“Really?”Verdondi sounded so excited, Saviar turned to face him. “Your father and grandfather are knights?”
“Yes.” Saviar studied the young Northman. “Do you know of them?”
“The Knights of Erythane? Who doesn’t know of the Knights of Erythane?”
Saviar had no answer, so he continued to the simulated castle interior.
“Competent and honorable warriors are appreciated everywhere.”
Now in place, Saviar faced his new companion again. He gained a new appreciation for the paternal side of his family. He had become so accustomed to the Renshai belittling the knights’ rigid code, to the normalcy of skilled swordwork. Until this trip, he had never realized just how much the populace adored and respected the knights or how far their influence extended. “That’s good to know.”
Verdondi studied the layout. “Are you in training, too, Saviar?”
“In . . . training?” A wave of ice washed through Saviar. He knew better than to mention his Renshai background to any Northman.
“Yes, in training.” Verdondi looked at Saviar as if he had gone mad. “Are you going to be a Knight of Erythane, too?”
The question caught Saviar oddly off his guard. “Well, I . . . I’d like to.”
“With a family like yours, how could you not?”
“I don’t suppose I . . . couldn’t.”
Verdondi shook his head, clearly impressed. “Talk about honor. What father could resist pressing his son to follow in his footsteps?” He walked to the bottom of the spiral staircase and looked up it. “Your father sounds like a special man.”
“He is,” Saviar admitted, gaze following Verdondi’s. “Isn’t yours?”
Verdondi grinned. He stood straight and tall, and his chest seemed to expand with the motion. He was a well-built youngster with bulky muscles evident beneath his tunic. “My father is the captain of the Sea Dragon.”
Saviar made an awed noise, mostly from politeness. He knew little about sailing or ships, but he suspected becoming a captain took knowledge, ability, and courage.
“He commands the ship, the crew, and is representing Nordmir at the Council meeting with the king of Béarn.”
“Impressive.”
“Captain Erik Leifsson. And I’m going to be a naval captain, too, someday.” Verdondi added softly, “I hope.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Saviar said, now meaning it. “Traveling the world, commanding a squadron of men and a shipful of sailors, forging into battles.” He shook his head in genuine awe. “I could live like that and never regret a moment.”
A proud smile hung on Verdondi’s face, and he drew himself up to his full height. “Defender or attacker?”
“Huh?” Once again, Saviar found himself driven into confusion and sounding silly.
This time, Verdondi accepted the blame. “I’m sorry. I changed the subject rather abruptly, didn’t I?” He tipped his sword toward the spiral staircase. “Defender seems more suited to you, you being Erythanian and this being Béarn. My goal will be to reach the top, yours to keep me at the bottom.”
Saviar hopped up the stairs, finally understanding. He sheathed the practice weapon. “Ready?”
Verdondi patted his hilt, still at the bottom of the staircase. “Ready.” Suddenly, he drew his sword and charged.
Saviar met him more than halfway down, drew, and cut in one fluid motion. He caught Verdondi a blow to the head that jarred him backward. The Northman lost his footing and started to tumble.
Realizing he had badly overestimated his opponent, Saviar caught Verdondi’s arms as he fell. The weight of the Northman nearly swept them both down the steps. Saviar jerked upward.
Verdondi struggled, staggered, then caught his balance. “Whoa, thanks. Can’t believe I let that stroke get through.” He clamped a hand to his head, then looked at his palm.
Saviar danced clear, sheathing his sword. He could not see where his blow had landed beneath the golden braids, but no blood stained Verdondi’s pale hand. A solid bruising seemed more likely. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?” Stopping in the middle of a spar unnerved him. An amputation would have to have occurred before a Renshai would quit fighting, even in practice.
“Don’t apologize for my incompetence.” Verdondi rubbed at the sore spot, then looked at the railing. “I’m a bit thrown by the staircase. I’ve just realized why the craftsmen spiraled it rightward.”
Saviar had not noticed. “Why’s that?”
