Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  * * *

  Tannin Randilsson awakened to the prickle of grass beneath him, the cold touch of wind, and the contrasting wash of warmth from a campfire near his head. Disoriented, he lay still, searching his memory for explanation. None came. He last recalled settling into his bed for the night after two grueling sword practices, one given by Mitrian and the other inflicted by himself. Since the day she had caught him in bed with the farm girl from Erythane, she’d treated him with an icy, withering hostility that pained him to his core. He had never slept with another woman since, had not had more than a vague, undirected urge to do so. And no matter how long or hard he practiced, his sword maneuvers never again pleased his relentless torke.

  Concerned by the oddity of surroundings his mind still could not place, Tannin cautiously opened his eyes to slits. Firelight revealed several figures in a clearing he recognized as the Fields of Wrath, his home since birth. Mitrian lay beside him, and he caught a glimpse of others sprawled out in a line beyond her. The fire flickered and roared near the head of the central figure, a man he guessed to be Rache. Past the campfire, the flames creating a partial wall between them, several others slept. These, Tannin did not know at a glance, and he would have to twist his head to see more, revealing his awakening. Instead, he turned his attention to the periphery of vision.

  Toward the feet of the sleeping Renshai, a single man crouched at guard. Blond hair revealed his Northern heritage, and mail links imprinted a covering, well-tailored cloak. A sword girded his hip, the first weapon Tannin had noticed, though his prone position and squinted eyes did not allow him to see to the extent of his vision. The man seemed vaguely familiar, but Tannin dared not risk the movement or full opening of his lids required to identify the other. More so, something seemed terribly out of place about the scene, though it took several moments of directed staring to find the anomaly. If he lay in the familiar place he knew, he should have been able to catch a glimpse of Mitrian’s cottage. Instead, the field seemed to end at a line of forest.

  Tannin shivered, unnerved by the many oddities. Usually, he slept light as a cat. It made no sense that someone had moved him from his bed without awakening him. Clearly, they had not awakened the other Renshai either, or he would certainly have heard the sounds of battle. The missing cottage only added to the mystery, and the natural feeling of dread its absence raised. It seemed plain that he and the others had become prisoners. The means for escape appeared obvious.

  Slowly, Tannin reached over and touched Mitrian’s arm, trying to make the motion seem random, related to his sleep. The Renshai had perfected many forms of communication designed for wariness. He prodded her with a message: lay still until signaled. And he added, pass that to the others.

  A tensing of Mitrian’s arm cued him that she had awakened, either before him or in response to his touch. Tannin waited while she informed Rache, and the message continued down the line of “sleeping” Renshai. He knew it could get only as far as whoever had not yet awakened or the baby, if it lay among them; yet he hoped that would prove far enough. No matter his course of action, it would only gain a temporary reprieve. Weaponless, the Renshai became comparatively crippled, more knowledgeable than most warriors about martial skills yet never so able as with a sword in hand.

  Tannin groped around him, hoping darkness and the flickering shadows cast by the flames would hide the movement. His searching fingers found cool sprigs of grass, tree-shed leaves, and occasional small stones; nothing that could serve as a weapon. Then his hand brushed a slender limb. He explored it in silent blackness, unwilling to turn his head to cue the guard to the direction of his gaze. It seemed long enough to serve his purposes, devoid of jutting twigs that might rustle as he drew it toward him. Once he began his movement, it would have to lead quickly to committed action. His plan, small as it was, required that the guard use instinct, rather than vision, to identify the weapon in Tannin’s hand.

  Tannin clamped his fingers around the limb. Once started, he could not turn back. His own life seemed a necessary sacrifice, but the others might still live if he handled the matter well enough. Still, though he knew he would have the chance to die in combat, he could not help hesitating before paying such a heavy toll. The glorious end should have been all that mattered, yet he could not help thinking of the things he had left undone. Although he had slept with a woman, he had never known one’s love. He had never fathered a child. And he had never earned his torke’s respect. That last, somehow, seemed the worst tragedy of all.

