please it.

  It seemed as if no time had passed before the aroma of cooking roots perfumed the clearing. The gloss of moonlight brightened, then disappeared, replaced by broken patterns of sunlight through the branches. Invigorated by the warmth and brightness, Colbey combined sword work with play. He sliced branches, using the same stroke to twirl them into patterns, then lay them gently as artwork on the forest floor. He swung among the branches by his free hand, sweeping from tree to tree like a squirrel. He knew a pang of guilt for draining some of the seriousness from that to which his life had riveted since birth. But he also saw the need to spend the energy that accompanied happiness. New ideas for combat came from unpredictable places, and life often hinged on befuddling enemies with bizarre techniques so long as they did not simply waste strokes or shackle one’s own attention.

  Reluctantly, Colbey drew his practice to a close. From experience, he knew that he could work his arm and sword for days if other matters did not interfere. For now, he could not spare such time, even for the necessary. Frost Reaver awaited him, and only he could stop whatever rot the magics had inflicted upon the stallion. The staff had assured him that its power would hold Shadimar’s spell in stasis, but it seemed cruel to leave it there in any shape or form.

  Though she let him keep his own schedule, Khitajrah had reason for hurrying as well. Colbey sensed smothered urgency about her, mingled with the curiosity and cautious attraction she felt toward him. For understandable reasons, she held doubts about him. From what he could sense, caution warred with a belief that was not quite certainty. It seemed that they belonged together, yet she would not be rushed.

  After a dinner of fresh roots, bread, and salted meat, Colbey and Khitajrah continued toward Béarn. Though he believed he passed the Fields of Wrath that had become the home of the other Renshai, Colbey made no attempt to cast about and find it. He knew the terrain only well enough to get them both fully lost. Past experience told him he would most likely find Arduwyn in the king’s city. He could think of no one who would prove more vigilant in the woods.

  Each day passed much the same as the one before. Every morning, Colbey practiced. They broke camp before midday, riding along woodland roads, occasionally meeting other travelers heading in either direction. Most of these avoided the oddly matched couple of foreigners, and many glared at the sword Colbey carried. When the rare caravan passed, guards inserted themselves between the Renshai and the goods they carried. Most of the time, Colbey and Khitajrah found themselves alone except for the company of horses and aristiri. They talked of many subjects, past and present, as heavy as the philosophy of law, chaos, and balance and as light as the weather.

  On the third day following Thor’s attack, Colbey and Khitajrah arrived at the king’s city of Béarn. Colbey’s horse kept its head low, red-brown forelock falling into its eyes, apparently tired from the long ride. Khitajrah’s bay seemed a study in opposites. Where its companion drooped, it pranced, making tiny skipping bucks designed to display excitement rather than to unseat its rider. He had not asked her where she had gotten the beast, yet it gave him answer without need for words. Clearly, this horse had stabled in Béarn long enough to consider it home.

  Colbey paid little attention to the cobbled roadways, the exquisite masonry, and the massive citizens that lumbered through the streets, though his mind registered every detail from long habit. Without the need to consciously think, his mind sifted mundane from potential threat, and he found the latter lacking. Nothing he saw suggested hostility from the Béarnides, either visually or by sensing the emotions around him. Curiosity did radiate from many of them, presumably due to the sight of a Northman riding at the side of one who, by size and coloring, could have passed for a Béarnian child.

  Smoothly cobbled pathways brought Colbey and Khitajrah swiftly to the castle gates, the sights bringing back urgent memories. More than a year had passed since Colbey had ridden to Béarn to talk Arduwyn into accompanying them to rescue the Renshai from Valr Kirin and his Northmen. Then, known enemies of Sterrane, specifically the force of his bastard cousin, Rathelon, had kept security tight. Since Rathelon’s death at the hand of Mitrian’s husband, Garn, there seemed little need for rigid defenses or hostility.

  Nevertheless, Colbey expected to find the armed guards who met them at the gate. A half-dozen men perched on the curtain wall, each with a sword and a crossbow. This time, at least, they did not nock or aim. Two others stood just inside the gate, on the castle grounds, their halberds crossed to further block the entrance. Despite the obvious weaponry, Colbey sensed no specific menace. The guards’ stalwart presences seemed more formality than threat.

  “Greetings.” Colbey pulled up his horse, recognizing none of the Béarnides. Khitajrah also halted the bay, though it pranced a half circle before stopping. She, too, scanned the faces. Her expression told him she found no one familiar either.

  “Greetings,” one of the guards on the ground returned. His response seemed more dutiful reply than welcome. “Did you come for an audience with the king?”

  Colbey dismounted, believing it impolite to hold a conversation at different levels. Passing the gelding’s reins to Khitajrah, he approached the guard, halting at a polite speaking distance. “Actually, we came to see Arduwyn the Hunter. Is he at the castle?”

  Khitajrah startled visibly, though she gave no explanation.

