Apparently, the shocking speed of this encounter had caught even Captain Jhirban, a thirty-five-year veteran of the sea, by surprise. Now Arturo understood why no one had directly seen the pirated trading ships go down, despite ever-increasing onboard security. No vessel had come through an encounter intact; no man had survived to tell the tale.
The urge to scuttle belowdecks struck Arturo hard and low in the gut. His legs felt rubbery, unable to obey the sudden compulsion, and that gave him time to screw up his courage and force himself to remain boldly in place. You can do this, Arturo.You can do this.
Then, an insectlike whine filled Arturo’s ears. The captain staggered backward with a strangled noise. Something skittered across the deck, splashing scarlet droplets on the planking. Jhirban tumbled from the figurehead and collapsed, with breathtaking force, across the railing.
The prince stopped breathing.
Soldiers and sailors swore viciously, screaming their rage toward the approaching ship. Someone shouted, “Loose, gods damn it! Kill the dishonorable bastards!” A volley of arrows peppered the sea, falling short of their target. The bowmen hurriedly reloaded as the first mate screamed orders at the sailors and the second-in-command stepped in to bunch the soldiers as well.
Trained in healing by his mother, Arturo tried to run to the fallen captain, but his path was blocked by the Renshai who forced him backward with the precision of herding dogs.
Arturo froze, staring at the captain’s body, hanging utterly still across the railing except for the relentless patter of blood from his neck to the gunwale. One of the sailors picked up an object from the deck that resembled a slender arrow but glinted like silver in the sunlight and bore no fletching. The captain’s blood smudged the sailor’s hands.
“Let me help him.” Arturo attempted to slip around the Renshai. “I know some healing.” Though true, it seemed moot. He had no herbs, and every soldier knew enough to hold pressure on an open wound.Yet no one appeared to be doing so.
Trygg nimbly shifted to block Arturo again. “He’s dead.”
“Maybe not.” Arturo lunged for a hole, even as Gunnhar closed it. “I have to try.”
“He’s dead,” Gunnhar repeated. “Believe me, Sire, Renshai know dead.”
A cry sounded from the other ship, a single indistinguishable word.
“Loose!” shouted Béarn’s second-in-command.
A hail of unfletched metal shafts whined onto the Seven as the bowmen’s strings twanged. Four Béarnian bowmen collapsed as the arrows left their strings. Trygg and Gunnhar jerked Arturo nearly off his feet, Gunnhar swearing vehemently.
At the mishandling, rage flashed through Arturo, but a glance at the smaller Renshai squelched it. Blood stained his tattered sleeve, and the fingers, still clutching his sword hilt, had turned ghostly white. Despite the wound, he had managed not to drop it. Without bothering to assess the damage, Gunnhar effortlessly shifted the hilt to his left hand. “Cowards!” he screamed. “Fight fair! Face-to-face! Sword-to-sword!”
Arturo grabbed for the Renshai’s arm, intending to wrap the sleeve into a makeshift bandage. Gunnhar moved faster, charging toward the port rail, where the clang of metal striking metal filled the air. Once again, Arturo’s fingers closed on empty air, and he jerked his attention to a line of grapples hooking Seven’s rail. The remaining bowmen retreated, and the swordsmen rushed in to sever boarding lines. Heart hammering, fear balling in his throat, Arturo chased after the warriors, intending to assist.
More enemy missiles whined through the air, and the front line of Seven’s warriors collapsed, tripping up some of those behind them. Both Renshai managed to keep their feet, flying over their own men to slash down boarding enemies with perfect sweeps of their swords. Arturo ducked in, treading more carefully, intending to unhinge grapples; but the Renshai wove a web of steel in front of him, blocking his advance even as they dispatched enemies.
Others did not prove as swift or lucky. As Béarnides fell, to the volley or tripped up by falling companions, the enemy swarmed over the side. Arturo managed a glimpse through the whirling blur of Renshai steel, his own sword incapable of penetrating the protective barrier. The few enemies he saw wore tight leather helms, clots of thickly curled reddish hair escaping in places. Between leather gloves and long cotton sleeves, Arturo caught glimpses of medium-toned flesh with a hint of olive. Their swords were short, curved and serrated, and they spoke in a language he did not recognize.
