“Bring him in,” the guard by the door said.
Rache lost himself to despair. Motion became automatic; the sting of the spear tip sent him forward, stumbling after the guard. He was Renshai, trained to sword skill from childhood. But even Renshai had to break practice for chores, to chop firewood and scour the fishing boats, to hunt and gather food. Gladiators had no demands other than to fight, perhaps to live and drill to fight some more. Rache was only ten years old, far from the peak of his competence. How can I possibly hope to stand against a gladiator? Death in combat did not bother Rache; it was a reward. But a death without honor was the ultimate curse, and Rache worried about dying without returning a single stroke or trampled beneath the horse’s hooves.
The guard drew Rache to the beast’s left side. Caught in a narrow lane between horse and wall, his escape cut off by a swordsman on one side and a spearman on the other, Rache allowed the unarmed guard to chain him to the saddle by his manacle. The horse’s ears flicked flat to his head, and it pawed the ground with a white-stockinged forehoof. Only then did Rache recognize the extent of his advantage that went beyond having his right hand free while the gladiator would be forced to fight left-handed. Everything done with horses was done from the left side, his side, including mounting. He wondered if the king had considered that fact when he chose the positions of the combatants. Confidence buoyed, Rache did not dare to hope too hard. The gladiator’s strength, experience, and learned desperation still made him more powerful than Rache. But it’s not over yet.
The guards exchanged silent signals. Nerves wound to coils, limbs shaking, Rache clung to the saddle’s pommel with his left hand, unable to see the gladiator over the back of the horse. The guard near the door shoved the hilt of a sword into Rache’s hand, gave the other to the gladiator, then moved aside. The familiar feel of the weapon lulled Rache. Dizziness left him, and the dull throb of his head lost all significance. Colbey’s training surfaced mechanically, and, with it, the rules of battle: “Step on his feet, gouge his eyes, kick him in the groin, bite, pull hair, spit in his face, piss on him, anything that works, do it. The victor is the one left standing at the end of combat. The honor comes not from the method of warfare, but in defeating your enemy with nothing but skill and wits and, perhaps, a sword.”
The door whisked open onto an oval-shaped arena larger than any cottage on Devil’s Island. Stone walls rose to three tiers of wooden benches half-filled with curious, Northern faces. The horse stood, rooted, in the doorway. Its ears whipped forward into excited triangles. It bugled out a whinny. Then, apparently spurred from behind, it bolted several steps into the ring.
The sudden movement all but sprawled Rache. He staggered backward as the horse froze again. The gladiator took the first strike, a wild sweep over the animal’s saddle. The crowd roared. Rache felt the horse bunch. It swung its hindquarters toward the gladiator. Arching its neck, it kicked out at the man, bucking in a circle to the right. Hand wrenched, Rache threw up his sword arm for balance and chased the horse’s revolution from necessity. Tense noise sputtered through the spectators as the battle progressed in a manner they apparently never expected.
The horse threw a kick at the gladiator. He leapt backward to avoid it, jarred to the end of his chain. Balance lost, he toppled. The horse stepped on him, rocking sideways. The gladiator screamed. Upset by the presence beneath its hooves, the horse danced back toward Rache and went still. Slammed suddenly into the horse’s side, Rache wrapped both hands around the pommel. As the gladiator unsteadily gained his feet, Rache sprang for the saddle. He hit, belly first, then scrambled astride, grip so tight on the sword its knurling left impressions on his palm.
The gladiator swore. His sword swept for Rache’s leg. Not bothering to meet the attack, Rache brought the flat of his blade whistling onto the horse’s rump. It sprang forward, the power of its leap throwing Rache backward. For an instant, the certainty of a fall touched Rache’s awareness. Desperately, he caught hold of the horse’s inky mane, resettling into his seat. The gladiator screamed again, his cry shrill over the roar of the crowd. The horse floundered over the fighter’s flailing limbs, then bucked, its momentum flinging Rache from front to back like so much flotsam. Somehow, Rache managed to cling on. Wrapping his chained arm around the beast’s neck, he leaned forward and chopped the blade down on the gladiator’s wrist. The sword bit flesh once, then again. On the third whack, the gladiator fell, free and limp, to the arena floor, his hand tumbling to the ground beside him.
