This time the question did not catch Rache completely off his guard. Knowing a casual answer would prove less suspicious than a mysterious explanation, Rache responded carefully. “My mother was Ascai, my father Varlian. They courted when the two were at peace and escaped south when they turned to war.” Unless the king pressed for names and dates, it seemed a safe assumption. The status between tribes changed continually. The Vikerians’ persistent interest in his tribe bothered Rache, but he knew it was probably an innocent request. Heritage was important to Northmen, and sire’s name and tribe usually came with the first introduction. Still, he could not shake the memory of the king’s reference to a slayer. He said slayer, not executioner. Maybe I misheard him. He seems friendly enough otherwise.
Alvis and Eldir served themselves. Though hungry, Rache waited for the king to take the first bite.
King Tenja poised his fork above his meal. “While we eat, a room is being prepared for you to rest as long or as little as you want. Food and water are being gathered as well as clothing. Is there anything else you need?”
Rache already felt indebted. “No, sir-ire.” He caught himself in the middle of the word. “You’ve been more than generous, your majesty.”
The king smiled, amused by Rache’s verbal clumsiness. He started eating, and the others followed his lead. From the first bite, the wheat meal soothed Rache’s empty gut, and he had to concentrate on eating at a polite pace.
“Your horse?” the king asked.
The words reminded Rache he had taken the mount Jakot saddled for Santagithi. “Sire, it’s my leader’s favorite. If you could let me have a fresh one, Santagithi would like this one back. I brought no money, but I’m certain Santagithi would pay for any horse you give me and for whatever trouble returning his might cost.”
The king swallowed.
“. . . Sire,” Rache ended quickly, wondering if he had said too much without tacking on the title somewhere.
“We can arrange that,” King Tenja said agreeably. A brief silence followed, broken only by the clatter of forks on plates. Rache took several more bites before Tenja continued. “Captain, I think you should know about a trio of visitors I had a few days ago.”
Rache nodded as he chewed. Concern over the king’s words and formality had usurped curiosity. He had nearly forgotten the men Riodhr had alluded to in the town. “Your majesty?” Rache encouraged.
“They came from the west on horseback, three men fully armed, grim-faced, and quiet. The sentries who met them at the boundary thought they were Northmen, though they were heavily dressed for men accustomed to Northern summers and they spoke the Western Trading tongue with an accent. And they claimed no tribe.”
Rache loosed a noise of befuddled interest. Northmen tended to be fiercely loyal to their tribes and xenophobic. The Vikerians’ fascination with Rache demonstrated the rarity of Northmen living south of the Granite Hills. It made little sense for men of enough Northern blood that the Vikerian guards accepted them as Northmen to come from the West.
The king regarded Rache curiously. Then, apparently convinced Rache’s vocalization came of confusion rather than recognition, he continued. “They asked how to find you and your town. Thinking they were Northmen, my men told them. But when my men questioned them, the strangers grew belligerent. After a time, they rode off spouting something about you being Renshai . . .”
Rache’s muscles hardened to painful knots.
“. . . and us not recognizing the real enemies in our midst.” King Tenja stopped, studying Rache’s rigid form. He chuckled at the captain’s discomfort, mercifully misinterpreting it. “That was my reaction, too. Obviously, they’re enemies of yours, willing to lie to turn countries against you. What can you tell me of them?”
Though he had swallowed the food in his mouth, Rache pretended to chew until his vocal cords relaxed enough to let him speak at his normal octave. “Nothing,” he admitted, hoping his fear did not make it sound as if he was hiding information. In his uneasiness, he forgot to use titles of respect. “The only enemies I know of are the usual ones a soldier gains in war. But I’ve never fought Northmen.” It was a lie, but Rache could not fathom why any Northman would hunt him sixteen years after his last battle in the North.
The king finished the food on his plate and set aside his fork. “The more I think of the story my men told, the less I believe the strangers were Northmen. Their skin was milk white, fairer even than any of my people. They wore strange robes of black and gold and, where the robes didn’t cover, their flesh appeared wrinkled as a sea captain’s. Though young, they all had thin, sparse hair, almost brittle. From what my men said, two were blond, like us, the third had hair as white as an elder. Does this sound more familiar?”
