The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Now, in the forests south of the town of Greentree, Colbey smiled at this memory from a time when his only concern was becoming the best swordsman he could. He dwelt on the past and the memories it inspired, glad to release the concern that had wound his nerves to aching coils for the last half day. He knew he should have returned long ago. Already, his companions would be worrying over his own safety as well as Episte’s. Yet, his conscience would not allow him to abandon the search.

  Korgar emerged from a patch of thistle, without a rustle to betray his passage. “Anem,” he said, his voice a guttural growl. He jabbed his hand in the direction from which he had come, then indicated a circular path of avoidance.

  Colbey sighed, stopping in his tracks. Over time, he had come to recognize anem as the barbarian’s word for Northmen. He could not help wondering if he had made a mistake by avoiding the areas that Korgar indicated. Having never seen Episte, Korgar might mistake the young blond for one of the Northmen’s own. “How many?” Colbey held up one finger, adding consecutive digits to the count until he reached five. He used the whole of his bandaged hand for the sixth marker.

  Korgar grunted, nodding.

  Colbey dropped his count. It made no sense for Episte to be among others, unless the Northmen had captured him. Yet that made less sense. The Northmen would have no reason to keep a Renshai alive, and Colbey could not imagine anyone taking Episte without a lethal fight. He also believed that, despite his communication difficulties, Korgar would mention the oddity of a prisoner. Or so he hoped.

  Directly behind Colbey, Secodon sat, whining softly.

  Colbey shifted his direction. The turn of his thoughts back to Episte brought with it a feeling as heavy as lead. His mind conjured images of the teenager as a toddler, capering through maneuvers designed for older students. Memories paraded through his thoughts, of Episte at every age, an endless succession of skill and frustration. So competent, yet so unmotivated. The idea both pained and brought joy. As much as it hurt to have a student with so much potential and so little desire, it was what made Episte Episte.

  Brush rasped from Colbey’s jerkin as he worked through a dense copse and into a sparser area of forest. He tried to suppress the rush of memory that hammered at him. The images retreated, replaced by insidious feelings dredged from a depth Colbey had never before discovered. His love for Episte frightened him. The strength of his emotion surpassed anything he could recall from the past, even his ties to his parents. For all that he had tried to leave Episte’s nonmartial upbringing to the boy’s mother, the temptation to sweep the child away from her had proven strong. Though he had resisted in the physical sense, his mind had betrayed him. Colbey knew without the need to doubt, that he was, in his own mind and in the boy’s, Episte’s father.

  Secodon paused, nostrils twitching in a thin breeze that Colbey scarcely noticed. The wolf plunged ahead, brush crackling in its wake. Colbey continued onward, sticking to the stripes and patches of darkness. The realization opened a deeply buried section of memory, and love seemed to geyser from it with an intensity that again brought tears to Colbey’s eyes. They surprised him. He could not remember ever having cried before, not even as a child. Yet he could not have stopped the tears if he tried. Episte meant so much more than just one more student among decades of students. The few remaining Renshai made each one more precious, but none more so than the last that still carried Renshai blood.

  The idea rankled. Colbey had spent too long denying the importance of bloodline to place emphasis on it now, but his mind seized the concept and held it. In his youth, Colbey had fallen in love twice; neither woman had borne him a child. In turn, each had left him for a man who could give her a family. From that time, Colbey had never known any woman as more than a friend, a peer, or a student, and the idea of settling with one never crossed his mind again. He had no need nor reason. Of them all, only Episte could carry on the physical traits that, though secondary to the sword skill, still distinguished Renshai: the blond or red hair and pale eyes that seemed so natural to Colbey, the slower aging, and the skill that had come because those with natural and trained ability survived long enough to procreate.

  Secodon returned. The wolf danced an excited circle around Colbey, then started back the way it had come. After a few steps, it returned to Colbey.

  Colbey followed, curious. As it became obvious that Secodon was leading him somewhere, guarded hope rose. He could not help but wonder if the beast would take him to a rabbit’s burrow or a fox’s den. Had it been any other trained wolf, he would have expected such a find. Yet Secodon belonged to Shadimar. Though the wolf seemed normal, aside from reading the Wizard’s moods, Colbey allowed a shiver of joy to surface.

