The prince’s eyes narrowed. Wine dribbled to the floor, leaving purple rings on the dirt as Verrall sought the words to end the conflict and still keep face.
Colbey remained silent, allowing Verrall the courtesy of space and time. Santagithi also said nothing, presumably for similar reasons.
At last, Prince Verrall spoke, “Very well. Colbey, you’re dismissed. As to you,” he sat, twisting his head toward Santagithi. “I want you to gather your men and head home. I don’t want you or your people in my city.”
Santagithi grimaced. Knowing the cause, Colbey tried to explain without sounding as if he was undermining the prince’s decision. “Sire, we’ll be gone as soon as we can. But Santagithi’s baby grandson is in your city. Surely, you’ll let us retrieve him before we leave.”
The pause that followed seemed to span eternities. Until now, Colbey had tried to avoid violence. But the idea that Verrall might try to prevent him from gathering one of the three remaining Renshai raised his ire. For this cause, Colbey would fight until either he or every last Pudarian lay dead.
“Very well,” Prince Verrall said calmly, though runnels of wine stole all dignity from his bearing. He strode the fine line between compromise and surrender. The first would make him seem a diplomat, the second as weak as Colbey had implied. “But Santagithi’s army stays outside the walls. And you stay only long enough to get the child. If you cause any disturbances, I will see you punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
Santagithi pursed his lips, unaccustomed to allowing others to speak to him in this fashion. Still, for the sake of peace, he allowed the pronouncement to go unchallenged. “It will be as you say.” He threaded past the guards to Colbey’s side. “Let’s go.”
Nodding, Colbey turned to leave.
The prince called after him. “Oh, and General.”
Colbey and Santagithi both looked back.
“Colbey, you’re relieved of your command as of this moment. I can lead my own forces, thank you.”
Colbey nodded once, barely managing to make it through the tent flap without grinning. He whispered to Santagithi. “With such leadership, let the Pudarian army hope that we meet no enemies en route.”
Santagithi’s answering laugh was strained.
CHAPTER 2
The Night Stalker
Weeks later, the fields just outside the walled city of Pudar became a crowded chaos of jubilant soldiers and civilians. Wives and children clutched husbands and fathers in grips that seemed unyielding, tear-streaked faces buried in war- and travel-stained leather. Others wove frantically through the masses, seeking one face among four thousand soldiers, while a few stood in huddled misery, knowing they would never see a loved one again. Among so many, these last seemed terribly alone.
Arduwyn paused just outside the open bronze gates, unable to take another step. The strings of his eyepatch crushed his spiky red hair in crisscrossing lines. His bow lay slung across one shoulder. His quiver held half a dozen arrows, each crafted on the return trip, and each decorated with his crest: two gold rings and one of royal blue. He studied the crowd through his single dark eye. Hope blurred every woman to the plump, beautiful shape of his wife, Bel. Every child seemed to be one of the three she had borne her first husband who had also been Arduwyn’s closest friend, children who had become the little hunter’s own by right of marriage. Yet, clearly, Bel had not come.
Grief crushed Arduwyn, and he clutched the irregular blocks of stone composing Pudar’s wall. For hours he stood, watching couples and families sort from the hubbub and disappear through the gates. Some of the citizens slunk back into the confines, empty-handed. Yet no soldier returned alone. No soldier except Arduwyn.
A long, staring vigil blurred Arduwyn’s vision, until the people became milling outlines. In the fields, fires sprouted, red against dusk, as Santagithi’s army prepared their camps outside the gates. Beyond their campsite, forest loomed, and evening turned the trees into tall, brooding shapes, dark except for a tinge of green. Despite its murky appearance, the forest beckoned Arduwyn like a mistress. He had spent most of his childhood in the wilds surrounding the city of Erythane. There, his father had taught him the ways, habits, and haunts of the animals and the finest points of bowmanship. There also, Arduwyn had learned to hide in times of stress, sadness, and joy.
