Did I insult them? Ra-khir hoped his suggestion that they remain in Erythane had not violated some deeply ingrained Renshai tenet. Did I drive them away? He believed he understood the Renshai as few ganim ever could. Most thought them lawless and unstructured, the very definition of chaos. Nearly all of the Renshai disparaged the Knights of Erythane for their rigid adherence to a code of honor. Yet few understood that the Renshai, themselves, had conventions equally unyielding and strict.
Renshai did fight without pattern or strategy, but were consistent in this observance. They all shunned armor or adornment that might deflect a blow, believing that depending upon anything but one’s own skill in battle was tantamount to cowardice. They insisted on making every member of the tribe ambidextrous, they refused any weapon not a sword, and they forced sword-training even onto their infants. Complete and utter attention to the sword was their only way: they demanded the most enduring iron, the finest temper, and their devotion became like that between priest and deity. A sword touching ground was a sword gravely dishonored. And every single Renshai sought Valhalla as his final reward.
Ra-khir had done his best to understand and support every detail of the Renshai way, yet he had clearly failed. His wife was dead. His sons hated him for reasons he could not fathom. Saviar and Calistin had done worse than abandon him; they had not found him worthy of a simple “good-bye.”
Or did they? Ra-khir wondered if he had mislaid the conversation. He had lost track of time so often since Kevral’s death. Things happened in a floating fog, done but not remembered. Reality and dream mingled inseparably, but neither brought him the knowledge he needed. His sons had not said a word before departing. They were good young men, raised right, which meant the fault fell on their father. And that left Ra-khir with the glaring question that had troubled him since before he had left Erythane. What did I say? What did I do to make them hate me?
Ra-khir could not recall ever feeling so alone, so very lost. He had faced demons and armies, treachery and betrayal, even stood on the perfect fields of Asgard, spoken to gods, and looked upon Valhalla. All of these things he had done with trepidation, yet with courage. Kevral’s death had shaken him as nothing else ever had, and it seemed so very senseless. She had courted death even before he had first met her, when he believed her a boy, taunting him on the knights’ practice grounds. Like all Renshai, she had rushed recklessly into every battle, desperately seeking the glorious death that would earn her eternity in Valhalla.
Yet, Kevral had never died. And, as the years passed, it had seemed as if she never would. Like Colbey Calistinsson himself, the more she hurled herself at danger, the more skilled she became until it seemed inevitable that the death she sought would always evade her. It was a paradox that perplexed the most competent Renshai, but it had secretly pleased Ra-khir. Despite being a consummate Renshai, Kevral had seemed destined to live to a ripe, old age. So destined, in fact, that Ra-khir had unconsciously come to count upon it. But she had not even lived long enough to meet her own grandchildren.
She’s in Valhalla, Ra-khir reminded himself for the thousandth time. The boys will name a grandchild for her, and she will look down upon her young namesake and guide her every sword stroke. Yet doubts descended upon Ra-khir, as they always did. Kevral had battled demons, kings, and immortals. Though it had occurred in battle, her death fighting a mortal Northman had seemed so unnecessary, so ordinary. He worried the Valkyries might find it too inglorious to warrant Valhalla.
And there was still the item of the spirit spiders. Ra-khir had been present when Kevral got bitten by one, had heard the elves proclaim that the creatures fed upon their victims’ souls. Later, Kevral had told Ra-khir that the Fates had proclaimed her intact. She had a soul, and she could still find Valhalla. Those words had never fully reassured him, however. He worried she had spoken a lie only to assuage his fears. What if Kevral had no soul? What if she never found Valhalla? The thought was too terrible for him to contemplate.
Enough! Angrily, Ra-khir chased doubt from his mind. He had dwelt too long upon his anxieties, upon his losses. The time had come to find himself again, to display the honor and courage that had, heretofore, defined his life. Right or wrong, Kevral had made her choice. Overconfident Kevral, her peers had called her; and, if that audaciousness had led to her ultimate demise, it was also the quality that had drawn him to marry her. Kevral had died the way she had lived, battling foolishness and injustice without a hint of fear.