  “I’m not certain, sir.” The guard looked to his companion, who shrugged. “If you’d like to visit someone at the castle, I’ll need to know your name and which town, city, or village you represent.” He pulled out a pad and stylus.

  Colbey smiled. “I represent Béarn.”

  The man frowned, lowering his stylus and meeting Colbey’s gaze directly for the first time. “How is that so, sir?”

  Colbey made a grandly flourished bow, of the type he usually despised, and recited the title he had had only one previous occasion to use. “Colbey Calistinsson, Knight of the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: King Orlis and his majesty King Sterrane.” He doubted he had gotten the protocol exactly right, but it should suffice for introduction.

  The guard’s lips wilted into a frown, though Colbey felt uncertain which of his words displeased the man. Since the knights had loyally and honorably served Béarn, in shifts, for centuries, he found it difficult to believe his title bothered the sentry. More likely, he had recognized the elder Renshai’s name. Colbey traced both guards’ gazes to the
chestnut gelding he had ridden to the gates, now in Khitajrah’s control; and another possibility for their discomfort occurred to him. As a Knight of Erythane, he should have arrived on one of the famed white chargers, its mane ceremonially braided. The simplest tunics the knights wore would have put Colbey’s traveling garb to shame, and he had yet to see an Erythanian Knight not wearing the colors of both kingdoms.

  The sentries exchanged a few words in Béarnese, a language Colbey did not understand, though it bore some similarity to the Western tongue which he did. The guards on the ramparts remained in place. The sentry at the gate who had not spoken leaned his halberd against the wall near the gate, turned, and headed into the courtyard toward the castle. The speaker explained. “Pardon the delay, please. We just need to verify that. Standard routine.”

  A nervousness wafting from the guard suggested otherwise, though his stance betrayed none of the discomfort Colbey’s mind powers forced him to sense. Still, he worked to place the other at ease rather than to challenge him. As much as he despised formality, he found it difficult to condemn caution when it came to the safety of a friend who was also a king. As urgent as his mission to rescue Frost Reaver was, he had no right to expect caution and convention to crumble before his eagerness. It only made sense for the guards to question a man claiming to be both a Knight of Erythane, without the customary trappings, and the Golden Prince of Demons, especially now that lies and deceit had appeared in the world.

  Khitajrah’s gelding trumpeted a shrill whinny, distantly answered from the stables in the courtyard. Colbey reclaimed his reins, not wanting to burden her with two horses when hers was misbehaving. Khitajrah slid to the ground, clipping on the lead and removing the bridle. The bay quieted somewhat, dropping its head to graze on wisps of growth between the road and the curtain wall. Colbey dressed down his own mount in the same manner, also loosening the saddle slightly. By the time he finished, the sentry returned, his superior in tow.

  Colbey recognized the newcomer at once. Sterrane’s captain of the guards, Baran, sported the usual huge, Béarnian frame, though in his case there was far more muscle than fat. A youthful face peered out from between the customary black beard and the officer’s dress-issue cap with its blue plume. Unlike the heavy cloaks over mail worn by the sentries, Baran sported the lighter fabric of the inner court. They did wear matching tabards, Baran’s proudly displayed, the guards’ partially lost beneath their cloaks. This showed a tan bear rearing against a blue background, Béarn’s royal symbol.

  The sentry retrieved his halberd and took his position wordlessly. Both guards fell into attentive stances at either side of the gate, leaving only the metal bars and distance separating Colbey and Baran. The captain approached, his aura one of curiosity and caution. Colbey sensed no fear and developed an instant respect for the captain. His friends had already assured him of Baran’s competence, but he had had no chance to assess the captain’s skill during their single brief previous meeting. Then, he had received little from the Béarnide but suspicion.

  Colbey spoke first. “Greetings, Captain Baran.”

  “Greetings, Sir Colbey.” Baran studied Colbey through the bars, clearly having more difficulty identifying the old Renshai than Colbey had had recognizing him.

  “I didn’t realize Béarn’s ‘routine’ included summoning the king’s highest officer to examine visitors.”

  “Usually it doesn’t.” Baran spoke the truth, despite the insult it might imply. “Only when the visitor claims to be someone other than his appearance would suggest.” He continued to look Colbey over, brow furrowed in thought. Obviously, he did not feel comfortable confirming or denying Colbey’s claim by looks alone. Then his gaze shifted to Khitajrah, and the creases deepened. “Found him, did you?”

  Khitajrah nodded, looking distinctly uncomfortable herself.

  Khitajrah’s uneasiness seemed logical to Colbey. Surely, when she had inquired about him, as Baran’s question suggested she had, she had intended to kill him. He doubted she had mentioned her true purpose to anyone in Béarn.

  Baran did not await a verbal reply but returned to examining Colbey almost immediately.

  Tiring of the scrutiny, Colbey widened his eyes in question. “Well? Do I pass inspection?”

