The Western Wizard (42 page)

The archer’s captain rose. His miserable expression and
massive form gave him the air of a carved gargoyle perched defensively on a bastion. “Northmen descended upon the town in hordes like I’ve never seen. They took the town.” Tears of rage filled the captain’s eyes. “They’ve got some of the women and other women’s children holed up in the citadel. This is the last of the guards.” He gestured at the scraggly looking band around him. “The Northies know we’re here, but they’re leaving us alone for now.”

Colbey studied the men with Bromdun. He had found little cause to get to know the archers well. Still, in a town so small, he had become at least vaguely familiar with all of the them. All four of the pikemen he knew as competent soldiers.

Having finished his report, Bromdun moved on to another matter. “Emerald made it known that she needed to see you. She said it was urgent.”

Colbey frowned, finding the summons curious. Probably, Emerald would beg him to keep her son safe and away from the town and the Northmen. Still, she was the mother of Renshai, if not one herself, and he had little choice but to attend her, if possible. “Where is Emerald?”

“Probably at her cottage.” Bromdun straightened his mail. “Mostly, the Northmen are letting the women, children, and elders go about their business, except for the hostages.” His dark gaze found Colbey’s; and, though it was not proper for him to request information from a superior unsolicited, he did so anyway. “How is Santagithi?”

“Well, last I knew.” Colbey appreciated the distraction, certain that fatigue must still be dampening his mind, if not his body. He dismounted, addressing one of the archers he did know by name. “Galan.”

The archer approached, a tall, wiry soldier with bright hazel eyes. “Yes, sir?”

“Take my horse. Santagithi and the others are on trail three, about a quarter of the way north. I want you to tell Santagithi what happened here.”

“Yes, sir.” Galan mounted quickly, arm threaded through his bow.

Bromdun frowned, but he did not contradict. “Where
are you going?” His words were clearly meant for Colbey.

The Renshai looked toward the village, seeing only distant glimpses of cottages between the trunks and trailers of smoke. Apparently, the fires had been small and scattered, meant mostly to scare the civilians into obedience. Emerald’s cottage lay on the eastern side of the town in a line with many others. “I’m going to speak with Emerald.”

“Sir!” Bromdun said, the word an exclamation of disapproval and surprise. He shied slightly. Years of training with Santagithi had taught him never to question authority. He would not have probed Santagithi’s motives, but he did challenge Colbey. “Forgive me, sir. But you don’t know what it’s like there. There’re Northmen everywhere. If you wait for Santagithi—”

Colbey frowned, his loyalties never in question. A Renshai’s mother needed to see him. No matter their personal differences, he would not fail her. “Did Emerald say her concern could wait?”

“No, sir,” Bromdun admitted. “She said it was urgent.”

“Galan, be on your way.” Colbey gestured toward the Hills, then slipped around the brambles and headed for the town.

Stems brushed Colbey’s tunic, then bounced back into place, their young leaves rattling in his wake. Accustomed to quiet movement through forest, Colbey ducked low, placing his feet cautiously to avoid twigs scattered through the mush of dead leaves that formed the forest carpet. He moved like an animal, lithe and sinuous despite his age, though he made less noise. The woodlands seemed eerily silent; apparently even the final, desperate skirmishes had ended. Colbey caught glimpses of Santagithi’s Town between the trunks as he walked. A few, selected dwellings lay as litter-strewn ash, smoke still dribbling from the rubble. Most of the cottages stood intact, looking like proud sentinels beside the ruins of their neighbors.

Colbey continued to creep through the forest, remaining low, his footfalls making little sound. As he circled eastward, spiraling toward the town, he could distinguish
figures in the streets. Women openly wept over sprawled bodies. A child toddled around the homes, hoarsely screaming, “Mama! Mama?” Colbey used the call to mask the sounds of his progress, reaching the border of the town. Even his experience did not make him callous to their plight, though it had become familiar enough to keep him from dropping his guard to tend to the lamenting widows and orphans. For now, this seemed as good a time as any for them to grieve; the Northmen would not harm them.

Tucked behind an ancient oak, Colbey studied the scene for some time, seeking war braids, helms, armor, or movement that did not bear the slumping quality of sorrow. He saw no Northmen, and that bothered rather than pleased him. Apparently, the Northmen had already taken what they had come for and left. Yet Colbey found himself unable to relax. He had accepted it as luck or divine intervention that he had come upon no enemies while tired and injured, with his wits dulled. But his luck seemed to be holding too well. The lack of forest creatures suggested that battles or soldiers had filled these woods not so long ago.

