The Western Wizard (37 page)

Episte turned to find Rache standing on the cushion of the rocker, brushing aside the flap. Moonlight spilled through the crack, and a muffled conversation entered
with it. Recognizing his mother’s voice, Episte clambered up beside his blood brother.

“. . . so the old bastard calls Rache a man now. Can you imagine a child scarcely out of diapers forced to be an adult?”

The voice that followed belonged to one of the female villagers, a close friend of Emerald’s with two daughters a few years older than Episte. “Is he calling Episte a man, too?”

Rache fidgeted, sending the chair into a bucking lurch that nearly threw the children. Episte reversed his equilibrium, clutching his “brother” to help the youngster keep his balance.

Emerald was speaking. “. . . can’t be good for his self-confidence to have a baby half his age considered a man while he’s still just a child.”

Episte kept a firm grip on Rache. He knew his mother was talking about Colbey, Rache, and himself. In general terms, he understood that it bothered her that Rache had become blooded first. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that his time would come soon, too; but he did not want to get in trouble for being downstairs after bedtime.

Emerald’s tone went bitter. “Leave it to Colbey to teach that killing someone makes a boy into a man. Pah!” She spit. “Killing someone only makes a boy a killer.”

These words Episte comprehended. He glanced quickly at Rache, but his little brother seemed more intent on his balance than the conversation.

The neighbor rushed to the child’s defense. “Now, Emerald. Rache’s a sweet little boy. You’ve said yourself you love him like a second son.”

“Well, I’m sorry.” Emerald’s tone contradicted her words. “But the last thing that boy needs is a violent crazy man turning him more savage than his bloodline already does. After what happened with Garn, you’d think Santagithi would be more careful. That boy has his father’s eyes and his father’s size. Do you doubt that he’ll get his father’s temper as well?”

Now Rache cocked his head, listening. “They’s talking about us?” It was more question than statement, though to Episte it went without saying.

“Yes.” Episte made a quieting gesture. Their brief
conversation had already lost him the neighbor’s reply. But Emerald’s words came clearly to Episte. “That’s because you didn’t see what Rache was like after Garn broke his back. You didn’t have to watch the most beautiful hero in the world struggle to remain a shadow of what he had been.” Emerald’s voice quivered as she lapsed into tears. “Colbey’s training hammered into him since infancy the need to die in glorious combat, and my Rache never learned to find any of the simple pleasures in life. Everything he did, he did in the grandest fashion possible, until a wild, vicious animal of a slave turned him into a cripple. Then, just because that slave marries our leader’s daughter, suddenly we’re supposed to trust his temper.”

Stunned, Episte remained still, sorting the story as his mind grasped it.

“Now, Emerald . . .” the woman started, but Emerald could not quit.

“Damn it, I was there after Garn killed his playmate. What happens when little Rache flies into one of his father’s rages and hurts Episte?”

“Emerald, you’re being ridiculous. Rache isn’t three years old yet.”

“And he’s already helped kill a man.” Emerald drove her point home. “Garn was only ten when he slaughtered Mukesh, and he hadn’t had any combat training from that senile old Northman.”

Episte had heard enough. He pressed the flap tightly to the window, clamping the conversation into an indecipherable buzz. “Come on.” He squeezed Rache protectively, dragging the child from the chair. He tried to thrust his mother’s words from his mind, but they returned again and again: “What happens when little Rache . . . hurts Episte.”

Episte knew that his mother had to be wrong. He thought of all the times that Emerald and Colbey had contradicted one another. His mother always claimed that it came of Colbey’s strange background, that Episte should learn swordplay from the old Renshai but nothing more. Colbey said that Emerald sometimes put being a good mother ahead of the truth. He claimed that she meant well, but that Episte should not believe everything she said.
Their differences confused Episte, but Renshai and mother had raised him. He had no choice except to trust both and to hope he would one day get big enough to understand.

At the bottom of the ladder, Rache turned. “My daddy made your daddy not walk?”

The question startled Episte. Having grasped only part of the conversation himself, he had not expected Rache to get even that much. “I think so. Let’s get back upstairs.”

Rache climbed. At the third rung, he stopped, arching his head backward to look at Episte upside down. His baby fine hair covered his shoulders like a cloak. “What’s a slave?”

