Relics of War

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Grondar nodded. He turned and called, “Shella, leave the rest of the dishes for later, and get over to Kolar’s place. Bring anyone there who can spare the time—tell them it’s about the shatra.”

  Startled, Shella dropped a dishrag. “What?”

  “I said, go fetch Kolar and his family. Tell them we have the baron’s magicians here to deal with the shatra, and they’re invited to watch.” He turned back to Garander. “Do you know where?”

  “The north field.”

  “Good. Wife, can you see to Elkan? I’ll tell Felder myself, and the village if I have time.”

  Startled by this sudden helpfulness, Garander stood, mouth agape, for a moment, as his parents and sister found their coats and prepared to go.

  Grondar saw him. “Well?” he demanded. “Don’t you have something to do?”

  “I don’t…I mean, yes, but now it…maybe I should wait…”

  “Get on with it, whatever it is,” Grondar said with a wave.

  “Come on,” Ishta said, tugging at his sleeve.

  Garander started toward the door again, and had lifted the latch when his father’s voice stopped him again. “Son?”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  With that parental concern in his ear, Garander stepped out into the chill of early spring and headed for the barn, with Ishta close on his heels.

  Azlia and the others were waiting for him, and at least some of their preparations were obvious—the two soldiers wore breastplates and helmets, while the sorcerer had assorted talismans slung about his body on straps and cords. The wizard had doffed her traveling cloak and was wearing a blue gown and velvet cap; a black ribbon was tied around her right wrist, securing a small metal object with a complex and unfamiliar rune painted on its face, and several pouches and vials were strung on her belt. Garander guessed that the four of them were ready for combat.

  “There you are,” Hargal said. “What’s this demonstration you have planned for us?”

  “Well, it’s…it’s not so much a demonstration as a chance to talk to the shatra yourselves, so you can see that he doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “Tesk wouldn’t hurt anyone!” Ishta burst out.

  “It’s a shatra,” Hargal said. “They were made to kill people.”

  “He’s a person!”

  Azlia interrupted. “We can talk to him?”

  “You said that if we could prove he can control the demon, you wouldn’t kill him, right?”

  The soldiers and magicians exchanged glances. “All right,” Hargal said. “I guess we can agree to that.”

  “Well, that’s what we plan to do.”

  “How?” Sammel asked.

  Garander hesitated, and then decided not to explain. He had intended to tell them, but now he thought that would be a mistake. He trusted Tesk to keep his demon half leashed, but these four did not, and they were not likely to agree to something that might get them all killed if it turned out Tesk could not restrain the demon. “You’ll just have to come and see.”

  “Come where?” Hargal asked. “Can’t it come here?”

  “Just out to the field,” Garander said. “I don’t…there isn’t enough room in here.”

  Again, the four looked at one another; then Azlia said, “Come on.”

  Garander and Ishta led the way out of the barn and around to the north field. Although the snow was almost gone from the field, the ground was unpleasantly soft underfoot; no one wanted to rush across it, for fear a foot might sink into the mud, so the six of them made a slow parade out to the center.

  The sky was overcast, the sun hidden behind clouds, but it did not look likely to rain.

  When Garander reached what seemed like a good spot—near the center of the field, clear of snow, and on ground that was not too soft—he stopped. He waited for the others to gather around him.

  They did, but he noticed Sammel watching the forest suspiciously, and both soldiers had their hands on the hilts of their swords. Azlia’s hand was on the hilt of her silver dagger.

  “Well?” Hargal demanded. “Now what? Where is it?”

  “It’s not far away,” Garander said. “But first—Sammel, you said your sorcery could track a shatra. Tesk says it can’t.”

  Sammel frowned. “Your shatra is correct. I could follow its path for a few yards, no more.”

  “So if Tesk goes into hiding, you can’t find him.”

  Sammel did not bother to answer; he just looked at Azlia. “I can find him,” the wizard said. “I know he’s less than half a mile from here.”

  “Do you really think you can kill him?”

