The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  CHAPTER 19

  Flanner’s Bane

  That night, Episte watched flames leap in a wild dance from the last piled hay from the previous harvest. The dark shapes of the citizens of Greentree threaded through moon glow, firelight, and darkness, alternately featureless shadows and vividly detailed individuals. Episte ignored the dancing weave of revelers at the Midsummer’s Festival, holding his gaze on the fire. If he kept his attention centered, he could see the grate fires that had warmed him and his mother on winter nights. Deeper, he found his mother’s face haloed in the flames, oval as an egg with its familiar snub nose.

  Hay shifted, and the fire broke to sparks that sprinkled the image with freckles. Its contour broken by the movement, the illusion became lost to Episte, yet the emotions it inspired remained. Longing filled him, a horrible, haunting need to replace the world that had shattered around him. He closed his eyes against tears, searching deep inside himself. For a moment, he was four years old again, cradled in his mother’s lap and arms while she rocked back and forth on her favorite old chair. He relived the raw innocence that had allowed him to believe, without doubt, that he was secure. Nothing could harm him so long as she held him.

  The urge to cry receded, and a smile replaced it. Episte opened his eyes. Almost immediately, his gaze riveted on a young woman at the edge of the crowd. She could have fit Emerald’s description. Straight, dark hair fell around a rose petal face with a small nose and large eyes. She lacked only the plump curves that come with years. He guessed that she was a year or two younger than himself.

  The crowd milled, blocking Episte’s view of the girl. Enthralled, he pushed through the throng toward where he had last seen her.

  Rache’s voice came from behind him. “Episte!”

  Swearing softly, Episte ignored the call. He pressed forward. Finding himself facing a dense crowd of women, he waited for them to pass.

  Rache caught Episte’s shoulder. “Take a bowl and join us.”

  Episte twisted to look at Rache. The younger Renshai held a bowl of steaming vegetables balanced on one hand. He pointed with the other. “Mother and—”

  “Later.” Episte shook free of Rache’s grip and darted into the masses. He found no sign of the girl, and he cursed the delay Rache had caused him. He stood, gaze sweeping the area for some glimpse of the youth he sought.

  A female voice came from so close behind Episte, it startled him. “Hallo.”

  Episte whirled to face a young teenager. Her black eyes held a shy twinkle, and her lips were full and pink. She was unattractive by a farmer’s standards. Her frame was lean and angular, without the bulges and waves that rewarded affluence. But her small, firm breasts made Episte forget the girl he followed. “My name is Episte.” He lowered his voice, trying to sound composed and experienced.

  “I hight Elanor,” she said in the slurred Greentree dialect that made Episte cringe. “Hoo’s yere bonny friend?”

  Episte’s stomach lurched. “My what?”

  “Yere friend,” she repeated. “I ken t’ meet him.”

  “My friend.” Episte’s mood withered. “My . . . little companion? Rache?” The words sounded foolish, even to him. Though younger, Rache weighed nearly twice as much as Episte.

  Elanor giggled. “Oh, aye. Yere little friend.”

  Elanor’s laughter ruptured Episte’s fragile pride. “Come with me,” he said, feeling numb. Turning, Episte hurried Elanor back to where he had last seen Rache, then headed in the direction in which the boy had pointed. They caught up with the youngest Renshai before he reached his parents.

  At a touch, Rache whirled.

  “Rache, this is Elanor.”

  Rache looked confused and embarrassed. Balancing the bowl on his forearm, he made a gesture of greeting that sent the bowl careening off-balance. He caught it before it hit the ground, though vegetables scattered over the grass between them. “Oh,” Rache said. “Elanor.” He looked to Episte for guidance.

  Ignoring Rache’s silent plea, Episte walked away. It’s not fair! Self-pity dragged at him, and he could feel hot tears of rage building. Suddenly, anger overtook him. He froze, hands opening and closing like the mouth of a gaping fish. He whirled. His sword swept from its sheath as he rushed down upon Rache.

  Elanor screamed. Gasping villagers darted from Episte’s path. He sprang at Rache with a crazed howl of anger.

  Rache met Episte with a parry and a question. “What’s this?”

