Rache slammed a fist onto his knee, the force enough to overcome the strength in his thigh. Grip lost, his leg dangled for the instant it took to reestablish the hold. Another howl twisted from Rache’s lips. In his fury, he wanted to leap down from the horse, draw his sword, and chop his nearly useless legs into pieces. Or to turn back and challenge the entire town of Dvaulir, slashing in blind fury until they hacked him down. But Rache maintained enough of a hold on reality to recognize the foolishness of either plan, aware he would need to regain control of his battlelike frenzy before he could make intelligent decisions. It come to him suddenly that he was utterly, fully alone.
Gradually, uncontrolled rage eased to a hurt that seemed to penetrate Rache. Santagithi’s betrayal wounded him more deeply than any physical injury, an aching scar in an ego that had thrived on a loyalty so fierce he had pledged not just his life but his soul to the cause of Santagithi’s Town. And this is the faith I get in return. Rache realized how useless a soldier he would make to a general who could not put trust in his abilities. I’m of no further use to Santagithi, ever, but for myself I will do this thing: I will kill Garn. I will return Mitrian, and then. . . .
Rache’s original thought was to find a glorious way to die, but it faded nearly as swiftly as it rose, and no thought replaced it. Eventually, he realized where his commitment lay. I have to find Colbey. He won’t treat me differently because of my legs. Beneath Colbey’s quiet perfection beat a heart devoid of mercy, a man so cruel at times that he shocked even the other Renshai, a race known for rampant slaughter and demoralizing opponents in war. Colbey knows there’s no quarter in battle. You fight your best or you die. My enemies won’t pity me. He thought back to his fight with the assassins, the many aches that followed him from that confrontation still a shrill reminder of their using his handicap against him. And Colbey won’t pity me either.
The idea soothed. All anger drained from him, leaving only the throbbing of his many wounds and the deeper pain of Santagithi’s mistrust.
Rache rode onward.
CHAPTER 13
The Golden-Haired Devils from the North
Colbey could remember to the day when the madness had struck him. Called to the westernmost peaks of the Weathered Mountains by the Western Wizard, Tokar, Colbey had answered the summons quietly and without formality. Centuries ago, the Renshai had promised to supply their best warrior when Tokar deemed the time had come; and as fiercely loyal as the Renshai were to war and Valhalla, they held their vows equally sacred.
Tokar had indicated no need for urgency. Colbey recalled dawdling in his travels through Westlands he had not seen since his childhood when he’d roved in the midst of a wild band of conquerors. It took him a year to reach the mountain cave that served as Tokar’s home. Only then did he discover that the Northmen had decimated Devil’s Island and, according to Tokar, every Renshai but Colbey had died.
Now, as Colbey rushed through the mountain passes with Garn, Mitrian, and Arduwyn, grief pressed him again at the memory. Dead. All of them dead. At one time, Colbey had used the remembrance to inspire himself to fits of rage, but too many years had passed for the words to sting any longer. He glanced at Mitrian. Tokar named me as the only survivor, and I never questioned. But there has to be at least one more. Colbey picked his way over the ledges, more agile than any of his younger companions. He studied Mitrian, aware she could not have more than half Northern blood, and he doubted she bore that much. She’s not bred of Renshai which means whoever taught her also believed he or she was the last of our line.
Colbey never knew whether the horror of his people’s deaths had opened him to the insanity or whether to attribute it to the shock of interfering with a Wizards’ ceremony no mortal should have seen. The memory came easily, terrifyingly vivid, his only wholly clear thought in the last decade and a half. He recalled a lush valley deep in the Weathered Mountains. The sky stretching between the peaks held the colors of a rainbow. Streaks of pale light threaded through the clouds like lightning. Tokar stood, sick and frail, racked with an illness he would not let Colbey treat with herbs. Despite that, the Wizard’s aura was one of utter tranquillity.