From politeness, Rache considered, though the description sparked no memories, near or distant. “No, sire,” he said. “Though I wish it did. I like to know my enemies.” Especially ones who might know what I am. The possibility sent him into a cold sweat. Though not finished, Rache pushed his plate aside. He forced the proper amenities. “Thank you for the warning. The meal was excellent, sire. I’m grateful for that, too.”
“But tired,” the king finished for him. “I understand.” Reaching up, he knocked on the panel behind him.
I’ve wasted too much time already. I can’t let Garn get too far ahead. Rache’s mind felt fuzzed from exhaustion, dulling the threat of an unknown enemy. Garn has to sleep, too. “Thank you, sire. Yes. Please don’t let me rest long, though.”
“I understand,” the king said. Apparently, the guards had informed him of Rache’s mission.
Shortly, a servant appeared from a door beyond Rache’s vision. The man bowed to his king.
King Tenja pointed to the cart by Rache’s seat. “Please take our guest to his room. Give him whatever he needs.”
Rache scuttled back into the cart as gracefully as his handicap allowed, and the servant wheeled him through the door from which he had emerged, through a library, down a short corridor and into a bedchamber that consisted only of an alcove and a pallet. Rache crawled into bed without removing his sword belt.
The servant covered Rache with a blanket of fur. “If you need anything, lord, tap on the wall behind you. Someone will come.”
The “lord” made Rache uncomfortable. Even his followers called him by his name rather than his military title. “Thank you.” On a whim, he added, “Sir.”
Flushing at the unexpected title, the servant slipped from the room. The door clicked closed.
Doubts converged on Rache now, but he shuffled them aside. There would be plenty of time to worry about a trio of white enemies while he rode. For now, sleep took precedence.
* * *
Rache jolted awake with a suddenness that could only have come from an unexpected noise or presence. Without opening his eyes, he edged his hand toward his hilt beneath the coverlet.
“You’ve no need of the sword.” The male voice sounded uncomfortably close and held a trace of menace.
Not reassured, Rache seized the hilt and sat up. He met a pair of crisp blue eyes above a hawklike nose. The face was middle-aged and unfamiliar, framed by blond braids. A broadsword dangled in a sheath at his hip. “Who are you?” Rache demanded.
A slight smile played over the man’s lips; he seemed amused but not insulted or surprised by Rache’s caution. “My name is Kirin. The Vikerians call me Valr.” He studied Rache with a predator’s intensity.
“Valr,” Rache repeated. Slayer. So this is who King Tenja meant. Still uncertain of the Northman’s intentions and unable to know whether Kirin had earned his nickname, Rache worded his reply in an ambiguous manner. “A title worthy of a warrior.”
Again, Valr Kirin smiled, but his features never lost their dangerous severity. “And one you might deserve too, Rache. Your soldiers boast of you often. Any captain whose men forget he’s crippled must have great skill. A cripple whose king will entrust his daughter’s life to him and him alone. . . .” Kirin lowered hi
s head in admiration. “I stand in the presence of a legend.”
Twice, Valr Kirin had made mention of Rache’s disability, yet he had done so with a matter-of-factness that stung less than Riodhr’s anxious staring. Rache released his hilt and threw aside the bear pelt covering him. “I have to leave as soon as possible.” He had awakened abruptly enough to shake the burden sleep leaves even after a long rest. He had arrived in Vikerin at dawn, and he guessed it might now be midday.
Valr Kirin reached into the cart at Rache’s bedside, pulled out a clean, wool shirt, and passed it to the Renshai. “A fresh horse, equipped and stocked, awaits you. I’ll escort you outside.”
The coarse weave of the shirt scratched Rache’s hands, but he donned it without complaint. It would serve him well when night brought dropping temperatures and ice-grained winds. “Thank you.” Rache glanced at the cart, not liking the idea of leaving himself defenseless as he maneuvered himself inside it nor of putting himself in Kirin’s hands. The Slayer seemed gracious enough, but Rache could not shake the memory of awakening suddenly in the Northman’s presence.
Kirin shifted toward Rache, apparently misinterpreting hesitation as a plea for help.
Rache skittered into the cart before Valr Kirin could raise a hand. To Rache, a battle sprawled in a cart seemed preferable to accepting physical aid.
