Mitrian remained calm, shadowing all doubts from her thoughts, though she could not banish them fully. Renshai shunned gimmicks and advantages that did not directly stem from personal skill, including the crudest armor. But her training was still incomplete, and the sword could compensate for that weakness. She kept her thoughts well-hidden: There’s more at stake than just whether I find Valhalla. Can the West afford to leave behind the only magic sword in any world?
You can’t do that! The demon repeated, obviously frustrated by a search that seemed to affirm that Mitrian could and would do precisely what she threatened.
The emanations of demon emotion swayed Mitrian back to her original purpose. The West can’t afford to have one of its best warriors struggling against her own sword. She allowed this idea to move freely to the surface of her thoughts.
Mitrian, please. A hint of desperation entered the demon’s communication. This is the greatest battle of all time. No Renshai, whole or otherwise, should have to miss it.
Mitrian released her inner struggle, watching long banks of infantry split around her. Absently, she traced the wolf’s muzzle carved into her hilt. You’re the one who forced me to make a decision between us. If I keep you, I lose all chance to fight the way a Renshai should, spurred by my own battle rage and hope. If I leave you, you lose that chance. She stood, still allowing the sword to hang. Ignoring the curious stares of Peusen’s soldiers, she continued her silent conversation. Since you’re already damned to Hel, and I can still reach Valhalla, it only makes sense that, if one of us has to stay behind, it’s you.
You’re patronizing me! The cold arrogance returned, and the soul in the gems seemed shocked.
Probably. Spurred by new confidence instilled by experience, Mitrian did not dispute. But there is only one compromise.
I can go if I don’t allow my battle frenzy to interfere with yours.
Nor with my strategy.
Silence.
Or I’ll throw you down and stomp you into the battlefield.
The demon’s quiet deepened, now liberally laced with resentment.
Mitrian waited for a reply, patient as a mother. Less so, her bay mare pawed the ground with a white forehoof, showering her boots with dust.
That’s the way you want it? The demon seemed distant.
That’s the only way we both go to war.
A wordless noise filled Mitrian’s consciousness, a strong demon sigh. Can I suggest Renshai maneuvers?
Mitrian considered the compromise. You can suggest anything. There’s still much I can learn from you.
The indignation disappeared, replaced by passive, if grudging, acceptance.
Mitrian stuffed the sword back into its sheath, mounted and kicked her horse toward the cavalry, harboring no delusions. She knew she would fight many more battles, even before the war began.
* * *
The soldiers from Iaplege arrived on the Western Plains early that evening. Despite their handicaps, they faded into the teeming mass of preparing soldiers, each man too concerned about his own part in the war to worry about his neighbor . . . yet. The air rasped with a ceaseless chorus of steel against whetstone. Hushed conversations blended to a hum that dwarfed the night insects. Tension coiled over the camp like a cougar poised to spring on its prey.
At the farthest edge of the camp, Mitrian caught Garn’s arm. “Wait here. I need to find my father and talk to him about us.”
Garn’s arm hardened beneath her touch, but he gave no other sign of rage or unease. His animal-green gaze revealed nothing.
“I know it’s hard, but I need you to put your bitterness aside. Whatever evil has passed between the two of you no longer matters. You have a common enemy now.”
Garn spoke with controlled strength. “Santagithi could never make a slave of me again. Siderin could.” His eyes blazed. “My son will never know whips and chains. Never.” He looked at Mitrian, but his focus seemed far beyond her. “I hated only two of the guards. Nantel is dead, and I no longer want to fight Rache.” Wheeling his white gelding, he rode into the press of soldiers.
Awed and pleased by Garn’s restraint, Mitrian sent her horse toward the center of the massed warriors. Grass tickled her knees, and the mare’s hooves sank into the dull mud beneath it. Her weaving horse did not disturb the sanctity of men praying to their various gods for victory and weighted by thoughts of the consequences of failure. Mitrian recognized many armies by their mail: the steel-studded leather of her father’s guards, the Pudarians in smooth black leather or bronze scales, and the glare of plates and rings on officers. Scattered like scars among the war-trained, she saw farmers in ragged homespun, men desperate to defend their land if only with forks, shovels, and fierce determination.