Colbey recalled another man called Haim, aged by mortal years, yet a child compared with the centuries-old Wizard to whom he was apprenticed. Haim sat on a nearby rock, wringing his hands, as Tokar chanted words Colbey could not understand, though the voice sounded deep and rhythmical, almost sacred. The Wizard raised his left hand and a dark globe winked to life before him. It writhed like a living thing, contorting to a figure Colbey recognized as Mana-garmr, the wolf destined to extinguish the sun with the blood of men at the gods’ final battle. Colbey never understood how he knew which wolf the Wizard’s image represented. His gaze fixed on Tokar’s right arm where a silver sphere appeared beside the image in black. This fashioned more slowly into the likeness of Baldur, most beautiful of the Northern gods.
Colbey remembered how the images had faded, fusing to a ball of grayness that floated upward, disappearing among the clouds. As it joined the glaring colors of the sky, streaks of crimson slid from the heavens to assume the shape of fiery men. Colbey caught his breath at a painful rush of memory. Without thinking, he had sprung to pull Tokar from the path of creatures he would never have believed real until that moment.
“Colbey, no!” Again the words rang in Colbey’s ears. He had never known who shouted the warning, but it came too late. He seized the Wizard’s shoulder, and pain seared his hand, shocking through his body in a wild explosion of agony. Now, hurrying through the passes of the Granite Hills, Colbey stiffened at the memory. In his life, he had felt the edge of many weapons: sword, spear, arrow, whip. Axes had sliced him to the bone. Yet, he would gladly have reexperienced any or all over what had come with that touch. Always before he had fought through pain, maddened to a frenzy by it. But this time, the seconds to oblivion had dragged like hours. And with it came the madness.
Colbey’s next five years had passed in a druglike stupor. In his moments of lucidity, Colbey recalled setting the bodies of Tokar and his apprentice to pyre and deciding repeatedly to attack every tribe in the Northlands until one cut him down, to die before the insanity overtook him completely. But always the madness enveloped him, stunning him with voices of men and women who existed only in his mind and with concepts he could not quite grasp. Always, Colbey wound up back at the Western Wizard’s cave, awakening amidst a wild chorus of birdsong and uncertain how he had gotten there.
Only then had Colbey gained the strength to battle his affliction with the same savagery he used in war. Unaccustomed to fighting with anything but his sword, Colbey needed time to master the technique. His will rose, smothering the strangers’ commands, grappling them into his control, driving and pounding them from his consciousness. And, gradually, Colbey was winning that battle. One by one, the voices had disappeared, shattered into the same oblivion they inflicted upon Colbey.
Yet Colbey still suffered the aftereffects of his psychosis. A single voice still whispered courses of action he should take, ones that often went against his intentions; its compulsion was strong, sometimes overpowering. At times, he discovered a stray thought that seemed to come from people around him. At first, he had dismissed them as part of the madness. But whenever he spoke the captured thought aloud, he found the same stunned look of incredulity, one that told him he had caught the other’s thread of thought verbatim. And sometimes he knew things he should not with a certainty that could not be disputed.
It was one of the latter situations that bothered Colbey now. Inextricably, something drew him south and westward toward the farm towns that dotted the flatter lands of the West. And since none of his companions complained, Colbey gave in to the compulsion. The direction of their travel made no other difference to the Renshai. He had more important matters on his mind than to struggle against an internal force that sent him along a logical, reasonable course.
For some time, Colbey and his new companions traveled in silenc
e. Garn seemed perfectly willing to race through the passes without conversation or a specific destination, as if this was his normal mode of travel. Mitrian appeared dazed by what could only have been her first kill. Of them all, only Arduwyn glanced about nervously as if he wanted to ask questions but did not dare.
As the sun sank deeper toward the western horizon, the smallest man in the group finally gathered the courage to speak. “Is it likely we’re being chased?”
Uncertain, Colbey gave no reply.
Mitrian or Garn must have given Arduwyn a nonverbal affirmation, because he passed his donkey’s reins to Mitrian and continued. “I’ll double back and see what I can find. If I see anyone, I’ll try to get to you first with a warning. At the least, I can erase some of our tracks. When it gets dark, camp. I’ll catch up to you.” He slipped into a hillside glade before anyone bothered to answer.