  Episte. Colbey’s tears abated, and he smiled. He formed mental pictures of the teen, imagining the exuberant embrace when the youngster realized that he was no longer lost in unfamiliar forest. When the hugs had finished, Colbey promised himself that he would again apologize for hitting Episte. He would confess that the rage that had possessed him when he believed Episte was lying had burned harder because of the love and hopes and plans he had projected on the last man with Renshai blood. My son. Colbey stepped into a clearing.

  At his approach, flies rose in a buzzing cloud. Three bodies sprawled on the ground black with blood. Two lay in familiar positions, agonizingly twisted and stiffened in rigor. Each bore wounds that could only have come in battle: one a thrust through the abdomen, the other a gash across its throat. The third body flopped in the center of the glade, naked and lying on the tattered remains of a tunic and cloak. Small and lanky, it obviously belonged to a young teen. The limbs sprawled as if in sleep, yet their stiffness betrayed death. And it had no head.

  Colbey gasped in a ragged breath. Sadness assailed him first, the grim knowledge that this youth, whoever he had been, had never reached Valhalla. The need for the dead to be a stranger kept other possibilities at bay, and realization seemed to take an eternity to trickle into Colbey’s brain. He stood, frozen and rooted. He did not know for how long; but, when he moved at last, his limbs tingled with the prickling sensation that comes with remaining in one position too long. Korgar had stepped up beside him.

  At length, Colbey emerged from his trance enough to approach the body. The neck bore evidence of repeated trauma. No clean stroke had claimed the head, and the lack of wounds on the remainder of the body sickened Colbey. This man had died slowly and in a horrible agony that he could not imagine even the most savage Renshai inflicting on an enemy. Colbey dropped to his haunches beside the corpse, dreading what need told him he must do. Blood did not bother him, nor death. He had claimed both too long and too many times to find them anything but commonplace. But the ugliness at his feet went beyond any mortal honor he could fathom. Why would anyone do this to anyone else? The answer came faster than he could suppress it. Because the Northmen’s hatred has grown beyond rational thought or behavior. The next followed naturally. Which means this corpse can be no one but Episte.

  The idea evoked a pain that mercifully stole all thought from Colbey. Having conceived the horror, however, he had to know the truth. Catching a cold, bloodless arm, he flipped the body to its back. Though stained with gore, the tatters of cloth matched Episte’s cloak and tunic perfectly.

  No! Colbey pawed at the clothing in mindless agony. “No!” he screamed, not caring who heard. “No! No! No!” And the rest of the call came as naturally as breathing, that which he had learned to shout when cut, though that pain had always before been physical. “Modi! Modi!” The clothing balled into his lap, some of the blood still wet enough to smear the bandage and gel in the hairs of his arm. Santagithi’s locket fell free, the chain snaking across the bloodstained dirt.

  Colbey seized the trinket. Though it could be no other, he had to know for certain. He cupped his hand around the piece, fingers quivering on the latch. It opened to reveal the familiar piece of parchment and the words in the elder Rache’s hand.

  Colbey snapped the locket clo
sed. It pinched the skin on the side of his finger, the sharpness of the pain reviving him from a state of numb shock to a rage that seemed to tear him asunder. He jabbed the jewelry into his pocket so hard that the lining tore. He whipped the sword from his sheath with his unbandaged hand and advanced on the dead Northmen. If they would steal the glory from Episte’s death, then he would butcher Valhalla from them as well. From this day forth, no Northman would find the joy of the afterlife. Colbey would see to that. Quickly, he advanced on the dead, intent on hacking them into enough gory pieces so their brothers could never recognize them, could never perform the ceremonies that would assure them the honor of an afterlife.

  Yet even as Colbey raised the blade, he knew that he could never let it fall. The two men who lay here had not disgraced Episte. Rather, they had surely fallen at his hand. To dismember them was wrong, and to carry a stark, ugly vengeance against all Northmen equally so. To claim limbs from the dead would require Colbey to abandon all the promises he had made to himself, to his goddess, and to the future of Renshai. It would revive every crime he had vowed to make right, rekindle every hatred against the Renshai that he had dedicated the last decade of his lift to undoing. He returned the blade to his sheath.