Battles broke out over every part of the ship, and the commanders’ orders became lost beneath the strange war cries and shouts of the invaders, the clamor of steel, and the screams of the injured. Arturo tried to watch every direction simultaneously. He slashed at a pirate behind him, only to have a Renshai appear suddenly between them. Forced to pull his blow, he watched as Trygg effortlessly cut down the enemy, immediately moving on to the next.
Strangers and companions flopped to the deck, screaming in unmitigated agony or lying in an ominous silence. The deck became slick and crimson, every step a hazard. Arturo lunged for an enemy, only to find himself nearly skewering one of his escort. Again, he pulled the blow, this time howling in fury. “Let me fight, damn it!”
Men surged around him, locked in a combat he seemed incapable of joining.
The Renshai gave no reply, hard-pressed to their own defenses. Gunnhar’s sleeve had turned completely scarlet, and gore filled his hair. Blood ran freely from his nose and right ear, and a limp marred his once graceful movements. Trygg had lost his shirt, and his pants hung in tatters. Bits of flesh and hair speckled every part of him, and crimson rivulets trickled down his back.
Twice more Arturo attempted to join the battle, and the Renshai beat him back, tending his defense with an obsession that made them careless of their own.
“Let me fight!” Arturo howled, cringing every time a Béarnide fell. “Let . . . me . . . fight!”
Heedless, the Renshai herded him toward the hatch as the battle surged around them.
“Get . . .” Trygg gasped out. “. . . below . . . decks . . . Sire.”
It was no longer a matter of adolescent pride. Arturo knew he was going to die. They all were. Only a handful of Béarnian soldiers remained standing, fighting, and the pirates were cutting down the regular sailors with barely an effort. “No!” Arturo preferred to die hacked down by an unseen opponent in battle rather than cowering behind a barrel or a stack of unused lines.
Trygg shoved him.
“Stop it!”
The hatch creaked open, and Trygg pushed Arturo again.
Arturo staggered toward the opening. “No! I don’t want to die a coward!” He spoke words he knew the Renshai could not ignore. No insult was more vicious to them, nothing more shameful than a coward’s death.
“You’re a prince. They’ll take you alive—for ransom.”
Though true in ordinary circumstances, it seemed unlikely here. These strangers came from no known country on the continent, spoke no recognized language. Barbarians, even pirates, would not understand royal protocols and conventions any more than they had parley or colors. Soon enough they would discover that a realm warship, unlike their previous targets, carried little worth stealing; and they would likely vent their frustration on any Béarnide who survived the battle. Such as a hidden prince. Death in battle seemed far preferable to the torture fueled by the pirates’ frustration.
Without the time to explain the complexities of his thoughts, Arturo turned his stumble toward the open darkness into a deft leap over the hatch. An enemy sword slashed open his sleeve, drawing a stinging line of blood along his forearm. Arturo riposted, more from training than intent. His sword struck something hard with an impact that ached through his hands, followed by a grunt of agony. The blade stuck fast. A glint of light touched the corner of his vision, a raised, serrated blade plunging toward him. Ducking, Arturo ripped his blade free, splashing warm pinpoints of blood. An enemy collapsed in front of him, and he spun to avoid tripping over the body. Air whooshed b
y his cheek, as an enemy blade passed dangerously close.
Arturo waved his sword wildly in front of himself—protective chaos—while he tried to regain his bearings. Bodies littered the deck in grotesque positions, and he did not waste time with identification. Men surged around him, most red-haired invaders; and their strange blades capered through the sunlight. Several rushed to engage him at once.
A cry rose over the deck in a Renshai accent, “Modi!” It was a desperate call for the god of wrath, one Renshai usually reserved for a severe or mortal injury. “Modi!”
Arturo turned toward the sound, baring his throat to an enemy sword. Before he could think to dodge, someone flew through the clot of battle, slamming against Arturo with a force that sent him sprawling. Cold steel bit through the top of his shoulder instead of his neck, the searing pain all-encompassing. He screamed, losing track of direction, stumbling into a solid rail that drove the breath from his lungs in a sudden gasp. Beside him, Captain Jhirban’s body dangled, a ragged hole through his neck, his face bloodless, his dark eyes wide open and empty.