Finding himself withdrawing into his thoughts again, Ra-khir forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Again, he marveled at the decorative patterns of the leaves and flowers, found familiarity in the pocked roadway, where the tracks of boots, hooves, and cart-wheels marked the way. The few passersby waved cheerily at Ra-khir, and he tipped his hat in silent greeting to each and every one. Birds twittered in the treetops, flitting between branches and sending showers of berries down upon the trail. Ra-khir heard a few tap down on his hat and wondered how disheveled he must look. It never failed to astound him how the older knights, especially his father, managed to look pristine and proper in every circumstance. Ra-khir always felt gritty and sweat-slicked, and his clothing seemed to require cleaning and pressing from the instant he decided to wear it. Though as long as Ra-khir’s, Kedrin’s hair never knew a knot, while Ra-khir’s seemed to snarl in a mere whisper of breeze.
As dusk fell over the road, forest gradually gave way to tended fields and scattered buildings. Silver Warrior slowed to a walk to avoid the ankle-turning stones until they became packed into cobbles. His hooves clopped against the solid stonework, and he lowered his long, white neck to study every footfall.
Ra-khir found his own attention trained on the upcoming village. At first, he thought a herd of animals ran loose inside it; but, as he drew closer, he realized the movement came from gathered people. They stood at the border, clearly awaiting something momentous. The children ran in giggling circles, trailing long strings of knotted rags. The adults stood, attentively facing the roadway and Ra-khir. His heart quickened, and he wondered if he should skirt the town. He hated to think he might have interrupted an important celebration: perhaps a significant marriage or a local holiday.
As they drew closer, Silver Warrior’s gait grew increasingly slower until each hoof fall landed with a singular, unrhythmical thump. The crowd stood in silent contemplation. Even the children went still, some to stare and others to hide behind parental legs. Finally, Ra-khir drew his steed to a halt in front of the line of waiting people.
A long silence followed. No one seemed to know what to say or do. Finally, Ra-khir executed the most formal bow he could from atop his charger, flourishing his hat in a genteel motion.
Applause followed Ra-khir’s bow, gracious and loud. One man stepped forward and also bowed, his head nearly touching the roadway. “Welcome Knight of Erythane. Thank you for gracing our town with your presence.”
A cheer went up. Rags of various colors fluttered through the air, and the bolder children screeched excitedly. Others peeked out from behind their parents.
This is for me? Shocked, Ra-khir could think of nothing to do but introduce himself, “I am Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Griff.”
Cheers and more applause followed his pronouncement, as if he had performed some spectacular feat. Embarrassed by their attention, Ra-khir found himself staring at the blue-and-gold ribbons braided into Silver Warrior’s snowy mane. Knightly honor decreed he remain properly dignified and in control at all times. He had not done that over the last week; but he had, apparently, managed to maintain the image.
The spokesman smiled. “Welcome to Dunford, Sir Ra-khir. Have you time to join us for a meal? Our inn is not fancy, but the food is better than tolerable.”
The entire group seemed to hold their breaths collectively, awaiting his answer.
Though desperately hungry, and even a bit tired, Ra-khir wanted nothing
more than to find a few answers and move onward. However, his honor as a knight would not allow him to insult good people who, he now realized, had gathered solely for him. “I would love to join you all for a better than tolerable meal.”
Another cheer went up from the crowd. They stepped aside to allow Ra-khir to pass.
Ra-khir dismounted in a single, fluid motion. Flicking back his cape, he seized Silver Warrior’s wide leather bridle by the cheek strap spanning between decorative conches. He flipped the reins free and gathered them into his gloved left hand.The horse regarded its master through one dark eye, its delicately arched neck sheened with foam and sweat. “Hey, old boy,” Ra-khir whispered, and an ear twitched sideways to listen.
With his hands full of bridle and reins, Ra-khir could spare nothing for his clothing. His tabard hung askew, his black silk shirt lay wrinkled and sweat-plastered to his chest, and the angle of his broadsword was completely wrong. Knight-Captain Kedrin would verbally flay him, but the citizens of Dunford did not even seem to notice.