  Tannin shoved aside considerations of his losses to free his mind for warfare. He would need all of his concentration to see to it that some of the Renshai did not die and that none died needlessly or in other ways than combat. Ignorance of his enemies made it only slightly more difficult in his mind. The guard, at least, wielded a sword. What the others carried mattered little. Though trained only with swords themselves and disdainful of all but natural defenses, the Renshai were trained to cut past or through armor, shields, and parry of every type.

  One, two, three . . . Tannin sprang to his feet and charged the swordsman in silence. He used his body to shield the stick from the guard’s view, then slashed with a bold commitment. Dancing flickers of flame and the sureness of Tannin’s strike must have convinced the Northman he had somehow acquired a sword. The other met his “attack” with a swift draw-block. The limb shattered against steel. The guard shouted a warning, and Tannin continued his motion. Seizing the guard’s wrist, he applied rolling pressure against the tendons. As the sword fell from the Northman’s hand, Tannin snatched it in midair. Tvinfri. The name of the Renshai maneuver came naturally to mind as he performed it, with sloppy success. Even as he caught the hilt, he whipped the blade about in a directed cut that bit into the guard’s shoulder, slashed a shallow line across his cloak, and jangled against mail. On the backswing, Tannin slammed the hilt into the man’s face. The Northman staggered, nearly falling.

  Only then, Tannin recognized his opponent: Olvaerr, son of Valr Kirin. The youngster had grown into a man in the two years since Tannin had seen him, but there was no mistaking the angry blue eyes and features so like his father’s. Tannin realized other things, too. Mitrian, Rache, and Modrey had risen, the latter clutching the irritable toddler just awakening from sleep. Tarah had climbed to her knees, still groggy. The four enemies beyond the fire also sprang to their feet, and Tannin saw Shadimar and his wolf among three strangers.

  “Run!” Tannin shouted to his companions. The last he knew, Shadimar had been a friend of the Renshai. But nothing about their current situation suggested he meant them any goodwill. Without weapons, the Renshai seemed destined to die at the hands of an enraged Wizard, deaths without battle or honor, without chance for Valhalla. “Run!” he screamed again. “Just run!”

  Tannin’s own battle reclaimed his attention. Recovered, Olvaerr ducked beneath the guard Tannin had opened to glance at his companions. The Northman made a wild sweep for Tannin’s shin with his foot, and a knife blade flashed red in the firelight.

  Tannin back-stepped, saving his balance and thrusting simultaneously. The Renshai maneuvers focused on attack, the best defense a dead opponent. Again, the blade rattled on mail, the complicated Renshai triple twist an instant too late. Olvaerr’s knife cut a fiery track across Tannin’s sword forearm.

  For an instant, Tannin lost his timing. The wound made his muscles spasm, and he lost his grip on the sword. A blade touching ground was dishonored. Trained to snatch swords from air in spar, he switched hands with a grace that bordered on instinct. He countercut left-handed, the abrupt change catching Olvaerr fully off-balance. The blade slid beneath mail, tearing a hole in the Northman’s thigh that bled in a sudden geyser.

  Olvaerr collapsed, soundless, into a spreading puddle of blood. Only then did Tannin’s attention broaden to include more than his own battle. A curse rattled harshly in his ears. His first glance revealed no sign of the Renshai, but all four of the enemy remained in position near the fire. The
wolf had disappeared.

  Even as Tannin’s quick glance registered those details, something unseen struck him with a blow so hard it hurled him forward. Unable to defend, he twisted as he fell, head striking the ground with enough force to make it ring. He landed on Olvaerr’s corpse, blood smearing his face and hands. He gasped for breath, trying to roll free of the dead man and face the unseen enemy as well. Then his muscles locked into painful contraction, and he screamed without intention, back arched to its limit, arms and legs rigid and unresponsive.

  Tannin choked down another scream, not wanting the Renshai to come back for him and place themselves at risk. His mind told him that the unnatural attack had to come of magic, and he had no idea how to fight against it. As his muscles remained at the height of contraction, the agony swiftly rose in a frenzied crescendo. Pain shattered composure, and all rational thought fled with it. Soon there was only the pain, and the screams ripped forth repeatedly in a mindless agony that left no place for understanding, even of identity.

