Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  Kwavirse withdrew and gestured an end to the battle. “You win, Calistin.”

  He always did. It had reached the point where only three types of Renshai dared to challenge him: the youngsters full of themselves and their progress, the most competent who could find few other opponents at their level or hoped they had reached his, and the sickest and oldest of the Renshai who would throw themselves upon Calistin, wishing to die in furious combat rather than of illness, to find their places in Valhalla.

  Attention focused on Treysind, Calistin barely nodded. He spoke in hopeful Renshai, “Another spar, another time, perhaps?” He could fight every moment of every day and never get tired of it. Each new opponent, every motion, taught him something new to expect in combat.

  Kwavirse rolled his eyes toward Treysind, who stood quietly in front of Calistin, examining the new hole in his sleeve. “Only if you lose the shadow. I almost killed the little guy.”

  Calistin gritted his teeth, already angry at the boy. “Killing him might teach him a lesson.”

  Kwavirse chuckled. “True, but not one he could use in the future.”

  Calistin seized Treysind’s arm with a violence so sudden the boy cringed. He looked up at his savior with stoic blue eyes that carried only a trace of fear. Others who had grabbed him in the past had clearly beaten him. “Come on,” Calistin growled in Common, half-walking, half-dragging the Erythanian toward a patch of withered briars. “We need to talk.”

  Once there, Calistin practically threw Treysind to the ground. “What in coldest Hel is wrong with you?”

  The boy gathered his feet under him to crouch at Calistin’s feet. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Well,” he started very slowly, his pace quickening with every word. “Fo’ starters, I’s a orphan what’s growed up on tha streets. I’s small an’ weak ish. Kinda ugly. Not smart at all. I don’t talk so good. I looks kinda like a Renshai wit’ dis orange . . . red hair, an’ a lotta folks don’t like that so’s they beat me ’round, but I don’t know how ta ’fend mesself wit’ a sword an’—”

  “No, no, no!” Calistin dropped to a crouch in front of Treysind. “I don’t mean ‘what’s wrong with you’ in general. I mean, why do you feel the suicidal need to interfere with everything I do?”

  Treysind lifted his head. Hair fell in wild strands in every direction, including into his face. “I’s jus’ pratectin’ ya, Hero. I owes ya my life.”

  Calistin heaved an exasperated sigh. They had already debated this point several times. Treysind would not leave him, and nothing he said would convince the boy not to die for his hero. “Fine, then. You owe me your life; I get it. But what good does it do me for you to skewer yourself during a simple spar? If you just want to die for no reason, why don’t you go throw yourself in the well?”

  “Well, I . . .” Treysind rearranged his legs under him in a pattern Calistin had never seen before. “. . . can’t do that. I’s gotta die savin’ ya, Hero.”

  The Renshai thought he knew every wary position, but this one allowed the boy to look casually relaxed while still able to move in any direction in an instant. Calistin marveled at the simple logistics of the position. He adjusted his own crouch, modeling it, and found it as comfortable as his usual cautious squat, without looking so guarded and alert. “So jump between me and an arrow sometime, would you? If you insist on spending your life for me, that would be an actual useful way.”

  To his credit, Treysind gave the idea due consideration before speaking. “That would be fine, if I’s could. But it don’t do us no good if ya’s daid ’fore tha’ arrow comes.”

  Calistin sighed. He was wasting time with this silly discussion, time he could be spending sparring or practicing. “Kid, the best thing you can do for me is go away and leave me alone.”

  Treysind shrugged. “Can’ do that.”

  The poor speech threw Calistin, and he dared to hope. “Did you just say you can do that?”

  Treysind shook his head vigorously, sending his inhumanly orange hair flying. “Can not be doin’ that. Can not. I owes ya m’life, Hero.”

  Calistin hesitated, torn between two actions. It seemed a simple matter, an act of mercy, just to run a blade through the boy and be done with it. No one would miss Treysind. Yet, though Calistin had killed a few pirates and several mortally sick or injured Renshai, he found himself incapable of slaughtering an unarmed, pitiful child. Explaining anything to Treysind seemed equally abhorrent. The Erythanian appeared incapable of grasping the concept that Calistin could defend himself better than anyone else in the world. He finally settled on something quick and easy. “Look, kid. Renshai sparring may look dangerous, but it’s not.”

