The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Both men stood in silence as their charges met midfield. Shalfon’s voice wafted softly to Colbey.

  “I’ll teach you that vermin cannot question the nobility of the Knights of Erythane.”

  “Apprentice knight,” Rache reminded. “And us vermin do anything we wish.”

  Shalfon tugged viciously at his reins. His horse whirled halfway around, then cantered to the opposite side of the ring. Rache rode in the other direction. They turned to face one another, the knight-in-training sitting straight in his saddle, Rache trying clumsily to maneuver his pike into the correct position that he and Colbey had discussed the previous night.

  Shalfon waved, but he remained in place.

  Rache shifted restlessly. At length, he repositioned his pike and nodded his readiness.

  “Let the match begin!” King Orlis shouted.

  The horses surged toward one another. The point of Shalfon’s pike bounced toward Rache’s chest, as if magically guided. As the gap between the horses narrowed, Colbey became fanatically focused on every one of Rache’s movements. He could see Garn’s son struggling for a more comfortable grip on his oversized weapon, and he willed Rache balance. Unconsciously, his hands clenched on the wooden edge of the fence.

  The weapon points came together and overlapped. Rache swung out and over Shalfon’s pike, then snapped it into a taut arc. Wood rolled across wood as the shafts slid harmlessly to one side, and the horses passed right shoulder to right shoulder.

  Both horses turned for a second pass. Rache wiped his palms on his pants, and his horse’s uncommanded lunge nearly unseated him. Yet, somehow, Rache managed to cling to charger and pike. A parry identical to the first took him safely past Shalfon again, and they prepared for the third run.

  The audience hissed in annoyance. “Are you going to fight?” someone yelled. “Or are you going to dodge and hide?”

  “Patience, Rache,” Colbey said, hoping the wind would carry his words to Rache, too far across the field to hear him.

  Rache parried the third attack, and the combatants parted and turned for the next rush. Shalfon shook his head indignantly, his neat curls scarcely ruffled. A slight tensing of Rache’s demeanor told Colbey that his student had come to a decision. A cold wind snatched a strand of the teen’s hair, carrying it like a ghost. Sweat reddened his features. The set of Rache’s jaw told Colbey that Rache had a strategy that went beyond gaining control of his monstrous spear.

  As Rache, at last, lowered his pike to the level of Shalfon’s, the jeering dispersed. The horses galloped toward the final bloody impact. Colbey’s fingers tightened on the fence, running splinters beneath his nails.

  A gap three times the length of the weapons still separated the two men when Rache made his move. His arm drew back, then snapped forward. He released the pike. It cleaved the air like an arrow from the bow of a giant. Yet Rache had no experience with hurling pikes, and the weapon was not balanced for throwing. It dropped too soon, its barb burying into the chest of Shalfon’s gray. The charger managed a single frenzied bleat. It collapsed, and Rache’s pike shattered beneath it.

  As his mount crumpled, Shalfon sprang free. Rache dismounted, snatching a shard of his broken weapon, choosing one about the size of the staves that Garn had used to train him.

  Colbey laughed, pleased by Rache’s cleverness, though he heard a chorus of knights behind him calling a foul. He sincerely doubted the rules said anything about a warrior disarming himself, and now the strength Rache had inherited from his father seemed a godsend. “Hack the fool down, Rache!” From habit, he shouted an encouragement meant for a different weapon, but it spurred the youngster on just the same.

  Brignar glared. “That’s my son you called a fool, you scofflaw.”

  Colbey did not even grace the speaker with his attention. His eyes remained locked on Rache. “You only need to look at him.” He pointed at Shalfon, who was staggering, trying to control his pike without the horse’s support. “What do you call a man who wields a pike on foot?”

  Rache bore in with his smaller, more manageable weapon. Shalfon retreated, desperately trying to keep the point of his pike between himself and Rache.

  Brignar stepped closer, within easy sword reach, and his hand fell to his hilt. “You speak of fools. Your kadlach hid from combat and wielded a pike with a bowman’s cowardice.” He spat at Colbey’s feet. “I can see by your smirk that you support his ignobility. What else could I expect from a dirty half-breed with Northie blood? I presume he descends from a long line of cowards?”

