Flight of the Renshai
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
EPILOGUE
Appendices
DAW Books Presents
the Finest in Fantasy by
MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
FLIGHTLESS FALCON
SPIRIT FOX (with Jennifer Wingert)
The Novels of Nightfall:
THE LEGEND OF NIGHTFALL (Book 1)
THE RETURN OF NIGHTFALL (Book 2)
The Books of Barakhai:
THE BEASTS OF BARAKHAI ((Book 1)
THE LOST DRAGONS OF BARAKHAI (Book 2)
The Renshai Chronicles:
BEYOND RAGNAROK (Book 1)
PRINCE OF DEMONS (Book 2)
THE CHILDREN OF WRATH (Book 3)
The Renshai Trilogy:
THE LAST OF THE RENSHAI (Book 1)
THE WESTERN WIZARD (Book 2)
CHILD OF THUNDER (Book 3)
The Bifrost Guardians Omnibus Editions
VOLUME ONE:
GODSLAYER
SHADOW CLIMBER
DRAGONRANK MASTER
VOLUME TWO:
SHADOW’S REALM
BY CHAOS CURSED
Copyright © 2009 by Miriam S. Zucker.
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1485.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
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First Printing September 2009
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
eISBN : 978-1-101-14011-6
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Jackie Moore,
the very definition of teenage boy
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sheila Gilbert, for her always invaluable assistance, and Jody Lee, for her always invaluable cover art.
Also, Foxy Moore, who keeps me almost sane.
CHAPTER 1
When a man believes he lives only once, he becomes obligated to make that one life virtuous.
—Knight-Captain Kedrin of Erythane
A SEA BREEZE RIFFLED the black bangs of Prince Arturo of Béarn, carrying the rich, salt aroma of the Southern Sea. Overhead, the mainsail fluttered restively, and a cleat drummed against the mast. The young prince rested a booted foot on the gunwale, and his two-man Renshai escort shifted with immediate and effortless grace to the rail. Should the ship lurch, should Arturo slip, should some inexplicable madness drive him to leap overboard, they would rescue him with the same swift and bold dexterity that characterized their legendary swordcraft.
Arturo studied a sea glazed with calm, the occasional puff of air chopping foamy wavelets into a rich blue span that might otherwise have passed for woven tapestry. The sailors aboard the warship worked with a leisureliness that suggested boredom, and the soldiers sat in conversational groups as they routinely sharpened and oiled their weapons. Two weeks upon the Southern Sea had revealed no sign of the pirates that had been plaguing the trading ships over the last several months. They had seen only one other vessel while guarding the docks, a cautious freighter from the East that had successfully delivered a load of spices, cosmetics, and fine fabrics to Béarn’s port.
The Béarnian ship, numbered Seven, might have seemed a dull prison to most of the men aboard her; but Arturo savored the dense salt tang of the ocean that flavored every bite of food and every breath, the rock and toss of the deck even at its most extreme, and the looming sky, whether bright sapphire and full of fiery sun or dark slate beneath a threatening network of clouds. At sixteen, he appreciated any real-life activity that rescued him from the monotonous lectures of his many tutors, the seemingly endless parade of hangers-on and malcontents through his father’s courtroom, the pretty manners of the courtiers, and the delicate, fawning tiptoeing of servants in his presence. Here, the sailors mostly ignored him, not even bothering to curb their jargon laced with saucy talk well beyond that which would gain him a severe scolding from his nursemaids and mother. The soldiers accepted his presence among them, their hygiene nonexistent and their bodily noises loud, crude, and unpardoned.
Only the Renshai maintained proper decorum, their demeanor professional and their competence unquestionable.The larger,Trygg, bore the classic blond hair, fair skin, and blue eyes that betrayed the Renshai’s Northern origins. He carried more bulk than most of his kind, all of it muscle, though it seemed not to hinder the lightning refinement of Renshai maneuvers that relied on quickness and dexterity rather than strength. The smaller warrior fit the body image of Renshai better: thin and sinewy, fine-boned, his muscles totally defined but utterly lacking in bulk. Named Gunnhar, he had hazel eyes and sandy hair, hacked functionally short. Not a strand ever fell into his eyes. Each wore a sword at his hip, the leather of the sheaths and hilts smooth with use but without a hint of dirt or darkening. Renshai tended their swords with a fanaticism most men reserved for family.
Prince Arturo considered moving to ease the watchful burden from his escort, then decided against it.The Renshai probably appreciated the need for some attentiveness. Though he knew they would have preferred charging into an army, mowing down enemies like wheat stalks before a scythe to protect him, he supposed worrying over his position and mental state proved more interesting than staring at him while he read or groomed or slept.