  “It’s not?” Treysind’s skepticism was tangible

  “Not to other Renshai, no.”

  “But ya’s usin’ real sa-wards. An’ so . . . so angry-like, deadly-like.”

  “It’s how we train. But no other Renshai would ever hurt me.”

  “No?”

  A thrill trickled across Calistin. He actually seemed to be getting through the boy’s bricklike skull. “Never. I’m more likely to die tripping over you and . . . and falling into that well.”

  “I’d be fishin’ ya’s out, Hero. Right ’way, I’s would.”

  Calistin was not so sure he would return the favor. “Of course you would.”

  Treysind nodded vigorously and somberly.

  “So, we’re agreed, then? No protecting me from other Renshai?”

  Treysind considered for a very long time, gaze distant, features screwed up tightly. “I . . . s’pose . . . I . . . most times . . . I . . .”

  It was hardly the sterling promise Calistin wanted; but, for the moment, it worked.

  CHAPTER 11

  The genius of one man can surpass the superior forces of another.

  —General Santagithi

  SAVIAR OPENED THE GUEST ROOM door to a heated discussion that ceased instantly. The Knights of Erythane would never inflict their personal problems on anyone, not even a family member. Father and grandfather gave Saviar welcoming smiles despite his sweat-soaked, filthy clothing and the hair dangling into his eyes. Though they remained perfectly meticulous, as always, they never expected the same of others.

  Saviar dropped to his bed, delicately removed his sword, and pulled his cleaning kit from his pocket. A Renshai always tended his swords before his person. “So, how did things go with the Northmen?” He unraveled a spotless white rag and a vial of sword oil.

  The ensuing silence piqued Saviar’s curiosity. He looked up in time to see the knights just breaking a serious, nonverbal exchange.

  Ra-khir cleared his throat. “Not bad, Saviar; but not as I might have wished either.”

  Saviar set to cleaning his weapon, concentrating on the blade but still allowing himself to glance up often enough to read expressions. “Let me guess, it wasn’t all about ore.”

  “It wasn’t,” Ra-khir admitted.

  “They brought up Renshai.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the ‘right’ of Paradisians to return to their homeland.”

  A stunned silence followed. Saviar feigned total engrossment in his weapon but could not suppress a grin. It was rare that he could startle his father speechless.

  When the hush continued long past surprise, Saviar finally looked directly at his father. The moment he met those green eyes, Ra-khir spoke, “How could you possibly know that?”

  Saviar considered leaving the knights in suspense, but swiftly discarded it. They would worry about a leak in the Council Room, which could turn into a grave political incident. “I sparred with Verdondi Eriksson, the captain’s son.We also talked.” He did not have to add the last sentence, usually. Most warriors would not think twice about chatting during practice. For Renshai, it was a dangerous offense. Like turning one’s back, it implied that one’s opponent was so poorly skilled that concentration and wariness were unnecessary in his presence. It was regarded as grave insult.

 
Kedrin’s eyes widened. “Does Verdondi know you’re Renshai?”

  Saviar returned his attention to his sword. “It didn’t come up.”

  Ra-khir asked in a cautious voice pitched to sound matter-of-fact but not quite succeeding, “Did your relationship to the Knights of Erythane ‘come up’?”

  “Yes.”

  Kedrin added, “Probably just as well.”

  “Yes,” Ra-khir agreed. “Probably.”

  Though Saviar continued to work directly on his sword, he could feel his father’s gaze upon him. He set aside his project for a moment. “Papa, I’m not a fool.”

  “What?” Ra-khir sounded offended. “Of course you’re not, Saviar. I’ve never suggested otherwise.”

  “I didn’t lie, and I won’t if directly questioned. But it wouldn’t hurt to have Verdondi see me as a friend before he knows what I am. It might give him a reason to rethink the prejudice his people have drummed into him since birth.”

  “Timing is everything,” Kedrin said softly.

  Father and son looked at him simultaneously.