  Colbey frowned but did not directly answer, not even to correct the obvious misconception that he was Rache’s father. Even this close, he did not see the knight as a threat, and he would keep his eyes on the battle until it finished. He watched as Rache slipped past Shalfon’s pike, rendering the larger weapon useless.

  Colbey smiled at the certain victory. “Your son challenges a man half his age to battle with a weapon his opponent has never seen. That challenge required no courage. And Rache’s accepting that challenge could hardly be considered cowardice.”

  Rache delivered a blow that grounded Shalfon, then several more that took him to oblivion. Brignar made a high-pitched noise of horror. Colbey felt a wave of hopelessness radiate from the knight at his side. Then, the emotion exploded to black rage. “My son is dead, and you would defile his name!”

  Colbey felt certain that Rache had only knocked the apprentice unconscious, but he did not waste the words to argue. The events spoke for themselves.

  “I shall have to call you out!”

  Seeing the danger in letting Brignar choose the weapon, Colbey clung to semantics. “Don’t trouble yourself. I challenge you first. Swords. Now!”

  Despite the questionable ethics of who had called the challenge, Brignar drew his sword and sprang. Before the blow fell, Colbey parried. His sword met Brignar’s charge and redirected it. He read the knight’s skill from that single lunge, and Colbey found it lacking. Either anger had befuddled the knight’s style, or he needed a better instructor. “Higher,” Colbey shouted. “By Thor, aim for me, not the ground.”

  With a cry of rage, Brignar swung again. This time, Colbey dodged, not bothering to take any of his openings. “Take some weight off your front foot.”

  “Stop it!” The knight snapped and howled like a berserk, while the Renshai parried and shortened death strokes with hawklike precision. Colbey felt cruel for the lesson, aware that the knight would see dishonor as worse than death. But Colbey had no wish to slaughter one of Sterrane’s knights, no matter how little the nobleman valued his own life.

  Brignar executed every lethal trick at his disposal, and Colbey met each with maddening ease. “Stop playing with me!” Brignar said through gritted teeth. “May Zera’im, god of honor, strike you down.” His sword leapt for Colbey’s throat.

  Colbey met the attack with enough force to drive the knight’s arm and weapon nearly to his sheath. With one swift movement, Colbey caught his opponent’s sword wrist and held it in his left hand. “Your god of honor will lose his followers if, in peaceful times, he forces them to call out men who can slay them.” Colbey released the knight and sprang aside. Turning his back in a fearless gesture of scorn, he walked to Rache, who stood just outside the competition ring.

  The knight’s coiled rage remained tangible at Colbey’s back, and he felt it boil into a frenzy. Then, suddenly, the emotion changed. A misplaced sensation trickled through, one that Colbey did not recognize until it strengthened. Even then, he had no name for it, only the realization that it reminded him of the aura of the demon called Flanner’s bane. All pride and nobility evaporated from a man the West had trained to chivalry, leaving only a smoldering need for vengeance. Brignar sprang for Colbey’s back.

  And died on Colbey’s sword.

  The spectators fell silent, though whether in shock over Brignar’s treachery or Colbey’s slaying of an Erythanian knight, he did not know. He turned back to Rache. Though Colbey’s own blade needed t
ending, he passed Rache his sword and belt, thinking it ruder to keep a warrior from his weapon. “You did well.”

  Rache said nothing, though he smiled while he fastened on his sword.

  Colbey ignored the riot of thoughts and emotions radiating from the crowd, not bothering to focus on individuals. He thought it best to leave Erythane as soon as possible. “Come on. The others are waiting. We’ve got a message to deliver and hostages to rescue.”

  “Hold!” King Orlis shouted, his voice projecting enough authority to cut over the crowd.

  Colbey tensed and spun, sword still unsheathed and trailing blood. Rache’s hand went to his own hilt. Both were prepared to fight through all of Orlis’ knights, if necessary.

  Only one knight approached, riding toward the Renshai without his pike and with his sword sheathed. He drew up a polite distance in front of Colbey and Rache, though his gaze locked on the elder. “You bested a Knight of Erythane in fair challenge.” He cleared his throat, tensing as if to glance back at the king for encouragement. Instead, he continued. “By law, you’ve earned his title and the king’s grace. King Orlis wishes to bestow the honor and present you with your steed, Frost Reaver.” He waved in the general direction of the jousting ring, though he seemed concerned about taking his eyes from Colbey.