The horse slowed to a trot, circling the ring in savage confusion. Suddenly it spun, racing back toward the lower entrance to the ring. A soft voice cut over the din of the audience and the patter of the horse’s hooves. “This way!” The door swung open, and Rache caught a glimpse of the ancient Northman who had sat at the king’s right hand. Then the horse charged through the doorway and down the hall. It shied around the still bodies of the guards lying in the corridor, bumping Rache from side to side, then galloped through the outer door, also, strangely, open.
The grasses of the cleared plain parted for the horse’s run. Then the forest loomed in Rache’s vision. Hoofbeats pounded behind him. They’re after me! He leaned forward in the saddle, air washing over him, the horse’s mane whipping into his eyes. The pursuit grew louder, closer behind him. Craning his neck, he glanced over his shoulder. Only one horse chased him, a long-legged black with the white-haired elder on its back. Every stride inched closed the gap between them.
Rache’s first thought was to outmaneuver the man. But as he raced toward the woods, Rache knew he would need to slow down or risk crashing his panicked mount into the trees. Besides, logic dictated that, should the king have recovered enough from shock to give chase, he would send guards not an ill and aging adviser.
“Ho! Slow down!” Rache commanded his steed. As if noticing the wall of trunks for the first time, the horse shied. Rache slid, hands clamped rigidly to its neck.
A moment later, the black cut between Rache’s mount and the forest. “This way!” the rider screamed. Not bothering to point, he galloped along the edge of the forest.
Spooked, Rache’s horse chased its fellow, oblivious to or unfamiliar with Rache’s kneed signals. Without reins, Rache found it impossible to force his will. Instead, he flattened to the beast’s pumping neck, fingers entwined in the dark snarl of mane. Ahead of him, the black horse veered into the woods. As Rache’s mount came up behind it, he saw it ran on a road lined with pine and aspen. Without a choice, he followed.
The course curled and spun, the white-haired man choosing turns and intersections without hesitation. Aside from worn pits and crevices, the road remained safe for swiftly moving hooves, and the horses did not slow. Wind tore at Rache’s grip. The mane bit like wire into his palms. Lofty branches blocked the sun into dappled shadow, and Rache lost all sense of time and direction. He felt as if he had run forever through a never-ending maze of twists and turns before his horse slackened to a canter, then a trot, and finally a walk. Yet the older man still led them on, now picking his way through clutching vines, over sparsely set underbrush and between trunks packed so close Rache had to swing his legs over the saddle to keep from getting pinched between bark and the horse’s side.
As the day wore on, Rache’s horse protested the long trip with explosive snorts and strings of grunts. And finally, when Rache was considering making some groaning noises of his own, the elder drew his mount to a halt and swung to the ground. Rache paused, watching the white-haired man untack his horse and release it to graze. Rache recognized the opportunity to escape, but exhaustion highlighted curiosity more than fear. Having come this far, Rache found it impossible to completely mistrust the elder now. Someone must have opened the arena doors and killed the guards in the corridor. His companion seemed the only likely possibility. Cautiously, Rache swung from the saddle.
Not wanting to take a chance on the animal bolting with him still chained to it, he quickly uncinched it, removed the saddle, and set it o
n a fallen log. Grasping a rock, he pounded at the brass rivet of the manacle.
“Let me help.” The old man’s voice came from closer than Rache expected.
Alarmed, Rache jumped, drawing his trapped wrist protectively to his chest. He had known the other man was nearby, of course, but he had expected him to make more noise with his approach.
The white-haired man stood within arm’s length, offering a key tucked between his fingers. Though unarmed in the king’s court, he now wore a sword in a sheath at his left hip. “Well done . . .”
Rache leapt to his feet, angling his own weapon between them.
Smiling, the stranger tossed the key.
Rache caught it in his manacled hand, without lowering his sword or his defenses. He had trusted once and been betrayed; it would not happen so easily again.