  Then, abruptly, Tannin’s muscles went lax. The suddenness of the change lanced a pain through him that made the previous one seem meager. Then, slowly, sense started seeping back to him, though all he could do was remain unmoving, unanticipated tears coursing down cheeks sticky with Olvaerr’s blood. Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, the voices around him hazy and only partially comprehensible, their speech liberally sprinkled with curses. The oblivion that overtook him felt like mercy.

  * * *

  Shadimar growled a string of curses that seemed endless. He kicked Tannin’s unconscious body until Carcophan wrested it away, using the ropes to dangle the Renshai upside down from the limb of a tree on the Fields of Wrath. Even then, Shadimar did not feel vindicated; and the staff’s anger pulsed through his mind, feeding his already rabid outrage. He snatched up the sword he had pried from Tannin’s failing grip, slick from tip to hilt with Olvaerr’s blood. “Die, you god-cursed, savage bastard!” Brandishing the sword, he swung with all his strength for the Renshai’s throat.

  A hand’s breadth from his target, Shadimar met abrupt resistance. The sword slammed into a magical barrier, the foiled blow vibrating through Shadimar’s fist. He shouted in fury, whirling around with a suddenness that sent Dh’arlo’mé skittering from the path of the blow. Ancient, gray eyes locked on Trilless. “You stopped me, you witch. Why did you stop me?”

  Trilless met him, stare for stare. “Because you’re letting anger drive you too far. Because the chaos Colbey loosed has addled even you. Pain and torture are tools of evil. If that’s not reason enough, remember that we have to have them alive and unharmed for Colbey to bargain.”

  Shadimar glowered, but he did lower the sword. “A bargain with chaos is no bargain at all. He’ll lie like the force he champions, and we should be no more bound by a promise broken.”

  Trilless and Carcophan exchanged meaningful glances that Shadimar could not read. “The weakest of the Wizards,” Carcophan reminded. “The second to fall to chaos.”

  The words only further fueled the Eastern Wizard’s rage.

  Trilless glared at her opposite, her own anger eclipsed by obvious concern. “Resist, Shadimar. Look to the Staff of Law, and let it give you its strength. No matter Colbey’s bent, we must follow the tenets of law.”

  The gentleness of her words dispersed some of the crazed anger that made deep consideration impossible. He sensed a morality to her points, yet the staff he consulted reassured him that chaos could only be defeated by a lesser dose of itself. At times, besting an enemy meant using its own tactics against it. The unexpected had won many battles.

  Carcophan sneered. “When I tried to avenge the death of my apprentice, you accused me of sleeping with her.” His catlike eyes glittered. “Now I see why you couldn’t understand the natural relationship between a beautiful woman and a man.” He directed his gaze to Olvaerr’s corpse.

  The accusation was ludicrous. In his day, Shadimar had loved women as much as most men did; responsibilities had swept thoughts of sexuality and relationships from his mind decades past. He and Olvaerr had shared nothing but a student/teacher association, yet the loss still addled and enraged him. It had taken long consideration and effort to find one capable of replacing him as Eastern Wizard who also vehemently hated Colbey. Now, the two Northmen would never stand opposed. Shadimar whirled on Carcophan. “We could have recaptured all the Renshai if you’d worked with me. Why did you let them run?”

  Carcophan smiled. “I saw no reason to do otherwise. Where will they run to? Our displacement spell only took a small piece of man’s world with us, and there’s no way to return without some knowledge of magic.”

  The realization that Carcophan spoke truth further annoyed Shadimar. Had he focused his attention on rescuing Olvaerr sooner, rather than on the fleeing Renshai, he might have saved his apprentice. The lapse turned rage into irritation, and he cursed his costly mistake. Perhaps Trilless had a point about the chaos Colbey had loosed miring Shadimar’s sense of judgment. He would need his wits about him, and it only made sense to ground his reason on the staff.

  Carcophan picked up Olvaerr’s sword, wiped it clean on Tannin’s cloak, then handed it to Dh’arlo’mé. “I presume you know how to use it.” Without awaiting a response, he gestured at Olvaerr’s sword belt, blood-splattered and still around the corpse.