Most of the men bore the brown-eyed, olive-toned features of Westerners, though Mitrian occasionally glimpsed a pale Northman and even a few swarthy Easterners who had abandoned their homes years before and joined the civilizations of the West. She recognized the silver- and black-spiraled pendants of Santagithi’s followers and the falcons engraved on Pudarian shields. But the banner bearers waved flags graced with a gray wolf, the new symbol of a unified West.
A voice rose above the din of battle preparations. “Mitrian?”
Mitrian whirled toward the call.
A man trotted through the crowd toward her. He wore the garb of Santagithi’s guards, and blond curls fell to his shoulders. His torso appeared as well-muscled as Rache’s and tapered to legs nearly as frail. Hope glimmered in his pale eyes.
Mitrian hesitated, trying to put a name to a visage that no longer seemed familiar. Listar? The proud soldier bore little resemblance to the awkward youth who had shared her mother’s picnic lunches. Could this be the blacksmith’s peaceful son?
Before Mitrian could question, shouts knifed the stillness. Santagithi’s deep cry rose above the others. Mitrian buried her heels into her horse’s ribs, reining it about. The beast twisted, rearing. Warriors scattered, opening a space for its plummeting hooves. Dropping to all fours, the horse broke into a canter, pounding around men and stacked pieces of armor and weaponry.
Shortly, Mitrian rode down upon a ring of enraged men in studded leather. Sterrane stood just outside, one hand clamped tightly to his face. Blood trickled between his fingers.
Horrified, Mitrian rode toward Sterrane.
Closer, Santagithi burst from the gathering crowd of onlookers. He had left his breastplate at his campsite and wore a chain-link shirt. Silver streaked his blond hair, and his cheeks had hollowed, but otherwise he looked exactly as Mitrian remembered. She could not hear his words, but they slapped men aside like physical blows. He gathered Sterrane to his chest.
Shocked, Mitrian slowed her horse to a walk. Before she could make sense of her father’s actions, she caught a glimpse of Garn through a gap in the guards. Inside the ring, the ex-gladiator made wary circles, head snapping about to watch the surrounding men. A spear slithered toward him. He beat it aside, then whirled to meet three swords at his back.
“No!” Mitrian plunged toward Garn. The horse’s shoulder knocked one guard to his knees, breathless. Others scuttled from her path. “Leave him alone! Don’t hurt Garn! Damn you to Hel, leave my husband alone!”
In the wake of Mitrian’s words, a murmur swept the guards, and she found a clear path to Garn’s side. As he caught her saddle and swung up behind it, she dared a glance toward Santagithi. Sterrane had disappeared, and Santagithi stood alone, frozen in place. The general’s face had gone deathly pale. His lips formed a bloodless line.
“That can’t be Mitrian,” one guard wondered aloud, his voice rising clearly over whispered speculation.
The blond youth who had approached Mitrian earlier replied, “It is. She has the sword I forged for her.”
The guards edged forward, neatly closing the circle. Mitrian’s mount trembled into a half rear, all but dumping Garn to the dirt.
“Fools! Stand where you are.” Rache’s command boomed over the ensuing c
onfusion.
The soldiers obeyed, though several jerked their heads in Rache’s direction; and voices rose to a wild roar. The Renshai’s massive black stallion wove through the masses with the grace and ease of a cat. He drew up at Mitrian’s side.
“Don’t you have enough enemies without creating more?” Though low, Rache’s voice dwarfed the myriad conversations erupting between Santagithi’s guards. “Why didn’t you just send Siderin a written invitation to your idiocy? He could have heard you pack of yowling curs back in his royal city.”
The voices died to silence. Wind ruffled the soldiers’ locks and leather jerkins, but they stood, unmoving.
Mitrian glanced at her father to find him staring at her with an expression so mixed she did not dare to try to decipher it. She smiled, giving him a shy wave, and immediately regretted it. Under the circumstances, the gesture seemed a mockery.
Rache continued, his gaze sweeping every man in the circle. “Garn is a free man now, unless the Easterners enslave him, along with us, your wives, and your children. Right now, I’d choose his sword arm over all of yours together. At least I know he won’t draw enemies to my camp.”