The old man finished speaking as if he had never paused, “Renshai.”
Rache choked, hating himself for the lapse. He tried to act nonchalant, but his fingers shook as he fitted the key to the lock, and he had to put aside his sword to use both hands. He kept his gaze locked on the other man, prepared to defend himself at the slightest provocation. Not wanting to damn himself with silence, Rache forced a challenge. “Why do you call me that?”
The white-haired man remained still, his expression solemn. “Because it’s what you are. It’s in your stance and your style, your bold rebellion against a king accustomed to unquestioned obedience. The Renshai sword maneuvers are unlike those of any other warrior. The trained eye can spot them in a single stroke. You are Renshai . . .”
The lock clicked. The manacle fell from Rache’s aching wrist, and he snatched up his sword again.
“. . . and so am I. My name is Episte.” He offered both hands in greeting, a gesture of peace from fingers empty of weapons.
Many thoughts crashed and tangled in Rache’s mind, a muddle of emotions Rache had neither the time nor inclination to sort. Suspicion tainted the joy of reuniting with one of his people. Episte looked unlike any Renshai he’d ever known, and Rache needed explanations. “Rache,” he said, stalling.
“Kallmir’s son,” Episte finished. “Yes, the resemblance is there. Though your defiance is more suited to your namesake. Brave warriors both, and your mother, too.”
Though intended as a compliment, the reference to his mother made Rache cringe. His resentment flowed out before he could measure his words. “You were supposed to warn us of attacks. Many Renshai died without glory.”
“All but you, Rache.” Episte’s arms fell to his sides.
Rache felt squeezed, chilled in every part. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “They all died? Or they all died without glory?” Simple semantics became the difference between honor and disgrace, a gap that spanned times and worlds, life and death.
Episte sat, his sagging skin and withered features looking monstrous on a wasted human figure. “Rache, I don’t want to bother you with politics. Only know that Northerners and their kings tend to be impulsive, enamored with war and the solutions it brings. Relations between Renshai and their neighbors have been rocky forever. I’m not certain exactly what thought or words inspired the king, but the attack was a sudden decision made without my knowledge. By the time I found out, it was too late.” His eyes rolled toward the sky as if in prayer.
Rache waited, certain Episte had not yet finished.
Episte studied Rache as if to determine whether the child could handle the news.
“I’m blooded,” Rache reminded the elder.
Episte nodded. As a man, Rache had the right to know. “The king set a bounty, paid against Renshai right ears.” He hesitated as the full effect of his disclosure sank in.
Grief ground in on Rache, suffocating in its intensity, but followed by confusion. He knew loss of a major body part would bar a warrior from Valhalla. “But is an ear a major body part?”
Rache did not realize he had spoken aloud, so Episte’s reply startled him. “I don’t know. Apparently the Northmen doubted, too, and their uncertainty kept them from mutilating their own dead. I counted. Two hundred thirteen ears came into the king’s court.” Episte winced at the memory. “I love my people, Rache. Believe that. And I know every Renshai by name, age, and description. Eight missing, and I dared to hope. Then the other reports came in: four corpses charred beyond salvaging, mostly babies, three bodies lost in the Amirannak Sea. That left only one.”
Struck with too much sorrow at once, Rache went numb. He let the sword sag.
“Probably a miscount, one dead lost in a blanket of bodies. Then you came to Nordmir. . . .”
Unable to deal with his grief, Rache turned to anger. “And you tried to kill me, too, by telling the king to put me against his fighting slave.”
Episte opened his mouth. Suddenly all color drained from his face, and he clutched at his chest.
Rache froze, uncertain what he was seeing, but frightened by the ghastly mask forming over Episte’s features.
Episte coughed, the noise a wet rattle. He hesitated several seconds, then he continued as if nothing had happened. “On the contrary, Rache. I kept him from letting the guards kill you in the court. I talked him into the horse. And I freed you from the arena.”
Rache pressed. “That horse could just as easily have trampled me as the gladiator.”
“No.” Episte glanced at the grazing bay with a wry smile. “I picked Raven. As a filly, she got clawed by a bear. Since then, she’s had a sore spot on the right, and she always bucks to that side.”
