Rache met the tinsmith’s murky stare with mute defiance.
“Come on.” Arvo jerked Rache toward the castle door. Docilely, his blond head low, Rache walked at Arvo’s side.
As the pair approached the doorway, one of the guards stepped forward. A grin split his thick features. “Arvo, how’s the trade?”
“Not so good as last spring.” Arvo sounded casual, but his grip on Rache’s ropes never lessened. “Is his majesty expecting me?”
“The king is taking audience in his court today. I’m sure he can fit you in. I’ll check.” The guard turned on his heel, opened the door, and disappeared inside, closing it behind him.
Arvo sighed, exchanging smiles with the remaining sentry at the door.
The guard shifted, the chains of his shirt rattling. “Into a new trade?” He inclined his head toward Rache.
Rache stood, his body a still contrast to his racing thoughts.
Arvo shook his head. “Just a gift.”
“An unwilling gift.” The guard had obviously seen the struggle that had ensued beside Arvo’s wagon.
Arvo shrugged in reply. An awkward silence ensued, broken by the other sentry’s return. He held the door open. “The king will see you now.”
Arvo ushered Rache in. The door slammed shut, and the guard escorted them down a corridor crafted of stone blocks. Some artisan had painted a repeating, boldly lined pattern in smaller squares, simulating tile. Irregularities in the sizes and shapes of stone had forced him to work the design even over the mortaring, making it appear warped and cracked. Wall sconces held unlit torches, and the semidarkness smoothed the rougher edges, adding to the illusion. Niches on either side of the hallway held finely-crafted golden vases of a Western artistry Rache did not recognize. The Renshai had no king; their leader varied depending on the task and convenience. Understanding little of castles, statecraft, and governments, Rache could not know Nordmir’s palace was a paltry imitation of the richer citadel of the West’s high king in Béarn. To him, the grandeur of Nordmir’s castle seemed staggering. It took a conscious effort to keep his attention on his enemies rather than on the furnishings. The stone felt grainy and cold beneath his bare feet.
The corridor ended at a door. The guard signaled Arvo to stop and tapped on the wood with the base of his pole arm. In response, the door swung inward, revealing a chamber. After the dullness of the corridor, the lantern-lit room seemed blinding. Rache squeezed his eyes shut. Arvo dragged him forward, halfway down a narrow, blue-carpeted aisle, before Rache’s eyes grew fully accustomed to the lighting.
Ahead, an arched array of three chairs perched on a wooden platform. The one in the center held a portly, stiff-bearded Northman in silken robes trimmed with milky white fur. A jeweled crown balanced on blond braids wound through with leather thongs. He watched Arvo’s and Rache’s approach, his lids sagging with boredom.
To the king’s left sat a younger Northman of lighter build, a sword at his side. His keen, blue eyes measured the approaching pair, his posture anything but careless. On the opposite side, a frail man slumped in his chair. He appeared unlike anyone Rache had ever seen before. Colbey sported a few white hairs at his temples, but Rache had always accepted them as a normal peculiarity, specific to his torke. The man at the king’s right hand had a headful of hair the color of snow, hacked short. Wrinkles recessed his eyes into pits, and his forehead appeared wrapped in permanent, bewildered creases. Brown patches marred the skin of his hands and cheeks, and blue veins wound, thin but visible, through brittle, yellowed flesh. Though feeble-appearing, the man still stared with ferocity through watery eyes.
Despite his plan to reveal nothing of his thoughts, Rache recoiled. Having no experience with age, he assumed the elderly figure was wasting from disease and wondered why the Nordmirians allowed the infected one so near their king. A dozen guards, each with a sword and shield, held at-ease but attentive stances around and before their king. Rache’s subconscious registered three sentries with pole arms near the door behind him, including the one who had escorted them to the court. A handful of richly dressed men and women occupied benches on either side of the aisle, though most of the seats lay empty.
Arvo stopped some distance from the closest guards. He knelt respectfully. “Your majesty.”
Caught by surprise, Rache remained standing, though the cord abraded his already bruised wrists until they bled. He bit off a cry of pain.
Arvo winced as resistance on the rope bit into his fingers, too.