  He wore his formal knight garb: the tabard with Béarn’s rearing golden grizzly on a blue background on the front and Erythane’s black sword against orange on the back. Though matured, his features remained strikingly handsome, and the red-blond hair he once shared with son and grandson had turned a distinguished silver. His appearance, his stance, commanded attention and obedience; and Saviar understood how the knights were known and respected even as far away as the Northlands. “In battle, in life, in diplomacy. Everything is timing.”

  Ra-khir smiled. “Don’t tell me . . .” He closed his eyes and held his fingers to his temples, as if concentrating very hard and receiving an answer whispered by the gods: “General Santagithi.”

  Finding the origin of Kedrin’s quotations had become an easy matter. As Kedrin studied the writings and history of the ancient Western leader/general, he had become more enamored of his wisdom and methods. Considered the best strategist of his era, Santagithi had essentially single-handedly won the Westlands biggest war, the Great War, against a then-hostile Eastlands. He also had a connection to the Renshai. His daughter, Mitrian, was the mother of the half-breed tribe of Tannin and the grandmother of the non-blooded tribe of Rache.

  Kedrin shrugged. “Scoff if you must, my son. Great men deserve their due, even long after death.”

  “Or, in Colbey’s case, without the need to die at all.” Ra-khir threw up his hands, as if in surrender. “And between my father and my wife, I’m starved for original thought.”

  “That,” Kedrin returned playfully, “is what adolescent sons are for. After all, they know everything.”

  Ra-khir returned his attention to his son. “In Saviar’s case, I’m starting to believe that’s true. Do you understand what your grandfather is saying, albeit secondhand, about timing?”

  “I do.” Saviar did not want to miss a detail. He had to find a way to prove to his father that he was as much a man as Calistin, despite not yet having passed his Renshai testing. “He’s saying that I need to reveal the truth at the right time and in the best way. I can’t wait until someone else tells Verdondi I’m Renshai or leave him feeling as if I’m deliberately misleading him and using him for information.”

  Ra-khir nodded sagely. “You do understand.”

  “Of course, I do.” Secretly thrilled by his father’s approval, Saviar returned to his oiling. Neither of his parents could be impressed easily. “Like I said, I’m not a fool.”

  “Ra-khir?” Kedrin said.

  Ra-khir apparently caught the reference. “Yes, all right. I suppose you do know better.”

  Finished with his task, Saviar returned the sword to his belt. He started stripping off his training clothing. As the wet cloth peeled away, it left him damp, cold, and covered in gooseflesh.

  Kedrin politely averted his eyes. “Saviar, the Northmen asked King Griff to exile all Renshai.”

  Saviar stiffened but refused to otherwise react. He knew the king of Béarn would never do such a thing. “How did the Northmen react when he said ‘no’?”

  “His Majesty,” Ra-khir explained, “did not have to say ‘no.’ The Fields of Wrath are in Erythane, not Béarn proper.”

  Saviar pulled on a clean tunic. It smelled freshly laundered, a welcome relief after the tainted stiffness his garments had attained during travel. He dragged off his britches next. “So, he simply pushed the decision off onto King Humfreet? He didn’t defend us at all?”

  “This is diplomacy,” Kedrin said. “Things are handled differently than in . . . real life. Wars and alliances are decided by a word or a pen stroke.”

  “All right.”

  “And,” Ra-khir added, “the king did say that Renshai were courageous, competent, invaluable guardians and warriors. That he has always supported them, and they have never let him down.”

  “All right,” Saviar said again, not wholly happy or comforted but still willing to listen. King Humfreet was a reasonable man but without the historical loyalty and wisdom of Béarn’s royalty. Saviar suspected the knights had not yet come to the contentious part of the discussion, and that troubled him greatly.

  Kedrin raised his head and heaved a sigh so small Saviar saw more than heard it. “Saviar, the Northmen have agreed to assist Béarn with the pirates.”

  “That’s good.” Saviar pulled on his clean britches. “No one knows more about pirates or pirating than Northmen.”

  “Saviar,” Kedrin warned. “Your own prejudice is showing.”

