Now conversations flared like fires throughout the common room. The drunkard toddled off, shaking his head. The serving girl seized the sudden lull to slip through the crowd and deposit a plate of food in front of Ra-khir. The tantalizing aroma of roast pork and roots, boiled greens and brown bread tickled his nostrils. Dirt-specked saliva filled his mouth, lubricating his throat.
Cautiously picking up a steaming root, Ra-khir took a small bite, closed his mouth, and savored the sweetly starchy flavor. Luckily, it was not hot enough to burn his tongue, and he followed it with a swig of what turned out to be excellent ale.
By the time Ra-khir swallowed, the first question reached him.
“Knights of Erythane cannot lie, can they?”
Though more interested in his food, Ra-khir knew the conversation had to take precedence. He had an obligation to help a society overcome ignorant bigotry, especially against his family. “It is against our code of honor to do so.The Order would never maintain a knight who had knowingly spoken falsehoods.”The explanation seemed unnecessary. Even if knights spent their entire existence spewing lies, anyone answering such a query would say nothing different than Ra-khir had. “A knight would willingly die rather than forsake his honor in such a way.”
Again, the common room buzzed with conversation, this time accompanied by nods. Ra-khir pounced on the opportunity to eat and drink, cursing the deeply ingrained manners that forced him to do so slowly and with decorum. He wanted nothing more than to tear into that food, without having to worry what dripped down his chin, what soiled his uniform, or what noises accompanied his feast. But, ever the proper knight, Ra-khir attended to every manner as the men in the common room came to a consensus. His father’s words, an echo of his own, haunted him. Remember this: anything you say or do reflects back on the Knights of Erythane, on King Humfreet and on King Griff, who you represent.
At last, the largest man at his table, who now also nursed food and ale, spoke. “Sir Ra-khir, we have been taught since infancy to dread Renshai. They are the demons who steal away naughty children in the night, the cause of every inexplicable death because they need to drink our blood to keep their youth and vitality. But none of us has encountered a Renshai, at least not that we recognized as anything but another man. If a Knight of Erythane swears that these self-same Renshai are our fellows and our allies, we have no choice but to believe and trust you.”
Ra-khir nodded with respect though his thoughts raced. He could scarcely believe he had solved a centuries-old problem with a single proclamation. Is it really this easy? He knew the truth, had witnessed it in Béarn and in Erythane, where they knew firsthand that the Renshai served as faithful bodyguards to the princes and princesses, where Renshai assisted them in every skirmish. It did not take much to scrape off the veneer of tolerance and find a teeming mass of festering hatred beneath it. Still, a surface layer of forbearance was a start. “Leave them in peace, and the Renshai will not bother you. Ask them for assistance in wars and battles, and they will happily provide it.”
After that, the male citizenry of Dunford dug into their repasts, and Ra-khir finally got a chance to eat—unhurriedly and with proper etiquette.
CHAPTER 24
Hundreds of years have not bred the ferocity out of wolves, nor
Renshai either.
—Councillor Zaysharn of Béarn
RA-KHIR SHOVED HIS WISHES to the back corner of his mind, choosing instead to spend the night at the inn in Dunford. His heart told him he could survive days without sleep, that need would keep him moving long after his limbs collapsed and his eyes refused to remain open. But Ra-khir knew better. Whatever he might find himself capable of tolerating, he could not inflict that nightmare on Silver Warrior. He needed information as well as speed, to spread the true word about the Renshai, and to get enough rest to handle all situations properly. Whatever else he wanted or needed, he was a Knight of Erythane first. Sleepless men did not make the best or most rational decisions.
The familiar work of readying Silver Warrior soothed Ra-khir. He tended every hair with curry and brush, though the young groom had already done an impressive job for him. He rewove the blue-and-gold ribbons through mane and tail, his thoughts directed and certain. He knew which route the Renshai must have taken. Banned from the West and North, they could only go eastward. Reins in hand, Ra-khir cinched the saddle into place, gave Silver Warrior a solid affectionate pat with his gloved hand, and prepared to mount.