The speaker and two others led the way. Everyone else walked alongside Ra-khir in a great band, chattering amongst themselves. Ra-khir tried not to listen, but he could not help overhearing parents telling their children the significance of a knightly visit.They spoke of ancient legends and how the word of a knight should be trusted implicitly. To hear them tell it, the Knights of Erythane were the human incarnations of honesty and honor, and their word was absolute law. They pointed out his colors: the blue and gold of Béarn and the black and orange or Erythane, worn at all times by every knight. The children ogled the broadsword at his hip, and some reached out to touch him or his horse as though such a thing might heal them of afflictions.
For the first time since leaving Erythane, Ra-khir secretly wished his father had let him quit the knights. The attention, though kind, unnerved him. He would rather ride off immediately with a handful of jerky and a few answers. Though accustomed to dreary, long-winded formality, he found himself saddled with all-too-human impatience. Yet, he had no choice but to display the honor of his kind, to weather the hospitality of his hosts, and to hope the Renshai did not get too far ahead of him meanwhile.
Though large for a village inn, the building could hold only half the residents at one time. The women and children veered away from the mud-and-stone building, pausing only to well-wish, curtsy, or touch their guest. Obliged to respond to each and every one, Ra-khir bowed what seemed like a million times, spoke several hundred thanks, and granted all verbalized requests for light contact. Some simply touched a sleeve or a glove, others kissed the hem of his cape or tabard, while the children seemed to favor a stroke of Silver Warrior’s lathered chest or flank.
At length, only the men remained, streaming into the inn or talking in small groups. A stable boy approached Ra-khir and lowered his head.
Ra-khir granted him a grand bow, which brought a smile to the young man’s lips.
“Beggin’ youse pardons, sir. May I tends to youse horse?”
Ra-khir pursed his lips. The vast majority of the knight’s chargers got their care from grooms, but Ra-khir had always insisted on tending Silver Warrior himself. In this circumstance, however, it seemed insulting to put the horse before his many eager hosts. Reluctantly releasing the bridle, he nodded. Worried they might not allow him to pay for anything, Ra-khir slipped the boy a couple of silvers. “He’s very special.” A whole litany of needs sprang to his tongue, but he knew better than to speak them. This youngster knew exactly how to treat a fine animal, and the payoff would see to it that Silver Warrior received the best of care. “But getting a bit long in the tooth.”
The stable boy pocketed the silver and nodded. “I’ll sees ta it the ol’ boy gits plenty o’ lovin’ cares.”
“Thank you.”
Several men gestured for Ra-khir to enter the building, and he did so at their urging. Afraid to cause a pile-up at the entrance, he walked the length of the common room to a large, round table in the farthest corner. The instant he chose a seat, the men of Dunford rushed to fill the nearest ones like children playing one-chair-less. Soon, men filled every position, scooting chairs and tables, while others found the best places to stand.
Though uncomfortably closed-in, Ra-khir suffered in silence. His honor prevented him from demanding breathing room or, even, from shedding a cape or tabard from his oppressive amount of clothing. He did, however, remove his hat and gloves, as was proper inside any establishment. “Hello,” he said.
A hundred hellos answered him, like a loud, uncoordinated echo.
Ra-khir cleared his throat, feeling it impolite to rush right into business. The gesture resulted in a painful cough, his throat dry and dusty from travel.
In an instant, a barmaid appeared at Ra-khir’s shoulder, clutching a mug of light-colored ale. He had no idea how she had negotiated the crowd so quickly. “Here, sirra,” she said, placing the mug in front of him on the table. “This is for you, courtesy of Lenn.” She gestured toward the bar. “He said to tell you the house special is on the way.”
Ra-khir followed the movement of her arm to a portly, middle-aged man wearing an apron over his linens. He threw a friendly salute toward the knight.
Ra-khir returned the salute more grandly and briskly; he knew no other way. “Tell him, thank you. And to keep track of my tab.”
