Despite the joke, Santagithi remained grave. “If not for the sword skill you taught her, Mitrian would be dead. I wish things had turned out differently, but if she’s happy with . . .” He winced despite his bold words. “. . . with Garn, how can I be otherwise? I might as well admit it now. I always hoped you and Mitrian. . . .” He let the observation hang.
“No,” Rache said softly, finally becoming serious himself. “I can’t explain it. Not now. But it would have been wrong for me to marry. And wronger still to sire children.”
Santagithi stiffened. “Rache, there’s something I need to tell you about Emerald.”
She’s married, Rache guessed. The thought thrilled him. Loving me was nothing but pain for her. She deserves all the happiness a good and loyal husband can give her. Sensing Santagithi’s discomfort, Rache rescued his general. “And there are things I need to tell you as well. But first, don’t you want to know about your grandson?”
“There really is a child?” Santagithi met Rache’s gaze, guarded hope clear on his features. “A boy? Does he look like Mitrian . . .?” He trailed off, his implication obvious.
“No.”
Santagithi did not look away, but the flicker of disappointment in his eyes did not escape Rache’s notice.
“Actually, I hear he’s the perfect image of his grandfather.”
A grin crept across Santagithi’s lips, arrested suddenly into a stiff grimace. “Which grandfather?”
Rache drew out the pause, letting Santagithi sweat for no better reason than cruel amusement. “You, of course.” He added playfully, “Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?”
“How would you like to have to follow in the footsteps of a petty, iron-handed, stone-headed leader who never recognized the value of the best captain he ever had.” He smiled broadly to make it clear that he was teasing.
Santagithi’s grip went painfully tight on Rache’s calf.
Rache laughed. “I’ve got little enough feeling in that leg. Are you planning to tear it off?”
“And beat you to death with it, you Northie bastard.”
“Really? Well, I’ll just wait here until you gather the twelve other generals you’d need to do it.”
“Twelve other. . . .” The expression of feigned offense on Santagithi’s face would remain indelibly inscribed on Rache’s memory. “All right. I’ve obviously spent too many words praising your skill. Now it’s time to teach you some respect.” Santagithi’s hand whipped from Rache’s leg to his own sword hilt, and he whisked the blade free. “Draw, captain. I’m going to spar you into the mud.”
“Perfect,” Rache said, sarcasm thickening his tone. “I’m with you sixteen years, and you wait until I’m crippled to test your talents against mine.” As quickly as he spoke the words, Rache cursed himself. Why did I have to raise the one issue that put a barrier between us ? His hands fell naturally to his swords, then balled to white fists around the hilts.
“Because,” Santagithi said, without missing a cue, “I’m a damned competent strategist.” He lunged, jabbing for Rache’s abdomen with a full commitment.
The general’s gibe dispelled the last shred of emotional tension. Rache drew and blocked, catching Santagithi’s blade in a double cross. He laughed, twisting to disarm.
But Santagithi spun his sword in the direction of Rache’s momentum, drawing it from the block and rescuing his grip. He riposted with an underhand sweep.
Rache parried easily.
A voice rose over the chime of clashing steel. The newcomer spoke the Western trading tongue with a musical Northern accent. “Excellent strategy, lord. Kill off two of the West’s most competent soldiers before the war begins.”
Rache whirled toward the voice without lowering his guard. Santagithi back-stepped and turned.
A brawny Northman waited in the night shadows, his war braids luminescent in the moonlight. Blue eyes sparkled coldly above a familiar, hawklike nose.
“Valr Kirin.” Rache smiled. “Your brother . . .”
“Is here,” Kirin finished abruptly. “Just as you said he would be, yes. I’ve spoken with him.” His rudeness seemed uncharacteristic, and it cued Rache that the Slayer had more important matters to relay. “One of our scouts located Siderin’s army.”
Santagithi sheathed his sword. All humor left him. “Where?”
“They’re camped south of here, on the Western Plains, in a quarry.”
“A quarry?” Santagithi’s brow furrowed, then a tense smile twitched across his features. “Siderin must have expected to catch us unprepared. Obviously, he chose that camp for discretion, not defense. Probably, he planned on sneaking his army across the barren plains and taking our cities one by one. That mistake will cost him.”
