Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Colbey’s grin remained, fixed in place. “I believe that was Odin’s intention, yes.”

  Khitajrah and Sterrane watched intently, obviously seeing an importance to the discussion that they could only partially understand.

  Though Colbey’s title freed Mar Lon from the need to make his points in song, he apparently realized he had some duty to educate the mortals as well. He sang at the volume of his speaking voice, without musical accompaniment, the tune an obvious variation on an old Northern ballad:

  “Image this scene, all who would understand:

  A mother horse with a hoof caught in a band,

  A capering foal, at her side it does wait.

  Comes a dog craving blood, though no hunger to sate.

  “The dog wants the foal for the joy of the kill.

  The mare protects though struggle does her leg ill.

  Let’s call the horse good, for her great sacrifice;

  And call the dog evil for his bloodthirsty vice.

  “To represent law: a man, product of culture;

  And above it all hovers a chaos-warped vulture.

  The man would tame dog, take it home for a pet;

  Horse and colt plow his fields, their lot in life met.

  “The vulture would rather the other three fight:

  Man stabs dog, horse stomps man then dies of dog’s bite.

  Then feast on the flesh of all three as a treat,

  The rampant destruction of chaos complete.

  “One Wizard per force, Odin keeps our world stable.

  Each spreads and serves his cause as he is able.

  The Four in opposition should result in balance,

  Unless one should choose to dilute his vast talents.”

  His obligation met, Mar Lon returned to his more personal conversation as if he had never interrupted. “You admit it’s your god-granted destiny to champion chaos. And yet, you claim to sanction neutrality instead.”

  Colbey easily returned to his place in the discussion, only slightly put off by song in the middle of discourse. “There is no law, at least not one Odin enforces, that says a man always has to act by gods’ intentions.”

  “What are you saying?” Mar Lon’s expression and tone revealed the incredulity that also floated to Colbey in waves.

  “I’m saying Odin sees all, except into the future. His vast and lofty wisdom allows him to make reasonable predictions, of course, but he can’t know everything that is to come. By stories, that’s the one thing he strives for most and knows he can’t have.” Colbey’s smile vanished, and he twisted the gold ring on his finger absently. He understood he was treading the fine boundary of blasphemy, but past experience and knowledge of his parentage made him bold. “Surely, he set up the system of Cardinal Wizards to account for and cover all of the most likely futures. But he had no way to foresee me.” He delivered the final stroke. “In my opinion, mankind’s guardians, at least those who propose law and chaos, would serve their charges far better by working in concert to keep balance rather than struggling in opposition.”

  Mar Lon’s thoughts became so powerful, Colbey could not avoid them, even if he tried. He braced, preparing for the wrath of gods, even as he considered Colbey’s words. For millennia, the Cardinal Wizards had believed two guardians of neutrality existed only to work together to oppose good and evil. Now, it seemed clear that Odin had selected two so that they could eventually champion law and chaos. Then, he had created the Eighth Task, its specifics such that one who completed it proved himself suitable to handle his charge. But there was no corresponding task to demonstrate the worth of the other Wizard to handle the opposite force. The thought froze in place, unable to be banished, and its intensity wafting from Mar Lon’s mind pained Colbey.

  It was an idea Colbey had not considered in that manner, though he had always trusted his judgment more than that of Shadimar. The thought reminded him that Shadimar had called himself, and the previous Eastern Wizards, the least powerful of the Four. Given that knowledge, it occurred to Colbey that Odin might have intended an Eastern Wizard to succeed at the Eighth Task, knowing the Western Wizard would prove more competent. Yet that seemed no more likely than for Odin to expect a Western Wizard to succeed, with the knowledge that the strongest of Wizards would use and distribute the forces best. Perhaps, Odin saw more than even Colbey had credited.

  Mar Lon managed to free himself from his thought-lock. “Colbey, Shadimar and the others seem heavily influenced by chaos. Do you think it’s possible your attempt to champion balance instead of chaos might have sent the chaos you’re supposed to bear to them instead?”

