Triumphantly, Mitrian turned her blade over to her teacher. Rache admired it with stern respect. “I commend you. It must have taken days with a very fine stone to hone the edge this sharp without a mark.” Reluctantly, he returned the sword, only then noticing the artistry of its hilt. “Skilled craftsmanship, too. Who made it?”
“Listar,” Mitrian answered without emotion. “The blacksmith’s son.” Her words seemed to send her into deep thought. But before Rache could question her, he found himself surrounded by students begging to know which weapon to take to war or to confirm the quality of the ones they had chosen.
Rache fell into the quiet, familiar pattern of instruction. For several moments he tangled with concerns about the newest additions to Iaplege’s army. No matter her weapons training, Mitrian had no experience or understanding of real war. Garn might find himself equally unprepared. The pit matches had only taught him to defeat a single opponent; accosted by enemies from all directions, Garn might panic. Sterrane, too, had never fought in a war, and the thought of risking the prince of Béarn rankled. I may not be the hero of the Great War, but I’ll have my hands full of responsibilities. Perhaps my mother truly saw something no one else did.
Welcoming the fine tremor of excitement that war always inspired, Rache turned his attention back to his students.
Part III
THE GREAT WAR
Chapter 25
Beneath the Banner of the Wolf
Nearly seven hundred and fifty Iaplegian soldiers threaded through the passes of the Southern Weathered Mountains, joined on the second day by three Pudarian scouts. The mismatched band of renegades wore no uniforms nor crests and carried no standard, but they rode and marched with a somber unity that revealed the intensity of their training and their loyalty to their leaders. Though a part of the brigade, Mitrian could not help feeling impressed. Cripples and exiles approached the war with their eyes bright and their heads high.
A gap in the clouds spilled sunlight over chains, links, and scales of bronze and steel. Some of the soldiers wore leather armor, or street garb like Sterrane and Garn. Many carried shields of rich design, while others sported only simple, wooden helmets. Mounted on his black charger, Rache rode near the lead of the cavalry, dressed in a dark leather tunic and breeks that would neither hamper his movements nor foil an enemy sword stroke. He perched with the same regal alertness that Mitrian recognized from her father’s forays. Neither time nor repetition dulled the keen edge of excitement that accompanied imminent battle. Several ranks back, Garn conversed casually with one of the Pudarians, a friend from his days as a guard. Arduwyn rode toward the back, among the archers.
Mitrian envied the men’s composure. She felt overwhelmed, twitchy, frightened, awed, and excited at once. So many times, she had imagined herself riding at Rache’s side, at the lead of a troop of soldiers. Yet the reality of sweat, chafing leather, and blood-sucking insects turned the images to foolish reverie. She could not help glancing at the warriors around her, wondering which ones would survive and which would lie, bloody and mangled, on the Western Plains, mourned briefly, then forgotten for the concerns of the living.
In his rallying speech, General Peusen Raskogsson had made it clear that, should King Siderin win the war, the dead might have the enviable position. Still, without a glimpse of Siderin’s army, the war seemed as distant as the legends Mitrian had heard since infancy. Her mind could not grasp visions of her father’s town decimated and overrun by swarthy soldiers, forests striped with the blood of friends and family, her mother, beaten and submissive, a toy in a stranger’s bed.
So Mitrian turned her thoughts to closer problems. Garn and Rache seemed to have settled their feud, each now busy with war plans. Yet Mitrian dared not become complacent. A lifetime of hatred does not disappear in a day. She thought of Garn, of the coiled rage that always swelled to the forefront at the mere mention of Rache’s name, and of how near Garn had come to hurting her when she had suggested calling Kinesthe for Santagithi. Much as she wanted Garn and Rache to be friends, she knew their new relationship was as tenuous as a poorly stitched wound. And what will happen when my father sees Garn?
Needing to assess the situation as well as to clear her thoughts, Mitrian rode up beside one of the Pudarian scouts, a slender blond named Glomhar. “How soon do we reach the main camp?”
The Pudarian flashed a toothy smile. “This evening, missy.”
“How do things seem there?”