Arturo blinked salt-rime from his brown eyes, then ran his hands over his coarse features and generous nose, glad he did not have to worry about his appearance on board. The hems of his blue-and-gold cloak had come undone in the drenching winds of the previous day, and his broad knees poked through tears in his britches. His thick, dark hair now lay in a thick, dark snarl. At the best of times, he barely resembled the massive, well-groomed bear of a man who was King G
riff of Béarn.
A shout wafted from above and forward. “Ship off the port bow!”
The conversations in the stern cut off in mid-sentence. Every man whirled toward the sound, and several rushed forward. Gunnhar and Trygg displayed no reaction, other than to look askance at their charge. When he moved, they would also, far fleeter and with a natural, delicate grace that would make all the accompanying Béarnides, including Arturo, seem massive and lumbering in comparison.
Heart pounding, Arturo lowered his foot. He turned, eager for more news from the forecastle.
The lookout did not disappoint him. Over the deck-level rumble of new conversation, he cried out clearly, “Dark sails. No standard.” His voice sank as he shinnied from the riggings, and his tone held admiration as well as a hint of fear, “Coming at a right goodly clip.” Their own sails could scarcely find wind, moving at a snail’s pace, if at all, in the quiet calm of the morning.
Footsteps pounded from below, and the night crew spilled onto the deck. Captain Jhirban waited until the last man had joined them before slamming the hatch closed with a sound like thunder. Having seized every man’s attention, he sprang onto an overturned crate with a spryness that belied his Béarnian bulk and his advancing age. Curls cascaded to his shoulders, a wind-tousled mixture of silver and black, and he wore Béarnian blue and gold, with the rearing grizzly on his chest.
Arturo glided forward to join the rest of the men, the Renshai dogging his every step. He noticed that most of the soldiers’ hands had instinctively drifted to their sword hilts and cursed his own inexperience. He mimicked their stances, but his hand fell on empty air. Three times, he reached for his broadsword and, three times, he missed. Finally, he took his eyes from the captain to look at his sword belt. No blade hung there; he had removed it while seeking a more comfortable sitting position earlier in the day.
An icy bolt of fear spiked through Arturo. He tensed to turn, when something cold poked the back of his hand. He glanced at it, recognizing a familiar engraved hilt with a brilliant sapphire in the pommel. The split-leather enwrapping it looked stiff, unhandled. He followed the bright scabbard, its tooling still deeply fresh, to the pallid long-fingered Renshai hand that cradled the sheathed blade.
“You might need this, Sire,” Gunnhar whispered, making no mention of the prince’s antics, though they surely amused him.
“Thank you.” Prince Arturo accepted the sword without a glance toward his benefactor. The Renshai’s tone was flat, but Arturo dared not face the judgmental hazel eyes. A Renshai would rather enter a courtroom stark naked than unarmed. Their parents thrust swords into their fists the instant their pudgy baby fingers could close around a hilt, and they demonstrated the same respect for their chosen weapons, always swords, that other men reserved for royalty. If a man toppled overboard at the same time as a Renshai’s sword, Arturo suspected the weapon would get rescued first.
“Sailors.” Captain Jhirban glanced around the gathering, his features squinted into wrinkles and crow’s-feet. Salt crusted his cheeks, and the sun had baked his skin into leather. “Man your positions and prepare to back up anyone who needs it, but stay out of the soldiers’ way should battle become necessary. Friendly deaths and hampered sword arms can turn the tide of a battle.”
“Aye,” the fifteen sailors chorused, scurrying to the lines and tiller, attentive to the fighting men.
“Your Majesty . . .”
Still fastening his sword to his belt, Arturo froze, cheeks reddening. He wished the captain had not chosen that moment to draw every man’s attention to him.
If the captain noticed Arturo’s unpreparedness, he gave no sign, continuing his speech without a hitch or interruption in the flow, “. . . I think you should go belowdecks. It’s safer.”
“No!” Arturo wished he sounded more like a warrior than a terrified adolescent. His maturing voice cracked at the most inopportune moments. “If that ship is manned by pirates, every sword arm is needed, including my own.”
The captain frowned, clearly preferring to continue his speech rather than wasting time arguing, yet constrained by protocol. “Your Majesty, I must insist.You’re too important to risk.”
Haunted by his earlier lapse, Arturo refused the demand. “Captain, I will not hide belowdecks like a coward while men . . .” He added emphatically, “. . . my men are fighting.” He finished clipping on his sword and gave the captain his full attention. “Go on.” He made a formal gesture that bade Jhirban to take his thoughts in another direction. “Command the soldiers.”