Despite his sorrow, the thought made Arduwyn smile. He thought of the cool kiss of night air winding through the trees, heavy with the scent of pine, elm, and moss. He heard the click of needles and the rattle of leaves in the limbs above him, knew the branch-snapping footfalls of deer as they brushed through copses, nostrils twitching to catch his scent. Foxes whirred and yelped in the night, their sound easily identified over the constant chitter of wisules, and the rumble of night insects.
Arduwyn had taken two steps toward the woodlands before he realized he had moved. A thought arrested him. He pictured Bel, her huge, brown eyes sparkling in the candlelight after the children lay in bed, blonde streaks sending shimmering highlights through her long, brown hair. He imagined the warmth of her body pressed against him, a soft presence full of beauty and grace. The picture filled him with a desire he had not satisfied in longer than a month, but it also stirred something deep, a love that, until recently, he never thought he would experience. For Arduwyn, there could be no other woman.
Yet Bel had not come. Reality intruded, souring Arduwyn’s daydream. The grin wilted from his face, and his fingers cinched about folds of extra fabric in his pants. He had always been too scrawny; the excitement and horrors of the war had claimed the last of his weight. His clothing hung loose, hiding a skeletal frame. His cheeks had gone gaunt, a thin layer of skin wrapped tightly over jutting bone. His flame-red hair stuck out in unruly spikes, no matter how he wet or combed it, and he had lost an eye to the battle. Bel probably did come. She took one look through the opened gates, saw what was coming back to her, and turned away. And how could I blame her?
Arduwyn shuffled a pace closer to the woods. There a man was not judged by his appearance or by his words, only by his ability to survive. There the gods had placed the greatest of the world’s beauty, its fastest and quietest movement, its most consistent and emotionlessly logical behavior. So many times in the past, Arduwyn had used the forest’s cycle of death, birth, and self-protective illusions to put his problems into clear perspective, if only for a time. And the forest gave him so much more. Every time he entered its haven, he discovered more of its secrets, and he hungered for the knowledge every exploration revealed.
The train of thought sparked memories of the day he had returned to Pudar accompanied by Mitrian, her ex-gladiator husband, Garn, and a massive, childishly simple hermit called Sterrane, who had turned out to be the rightful heir to Béarn’s high throne. Then, Bel had refused Arduwyn’s advances. “When you wander,” she had said, “you’re not really looking for adventure, you’re running from responsibility. Always, you believe you’re seeking something more, something you think is special out there, maybe over the next hill, something other men can’t find. You spend so much time looking, you’re blinded to the small pleasures that you have. You’ll die searching for something that doesn’t exist, never having recognized or enjoyed what you had.” Later, she had given him an ultimatum, “Choose. Me or the forest. You can’t have both.”
Now, Arduwyn winced at the recollection, Bel’s voice like harp chords in his ears. The deliberation had taken weeks, but he had chosen the woman he loved and never believed he regretted the decision. He had agreed to return home every night. And he had done so, until circumstances had sent him, Garn, and Sterrane to rescue Mitrian. Soon after, he had been sucked into the Great War like so many others. Bel had opposed his departure, even to rescue Mitrian, and leaving Mitrian’s and Garn’s baby in her care was not enough to allay her fears of permanently losing Arduwyn.
“And she was right, too.” Colbey’s voice came suddenly, from too close.
Startled, Arduwyn whirled to face the Renshai.
He had always felt a natural awe of Colbey, but an equally natural aversion to his cold and casual cruelty. Now the Northman stood before Arduwyn with his legs braced and his hands light on his sword belt. Beyond him, the darkness of evening huddled like a giant shadow, disrupted by the scattered camps of Santagithi’s soldiers. Arduwyn’s thoughts had blinded and deafened him. Now, he could hear the grumbles of men forced to remain outside a city of plentiful inns and taverns. Apparently, someone had managed to obtain supplies because the odors of ale and fresh roasting beef perfumed the air.
Arduwyn ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts scattering into incoherency. While readjusting his bearings, he had completely forgotten Colbey’s words. “Huh?” was all he managed.
Colbey smiled, amusement seeming out of place on his flint-hard features. “I said she was right, too.”
Arduwyn shook his head, not comprehending.
“Bel. When she worried that you wouldn’t return.”