  The gesture fell wide, but Colbey guessed that the knight intended to indicate Brignar’s white charger. Its neck arched daintily to a slim, triangular head. Its mane was braided with ribbons of blue and gold, and its pale eyes danced with a deviltry that matched Colbey’s own. A broad chest promised endurance, and its short back and powerful hindquarters would make it unmatched for jumps and quick starts. Colbey knew horses well, and the ones the knights rode could not be matched for conformation and training. Colbey disliked only their color. Chosen for beauty and to draw attention, they would not hide well in woodlands, and the sun might burn their delicate skin. Still, Colbey had an eye for horses bested only by his eye for swords. Since childhood, he had daily spent hours on horseback, creating the mounted Renshai maneuvers. He found it almost impossible to refuse a creature so handsome.

  The wild look in the knight’s eyes completed the decision. To refuse such an honor would cause grave insult. “Thank you.” Colbey cleaned and sheathed his sword, then headed toward the king, the knight riding at his side.

  Rache trotted to catch up, incredulous. “You’re going to join these enemies?” he whispered. “You’re going to swear fealty to the King of Erythane?”

  “They’re not enemies, Rache.” Colbey replied at the same volume, continuing toward the clustered knights and their king. “I see nothing wrong with choosing to ride a good war horse nor in swearing an alliance with a people who have been Renshai allies for the better part of a century. I’m going to vow to work in the best interests of the Westlands, and I’m already locked into that by a promise to Shadimar. If they try to keep me here or make me adhere to a rigid code that regulates means as well as ends, I’ll refuse. Remember, too, that ultimate authority of Erythane’s knights lies with Sterrane. Him, I trust.”

  Colbey’s answer seemed to satisfy Rache. And Colbey came forward to accept his charge.

  * * *

  The twelve spires of the castle of Béarn stretched triangular heads toward the clouds. Three days after the joust in Erythane, Colbey led his companions along the irregularly-cobbled streets, looking as gaunt and as gray as the towers he approached, and far more grim. His albino stallion marched with a solemn grace, its mane the color of its master’s hair. Behind them plodded six mounted figures and a lightly-provisioned packhorse.

  A half dozen Béarnian guards poked plumed heads and the points of crossbow bolts over the ramparts. Two men-at-arms stood behind the gates. “Who seeks entrance to Béarn’s castle?” one demanded coldly.

  Colbey reined Frost Reaver up a hand’s breadth before the gate, surprised that Sterrane allowed such formality. He had nearly expected the childlike monarch to greet them at the gate. “One of the king’s knights and several of his friends. We want an audience with Sterrane.”

  The bolts did not move. The same soldier spoke again. “Who are you?”

  Colbey gathered breath to shout something sarcastic, but Mitrian cut in. “I’m Mitrian, Santagithi’s daughter, a close companion of your king. This is my family, my teacher, and the Eastern Wizard.” She indicated each in turn.

  The sentries exchanged words briefly. Expecting them to be awed by, or at least civil to, the people who had restored Sterrane to his throne, Colbey was caught off-guard by the guard’s next question. “What are your intentions?”

  “She told you we’re friends of Sterrane.” Colbey spoke each word slowly and distinctly, as if to an imbecile. “Do you think we mustered an army of seven to raze the castle?” As Colbey realized his words were less ridiculous than his tone suggested, amusement replaced ire. “I think you need one more bowman to fight a fair battle. You’re short one to have an arrow for each of us.”

  A light pressure in Colbey’s mind claimed his attention. Instinctively, he forced the presence from his consciousness, but not before he identified source and motive. Shadimar had chosen this manner to silently protest Colbey’s sarcasm. Though gentle and brief, the contact suggested reason for the rigid protocol that bordered on hostility. Accustomed to dealing with pirates, disease, and Rathelon’s trickery, the guards had little patience for strangers. Curious about Shadimar’s communication, the Renshai returned a mental finger of energy, touching without reading. His probe met scorn, but no resistance. Apparently, Shadimar either did not notice his presence or chose to ignore it.