  Episte’s reply was a thrust for Rache’s chest that the younger Renshai scarcely dodged. He fell silent then, and their swords flickered like sparks in the moonlight, their strokes fast as fire. Episte hissed through gritted teeth. “You get everything you want! Even when you don’t want it!”

  Rache said nothing, concentrating on fielding Episte’s blows. Fury had granted Episte strength, and he had always been the quicker of the two. He could see Rache tiring visibly, and the need to guide his strokes more cautiously only fueled his anger. He wanted to slash in blind fury, to dispel his rage in a directed flurry of hack and parry.

  Suddenly, Rache stepped aside and hurled his blade toward the ground at Episte’s feet.

  Episte pulled his blow, instinctively catching Rache’s hilt. Reversing to hold the blade, he offered the grip.

  Rache made no move to accept it.

  “Take your sword, Rache, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

  Rache moved closer, but he did not reach for his weapon. Episte tossed it back in a gentle arc. Rache stepped aside. The sword landed in the grass near his feet.

  Incredulous at the disrespect, Episte stared from sword to companion. “Why did you do that?”

  Rache met Episte’s gaze. “Because I don’t understand. Because I promised myself long ago I would never try to strike my brother in anger, and I would rather dishonor my sword and myself than you.”

  A cold shock of guilt drained Episte’s frenzy. “Damn you, Rache!” He felt the tears returning. As much as Rache’s honor touched him, it made his own tantrum seem evil and petty. Maybe the gods can see that Rache deserves parents and girls and strength and looks and dedication. Maybe Colbey loves him more because he’s a better person. The tears came faster now, hot and painfully violent. He whirled, ignoring the awed press that look as pale and shaken as rescued drowners. For now, Episte needed to be alone. The darkness hid him from the stares of strangers, and he knew he could outmaneuver Rache’s attempts to find him. For the moment, Episte needed to find a way to escape from himself as well.

  * * *

  A night spent wrestling and medicating cows and goats left Colbey with the pleasant fatigue that rewarded hard labor. Shadimar and Secodon had already retreated to the loft, leaving Colbey reclining, alone, on the gathering house porch. The thin whine of music from the Midsummer’s Festival occasionally broke through the constant shrill of crickets. A red moon glowed faintly through wispy clouds. Colbey gazed at the colored halos the festival smoke formed around the moon. Then, his lids drooped closed, and he relaxed into sleep.

  Almost immediately, a subtle shift in the wind awakened Colbey with a premonition of imminent peril. He snapped open his eyes to a sky sprinkled with stars. From the heavens, a dark shape hurtled toward him, obliterating the moon.

  Colbey sprang from the porch to the grounds. A wall of flame blasted from the figure, charring the inn porch where he had lain seconds before.

  “Modi!” The Renshai drew one sword and swung. His blade cleaved air.

  The creature spiraled upward, its form now silhouetted against the moon. The farmers had exaggerated little. It was as large as two cottages, yet it flew with an aristiri hawk’s grace. At the top of its arc, it spun to face Colbey. The moon flashed from scarlet eyes in a rodent’s head, and Colbey could see the white glimmers of fangs as long as his forearm. It plunged for him, a massive shadow etched across the moon.

  It’s real. For an instant, Colbey knew only remorse for the wrong he had inflicted on Episte. Then, the great head reared back as the
creature moved, revealing a cat’s body trailing two lizard tails. Jaguar’s paws held toenails as long as its teeth.

  Colbey dodged aside. A bolt of flame slashed the spot where he had stood. An instant later, he reversed his direction, returning to his previous position. Heat singed the hair from his left arm with a pain that made him shout. “Modi!” Momentum carried the beast toward him.

  The redness of its rat’s eyes seemed to swallow Colbey. He hacked, thrust, and swept, his blade slicing into the muscle of its wing and through. Yet, oddly, the sword drew no blood.

  The creature soared upward. Its claw tore blistering furrows in Colbey’s left hand, driving the hilt from his grasp. Its tails swept for his head. Incapacitated by pain, Colbey barely sprang out of the way. “Modi! Modi! Mo-deee!” The cry gave him enough clarity of mind to catch his sword in the opposite hand. He tried to draw the other blade in a reverse grip with his injured hand, but his fingers would not function.