The king frowned but otherwise seemed to take no notice of Rache’s disrespect. “Rise, Arvo Ranulfsson. I presume you’ve come for your usual trade?”
Arvo stood. He kept his gaze fixed on the royal presence, but stomped on Rache’s foot to show his displeasure. “I have, your majesty. Would our usual terms be agreeable, your majesty?”
Rache worked his smashed toes from under Arvo’s boot, trying to keep control of the blind fury inspired by the pain.
“They would,” the king said. “And what is this you’ve brought with you?”
Rache loathed being referred to as an object even more than he did Arvo’s insistence on calling him “boy.” He remained still, waiting for Arvo to drop his guard.
Arvo bowed his head. “Your majesty, I found this homeless child in your woods learning the trade of a thief. Better his neck in your service than stretched by the hangman’s noose.”
The king’s pale-eyed gaze rolled to Rache, though he still appeared disinterested. “Very well.” He addressed the next command randomly to his guards. “Take the boy to the slave quarters.”
One of the guards near the front shifted his shield to a companion and trotted toward Rache. He wore the usual mail shirt; and, as he moved, his sword sheath swayed at his hip. Arvo stepped aside, passing Rache’s hands to the guard who caught the rope in a lighter grip than the tinsmith’s. Without a word, the guard tugged at Rache’s hands, preparing to turn him around to face the back of the courtroom. For an instant, Rache resisted. As the guard increased pressure, Rache spun.
Suddenly, Rache was moving in the same direction as the yank. Surprise drove the guard off-balance, and Rache seized his opening. The side of his foot crashed against the guard’s knee, all of his weight behind the blow. The guard staggered with a gasp. His hands fell away from the rope. Rache sprang. He seized the guard’s hilt in his bound fists and ripped it from the sheath. The leather felt familiar and proper against his damaged hands. He whirled, whipping the blade in a wild arc to hold off enemies until he could assess their positions.
Screams and shouts rose from the nobles on the benches, and they scuttled to safety. The king’s command was lost amid the noise and the clack of swords, armor, and shields as the guards leapt toward Rache. Only one thought came to Rache: to fight his way free or die in the attempt, taking as many of the enemy with him as possible. He lunged randomly at the closest figure, Arvo, swiping high. Rache’s sword tore a lethal gash in Arvo’s neck before the tinsmith realized he was menaced. Blood splashing, Arvo fell without a sound. The injured guard rolled beneath the benches to safety.
The ropes burned Rache’s wrists with every movement. He clutched the hilt in whitened fingers, meeting the first guard with an overhead strike. The guard caught the blow on his shield and riposted. Rache back-stepped and thrust for his abdomen. The guard blocked low, knocking Rache’s sword downward, opening his upper defenses. Sword low, hands bound, Rache used the only weapon available. He drove his head into the guard’s chest.
An expression of surprise crossed the guard’s face; apparently, he did not expect such a maneuver from a child. He staggered a step backward. Rache bore in, whipping his lowered sword upward in a cut that claimed the guard’s leg above the knee.
Rache found himself surrounded by guards. He spun from side to side, slashing in a savage frenzy that kept the guards just beyond sword range. His hands ached, making the sword feel lead-weighted. Sweat plastered hair to his forehead and stung his eyes. The wild chaos o
f his strategy wore quickly. His lungs felt raw, his breaths came in a pant, and he knew he could not delay much longer. The time had come to die in the same bold glory as his people had. With a howl of triumph, Rache singled out a guard at random and plunged toward him.
The guard parried the blow, but before he could answer with a strike of his own, Rache had redirected his attack against another. This time, Rache swung high. His sword slammed against a shield, jarring his arm to the elbow. A movement to his right touched the corner of his vision. Before he could turn, a meaty hand enclosed his wrists, spinning him off his feet. He tumbled to his knees, the sword wrenched painfully from his grip. Blindly, Rache kicked, missed. The flat of a sword cracked against his skull. White-hot pain flashed through his head, and his vision disappeared. He sprawled to the floor. His thoughts scrambled, and his eyesight returned as shadowy blurs of movement through a screen of red stars. Boots stabbed his sides from both directions, jolting agony along his ribs. He screamed, struggling to roll free, but something pinned his limbs to the floor.
