Santagithi rolled his eyes to his son-in-law, careful not to stare too long. Garn fidgeted like a child forced to attend a ceremony that had dragged on forever. His wild, bronze hair hung in his face, and he had worn his jerkin at least one day too many. Sweat stains marred leather stretched taut over muscles so defined they made Bromdun and Jakot look fat. What he lacked in guile, Garn made up for in ferocity and strength, yet Santagithi had second thoughts about naming Garn as a secondary leader. Still, working in concert with Mitrian, Garn might make a reasonable half of a commander.
Santagithi’s eyes strayed naturally to the empty chair beyond Garn, where Colbey should sit. Of his leaders, only the old Renshai was excused from strategy sessions; and then only to train the boys.
Santagithi cleared his throat, as always beginning with a rallying speech that gave his leaders a reason to fight. “For years, the Northmen remained content warring among themselves. Now they’re looking southward. If we want to keep our homes, our women, and our children safe, we must be ready to fight! And we must be ready to win!” This deceit scarred the old general deeply, but he saw no recourse. Since its founding, the town had treasured equality and the worth of every citizen. Though not an original member, Colbey had dedicated his time and ability to the Westlands and this town, in its Great War, through training guardsmen, and by counseling and honing its general. My citizenry is not for Northmen to dictate about. I would not give up Colbey any quicker than I would Jakot, our women, or my grandson. He knew his men would see the wisdom in his decision, that they would gladly fight for Colbey; but Colbey would never allow them. If he knew the truth, the Renshai would ride north to kill Vikerians and die in glory. And Mitrian would follow.
Jakot frowned, clearly skeptical of the explanation, yet he did not question. Only once, he had inquired about the contents of King Tenja’s note. He had accepted his general’s silence as an explanation, apparently placing his full trust in his leader’s judgment. Now Santagithi motioned to his captain, and Jakot produced and unrolled a map that detailed the Granite Hills. Though Santagithi had memorized the terrain, he stared with the same interest as his officers. Another piece of intelligence had surfaced. Though the Vikerians had, so far, done nothing to indicate that they planned an attack, one of Santagithi’s scouts had reported a doubling of sentries at the border. That boded ill, and Santagithi needed his leaders alert and attuned to every update. He considered the possibility that the Vikerians had increased their security in response to his own caution, yet discarded it almost instantly. It had been common knowledge for decades that Santagithi kept his army in fighting trim, even in times of peace.
Santagithi trapped the nearest edge of the map beneath his massive hands, studying the hash marks that defined each mountain. Located at the tail of the Northern Weathered Range and the head of the Great Frenum Mountains, the Granite Hills had been misnamed by explorers who noted only that the peaks, though snowcapped, stood smaller than their towering neighbors. The barren valleys, jagged slopes, and narrow mountain ledges limited passage to the North to a single safe pass and a few branches that might prove too precarious for more than a handful of infantry.
Apparently tired of the silence, Garn revived an argument that he had been bandying with Jakot for days. “I still think slashing works better than jabbing. You can’t take a man’s head off with a stab.”
Santagithi frowned, but he did not interfere. He did not mind if his leaders chatted while he gathered his thoughts, so long as they kept their minds on combat.
When his commander did not reprimand Garn’s outburst, Jakot accurately read Santagithi’s silence. The captain replied, “Taking off a man’s head isn’t the ultimate goal in battle. Hell, most soldiers don’t have the power to do that, even if they had a sharp enough blade. All you have to do is stop him.”
Garn leaned across the table, with an exuberant interest that pleased Santagithi, even though the ex-gladiator was wrong, as usual. “A slash’ll take him down faster. It covers more area.”
“More nonvital area,” Jakot insisted. “A jab takes the weapon deeper. It’s quicker. With a lunge, you’ve got further range and expose yourself less. And even if your enemy survives the initial combat, a puncture is far less likely to heal—”
A tap sounded on the door, and though muffled by the thickness of oak, it halted the conversation. Nearest the door, Santagithi leapt to his feet before any of his commanders could respond. Unlatching the bolt, he pulled open the panel to reveal a guardsman named Harrit.