Glomhar looked Mitrian over, apparently uncertain how to respond to her question. “You mean at the camp?”
Mitrian nodded, specifically wanting information about her father, yet unsure how to ask for it.
“Tense,” Glomhar said. “They think Siderin’s on his way. But last I heard, no one had actually spotted him.” Glomhar glanced around suspiciously, as if revealing a secret. “He’s a demon, you know.”
“I’d heard that.” Mitrian tried to keep her tone serious, though she no longer believed the legend.
“Our generals are in conference about him all the time. I don’t envy them the need to plan strategy against a demon.”
I don’t envy them the need to plan strategy against anyone. Mitrian tried to imagine making decisions that affected thousands of lives directly and tens of thousands more indirectly, including soldiers’ relatives and friends. She concentrated on the opening Glomhar had given her. “Generals?” She placed emphasis on the plural. “How many generals do we have?”
“Four at the camp. Plus your man.” Glomhar gestured in the direction of Peusen. Taking one hand from the reins, he counted through the list. “There’s King Gasir of Pudar. He’s got the largest army, of course. About four thousand soldiers.” He extended two fingers. “Then, there’s this Northman named Colbey, who came down from the Northern Weathered Mountains. He roused the farm towns and joined them with Pudar. Colbey answers to King Gasir, so I don’t know as I’d call him a general. But he does attend the strategy sessions, and he outranks the king’s lieutenants.”
Mitrian smiled, pleased but not surprised to know she would soon see Colbey again and that he had swiftly worked his way to a position of command.
Glomhar flicked out a third finger, pinning his smallest digit to his palm with a double-jointed thumb. “From farther east, there’s the master strategist, Santagithi.”
“Master strategist?” Mitrian blurted in surprise.
Glomhar stared, biting off his identification of the final general to address Mitrian’s question. “A talented and experienced leader,” he defended Santagithi. “Do you think otherwise?”
“No,” Mitrian covered quickly. “I just never thought a city as large and organized as Pudar would have so much knowledge and respect for the general of a tiny town.”
Glomhar’s face puckered into a frown. “Santagithi may only command six hundred men, but they’re competent and eager. And, right now, that’s the third largest army we have.”
Glomhar’s revelation shocked Mitrian. “Santagithi’s army large? What about the great kingdom of Béarn? Isn’t it the largest after Pudar? Even I’ve heard of the king’s knights in Erythane. And what about the Northmen? I thought they loved war.”
Wry amusement colored Glomhar’s face. “There’s a single tribe of Northmen here. Vikerians, they call themselves, led by a king name Tenja and his captain, Valr Kirin.” Glomhar slurred title and name together so it sounded like “Vawlkeerin.” “There’s maybe two hundred fifty of them. Came with Santagithi.”
Mitrian frowned, unable to recall any dealings between her father and Northmen.
Glomhar continued. “Morhane’s ruled Béarn nearly twenty years now. He’s as evil as Siderin.” He spat, as if to get the taste of the name from his mouth. “Some few Erythanians might join Pudar’s army, but the king’s knights have become little more than Morhane’s personal pawns.”
Mitrian did some mental arithmetic. “We have about five to six thousand men.” The number seemed staggering. “How can Siderin ho
pe to stand against that?”
Glomhar shook his head. “Santagithi’s guessing the Easterners will outnumber us by half again or double.”
Mitrian’s expression wilted to a frown.
“And they’re all organized to a single chain of command while our army is piecemeal. There’s a lot of potential for clashing personalities on our side, especially with three Northmen among the five generals.” Glomhar shook his head sadly. “Us Westerners are used to banding together, what with driving off Renshai and preparing for the Easterners and all. But Northmen have enough trouble just getting along with one another.”
Mitrian’s scowl deepened. She knew little of war and its varying mentalities, but it seemed obvious that the scout’s pessimism could not help morale. Her hand fell to her mount’s withers, and she massaged her sword hilt absently.
The demon’s presence swelled to sudden life. A fierce storm of violence and desire rushed through Mitrian. Swords glittered through her vision in a silver and red dance of glory. A vast, foreign eagerness seized her, a craving for the dense reek of blood, the battle savagery that overwhelmed thought, fear, and pain, and the artful chime of sword against sword. Death retreated to a distant abstraction, somehow unrelated and unimportant.
