Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  A full day and night of walking through Erythane brought them to the outskirts of Béarn, where a larger contingent of enormous warriors met them. Chymmerlee pressed more tightly against Saviar, clearly intimidated by the sheer size and number of Béarn’s men. Saviar was a large man by most standards: a full head taller than the average and powerfully built. Yet, all of the massive Béarnides stood at least as tall as he did and outweighed him. Compared to them, Subikahn looked like a woman and Chymmerlee like a dainty child.

  The guard who met them scarcely glanced in their direction. “Which unit are you with?”

  Saviar turned to Subikahn, certain his quick-witted brother already had an answer. But Subikahn said nothing, only stared in fascination at the granite city beyond the guards.

  “Uh . . .” Saviar started stupidly, not expecting the onus to fall on him. His mind started racing. He could hardly ask for the Renshai, and no Northern tribe would accept them. “Uh, how about . . .” Erythane’s infantry? He stopped himself from speaking the words aloud. They were exiled from Erythane, from all of the West, actually. “How about . . . the Eastern one?”

  Finally Subikahn’s attention snapped back to Saviar, and the look he turned his brother virtually defined murder. The guard studied him quizzically. “You don’t look Eastern.” His gaze flicked to Subikahn. “Now, your friend there—”

  “Brother,” Saviar interrupted. “He’s my brother. My twin brother.”

  The guard looked between them dubiously. Another voice punctuated the silence, the nearest guardsman chiming in. “Ruther, don’t you recognize them? That’s Knight-Captain Kedrin’s grandson, there.” He inclined his head toward Saviar. “And the brother, that’s Prince Subikahn Taesson.”

  Chymmerlee stiffened against Saviar.

  The first guard’s jaw sagged. “It is?” He continued to study the trio in front of him. “They are?” He next turned his full attention upon his companion, as if worried to be made to look a fool.

  The second guard beat him to it, bowing and gesturing. “Thank you for coming,Your Majesty. We’re honored by your presence.”

  “Stop it, please.” Subikahn’s tone held a combination of graciousness and impatience. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m here unless I tell them, all right?”

  Seeing his friend making gestures of respect, the first guard joined him. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, Prince Subikahn.”

  Subikahn ignored him, directly addressing the guard who had recognized him. “Where’s the Eastern army?”

  “Last I heard, Sire, they were guarding the shores of the Western Plains.”

  “The Western Plains.” Subikahn relaxed visibly. “So they’re not here.”

  “No, Sire. Though it’s rumored they’re on their way.”

  “King Tae was here,” the first guard piped in. “He arrived quite a while ago. I’m not sure if he’s still here. There are rumors—”

  “Ruther,” the second guard said sharply. “We don’t need to be bothering the prince with rumors.”

  “But—”

  The look the second guard gave his companion was nearly as sharp as the one Subikahn had given Saviar when he had suggested joining the Eastern forces. Then, he looked directly at Saviar. “You’re Sir Ra-khir’s son, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brave man, your father.”

  Saviar did not know what to say. “Th-thank you.”

  “He’s commanding one of the smaller units, a band of outcasts he brought back from the East.”

  Saviar did not know which question to ask first. He had not known his father had traveled to the East, would not have believed Ra-khir capable of it given his own last encounter with the knight, overwhelmed by grief. Only an odd set of circumstances would put Ra-khir in charge of a unit, rather than guiding Erythane’s cavalry, with the rest of the knights.

  Subikahn broke in, unconcerned with his brother’s considerations. “We’d like to join that unit, the one commanded by Sir Ra-khir.” He did not wait for confirmation. “Where is it?”

  “Front line, beach. Central east quadrant.”The first guard seemed more at ease in his element, directing stragglers to their units. “East of the Santagithans and the Northern contingent from Erd. West of the Pudarians.”

  “Thank you.” Subikahn dipped his head, which sent both guards scurrying into bows. The trio headed into Béarn, with more questions raised than answered.

