The Western Wizard (41 page)

Gradually, the tendril tapped lightly against another man’s thoughts.
Bored. Bored and hungry.
Colbey thrust deeper.
Tired of the wait and anxious for combat. Clashing steel and death screams.
Colbey drew a long breath, feeling strength seem to ebb from him. Having never before used his mind powers so actively, it never occurred to him that the effort might drain him as fully as physical war. Sweat beaded his brow as his consciousness bounced from one Vikerian mind to the next, counting, no longer focusing on content. Every one seemed nearly the same, ruthless barbarians as eager for death as to deal it. They were all warriors who would abandon strategy for a chance to fight like wolves, who would rather think with their swords than their heads. And Colbey understood them all. Except one.

Again, Colbey gathered his thoughts to him. After his previous efforts, the attempt seemed ponderously difficult. Uncertain of the best way to enter the leader’s mind swiftly and deeply, he drew his mental strength into a dense ball, then thrust it for the lieutenant with the abrupt and deadly speed of a striking cobra.

Colbey received a brilliant flash of light, surrounded by pain. The Northman recoiled in sudden agony, thoughts scattering. Then, as he grew accustomed to Colbey’s presence, the attack dulled to a throbbing headache. The other wasted a few moments wondering about the source of the pain. Seeing the futility in such an exercise, he abandoned this line of thought for the more pressing matter of his plan and his charges.
By the scouts’ report, Santagithi’s army should arrive any moment.

Even as Colbey identified the leader as Valr Kirin, the strength of his own mind and body drained away. Colbey’s
grip failed, and he plummeted from the mountain ledge.

Colbey tried to twist, but found himself unable to gather enough power even to tense. Fully paralyzed, he knew fear for the first time in his life. He tried to prepare his mind for the coming impact, but his efforts had drained the power of directed thought as well as of his body. He landed on the stones in complete relaxation, without pain. Habit goaded him to mentally explore his body for injury, but experience told him that the simple task of trying would steal consciousness as well as strength. Instead, he lay still, granting himself neither thought nor movement until he felt strength ebb back into his limbs and his mind. Only then did he allow his mind to touch his body.

Colbey lay in a sparse growth of brush near the creek bed. Bruises racked his left hip and shoulder. Stones had torn the skin the length of his left calf, and blood oozed from a gash across the back of his head. Finding nothing worse, Colbey considered himself lucky to the point of gods’ protection, though logic told him it was the limpness of his body that had spared him. Had he landed stiffened, he would have broken at least a few bones.

Colbey clambered to his feet and clamped a rag to the back of his head to staunch the bleeding. He limped back to the cave.

Santagithi met Colbey at the mouth. The general’s gaze followed the dirty tatters of the Renshai’s jerkin, then locked on the blood-plastered clump of hair at the nape of his neck.

Colbey did not explain. “Seventy-four Northmen are lying in wait at a dam they built. And there may be still more waiting in reserve. If we had continued further, they would have unleashed the stream upon us.”

“Did they see you?”

“No.” Colbey felt dizziness sweep through his head in a wash of black and white spots, and a ringing noise filled his ears, so loud that he scarcely heard Santagithi’s question.

“What happened to you?”

“I fell.” Colbey explained, his voice sounding distant, as if someone else was speaking.

“How?” Santagithi pressed.

Colbey understood the general’s need to understand. Santagithi had too much faith in Colbey’s agility to believe he had fallen accidentally. Often the general found foul play in situations others perceived as coincidence. Still, Colbey wished the grilling could wait until his vertigo passed. “I lost my hold. No one’s fault but my own. I have absolutely no doubt about that.”

Concern scored Santagithi’s gray eyes. “Colbey, go home and help Bromdun guard the town.”

Colbey made no move to obey. “You need me here.” He did not dare probe for Santagithi’s motivation. He had never guessed how much energy his mental exploration would claim from him, and a long time would pass before he dared to use his powers again.

Santagithi scowled. “We don’t need a staggering, injured officer.”

The spots before Colbey’s eyes faded, taking the ringing with it. “I’ll be all right shortly.”

“Good,” Santagithi granted no quarter. “Then you should be well by the time you reach town.”

“I’m staying with you,” Colbey said.