  Baran scratched at his beard, the casual gesture hiding a host of strong emotions. Colbey sensed uncertainty, a need to temper security with respect for an honored guest. Obviously, he did not feel at all sure of Colbey’s identity. Yet, if Colbey had spoken truth, the delay could quickly become offensive. “You’ve changed,” the captain said at length, opening the way for Colbey to volunteer the information that troubled him.

  More interested in haste than dignity, Colbey rescued Baran from his dilemma. “My hair’s lost its white, and I broke a sword en route.” He ran a hand through the short, gold locks, then indicated the drooping sheath at his left hip. “There are ways to change the color of a man’s hair, Captain. Believe me, had I meant to impersonate myself, I would have made it white.”

  Baran seemed a bit more comfortable, though his silence indicated he had not been totally convinced.

  Colbey honed in on incidents that would prove his identity. The need made him smile, and it took self-control not to laugh. In the past, his name had inspired everything from terror to mass attack. Remaining unnamed had usually proved the wisest course. Surely, no one would claim his identity along with the scorn, enmity, and fear that it inspired. Yet, as King Sterrane’s friend, he would be given access to the monarch and his kingdom. He understood the demand for caution. “My first and last time here, my friends and I had a private banquet with the king, Mar Lon, you, and Arduwyn. We requested the hunter’s help; and, when he agreed, his wife stormed out, enraged. Nevertheless, Arduwyn assisted us in freeing hostages from Northmen. One of ours, Garn, stayed to assist you in moving a prisoner for trial from Erythane to Béarn. The prisoner never made it here.”

  Colbey paused, assessing Baran’s expression. Though he knew the details of the incident, he saw no need to question the captain’s methods in front of his charges. The prisoner had been Rathelon, Sterrane’s cousin, who had terrorized the kingdom for longer than a decade, intending to assassinate the king and take his place on the throne. Familiar with Sterrane’s methods of punishment, merciful to the edge of naiveté, Baran guessed Sterrane would imprison Rathelon, at worst. As the previous captain of the guard, Rathelon knew the dungeons well enough to escape them, and Baran feared the king’s cousin would restart his spree of murder. In truth, Baran had requested Garn’s assistance knowing that the hot-tempered ex-gladiator would challenge Rathelon to a battle before they made it back to Béarn. As a representative of the kingdom, Baran was forbidden from such a challenge, but the law did not cover Garn. Baran’s plan had worked without a hitch. Garn had joyfully seized the opportunity to battle and kill an old enemy, and Colbey doubted Garn ever really understood the politics involved.

  Colbey added carefully, “And Sterrane’s reign will be long and beautiful.” It was a joke only Baran and Sterrane shared. As children, they had misunderstood the much-bandied phrase: “May your reign be long and fruitful.” Baran and Garn had turned it into a private quip guaranteed to set one another into fits of laughter. Colbey worried about revealing such a deeply personal secret. He had obtained the information only accidentally, a stray thought unmasked while trying to rescue Garn’s mind from poison at the time of his death.

  “I have one more question,” Baran said softly. “In advance, I apologize for the need to ask it.” He avoided Colbey’s sharp, blue-gray gaze. “What are your intentions at the castle of Béarn?”

  Baran’s discomfort clued Colbey that the captain wanted something other than the specifics of his mission. He was essentially asking if Colbey intended harm to the king or members of his court. Though offended by the query, he swallowed his pride to answer. “We came to talk to Arduwyn and, of course, in peace. I mean no harm to my friend the king, or to any of his people. If it would make y
ou feel better, you can bring Arduwyn here to me.” The sequence brought back home the impending Ragnarok. A day would come, soon it seemed, when every man at every castle gate was met with the same grueling suspicion. Though it saddened Colbey, it still seemed far preferable to the world’s destruction, reinforcing his commitment to seeing the Ragnarok stopped, if possible, or, at least, the rescue of mankind when the gods fell upon one another in war. Betrayal and deception were only the worst of chaos’ presents to the world of law; it brought new ideas and freedom as well.

  Colbey sensed increasing agitation from Khitajrah that seemed related to each mention of the red-haired hunter by name. Although he had told her he needed to find a woodsman living in Béarn, he had not specified whom until they waited before the castle gates. He would have to question her later about how she knew Arduwyn. It seemed hard to imagine the little hunter making anyone uncomfortable.

  “Thank you, Colbey; but no. If His Majesty knew you were here and we didn’t send you directly to him, he’d have my head.” Baran loosed a single laugh that sounded strained almost to the point of hysteria. “Well, not my head, of course. That’s not his way. But I can’t stand to see him disappointed. Besides, he’s the only one Arduwyn ever tells about his comings and goings.” Baran took a step back and gestured to the guards. “Let them in.”

  The sentries pulled open the gates, then took posts on either side, the butts of their halberds planted on the ground and the shafts vertical.

  Colbey waited until they seemed settled in their new positions, not wanting to abandon propriety for eagerness. Calm deliberateness would place Baran more at ease. Then, having left the appropriate pause, Colbey led his gelding through the gate. Khitajrah followed him.