  Valr Magnus rode through the massed archers on the ridge, pleased to see them attentive and ready. Each had several arrows with rag-wrapped tips, saturated with oil.The nearby fire pots burned steadily through the twilight, like round and regular campfires. When the command came, they would follow orders, as always, with the fine precision Captain Sivaird had trained into them.

  The captain walked over to greet his general, laying a hand on the saddle’s pommel. “They’re all ready, sir. One command.”

  “Yes.” Magnus never doubted the efficiency of his captain, or his troops. “I know.You always do the finest work, Captain. It’s not your men I’m worried about.” He looked over the massed armies that spread across Béarn’s beaches. Viewed from a distance, they seemed such a mismatched, ragtag lot, dragged together only by a common enemy. His men knew war. His captains were tough and experienced. Most of the Northern armies skirmished enough between themselves to remain in fighting condition, but the West had seen too much peacetime. They had grown dangerously soft. So many of their men came fresh from farms, shops, and apprenticeships. They were uncertain and, worse, unpredictable.

  Apparently misunderstanding Magnus’ concern, Captain Sivaird nodded. “There’s a unit led by one of the Knights of Erythane, sir.”

  “Yes.” Magnus knew what his captain wanted to say. “Commanded by Sir Ra-khir, who, I understand, once had the audacity to declare war on the entire kingdom of Pudar. Single-handed.” He grinned at the thought, the savage courage it must have taken, and could not help feeling impressed.

  “Our scouts say his band of outcasts includes a fair number of blonds who aren’t Northmen, and as many women as men.”

  Magnus glared at his captain. “So, we’re using scouts now to spy on our own army?”

  Sivaird could not have looked more shocked if Magnus had asked him to transform into a kitten.“Well, sir . . . I . . .” He flushed.“There isn’t much else for them to do, sir. And they’re not exactly our ‘own army,’ sir. They’re—”

  “Renshai,” Magnus finished. “Yes. All the generals already knew it.”

  The surprise remained indelibly etched on the captain’s face. “But, sir. Don’t the generals . . . I mean, shouldn’t we . . .”

  “Shouldn’t we what, Captain? Fight amongst ourselves before we take on the enemy?”

  “No, sir. But—”

  “Ban some of the most competent swordsmen?” Magnus remained relentless. “Perhaps, if we do it right, we can drive them to the bosom of our enemy so we will have to fight pirates and Renshai simultaneously.”

  The captain seemed about to let the matter drop. Then, suddenly, he flexed his fingers and stiffened his jaw in clear resolve. “Sir, respectfully, should we allow demons to battle among us? Animals, perhaps? Bogeymen?”

  General Magnus smiled. “If they’re fighting on our side against a common enemy, why not? Perhaps bogeymen have necessary skills we don’t possess. As to animals, even our own army has cavalry. We can always battle the demons after the war is over.”

  “Weakened and bloody.”

  Magnus made a throwaway gesture. “If necessary, yes. And remember, they’re getting weakened and bloody alongside us. Better to fight a strong enemy together and a weak one afterward than to fight both at once at the top of their strength.”

  Captain Sivaird nodded. “I suppose you’re right, sir, as always. But it feels so wrong to throw our lot in with . . .” He practically spat as he spoke the next word, “. . . Renshai, even temporarily.”

  “War can make for strange allies.”


  “Strange allies,” Sivaird repeated, most thoughtfully. “General, sir. That reminds me of another concern.”

  Magnus gave his captain his full attention, though he knew what had to come next.

  “Captain Alsmir is having trouble with those two younglings you picked up in the bar in Aerin.”

  Having heard exactly what he expected, Valr Magnus nodded.

  “The younger one’s clearly never been trained. We had to give him a weapon, then we took it back. He’s more dangerous with it to himself, and to us, than to the enemy. Sir, to be utterly frank, he has the courage of a lion and the fighting ability of a turtle.”

  “A dangerous combination,” Magnus had to admit. “I know the older one can fight.”

  “Judging from his sword forms, competently. But he’s sullen, irritable, and oppositional.”

  “You mean, he’s an adolescent.”

  “An adolescent who could do with a few solid spankings.”