A man standing nearby sidled closer, just enough to violate Ra-khir’s personal space. Without a hint of discomfort, Ra-khir turned.
As the knight’s gaze swept him, the man’s face turned from pale pink to blushing scarlet. “Sir Knight,” he blurted out. “I . . . I don’t know if this is significant . . .”
Ra-khir smiled and nodded encouragingly. “Please tell me.”
“Well, the night before the . . . the Renshai visited, a man came all the way from Erythane.”
“Another knight?” Ra-khir puzzled over the news, seeking its significance. He knew of no one who had made the journey.
“Not a knight, a plain middle-aged man. He carried a pocket load of Northern coins.” The Dunforder shook his head, “Several gold pieces, more silver and copper. He bought a round for the regulars in the name of a nephew who he said had been murdered.”
Ra-khir’s brows beetled. Killings happened in a city as large as Erythane, and sometimes relatives attributed foul motives to even the most accidental of deaths. “What name was this?”
The man’s shoulders rose and fell, accompanied by a small huff of breath. “I don’t recall. But he spent quite a bit of money on gewgaws and trinkets, women and luxury clothing, including a pair of silk shoes and a pointed cap with an enormous tassel. When he left, though, he was still a wealthy man.”
“Hmmm.” Ra-khir had no idea who this man might be, nor if the information held any importance, but he appreciated knowing anything out of the ordinary. “Thank you for letting me know, kind sir.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
Ra-khir flipped the reins over Silver Warrior’s head and prepared to mount again, only to be interrupted by another man.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Though impatient to chase down his children, Ra-khir obligingly gave the stranger his attention. The Dunforder wore gray linens with long, tattered sleeves. A bow and quiver lay slung over his shoulder. A mop of brown hair flopped over his head and half his face.
“I thought you should know that those Renshai aren’t the only army in the area.”
That gained Ra-khir’s full interest. “Odd that. Who else is out there?”
“Northmen, by the look of them, maybe some Erythanians, too. Lots of blonds, talking in some odd language. I’d have thought those your Renshai, except they had spears and axes and everyone knows Renshai only use swords. Armor, too. And there weren’t any women.”
Ra-khir’s heart seemed to stop beating, and his hand raised to his suddenly tight chest. “How . . . how many did you see?”
“Hundreds. They didn’t come to town, but I’m a hunter. I saw them on the road.”
“Thank you.” Bad as it sounded, Ra-khir appreciated having the news. There could be only one reason the Northmen had chosen to travel south and east. They were following the Renshai. It only remained to be seen whether they did so to ascertain the Renshai kept their vow to leave the Westlands, or to brutally slaughter them all before they reached the East. “Thank you for the information and the hospitality.” He swung up into the saddle, taking the reins.
“Knights of Erythane are always welcome here,” the hunter assured him, stepping away from Ra-khir and Silver Warrior.
Tipping his hat to the crowd gathered to see him off, Ra-khir trotted toward the packed dirt roadway.
East of Dunford and north of the Southern Weathered Mountains, Calistin dragged into his first Western city, his tattered, filthy cloak rain-plastered to skin and jerkin and his hair in wild spikes. The sky had barely l
ost the sun beyond its western horizon, leaving a cloud-swollen haze that guided him through the muddy streets. He slogged between rows of simple cottages, their thatched roofs swollen with water, their inhabitants locked in against the weather. Bedraggled chickens huddled beneath the overhangs.
Calistin followed the sound of a creaking sign through the gloom, to a sagging wooden tavern. The sign itself had cracked and peeled from wear. Once, it had clearly borne a design, but only bits of paint remained, including the Common letters “T”, “V”, and “N”. Smoke curled from the chimney. Glad for a chance to rest and eat, Calistin tripped the latch.
The door swung open to reveal a cozy interior filled with nine round tables, a rickety wooden bar with stools, and an assortment of men. Two young barmaids wove through the crowd, and a barkeep stood behind the counter tapping the contents of various barrels into bowls and mugs. When he found no open tables, Calistin flopped onto a stool in front of the bar and studied the other customers.
