The Western Wizard (43 page)

Colbey shook blood from his swords, drawing a rag to
clean the steel. In moments, he knew reinforcements would arrive. He would fight Northmen in even greater numbers, then kill many more before they overpowered him. Finally, his time had come. Yet had he known that he, alone, was the object of dispute, he would have attacked the entirety of the Northlands at once and long ago died in glory.

The shattered door swung open on broken hinges. Colbey crouched into a defensive position, one sword high, the other low. Mitrian and Episte stood framed in the doorway, their postures military, though they carried no weapons. Mitrian wore a black mourning scarf that covered her features. Although she had remained in town for most of the battles, word of a woman in Santagithi’s ranks had probably spread. Episte’s gaze roved from the scarlet-streaked blades in Colbey’s hands to the Northmen’s bodies scattered across the floor of his home. His attention fell on his mother’s corpse and froze there.

Episte’s professional stance disappeared. “No,” he whispered. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring them to puddles of blue. Suddenly, he was no longer a Renshai man ensconced in a golden whirlwind of combat. In an instant, he went rigid, a four-year-old confused by the demands of an unyielding
torke.
“Mother!” He ran to Emerald. Heedless of the other corpses, he tripped over one, sprawling to his face on another. The tears came faster, rolling down his face in a ceaseless trail. He scrabbled over the dead Northmen, not bothering to stand, and hugged his mother to his chest. He rocked the body like a child.

Mitrian’s face echoed Colbey’s concern. She spoke softly. “We were ambushed on the other side of town. The Northmen made it look as if they had left. When our army came in to help the bereaved, the Northmen attacked. Those of us remaining need to retreat, and fast.” She glanced at Episte. “Bromdun thought we’d find you here, so we took a chance. I didn’t think they’d question a woman and a child. What happened here?” She changed tacks so quickly, it took Colbey a moment to realize that she had.

Colbey’s grip had gone slippery from the blood trickling from his palm. More soaked the edges of a hole in
his breeks, trailing down his leg to the floor. His bruised side ached nearly as badly as his arms. “Ambush.” He did not explain further. Still ignoring his own injuries, he walked to Episte and knelt beside the teen.

Episte still hugged his mother’s body to his chest, his face buried in her dress. Warrior’s sinews shifted through childishly thin arms, making the tiny hairs sparkle.

Episte’s behavior did not suit Renshai, yet Colbey knew that this was no time for a lecture. Cleaning and sheathing his swords, he placed a firm hand on the youth’s heaving shoulder. He smoothed the fine, gold locks with his other hand, though the gesture streaked the teen’s hair with blood. “She died fighting an opponent too strong for her. If her beliefs allow it, she found Valhalla.” Colbey used the most comforting words he knew. He saw no need to supply details that would only hurt. Unless Mitrian and Episte had peeked through the windows before entering, no one living could have witnessed the truth.

“Mother.” Episte sobbed, his word lost in the folds of her shift.

Mitrian spoke softly, but with inviolate authority. “We have to go. Now.”

Colbey twisted to face her, but Episte remained in place. “We have to go now,” the elder Renshai echoed.

Still Episte did not move.

Colbey waved for Mitrian to start without them.

Mitrian frowned. “I’ll get horses, but that’ll draw attention. I’ll expect you both to be ready to ride the instant I get back.” She added emphatically. “Which won’t take but a moment.” She disappeared through the door.

Colbey shook his young charge. “Come on. There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s go.”

Episte’s grip cinched tighter, than loosened. Suddenly, he whirled and lunged toward Colbey.

Instinctively, Colbey recoiled. The teen’s arms looped around the elder, clutching him in an embrace as rigid as the one he had used to cling to his mother’s body. Warm tears seeped through Colbey’s tattered tunic. Grief-mad, Episte spoke in an infant’s voice that Colbey scarcely recognized. “She’s dead. Gods, no. She’s dead.”

Colbey stiffened, uncertain what to do. He understood
that he had been more of a father to Episte than any other man. He knew that the youngster needed to share his grief, that Episte had come to him for the comforting he craved. But Colbey had no experience with such matters. The necessary words and gestures would not come, and he could only seize the opportunity. Catching Episte to him, he hefted the younger Renshai and headed for the door.

Mitrian met him there on the back of a prancing chestnut. She had armed herself with a sword from the streets. She held the reins of a thick-rumped bay. “This was all I could get. Hurry! The Northmen are on us.”