  Magnus laughed. “I dare you. He’d sever your hands before they reached his bottom.”

  Captain Sivaird’s look became one of outrage. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I’ve been watching him, too. And you’ve gravely underestimated his skill.” Something I can’t afford to do.

  The captain grunted. “With all respect, sir, maybe you’re underestimating my skill.”

  Magnus had not meant to offend his loyal captain. “You have many skills, Captain, and I appreciate all of them.”

  Sivaird bowed his head, silently acknowledging the compliment.

  “But this boy’s swordsmanship is peerless. I accepted him into my ranks even though he stated outright that he would follow orders only if they suited him.”

  Sivaird’s brows whisked upward, and he opened his mouth; but no words emerged. “One such as that is very dangerous, sir. Not just for himself, but for every one around him.”

  “Yes.” No one had to remind Valr Magnus of that fact. “Better in my command than another’s, though, yes?”

  Sivaird’s frown suggested he did not agree, though his words spoke otherwise. “Yes, sir. If he turns coat, no one’s better suited to bring him down, sir. But, his insolence does undermine Captain Alsmir’s command.”

  “Then tell Alsmir not to command him. Tell the captain to leave the young man utterly and completely to me.”

  Captain Sivaird saluted. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Alsmir’s, too, Magnus guessed. He sighed, feeling most sorry for Sir Ra-khir. One Renshai was bad enough. What must it be like to command . . . to attempt to command . . . hundreds?

  CHAPTER 44

  War is the only proper school of the healer.

  —Anonymous

  SAVIAR HAD NO DIFFICULTY finding his father’s white charger, a beacon amidst the milling infantries on Béarn’s southern beachfront. For the first time, it bothered him that the Knights of Erythane had chosen such a garish symbol of leadership. It made them easy to recognize among the peasantry, but it also branded his father the obvious target for every missile and sword.

  As the three walked along the beach, struggling through scraggly weeds and clambering over heaps and dunes, it soon became clear that Ra-khir studied them as well. Silver Warrior faced in their direction. One of the knight’s gloved hands sat squarely on his forehead, shading his eyes from the reflected glare. He clambered down from the horse long before details became clear. He could not yet have recognized their features, but he already seemed to know that he needed to greet these newcomers, that they headed toward his unit.

  Apparently, Subikahn also noticed. “He knows it’s us.”

  “You think so?” Saviar tightened his grip on Chymmerlee’s hand to help her slog through a loose pile of sand. “How could he possibly know? I wouldn’t have known it was him if the guard hadn’t told me. He looks like any other knight.”

  Subikahn grinned. “They do try their best to appear identical, don’t they? But if anyone’s askew, it’s always Ra-khir.”

  Saviar also smiled. It had become a family joke, one neither Ra-khir nor Kedrin appreciated. Ra-khir did spend the most time performing stable muckings, cleaning tabards, and mending hats. If a hair was out of place, it was a red one. If a sword angled slightly off kilter, it was always Ra-khir’s. Saviar did not know if his father truly had the worst eye for perfection or if his grandfather simply tended to expect more of him and thus focused on every tiny flaw.

  They watched as Ra-khir handed his reins to a boy and started walking toward them.

  “Oh, yes,” Subikahn said confidently. “He’s recognized us.”

  Saviar could not argue. It certainly seemed as though the knight intended to greet them warmly.

  Then, suddenly, Ra-khir was running toward them, and Saviar felt a smile stretch across his face, his own feet moving without the need to guide them. And, a moment later, they fell into one another’s arms, laughing, smiling, clinging.

  “Papa,” Ra-khir said into his father’s neck. “You’re all right.”

  “I’m all right?” Ra-khir laughed again. “I thought you were dead.”

  I was, practically. Saviar did not bother to share that information. Barely over his paralyzing grief, Ra-khir might see that as a reason to protect his oldest son mercilessly.

  Ra-khir disengaged from Saviar to face Subikahn. The Eastern prince reached out a hand in greeting, but Ra-khir ignored it, catching his stepson into an embrace as loving as his son’s. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  “Hey,” Subikahn said breathlessly. “I’m little; I can actually break.” As Ra-khir eased his powerful grip, the prince added in his normal voice, “You knew it was us long before you could see our faces. How?”