“I don’t know.” Episte nudged Rache. “Come on. Go up. You’re blocking.”

Rache scurried to the top of the ladder, then whirled, meeting Episte partway up. “I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”

Episte accepted the words as a challenge. “You couldn’t if you wanted to. I could beat you with a sword in my butt.” He trotted up the ladder, shoving Rache aside, surprised by the amount of strength it took.

Rache giggled, moving aside. “What if I had a sword in both . . . each . . . every hand?” He waved his arms excitedly. “And in my feet?” He stuck his toes in Episte’s face as he crawled through the loft opening. “
And
in my butt?”

“I’d still beat you, turd toes.” Episte kicked Rache’s feet out of his way, then crossed the room and lay on his pallet.

Rache followed, hesitantly glancing between the beds before ignoring his own pallet and crawling in beside Episte instead.

Rache’s body cramped Episte against the wall; but, for now, he felt better for the boy’s presence. “Neither one of us will ever hurt each other. Right?”

“Yup.” Rache snuggled closer.

“Promise?”

“Pwomiss.”

“We’re brothers, like Colbey says.”

“
Blood
brothers,” Rache said.

Episte knew the relationship had more significance to Colbey than true brotherhood.

“Forever and ever and ever and ever.”

Santagithi paced the lane between his strategy table and the map-covered wall, oblivious to the stares of his commanders that followed his course to and fro. Jakot and Bromdun sat sideways in their chairs to keep from turning their backs on their general. Across the table, Mitrian, Garn, and Colbey remained in silence.

Thirty-two men dead and eleven more out of combat. Thirty-four if I consider the two killed in my court.
The needless destruction enraged Santagithi.
And all because I’ve walked into two Vikerian ambushes
. Mentally, he cursed himself and the incaution that had cost nearly a tenth of his able-bodied fighting men.
This can’t go on. We have to turn the tables before we lose anyone else
. He considered King Tenja and the Northmen’s ranks, his mind gnawing at the problem. At the start of the Great War, Tenja had commanded two hundred fifty soldiers to Santagithi’s six hundred. The war had whittled his army to four hundred fifty and Tenja’s to just under two hundred.

Santagithi reached the far wall and pivoted back to face the door. “Competent, eager soldiers, brave to the point of recklessness.” Santagithi assessed the Vikerians. Then, realizing he had spoken aloud, he explained. “The Northmen, I mean. Dedicated to their leaders like priests to gods and impressed by a skilled warrior to the point of following him to their graves.” Santagithi stopped, spinning to face the map of the Granite Hills. Finger-traced a million times, the familiar passes seemed to leap to bold relief. Only three routes led from Santagithi’s Town to the Northlands, and they all overlapped at some points. “Put Northmen in a straight line, and
they’ll hack their way through any wall. But they’re not strategists.”

Santagithi’s brow furrowed as he worried the information he had just spoken aloud. “Usually,” he added carefully. Suddenly, all of his mistakes came back to the same misinformation. He whirled toward the table. “Damn it, those Northmen aren’t acting like Northmen.” He pounded a fist on the table between Jakot and Bromdun. “Who taught those Northie bastards to think!” Usually, strong emotion in the strategy room inspired creative thought. Realizing he might have just offended one of his own, Santagithi regretted his outburst. He planted both hands on the table, turning his attention to Colbey.

The old Renshai returned Santagithi’s gaze mildly, a slight smile on his face. He looked more amused than insulted. “Valr Kirin,” he said.

The reply to his mostly rhetorical question caught Santagithi by surprise. “What?”

“Valr Kirin,” Colbey repeated. “That’s who taught the Vikerians to think. Actually, he’s probably doing their thinking for them.”

Santagithi returned to his seat at the head of the table. He remembered Tenja’s lieutenant, a bold, masterful warrior borrowed from the high king in Nordmir. Forced to tend strategy for the combined armies, Santagithi had had few dealings with Kirin Raskogsson, who had led Tenja’s cavalry, a man the Northmen called “Valr,” which meant “Slayer.” However, charged with the Pudarian cavalry, Colbey had spent a great deal of time with Kirin. Then, Colbey’s heroics had stolen the loyalty of Kirin’s followers, and the two had developed an enmity. Now, Santagithi wondered whether this hatred might not have driven Kirin to explore Colbey’s background and, ultimately, led to the current war. “Colbey, I’d like you stay for a while after the meeting to discuss some details about this lieutenant. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep him in mind while we’re planning strategy.”