Colbey dashed from the forest to the cottage closest to the border. Back pressed to the wall, he waited for an attack or a shout of recognition. No new sounds touched his ears. Keening wound through the streets, punctuated by crying, and he could hear distant, muffled conversations in Western voices. Still, Colbey did not drop his guard. He edged around the building, gaze probing the streets, hearing attuned to catch any sound out of place for battle aftermath. Discovering nothing, he slipped to the next cottage.

Time and cautious effort brought Colbey, apparently unseen, toward Emerald’s dwelling. As he crept around the nearby butcher’s shop, he discovered that the home between it and Emerald’s lay in charcoal ruin. He studied the blackened beams, the ashes scattered with sparkles of brass and tin that had once served as utensils and hinges. Heat haze glimmered around the site, blurring Emerald’s cottage, and the last tiny plumes of smoke curled from the wreckage. Seeing no movement, Colbey sprinted for Emerald’s home. He flattened to the stone.
An elder’s sobs covered the quieter noises of the gutted village, including Colbey’s passage.

A flap of leather stirred in the light spring breeze. Colbey inched along the wall to it. Waiting until a gust flipped the covering, he peeked through the opening. He caught a glimpse of Emerald, rocking quietly in her chair. He saw no one else. She seemed tense to the point of pain; but, under the circumstances, her discomfort seemed normal. Quickly, Colbey moved to the front of the house and checked the latch. Finding it tripped, he pushed open the cottage door.

Even as Colbey pressed his weight against the panel, a feeling of peril assailed him. A sound, a movement, or instinct, he did not know which alerted him. Naturally, his hands fell to his hilts. His swords skimmed free before he thought to draw them. Three Northmen in mail met him in the doorway, another three behind them. A massive broadsword smashed against his lighter blade, easily blocked. He whipped his opposite sword across its wielder’s throat. The man collapsed, as Colbey caught the other two Northmen’s blades on each of his. He reversed the direction of both swords, stabbing one through the links and into a Northman’s gut. He slashed the other a long deep cut across the face, twisting to dodge the attacks of the second rank and draw his blade free at once. Seeing movement from outside now, he kicked closed the door and spun farther into the main room of Emerald’s cottage.

The three remaining Northmen charged without hesitation. The first hacked for Colbey’s head with a powerful downstroke, closing his defenses with a battered steel shield. Colbey planted a kick on the man’s shield, sending him stumbling to the floor near the door to Emerald’s sitting chamber. From the corner of his eye, Colbey saw Emerald moving toward the fallen man. He hoped she remembered some of the war tricks he had taught her and the other women, that she could handle the fallen soldier. Already he heard footsteps at the door, and a low thrust from one of the two Northmen before him stole his attention.

Colbey blocked with an outside sweep, cutting his other sword across the gap between the Northman’s mail
and chin. As the Northman collapsed, the last charged in with a high stroke that gashed the ceiling. Colbey diverted with a fast parry, driving his sword into the Northman’s eyes.

The door crashed open. “Renshai!” someone screamed. A mailed Northman sprang through the opening, four more at his heels.

Sword still embedded, Colbey whirled to meet the charge, jabbing his other sword defensively before him. Momentum carried the Northman onto Colbey’s blade, burying the longsword nearly to the hilt in his abdomen. The force of the attack drove Colbey to his knees. A Northman impaled on each sword, Colbey felt the wild, hot rush of battle joy, and he laughed. Already, six Northmen lay dead. Colbey counted four before him, still acutely aware of the one he had dropped but not killed. That one lay on the floor at his back, near Emerald, and he hoped but did not count on her having the courage to finish him. Three of his opponents carried swords and shields, the last a short-hafted war ax that looked heavy as an anvil.

Even as Colbey tensed, two Northmen attacked as one. The Renshai sprang backward, freeing his swords and gaining his feet. One broadsword embedded into a wooden chest. The other gashed open Colbey’s collar, tearing the sleeve of his tunic.
Too close.
Colbey surged upright, one blade opening a Northman’s abdomen. The other missed cleanly. The Northman leapt backward, leaving his sword stuck in the trunk. With a lunge, Colbey impaled him, flipping his blades into a defensive position to face his last two opponents. The swordsman kept his shield up, backing carefully from Colbey. The axman advanced, arm muscles knotted, face ugly with directed rage. Suddenly, he lunged.

