Colbey rode alone across the beach, plagued by many thoughts. His joy for Rache’s undeniable entrance into Valhalla was tempered by his fear and awe at having seen the dead man’s escort. In his decades of battle, Colbey had watched hundreds of Northmen ride bravely to a valorous death that surely earned them their places in heaven, yet never before had he seen a Valkyrie. The image would not leave his mind; indelibly burned into his memory he could picture Odin’s battle maiden in all her splendid detail. I’ve seen a Valkyrie. What does that mean? Colbey continued his slow, silent ride. The only stories he had heard of visualized Valkyries came from men recovered from the brink of death. And, always, these soldiers knew the choosers of the slain had come for them. At no time did Colbey doubt the Valkyrie had appeared for Rache.
Finding no answer, Colbey discarded the concern, attributing it to the same unearthly madness that had convinced him Rache would die if they were reunited, that he should wander through the Granite Hills until Sterrane joined his traveling companions, and that he should spend some time in the Western Wizard’s cave. He had believed the insanity banished from his mind, its final spark destroyed. He knew it had left aftereffects; thought-reading had allowed him to discover Siderin’s army in the cattails. But the sight of a Valkyrie had taken him totally by surprise.
The sigh of breakers grew louder as Colbey wound past most of the camps to a sparser area of beach. A single fire winked through the night, its flame unnaturally steady.
Drawn by curiosity, Colbey dismounted and approached. As he drew nearer, he found an old man sitting before the fire, alone except for a bay mare with its head bowed in sleep and a wolf curled at his feet. A sapphire filled the elder’s cupped palm, a gem Colbey recognized with a single glance.
The Pica. Surprise flickered through Colbey and deepened to anger. He strode into the circle of firelight.
The wolf crouched, growling. A light momentarily appeared in the old man’s eyes. The glow from flames and sapphire mingled green highlights on wrinkled cheeks.
“The Pica Stone,” Colbey said in accusation.
“Indeed.” The elder did not seem to recognize the hostility in Colbey’s voice, though the wolf’s growls deepened.
“It belongs to my people.” Colbey bit each syllable short.
The Wizard nodded, his gaunt, robed frame like a ghost against the dark expanse of sky and sand. “At one time, yes. After yours took it from mine by force.”
Colbey hesitated. The Pica Stone had been in Renshai hands since his childhood, lost during the battle that saw the destruction of Devil’s Island. But he still recalled the war against the wizards of Myrcidë in which the Renshai had first obtained the Pica, a bloody battle against a valiant defense. “I had thought the Myrcidians all dead.”
“And I had thought the same of the Renshai. Until I discovered Rache. Then Mitrian.” The Wizard snapped his fingers, and Secodon padded to his side. The wolf’s frame remained taut, its hackles raised and its yellow eyes on Colbey. “What I can’t understand, Golden Prince of Demons, is why not even the sources of magic knew of your existence.”
Colbey frowned, disliking the title the Wizard chose enough to let the reference to magic go unchallenged. “I’m no demon. No more than Siderin was. And neither were my people, so I am no prince among demons.”
“Truth is less significant to a title than the effect it inspires. To the people of the West, you will become the Golden Prince of Demons. To the Wizards, Colbey, you always have been.”
Colbey frowned, only vaguely familiar with the prophecy. “You know my name well enough to feel free with nicknames. But I don’t know yours at all. That hardly seems fair.”
“Shadimar. The Eastern Wizard.” He pointed to the wolf. “This is Secodon.”
“Of course.” Colbey nodded sagely as the last pieces fit into place. “You’re the one with the falcon who doesn’t know a glove from bare flesh. You sent the message. In many ways, you won the war, though your bird did its best to ruin my sword arm before the battle started.”
Shadimar smiled, amused, but he did not address the issue of the falcon. “No. Warriors like you won the war. But how did you come upon my message? I sent it to the Western Wizard.”
“I’m afraid Tokar is dead.” Colbey studied Shadimar, waiting for a reaction that might disclose the Wizard’s motives.
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Colbey admitted. Though present at the end, he did not understand the events that had taken the lives of Tokar and his apprentice. The most superficial memory still shocked pain through Colbey; though diluted by time and distance, it still seemed as excruciating as a real injury. Quickly, he changed the subject. “What did you mean when you said the sources of magic didn’t know of my existence?”
Shadimar rose. The firelight emphasized lines of uncertainty in his ancient features. “You saw Tokar’s corpse?”