Santagithi’s gaze went cold, and he squinted with rage. “Colbey, damn it, you’ll do as I tell you. I’m not asking, I’m commanding it. I’ve never tolerated insubordination, and I won’t start now. Not from
anyone.
Now, you get your butt on your horse and head toward town, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

A spark of anger flashed through Colbey, then died instantly. As much as he wanted to remain with Santagithi and the other three Renshai, he trusted the general’s judgment too much to question it now. “Fine,” he said, then louder. “Fine,
sir.
” Whirling, he headed deeper into the cave to find his horse.

*  *  *

Seated on a rock beside the constructed dam, Valr Kirin studied his unit. Two months of building and a week of waiting had made the mixed group of Northmen impatient nearly to the point of mutiny. They milled and fidgeted like children, sparked to violence by the tiniest argument. Again and again, Kirin had stepped between their drawn swords and axes, reminding them to forget
the differences between tribes and concentrate on their real enemy.

“They’re coming!” someone called, and the cry echoed through the ranks. Nervous energy seemed to quadruple in an instant as Northmen scurried to their positions with an efficiency that laid some of Kirin’s fears to rest. Soon, the Northmen would split the dam, its waters would drown Colbey among Santagithi’s dwindling forces, and the war would finally end.

Valr Kirin smiled, assessing the positions of his men from habit, though his thoughts ranged farther. There had been a time, when he had been the age of these men, that the chance to kill enemies and die in glory took precedence over all. He understood their exuberance, but he also saw beyond it. He had been barely thirty when his older brother lost a hand in battle and, with it, the chance to ever enter Valhalla. Yet Peusen Raskogsson had continued to fight, embracing the same ideals and tenets that he had sacrificed his personal glory to attain. Peusen’s courage had given Kirin strength as well. He had learned to place the goals of morality and preservation of the Northland tribes above his own.

As the last men slid into place behind the dam, Valr Kirin took his own position on a crag, slightly above and removed from the troop. There, his gestures could be more easily seen and his orders heard. Despite their eager savagery, he knew that the Northmen meant the best. In a land of bleak summers and food-sparse winters, constant skirmishes kept numbers whittled. Young men died in honor so that their women and children could live and so that elders and their wisdom could exist. The infirm nearly always crawled from their sickbeds into the battles. And when the time came for Northern tribes to band together in a cause, they became like brothers.

Santagithi’s men rounded the bend and became clearly visible. Kirin kept his back flat to the crags, and his Northmen remained low and unseen. A proud figure in mail led a rank of Santagithi’s soldiers in three rows of four. Kirin recognized the captain, Jakot, and the trifling group he led set the Slayer’s nerves jangling. The Northmen grumbled in frustration. They had not toiled so long to ambush only a dozen men. Weapons rasped from
sheaths. Before Kirin could shout a warning, several of his men sprang to their feet. Others followed, like an audience joining a standing ovation.

“No!” Valr Kirin screamed. “Men, hold your places!” Howls of frustration and battle madness drowned out his command. Northern soldiers scrabbled onto horses, sending them leaping over the dam, unwilling to waste two months’ work on a handful of men. They galloped along the creek bed toward the approaching force.

Jakot pulled up his tiny unit and whirled in retreat.

“Stop! Back! Now!” Though he screamed his commands, Valr Kirin could scarcely hear himself over the varied war calls of his men. Scrambling down the slope, he vaulted to the back of his own mount, but he did not follow his men to the wrong side of the dam. Instead, he remained behind it with those few warriors who had kept their heads and obeyed their lieutenant.

Suddenly, Jakot swerved from the path, forcing his horse up the side of the mountain, his men at his heels. The Northmen gave chase, the horses on both sides floundering up the rocky slopes. Once on the crest, Jakot waited only until his men reached safety. “Now!”

Men rose from positions on the summit, rolling boulders on the trailing Northmen.
No.
Valr Kirin cringed, sick with understanding but helpless to protect the men who had disobeyed his command. Yet he did not have long to ponder. An army with Garn and Mitrian at the head galloped over the crags toward those Northmen still behind the dam. Kirin studied the enemy troop pouring down upon them and the few remaining Northmen. “Retreat!” he commanded. “This way. Quickly.” He made a broad gesture designed to direct the Northmen in the creek bed as well as those behind the dam to safety. Less than two dozen soldiers rushed to their lieutenant’s command, nearly all of them Vikerians far more accustomed to following him. The others charged into battle with a ferocity that transcended numbers, eager to die in glory.