  Abruptly, Colbey sensed a presence behind him that seemed to disappear as quickly. A bolt of blue light screamed past his ear, slamming into the creature’s flank with a force that sent it lurching into a spin. A beastly bellow formed a duet with Colbey’s battle cry. The creature plummeted awkwardly, as if injured, though Colbey’s blade seemed not to have touched it at all. As it struck the ground, Colbey charged. The beast burst into flames. Heat struck Colbey in a wave, setting his clothes ablaze and stinging his eyes. He rolled, snuffing the flames, and forced his lids open. Through vision blurred by agony, he saw fire flickering as red as the blood from a severed artery. It held the creature’s shape, except where its flank had been. There, a smaller blaze flickered sapphire blue.

  Colbey rolled to his feet and charged in a motion. He slashed at the shapeless mass of fire. The blue flame strengthened, swirling around and through the red like a separate being. Colbey’s sword passed through the figure two hundred times in half as many seconds, yet it met nothing of substance. Blood oozed from his hand, burning like acid.

  Gradually, the fire lost all shape, the crimson shrinking before the blue. Suddenly, all redness failed. The blue streaks gathered into a manshape. Then the fire disappeared, but the image it had formed remained. Where it had been, a man knelt in the grass, his shoulders bent and heaving.

  Having seen the creature change form before, Colbey did not hesitate. He leapt upon the figure in the grass. At last, his sword met something solid, a wooden staff, and the steel snapped beneath the impact.

  Colbey dropped his hilt, pawing for his second sword, and the other met his glance with ancient, gray eyes. Only then, Colbey recognized Shadimar. He recoiled in disbelief, unable to piece together the events of the last several moments. The blue flame had to be Shadimar. But what kind of abomination was the red?

  Shadimar recovered Colbey’s broken blade and hilt. “Worthless,” he grumbled. “Worthless despite skill, but I’ll change that if it takes every shred of magic I can call.” He stomped off across the charred porch, stopping only when he reached the doorway. He spoke to Colbey without turning, and the booming tone of his voice warned the Renshai not to even try to question. “I presume this blade was well made?”

  “If you ever find one better, you’ll have to steal it from my sheath.”

  Without a reply, Shadimar stormed into the common room, leaving Colbey in a night gone eerily silent. He stared at his mangled left hand, hoping desperately he would find a cure for what remained of it.

  * * *

  Curiosity haunted Colbey, and the ceaseless throbbing of his hand made sleep impossible. When he’d exhausted every herb he could think of and find, the wound settled to a dull ache that still precluded sleep. Eventually, abandoning all hope of dispelling the pain, Colbey chewed some stems that blunted his mind and allowed him to sleep despite it.

  Colbey awakened on the piled straw in the gathering house loft, in exactly the place and position in which he had fallen asleep. Sunlight streamed through the windows, trailing square funnels of light on the loft floor. Shadimar sat just outside one of these patches, his back propped against the wall, his head and shoulders sagging over a sword in his lap. Voices reverberated from the common room below, blending into a discordant hubbub that left no individual words to decipher.

  Colbey sat up. From the scattered disarray of packs and hay, he knew the others had returned, slept, and already started another day. His head felt heavy, and his thoughts stumbled through fog. His hand ached incessantly. The slightest movement intensified the pain to a pounding, panting agony. Loss of control and concern for his limb drove Colbey into a foul temper. He un-wound the bandage from his hand, ignoring the flashes this sent through the wound. Four parallel gashes marred the flesh, their edges gaping. The inner skin held an unhealthy pallor that boded poorly for healing, and the outer had gone as red as a sunset. Colbey knew that most men would have sutured each gap, but he knew better. Though it would scar more, the wound would heal better from inside to out. And experience told him that closing dirty injuries made them more prone to infection.

  Colbey cleared the wound meticulously, though every touch sparked more pain. Applying the most potent of the pastes he had created the previous night, he re-wrapped it with a clean bandage and hoped for the best.

  When Colbey had finished, Shadimar looked up. “Come here.”

  In no mood for power struggles or lectures, Colbey remained in place. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to come here.”

  Pain and the aftereffects of the sleeping herb made Colbey sullen, and the Wizard’s half-answer increased his annoyance. “Why?”