  “Movement, mannerisms.” Ra-khir studied them both as he talked. “A man knows his sons.”

  Subikahn jabbed a finger at Saviar. “Sons, see? I wasn’t lying.”

  Ra-khir finally turned his attention to Chymmerlee, executing a grand bow. “Forgive my rudeness, beautiful lady. I’m Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, Knight of Erythane in the service of their Majesties, King Humfreet of Erythane and High King Griff of Béarn.”

  Chymmerlee curtsied nervously. “So I’d gathered. I’ve heard a lot about you, Sir Ra-khir. All of it very good.”

  Saviar supplied the one amenity she had missed, “Her name’s Chymmerlee, Papa. She’s a friend.”

  Curious faces watched the reunion from the beachfront, and Saviar suddenly recognized them. “Sif and Modi, Papa! You’re commanding—”

  “Sir!” Subikahn shouted over his twin, with a rudeness Ra-khir would never have tolerated from Saviar.

  Ra-khir would usually haughtily refuse to acknowledge such a discourteous plea, but the volume and abruptness of the call apparently had him turning to Subikahn before he could think to stop himself.

  Subikahn’s cheeks reddened in tight circles. “Sorry, sir. I was just thinking the war could start any moment, and I really need to get Chymmerlee somewhere safe.”

  “Actually,” Chymmerlee said, her voice seeming small and sweet in the wake of Subikahn’s cry. “I need to stay within visual distance of the war.”

  Subikahn swiftly lost his embarrassment. “Is there someplace like that, Ra-khir? Someplace she can watch from a safe distance?”

  Only then Saviar realized the mistake he had nearly made, the one Subikahn had covered with his abrupt rudeness. Saviar had been about to say “Renshai”—a word that would have shaken Chymmerlee terribly.

  Ra-khir licked his lips, clearly weighing his words. “To be brutally honest . . .” He paused to glance in Saviar’s direction, looking to him for clues on how much information Chymmerlee could handle.

  Saviar nodded decisively. Chymmerlee had a purpose, and shielding her from the truth would not make the threat as clear. She, and her people, needed to know and understand the worst case scenario.

  Thus encouraged, Ra-khir finished. “. . . our enemies are ruthless killers of men and women. No place in the world is safe.”
He made a broad gesture that encompassed the massed ships. “But, if I had to pick the most secure location from which to watch this war, it’s the peak of Béarn Castle. Matrinka’s there, the whole royal family.” His gaze flicked toward the mountain castle. “But the guards certainly won’t let just anyone join them.”

  Saviar took Chymmerlee’s hand, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by his father. “I’ll convince them.”

  “No,” Subikahn chimed in. “It’ll have to be me.”

  Saviar’s brows furrowed, and he gave his twin a curious look. “Do you think you’re more convincing than I am?”

  “No,” Subikahn said, smiling. “Definitely not. But . . .” He tipped his head to Ra-khir, allowing him to explain what apparently seemed obvious to Subikahn.

  Ra-khir accepted the burden. “He’s a prince, Saviar. His words, no matter how well or poorly spoken, carry a lot more weight than yours do in royal situations.”

  Subikahn turned his twin an irritating “I told you so” expression.

  “But there’s a more important reason why Subikahn should go instead of you.”

  Those words surprised both of the young men, and a note of unhappiness in Ra-khir’s tone struck Saviar. He looked at Subikahn, who had dropped his sneer for an expression of innocent uncertainty. He, too, had detected something in Ra-khir’s delivery.

  “Subikahn, your father’s at the castle.”

  Subikahn blinked. When he replied, he sounded suspicious, defensive. “Yeah? So?”

  Ra-khir’s brows lifted, and creases appeared in his forehead. “He’s badly injured, Subikahn. I’ve talked to some of the healers.

  More than one thinks he’s only lived this long because Matrinka’s convinced him his lethal wounds . . . aren’t.”