Though familiar with Colbey always seeming to have information he had no right or means of knowing, Arduwyn dared not believe the old Renshai had read his mind. “What are you talking about?”
Colbey remained still, a statue draped in shadow. “I saw you edging toward the forest. Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of running. I know you too well, archer.”
“Archer?” Arduwyn repeated, insulted. “If you knew me well, you’d know I prefer the term ‘hunter.’ I kill game, not men.”
The corners of Colbey’s mouth twitched upward again. “You killed your share of men a few days ago.”
Arduwyn scowled, hating the reminder, wondering why Colbey always seemed to find it necessary to bait him. “The war is over.”
“Yes. But not forgotten. Nor should it be. Distraction is not a substitute for learning to deal with reality.”
Arduwyn glanced toward the two guardsmen at the gates, aware that, as night fell, they would pull closed the panels. Once that happened, he would lose all chance of seeing Bel until the morning. Then he would have to explain not only why he had stayed away so long, but also why he had not returned to Bel the moment he had arrived in Pudar. She’ll think I don’t love her. Arduwyn grimaced, hating the concept. And nothing could be further from the truth. Still stalling, he confronted Colbey. “And I suppose you remember every battle you’ve fought and every man you’ve killed.” He met Colbey’s gaze, doubting the possibility. Surely no one could remember fifty years of war.
“Every man who faced death bravely, I remember,” Colbey replied. “I pray daily for the ones who gave their all to a noble fight. The others have no significance to me, to the gods, or to themselves.” The matter-of-factness with which Colbey spoke of the value of men’s lives made Arduwyn shiver. “As to the battles, the larger causes may fade with time, but the details remain. Every sword stroke and its result changes the style of my combat. Every competent maneuver used against me remains vivid in my memory. And that’s the way it should be.”
Arduwyn recalled the wild blur of battle when Siderin’s men had rushed the Western archers. Blades had seemed to leap and slash from all directions, a crazed, lethal creature with a thousand arms. He had ducked and run, trusting luck and gods’ will to keep him safe, anticipating the agony of sharpened steel plunged through his back. As the archers nearest to him had fallen, he had whirled to fight. He had never seen the blow that claimed his eye, had never felt it land; yet its momentum had sent him tumbling down the dune to the feet of the Western forces and had probably saved his life. The idea of sorting individual sword strokes from the chaos seemed madness. For Arduwyn, war meant shooting enemies from a distance. When circumstance required hand-to-hand combat, he believed most men simply swung and thrust toward the enemy, dodging ripostes and praying that one of their own blows landed first. Yet clearly there were dimensions of skill that went far beyond his comprehension.
Santagithi strode toward Colbey and Arduwyn from the direction of the camps. The little hunter watched the West’s prime strategist approach. Had he not known that Colbey had two decades on Santagithi, he would have been hard-pressed to guess which warrior was older. Silver streaked both men’s hair, but it seemed less conspicuous amid the Northman’s yellow-white locks than the Westerner’s darker blond. Years of tending to the welfare of two thousand citizens had etched lines onto Santagithi’s features. In addition, he had a wife and daughter to attend to and the elaborate strategies that kept his small army honed while larger ones withered and grew decadent in times of peace.
Colbey turned to face the approaching general.
Santagithi stopped directly before Colbey and Arduwyn, rearranging his hair with a battered, callused hand. “The men are settled. Can we fetch my grandson?”
Arduwyn froze, filled with a guilt that quickly turned to terror. Caught up in his own concerns, he had nearly forgotten that Santagithi and Colbey had come for Mitrian’s child. Had I slipped off into the forest, not only would I have been cruel and irresponsible to Bel, I probably would have had Santagithi’s army on my heels. Or Colbey. The last thought seemed even more horrifying. He smiled weakly, hoping Santagithi had not read his ideas of escape as easily as Colbey. “Of course, sir. Let’s go.” Arduwyn trotted through the gates.
Colbey and Santagithi followed.