  The elf glanced at Shadimar, as if to ascertain that the Eastern Wizard would not find taking the sheath and belt a personal insult to his apprentice. When Shadimar said nothing, he set to work freeing the necessary gear. While the elf worked, Carcophan patted the sword at his own hip that had once belonged to Chezrith. Though he knew how to use it, his magic would serve him so much better it seemed needless to carry it. Still, it was safer in Carcophan’s hands than placed where any Renshai might steal it.

  Carcophan addressed Shadimar again. “I presume you have some contact with the wolf.”

  Shadimar nodded absently, touching the animal the only way possible, through emotion. He discovered that Secodon still tailed his quarry, though his superior speed could have caught them had Shadimar not given explicit instructions to remain safely behind the Renshai. Soon enough, the escapees would circumnavigate the world the Cardinal Wizards had created and find themselves back where they had started. Yet for all their movement, it seemed as if this should already have happened. Shadimar went wary, and he felt his concern echoed in Secodon’s manner.

  “Where is he?” Carcophan prodded.

  “Can’t tell location,” Shadimar shot back. “But they don’t seem to have stopped fleeing since the escape.”

  The Cardinal Wizards turned, as one. Running for this long, the Renshai should have come full circle. Yet, apparently, they had not.

  Suddenly, a wave of shock and pain buffeted Shadimar, driving him to his knees. An instant later, an animal yelp of pain split the air. Secodon! Shadimar rose, forcing away agony that was not his own, unable to locate cause or circumstance any more than he could directly pinpoint the wolf itself. A different pain plagued him then, the realization that he might lose a long-time companion whom he loved. The wolf had been a part of his life for nearly two decades, its devotion and loyalty a constant that never needed questioning.

  A mournful howl cleaved the air, full of ancient pain and followed by a series of whimpers.

  “He’s hurt,” Shadimar explained unnecessarily. “We have to help him.” Despite the significance of saving a companion, Shadimar did not lose sight of the situation. Even swordless, the Renshai were dangerous. It made little sense to rush to the aid of a friend, only to fall into an enemy ambush. And the danger had become more awesome and obvious since the shattering of the Pica Stone had destroyed their natural imperviousness to anything other than magic.

  The last though, at least, had a solution that came partially from the staff and partially from the memories of the previous Eastern Wizards. “We need to find and help Secodon,” Shadimar said carefully. “We need to recapture the Renshai.
But first we need to protect ourselves.”

  Carcophan plotted strategy. “Trilless, I suggest you and your apprentice stay here and guard this one.” He indicated Tannin. The Renshai stirred in his bonds, the movement making his body sway. “The others will probably come back for him. Shadimar and I will tend the wolf.”

  A pitiful series of whines pierced the air, making it seem to drop in temperature. Each sound cut Shadimar, but he forced himself to tend self before companion. “I think I can come up with a spell that protects us the way surviving the Tasks of Wizardry once did.”

  Carcophan and Trilless gave their companion their full attention.

  Shadimar followed the guidance of the staff as he spoke. “It’s temporary, of course, but it ought to last through the day, at least. We can cast it again tomorrow.”

  “Let’s do it,” Carcophan said. “Show us how, and we’ll cast our own. No need for you to take all the risk.”

  Carcophan left much unsaid beneath an offer that seemed otherwise appropriate and generous. It made sense that he would want to understand the casting details so he could protect himself without needing to depend on Shadimar. It also seemed logical to share the exposure to chaos. Already, the lords of good and evil seemed certain that Shadimar had suffered too much of it.

  For an instant, Shadimar was seized by a selfish desire to keep the staff’s knowledge to himself. Once the Staff of Chaos had been wrested from Colbey and destroyed, the three forces of law would again operate in opposition: good, evil, and neutrality. Spells unshared would serve him alone. Still, he also realized that this particular ward would give him little advantage. If he found the need to battle the other Wizards, it seemed unlikely to be with nonmagical weapons. Argument would only delay the care Secodon desperately needed. Already, he could no longer hear the wolf’s cries, though he still felt its agony as his own. “Very well. Join me.” He blanked his mind, except for the direction of the staff.