Captain Jhirban scowled. “Prince Arturo, you aren’t welcome on deck during this exchange. If I brought you home dead, King Griff and Queen Matrinka would have my head, not to mention my title. You will stay below.”
Arturo planted his feet firmly on the planking. “When they sent me on this mission, Captain Jhirban, my parents knew the risks. I’m trained in warfare, and I will fight.” His words and tone left no room for argument. No one knew if he would inherit the throne of Béarn; a magical test created by the gods chose the king’s successor after the ruler died or stepped down. Though Arturo studied decorum and protocol, watched his father’s judgments, and trained in policy as well as warcraft, he secretly hoped one of his sisters or half siblings would fill the future role. He preferred the outdoors to the stifling inner chambers of the mountain palace, and even the courtyard walls seemed too constraining. If he could prove himself as a warrior, they might groom him for a command position in the army or guard force instead.
“Your Majesty!” the captain admonished, tone tinged with parental authority. “I cannot allow—”
Arturo interrupted, “You can, and you will. This discussion is over.”
The captain’s jaw clamped, and scarlet tinted the sunburned cheeks.
The lookout shouted, “Captain, they’re heading to our broadside.”
Captain Jhirban’s nostrils flared. Several men ran to the gunwale to confirm the position and startling speed of the other ship. “How can it . . . ?” he started, standing tall on his crated dais to look over his followers: soldier and sailor alike. His aura of command returned. “Come about, men! Quickly. Bring us bow to bow.”
The sailors scurried to work, attempting to move the ship though there was barely a hint of wind.
“To the oars!” Jhirban shouted.
His men responded instantly, several pounding belowdecks to obey his command.
Captain Jhirban spared only a moment to scowl at Arturo before addressing the soldiers. “Bowmen, prepare your flights at the bow and port rail. Don’t volley until I give the order.” He dashed toward the prow and its massive carved bear. “The rest of you, stand ready for a boarding. Do whatever you must to keep yourselves safe, but take a prisoner if you can do so without too much risk. We need to know who these pirates are.” He clambered onto the bear masthead while the warriors prepared. “I’m going to parley.” He added, under his breath, “Mistaken us for a merchant vessel, the gluttonous fools.”
Arturo wondered how such a thing could happen. Seven’s sails clearly identified them, with Béarn’s colors as well as her name. Even the most illiterate pirates must know the familiar blue and gold of the West’s high kingdom.
The ship lurched sideways, sweeping Arturo’s feet out from under him. He scrambled for balance, assisted by Trygg’s steadying hand. The sailors remained upright, though some stumbled, and several of the fighting men went down.
“Arturo,” Jhirban shouted, without looking in the prince’s direction, his attention glued to the sea and approaching danger. “Go below!” He did not turn to see if his command had any effect this time.
Arturo remained in position, more from adolescent stubbornness than courage, the Renshai stepping in front of him. Though not yet fully grown, he was already taller and broader than his escort and had no trouble seeing over them. The sailors scrambled to bring the ship into better position. They could not risk a broadside hit. Their eight bowmen found positions at the rail, while th
e swordsmen shifted uneasily at the perimeter, waiting. Captain Jhirban stood firm upon the figurehead, despite the jerky movements of the ship, appearing composed and controlled. Though fully exposed to the other ship, he was in no current danger, so long as his balance did not fail him. Every country, no matter how hostile, obeyed the rules of parley, absolutely assuring the safety of any man who came forward to talk.
Arturo studied the other ship, surprised to find he could not identify its construction. His schooling had included the crests, crafts, and colors of every country in the world, the designs of their buildings and ships among them. This ship looked like nothing he had seen before, its hull oddly angled, its planking so tight he could not identify the seams between them. A plain iron spike served as its masthead, and it carried three taut brown sails to Seven’s two.
As the ships settled into a skewed prow-to-prow position, Jhirban cupped his hands around his mouth so that his voice would carry forward. The bowmen tensed, arrows nocked but not drawn, equally constrained by the laws of the parley, unbroken for millennia.
“Hail the other ship!” The captain’s voice emerged in a deep and carrying tenor. “Are you friend or foe?”
No answer came, though the unstruck ship continued forward at its tremendous speed. The captain tensed, prepared for a retreat. If the vessel rammed them, he would surely lose his perch and, possibly, the structural integrity of his own ship.
Arturo tensed, hand tightening around his sword hilt. Bits and pieces of previously dismissed conversations drew together in one moment of stark and ugly terror. He suddenly realized that his parents had allowed him aboard only because no one expected the Seven ’s voyage to be anything more than a routine patrol. Upon spotting anything suspicious, the ship had orders to return to Béarn for a hasty report. The soldiers were merely a precaution.