  Colbey sorted his thoughts, surprised to find he felt more comfortable with generalities than the truth Mar Lon sought but should find for himself. “That’s one explanation. But I believe they could resist chaos if they wished it. We all make our own choices.” He changed the subject, believing he finally had Mar Lon on the right tack but not wanting to say so much that the bard could not come to the conclusions himself. To say too much would leave Mar Lon wondering whether the Western Wizard had planted lies in his mind. He addressed Khitajrah. “Why did you want to know if you and Mar Lon served the same cause?”

  Khitajrah hesitated, drawn suddenly back into a conversation that she had started, and then become a distanced spectator to rather than a participant. “Once our causes came together, he promised me a song I very much want to hear.”

  “Ellbaric’s song.” Mar Lon confirmed. Obviously, he had known what she wanted from the start. Finally, he turned the request to Sterrane. “I can’t do it justice without chords. Do you think the noise might draw unwelcome visitors?”

  The king shook his head. “Might bring welcome visitor. Might bring Ardy.”

  Colbey nodded. “Of course, he’s right. And we’d all love to hear you play.”

  Khitajrah smiled nervously, clearly glad to have won the battle, though still discomfited, either by the possible details of the song she had requested or by the suggestion that Arduwyn might come.

  Mar Lon sat, cradling the mandolin in his lap, then naturally settling his hands to the strings. Without further encouragement, he began to play, the minor chords of the introduction bringing tears to Khitajrah’s eyes long before the words began:

  “Torn from childhood,

  Thrust into war.

  Taken from farm fields

  To slog through the gore.

  “But Glory is myth

  Honor simply death

  On cold foreign fields

  He would gasp his last breath.

  “His family would say

  That their son died in vain

  They would first see just death

  Overlooking the gain.

  “He went ’cause they told him

  There was no other way;

  The enemy’s day . . .

  must end.

  He went without fanfare

  Only friends knew his name;

  He’d return without fame . . .

  In a box.

  “Yet if it meant one more man

  Would remember lost brothers

  Then chose peace over war

  It would save all the others.

  “Death should not be mourned

  Rather used as a lesson

  If he taught just one soldier

  Then his end was a blessing.

  “And if his demise brought

  Justice to any

  Celebrate his death

  For the good of the many.

  “He went ’cause they told him

  They needed his sword;

  In the name of our lord . . .

  Sheriva.

  He went without fanfare

  Hoping only to show

  That a man cannot grow . . .

  With war’s fever.

  “Yet for all his war loathing

  He would once only die

  Some might live their lives better

  If they contemplate why.

&n
bsp; “Long after he’s gone

  And his sword’s turned to rust.

  Those who cared will remember

  A child rotted to dust.

  “But live heroes’ lots fade

  As youth turns to age

  Their survival glorifies

  The wars that they wage.

  “He went ’cause they told him

  He went far from home

  Leaving only a poem . . .

  as a plea.

  He went without fanfare

  Nothing won only lost

  Too high, the cost . . .

  Of victory.”

  As the final notes rang from the mandolin strings, unaccompanied by Mar Lon’s mellow voice, even Colbey found his eyes moist. The actual words seemed unpolished and unprofessional compared to those the bards had written through the millennia, yet Mar Lon’s voice did them justice and the simple, happy tune gave the message a contrasting deep significance. Colbey recognized the obvious intention of the writer. Many would have considered him incapable of understanding the sentiment, yet he felt as sorry for the plight of nonwarriors forced to war as any.

  Colbey remembered riding across the beach at the end of the Great War, the excitement of his own wild war passion and glorious battles dwarfed by the misery of farmers who had seen and done more than their consciences could bear, who had survived when their friends and neighbors had died and knew as much guilt as relief. The Western peasants and craftsmen had mostly come of their own free will, brandishing the tools of their trade more often than the weapons needed by the warriors of their towns. Even lacking the forced command, they had known the terror of joining a war they could not hope to survive, praying that, at least, they would not die in vain. Only the childish naiveté of the poet differed from the soldiers Colbey had known, for the boy who had written Mar Lon’s song truly believed mankind might place sentiment and sorrowful memories before ongoing greed.

