Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  “Ready,” Subikahn announced. Something cold and sticky flooded the wound, its sting a welcome contrast to the blaring, biting agony. Then, the pain intensified, and Saviar felt steel slide backward through his thigh. The sword clanged against rock or wood, freed from his leg, and the sound shocked Saviar into opening his eyes.

  Subikahn took no notice of this new distress. Instead, he stuffed wet rags into the hole in Saviar’s leg, then wrapped it around with bandages so suffocatingly tight they rivaled the pain already in his thigh.

  Saviar glanced to where he had heard the noise. Sure enough, Subikahn’s sword lay in the dirt. The sight scandalized Saviar, even through his pain. “Your sword is . . . it’s on the . . . ground.”

  “Yes.” Subikahn acknowledged the most terrible crime in Renshai law. “I thrust it through my own brother. Nothing could dishonor it worse.”

  Subikahn had a point. He already needed to atone to the weapon, yet he made no move to do so. It was a process that would take weeks or months. Hoping to speed it along, Saviar sat up and said softly, “If it helps, I forgive you.”

  “You forgive me?” Subikahn’s eyes were hollow, empty.

  “I forgive you.”

  Tears glazed Subikahn’s eyes into black marbles of self-loathing. “Well, I don’t forgive me. I can’t ever forgive me, and I doubt the gods or my sword can either.” He caught Saviar into a frantic embrace. “I’m sorry, Saviar. I’m so so very sorry.”

  “I know you are.” Saviar wrapped his arms around his brother. “But it’s just as much my fault as yours. We knew better than to spar in anger, without torke present.”

  “But what if . . .” Subikahn could no longer hide the tears; they came out in his voice, even muffled against Saviar’s tunic. “. . . what if I’ve . . . killed you?”

  “Killed me?” Saviar remained in position, knowing Subikahn needed the contact. “Do I look dead to you?” He answered more from bravado than truth. They both knew what happened to badly wounded warriors, in spar as well as battle.

  “What if I can’t stop the bleeding?”

  Saviar examined the bandages. “It’s not soaking through. I don’t see any red at all.” Only then, he noticed scarlet splashes across the fallen leaves and a small puddle where he had lain. “Except what’s already on the ground, and that’s not a lot.”

  “What if it gets . . . tainted?”

  Saviar knew the only possible reply and spoke it without need for consideration, “Then, I attack you, and you finish me off so I can die in battle and find Valhalla.” He tried not to dwell too long on that point. Punctures, it seemed, nearly always infected; and the deeper the wound, the worse the outcome. He had never seen one all the way through a limb before. Those Renshai dying of disease or illness nearly always came to Calistin, trusting him to end their suffering in a way acceptable to the Valkyries.

  “What if,” Subikahn started in a voice so small Saviar had to strain to hear it, “I can’t do it.”

  The suggestion was sacrilege. “Then,” Saviar said firmly, disengaging from his brother, “you doom me to Hel.” Not liking the turn of the conversation, he staggered to his feet. His left leg ached with the slightest pressure, and the muscles felt lax as winter weeds. He limped toward a sturdy mirack trunk, seeking a branch that could serve as a crutch.

  Subikahn remained on the ground, looking as pitifully wronged as his sword. And sobbed.

  CHAPTER 26

  It is heroic and glorious to die for one’s country. But, whoever has seen the horrors of a battlefield knows it is far sweeter to live for it.

  —General Santagithi

  AS THE MILES DISAPPEARED beneath Silver Warrior’s hooves, Ra-khir’s thoughts gave way to a new cycle of worry. Now that he had received the warning, he could see the myriad boot and hoofprints stamped into the road. A large group of people had recently passed. He doubted the prints belonged to the Renshai, who had more likely forsaken the easy roadway for the deeper cover of the woods.

  The sun stood high in the sky when Ra-khir discovered an enormous break in the foliage where a regiment of men and horses had broken through it. Leaves and twigs splashed across the roadway, and broken branches clung to shattered new growth trees and vines. Notches in the trees revealed where wild sword or ax slashes had injured them as men hacked through the undergrowth. Hoofprints packed down the brush to make a new and obvious opening into the forest.