“Sir?” Harrit said tentatively, his gaze jerking over the row of commanders, obviously cowed by the seriousness of their expressions. “Six Auermen are waiting in the court. They say it’s important. Should I tell them to come back some other time?”
“Auermen?” Santagithi crinkled his brow, turning to Jakot for input. Due to his forays, few barbarian villages remained in the area. The peoples of the West rarely crossed the southern extension of the Granite Hills that separated the Town of Santagithi from the Western farm villages and the more civilized cities in the central and western areas. A few self-sufficient farm hamlets lay scattered through the area. Lacking armies, they kept to themselves, except for rare trade and gladiator competitions. Since disbanding the pit fights, Santagithi had not heard from any of his neighbors.
“Yes, sir. Auermen,” Harrit confirmed, though surely he realized the question had not been aimed at him. “They say Northmen razed their village, and they want our help.”
All petty concerns fled Santagithi’s mind, and his heart thudded with the calm cadence that came prior to war. The time has come. The Northmen’s strategy bothered but did not surprise him. There was wisdom in slaughtering the possible allies of enemies, especially when they lived between the warring lands. Perhaps the Northmen hoped to hold Auer, using it as a source of food and battlements. Santagithi saw that as a compliment; it meant that the Vikerians anticipated a protracted battle. “I’ll be back shortly.” Santagithi headed for the door. “Jakot, try to teach Garn something while I’m gone.” He slammed the door on Bromdun’s laughter.
Once outside the strategy chamber, Santagithi paced the corridor with Harrit. “Did you know any of these Auermen?”
“No, sir.” Harrit trotted to keep up.
Santagithi frowned. The Northmen’s lack of response to his message made him suspicious, and weeks planning strategy only fueled that paranoia. Still, Harrit’s unfamiliarity with the men meant little. Years had passed since the town had any communications with Auer’s hamlet, and the council elder had probably chosen his speakers from availability and need.
“How do they look?” From habit, Santagithi broke pace at the room that Rache and Nantel had occupied.
Harrit accelerated into the lead. He paused a step to get back into stride with his leader. “Hard-pressed and travel-stained. Dressed for battle, such as a poor village can afford. They do all have swords, at least, though I’d venture to guess they can’t use them.”
Harrit opened the door from the guard quarters.
Santagithi exited into sunlight so bright that it made him squint. Harrit’s casual mention of a sword for each Auerman bothered the general. It meant that the hamlet had given a third to half of its weapons to these messengers, shorting their defenses. Santagithi frowned. It was a strategy he would never consider, yet he could see how Auer’s elder might. When the only chance for survival lies in gathering allies, there’s a certain, warped logic in using strong, well-armed messengers. Still, Santagithi remained cautious. “Find Colbey and send him to the court.” Though he knew Colbey hated court affairs nearly as much as having a training session interrupted, Santagithi saw the need for both. Though different and bolder, Colbey’s strategies for war and diplomacy often complimented his own. He wanted the old Renshai’s input on this matter and his presence if it became necessary. “Tell him I sent you, and it’s important. Get him here as quickly as you can.”
“Yes, sir.” Harrit headed toward the town at a run. De
spite the crisp efficiency of Harrit’s words and his motion, Santagithi sensed reluctance. He did not envy any man’s need to disturb Colbey.
Santagithi forced himself to slow his pace, walking the fine line between delaying long enough for Colbey to arrive and upsetting his guests by not handling their problems with the expediency they deserved. He ambled across the meadows between the guard quarters and his home, pleased by the trampled patches of grass that indicated an increase in the soldiers’ spars and practices. Over the years, he had come to know every step of the route he had traced tens of thousands of times, on horseback and on foot. Today, it seemed to gain a special significance.