  “I don’t know,” Azlia answered. “I think I could give it a good try.”

  “What about you two?” Garander asked, gesturing at Hargal and Burz.

  “Depends how much truth there is in the stories,” Hargal said. “If they’re all true, then no, I can’t, but if they’re the exaggerations some of us think they are, then maybe I can.”

  “All right,” Garander said. “You’re about to get a chance to try.” He raised his arm above his head.

  A weird ululating wail shattered the afternoon calm; the baron’s agents all whirled, looking for the source.

  Garander turned more slowly. He had never heard the sound before, and had not expected it, but after an initial start he was not terribly surprised. He supposed Tesk wanted to make a dramatic entrance.

  And sure enough, under the trees to the north stood a black-garbed figure, scarcely visible in the shadows.

  The others spotted him soon enough; Sammel pointed, in case anyone had missed the mysterious figure.

  Then Tesk ran out to them, moving with that supernatural speed and inhuman smoothness—not in a straight line, but zigzagging across the field.

  He stopped about twenty feet away.

  “I am Tezhiskar Deralt aya Shatra Ad’n Chitir Shess Chitir,” he said. “I understand you wanted to speak with me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  For a moment no one spoke; then Burz exclaimed, “It’s real!” His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw the blade.

  “We knew that,” Hargal snapped, not looking at his subordinate. His eyes were locked on the shatra. He did not touch his own weapon.

  “I am real,” Tesk said. “I am shatra.” He stood calmly, hands at his sides.

  “What are you doing here?” Burz asked.

  Tesk glanced at Garander and Ishta, then said to the others, “I have come to persuade you to leave me alone.”

  “But…you’re a shatra,” Sammel said.

  “Yes. I have already confirmed that.” Garander doubted that anyone who didn’t know Tesk would have noticed it, but he thought the shatra sounded amused.

  “Shatra are inhuman monsters created for the sole purpose of killing people.”

  “That is false,” Tesk replied. “We had several military purposes.”

  Azlia cleared her throat. “I notice you don’t deny being an inhuman monster.”

  Tesk made that odd shoulder movement. “I do not deny my nature. The cause I was created to serve is no more, however, and now I am content to live quietly and do not wish to harm anyone. I have come here today in the hope that I can convince you of this truth.”

  Azlia glanced at Garander and his sister.

  “You wouldn’t take my word for it,” Garander said, not so much to Azlia as to the others, “so I thought maybe he can convince you.”

  “I have lived in these woods for twenty years,” Tesk said. “When the war ended I had no home to return to, so I remained in this area, where I had been positioned during the final campaign. I have not harmed anyone. I have not interfered with the clearing of land or the building of structures in what was Imperial territory. I acknowledge that the war is over, and my nation was defeated and destroyed; I have nothing left to fight for except myself.” He paused, blinked as if startled, and then added, “And my friends.” He gestur
ed at Ishta and Garander, then continued, “I believe your baron sent you to kill me, to protect his people from me. It is not necessary. I will not hurt them.”

  “How can we be sure of that?” Hargal asked warily.

  “I have been here for twenty years and harmed no one.”

  “So you say.”

  “You say you know what I am. You cannot believe that anyone would still live within a mile of this place if I did not wish them to.”

  “We know what you are,” Sammel said, “but we don’t know why you’re here. For all we know an outpost of the Northern Empire has survived somewhere beyond the mountains, and has sent you to test our resolve.”

  “If such an outpost survives, I am unaware of it.”

  The conversation was not going the way Garander had anticipated, and he spoke up, trying to force it back on the intended path. “Look, he’s been here for months, at the very least, probably years, and he hasn’t hurt anyone, and he’s not going to hurt anyone. You can go back to Varag and tell Lord Dakkar that!”

  “But we don’t know he won’t!” Azlia protested. “What if the demon is just waiting until the time is right?”

  “I control the demon,” Tesk replied calmly.

  “Do you?” the wizard demanded.

  “I do,” Tesk answered.