The sound of a footfall drew Rache’s attention, though Santagithi and Valr Kirin seemed oblivious. A man as tall and thin as a willow branch wandered into the moonlight, a wolf padding at his heels. Shadimar? Rache stared, incredulous. Despite the significance of the war to himself and the West, he had never expected a Wizard’s involvement. At least not directly.
Kirin nodded, acknowledging Santagithi’s observation. “King Tenja hopes we can surround them and launch a surprise attack.”
“That may give us the edge we need to win this war.” Santagithi’s features puckered in concentration. “But we’re not going to be able to sneak in an army without rousing them. At least not unless we eliminate their scouts and sentries first.”
Rache gave the Wizard an abbreviated gesture of acknowledgment.
The Wizard responded with a slight nod.
Valr Kirin spoke gently, as if in apology. “We’d hoped you’d have an idea for how to clear the sentries.”
Santagithi considered in silence. “Damn,” he muttered at length, continuing in a soft monotone that implied he was thinking aloud. “What we need is a team of assassins, a pair would work. At least one would have to be a mountain man, and both would need to shoot a crossbow with perfect aim.” He addressed Kirin directly. “Don’t we have any Béarnides at all?”
“Not among the Vikerians, for certain, sir. Peusen probably has a few, but I don’t think he’d have any among the archers. Béarn breeds the largest men I’ve known, and they tend toward huge weapons and strong-arm tactics.”
Santagithi sighed. “I’ve got a few soldiers who probably have Béarnian blood, but not one who’s seen, let alone climbed, a mountain craggier than the Granite Hills. Any Béarnides in King Gasir’s army will probably have the same fault.”
The Eastern Wizard waited quietly, so Rache turned his attention back to his general. “I can’t help with the mountain man problem, but if you’re looking for a stealthy, expert marksman, I do have a suggestion.”
Both leaders eyed Rache hopefully.
“Among Iaplege’s archers there’s a small Erythanian, a redhead called Arduwyn. He tracked me across the entire Western world without my knowledge, then shot down an enemy from a distance I wouldn’t have believed possible. I’ve only ever seen him use longbow. But Nantel used to say that a good longbowman had to shoot crossbow with both eyes closed just to have a challenge.”
Darkness shrouded Santagithi’s expression, but his stance seemed pensive. “Kirin, see if you can find this Erythanian. Find out if he or anyone else knows a mountain man who can shoot. We’ll meet for conference at the usual site as soon as you can gather everyone. We’re going to have to work fast.”
Without bothering to acknowledge the command, Valr Kirin rushed off into the darkness.
A thought seeped into Rache’s mind, and, though it bothered him, it would not be banished. “Sir, Arduwyn has a close friend who fits your description perfectly. But I don’t think it’s going to please you. I know I don’t like the idea.”
“Be specific,” Santagithi said, never one to stall for amenities during a strategy session.
“Ster—”
“No!” Santagithi’s reply came so quickly, it cut off the second syllable of Rache’s
suggestion. He lowered his voice. “I’m not using the heir to Béarn’s throne as a common assassin. He shouldn’t even be here.”
Rache raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying he fits the description. I’m not suggesting anything.”
“But I am,” the Eastern Wizard said with a quiet certainty that held the authority of a shout. “If Sterrane is the best warrior for the task, then he should go.”
“That’s madness,” Santagithi roared. He hesitated, continuing in a different vein. “Unless you know he won’t get hurt. Is that something you can know or see to?”
Secodon snuffled at Bein’s nose, wagging his plumed tail expectantly. Shadimar frowned. “I affect the future only by guiding men to certain tasks. I learn the effects of my meddling the same way you do, by seeing what happened.”
Santagithi shook his head. “Sterrane could die. It’s not worth the risk.”
The Eastern Wizard approached Santagithi. “If the West falls, Sterrane will become the king of rubble and as much a slave to Siderin as any peasant. It’s in Sterrane’s best interests, as well as ours, to use each soldier to his abilities, no matter the cost.”
“Sir.” Rache cleared his throat, trying to make Santagithi’s decision easier. “If Sterrane manages to regain Béarn, he’ll need to become a military leader and a diplomat.” Had the mood been less desperate, the idea of childlike Sterrane serving in either role would have sent Rache into a fit of laughter. “How can he lead men to war when he’s never had a chance to see battle?”