Colbey, Mitrian, and Garn pushed on until the sun disappeared, leaving a star-studded sky and a pale crescent of moon. “Camp?” Colbey suggested, and the others nodded raggedly. “Garn, why don’t you pick out some rations from the supplies Arduwyn brought.” He indicated the pack strapped to the donkey’s back. “Mitrian, we need to talk.” Colbey patted a rock outcropping, sat, and waited for Mitrian to approach.
Hesitantly, Mitrian came over, but she chose to stand before Colbey rather than sit beside him.
Mitrian’s caution amused Colbey. The idea of harming her seemed ludicrous, but, had he chosen to attack anyway, a kill would take a single stroke. “I am Renshai.”
Mitrian nodded without meeting Colbey’s gaze.
From Mitrian’s reaction, Colbey knew that her knowledge of her adopted heritage was less than that of most strangers. Garn rummaged through the pack, apparently unimpressed and even more ignorant about Renshai than Mitrian. “Do you understand what that means?”
Mitrian fidgeted, apparently grappling with her thoughts. “It’s a warrior tribe from the North that follows the goddess, Sif. I know a few of its tenets.”
Colbey noted the use of the term “know” rather than “understand” or “follow.” He drew a knee to his chest, watching Mitrian for clues to her mood. “Are you aware that you, too, are Renshai?”
Colbey’s words seemed to break through Mitrian’s trance. She stiffened. Her hand fell lightly to her sword hilt as if seeking solace from the touch rather than preparing to attack or defend. “No,” she said. Then, apparently realizing she had answered only the superficial aspect of the question, she qualified. “I mean, I’m not Renshai. There’s no question about my parentage or my parents’ parentage.” She paused, considering. “My father has some Northern blood, but not a lot.”
Most of the Westerners who had some Northern blood were descended from Renshai conquerors, but Colbey saw no reason to point this out. Bloodline was of no consequence. “What makes a Renshai is not kinship, but a single-minded devotion to swordcraft. Whoever taught you those war maneuvers made you one of us as surely as if he was your father.”
Mitrian cocked her head, as if listening to someone else besides Colbey. For a moment, both Renshai seemed to share another kinship, one of imagined voices and madness. Then the woman turned her attention back to Colbey. “That’s absurd.”
“That’s not absurd, it’s truth. When you learned the sword techniques, you learned one of the two most important aspects that bond us as a tribe.” Colbey kept the second to himself, not believing Mitrian was yet prepared to accept the Renshai’s savage, glorious eagerness to die in battle, usually by early adulthood. “You also acquired all of the Renshai enemies, enemies that span the world. Sixteen years ago, the other Northmen nearly exterminated our tribe. Merely identifying us as Renshai was considered ample reason for cold-blooded murder.” Colbey sneered at the thought that the Northmen had not found the slaughter simple. Surely, they lost three or four warriors for every Renshai. Images rose to Colbey’s mind, women hacking huge fur- and chain-protected Northmen to their deaths, weaponless toddlers biting attackers, distracting the Northmen while their Renshai parents seized the openings to slice off enemy heads. “The way I see it, if you have the same sword skill and the same enemies, you’re the same tribe.”
Mitrian opened her mouth to speak, but Colbey interrupted, not wanting to deal with insignificant questions when so much of importance needed to be said. “Tell me the name of the Renshai who taught you.”
Mitrian backed away, her face crinkled in suspicion. “You told me everyone hates Renshai. Now you’re asking for names. How do I know you’re really not one of his enemies?”
Garn extracted a few handfuls of carefully wrapped traveling rations, set them aside and started relacing the pack. Earlier, he had seemed to ignore the conversation, but now he tensed.
Colbey kept his gaze between them, in a position where he could assess both of his new companions. “Good. I’m glad you’re starting to think. With all the enemies you now have, you can’t afford to trust strangers.” He focused in on Mitrian. “No Northman would claim to be Renshai if he wasn’t, especially in a crowded tavern. You saw the result.”
Mitrian chewed her lip, hand still light on her sword hilt. Again, she seemed to be listening to voices other than Colbey’s. At least partially satisfied by Colbey’s claim, she answered hesitantly. “His name is Rache.”