Verdondi again took up a position of attack. “Because my right arm’s against the wall. See?” He tried to raise his sword, limited by the railing and the wall stones. “While yours is free, unhampered. Smart design. If it wasn’t on purpose, it should have been.”
Saviar touched the railing with his left hand, realizing Verdondi spoke the truth. Such details did not usually concern Renshai. In fact, he imagined his people demanding backward spirals just for the challenge. He considered the other staircases in the castle and realized they all twisted the same way. “I’m pretty sure it’s by design.”
“Clever.”
“Want to defend for a bit?”
Verdondi looked up and down the stairs, clearly pondering.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Saviar assured him.
“Well . . . if you’re sure it doesn’t matter . . .”
Saviar made a broad gesture to indicate Verdondi should pass him, then headed down the steps. He waited for Verdondi to reach the top, sword clutched in his right fist.
“Ready?”
“Whenever,” Saviar called back. Then, realizing he, as the attacker, had to make the first move, he drew and charged upward with a battle scream.
They met nearer the top than the bottom this time, and their swords clashed together. Pain thrummed through Saviar’s arm, the first time he faced an opponent with as much strength as himself. He parried deftly, then flicked his sword beneath Verdondi’s. He could have disarmed the Northman but withdrew instead. It would have required a deft Renshai maneuver that would have made the other young man suspicious. Saviar had no intention of revealing his Renshai heritage to a visiting Northman of any age.
Instead, Saviar awaited an attack. It came high and sweeping. He riposted, then bore in with a gut shot that would have skewed his opponent had he not pulled it.
“I’m dead,” Verdondi announced honestly. His arm drooped to his side. “No wonder you don’t care if you’re defender or attacker. You didn’t tell me you were ambidextrous.”
All Renshai were. If not born to use both hands equally, they learned to at such an early age it seemed as if they were. At any age, if one hand showed more promise than the other, they practiced only with the weaker one until they managed equal competence. It had not taken a thought for Saviar to draw left-handed. When the time came to attack, instinct had taken over. He smiled. “You didn’t ask.”
“You’re full of surprises, Saviar Ra-khirsson.” Verdondi headed down the staircase. “I’m considered one of the best warriors of my age, and you’re making me look like a beginner.”
Though grinning inwardly, Saviar allowed no sign of it to appear on his face. “I’ve just had more experience with the staircase. Why don’t we spar on open ground?”
Verdondi gave a respectful bow. “How honorable of you to give up your advantage.You clearly are your forefathers’ son.” He headed toward the open practice area.
Following, Saviar bit his cheeks to keep from laughing. What Verdondi had attributed to knightly honor was actually a Renshai desire to make an easy battle more challenging and interesting. For the first time, Saviar truly appreciated his heritage: the obsessive focus on swordwork, the secret maneuvers, the endless practices. Even he, as yet incapable of passing his manhood tests, might actually be a match for three non-Renshai.
Verdondi braced himself, legs solidly beneath his body, knees bent, hand on hilt. “All right. I’m ready.” His eyes followed Saviar’s every movement.
Saviar took a position directly oppos
ite Verdondi and beyond sword range. Though he kept his weight balanced, he strove for a more casual look and did not bother to clutch his hilt. “Begin.”
Verdondi drew his sword. In the same space of time, Saviar freed his blade, lunged, and cut. Verdondi retreated, rescuing his legs but losing the opportunity for attack. Saviar saw an opening, but resisted, not wishing to humiliate his companion. Instead, he flipped his sword into position for a low cut that Verdondi successfully blocked with a quick parry.
Again, Saviar surrendered an opportunity, this time for a gut slash. Verdondi managed a hacking cut that Saviar easily dodged. He counted his openings, two this time, one nearly at his opponent’s back. He resisted both to feign a high slash to the neck, followed by a swift slice to Verdondi’s hip. Suddenly realizing the blow would fall, Saviar switched to a blunt side hit that slapped against Verdondi’s hipbone.
“Damn it!” Verdondi halted the match again. “Your father is an outstanding teacher, and you have incredible natural talent.”