Everyone glanced at Colbey, who nodded once.

Santagithi rarely placed so much trust in any single man. Always, he insisted on personally having every shred of information in order to form the intricate plots
that had made his tiny army as competent as those of the massive cities westward. “Currently, we have the advantage of numbers. That may change quickly, especially after this morning’s defeat.” He glanced at Colbey, who nodded again.

“Kirin knows the difference between vanity and honor. He’ll send them for help sooner, especially since he’s not a Vikerian himself.”

“I think it’s time to call in our allies as well. Jakot, I want messages sent to King Sterrane in Béarn as well as to Prince . . .” He corrected himself. “. . . 
King
Verrall in Pudar.”

Colbey smiled.

Santagithi tapped his fingers on the table, bothered by the knowledge that months would pass before a messenger could reach Pudar and many more months before Verrall could send an army. The trips to and from Béarn would take still longer. “Colbey, you said Shadimar has a falcon who carries notes. Do you think he’d let us borrow it?” Santagithi considered the possibility of using other animal messengers. Any land creature would take as long to travel as a man on horseback, and it could only deliver, not speak, its news. He doubted any of the many songbirds that flitted about the Westlands could make the journey safely, even if he had the time to teach it and it had the intelligence to understand its mission.

“We can only ask Shadimar.” Colbey sounded doubtful. “So far, my two experiences with Swiftwing make me think he only carries notes from Wizard to Wizard. You know how Shadimar can be about sharing things, even a simple explanation, with mere mortals.”

Santagithi thought he caught a tinge of bitterness in Colbey’s voice and made a mental note to question the Renshai later. “It’s worth trying.” Instantly, Santagithi saw a way to handle two situations at once. “Mitrian, you’ve been to Shadimar’s ruins before?” Still uncomfortable with the idea of his daughter at war, Santagithi grasped at the chance to send her elsewhere.

“Yes.” Mitrian fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, no, actually. I went there once in a really vivid dream that became real and . . .” Realizing she was babbling,
Mitrian fell silent, flushing. “I’m sure I could find him.”

“Good. Jakot, I still want the messengers dispatched as soon as possible. Send a group of three each way. Pick good horses and good horsemen. Stealth wouldn’t hurt, and at least one in each group should know how to fight reasonably well.”

“Yes, sir,” Jakot said.

Santagithi followed up with the plan that had trickled into his mind just after the Vikerians’ ambush and had only now come to fruition. “When we were out there on the ledge and the first boulders fell, what was your earliest thought?” Santagithi looked at Garn, the only other officer present at the time.

Though Santagithi’s gaze clearly fell on him, Garn looked to the left and right, as if to make certain. “That more might be coming?” When Santagithi continued to stare, Garn tried the bowmen’s scattershot approach, throwing out as many answers as possible in the hope of a single bull’s-eye. “That the Northmen were too cowardly to come down to us and fight like men. That we needed to be ready to dodge. That we needed to get off that ledge as fast as possible.” He added one more, apparently to appease Santagithi. “That we were damn lucky to have the West’s prime strategist leading us, because otherwise we would have all been killed.”

Santagithi made another mental note, to keep Garn’s title honorary and to make certain his son-in-law always remained under his or Jakot’s direct command.
At least he does seem good at inspiring the men, and he doesn’t panic.
“My first thought was that it was a natural rock slide.”

“That, too,” Garn added lamely.

Santagithi continued as if no one had interrupted. He rose, walking to the map. “But I knew the terrain too well. Here, those boulders could not have fallen by accident.” He indicated the area of the encounter with a finger. “But here . . .” He traced three triangular areas on the slope of the most direct route between Vikerin and home. “. . . at the base of these mountains . . .” He swept a hand over a series of ridges above and beside
the trail. “. . . are a series of talus fans.” He looked up to ascertain that his officers had followed.

“Talus fans?” Mitrian said, as if on cue.