“Yes.”
“And Haim?” The Wizard clarified, “His apprentice.”
“Dead also.”
Shadimar tensed. His expression mingled concern with fear, and both looked eerily foreign on a face like wind-battered stone.
Secodon bared his teeth, still positioned between Colbey and Shadimar.
“The sources of magic?” Colbey prodded. “Why would they want me? And if they wanted to know I existed, what would stop them?”
Shadimar relaxed slightly as the conversation shifted from the Western Wizard to Colbey. Secodon uncoiled with his master. “What need would anyone have for the prophesied hero of the Great War.” Though phrased like a question, his words were undoubtedly statement and answer. “Their side wanted you dead, our side alive. Surely, the Southern Wizard consorted with demons to find the last Renshai, yet, by Siderin’s actions, he only worried about Rache.”
Colbey considered. “He missed Mitrian as well.”
Shadimar clutched the Pica Stone in both hands, his long fingers surrounding the sapphire like a web. “Easily explained. He may have ignored her. Early Wizards named the Golden Prince of Demons a man. And Carcophan probably only asked about full-blooded Renshai to sort out the children of conquerors, those conceived of Renshai without the heritage ties.”
Colbey kept his attention split between the Wizard and the wolf. Though more relaxed, Secodon seemed prepared to spring, and there was still the matter of the Pica Stone to settle. “Neither of those things that made Mitrian unacceptable would have ruled me out.”
“Exactly.” Shadimar hesitated. “Unless . . .” he trailed off thoughtfully.
Colbey went on the defensive. “I admit, none of my couplings has ever produced a child, but I’m still certainly a man.”
For the first time since the mention of the Western Wizard, Shadimar grinned. “Your gender was never in doubt, Colbey. But perhaps your parentage—”
Colbey broke in, more insulted by the slight to his history than his sex. “My father, Calistin the Bold, died in my first battle. My mother, Ranilda Battlemad, never saw her third decade. Both were born of Renshai, lived the life of Renshai, and died in the glory of Renshai.”
Though Colbey’s words proved nothing, Shadimar did not press. “Then there’s another reason, one we’ll have plenty of time to discuss after I return from Béarn.”
Colbey caught the reference at once. “You’re going to take the Western Wizard’s place in helping return Béarn’s throne to its rightful heir.”
With gentle reverence, Shadimar passed the Pica from hand to hand as he spoke. “The prophecies say a Wizard will accompany the prince.”
“And a Renshai. Tokar said that would be me.”
“Tokar was wrong.”
The pronouncement startled Colbey into silence, yet he found a certain comfort in it. The knowledge of two young boys awaiting Renshai training fully absorbed him. He wanted to attend to them as quickly as possible. But he also held a devout devotion to the gods. Odin had created the Wizards. Therefore, their prophecies had to take precedence over mortal proceedings, no matter
how significant to the Renshai.
“Mitrian will accompany the king.” Shadimar started to pocket the Pica Stone.
Quicker than thought, Colbey lunged forward and caught the Wizard’s arm. “I can’t suffer the idea of the Pica in a stranger’s hands.”
Secodon advanced, stiff-legged.
Shadimar stilled the wolf with a gesture. “Your sword and skill can’t hurt me. Surely you don’t want to die over a pretty rock.”
Colbey did not draw a weapon, amused by the Wizard’s reaction. “There was a time when I would have taken your words as a challenge, one I might even win. But, for now, the Renshai need allies more than battles. If we both claim the Pica Stone for our people, then our peoples must become one and you my brother. You may keep the Pica.”
Shadimar stared, surprise looking as alien on his features as fear. “You are unique among Renshai.” He relaxed again, and the wolf whined. “I’ll join this union and consider it an honor.”
They gripped hands briefly. The Wizard’s fingers felt thin and weak as paper in Colbey’s firm hold.
Releasing the bond, Shadimar strode to his horse and mounted gingerly. “I need to find Mitrian and her friends. I presume they’re with Santagithi?”
“Probably.” Colbey swung into his own saddle.
Both horses walked the silent sands together. The full moon drew a glittering line through the breakers. A bond of brotherhood between Northmen was a link stronger than blood, and Colbey wondered idly what his vow might entail.
* * *
The campfire light danced across the drawn features of Mitrian and her companions. She sat with Garn, Sterrane, Arduwyn, and Santagithi, sharing a meal of roasted sea bird, shot and prepared by the archer. Grief felt like a lead weight in her stomach, and the food only made her queasy, but the presence of friends allowed her to force down a few morsels.