“That’s enough.” Though soft, the command carried, all the more effective because it was not the king who had spoken.
The kicks stopped. The guards went still.
The same voice spoke again. “Forgive me, your majesty. But he’s just a child. Sire, do you really want him beaten to death on the floor of your court?”
The murmurs of the guards made it clear the speaker was out of line, yet the king’s quiet acceptance made it equally apparent that he found the dissident valuable enough to accept a little defiance. Gradually, Rache worked his head to the side. The king sat, fingers laced thoughtfully through his beard, his gaze on the sickly-looking elder to his right. “Very well.” He addressed Rache. “Boy, you like fighting so much? You’re going to get the chance. Let’s see how you do against the other slaves who like to fight.”
“Sire?” The elder seemed alarmed by the suggestion. “You would put this child against a gladiator?”
The king’s patience appeared to be waning. “The child injured my guards and killed a visitor in my court. I want him dead!”
The cold of the stone seemed to seep through Rache. Senses muddled, he found the situation difficult to decipher, although he remembered his torke once telling him that the term “gladiator” meant fighter. The words seemed to come from a great distance and thickly, as if through water. It appeared the king wanted Rache to die in combat, while the other man opposed the idea. Though Rache preferred the king’s bent, he appreciated the moments of peace the elder had gained him.
“We all want him dead, of course, your majesty.” The aged man persisted. “But at least get some enjoyment out of it.” He made a grand gesture, his sleeve falling away from a wrinkled, freckled arm. “Make it a spectacle. If he has to die young, at least let him go out with enough showmanship and style so your people will remember it.”
“I just want him dead.” The king spoke stiffly.
Rache tried to move but managed only to twitch his fingers. He met instant resistance.
The older man’s voice dropped so low, Rache had to strain to hear it. “My lord, would you have your people believe you sanction murdering babies in public fights with gladiators?”
The king went rigid. His eyes narrowed.
The elder continued quickly. “If it was entertaining. . . .” He trailed off provocatively.
The king’s expression softened in consideration. “What’s your idea?”
The aged man tapped his fingers on his armrest. His gaze passed over the tight ring of guards to focus on Rache. His mouth bent into a cruel, tight-lipped smile. He leaned toward the king, and Rache heard nothing of the whispered exchange that followed.
* * *
Rache awakened, curled on a hard-packed earthen floor, unable to recall how he had gotten there. His last memory was of a dozen guards pinning him to the courtroom floor. His head throbbed, making thought difficult; his ribs and wrists ached. He tasted dirt.
Rache rolled, and the sudden increase in pain jarred a whimper free before he could suppress it. He lay in a cell with three solid walls and a ceiling. Bars formed the fourth wall, looking out over a path. In the distance, a forest loomed, trees swaying in the breeze, leaves and needles rattling a chorus. Twilight dribbled through the branches, making Rache aware he had slept through the night. He could not remember ever sleeping so deeply and wondered if he had been struck. The agony thrumming in the back of his head supported the possibility.
Forcing himself to a sitting position, Rache drew his hands into his lap, intending to assess the damage from the rope. But a glimmer of metal seized his attention. A manacle encircled his left wrist, held in place by a bronze rivet. A short chain trailed from it, hanging free. Blood-crusted gashes from the rope, purple bruises, and abraded skin poked from beneath the steel. Aside from the absence of a fetter, the right wrist appeared similar.
Noises came to Rache then, the soft sough of cautious, animalistic movement, creatures stirring around him. The stone walls hid them from his sight, but he guessed they were light sleepers awakened by his rolling. Humans, perhaps, whose lives depended on their instincts and split-second reactions. Fear clutched at Rache, and, finally, he lost control. He sagged to the ground, crying, lonely as death. He was no longer a blooded man of a warrior tribe, just a child lost in a world of enemies.
The sobs came harder, racking Rache’s ribs with pain. Grief seared him, and he cursed himself with angry gasps. The brave dead should be glorified, never mourned. Words he had known since infancy lost all meaning, smothered beneath a wave of grim sorrow. He gritted his teeth until his pounding head felt as if it might explode. He imagined his little sister, hacked down by Northmen laughing at the slaughter, again saw his father trampled beneath the horde and his mother’s shattered corpse dangling like a snarl of gulfweed on the reef. The image sliced deep into his memory, and he vomited with a violence that wrenched his bruised ribs into fiery anguish.