  Shadimar fixed a stone-hard gaze on Colbey. “Because I need to talk and to give you something. I don’t want to shout, and I won’t throw it across the loft.”

  Colbey started to grumble something about the Wizard coming to him, then stopped. He saw no reason to antagonize Shadimar, and he could not help becoming interested in the sword in Shadimar’s lap. It looked like a twin to the broken blade, except that it was whole. Rising, he walked to the Wizard, mustering mental strength to banish the shreds of fatigue left by the sleeping herb. “What do you have?”

  “I repaired your sword.” Shadimar pointed the weapon at Colbey.

  Colbey frowned, reminding himself that Shadimar would know little of weapon etiquette. To a warrior, displayed steel meant a challenge, and anyone who offered anything but a weapon’s hilt might just as well have attacked. “Thank you for your effort, but it’s of no use to me now. Even if you could fix it in a way that didn’t disrupt the balance, it would always have a weak point.”

  Shadimar smiled. “Try it.” Apparently, recognizing his impropriety, he placed his other hand on the blade. The grasp was awkward, even for one not trained for war, and his excessive caution became his undoing. While guarding his fingers too well, he touched his palm to the blade. It left barely a scratch, a short scarlet line that did not even draw enough blood to bead. Yet Shadimar stared in fascination or horror.

  Colbey accepted the sword, more interested in it than in the Eastern Wizard’s antics. He had trusted the sword for too many years to dismiss it without at least a glance. It had changed little since he had drawn it to battle the creature that the farmers of Greentree had called Flanner’s bane. All its weight seemed bunched just beyond the hilt. If anything, its balance had gone from the best he had ever wielded to perfection. The notches the edges had accumulated through the decades had vanished, and they looked as sharp as the day of their forging. In the shadows, the color seemed ideal. When Colbey carried it to the sunlight, he approved even more. Not so much as a hairline remained to show where the steel had broken.

  Lowering his head, Colbey put the sword to its final test. He swept the blade in a long stroke, feigned a block, then reversed the cut. That one maneuver told him all. This was the sword against which all future swords must be measured, one that was everything that Colbey had always imagined the gods would use. Need and longing filled him, followed by the realization that
it already belonged to him. Joy swept him then, and he launched into a swirl of grace and movement designed to test the sword and himself to their joint limit. The steel did not disappoint him. It became a willing partner, stabbing and slashing imaginary enemies as if telepathically linked. The balance made it feel weightless. The pain in Colbey’s hand seemed to disappear, as his concentration narrowed in on the sword.

  Shadimar watched, clutching at the miniscule nick on his palm with the intensity that Colbey had earlier given his damaged hand.

  Colbey halted his practice, exhilarated. The fog had lifted from his thoughts, and all irritation had left him. “It’s better than before the break. How?” Colbey broke off, bothered by his own question. The first stirrings of warning rose, and the realization that he might have to refuse Shadimar’s gift made him ill.

  “Magic,” Shadimar said softly, the precise word Colbey had hoped not to hear, though he knew there could be no other explanation. “No object currently on man’s world has so much power. Use it with care.”

  “No.” Colbey flipped the sword with none of Shadimar’s caution. He offered the hilt. “I can’t take it.”

  Shadimar’s face went so blank, it seemed as if even the features had been washed from it. His ancient eyes held no fire of emotion. “I have paid a high price for it and for you.” He made no motion to take the sword. “Without it, you can do nothing for me except die.”

  Colbey turned away. The idea of losing the weapon he had searched for all his life hurt. “I think using it would violate the Renshai code of honor. We rely only on personal skill because it has no limits. Like armor, magic would become a crutch. Crutches are too easily lost, and their wielders with them.”

  Bitter lines etched across Shadimar’s empty features. “Enchanted or not, a sword is only as good as its wielder. It won’t replace skill. It will only help you enhance what you already have.” The Eastern Wizard’s mood radiated to Colbey. Many earnest thoughts troubled Shadimar, but they concerned matters beyond Colbey’s experience and made little sense to him. He plucked out only vague premonitions of a serious danger and doubts that seemed to pertain as much to Colbey as to the enemies they would need to face.