  This was the moment Garander had hoped for. “We can prove it!” he said.

  “How?” Sammel asked. “That’s the thing, boy—even if everything the shatra says is true, how can you know that he can really keep the demon in check?”

  “Test it!” Garander said. “Do something the demon wouldn’t allow.” He gestured at Burz’s hand, the one clutching his sword. “Take a swing at him—he won’t hurt you.”

  “He’d kill me!” Burz said, stepping back and raising his hands.

  “No, he won’t!”

  “Well, I’m not about to find out!” The soldier retreated three steps.

  Garander turned to Hargal, but he shook his head. “I am not about to fight a shatra, boy. Maybe you think he can control the demon half, but I don’t.”

  Garander had not expected this reaction, and for a moment he hesitated. He should have expected it. He trusted Tesk, but of course these people didn’t. That was the whole point of this.

  He straightened up and threw back his shoulders. “Fine!” he said. “Then give me your sword, and I’ll try to kill him!”

  “What?” Ishta cried. “No, Garander! He’s our friend!”

  Garander ignored his sister. “Give me your sword,” he said, looking at Hargal and holding out his hand.

  Hargal looked at the youth, then at the shatra, and then at the magicians, considering. Then he said, “Why not?” He drew his sword, watching Tesk as he did so, then reversed it and passed it to Garander hilt-first.

  Garander accepted it warily. He had never held a sword before.

  The grip was not so very different from some of the farmyard tools he had used, and the weapon was lighter than he had expected, with less weight in the blade than he had thought it would have. He hefted it in his right hand, then ran his left along the back of the blade, feeling the metal.

  It was fine steel, not the ordinary iron used in most farm implements—smooth and strong, not as cold or heavy as iron, but heavier than any knife blade he had ever wielded. It was stiffer than the two-handed scraper, but with more give than the posthole drill.

  “Stabbing gives you more reach and power than slashing,” Hargal offered helpfully. “It’s easier to miss with a thrust, though.”

  “That will not be a concern,” Tesk said. “You will not strike me.” He made no move to retreat, though.

  Garander took a step toward the shatra and swung the blade at Tesk’s chest much as he swung a scythe when harvesting wheat.

  Tesk moved in an odd twisting motion that was not what Garander would ordinarily have called ducking, but that somehow let the sword pass harmlessly over his head. Then he was upright again—or rather, more nearly upright; he remained in a half-crouch.

  Garander remembered Hargal’s advice, and tried jabbing the point at Tesk.

  The shatra moved sideways in a quick, snakelike motion and the blade once again passed by harmlessly.

  Garander frowned. Tesk was making this look too easy. He had to show these people that Tesk could control his demon even when threatened, and so far, Garander’s attacks did not look like a real threat at all. He glanced around at the baron’s agents, and saw Ishta covering her mouth with her hands—she, at least, thought Tesk was in danger.

  And he noticed other figures standing at the edge of the field—his mother, and old Elkan, and as he watched his sister and Kolar walked up.

  He had to show them all that Tesk could be trusted not to hurt anyone. Garander pursed his lips, tightened his grip on the sword, and attacked again.

  This time he did not stop with a single blow; instead he swung the sword wildly back and forth, whipping it through the air, changing height and angle as he struck repeatedly at the shatra.

  Tesk did not even retreat, let alone defend himself or strike back; he was simply never in the blade’s path. Garander had no idea how he was doing it, but sometimes the blade passed over his head, sometimes to one side or the other, and once under his feet as the shatra jumped up to let a low swing go beneath him.

  Angered despite himself, Garander drew the sword back and charged at Tesk, intending to strike him down, or at least to threaten him sufficiently to force some sort of direct response. Instead he found himself stumbling awkwardly past as Tesk sidestepped out of his path.

  He whirled as quickly as he could, sword slashing, trying to go after the shatra before he could react, but there was nothing a mere human could do that was faster than the shatra’s reactions. His blade once again passed through empty air, and Tesk was still standing in almost the same spot, unsmiling, but untroubled by this ongoing assault.