On Mitrian’s knee, Garn’s hand stilled suddenly. Mitrian looked up to see Garn, Sterrane, and Arduwyn staring toward the beach. Only then, she heard the faint slap of hoofbeats. She watched as Colbey and Shadimar appeared from the darkness together, flanked by the Wizard’s wolf.
Both men dismounted at the camp. Colbey joined the lopsided circle. Shadimar crouched at Sterrane’s side. He spoke softly, using words Mitrian did not understand in a deep, mellow language she did not recognize.
Without raising his gaze from the fire, Sterrane uttered two hostile syllables. He lifted a huge hand to wave the Eastern Wizard away.
The exchange shocked Mitrian. The association seemed so unlikely as to be impossible. Yet Sterrane used the same disrespectful manner and tone as a teenager with a parent.
Undaunted, Shadimar spoke again. Arduwyn’s eyes widened. Apparently, the archer knew the tongue and found the words disturbing.
Suddenly, Sterrane leaped to his feet. “No!” he shouted in the trading language. “Not ready.” His face twisted into the pout of a petulant child.
Shadimar continued talking, a thin shadow dwarfed by Sterrane’s huge bulk.
Mitrian caught Arduwyn’s sleeve. “What are they talking about?” she whispered. “And what language are they speaking?”
“Béarnese. And nothing much.” Arduwyn’s sarcasm came through clearly. “Just about how Sterrane’s the rightful heir to Béarn and has to claim his throne now.”
Mitrian snorted, not appreciating the humor. “Arduwyn, be serious for once. This could be important. That’s a Cardinal Wizard.”
“And that’s a king.” Arduwyn gestured toward Sterrane, then groaned. “Firfan’s bow, I called the high king an imbecile.” He clamped his hands to his head, fingering the bandage. “Twice, at least.”
Mitrian estimated it was more like a dozen times, but Arduwyn’s pronouncement bothered her too much to quibble now. “Be serious.”
“He’s not kidding, Mitrian.” Santagithi joined the hissed conversation. “When I found out, I offered my army to reclaim his throne, but Shadimar insisted on the need for stealth. He said Sterrane would only have a few companions, one a Renshai. Naturally I assumed Rache. . . .”
The flow of words continued past Mitrian, unheard. Sterrane a king. King Sterrane. Sterrane, ruler of Béarn. No matter how she considered it, the words blurred to nonsense. Her mind could not grasp her gentle, bearlike companion as royalty. Then her mind settled on a more familiar concept. A Renshai will help reseat the king. “Not Rache. Me. With Garn and Arduwyn.” Horror clutched at her. Another delay. When will I see Kinesthe . . . she amended, “Rache” again? The urgency of war and her sorrow for Rache had allowed her to drive aside thoughts of the infant she loved. Now they crushed down upon her, painful in their reality. But Sterrane has done so much for us. How can I abandon him in his time of need?
Santagithi lowered his head, obviously hating the thought of being separated from the daughter he had just regained. Arduwyn fidgeted, looking equally distraught.
“No Arduwyn,” Sterrane said. “Not need archer, and Bel need Arduwyn.” He looked directly at the redhead now. “Send for you and Bel after win. All live in Béarn.”
Arduwyn’s remaining eye flitted over the haggard faces of his companions. He stared longest at Mitrian, as if to gauge her judgment on the fairness of Sterrane’s decision. His dark eyes seemed hollow, almost pleading.
Santagithi intervened. “We’ll detour through Pudar. That’ll give Arduwyn an escort and us a way to get my grandson. Colbey can train the boys until you return.” He glanced at Mitrian. “Surely you trust your son in my charge? And Colbey’s?”
Mitrian nodded, pleased to see Garn do the same, though with far less vigor. “I have to go.” She sidled a look at Shadimar to make certain she spoke truth.
“It’s in the prophecies,” the Wizard said. “I can’t force you. You already know that. But I will do all I can to convince you to go. Without you, Sterrane stands little chance of doing anything more than dying at his uncle’s hands. Even with you, he may fail. You all may die.”
Mitrian drew on the courage Rache and Colbey had taught her to embrace. Soon enough, she would see Kinesthe/Rache again. If not, he could have no better teacher than Colbey nor a more fair and loving parent than Santagithi. “I’m going, and I agree with Sterrane. Arduwyn should go back to Pudar.”