Colbey threw up a block. The ax smashed down on his blade, the impact aching through his arm. He back-stepped toward Emerald and the fallen guard. The last swordsman ducked through the door and into the daylight, presumably for reinforcements.

The axman gritted his teeth beneath wide, bloodless lips. Again, the ax drove for Colbey’s side, and the Renshai caught the stroke on his sword. The force of the blow plunged Colbey another step backward. His arms
throbbed, and pain howled in his muscles. Quietly seeking an opening, he took another backward step.

Suddenly, a hand seized Colbey’s ankle and yanked. Balance lost, Colbey scarcely met the next mighty pound of the ax, and its power grounded him. He fell to his knees, twisting toward the guard he had kicked, who still lay on Emerald’s floor and now held Colbey’s foot. The ax slammed down toward Colbey’s head. He ducked, dodging behind one blade. Steel met steel with a power that all but broke his grip. More from will than strength, he kept hold of his hilt, circling his sword with an abruptness that tore the ax from the Northman’s hand. It fell, shaking the floor with its weight.

The Northman on the floor made a sweep for Colbey’s side, but the length of the blade and the closeness of the target stole all power from the blow. It slammed against Colbey’s bruised hip, shocking pain through him, though the blade barely scratched him. Not wanting to fall prey to the same mistake, Colbey slid his hand from his own hilt to his blade, shortening the length. The sharpened steel slit his hand painlessly. He drove the blade into the Northman’s groin. A shriek echoed through the confines. The Northman’s hand fell from Colbey’s ankle, and the Renshai surged to his feet.

Having recovered his ax, the last Northman charged Colbey again. Pain screamed through the Renshai. His head pounded, fatigue returning in a whistling, spinning rush. His arms felt on fire, and the bruises he had gotten from his fall ached. Enraged by his own exhaustion, Colbey met the charge with a parry that redirected the ax to the floor. Colbey stabbed through the Northman’s defenses. His blade cut through mail and flesh, and the soldier joined his companions on the cottage floor.

A flash of steel at the corner of Colbey’s vision was his only warning. A sword blade bit into the back of his knee, carving flesh down his calf nearly to the ankle. An abrupt whirl was all that saved Colbey’s foot. One sword battered the enemy’s blade aside. The other bit through its wielder’s gut and buried into the spine. Only then, Colbey realized that his target was not the injured Northman he expected but Emerald. Every muscle in the woman’s body went rigid, then fell suddenly limp. She
collapsed, the sword tumbling from her grip. Her gaze fell to the blade thrust through her, and she screamed in realization and terror.

Horrified, Colbey levered his blade free, unable to comprehend the deceit. Emerald’s attack made no sense, and he could only feel the anger and guilt of having murdered Episte’s mother.

Emerald lay still, except for the wide-eyed expression that seemed permanently locked on her face. Clearly, she was in spinal shock, and Colbey knew from feel alone that she would die in seconds, no matter what he did. At least, he felt certain that she knew no pain.

Emerald’s dark eyes were clear, flashing with a hatred so raw Colbey could mistake it for nothing else. “All your fault,” she whispered, though her words made no more sense to him than her betrayal. A glaze obscured her eyes, taking the emotion with it. “They wanted you. They only ever wanted you.”

Colbey remained unmoving, waiting for her to make a request that he could fulfill. Some part of his mind hoped that he
had
killed her without cause, so that she could, at least, die with honor.

“One savage old Renshai cost us the town and the lives of so many innocent men and women.” Her lids fell shut. The words that came next held the peaceful, haunting quality that comes just before giving up the battle to death. “And mine now.” She said nothing more.

The news struck Colbey a blow as heavy as the Northman’s ax. He had always known that the Northmen attacked him with far more exuberance than any other, but he had expected nothing less once they knew his heritage. Yet the idea that the war had started and raged over him for ten years sent a shock of self-directed anger and guilt through him. Santagithi’s loyalty prided and pained him. Never had a friendship been so sorely tested. At any time, the general could have betrayed Colbey in much the same way as Emerald had, and Colbey would not have begrudged him choosing the lesser of evils. Now, he believed, he had found the information that had heavily plagued Santagithi throughout the warring years. And it pained him.