Santagithi stared at the moon, pressed by logic as well as time. “All right,” he said, at length. “Rache, fetch Sterrane and Arduwyn to the meeting. Quietly, please. It’s best no one knows Sterrane’s station until after the war.” He added, as if it mattered, “And I still don’t like this.” Turning, he stomped after Valr Kirin.
Rache felt certain only he heard the Eastern Wizard’s wry mumble:
“The powers that be have duly noted your concern.”
Rache chuckled beneath his breath. Drawing in Bein’s reins, he hurried to obey his general’s decree.
* * *
In the still youth of evening, three dark horses drifted across the grassy plains. Riding behind Rache, at Sterrane’s side, Arduwyn felt as twitchy as a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk. I can’t believe our leaders would put the fate of the West lands in the hands of an exiled hunter and a sweet but dim-witted hermit. The idea seemed ludicrous, and responsibility crushed down on Arduwyn until he counted breaths to keep from hyperventilating. He readjusted the crossbow on his shoulder.
Rache reined in his stallion.
Arduwyn and Sterrane pulled up behind him.
“Don’t dawdle,” the Renshai cautioned. “If dawn comes before you finish, you’ve no chance at all, and our army little more.”
Arduwyn dismounted without comment. He handed his reins to Rache. Sterrane passed the archer four bolts, then slid to the ground beside him, maneuvering his own crossbow into a more comfortable position on his hairy shoulder. The two men walked several paces from Rache before dropping to their bellies. Sterrane waited.
Snakelike, Arduwyn wriggled through the grasses, a dagger clenched in his teeth and the bow and bolts in one hand. Dressed in ebony leather with his arms and legs smeared with soot, he became a lost shadow in night’s pitch. Behind him, Sterrane crept more slowly. Swathed in silver wolf pelts, limbs bathed in ash, he lay clearly outlined against the grasses. But he’ll blend well with the flagstone cliffs. Arduwyn pushed onward.
Archer now, not hunter. Bitterly, Arduwyn reminded himself of his need to kill men. He slithered forward. Though protected by leather, his belly felt raw and his muscles cramped. Cradled in plains grass, he stole a precious moment to stretch.
A movement ahead froze Arduwyn in mid-sprawl. His practiced fingers slid a bolt to the string. He inched toward the sound, vision straining through darkness.
Grass rustled again. Then, abruptly, the sentry became fully visible. He was thin, dressed in ruddy-brown, lacquered leather, with hair black as charcoal. He turned, revealing large irises nearly as dark.
Arduwyn aimed and fired. The bolt embedded in the sentry’s right eye, and the Easterner collapsed without a cry.
Regret pressed in on Arduwyn, but he forced it aside. This is war, and that man is an enemy. In the reverse situation, he would have killed me with no more compunction. Holding his breath, he crawled to his victim. A touch confirmed that the man lay dead. Several arm’s lengths beyond the corpse, cliffs dropped into a quarry. Arduwyn drew to its edge and glanced downward. Moonlight glimmered from quartz veins in the walls, but its depths were an indecipherable pool of darkness.
Arduwyn turned away and crawled along the quarry ledge. Ahead, a twig snapped, and a second sentry appeared. To the archer’s chagrin, his hands shook as he reloaded. Can’t let the fact that they’re men rattle me. I’m a soldier now.
In the moment of hesitation, the sentry’s gaze found Arduwyn.
Robbed of time for thought, Arduwyn tightened his finger on the trigger. The Easterner recoiled. The bolt plowed through his neck, and he slumped to the ground.
Slick with sweat, Arduwyn slit the quivering throat with his dagger. He wiped blood from his blade on the grass and resignedly returned the dagger to his teeth. It left a warm, salt taste in his mouth. Revolted, he wriggled from the cliffs to where Sterrane waited and gestured at the area he had cleared.
* * *
Sterrane nodded, dividing his duty into its simplest denominations. He had never killed a man before. But these Easterners threatened his friends; for that, they must die. He scuttled to the canyon and peered inside as Arduwyn had done, seeing the same impenetrable darkness. Grasping a quarry edge, he lowered his feet down the cliff face. One probing toe touched a rock ledge, and he found a firm foothold.