An older guard shouted from the throng. “With Garn beside you, what need would you have for enemies?”
Rache swiveled his head toward the speaker, fixing an icy stare on the elder. “I am still your captain, Nito. If the West wasn’t in such dire need of soldiers, I’d take you aside and remind you why.”
The chastised guard blanched and quietly retreated into the crowd.
Though he still addressed Nito, Rache glanced over every soldier as he spoke. “Garn and I can fight our own battles. If I can forgive him, I see no right or reason for any of you to hold a grudge.” Rache’s attention jerked suddenly to Santagithi, as if granting his general the privilege he had denied the others. “At the least, you should offer Garn the respect due the husband of your leader’s daughter and the father of your leader’s grandson.”
Mitrian watched her father’s lips part, then clip closed without any words escaping. Her mare shifted uneasily, snuffling at Rache’s horse. The stallion remained still as a statue.
Rache’s words drew the guards’ attention to Santagithi, where he waited, beside Sterrane, at the fringes of the crowd. The general appeared unsteady, as pale as milk, and Mitrian feared he might collapse. He met her gaze over the heads of his guards.
This time, Mitrian gave him a somber but encouraging nod.
Santagithi cleared his throat. The noise emerged strangely, startling for his previous silence. Color returned to his features. When he spoke, his voice held its usual resonance. “Jakot will lead the cavalry. Rache, your charge is infantry. I’m placing Mitrian and Garn as subcaptains, directly under your command.” His gaze never left Rache, but he paused, as if to leave his men an opening to challenge the promotion of the armies’ newest recruits over its senior members. When no one did, he finished in the same forceful tone. “Captain, I need to talk with you in private.” He tossed a meaningful glance to Mitrian to indicate he wanted some time alone with her, too, in a less official capacity. “The rest of you are dismissed.”
Mitrian held her breath. Despite their skill, neither she nor Garn had any command experience. Why would my father do such a thing? Why would he put his men in danger?
Rache steered his horse through the muttering, dispersing throng to his leader’s side. The two men headed deeper into camp.
Garn placed his hands on Mitrian’s hips. She caught his wrists absently, her thoughts fixed on the exchange. She had always known her father to react with logic before emotion, yet she dared not believe her marriage to Garn had left him unaffected. He wouldn’t show it to his soldiers, but he’s hurting. And I’m the only one who can comfort him. As her tension lessened, new thoughts surfaced, and with them an explanation for her father’s behavior. Usually, he would have put Rache in sole command. This way, Rache’s still in charge. Promoting Garn and me below him doesn’t change that. But my father did defuse a potentially disastrous situation, made it clear to his soldiers that he trusts Garn, and so should they, and showed that he has faith in my judgment and Rache’s decisions. Once confused by Santagithi’s decision, now Mitrian admired it. With one proclamation, he managed to appease everyone. No wonder he’s the West’s prime strategist. She pointed over the readying soldiers to a grassy knoll darkened by the growing shadows of evening. “We’ll sleep there. I’ll meet you. For now, I have to explain things to my father.”
Garn said nothing, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
Sliding from her saddle, Mitrian headed after Rache and Santagithi.
* * *
Garn slept, oblivious to the familiar swish of steel against whetstone and the rhythmical shrill of night insects, higher-pitched than those he had known as a gladiator. These sounds did not awaken him, nor did the chill and darkness that enwrapped him like a blanket. But a softer, closer noise did.
Instantly alert, Garn sprang to his feet, freeing his sword in the same motion. A pale glimmer of metal reflected in the moonlight, a blade whipping toward him. He slashed at it, meeting firm resistance. The ringing crash of steel disappeared amidst the battle preparations, and his sword locked with another. A curly-haired stranger confronted Garn through the block, dressed in Santagithi’s silver and black.
“I have no feud with you,” Garn said, though he had killed many men with whom he had no feud. He pressed.
The youth spoke through gritted teeth. “Mitrian was mine. You stole her. And, for that, slave, I’m going to kill you.”