“He said to tell you . . .” The girl took a deep breath, clearly trying to quote her boss exactly right, “. . . if you try to pay, he’ll break your arms.”
“Ah!” Ra-khir could not help smiling. “How can I refuse such a gracious invitation?” He sifted a few coppers from his purse and pressed them into her hand. “Did he say anything about not tipping the staff?”
Her fingers closed over the coins, and she threw a surreptitious glance toward Lenn.
“Don’t tell him, eh? I like my arms the way they are.” Ra-khir distracted Lenn by rising and making a formal bow of appreciation in his direction.
Lenn bowed back, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Other serving girls pressed through the crowd, amid a sudden flurry of drink and food orders throughout the common room. Apparently, serving the knight cued the others. Had Ra-khir known that bit of etiquette, he would have ordered before entering; his throat felt parched, and his stomach rumbled.
“Thank you, sirra,” the girl whispered before diving into the crowd to take her share of orders.
Ra-khir remained stiffly formal, as his title dictated. He glanced at the faces around his table: sunburned, dust-etched, wrinkled, nodding to each in turn before asking, “I wondered if a group of warriors preceded me to Dunford, about three hundred strong and in need of supplies.”
Murmurs ran through the crowd, denying such a sighting. Only after the noise died did one man speak alone, “Sir Knight, I did not see such an army. But, only two days ago, I sold my wares to the beams to a group of five men who packed out my cured and fresh meats in a horse-drawn cart. Every one of them wore a sword at his hip. They could be feeding a multitude like you describe.”
“Aye,” said another. “And they bought out my cheeses, didn’t care the type.”
“And my vegetables,” piped in a third.
Suddenly, every memory was jogged, and several started talking at once about the clothing, foodstuffs, and other necessities they, a wife, or a friend had sold to this apparently enormous group.
Ra-khir had no doubt they spoke of the Renshai, glad the tribe had shown the sense to mostly remain in hiding. Even smaller villages did not take well to the sudden appearance of a militia.
A man swaggered up to Ra-khir’s table, ignoring the elbows jabbed at him by his peers. “Sir Knight,” he slurred, huffing fetid breath on all of those around him. Clearly, he had started his drinking hours earlier. “There were Renshai in the woods. A friend of mine barely escaped with his life.”
“Ignore him,” those nearby suggested. “He’s always—”
But Ra-khir could not afford to dismiss him. “Renshai, you s
ay?”
“Renshai,” the man repeated. In some parts of the world, it was considered a swear word too vile to speak. “They all carried swords, even the women and the tykes, he said.”
“That sounds like Renshai.” Ra-khir had no choice but to encourage him. “Are you certain they attacked him, though?”
“They’re Renshai,” the man reminded, as if this was enough to guarantee violence. “He barely escaped with his life.”
“So . . .” Ra-khir tried carefully, “. . . they wounded him.”
“Cor, no!” The man made a wild gesture that sent others ducking and scurrying to avoid getting hit. “Renshai don’t wound. They get holt of a man, they kill him . . . brutally.”
Ra-khir heaved a large sigh. It seemed unnecessary to point out the ludicrous flaws in the drunkard’s statement. If three hundred Renshai wished to catch a man, he would be caught. And, if they intended him harm, he would be harmed. “I do not believe your friend was ever in any danger.”
The drunkard froze in his strange and awkward position, arms akimbo. Whispers spread through the common room, then died to silence. The group hung on Ra-khir’s next pronouncement.
“It is true that Renshai are skilled warriors and that their women learn warfare alongside their men.”
The crowd did not discuss Ra-khir’s words, clearly awaiting the “but” that had to follow.
Ra-khir did not disappoint. “But . . . in all other ways, they are like every Westerner.”
“Westerner.” The word swept the room. One man finally addressed Ra-khir directly. “You consider them Westerners, Sir Knight? Like us? Our allies?”
Ra-khir could scarcely believe they did not. “Of course, the Renshai are Westerners. They have lived in the West for centuries and have wielded their swords in defense of Béarn’s heirs. They are more than our allies. They are . . . us!”
Flight of the Renshai Page 37