Glomhar shied from the strange mask of cruelty that twisted Mitrian’s features. Wheeling his horse, he rode off to speak with other soldiers.
Mitrian’s fingers slipped from the sword’s grip. Instantly, the war lust disappeared, leaving her a troubled but well-trained woman amid a sea of avid warriors. She reached for the haft again, this time tentatively, trying to convey the need for rational conversation.
But the demon’s excitement threw her into a maelstrom of ruthless pleasure she could not resist. Her hand tightened around the leather, and she tore the blade from its sheath, oblivious to the abrupt, surprised retreat of those soldiers nearest to her. In her mind, armored men rushed down upon her, grimy swords and axes notched from battle. She met them with a wild net of thrust and parry, a brilliant series of Renshai maneuvers tailored to each attack. Though Mitrian’s arm formed each kata, the strategy came from without. The initiation of each cut arose not from her but from the demon in the gems. The honor was his alone.
Suddenly, one attacker ducked through Mitrian’s guard. His sword crashed against hers, driving pain through her hands. Torn from her grip, the sword arced through air.
Once freed of the demon’s influence, Mitrian recognized Rache in front of her, mounted on his black charger. He snatched her sword from mid-flight, catching it by the hilt. “What the hell are you doing?” Anger etched his youthfully handsome features.
Mitrian lowered her head, trying to separate reality from demon’s images and to regain her composure.
Apparently mistaking her silence for apology, Rache softened. “I know you don’t have any combat experience, but march formation is not the place for practice. You’re part of a team now. Except when we’re camped and at ease, you need to stay with your unit and obey the orders of your commander. And don’t do anything that might distract or harm your companions.” With a curt gesture, he flipped Mitrian’s sword, neatly catching the flat of the blade. He offered it back to her.
Hesitantly, Mitrian reached for the hilt. She accepted it into a grip too meek to hold cloth.
Rache released his hold. The sword plummeted to the dirt.
Mitrian watched Rache’s gaze follow the route of her sword, saw him stiffen in surprised discomfort. His head jerked up, blue eyes probing, as if uncertain whether to chastise her incaution or seek penance for dishonoring her weapon.
Guessing the cause of Rache’s uneasiness, Mitrian placed the blame where it belonged. “It’s my fault. I’m having some trouble getting a feel for the sword.” She sprang from the saddle, studying Rache to delay retrieving her weapon.
“Mitrian, are you certain you want to go to this war?”
Mitrian opened her mouth to protest, but Rache cut her short.
“There’s no shame in withdrawing before the enemy arrives. If you feel you aren’t ready, I’d rather you stayed behind than endanger the warriors under my command.”
“I’m ready,” Mitrian replied with a blandness that covered building anger. “I trained under two of the most skilled sword masters in the world.” Though quiet, Mitrian hurled the compliment with the vehemence of an insult. “Whose teachings are you doubting? Yours or Colbey’s?”
Trapped neatly, Rache responded without time for thought. “Well, neither. I mean. . . .”
Mitrian bore in, venting on Rache her annoyance at the demon and her frustration at her inability to control its imagings. “You mean you doubt my skill.”
“Not your skill,” Rache said quickly. “Just your experience.”
“Well, how do you expect me to gain experience if I don’t go to war?”
Rache sighed, tearing his gaze from Mitrian and her sword to look out over the troops that were now splitting to pass around their conversation. “Border skirmishes. Forays. When you learn to ride, you don’t start with the wildest horse in the stable.”
“I do if it’s the only horse in the stable.” Mitrian knelt, as if to pick up her sword. But she stopped with her hand still several fingers’ breadth from the hilt. “Besides, it’s not the same thing. The worst a horse could do is kill me. Siderin could torture, enslave, and butcher everyone and everything I ever loved. The West can’t afford to leave any soldier behind.” Mitrian dropped modesty to make her point. “Especially ones with my talent.”
Rache laughed. “I see self-doubt isn’t your weakness.”