The men ranged in age from older teens to gray-bearded elders. Most had leathered faces and callused hands, and their hair colors ranged from Béarnian dark to sandy blond or grizzled white. Many ate from coarsely hammered plates and drank from lopsided bowls. The odors of roasted meat, bread, and tubers perfumed the air.
The barkeep, a fat, bearded man with freckled arms, approached Calistin and swiped a dirty rag across the place the Renshai had chosen. It looked no cleaner when he finished, and the rag left a sticky film. Leaning forward, he smiled patronizingly. “So, boy. What can I do for you today?”
Calistin took an immediate dislike to the barkeep who spoke the Western tongue in the weird, high-pitched singsong people usually reserved for animals and infants. “You can get me some food and a mug of ale.”
“Ale?” The barkeep’s lids rose over eyes recessed like a pig’s. He laughed wildly, as if responding to some unspoken joke.
Deadly serious, Calistin watched the barkeep’s antics with waning patience.
Finally, the barkeep explained. “Aren’t you a bit young for ale, son?”
Calistin gritted his teeth, fighting a rising wash of temper. “First, I’m not your son. Second, I’m a man and perfectly capable of determining when I’m hungry and thirsty. And, third, I wasn’t aware ale had an age requirement.”
The barkeep stopped laughing. His massive elbows dropped to the counter in front of Calistin, and he leaned in. His breath reeked of alcohol and rotting teeth. “I find that children don’t handle their liquor well, and they often don’t have money to pay for what they’re asking for.”
Enraged by the insult, Calistin did not even consider the fact that the man had a point. He carried no coinage. He never had to worry about paying; no matter where he went, no matter what he wanted, someone always jumped in to cover him. In a blink, the barkeep lay on the floor, a sword at his throat in the hands of an angry Renshai. “Just get me a plate of food and a gods-be-damned mug of ale.” In the same tight-lipped, lethal tone, Calistin added, “Please.”
The barkeep lay in stunned silence, his eyes round as coins.
It all happened so quickly, so quietly, that the conversations continued unabated. Calistin withdrew and sheathed his sword in a single motion, utterly unruffled. In contrast, the barkeep scuttled from the floor and ran to his casks, shaking uncontrollably.
Calistin surveyed the crowd again, studying the men with an expert eye. Within moments, one of the barmaids sidled over to him, placing down a plate containing a greasy chicken leg, a pile of whipped tubers, and a handful of crusty brown bread. She placed a mug beside him, turning her back to the barkeep. “Listen, honey,” she purred. “The food’s all right, ’cause I served up that; but I ain’t vouching for the ale. Oscore’s been known to spit in the bowl of anyone he don’t like, and I’m bettin’ he might’ve pissed in your’n.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Calistin looked past her to the other men in the tavern. “Do you happen to know if any of them is considered a decent swordsman?” He selected the one most suitable, a well-muscled tall man with a long oval, clean-shaven face. “Maybe him in the reddish cloak?”
The barmaid followed Calistin’s gaze, then laughed. “That’s Burnold, the blacksmith. A wizard with a hammer, but he wouldn’t hit a mule if it kicked over his forge and set his house on fire. He can make a decent weapon, but he’d never use one.”
Calistin grunted. “Too bad. He’s built for war.”
The barmaid giggled, looked at Calistin’s somber expression, and stopped immediately. “Sorry ’bout that. I thought you was joking.”
Calistin shoveled a handful of tubers into his mouth. They tasted bland but filling, and he found himself gulping down another before he could consider his manners. For the moment, his gut ruled his head. “I don’t joke,” Calistin announced around the mouthful.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The barmaid reacted as if he said he had lost a body part. “I love laughing. It just feels . . . good.”
Calistin shrugged. His brothers exchanged silly comments all the time, but he never found the humor in them. “So,” he reminded. “Your best warrior?”
“Oh.” The barmaid swept a glance over the patrons. “You’re in luck. He’s still here.” She inclined her head to a table in the farthest corner near the fireplace. “Karruno’s the big one in black.”