Garn lowered his head. Bronze-colored hair fell into his face, obscuring his expression, but the low growl he loosed made visual impressions unnecessary.
Colbey remembered a ten-year-old, eager as all Renshai and average in ability. The picture that formed in Colbey’s mind was not of a child but of the adult that child had become. Though Colbey had not seen Rache in sixteen years, the image came easily: a handsome face framed by soft, blond hair, a slim but well-defined frame, and the Renshai’s combination of natural and learned agility. The younger Renshai lay still on the rocks, his limbs limp and his blue eyes glazed.
Horror stole over Colbey. Nonspecific as the warning seemed, Colbey read it accurately: If Rache and I meet again, he will die. Understanding accompanied the vision, but details did not. Colbey could not imagine killing one of his own, especially one far more suited to recreating the tribe. Younger and certainly capable of fathering children, unlike me. Even in his youth, Colbey had found himself unable to impregnate a woman, though not from lack of trying. If Mitrian is to survive the coming war, I have to complete her training. Then, I have no choice but to die in battle before Rache and I can meet.
The decision came easily, the means less so. Renshai believed each battle brought them one step closer to Valhalla. But, for Colbey, the opposite seemed to be true. Every battle honed war skills that already made the next most capable warrior seem a child, brought him one leap closer to perfection. From infancy, Colbey had striven to become the best swordsman in existence. But the reality of success had placed him in a situation he could never hope to win. To lose his life in anything but daring combat would condemn him to Hel’s ice, but no opponent could stand long against Colbey’s competence. He seemed fated to die damned by age and illness, incapable of finding the death in battle he had sought since birth. And to give anything short of his best in war would doom him as surely as withering in a sickbed.
Suddenly realizing Mitrian and Garn were staring at him, Colbey wrenched free of his thoughts. Annoyed at being caught with his mind wandering, Colbey did not choose his words with proper care. “Rache did a poor job of training you, girl. You learned enough to be recognized by your enemies but not enough to stand against them.”
Mitrian’s face reddened, and she sprang to Rache’s defense. “Rache’s the best warrior I’ve ever known! He taught my father’s guards, and he did a damned fine job. It’s not Rache’s fault my father wouldn’t let him—”
Colbey interrupted. “I’m not blaming Rache. I only had the opportunity to teach him until he was ten years old. But think about this: If you learn everything I can teach you and everything I should have taught Rache, when I die, you’ll become the best swordsman
in the world.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in, then struck the final blow. “And you’ll need that skill and every bit of Garn’s strength to protect your son.”
Mitrian’s expression had become increasingly one of startlement, beginning with Colbey’s claim to have trained Rache. But it was the last word that sent her jaw sagging. “Son?” she managed at last. “What son? I don’t have a son. I’m not going to have a son for a long time.”
The word “son” had slipped out, inspired by the final voice haunting Colbey. He had not meant to speak it, but now that he had, there was no longer any doubt. “I’m not sure how I know, but you’re carrying a son right now. The ‘long time’ you mentioned is measured in months.”
“But that’s impossible.” Despite the certainty of her statement, Mitrian clenched her hands in agitation. “I’ve only once . . . I mean, we just. . . .”
“You did enough.” Colbey stated fact without considering its effect on Mitrian and Garn. To Colbey, the child symbolized a new beginning for a tribe he had believed lost, and he found it difficult to temper his joy with the realization that his companions might not share it.
Apparently believing he had missed something that would seem obvious to men accustomed to pregnant women, Garn stared at Mitrian.
Mitrian still seemed to be in shock. She did not even blink.
Always before, Colbey had read minds by accident, an occasional strong thought radiating to him when he bothered to wonder what another was thinking. Now Colbey recognized Mitrian’s mixture of confusion and abject terror. She seemed certain the entire world had collapsed around her. Just the image of what Colbey claimed as truth sent her thoughts into chaotic flight: she had ruined her bloodline, she could never find a husband, the news would kill her mother and drive her father into a fit of violent rage. Threaded between these ideas ran a single observation that made no sense to Colbey: an act of defiance.
The Last of the Renshai Page 33