Valr Kirin paused, allowing his men to catch up. On the far side of the river, he scanned Santagithi’s ranks in relative safety. He watched with sadness as Santagithi’s army dispatched the few remaining Northmen at the dam.
From there, they removed key logs and sprang the Northmen’s trap upon those warriors still in the creek bed. A foaming snake of water crashed through the ruins of the dam, swallowing the Northmen. A quick count and a glance at the leaders confirmed that Santagithi had brought about two thirds of his remaining manpower and that Colbey was not among them. “Come on.” Charged with a mission, Kirin retreated with dignity, taking his most loyal charges with him, racing to link up with his reserves. Though seventy-three Northmen had lost their lives, Valr Kirin knew that his men had to have won the larger battle. And maybe, just maybe, Colbey Calistinsson was already dead.

*  *  *

The miles passed swiftly beneath the hooves of Colbey’s horse. Gradually, the wary prickle returned to the edges of his thoughts, sweeping the fog of fatigue into a shrinking, central knot. Early, he thanked gods that he met no opposition on the roadway; he had not dived into the thickest part of every battle for longer than seventy years only to die enfeebled by his own mind. Exhaustion made him careless, and he made little effort to disguise his person or his presence from Northern scouts. Surely, had anyone seen him, they would have attacked.

Colbey drew deeper into the Granite Hills. With the incremental return of strength to his body and mind, he became suspicious. He had not expected to meet armies, but he had anticipated attacks by single Northmen and small groups along the way. Whatever his title or level of skill, almost any Northman would have to test his courage against a Renshai’s, even if it meant death.
Unless they fear I would dismember them.
The thought bothered Colbey. Enemies or not, the Northmen were kin of a sort, and he hated to think that they had become cowards afraid to face a man approaching eighty.

The Granite Hills disappeared swiftly behind Colbey, and he glanced back to memorize the positions of caves before entering the pine forest just south of the mountains. His last chain of thought bothered him. His age had become an obsession that rode him without mercy. He had lived the span of three Renshai, yet death of any kind seemed unable to find him. His hair remained full,
free from the recession that gave Santagithi an aura of dignity, many strands still gold among the white. His vision remained as crisp and clear as always, his cold blue gaze unmarred by cataracts or the watery film that seemed to haunt most elders. Somehow, beyond all possibility, his sword skill and agility seemed only to improve with practice and time.

When oak and elm began to appear among the evergreens, an acrid odor pinched Colbey’s nostrils.
Fire?
He glanced about, seeing nothing in the near vicinity. He kept his gaze trained ahead, in the direction of Santagithi’s Town, alert for the first signs of a blaze. For some time, he saw nothing. Then a braid of smoke twined over the forest, and the wind hurled the odor of burning thatch into his face.
The town.
Colbey dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, hoping Santagithi’s women had not forgotten the tricks he had taught. The horse surged forward, charging through a clumped interweave of branches. Colbey ducked flat to its neck, protecting his face, and the leaves slashed harmlessly across his tunic.

As Colbey raced toward the town, the reek of burning timbers intensified. The pine gave way to oak, hickory, and maple. He kept as close and quiet as possible, avoiding the whipping branches and the huddled groups of soldiers slinking between the trees. Most had Northmen’s golden braids, though others were too far to identify. At length, he reached a clearing near the one where he trained the Renshai. Brambles outlined two sides, dotted with green berries that would darken as spring turned to summer. Alerted more by instinct than sound or movement, Colbey pulled his mount to a walk.

Shortly, Bromdun’s voice hissed through the thistle, speaking the Western trading tongue. “Sir, come here. It’s safe.”

The promise of security only made Colbey more cautious. He circled the brambles with all of his senses alert. At length, he came to one of the unprotected sides. There, a dozen bowmen sat or lay in various stages of alertness or repose. Four pikemen protected the two open sides. Recognizing every man, though not all by name, Colbey relaxed. “What’s happened?”