“Th-thank you,” Saviar stammered, cheeks flushing. No one had ever complimented his abilities with such strong words. Renshai used praise sparingly; excellence was simply expected. Saviar also did not bother to correct the misconception. Verdondi did not need to know it was his mother, not his father, who had trained him. He sheathed his sword.
“When I become a captain, I’m coming back to recruit you. That is, if you’re not caught up with knightly duties.”Verdondi jammed his practice sword into place as well.
Saviar grinned, “And I might accept . . .” The idea suited him until the reality of the details caught up to him. Eventually, a ship full of Northman would discover his heritage, and he would have no place to hide. He would have to either slaughter all his shipmates or die on their swords. He added his one out, as Verdondi had, “. . . if I’m not caught up in knightly duties.”
Verdondi laughed. “It’s all right if you are. Among knights, I’m sure your talents won’t get wasted either.”
Saviar finally found a response. “Thank you for your generous compliments.”
Verdondi continued, “And being shipbound isn’t all excitement and glory either. There’s a lot of loneliness and tedium, too.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Especially the girls. No women allowed on board.”
Saviar’s cheeks grew hotter. He had found himself staring at the female Renshai, enamored of their looks and grace, imagining situations of which no Knight of Erythane would approve. The girls had clearly noticed him as well.They giggled around him and found lame excuses to touch him, all of which excited him wildly. The idea of actually courting one, however, terrified him. “I . . . think I could handle that.”
“And for every fascinating diplomatic mission, like this one, there are several hundred routine patrols.”
Saviar wondered whether or not the spar had finished. He felt uncomfortable with a grubby practice weapon where his zealously tended sword should sit. He remembered what his grandfather had told him. “Did you come to barter iron ore with King Griff?”
Verdondi chuckled, then covered his mouth, clearly mortified by his reaction.
Confused, Saviar sought clarification. He shook back red-blond hair damp with sweat. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” Verdondi glanced around the empty practice area, as if concerned someone might overhear. “It’s just such a simple name for a man of such might and power.”
Now, Saviar laughed. He had grown accustomed to the unpretentious name of Béarn’s great king. It fit the childlike, bearish man whose rulings seemed guileless and easy when he spoke them. Yet, when examined, those same proclamations held a complexity belied by the man’s unpretentious wording and relaxed manner. Few could remain so consistently fair and proper. He never seemed to make a single mistake.
A common feature of all the greatest kings of Béarn, that effortless shrewdness soothed the populace, who treasured it and the man who displayed it. They would not have loved him any less had he borne the name Dirt, and they spoke his common moniker with a sweet reverence that made it seem as worthy as any knight’s title. For centuries, a test designed by gods chose the proper heir to the throne, and Griff had passed with ease.
“It is a simple name for such a great and wonderful man. But it suits him.”
Verdondi nodded, though he had no experience on which to base his own judgment. “Any merchant could deliver a load of ore, normally. But with the pirates off Béarn’s coast, it seemed prudent to bring warriors.”
“Like you and your father.”
“Yes.” Verdondi raised his head. Sunlight sparked highlights through the pale mane of hair, sweat plastered into an array of spikes. Wispy brows seemed to disappear against skin as white as skimmed milk. “Also, we came to offer assistance against the pirate scourge and the Renshai.”
Saviar shook his head, trying to clear his ears. He had to have imagined the last word. “And the . . . what?”
“The Renshai,”Verdondi repeated clearly. “You must have heard of the Renshai. Everyone has.You know, ‘the golden-haired devils.’ ”
“Devils . . .” Saviar ran his fingers through the tangles of his hair. A lump formed in his throat. “We don’t call them that.”
Verdondi finally headed for the racks where he had left their true weapons. “That’s because a Knight of Erythane would never deliberately offend anyone, no matter how evil or creepy. You’re too polite.”
Evil? Creepy! The words hit Saviar like tongues of flame. He wanted to spit back an angry retort, but he held his tongue. Not only would his father and grandfather not approve, but it might start a very real battle in the practice court. Killing the son of a visiting dignitary would result in a dangerous, international incident.