  Ra-khir followed, with trepidation. He heard no horn blasts or screams, no chiming of weapons slamming against one another. If a war had occurred, it was finished now, leaving the woods eerily silent. Still, he could not help wondering if he was about to enter combat. He did not fear it; he could hold his own in battle. The Knights of Erythane trained daily and to a superiority that any but a Renshai would envy.

  A battle of this sort would also place Ra-khir in a precarious position. Assuming the situation was exactly as it appeared, if the Northmen had tracked down the fleeing Renshai and attacked them, Ra-khir had every right to join the cause of his sons. However, it seemed unlikely he would have such clear-cut answers before the situation forced him to take a side. He would not fight against Calistin and Saviar, of course; but killing Northmen while in the direct and on-duty service of the kings of Erythane and Béarn could have serious diplomatic consequences as well.

  A more religious man might have prayed, but Ra-khir put his faith in himself and the rigid moral code he had vowed to follow. When he encountered the situation, his honor would tell him what to do.

  All too soon, Silver Warrior whinnied a warning as they walked through a shattered copse of thistles to reveal the remains of a war. Crow wings thundered as they abandoned their feast, cawing angrily at the interruption. More patient, a buzzard looked up and studied him, beak trailing a string of bowel. Blood striped the weeds and trunks, and sword cuts gouged the bark. Bodies lay motionless, flopped across the ground in various positions. Some looked as natural as sleep, while others lay with eyes wide open, staring in rage, determination, or stark terror.

  For an instant, nothing registered. Ra-khir slid from his horse’s saddle and examined the dead without a hint of understanding or emotion. The buzzard finally conceded, its enormous wings slapping the air, sending an icy chill through Ra-khir’s suddenly clammy skin. Then, details filtered into his consciousness. Most of the dead were Northmen: hair yellow as butterflowers or as red as his own. Others had the blander look of Erythanians or central Westerners. Many had lost their eyes to the birds, but the ones remaining looked nearly as pale as their bloodless skin. No one could mistake the scene for a mass poisoning. Sword wounds marred every body, a few missing limbs or heads, many still wearing bits or hunks of armor, even helmets.

  “Oh.” The word slipped past Ra-khir’s mouth unbidden. “Oh, gods.” His gaze became frantic as he studied the corpses, looking for anything familiar. Though he did not discover a single Renshai corpse, there could be no doubt who had fought this battle. Few swords remained, those inferiorly crafted weapons thrown haphazardly around the battlefield; but other types of weapons, valuable armor, and jewelry remained with their previous owners. Only the Renshai would overlook the inherent worth of such items while the Western world suffered from a shortage of iron ore. These were, to Renshai, items of cowardice and beneath their dignity even to touch.

  A movement caught the edge of Ra-khir’s vision. He whirled, still clutching Silver Warrior’s reins. A small, thin donkey the size of a large dog looked back at him, its muzzle grizzled and its back bowed from age. Behind it stood a wooden cart currently holding an assortment of bric-a-brac from the battlefield. Glancing a bit further, Ra-khir discovered a boy cowering behind one of the corpses.

  “Hello,” Ra-khir called out, his voice a mixture of question and welcome.

  Pinned by Ra-khir’s gaze, the boy did not try to hide further. Instead, he stood up to reveal an unexpectedly lanky frame covered in ill-fitting, patched linen. Dirt smeared his cheeks and limbs, and his hair was a brown snarl th
at dangled into his face. “Hello,” he returned in the Western tongue, the same one Ra-khir had used.

  Uncertain where to take the awkward conversation, Ra-khir chose to introduce himself. The formality this entailed seemed ludicrous, under the circumstances. “I am Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet and His Majesty, King Griff.”

  The boy shuffled his bare feet in the dirt. “I’m Darby, sir.”

  “Darby,” Ra-khir repeated, for lack of anything better to say.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ra-khir glanced around at the carnage before asking the obvious question. “What exactly is a boy doing on a battlefield, Darby?”

  Darby cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, stalling. “Well, sir, I wouldn’t lie to a Knight of Erythane.”

  Ra-khir nodded encouragingly. The basest hypocrite would give no different answer. “That’s good to know.”

  “I . . . thought . . .” Darby paused to stare at his feet. “Well, I just figured . . .”