  Saviar had never considered himself biased, but it seemed impossible to remain fair to people who had just suggested banishing his own family. “Sorry.” He did not mean it, nor did it sound as if he did.

  “They offered large numbers of soldiers.” Ra-khir seemed torn between studying his son’s reaction and giving him the appropriate privacy to finish dressing. “And asked only that they not have to serve with Renshai.”

  “You mean in the same unit?”

  “I mean, in the same army.”

  “Oh.” Saviar did not know what to say. One Renshai equaled three of any other warriors; yet, even counting in Renshai soldiers, the Northmen would still clearly outnumber them by thousands. “The king accepted that offer?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But he’ll have to,” Saviar guessed. “How did Thialnir take it?”

  “Not well,” Ra-khir admitted. “Though, to his credit, he refrained from violence. A group of us are going to try to explain the situation to him.”

  “We’d like you to come along,” Kedrin said.

  Saviar glanced at his father, who did not contradict. At one time, they had clearly disagreed on this matter. “You would do better taking Calistin.”

  “Calistin?” Ra-khir shook his head. “I don’t think Calistin would see the situation any differently than Thialnir.”

  Saviar had to concur. “Well, then. How many of the people who are going to talk to Thialnir can best him in a battle?”

  “None,” Kedrin said. “But we’re planning to talk to him, not kill him.”

  Saviar adjusted his britches. “Diplomacy means something different to Renshai. He won’t respect a man who couldn’t kill him. That’s why I suggested Calistin.”

  Kedrin heaved a more obvious sigh. “And who do you know who can best Calistin?”

  “No one. Why?”

  “Because . . .” Kedrin sat on the neatly stretched blankets of his own pallet. “. . . I imagine we will find it just as hard to convince Calistin as Thialnir. No, Saviar, you’re the only Renshai we have. And the only one we need.”

  Saviar could not fathom his grandfather’s endorsement. “I haven’t even passed my manhood testing. Thialnir’s a proven warrior, blooded and tested. They chose him to represent us.”

  “He won’t listen unless you best him?” Ra-khir took a step toward Saviar.

  “I’d have to give him a reasonably good fight at the very least. That will take years. I might neve
r gain the ability to take on—”

  Ra-khir seized his son’s arm. “We have two days, Saviar. Let’s get started.”

  Before the boy could protest, he was led to the door, Ra-khir in the lead and Kedrin following. Together, they headed back toward the practice courtyard.

  With a quick apology and a spectacular bow, Ra-khir excused himself from the company of his father and his son before they entered the courtyard. To Saviar’s chagrin, his father disappeared down a side corridor, but Kedrin did not seem put off by the abrupt departure. Instead he flicked the latch, and opened the door onto the familiar practice courtyard.

  Saviar stepped inside. A haze hung over the courtyard, no longer illuminated by morning sunlight, and the obstacles seemed awash in silver. Kedrin glanced at the racks of practice swords. It suited him better not to train with live steel; yet he also knew that the Renshai always did. In the end, he did not exchange his blade but guided Saviar to the most uncluttered part of the grounds, free from debris and deliberate constructions.

  “Now,” Kedrin began, facing Saviar squarely, “I know you’re not a beginner, so we’ll skip right to the advanced training.”

  Saviar kept his expression sober. His torke claimed that any swordwork taught by ganim would be a lesson Renshai had learned so early in life they could not even recall not knowing it. Saviar kept his mind open, however. If anyone might know a useful, different technique it would be the captain of the Knights of Erythane.

  “Show me your stance,” Kedrin said, assuming a classic posture, knees bent, weight evenly distributed, right foot leading slightly.

  “Which one?”

  “Of course.You probably know a thousand.” Kedrin laughed, relaxing. “This is rather like pouring a bucket of water in the ocean, isn’t it?”

  “Well . . .” Saviar stalled, not knowing what to say. “Perhaps . . . you could teach me some power moves.”

  “Power moves?”

  Saviar made a few graceful motions to work the kinks from his legs. “Calistin keeps reminding me that Renshai maneuvers rely on quickness, not strength; but I naturally try to outmuscle everyone because I’m bigger.”