Panic seized Arturo in a grip like ice. I’m going to die.We’re all going to die. He had known it for some time now, but the deeper realization of all that death entailed had not struck him until that moment. Another enemy sword sped toward him. He dodged, and the blade slammed the rail with a ringing clout, the vibration aching through his body. He raised his own sword, his elbow thumping Jhirban’s corpse and rendering his movement awkward, useless. Again a sword jabbed toward him. Caught between the press of battle and the corpse, Arturo leaped to the gunwale. The sword stabbed beneath him, opening its wielder’s defenses. Arturo swept in, slamming his blade down on the man’s leather-helmeted skull.
The impact shuddered through his arms. The pirate collapsed, and the momentum knocked Arturo off-balance. He teetered on the gunwale, certain a fall in either direction would seal his doom. Swords seemed to spring at him from every direction. His equilibrium lost, he knew he would fall on all of them, skewered like a target on an army of pikes. Fear left him awash in ice, then disappeared abruptly, leaving relieved acceptance in its wake. It’s over. The pain, he knew, could not last long.
“MODI!” Trygg appeared suddenly, soaring between his charge and the sea of blades.
“No!” The sacrifice shocked and horrified Arturo. “No! No! No!”
Trygg’s body crashed into Arturo, rolling onto the waiting blades. The impact drove Arturo backward. He fell into empty air, catching a glimpse of the brilliant blue of the water before his head struck the Seven’s rail and he knew no more.
CHAPTER 2
Skill has no limits, and anything will come with practice. If it does not, look to your own dedication and will.
—Colbey Calistinsson
THE SUN BEAMED DOWN upon the Fields of Wrath, glazing the thatch roofs of the simple Renshai cottages. In a patch of ground trampled to mud, Saviar Ra-khirsson practiced the complicated maneuvers he had learned that day in a wild flurry of svergelse. His swords pranced and twined through the air with a speed that made them appear liquid. He whirled on well-muscled legs, oblivious to the sweat trickling over his entire body. His red-blond hair grew moist, sheened with golden highlights, and droplets flew with every motion. His deadly dance was as much prayer as practice, a tribute to Modi, god of wrath, and his mother goddess, Sif. Six months past his eighteenth birthday, Saviar had finally nearly mastered the sequence of training that would allow him to be considered a man among Renshai. He had only to demonstrate his skills to his torke, his teachers, to achieve his goal; and he begged the gods for the agility and focus to pass this vital test in the next few months.
The comings and goings of Renshai around him seemed to disappear as Saviar concentrated on his task, but a nearer movement caught his attention. Something threatened off his left flank. Immediately, Saviar spun to meet another sword in the hand of his brother, Calistin. Steel chimed against steel, live and sharp. Renshai never lowered themselves to dulled or wooden practice blades. A Renshai who could not dodge quickly enough deserved to die. Renshai defense relied wholly on speed and dexterity. They shunned armor as cowardly, and even clothing or jewelry that might accidentally help fend off a blow had no place in their society. Life consisted of thrust and parry, the lethality of a blade, the music of clashing steel.
The impact vibrated through Saviar’s hand, and he found himself face-to-face with Calistin. Though only nine months younger, his brother stood a full head shorter than Saviar. Yellow hair in need of cutting flashed around childlike features that wore an expression of calm intensity. As fast as it had woven into battle, Calistin’s sword retreated and reappeared. Saviar sprang to the right, barely catching the other blade on his own. It scratched down the length to his hilt. Anticipating a disarming maneuver, he bullied forward, attempting to off-balance his smaller opponent. Calistin gave no ground, instead leaping nimbly aside. The tip of his blade flicked under Saviar’s crossguard to tap the hilt. Saviar tightened his grip, too late. The sword flew from his hand.
Saviar drew his other sword, even as he dove in to catch the weapon he had lost. Allowing it to touch the ground would gravely dishonor it. Calistin wove a silver web of steel in front of Saviar, forcing him backward, then snatched the hilt from the air himself. Now, with two weapons to one, Calistin charged his brother, his own second sword still in its sheath.