Santagithi looked out over the village, watching children run and tumble between the neat array of cottages, seeing men and women traveling the dirt roads. Sheep dotted the grassy areas between the houses, and the metallic clang of the blacksmith’s hammer sounded reassuringly familiar. Santagithi memorized the scene. Soon enough, that peace might be shattered, and he dared not guess for how long or even how much of his city or his people would remain in the end. He drew some solace from the fact that the Northmen’s allegiance to the forces of good meant that his men would die with honor; their women and children would come to little harm. Had the West lost the Great War, the Easterners would have tortured his people, glorying in the screaming agony of rape and slaughter. The worst the Northmen would inflict upon survivors was the gladiator pit, and they might take a few of the women as house slaves. It was a scant comfort that only made Santagithi more determined to solve the problem peacefully, if possible, and successfully if his efforts at negotiation failed.
Santagithi entered his citadel, the hallway to his court seeming shorter than usual. Though he would have liked Colbey’s presence from the start, he considered it politically reckless and unfair to make the Auerman wait too long. And the glimpse of his own city made him sensitive to their plight. His delay could cost them their village.
Alert, Santagithi loosened his sword in its scabbard and opened the door. Before his dais stood six men covered so thickly in trail dust that he could not distinguish the color of their garments. Each wore a crude leather hauberk and a flapped helmet that covered most of his head. Their cloaks bore the black silhouette of a dog that was Auer’s symbol.
The wary stances and the unwrinkled, black and silver uniforms of Santagithi’s six guardsmen who stood at their traditional posts along the walls made the Auermen look demoralized and broken in comparison. The familiarity of his court and the vigilance of his own men at arms relaxed Santagithi as he mounted the raised dais and took his seat.
The Auermen approached and knelt before Santagithi.
Santagithi waved for them to stand. “There’s no formality here. What can I do for you?”
The Auermen rose. The instant they did, all evidence of weariness vanished. They drew swords with gleaming edges, far too well crafted. As one, they sprang at Santagithi.
Despite his suspicions, the swift and coordinated attack of the Auermen caught Santagithi off his guard. He staggered to his feet, his chair tumbling from the dais. His foot came down on air. He plummeted from the platform, his leg jarring on flooring unexpectedly far beneath him. His clumsiness saved him. Three enemy swords rattled against one another. One more bit into the falling chair, jerking it into the path of a fifth soldier. The sixth sword swung true, tearing a gash in Santagithi’s arm.
Pain cleared Santagithi’s mind. Drawing his sword, he executed broad figure eights, weaving a barrier for his retreat. He could not hope to fight six men at once. He could only delay until his guards joined the fray.
Shouts and the rasp of drawing swords echoed through the court as Santagithi’s guards sprang to his defense. A harried series of backsteps slammed Santagithi’s heel into the wall behind him. He felt the weave of the paired war tapestries press his tunic into his back. A sea of swords whipped toward him. Two crashed against his blade, aching through his wound. Blood spilled, warm beneath his sleeve. A third sword surged for his face.
Santagithi ducked. The blade sang over his head, tangling in a tapestry. Seeing an opening, Santagithi lunged, his sword burying into the hollow between the wielder’s shoulder and neck. The directed maneuver opened Santagithi’s defenses. A blade ripped his thigh. Another gashed his forehead.
Blood loss weakened Santagithi, and the Auermen became a blur of steel and leather. Yet their attacks grew less furious as Santagithi’s guards fell upon them. A gap appeared, and Santagithi dove through it, rolling from the center of the combat. A guard blocked pursuit with his person, and paid with his life. An Auerman’s sword tore open his chest. He fell in silence.
Blood stung Santagithi’s eyes, blinding him. He clung to the wall and to his consciousness, unable to find the strength he needed to return to the battle. He willed power into his failing limbs, catching a tighter hold on his sword in time to see an Auerman and a guard collapse together, swords thrust through one another’s abdomens. Another of the visitors staggered from the melee, clutching at a geyser of blood from his thigh. An instant later, he toppled.