  Colbey drifted off to sleep recalling his plans for the last of the Renshai, that they would become soldiers for hire to fight the battles men like Ellbaric should not. Khitajrah’s crying did not disturb his rest.

  * * *

  Khitajrah dreamed of shattered families, blood, and graveyards, windswept and solitary to the point of epitomizing loneliness. She awakened with a start, night cold prickling her skin into gooseflesh and a dream-discomfort that bordered on fear sending shivers the length of her body. She forced herself to come fully awake, concerned about drifting back into the same nightmare. When her thoughts kept returning to the pictures her mind had drawn in sleep, she rose. Performing some routine action, coupled with a short, invigorating walk, might drive her thoughts on another tangent.

  As Khitajrah stood, Colbey stirred. Then, apparently recognizing the movement as harmless, he curled an arm protectively about the staff, patted his sword without opening an eye, and went back to sleep. The aristiri perched on a branch over the Renshai’s head, feathers ruffled and head sunk to its chest.

  Khitajrah headed into the woods, seeking a place to empty her bladder where neither her companions nor passersby could observe. She found a place within a few steps, shielded from the camp by a screen of briers and from the road by a line of trunks. Raising her dress, she squatted, the urine steaming slightly as it touched the cold ground.

  Khitajrah had finished when a man’s impassive voice threatened her from the foliage. “Speak me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  Startled, Khitajrah rose, instinctively straightening her skirts. An arrowhead peeked through a gap in the undergrowth lined directly at her on a drawn bow. She caught a glimpse of red hair through the greenery.

  Khitajrah’s skin washed clammy. “I—” she started, then stopped, considering her reply more carefully. Her life depended on it.

  “Be quick about it,” Arduwyn said. “The string is digging into my fingers, and I might have to let it go.”

  Gradually, Khitajrah’s scattered thoughts came together. One thing seemed certain: bold sarcasm would keep her alive longer than desperate begging. Time would bring Colbey to her rescue. “I can give you three good reasons. First, you got your horse back. I made certain of that.”

  The bow did not move. The string remained fully drawn.

  “Second, I’m truly, deeply sorry and willing to make the matter up to you in any way I can.”

  Still, the bow and arrow did not move, although Khitajrah thought she saw a strange expression taking shape on Arduwyn’s half-hidden features.

  “Third,” Khitajrah added the most salient point, “I came with good friends of yours to find you. Colbey and the king of Béarn need your help, and they believe I can help as well. We have a cause to handle, that of our friends. Our own feud, if you insist on carrying it on, can wait.”

  “Sterrane is here?”

  “Yes.”

  The arrow withdrew hesitantly. “A thief would also lie.”

  “Yes.” Khitajrah relaxed as the threat lessened. “But I’m neither anymore. I wasn’t in my right mind at the time. Again, I’m sorry.”

  Arduwyn remained in place.

  “The camp’s just back that way. Look for yourself.”

  “I know where the camp is.” Arduwyn dismissed Khitajrah’s offer. “I recognized Colbey, Mar Lon, you, and a Béarnide buried to his hair beneath the blankets. I just can’t believe it’s the king himself.”

  Khitajrah played her card. “He insisted on coming. The mission is so important.”

  Arduwyn studied Khitajrah in the shadow-dappled moonlight. She thought she saw interest as well as distrust in his expression, and the combination gave her chills. Surely, she misunderstood his intentions, and that made him fully unpredictable. “Go on, back to the camp.” He shook the bow at her. “If you’re lying, I’ll shoot you. Don’t think I won’t do it to spare my friends the sight. If I don’t trust you, I certainly don’t trust you in their presence.”

  Khitajrah could not suppress a shiver, though so many she knew said positive things about Arduwyn. She suspected he would prove the good and fair man the others believed him to be—eventually. She led him back to the campsite.

  This time, Colbey came fully awake, hand wrapped around his sword hilt from the instant Arduwyn set foot in the clearing. Mar Lon, too, came swiftly awake; and even Sterrane stirred, his shaggy scalp and one eye appearing from beneath the covers.