Anger soured Garn’s throat. Fury bucked against the same stiff control he used to break horseshoes. “I don’t even know your name. But I do know we’re part of the same army.” Garn retreated slightly, then slammed into the block hard enough to throw his antagonist’s sword free. He struck a defensive pose. “One or both of us may die in the coming battle, but we may take Easterners with us. If you still feel we have cause to fight when the war is won, I’ll gladly kill you then.”
“You do know my name, Garn.” The youth stepped back, lowering his blade. “It’s Listar. As a child, I watched you slaughter a friend and saw another slip into insanity to escape the pain of that same memory.”
Garn vaguely recalled the blacksmith’s son, from the time before survival had become a daily struggle. That childhood taste of freedom had only made his captivity more bitter.
“If you survive the war, I’m the one who’ll send you to the pits of Hel.” Whirling on his heel, Listar strode into the darkness.
Garn watched the muscled form disappear into night’s darkness. “You’re too late,” he murmured dully. “I’ve already been there.”
CHAPTER 26
The Flagstone Tomb
Rache’s stallion glided like a shadow past sprawled soldiers while Santagithi strode at its side. Neither man spoke, yet the silence between them hung, heavy with potential and need. Rache scarcely steered, letting the horse choose their course, afraid to open his mouth for fear he might offend Santagithi and ruin any chance at reconciliation—if he had not done so already. By announcing Mitrian and Garn’s relationship in front of Santagithi’s followers, he had backed his general into a tight corner. Santagithi’s expression had made it clear that though Nantel’s men, whom he’d seen among the troops, had returned with the story of the trial in Pudar they’d not had the courage to give their leader the news of Mitrian’s marriage. For Garn’s sake, Rache had needed to make an announcement sudden enough to divert the guards’ attention; but shocking Santagithi in public had seemed unnecessary to the point of cruelty.
Santagithi stopped at the fringes of the Western camp, near a hill covered with low, twisted herbs whose spice smell perfumed the plains.
Rache drew up Bein, then loosened the reins to allow the horse to graze.
Unbroken, the silence dragged into darkness. Rache studied the crescent of moon, his thoughts shifting to flashing steel, splashed blood, and death screams. This w
ar would provide the chance for so many brave warriors to live or die in glory.
Santagithi placed a hand on Rache’s leg.
The Renshai met his gaze, respectfully allowing his general to speak first.
“Rache, I’ve missed you sorely. And not just for your competence as a weapon master.” Santagithi tapped Rache’s calf several times, then squeezed amicably. “You’re everything I would have wanted my son to be.”
Rache stared, uncertain how to respond. Never before had a battlefield served as a place for sentiment. Surely Santagithi would not have wanted his son crippled, but this did not seem the time to raise bitter issues.
“I don’t often admit I’m wrong.” Santagithi paused thoughtfully. “In fact, I don’t think I ever have. . . .”
Now, Rache grinned, needing to break a mood that was becoming uncomfortably maudlin. “You don’t think you’ve ever admitted it? Or you don’t think you’ve ever been wrong?”
Santagithi chuckled. “Either.” Then, his face lapsed back into solemnity. “I’m sorry, Rache. I made a mistake. In fact, I made several. All of them in the way I treated you. I can’t undo them. But I can apologize and hope that’s enough.”
“More than enough, sir.” Rache caught Santagithi’s wrist in a callused hand, unconsciously gripping it like a sword. “I never made anything easy for you. I guess neither of your ‘children’ did.”
Santagithi smiled briefly. Now it was his turn to contemplate the moon. “I had no right to command you to lead my infantry. Do you think Peusen would relieve you of your duties to fight for me again?” His tone grew cautious, and he kept his attention locked on the sky, as if it might hurt him to see Rache’s reaction. “Would you even want him to do that?”
Rache thought of the one-handed Northman’s dedication to proving his men’s value, gaining respect for them, and returning all his outcast soldiers to their former troops. “I think Peusen would be thrilled. I suspect that’s what he wanted all along.” Rache released Santagithi’s hand. “As for me, well, I guess I can put up with you one more time.” He tried to hide a tight-lipped smile.
The Last of the Renshai Page 62