Three down, three to go. Santagithi raised his sword. Dizziness formed a buzzing curtain in his mind, threatening to overcome awareness. He tensed to charge back into battle, just as the chamber door swung open. For a moment, Colbey, Rache, Episte, and Harrit stood in the doorway. Santagithi followed the old Renshai’s gaze to a body on the floor. The leather helmet had fallen away to reveal the blond war braids and pale features of a Northman.
Colbey howled, his swords flashing from sheath to hand to first cut in less time than it took Santagithi to register the Renshai’s presence. One Northman fell dead before he realized he was menaced. The other two disengaged from Santagithi’s guards and charged Colbey.
The weight of Santagithi’s sword overpowered him. It fell, dragging the general to one knee. Blood loss dizzied him, and the battle seemed to spin in tight circles. He scarcely followed the Northmen’s strikes, and Colbey looked like a gold-white blur. Blood streaked the gray haze that blurred his vision, and another Northman collapsed. The guards held back, forming a human wall between the battle and their general. Despite his disorientation, Santagithi counted four, hoping the last two were wounded, not casualties, though his visions of the battle told him otherwise.
Santagithi gathered the will to lurch to his feet, vertigo all but buffeting him back to the floor. Fighting the heaving of his stomach and the giant fist that seemed intent on hammering him to oblivion, Santagithi limped toward his dais. Colbey blocked his last opponent’s upstroke between his swords. Suddenly, Rache dashed forward, ducking beneath Colbey’s arm as he drew his light, short sword. When Colbey disengaged, the child plunged his blade into the Northman’s lower back. The enemy stiffened. One of Colbey’s swords sent the corpse skidding across the courtroom floor.
As one, the guardsmen spun to tend to their general, only to find that he had moved. As his followers’ gazes found him, Santagithi tried to regain control. “My court isn’t a battlefield. Clean this up!” A sudden stab of pain made him catch his breath. “Harrit, find out who hired these assassins.”
“Yes, sir.” Harrit knelt to examine the mutilated bodies.
“Who did we lose?” Santagithi asked softly.
One of the guardsmen replied. “Kloras and Monsamer.”
Santagithi tried to gather his wits, holding his gaze on the rivulets of blood twining between his fingers. He feared that any movement of his head might steal his consciousness. “Don’t mention this incident to anyone until I’ve had a chance to talk to their families.” Both married, one with children. Santagithi cursed himself. Had I waited for Colbey, none of ours would have died.
The guards glanced at one another, torn between assisting their general and awaiting his commands. Until he either collapsed or asked for help, they dared not touch him.
Less impressed by rank, Colbey placed a steadying arm around Santagithi’s waist. “Come on, old friend. Let me see to those wounds.”
Everyone in the room relaxed tangibly. Weak from blood loss, Santagithi allowed Colbey to lead him out, without protest. Rache followed, gazing in fascination at his bloodied sword. Episte remained behind, more interested in or horrified by the corpses.
Colbey opened the door to the next room, revealing the smaller of Santagithi’s two libraries. Shelves lined the walls, holding the handful of texts the general had managed to acquire, surrounded by curios: war trinkets and souvenirs. A single desk sat in the center of the room, along with a matching, wooden chair. Entering, Colbey escorted Santagithi to the seat. Santagithi sat, while the Renshai closed the door. Rache slid to the floor, his back wedged in a corner. The child sat in silence, mesmerized by the scarlet runnels trickling along his blade.
Colbey removed a pouch from his pocket, dumping the contents on the desktop. Bandages, vials, and packets bounced across the surface, one container rolling to the edge. Colbey snatched it before it went over the side. The movement drew his attention to the boy, and his eyes went cold. “Rache! Show that sword some respect!” Grabbing a bandage, he tossed it to the child. It landed on Rache’s sandal.
Rache started. Sheepishly, he collected the rag and set to work on his blade.
Sitting helped Santagithi to overcome his dizziness, but Colbey’s quick movements made him queasy. He lowered his head to the table while Colbey tended the tears in his arm and thigh. Though sure and gentle, the Renshai’s hands made Santagithi’s wounds ache.
The Western Wizard Page 27