  Khitajrah considered jokingly claiming that she had found Arduwyn, but abandoned the quip. In his current mental state, the hunter might consider it a falsehood rather than a jest.

  As they recognized Arduwyn, all three of Khitajrah’s companions rose and smiled. Sterrane caught his friend into a welcoming embrace, and Colbey politely waited for the greeting to finish. The instant the two men parted, he caught Arduwyn’s shoulder. “My horse?”

  Arduwyn nodded sagely. “Frost Reaver. I thought so. Didn’t have any of those swishy ribbons the regular knights always wind through the manes. He’s at my camp. Tied if he hasn’t already broken the lead. He can’t stand me leaving him anywhere. Why is that?”

  Colbey dismissed the question. “Too complicated to explain. It involves magic and such, and I’ll take care of it right away. Just tell me where to find him.”

  Arduwyn’s single eye rolled past Colbey, riveting on the aristiri where it perched overhead. “There she is!”

  “What?” Colbey whirled, the others also searching for the focus of Arduwyn’s gaze.

  Without a direct answer, Arduwyn moved to the oak whose branches supported the hawk. “Beautiful.” He explained, without taking his attention from the bird for a moment. “I saw her flying and followed. Then I heard Mar Lon’s singing. That’s how I found you. I haven’t seen an aristiri in years. They’ve become so timid.” His eye narrowed, and he tore his gaze free with obvious reluctance to look briefly at Colbey. “Usually.” The single word requested explanation.

  Though concerned for Frost Reaver, Colbey obliged. He would need Arduwyn’s cooperation to find his ho
rse. “First, I hate to question your knowledge of wild animals, but the hawk’s a he. He’s stayed with me quite some time now. I’m not sure why, but his company is welcome. He’s a great guardian.” He smiled, referring to the bird’s silent acceptance of Arduwyn’s presence in the camp. “Usually.”

  “She.” Arduwyn corrected the correction. “I admit I haven’t seen many aristiri in my life, but I haven’t forgotten how to tell gender.” He demonstrated with a finger, tracing patterns in the air before the hawk. “The breast stripes go this way.” He made a vertical motion to indicate the dark bars that lined the underside of the aristiri from neck to feet. “On the males, they’re horizontal. Also, the black trim on the males’ necks forms a larger patch.”

  Colbey suffered the details quietly, knowing from what seemed like a more reliable feature that he, not Arduwyn, was right. “It sings.”

  Arduwyn squinted. “Are you sure?”

  Khitajrah nodded vigorously to confirm Colbey’s observation.

  “More beautifully than Mar Lon.”

  Now Khitajrah shook her head doubtfully. For all of the aristiri’s trills and melodies, it lacked the harmonies Mar Lon’s mandolin sounded in accompaniment; and words always added depth to a song. She did not contradict, however. Opinion was a personal thing she could not challenge or deny.

  Even faced with this evidence, Arduwyn chose to believe in rare exception rather than doubt his own knowledge. “Then you have an unusual companion indeed. A singing aristiri female. Never heard of such—”

  An animal scream of rage cut over Arduwyn’s words. A massive, white stallion thundered into the clearing, its pale eyes rolling and its nostrils flared red as blood. Its gaze went first to Arduwyn, and it took a hesitant step toward him. Then its nostrils widened further and it snuffled scents from the air. Suddenly, it whirled to face Colbey, hooves chewing divots from the mud. Another wild challenge trumpeted from its throat. Its ears pinned flat, it charged the Renshai.

  CHAPTER 28

  Willing Prisoners

  When Mitrian looked northward, the Fields of Wrath appeared as they as always did. In every other direction, however, it seemed the same and strange at once. Just a glimpse toward the south, where an unfamiliar horizon filled the area where the cottages should stand, made her dizzy to the edge of nausea. The Cardinal Wizards’ magic bothered her, in practice and in theory. She understood why they had felt they had to capture first and explain later, though she did not see the necessity. Clearly, the Wizards had had no intention of releasing the Renshai, even if Mitrian and the others chose not to go along with the plan. That seemed odd for the Eastern Wizard who had so long acted as a guardian to Mitrian and her father’s people.