Calistin followed her motion to a bulky man swathed in a well-laundered black cloak. Nearly middle-aged, he had a rugged face that might have looked handsome if not for a jagged scar running the length of his left cheek. Unlike the blacksmith, he wore a sword in his waistband and a dagger thrust through as well. He sat back in his chair, only a mug in front of him, and his two companions cradled their own drinks as well.
Knowing how swiftly a challenge can become a brawl, Calistin examined all three of the men while he bolted the bread. The one she called Karruno had the mannerisms and dress of a fighting man, though his subtler movements and the draw of his muscles told Calistin otherwise. His abilities, whatever they might be, came solely of practice. He lacked the proper depth of sinew, the perfect placement of muscular origins and insertions that would make him a natural-born warrior. Calistin knew that a good teacher and experience could make a world of difference, but a man without the inherent advantages of build could never truly become the best.
Finished with the tubers and bread, Calistin looked at his ale. “This is no good?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t drink it.”
Calistin rose, mug in one hand, chicken leg in the other. “Can you get me one that is?”
The barmaid shook her head slightly. “Oscore handles all the drinks.” She considered. “I could get you some water, if you’re just thirsty.”
Calistin remained standing. “None of that reused bathwater. As clean as you can find, please.”
“I’ll see what I can do, honey,” she said as she headed around the bar.
Calistin tore through the chicken leg with his teeth, dropped the bone on his plate, then headed across the room toward Karruno. As he walked, he licked grease and mashed tubers from his fingers, then wiped them on britches only just beginning to dry from the rain.
Ignoring the curious stares that followed him across the barroom, Calistin approached Karruno. Without waiting for a break in the conversation, he announced, “Karruno, I challenge you to a fight.”
Karruno stopped speaking and looked up. “Are you talking to me, boy?”
“Man,” Calistin corrected.
“What?”
“I’m a man.”
The three Westerners glanced at one another, condescending smiles pasted on their faces.
“Very well,” Karruno said through his wicked grin. “Are you talking to me, young man?”
“Yes,” Calistin confirmed, still clutching his ale. “You are Karruno, the best swordsman in these parts?”
The companion to Karruno’s left, a tall, heavyset man with a short, graying beard spoke next. “That’s him. Expert soldier when h
e’s not slopping pigs or slaughtering chickens.”
Karruno punched his companion in the arm before turning his attention back to Calistin. “What do you want, little stranger? Can’t you see we’re busy talking?”
Accustomed to immediate and absolute consideration, Calistin found these men irritatingly dense. “I told you. I want to fight you.”
Karruno tossed back the last of his drink. “You mean a duel?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Does my mere existence offend you, little man?”
Karruno’s companions laughed.
As usual, Calistin found the comment more grating than amusing. “A true warrior needs no reason for combat but accepts every challenge for the sheer joy of battle.”
Karruno’s brows rose. “Is that right?”
Calistin had never had to defend a Renshai proverb. “Of course it’s right.”
“Then,” Karruno said, looking around the table, “I guess I’m not a ‘true warrior,’ at least not by your cute little definition.”
Calistin knew an insult when he heard one. “I’m challenging all the best swordsmen of the world.” He intended to enter the Northlands with a powerful reputation behind him. When he found Valr Magnus, he would not just best the Northman, but destroy him utterly. From swordmaster to buffoon, from warrior to coward, the North’s great master of the sword would fall from history, from memory, from Valhalla.
“Why?”
Calistin had no intention of revealing his life story to strangers. He simply wanted to battle, to diffuse his anger in a wild flurry of combat, to learn the tricks of the best ganim swordmasters before he met the challenge of Valr Magnus. “Because it suits me.”
Karruno clearly did not appreciate that explanation. “Suits you, eh?” He tossed knowing glances around the table. “It suits him to challenge all the best swordsmen in the world.”
“Of course it does.”The last of the trio finally spoke. Short, broad-faced and coarse-featured, he sported a dark mustache speckled with foam. “If he wins, he looks like a great hero. If he loses, it doesn’t matter. He’s only a boy, after all.”
Flight of the Renshai Page 38