  Ra-khir waited patiently.

  “The battle was over, and . . . and . . .” Darby sighed. So far, he had said essentially nothing in a whole lot of words. “. . . and the victors left so much they clearly didn’t want or need. So, I thought . . .”

  “You would take it?” Ra-khir supplied.

  “Well, yes, actually, sir. My ma and I and my sister could use it.” Darby finally met Ra-khir’s gaze. “Is that bad, sir? It’s not a crime,” he added hastily, “least not in these parts. Abandoned stuff belongs to the one who found it.”

  Ra-khir considered. “I don’t believe it’s bad, no. But can your ma and sister really use these weapons? And armor?”

  Darby flushed. “I thought I’d sell it, sir.” He added quickly, “Is that bad?”

  “No,” Ra-khir admitted. “Once the combatants have moved on, and the owners of the property are dead by other hands, I see nothing inherently evil in making decent use of what’s been left behind.”

  Darby heaved a loud sigh. “Thank you, sir.”

  “For what?”

  “For putting my conscience at ease.”

  Ra-khir shrugged, surprised it mattered to the little urchin. “What’s a fine boy like you, one that listens to his conscience, doing in a woodland battlefield?”

  Darby stared. Then, apparently worried about the rudeness of doing so, he rubbed his eyes with a filthy fist. “No disrespect, sir. But haven’t we already had this exact conversation?”

  Ra-khir laughed. He had asked the same question, in a slightly different form. “I just mean, most urchins don’t care much about the morality of their actions. You have some breeding, Darby. Why aren’t you out apprenticing a trade, something more refined than battlefield robbery?”

  Darby took a backward step, sucking air through his teeth. “Robbery, sir? Didn’t you just say . . . ?”

  “Poor choice of words.” Ra-khir hurried to put the boy’s mind at ease. For reasons he could not wholly explain, he liked Darby. “If the owner is dead in deliberate combat, and the victor has no interest in the spoils, then they become fair game for seekers such as yourself.”

  Darby gave a heavy nod.

  Realizing he had gotten sidetracked, Ra-khir tried again. “So how come you’re legally scavenging a battlefield rather than apprenticing a regular trade?”

  Darby shrugged. “I haven’t any trade to apprentice.” There was more to the story, they both knew.

  Ra-khir continued to look at the boy, brow cocked.

  Darby stared back, defiantly at first, than with less assurance. Finally, he cracked. “My pa died in an accident that involved a . . .” He considered his words carefully, “. . . popular leader. A lot of people blamed my pa for it, so hardly anyone wants to mix around with us.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  Darby threw up his hands. “Fair or not, it’s how it is.” He rubbed his hands together, and dirt fell in peels from his palms. “My ma gets work now and then, when they can’t find no one else. Same with me, when there just aren’t enough other men to do the job. My sister . . . well, the only things men want her for, they can’t have.”

  Ra-khir’s expression became as deadly serious as Darby’s.

  “I’m trying to gather up as much of value as I can before bigger men find this treasure and take it.”

  Ra-khir sighed. He knew what he had to do, even if it meant further delays on his hunt. These corpses were fresh. He had nearly caught up with the Renshai, but duty bound him, as always. A Knight of Erythane is honorable in every situation, not just when it suits him. “Darby, you gather what you want on that wagon and your person. When you’re finished, Silver Warrior and I will help you get it safely home.” He patted the horse affectionately, earning a dry-nosed snuffle for his loving gesture.

  “Really?” Darby stared, his obvious joy tempered with awe. “You’d do that for me?”

  “What sort of knight would I be if I didn’t help someone in need?”

  “But I’m not really—” Darby started. Then, apparently realizing he was talking himself out of a princely escort, he let the argument drop. “Thank you. Thank you so much, sir.” He hurried off to finish loading the cart.

  Ra-khir removed Silver Warrior’s bridle to allow his loyal white stallion to graze. He continued to study the battlefield until he spotted a string of haze floating toward the sky. He followed it to the smoldering remains of a massive pyre. Wet ash filled a hole apparently hacked into the ground using the discarded helmets of Northmen, which now lay, filthy and abandoned, near the hole. A slurry of charcoal and charred bones filled the pit, leaving nothing identifiable in the way of clothing, soft tissues, or features. Renshai had built it, Ra-khir felt certain. Clearly, they had won the battle, cremated their dead, then moved on, leaving the Northmen’s broken bodies for the crows, dogs, and buzzards to devour.