Kirin’s features twisted into a strange expression, another smile hardened by ferocity. He opened the door. Gripping the cart by its drawing tongue, he maneuvered it back the way Rache had come. “It seems unfair that a man with a disability should have to battle not only his confidence, his injury, and his enemies, but his friends as well.”
Rache flushed, scarcely noticing the painted walls, the fireplaces, or the doors Kirin opened in a series. The words struck home. “How do you know so much about crippled soldiers?”
Valr Kirin rolled the cart into the antechamber. Again he left Rache and stood before doors, this time the ones to the outside. But instead of opening them, Kirin turned to face the Renshai. “My brother, Peusen, lost an arm in battle . . .” The Slayer made a cutting motion at the level of his right elbow. “. . . but continued to fight.”
Peusen’s injury went far beyond Rache’s crippling. Having lost a major body part, he could never reach Valhalla, no matter how bravely he fought. Rache cringed at the thought of living with that knowledge. If Peusen had been Renshai, his friends would have seen to it that he never left the battle alive, even if it meant cutting him down themselves. But Rache knew other Northmen might react differently. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.
Valr Kirin slammed a fist against the outer doors. The panel held firm against the blow, but the sound echoed through the antechamber. “Before his injury, Peusen was an officer in the high king’s army, and a good one, too. Suddenly, the same men who trusted him with their safety, their very souls, the lives of their wives and children. . . .” He trailed off, his face now contorted in anger. “Suddenly, those same men didn’t trust him to lace his own damned shirt!”
The doors rattled open, pulled ajar by guards on the outside who had apparently misinterpreted Kirin’s blow as a signal.
“Piss,” Kirin added. “Men are stupid.” He seized the tongue of Rache’s cart and worked it roughly through the door frame. Wood scratched wood, shearing a line of paint from the cart.
Rache suffered the manhandling of his cart in silence, but curiosity goaded him to press his host further. “What happened to your brother?” The cart bounced across the courtyard beneath a gray sky and air tinged with the clean odor of coming rain. Shortly, Rache noticed a well-proportioned, dark brown chestnut tied to the gate. My horse, he guessed.
“I tried to help.” Valr Kirin fondled his sword hilt, then, becoming aware of his own violent but unconscious gesture, he added quickly, “I talked to the men. My meddling only made Peusen feel more helpless.” Kirin drew the cart up to the horse’s left side. Dropping the bars, he circled the animal, still talking. “People tend to believe a crippled man loses his hearing, too. Or maybe they don’t feel a cripple is man enough to matter.” Kirin unbuckled the horse’s cinch, tugged it tighter, and fitted it back into place. He tossed the leather straps Rache had used to tie his legs.
Rache caught the bindings, tucked them into his belt and waited for Kirin to finish.
“Driven to the edge of madness, Peusen left Nordmir. He claimed he would find every handicapped, injured, aging, or exiled soldier and forge them into the deadliest fighting unit in the world.” Valr Kirin returned to the cart side. “Then he’d find the bloodiest, damned war this world has ever seen and humble the fools who drove his men away.”
Rache caught the stirrup, and clambered up the side flap, using the saddle crest for support. “Interesting.” He considered as he fought his way into the saddle. “Noble, even, in a way. Did he succeed?”
Behind Rache, Valr Kirin made some gesture the Renshai could not see. “I don’t know. He went years ago, and I haven’t heard anything since. If nothing else, he must have left the Northlands.”
Rache settled into his seat and plucked the straps from his belt. Behind him, a canvas bundle held the supplies the Vikerians had packed for him. The waterskin he had brought from Santagithi’s Town was tied on top of it, refilled. “He must have gone West, then.” He glanced at Kirin, who nodded.
“And died there.”
Rache wound the strap around his right leg, lips bunching into a frown. “Now who’s underestimating your brother?”
Valr Kirin froze, obviously catching the full effect of Rache’s words. “Well spoken, Captain.”