“My weakness is this sword.” Mitrian drew determination from Rache’s bold presence. “If you’ll let me have a few moments alone, I think I can handle it.”
Mitrian knew that, as a Renshai, Rache had to understand the strange bond between soldier and sword. Though he could not know the scope of her dilemma, he accepted her partial explanation with ease. “Very well.” He reined his horse about and returned to the main body of the cavalry.
Mitrian sighed heavily. Filling her thoughts with warning, she touched a gem with her finger, trying to send a message rather than receive it. No images! She withdrew, feeling the warm wash of violence swell and disappear. Carefully, she brushed a topaz again. Settle down and just talk . . . As warmth tingled through her, Mitrian whipped her hand away. A war vision rose, broken as abruptly as the contact. She waited until her thoughts settled back to normal before tapping the gem again. . . . or, I’ll leave you in the dirt and take another sword!
Battle wrath died, replaced by outrage. The demon’s presence seethed into Mitrian. You can’t do that! I’ve waited centuries for this moment! Shadimar gave me to you for a reason.
Mitrian played her advantage. A reason I no longer have. You were to help me understand Renshai, to guide me to become one.
And you still have much to learn.
I have Colbey and Rache to teach me.
Colbey is an old man, Rache a cripple.
And you’re a demon.
The soul in the gems did not dispute semantics. I can’t die. Long after the others are gone, I can teach you. And your children.
Mitrian considered. Many thoughts converged on her at once. She recalled a day in Shadimar’s ruins, more dream than reality and less than a year ago, though it seemed more like a decade. Her own bold words, spoken then, now echoed through her mind: “Let me live my life, not have it displayed like a rich man’s feast . . . Right or wrong, I’ll believe my life is a consequence of chance and the things I’ve done.” Now, emboldened by Colbey’s training, she addressed the demon. I appreciate your lessons, but I have no use for your battle lust nor your skill. I deserve the chance to live or die by my own hand. I didn’t labor to become Renshai only to have a sword wield me.
Wield you? I have no wish to wield you. All I want is to hear the savage bell of swordplay, to feel the excitement that turns blood to fire in the veins. I want . . .
“To find Valhalla,�
� Mitrian finished softly.
Startlement shifted through Mitrian’s mind, but the soul in the gems said nothing more.
Mitrian pressed. That’s what you want, isn’t it? A chance to die in glory and go to Valhalla. But your chance is gone. Your future is set. You died on a sickbed, and you will go to Hel—
Stop! His presence lost its cool edge. For the first time, the soul in the gems sounded unsteady.
The Wizard’s magic only gained you time to ponder that fate, to make it more frightening. As understanding blossomed, Mitrian bore in ruthlessly. But you’re dead already. All that your overwhelming excitement can accomplish is to damn me to Hel as well.
No! The demon’s presence loomed like a shout, as if he needed to convince himself as well as Mitrian. That’s not it at all. You’re Renshai. You’re my student. I wouldn’t wish Hel on anyone, least of all you. I just want you to fight your finest battle. For yourself. What harm if I live that glory with you?
Frustration goaded Mitrian to shout, but she settled for a heavy mental focusing. Live it with me? Or live it for me ? There’s no joy in someone else’s battle. The fever burns hottest when the blood lust in my veins is my own. Without the chance for cowardice, courage has no meaning. Without courage, I can’t find Valhalla. Would you damn one of the last Renshai to Hel for a few moments of personal glory ?
You don’t understand.
Mitrian rose to a crouch, clutching the hilt between two fingers and letting the blade dangle. Perhaps not, but neither do you. And I’m going to make myself clear. Here. Now. There’s a battle ahead. I’m going to need all my wits about me just to die with dignity and honor. I can’t have a sword fogging my mind with its own savagery. She plowed the tip of the blade into the ground, cutting a sharp line through dirt. I’m going to war. You’re staying here, buried deeply, where no one can accidentally find you and fall prey to your illusions.
What! The soul in the gems radiated shock, rage, and fear in a tense boil of emotions. Mitrian felt the demon’s essence flail through her thoughts, apparently assessing the sincerity of her threat. You can’t do that!
The Last of the Renshai Page 61