  And the Northmen either had no survivors or those had retreated too far away to tend their own dead. Yet. If they existed, Ra-khir hoped they did not return before Darby collected his spoils. He did not want to oversee disputes over whether or not the boy had taken something of value or desecrated their dead. Darby clearly meant no disrespect and had obeyed the laws of property abandonment.

  Tears welled in Ra-khir’s eyes as he stared into the pit, watching gray ash curl in the wind. The smoke had withered to a trickle, and no clear fire remained. That meant at least a few hours, more likely a few days, had passed since the pyre was lit. He wondered whose scorched bones still occupied that pit, whose organs formed the ash, whose teeth still clung to their smoldering jaws. A scavenger might find some lumps of melted coins in the heap, but not a single sword. Those required loving restoration, if necessary, and the honor of use. In the best circumstances, they would go to a relative or to a child named after the deceased in tribute.

  Saviar might lie in there, Ra-khir realized. Or Calistin. That seemed far less likely. He found it impossible to consider his youngest’s death, not only because of his preternatural sword talent, but because people of Calistin’s temperament never seemed to die young.

  Saviar seemed a far more likely victim of the Northmen’s attack, not quite yet a man by Renshai standards, never having experienced a real battle. Ra-khir felt the familiar cold touch of despair, but this time he did not succumb to it. He had no way of knowing the fate of his sons, and it did no good to mourn in ignorance. Until he received word of their deaths, from a reliable source, he had no choice but to believe he could still find them alive.

  Ra-khir stepped back from the pit. The quiet stillness of the forest, the gentle breeze caressing the leaves all seemed to belie the grotesqueness of the scene in front of him. Once again, he glanced over the corpses: the sightless eyes, the bloodless faces, the bits of gore splattering the ground and tree trunks. One, in particular caught his attention, a Northman’s headless torso, the neck hacked to pieces, clearly after death. Here, someone had vented his anger in a burst of violence so bloody i
t brought to mind the ancient accusations against the Renshai tribe that had led to their initial banishment.

  Ra-khir turned away. There was nothing more he could glean from the carnage. He headed back to find Darby with a well-loaded cart, still stuffing coppers into his pocket.

  The boy looked up at Ra-khir’s approach. “I’m ready when you are, sir.”

  Ra-khir nodded. Though relatively small, the cartload dwarfed the even tinier donkey. He whistled for Silver Warrior, who came to him at a brisk trot.

  It seemed like sacrilege to hitch up the magnificent steed like a common cart horse, and it would take an inordinate amount of time to jury-rig a harness and larger traces. “I’ll follow,” Ra-khir said, replacing the bridle. Silver Warrior held perfectly still as the tack fell into its accustomed place. The knight flicked the reins over Silver Warrior’s ears, seized the saddle, and mounted. “If you would please tell me where we’re going.”

  Darby watched the interaction between knight and steed with obvious interest before taking his own place at the donkey’s head. “Keatoville.” Grabbing the cheekpiece of a crude rope halter, he urged the donkey forward. It strained at the harness. “It’s just a short walk east and south.”

  Ra-khir coaxed Silver Warrior forward until his chest bumped the wagon, providing enough momentum to get the donkey moving. The cart groaned, threatening to shatter, and the wheels creaked in protest.

  Soon, they settled into a pattern, the donkey trotting easily, the horse pushing from behind, the wheels squealing in a steady rhythm. The boy marched at the head, whistling. He looked back frequently to meet Ra-khir’s gaze, apparently to reassure himself that the knight remained with them and was having no difficulties. Ra-khir appreciated the boy’s misplaced concern. Darby was clearly accustomed to responsibility, presumably from serving as the man of his family.

  Silver Warrior occasionally snorted at the slow pace of the wagon, and Ra-khir quelled his own impatience. Darby moved at a reasonably brisk pace, paying close attention to the donkey’s comfort. The little animal lathered quickly, turning its hide a dark brown, but its head never sagged and its hooves drummed a steady pace on the packed dirt roadway.