Clinging to the flagstone, Sterrane raised a hand. Arduwyn passed the crossbow to him and retreated. Adherent as a fly to the cliff face, Sterrane scuttled sideways, making each movement of foot or hand with a calm deliberateness that came with years of practice. He knew that on the far side of the sentries, Arduwyn paralleled his course.
Stones bit into Sterrane’s fingers and toes. He kept his gaze on the ground above him. Shortly, he discovered the next sentry, facing away from the quarry. Balancing the bow in the crook of his left arm, Sterrane braced the stock against his thigh. He groped along the trigger mechanism. Finding it in place, he nocked a quarrel from his belt quiver.
Sterrane’s weight shifted. A stone gave way beneath his left foot. Abruptly thrown off-balance, he hung by one hand while his toes clawed the smooth rock for a hold. Pebbles careened into the quarry, and Sterrane felt his fingers slide. It took an effort of will not to drop the crossbow. Then his foot caught a small ledge, and he carefully pulled himself back into position.
Sterrane raised his head to a pair of the darkest eyes he had ever seen. The guard’s mouth parted in a cry of warning. Sterrane’s finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. His bolt tore through the sentry’s chest.
While Sterrane readjusted his grip, Arduwyn appeared, slicing the sentry from ear to ear. Blood sprayed the archer, and he drew away in revulsion. He tore the quarrel from the dead man, tossed it back to Sterrane, and disappeared into the darkness.
Over time, hunter and heir learned to pace themselves so that they came upon the sentries simultaneously. By the time they had cleared half the quarry cliff, Sterrane’s hands and feet felt ravaged. Every step left bloody prints on the mountainside. Each new hold erupted into agony. The pain became so severe, he ceased to notice the stiffness that enveloped his body. But the grimace on Arduwyn’s face revealed the torment of kinked muscles. Sterrane believed he heard his small friend curse the gods, himself, everyone in the war on both sides, and even the father who had taught him to shoot.
By the time Sterrane reached the ramp that formed the only exit from the open mine, an ominous glow colored the edge of the sky. He hesitated. The cut stone felt s
oothing after the crags that had viciously torn skin from his soles and palms. Though sweat had made streaks of gray paste from the ashes on his limbs, the silver pelts matched the flagstone exactly. Without thinking, he shot down the sentry on the ramp.
A grisly figure emerged from the darkness. Sterrane barely recognized Arduwyn, smeared with blood and slime. Saying nothing, the Béarnide killed another scout at the far end of the ramp. He paused, reluctant to return to the sharp cliffs that felt like daggers against his shredded feet. He raised his eyes to a pink-tinged sky. Dawn.
Sterrane gripped chunks of flagstone and bit his lip to staunch a scream of pain. More quickly, he scuttled from one sentry to the next, without waiting for Arduwyn or his bolts, caught in a dizzying nightmare of slaughter that filled his eyes with tears.
Soon, rings of color tinged the horizon. Arduwyn whispered, “Sterrane. It’s over.”
Sterrane clambered up the cliff face to where Arduwyn’s first, broken victim lay. Catching a thick, furred wrist, the archer helped his companion to level ground. There, they both collapsed, crazed with pain. Sterrane longed for the sleep he knew he would not get.
The gray haze of morning grew around them. Sterrane nudged Arduwyn to his feet. Like ancients, they dragged their complaining bodies to where Rache waited. Now they only needed to race the sun.
* * *
In two divisions, from either side of the graded exit, the bowmen of the Western army fanned out along the ledge of the flagstone quarry. Santagithi’s swordsmen and those of the other smaller towns milled among the archers, while the larger armies prepared to hold the ramp.
By dawn’s pale light, Rache examined the Eastern force below him, a vast sea of warriors awakening from sleep. Excitement touched him, as always, but the ugliness of the coming attack soured his battle joy. Though he had spent most of his years among non-Renshai armies, the thought of soldiers dying by distant, impersonal arrows sickened him. Even enemies should have the right to die with honor. Yet he understood the need for strategy, and that, for most of the men, the ends mattered more than the means. So far, the threat of Easterners had kept the Western patchwork of armies united. The common banner, the Eastern Wizard’s presence, and trust in Santagithi’s abilities as a tactician had kept the leadership cooperative. And the followers of each general or king remained fiercely loyal to his own.
The Last of the Renshai Page 63