  Garander glanced at his audience and saw Hargal whispering to Burz while keeping an eye on the combatants—or rather, on the boy and the shatra, because what was happening here could scarcely be called combat. Embarrassed, Garander redoubled his efforts, charging, jumping, slashing, and stabbing, but all to no effect; Tesk dodged every blow without any apparent effort.

  And then suddenly Tesk moved in a new and unexpected way, and Garander saw another sword-blade miss the shatra. Shifting his attention, Garander saw that Burz had drawn his sword and joined the fray.

  “Come on, boy,” Burz called. “He can’t dodge us both.”

  Garander raised his weapon and did his best, while Burz attacked from the other side.

  Tesk demonstrated that Burz was wrong; he could dodge them both, though now one blade or the other sometimes passed very close to those tight black clothes.

  Tesk did not move out from between his two attackers, though. He just avoided their blows as he maintained his position.

  “Boy!” Hargal called. Garander ignored him; he was determined to get Tesk. For a moment he completely forgot that this whole demonstration was intended to help his friend; right now his blood was racing, and he wanted only to hit his elusive foe, to strike something other than air with his borrowed blade.

  “Boy!” Hargal bellowed, so loud that Garander started and almost dropped his sword. He stopped his attack. Did this mean the big soldier was convinced? He turned.

  “Give me that thing,” Hargal said, holding out his hand. “You’re no swordsman. You’re more likely to hit Burz, or your own foot, than the shatra.”

  Reluctantly, Garander stepped over to the baron’s man and handed him the weapon. As he did, he heard a gasp. He turned.

  Burz had not stopped his attack. He had paused, yes, but then he had launched a sudden jab at Tesk’s back, hoping to catch the shatra by surprise.

  The gasp had come from the observers as the soldier’s blade passed no more than three inches from Tesk’s side, under the shatra’s arm—but it had not touched him, any more than any of the earlier attempts.
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  Then Hargal charged in, sword raised.

  Garander watched helplessly as the two soldiers tried to hit Tesk. For the first few moments they fought silently; then Hargal called, “We aren’t going to kill you, Northerner! We just want to see whether you bleed human red or demon black.”

  “My blood is red,” Tesk replied. “But I will not permit you to see for yourself.”

  As the struggle continued, Garander reluctantly admitted to himself that Hargal was right—he was no swordsman. The two soldiers were able to actually force Tesk back a few steps, though their blades still never touched him.

  Someone threw a rock, but Tesk ducked it easily, even though he had not been looking in that direction.

  “How does he do that?” someone asked; Garander turned to find one of the villagers at his elbow. His father had arrived without his noticing, bringing more of their neighbors. The audience had grown to perhaps two dozen people of various ages and sexes, including Garander’s entire family.

  “He’s a shatra,” Ishta said proudly.

  “It’s sorcery,” Sammel said. “Or maybe demonology.”

  “Can’t you tell which?” Garander asked him.

  Sammel shook his head. “Not from here. Not without doing some tests.”

  “You could do the tests.”

  “I’d need to lower my defenses to do that.”

  “What defenses?”

  Sammel lifted one arm, revealing a glowing red disc strapped to his wrist. It had previously been hidden by his sleeve. “I came prepared,” he said. “In case this didn’t go well. So did Azlia.”

  “So lower your defenses! You can see he won’t hurt you!” Garander hoped the sorcerer didn’t hear his frustration, but the entire purpose of this demonstration had been to show that they did not need to fear Tesk.

  Just then Burz and Hargal launched a coordinated attack, Burz striking at Tesk’s head while Hargal tried a sweep at his legs, and the shatra’s mid-air somersault that avoided both blows drew gasps and applause from the crowd.

  “I don’t think I care enough which sort of magic it is to expose myself to something that can do that,” Sammel replied.

  “But he’s not a threat! Don’t you see? Three of us have been doing everything we can to try to kill him, and he hasn’t even drawn a weapon!”