An uncomfortable hush dragged into a long silence. Not wanting to be alone with his sadness, Rache questioned. “Are you ill?”
“Yes.” Episte sat, his voice soft. “I’m older than any Renshai before me, and I haven’t a lot of years left. Those I have, I give to you. Consider it a gift.” He pointed to a spot beside him on the log, and Rache straddled it. “We’re going south, past the Granite Hills and beyond the Northern king’s realm. There are many villages in the Westlands you could serve with your sword; find one that recognizes the value of your skill, though not its source. Even there, be careful to whom you reveal your heritage. The enemies of the Renshai cover the continent, limitless, and most would see you dead. If you choose to marry, make certain the woman is faithful and close-mouthed. By our law, only full-blooded offspring are Renshai, but you’ll be the last of our people, so any child of yours is Renshai. If you have no heirs, you may teach the Renshai arts to anyone you trust, but by doing so you subject him to the wrath of our foes. Choose well, Rache.”
Rache absorbed Episte’s warning with the same superficial understanding as he had Colbey’s philosophies on war. Thoughts of the future and marriage seemed centuries distant and of no consequence. Right now, Rache had prayers to deliver and souls to mourn. He wanted to commune with gods, to have them answer as they never had before. He had to know, if not with his head then in his heart, whether missing ears and, in one case, cowardice had banned his people from heaven.
* * *
Over the next two months, Rache’s grief faded to a ragged, bitter hole in his memory. By day, Episte led them on a route characterized by diversionary loops and patterns, and, by night, he sword drilled Rache until the younger Renshai fell into sleeps as deep as the one he’d experienced in the king’s gladiator quarters. The constant travel wore on Rache, but Episte’s ruses proved effective. If the king’s guard pursued, Rache never knew it.
An aged man and a boy seemed easy prey for bandits on the wild streets of the Northern cities, but the rabble were unprepared for Renshai. Though age slowed his reactions, Episte’s skill more than compensated, and Rache improved by the day. Episte’s gold and the coinage they got for the horses kept them fed, clothed, and bought Rache a finer weapon; when that money ran out, the thieves they were forced to kill supplied them with more.
Episte made Rache a fine torke, more patient and understanding than Colbey, if less competent. With time, his movements became stiffer, slower, increasingly less coordinate
d. Frustration darkened his moist eyes, but he never took it out on Rache. He resorted less to spar and more to description. His chest-clutching episodes increased.
Then, one morning when they were halfway through the Granite Hills, Episte did not awaken. Rache pawed at his torke’s neck, finding no pulse, more horrified by a death in peaceful sleep than another man might be at the gruesome results of war. Though he knew Episte could never reach Valhalla, he set the body to pyre with all the dignity of the greatest war hero. Alone again, he cried without guilt; the manner of Episte’s death allowed it. Then, leaving one heritage behind, Rache headed south, seeking another.
By midday, Rache descended a pass through the Granite Hills and entered a different sort of forest. Broad-leafed giants intermingled with the accustomed evergreens. There was no road, but deer trails wound through the brush, and Rache followed them into an area of younger trees that signaled an end to the woods. Soon the forest broke to a village. Cottages stood in neat rows, packed-earth roads between them. Men and women traversed the lanes, and children chased one another between the homes. The clang of a hammer rose over the shrill shrieks and giggles of the children.
At the farther edge of the town rose a hill capped with larger buildings of stone. Even from a distance, Rache could see that a wall surrounded the estate on the top, although the remainder of the village sported no obvious protections from attack. Boldly, Rache wandered into the town and trotted up the main street toward the raised citadel. Though travel-stained, his tunic and breeks were whole, and his sheath swung in a place of honor at his side.
Women watched Rache from the doorways of cottages or over churns and looms. A crowd of screaming children ran from his path then returned, peering at him from behind stones, fences, and cottages, exchanging whispers and laughter. A man leaned against the door frame of a shop, wiping his hands on a bloodstained apron.
The Last of the Renshai Page 6