  Colbey’s anger continued to flare, the violence that would have dispelled it thwarted by conscience. He channeled it into gathering the largest branches he could handle, slamming them against trees before tossing them into a pile in the clearing. He hauled the corpse onto the bed of logs and kindling, its headlessness a spear that jabbed his heart with every glance. Then he gathered more wood, assisted by Korgar.

  Only after Colbey had set the pyre alight did he consider the consequences of his actions. On the surface, he knew the smoke and fire would draw enemies. That did not bother him. For now, he would welcome the chance to send a thousand Northmen to Valhalla. Reward or not, at least they could no longer trouble the Renshai. But Colbey knew he had no right to honor this corpse. To offer the gods this empty shell, its soul already doomed to Hel, was blasphemy. As the red trickle of flame grew into an orange-white fury, Colbey lowered his head, waiting for his goddess’ disapproval. Yet Sif gave him nothing.

  Grief bunched inside Colbey, still needing an outlet. So many times, he had watched friends, family, and companions collapse in red ruin. So many times, they had died in the glory of battle, and he had known joy instead of sadness, had celebrated instead of mourned. But the means and result of this death allowed Colbey to bear a sorrow and regret like nothing he had ever known. And it still sought an outlet. The fire grew. Its heat become uncomfortable against Colbey’s cheek, driving sweat from his brow and threatening damage to his sensitive Northern skin. It created flickering shadows that danced along the trunks of stately oak and hickory.

  One more thought nearly stole Colbey’s breath. As he had wandered around the clearing, in shock, then rage, then in his search for kindling, he had never found the head. Why would they take the head? Only one answer came, and the cruelty of the idea tortured even the Golden Prince of Demons. We will see that head again. His hand clutched at the locket through the fabric of his pocket, and he knew how that sight would demoralize Rache, and perhaps the others as well. Even prepared, Colbey doubted he himself could stand the sight, though he felt certain it would enrage rather than paralyze him.

  Needing an emotional purge now even more than before, Colbey stepped away from the fire. The howl of grief and agony that escaped his throat surprised him at first. Then he cried out again, and Korgar’s mournful note of sympathy forced a sweet and mellow duet, a tribute to the last Renshai who could have passed on the bloodline. And, in the distance, Secodon answered.

  * * *

  By the time Colbey and Korgar returned, dusk smeared the sky gray-pink. The burned tree looked black and skeletal against the lighter colors of the sunset. Its barkless stripes broke the contour, as if holding shadows at bay. Moonlight puddled beneath openings in the foliage, and Colbey could see familiar figures milling in the lighted patches. As Colbey ducked beneath a low hanging bough, his companions closed around him. Mitrian, Garn, and Rache studied him with round, hopeful eyes that begged a happy story he could not give them.

  Korgar grunted, fading into the darkness between gaps in the pattern of branches.

  Colbey lowered his head. Without explanation, he placed his hand into his pocket, twining his fingers around the chain of Santagithi’s locket. Drawing it free, he offered the trinket to Rache.

  Rache’s jaw sagged open, but no words emerged. He made no move to take the locket.

  Mitrian glanced at Garn nervously. The ex-gladiator took the burden upon himself. “He’s dead?”

  Colbey lowered his head, finally feeling the weariness that came of two days without sleep. “Episte is dead.”

  “That fire we saw at midday?” Mitrian started and never bothered to finish.

  Colbey knew relief. Mitrian’s question gave him the opportunity to save the others from the horror without lying. “His pyre. Yes.”

  “Episte’s pyre.” Mitrian parroted, as if she could accept the words only with repetition. For the moment, the significance seemed lost, the words only sound without meaning.

  Rache remained immobile and silent.

  “I’m sorry.” Colbey looped the chain over Rache’s head, and the locket settled against the youth’s tunic. “I got there far too late. There was nothing I could do.” When no one said anything more, Colbey turned and headed toward Shadimar, deeper in the forest.