Tying off the right leg, Rache started on his left. “Doubtless, he’s preparing whatever men he found for the Great War between the Eastlands and Westlands.” Rache’s mind filled with doubts. How many crippled soldiers can there be, and how would anyone go about mustering them? He imagined an entire troop of twisted, gouty, gasping soldiers and flinched at the picture. His revulsion raised guilt. Here I am having the exact reaction that disgusts me when it’s trained on my defect. “I believe King Tenja will be sending someone to return Santagithi’s horse. Do you speak the Western Trading tongue?”
Kirin moved the cart away from the horse. “Yes.”
“If you want to see Peusen again, befriend Santagithi. I’m certain he’d be glad to have you among his soldiers at the Great War.” Realizing he had forgotten to untie the horse before mounting, Rache sighed. The idea of wasting time climbing down and back up again rankled, especially without the extra altitude of the cart. “I’ve never known a Northern warrior who didn’t leap at a chance to go to war.”
Valr Kirin stood, deep in thought. “You know Northmen. Quick to war for honor and glory, but less so for some other race’s problems. The Great War doesn’t involve the North.”
Rache shrugged, eager to be on his way before Garn put too much distance between them. He felt certain Garn could only have followed the Northern edge of the Granite Hills westward. Possibly, he was following passes in the mountains which would slow him.
“I’m not a Vikerian.” Valr Kirin seemed oblivious to Rache’s haste. “I’m Nordmirian, a lieutenant in the high king’s army.” He glanced behind him, then spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Vikerians are as tough and brave as weasels and almost as smart. King Tenja requested a strategist from the high king. I needed to get away from the men who mistrusted Peusen, so I was sent.” Casually, Kirin worked at the knot that held the horse’s bridle to the gate.
Relieved, Rache listened, impressed by the Slayer’s titles. Lieutenant placed Kirin only one step below his king in the strongest army of the Northlands.
“I was sent to organize a band of fools, and I can’t forsake that duty.” Kirin considered aloud. “But maybe I can make an alliance between your king and Tenja. Then the entire tribe could go to the Great War.” The hitch came free. Kirin looped the reins over the horse’s ears.
Rache accepted the reins with a smile. Perhaps I’m a better diplomat th
an I thought. “Thank you.”
With a nod to a soldier stationed outside the gate, Valr Kirin wrenched open the metal doors for Rache. But he remained standing between the horse and freedom. The clouds bunched tightly, obscuring the sun. “Rache,” the Slayer said. “I believe all Northmen are brothers. If we could stop these stupid skirmishes between tribes, the North would become an unbeatable power. I’m sorry minor offenses drove your parents from the North and left you without a home. If the tales of you are true, Captain, I would be proud to claim you as kin.”
“Thank you,” Rache said again, wondering who had sung his praises to Valr Kirin.
Kirin rested a hand on Rache’s leg, though the sword master could not feel the touch. “Friend, can we join hands as blood? Should your path lead you back to the North, you have a brother among the tribe of Nordmir.”
Rache stared. He could think of no higher commendation. “I would be honored.”
Rain pelted the Northmen as they reached for one another. When their fingers met, the Slayer spoke. “I would have welcomed your sword beside me in the tainted battle that saw the end of the devils known as Renshai.”
Rache’s blood ran cold as the viselike grip of Valr Kirin closed about his hand. A flash of lightning split the heavens, accompanied by a boom of thunder so loud it seemed to crack the heavens.
“A sign!” cried Valr Kirin. “Thor the Thunderer sanctions this union.”
Rache found a different message, not from Thor, but from his golden-haired wife who was goddess of Renshai.
PART II
PREPARATIONS
CHAPTER 9
An Act of Defiance
Night drifted by in a gray blur of passing stone, and Mitrian ceased to notice the front of the saddle grinding into her spine at the end of every beat. The regular motion of the horse, Garn’s close warmth, and the clap of hooves on stone became familiar. His lengthy silences seemed stranger, but she appreciated the time they gave her to think. She considered her father’s casual cruelty, the single order that had stolen all that seemed important in her life, leaving no possibility for compromise. The memory raised an anger so hot even night’s chill could not dispel it. She relived her conversation with Rache, and her mind added an animosity to the sword master’s tone that went far beyond strangled frustration and exhaustion. He claimed to be like a brother. I believed I understood him well. Yet what did I really know about him? What did anyone ever really know about Rache?
The Last of the Renshai Page 24