Verdondi looked away from Saviar to retrieve his sword.
At the moment, that casual gesture came across as a grave insult. No one dared turn his back on a Renshai.
“Everyone else calls them demons or devils, and rightly so.”
Saviar’s heart pounded. He had reached a point of no return. In his place, his mother would announce her heritage and wind up killing the brash young Northman. His father would sanction neither a lie nor a battle. Ra-khir would see an opportunity to educate, but he would also find the right words to do so. I’m not a Knight of Erythane, and I’m not Kevral. Saviar chose his own course, though it involved a lie of omission. “I appreciate warriors no matter their origins. The Renshai are superior swordsmen. They have protected the heirs of Béarn for decades, and our enemies are their enemies.”
Verdondi exchanged his own sword with the mangled practice weapon, then grasped Saviar’s from the rack.
The lump in Saviar’s throat became a boulder. Instinctively, he sought the best way to reclaim his sword and dodge any attack the Northman might initiate. No matter who held it, any sword in any room with a Renshai could belong to him in an instant. If the Renshai wanted it, it was his.
Apparently oblivious to his companion’s upheaval, Verdondi carefully turned the sword around and offered the hilt. “Here you go.”
Relief washed through Saviar. “Thank you.” He accepted the offering, swiftly exchanging the practice sword for his own in his sheath. Its presence calmed him.
The entire procedure came across as boring routine. Verdondi clearly had no idea he was talking to a Renshai, and Saviar had no intention of telling him. “I’m not going to argue the sins of the Renshai with you, Saviar. Knights clearly know how to find the best in everyone and everything. That’s a virtue.”
“I’m not a knight,” Saviar reminded.
“Not yet.” Verdondi smiled. “But you were raised in a family of them, and that’s going to reflect strongly on your character.” He raised a hand, as if to forestall an argument. “Don’t get me wrong; I think that’s wonderful. I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up that way, but I’d consider it a high honor, indeed.”
The irony might have sent Saviar into spasms of laughter if not for t
he seriousness of the situation. The upbringing that so awed Verdondi was based on a misconception. Despite his parentage, for all intents and purposes, Saviar was raised the same way as any other Renshai. He answered the only way he could, “Thank you.”
“But,” Verdondi continued. “But you have to understand that your neighbors are not so tolerant and high in their ideals. They have not forgotten the rampage of the Renshai that left so many innocent Westerners dead.”
“Rampage . . . ?” Saviar could scarcely believe they were having this discussion. “People are holding a grudge for things that happened centuries ago?” As he understood it, the Northlands banished the Renshai for their ferocity, a quality normally prized in the warrior Northlands. Well over three hundred years ago, the other Northmen drove the Renshai out, mostly for their tactic of dismembering those dead enemies they wished to dishonor and demoralize. Then, all Northmen believed that only an intact body could ever reach Valhalla.
Angered, the Renshai had swept across the Westlands and Eastlands in a blaze of war that had left entire cities in ruins. They battled anyone who would fight them and took the offerings of those who refused. Then, as now, the Renshai knew nothing but swordcraft. They had obtained their necessities through slaughter as well as barter.
“Centuries, indeed.”Verdondi’s hand went to his hilt, his eyes distant. “Centuries during which the Renshai have pretended to grow more civilized. Yet, they still practice secret warcraft and witchcraft. They still fight like demons.”
“What?”
“They drink the blood of innocents to maintain their youth and vigor, living vast lifetimes of which others only dream.”
“No, that’s not—”
“They make unholy alliances with creatures of the icy darkness to grant them sword skills beyond anything a normal man could accomplish.”
Saviar could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Verdondi, that’s just insane! They’re great swordsmen because they practice. Pretty much every moment of every day.”
“Maybe.” Verdondi did not argue. “But most Erythanians think otherwise. Béarnides, too. In fact, groups of Erythanians have come to us to try to reclaim Paradise Plains.”
Flight of the Renshai Page 15