Rache scuttled away, pressing his back into a corner, hard, jamming his spine against it as if it might collapse, trying to drive the sacrilege from his mind. They’re in Valhalla. They’ve earned their reward and ultimate happiness. He was supposed to celebrate the dead, but his mind would not allow it. Regret wedged through his defenses, raising doubts about a religion that had served the Renshai and the mainland Northmen for centuries before his birth. He forced himself to forget that the act of cowardice was his mother’s, not his own. To live a coward was wretched, but it could be undone by future feats of valor. To die a coward doomed the soul to Hel. Rache buried his face in his palms, feeling ugly, empty, and hollow, scourged by his own sinful thoughts. The edge of the shackle scratched his cheek.
Another sound rose over the restive activity around him. Voices flowed along the path, and two of the king’s guardsmen came into view. They wore belted chain shirts over leather breeks. One held a spear. Otherwise, they appeared unarmed.
Rache worked to a crouch, rubbing the tears from his eyes with grimy fists.
The guards stopped before Rache’s cage. Shorter and broader than his companion, the one with the spear examined Rache through the bars. “He’s a boy.”
“I told you that.” The other plucked a ring of keys from his pocket and stabbed one into the lock.
The smaller guard leveled his spear at Rache. “I thought you meant twelve, thirteen. This one’s a child.”
The larger guard grunted a noncommittal reply. He twisted the key, and the lock snapped open.
Rache’s heart raced, but he hid fear behind a mask of defiance. He did not move, studying the guards’ every movement from habit.
The spearman persisted. “Why’s he got the one manacle on the left? Is he left-handed?”
“Who knows.” The larger guard entered the cage, and the other poked his spear through the doorway. “It’s part of the king’s plan to even the fight. They’re doing some strange thing with a horse. I’d still put my money on the gladiator.” He glanced toward
his companion.
Rache grasped the moment. He sprang for the open door.
The side of the spear crashed into Rache’s gut, driving him a step backward. He struggled for breath and balance as the larger guard seized the dangling end of the chain, deftly flicked it over Rache’s free hand, and pulled it taut. Yanked forward, Rache stumbled and fell to one knee. A thin trickle of air wheezed into his lungs. The guard looped the chain around his wrists a second time.
The maneuver was so fast and well-coordinated, the guards had obviously practiced it repeatedly. The smaller man continued speaking as if nothing had happened. “I heard the boy did some serious damage in the courtroom.”
The guard in the cage levered the chains so they could not come undone. “He caught them by surprise. A couple of lucky strikes.” He interrupted himself, his words intended as much to discourage Rache from attempting escape as to inform his companion. “The boy’s condemned to death. If he tries anything, stab him.”
Rache shivered. Gasping, he followed the guard from the cell without comment, the chains gouging into his swollen wrists.
The guards led Rache around the block of cells and across a plain to the castle. Grass pricked and tickled Rache’s bare feet, and he concentrated on this less unpleasant sensation, trying to forget his mangled wrists and the shifting pressure of metal against them. Gradually, the ground sloped downward; the back side of the palace was built on lower ground than the front. A huge, iron-embossed door stood ajar, opening into a part of the structure below ground level. The guards brought Rache through it and into a dingy, straw-lined corridor lit only by the sun glare filtering through the gap of the open door.
The hallway ended at another door. Immediately in front of it, a gaunt horse with a heavily muscled rump whipped its tail at flies. The darkness made its bay hide look almost black. A saddle perched on its back, carefully cinched. A man dressed only in a loincloth crouched to the animal’s right, facing its hindquarters, his right wrist chained to the saddle. To the left, another chain hung from the pommel. Positioned between the horse and the door, a guard gripped the animal by its halter. A sheathed longsword girded his wrist, and he held two swords in his free hand. Even in the dark and from a distance, Rache could see they were poorly crafted, the blades notched and the sparse light glittering from pocks, dents, and scratches.
The Last of the Renshai Page 5