Though accustomed to his little brother’s superior skill, Saviar still found it irritating. Rejecting the mistake that had lost him battles in the past, he did not charge in anger. Instead, he focused on Calistin’s every precise, lightning movement, prepared only to defend himself. Calistin kept his own sword high, Saviar’s captured one low. His attacks came so swiftly, Saviar found himself losing track of the blades despite his concentration. He met the first blade with his own, ducking the second. Sword against sword, he used his superior strength to shove Calistin backward. The younger Renshai caught his balance with a single, delicate step. He did not even seem to shift his weight before diving in again, a blurred whirl of motion. As always, he moved with the speed of a tornado and with deadly accuracy. One sword disarmed Saviar a second time, while the other ended its course at the redhead’s neck. Bested, Saviar froze, glaring at his brother through eyes so pale blue they were nearly white, a perfect match to those of their paternal grandfather, Knight-Captain Kedrin.
“Got you,” Calistin said with maddening smugness as he easily caught the flying weapon in a hand already burdened. He now held three swords to none.
Saviar shoved aside the hovering blade at his throat and wished he could bury a fist in his brother’s self-satisfied face. Even if his parents had allowed it, he would miss. Calistin’s swift grace would make him look like a lumbering fool in comparison. “Sure, okay. You got me. Hurray for you.” He glowered at features that barely resembled his own, baby soft with blunt cheekbones and long lashes. Calistin had blue eyes, too; but his were darker, like their mother’s, and held a hint of stony gray. “Now give me back my damned swords.”
Calistin tossed the weapons, and Saviar caught their hilts as he had practiced so many times, nearly since birth. He slammed both blades back into their sheaths, his ardor for training lost.
Calistin watched his brother’s every movement. Even standing still, he seemed to exude a grace that Saviar tried his hardest not to covet. The gods had bestowed on the youngest of three brothers every possible gift that might make him the consummate Renshai. He personified quickness and agility and had achieved the sequence of skills that earned him adult status at the youngest age of any Renshai, just thirteen. He sported the sinewy, light-boned figure, the classical golden hair, fair skin, and pale eyes; and his features even bore some resemblance to the greatest Renshai in history, the hero, Colbey, who now lived among the gods. Like all Renshai, Saviar and Calistin were each named for a brave warrior who had died in battle and earned a place in Valhalla among the Einherjar; but Calistin had received the honored name of Colbey’s own father.
Calistin was the best; worse, he knew it. “Renshai maneuvers rely on speed, never strength.”
Saviar continued to glare. It was an oft-quoted truth every Renshai appreciated. “I know that.”
“But you’re still trying to defeat me with size and muscle, Savi.”
It was true, which only made the words sting more. Saviar had inherited their father’s strapping build, as well as his stunning good looks; but those things seemed more curse than blessing to a Renshai. The Renshai leaders had found them worthy of the tribe, despite being half-breeds; but Saviar often thought he would have done better following his grandfather and father into the Knights of Erythane instead. His bulk fit their ranks better, and the constant attention of women embarrassed and distracted him from the swordwork that was supposed to be the only thing in life that mattered. Saviar often wondered how two boys with the exact same bloodline could wind up looking so completely different. “You’re my brother, Calistin, not my torke. My baby brother, at that.”
“Baby brother?” Calistin’s features screwed, and his hands blanched around his hilts. “I’ve been a man for nearly five years now. You’re still just a boy.”
Calistin might just as well have buried a blade in Saviar’s gut. Anger flashed through him, and it took strength of will to keep from attacking his brother. The urge to draw both weapons and fly into a battle to the death seized him, and only the words of their wise father rescued him: “A man of honor never allows emotion to control him.” Instead, he turned on a heel and stalked toward home.
Calistin’s taunts chased him, “Come on, baby brother. Have at me!”
Saviar did not look back, quickening his pace and gauging Calistin’s location by his voice. To his relief, Calistin did not follow.
“You know you want to! You’re acting like a big, old coward.”
It was the worst insult in the Renshai vocabulary. Saviar’s hands clenched to fists and his nostrils flared, but he resisted looking behind him.
Flight of the Renshai Page 2