  The soldier tossed his helmed head. “I’ll ask the king if he can see you.” He turned toward the castle. His boots clicked across the moat bridge.

  Colbey dismounted, ignoring the sentries on the ramparts as he worked kinks from his legs. Secodon leapt from Shadimar’s mount and stood at Colbey’s side like a sentinel.

  Shortly, the guard returned, mouth pinched in annoyance, though he spoke politely. “Please leave your horses here. They will be tended.” He addressed the man beside him, presumably making arrangements for the steeds, then again spoke to Colbey and his friends. “Come with me, please.” He worked open one of the gates. The crossbows withdrew. The speaker forced his lips into a crooked smile of welcome, though it seemed to pain him. “You may bring the wolf.” Stiffly, he turned, heading back toward the castle.

  The guard led his charges through a courtyard of flower beds, around which men, women, and children sat in happy clusters. He ushered them across the moat to the iron doors of the castle. They swept through these and into the well-kept hallways that had scarcely changed in the twelve years since Mitrian, Garn, and Shadimar had traipsed them. Although finery and wealth meant little to Colbey, who valued less tangible treasures like ferocity and skill, he instinctively memorized the corridors to the audience chamber.

  The double doors opened abruptly, and a pair of guards led a merchant from the courtroom. The gruff swordsman who had met Colbey and his companions at the gate exchanged a few Béarnian words with his peers, then pointed at the yellow carpet that spanned the court. “Come with me.” He started down the walkway, the party at his heels.

  Aside from the men-at-arms, who surrounded the armed party, the crowd in the main court seemed small. Apparently few took interest in the trivialities of the king’s affairs. Sterrane sat, bare-headed, on his throne at the end of the carpeting. Colbey studied the king, trying to read his silence. He looked thinner than Colbey remembered, and his face seemed less full. A line of wrinkles marred his cheeks, and crow’s-feet sat at the corners of his soft, dark eyes. Gray flecked his black hair and beard. “Greetings,” he said in perfect common. “I hope you fared well in your travels and that your business with Béarn is handled to your satisfaction.”

  Mitrian went rigid, and her welcoming smile faded. Sterrane’s obviously-rehearsed, ceremonial hospitality caught Colbey by surprise, as did the king’s competence with the Western
trading tongue.

  Sterrane addressed a man at his right side, using the tongue of Béarn. Unfamiliar with the language, Colbey caught only the name, Mar Lon.

  The bard glanced from Shadimar to Garn to Mitrian. Then, he examined the huge barbarian, the two young Renshai, and Colbey more carefully. He replied to the king.

  Sterrane made a broad gesture toward the double doors, saying something with more authority than Colbey would have thought possible from the childlike man.

  Garn whispered an explanation. “Sterrane’s just sent everyone but Mar Lon and Baran away.” He pointed out the bard and the captain of the guard. “Mar Lon likes us, but I think he’s a bit nervous about you.” He tapped Colbey’s foot with his own.

  Colbey did not miss a beat. “Can’t blame him. I know I’d worry about a little, old man when there’s a barbarian the size of a horse, a Wizard, and three young Renshai in the room.” The jest fell short in the wake of Sterrane’s unexpected stiltedness.

  Mar Lon ushered guards and nobles from the courtroom.

  Though he did not laugh, Garn did rise to the occasion. “Yeah, I guess he really shouldn’t worry about the helpless elderly demon prince.”

  As the last of the courtiers exited, leaving only the king, their party, Mar Lon, and Baran, Mitrian knelt. Gradually, the others took her cue. Colbey felt like an idiot deferring to one he had so long seen as clownish simpleton, though he had recognized more in Sterrane than the others had.

  Sterrane waved his guests to their feet immediately. He descended from his throne with Mar Lon and Baran hovering like anxious parents. Then, the stalwart monarch who had reclaimed the high kingdom of the Western world, who had ruled his country for twelve years, who had bested traitors and weathered two plagues, hurled himself into Mitrian’s arms and wept. And she cried with him.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Sterrane pulled free. With excitement, his formal correctness degenerated back into his familiar, halting version of the Western trading tongue. “Me knew you live! Arduwyn owe two stories.”