  “Wait,” Rache said.

  Colbey whirled back to meet innocent green eyes in a child’s face above an adult’s body. “Did he die in glory? Did he find Valhalla?”

  “I set him to pyre.” Colbey continued to mislead, wanting Episte’s memory honored, not mourned, shying from the horror the truth would inflict. His description of action should have proved enough, but Rache remained relentless.

  “Did my brother find Valhalla?”

  Colbey drew breath, not quite certain what would emerge. His heart told him to spare Rache and honor Episte’s memory, to say that setting Episte to pyre should be accepted as answer. But Colbey would not lie. He would not betray his own. “No.” He said nothing more. He did not clarify or qualify the response. He pushed past.

  Behind him, Colbey could hear Rache’s sobs, the sound tearing at him over the rising and falling song of insects. He could imagine Garn and Mitrian clutching one another, exchanging consolations. He left them to their grief, letting them handle it in their own way, as he had.

  Shadimar hooked Colbey’s sleeve. “Where is Secodon?”

  “What?” Colbey had forgotten the wolf in the agony of his sorrow. “He was with us.”

  “He isn’t any longer.” Shadimar’s craggy features went hard. “And he is in distress.”

  “You think he’s in danger?” Colbey found it difficult to raise concern for an animal. He was emotionally empty.

  Shadimar squinted in concentration. “No. It seems more emotional than physical. Frustration, perhaps. Sorrow. Uncertainty.”

  Colbey nodded, recalling his grief howl and the wolf’s haunting answer, like an echo in the distance. “I’m afraid that may have come from me.”

  Shadimar bobbed his head slowly, but his gaze seemed distant.

  “Do you want me to find him?”

  “No. I believe whatever he was hunting or seeking has eluded him. He’ll come back.”

  Shadimar’s choice of words set Colbey’s mind in motion. Did Secodon try to track Episte’s killer? The old Renshai knew he had taken a huge leap in logic, yet Shadimar’s suggestion that the wolf had lost a quarry intrigued him. Colbey’s respect for Secodon trebled in an instant, though it raised concern as well. A madman capable of the cruelty inflicted on Episte will not quit. Grief blinded me to a necessity that an animal did not forget. That man must be found, and he must be slain. An abomination like that cannot be allowed to live and slaughter.

  The idea came easily, the solution less so. And Co
lbey knew he had to find it before the other killed again.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Western Renshai

  Overnight, Colbey’s grief settled into a hollow in his memory. No one had awakened him for a watch. Apparently, each had his own misery to contemplate, and too many could not sleep to bother those who needed rest. Without supplies, they did not trouble to worry about breakfast. Even Garn seemed to realize that complaints of hunger would seem petty to the point of cruelty, and they prepared for the journey ahead in relative silence.

  Secodon had returned while Colbey slept. A midsummer shedding had left his coat ragged, and burrs had knotted through the coarse tufts of loosened undercoat. Colbey guessed that the wolf had come back early in the night because he looked well-rested in the morning.

  Colbey took the party eastward, knowing they would need to veer south to find the passes through the Southern Weathered Range and onto the Western Plains that had served as the battleground in the Great War. He was only partially familiar with the geography of the Westlands and did not wish to miss the rare passes. So he chose to head for the union between the Great Frenum Mountains and the Southern Weathered Range. From there, he would sweep westward along the base of the mountains. A direct run to the passes would prove shorter, but also more predictable, and Colbey did not trust his direction sense and memory enough to believe he could find the passes on his first try. If he missed, he would have to guess his direction, and the Northmen would surely catch them casting about aimlessly.

  Air stagnated between trees thick with summer growth. Discomfort drove the party deeper into an already heavy silence, and hunger added to the burden. Mitrian stared at the ground, showing no inclination to hunt. No one seemed to expect it of her, even as morning brightened into noon, and the rumbles of stomachs broke the self-imposed hush. Gradually, the trunks became sparser, allowing glimpses of the Great Mountains, their caps snow-powdered despite the season. Halfway through the afternoon, the trees gave way to saplings: locusts spotted with thorns and young poplars nearly as tall as the elder pine.