Arduwyn bowed humbly before addressing Sterrane. “I wish you all the luck Firfan gives the shafts of his archers, my liege.”
Sterrane swept Arduwyn into an embrace. He wept huge, moist tears befitting a king.
EPILOGUE
King Tenja of Vikerin watched his horse’s hooves dimple the sand, suffering from an exhaustion more mental than physical.
Beside him, Valr Kirin fidgeted, apparently wanting to talk, yet uncertain of exactly what to say. Tenja waited while the lieutenant cleared his throat and bowed with the respect a king deserves. “Sire, that man, Colbey. I think he’s Renshai.”
Tenja nodded without raising his head. He turned his thoughts inward, releasing an ancient memory. Again, he saw himself as a child, one of three boys brave enough to enter the crypts at Kor N’rual. There they had read the prophecy of the Great War and its Renshai hero.
Kirin’s hawklike face framed a scowl. His eyes flashed innocent vengeance. “We have to kill him, sire.”
King Tenja marveled at how easily Valr Kirin described a hopeless task. With his army exhausted and Colbey under the guardianship of Santagithi, this was not the place or time to challenge the Golden Prince of Demons. “One battle at a time, Kirin,” he said. “One battle at a time.”
APPENDIX
People
Northmen
Alvis (AHL-vee)—VIKERIAN. Adviser to King Tenja.
Arvo Ranulfsson (AR-voe-RAN-oolf-son)—GJAR. A tinsmith.
Calistin the Bold (Ka-LEES-tin)—RENSHAI. Colbey’s father.
Colbey (KULL-bay)—RENSHAI. The Sword master.
Eldir (EL-deer)—VIKERIAN. King Tenja’s bodyguard.
Episte (Ep-PISS-teh)—RENSHAI. Elderly spy in Nordmir.
Harold (HAHR
-uld)—VIKERIAN. A scout.
Kallmir (KAWL-meer)—RENSHAI. Rache’s father.
Menglir (MEN-gleer)—RENSHAI. One of the two founders of the Western Renshai. See also Sjare.
Peusen Raskogsson (Pyoo-SEN Rass-KOG-son)—NORDMIRIAN. One-armed general of Iaplege.
Rache (RACK-ee)—RENSHAI. Santagithi’s guard captain.
Ranilda Battlemad (Ran-HEEL-da)—RENSHAI. Colbey’s mother.
Riodhr (REE-odd)—VIKERIAN. A low level officer.
Sigurd (SEE-gerd)—A soldier in the war against Renshai.
Sjare (See-YAR-eh)—RENSHAI. Founded the Western Renshai with Menglir.
Tenja (TEN-ya)—VIKERIAN. King of Vikerin.
Thorwald (THOR-walld)—DVAULIRIAN. A peasant.
Valr Kirin (Vawl-KEER-in)—NORDMIRIAN. Lieutenant to the high king in Nordmir. Peusen’s brother.
Westerners
Ancar (AN-kar)—one of Santagithi’s archers.
Arduwyn (AR-dwin)—ERYTHANIAN. A hunter.
Bartellon (Bar-TELL-in)—one of Santagithi’s guards.
Bel (BELL)—PUDARIAN. Kantar’s wife.
Belzar (BELL-zar)—PUDARIAN. Legendary swordsman.
Bromdun (BROMM-dun)—one of Santagithi’s guards.
Brugon (BREW-gun)—PUDARIAN. A merchant.
Buirane (BYOOR-ain)—BÉARNIAN. A previous king.
Father to the twins Valar and Morhane.
Carad (Ka-ROD)—a competent gladiator; Garn’s father.
Carlithel (KAR-lith-ell)—PUDARIAN. Proprietor of The Hungry Lion.
Davrin (DAV-vrin)—MIXED WESTERN. A bard.
Dilger (DILL-jer)—PUDARIAN. A braggart.
Donnerval (DON-ner-vull)—one of Santagithi’s guards.
Effer (EFF-er)—Bel’s middle child. A son.
Emerald—Rache’s girlfriend.
Garn—Carad’s son. A gladiator.
Gasir (GAH-zeer) PUDARIAN—King of Pudar.
Haim (Haym)—PUDARIAN. Tokar’s apprentice.
Halnor (HAL-nor)—one of Santagithi’s guards.
The Last of the Renshai Page 69