Arduwyn led them down the familiar roadways, past long chains of selling stands closed early in honor of the returning soldiers. Jubilant whoops and friendly howls replaced the usual screamed promises of merchants that rose above the constant hum of softer-voiced salesmen and the conversations of the masses. Arduwyn knew that in the morning the stands would open with renewed enthusiasm, as merchants hawked wares to warriors who had gone too long without luxuries and personal toys.
Off and on, Arduwyn had been a part of the noise and bustle of the trading city of Pudar, working for merchants as a clever salesman. Yet now the city that had become his home seemed foreign and forbidding, a world full of ghosts. His mind conjured images of Garn, Sterrane, and Mitrian gawking like children at the wonders of a city larger than any of them had ever imagined. He tried to picture Sterrane as the king of Béarn, but the image of the massive, lumbering simpleton sitting on the high king’s throne would not come. He knew that, for them, the war had scarcely begun. He also believed that he belonged at their side. They would have little need of a hunter though, and he belonged with Bel even more.
Colbey and Santagithi took the sights in stride; they had obviously traveled through Pudar before. Their silence pleased Arduwyn, leaving him to tangle with memories he dared not verbalize. Excitement thrilled through him, tempered by fear. He hungered for a glimpse of the woman he loved, to feel her body against his, to hear her voice ring in his ears. But the promise he had broken could never be forgiven. She had agreed to marry him based on his vow to return home every night, to see to it that she and the children never wanted for food or protection. Now she would be far more likely to drive him off than to greet him, and Arduwyn was uncertain whether his heart could stand the rejection.
Colbey’s voice broke through Arduwyn’s self-imposed agony. “If you were moving any slower, you’d be walking backward.”
Arduwyn spun to face the old Renshai. Santagithi watched quizzically as Arduwyn regained his bearings. Habit had taken him directly home, and they now stood before the cabin next door, where Garn and Mitrian had lived. It lay dark and abandoned. Beside it, candlelight filtered through the main windows of his own home, a single glow also flickering from the loft bedrooms. “This is it,” Arduwyn said, his words referring as much to the coming events as the location. “We’re here.”
Colbey made a throwaway gesture toward the house. “You first.”
Arduwyn shuffled forward, unable to delay any longer. He steeled himself for the coming rebuff, trying to cling to one last illusion that everything would be all right. Then, before he knew it, he had stepped up to the door and his fist tapped the oaken panel as if on its own accord. Santagithi and Colbey took positions on either side of him.
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br /> A moment passed, during which Arduwyn felt his heart rate double. Then the door creaked open, and Bel stood framed in the doorway. She wore a simple house dress of her own making that hung loose over her plump curves; her dark hair fell to her shoulders in disarray. No woman had ever seemed so beautiful to Arduwyn. “Bel,” was all he managed to say.
Bel’s gaze roved over Arduwyn’s scrawny frame, then fixed on the eyepatch. A look of horror glazed her features. Before she could speak, her younger daughter shoved between her mother and the door, hurling her three-year-old body into Arduwyn’s arms with a force that drove him back a step. “Uncle ’dune! Uncle ’dune’s back!”
Footsteps pattered across the floorboards as the elder two children approached, peeking at the newcomers. On tiptoes, the elder girl looked over her mother’s shoulder. The boy, Effer, stared from beneath Bel’s arm.
“What’s this?” Rusha, the child in Arduwyn’s arms, reached for the eyepatch.
Not wanting to upset Bel and afraid the sight might frighten the girl, Arduwyn caught Rusha’s hands and spun her until she collapsed into a giggling heap. Trying to salvage the situation, he began the introductions, counting on the presence of important strangers to give him a reprieve from Bel’s wrath or rejection. “Bel, this is Mitrian’s father, Santagithi.” He indicated the leader, who nodded a greeting. “And this is Colbey, once general of the Pudarian army.” He indicated the children in order of age. “Jani, Effer, and Rusha.”
The color returned to Bel’s face, along with her manners. “Please, come in. We’ve eaten, but I’m sure I can find more food.” She turned, heading back into the cottage, though only Arduwyn followed her. “Of course, you’ll stay the night.” She turned. Then, realizing the two guests had not entered, she raised her brows in curiosity. “Please come in.”
The Western Wizard Page 5