For the first time, Episte looked up, face red and smeared with tears. Colbey half-dragged the teen to the doorway. “We’ll ride together.” He hefted Episte directly behind the bay’s saddle, then leapt into the seat. Mitrian dropped the bay’s reins, sending her horse into a gallop. Colbey’s horse lurched after it, even before he found his seat or the reins. He caught both at a dead run, pleased to find that Episte kept his balance as well.

Shouts echoed through Santagithi’s streets. Northmen mounted and on foot converged on them from every direction. Colbey drew his swords, seeing Mitrian raise hers as well. He slashed at the wild froth of Northmen, his swords a blur; and the enemy scattered in a wild retreat. Mitrian’s steed did not slow. She pounded through the press, her horse or sword claiming those Northmen who did not move from her path fast enough. Colbey could hear hooves galloping over cobblestones from the center of town. Toward the woods, he found fewer horsemen, though a line of soldiers blocked Mitrian’s route from the town.

Still, Mitrian did not slow. Colbey kicked his mount harder, and it skidded into a rear that required Episte to grab the back of the saddle for balance. As his horse drew up beside Mitrian’s, they hacked through the wall together. The Northmen ahead broke, even as those behind narrowed the gap between them. Mitrian and Colbey surged through the hole and into the forest, a cluster of Northmen riding at their heels.

“They’re this way!” Mitrian managed to shout over the war howls and curses of the Northmen. Though few
Northmen spoke Western trade and fewer Westerners spoke Northern, some words crossed from Renshai to Northern. For the sake of decency, he hoped Mitrian and Episte did not understand many of the swear words.

Apparently, Mitrian had selected her steeds well. Well-rested, the animals plunged into the forest, dodging through gaps between trees and leaping deadfalls with an exuberance that most of the Northmen’s tired horses could not match. All but a couple dozen fell behind, but those few remaining seemed to be narrowing the gap, and Colbey knew that running through brush was terribly dangerous. He kept tight to the horse’s neck, and Episte flattened against Colbey.

Hearing voices ahead, Colbey shouted a warning. “Danger before!”

“It’s all right!” Mitrian hollered back. “They’re ours.”

A moment later, Colbey veered through a copse of pine and saw the group of retreating horsemen. A quick count left Colbey with an impression of thirty, most wearing the black and silver uniforms of Santagithi’s guardsmen. He saw at least one woman among them, and he picked Rache, Santagithi, Garn, Bromdun, and Galan from the others. Northmen rode hard on their heels. The general shouted something that Colbey could not hear, but apparently Mitrian did. She diverted her course, angling to keep from sandwiching Northmen between Santagithi’s men and herself.

Like the two sides of an arrow, they sped to a point, meeting just shy of a wide, dead trunk. Mitrian and Colbey veered in among the others, near the lead.

“Where to?” Colbey shouted. He knew they would need to stand and fight soon. Their current course would trap them against the Granite Hills to be killed by Northmen coming from both directions.

Santagithi hesitated.

Apparently thinking the question was meant for her, Mitrian replied in his stead. “There’s a cave this way.” She waved northeastward, to a position far east of the passes that had become so familiar to the man. “I explored it a few times when you made excuses for me to stay behind. There’s a small back exit.”

Santagithi frowned in consideration. Then, apparently finding no better alternative, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

The mountains drew closer with every step. Mitrian took the lead, knowing the location of the sanctuary they sought. Colbey dared to look back, seeing one of their trailing men go down, a victim of the Northmen’s fastest steed. Others turned on the Northman. Colbey glanced back, just in time to follow Mitrian into the dark mouth of the cave.

“Down!” Colbey skittered from his saddle, clinging to the side of his horse’s neck to give Episte more room. He pulled his mount to a halt, sliding to the ground as it slowed. On a moving horse, a man could have his head torn off by low projections from the roof, and Colbey would rather face blood-hungry Northmen than lose his life or Episte’s to foolishness.

Once in the cave, the others stopped and dismounted as well. Santagithi gathered the horses’ reins. Colbey crouched near the mouth, glad to see the Northmen pull up outside the cave.

Santagithi made a sweeping gesture, nearly lost in the shadows. “Mitrian, get everyone out that back exit you mentioned. Quietly. Colbey and I will hold off the Northmen.”

Colbey nodded, watching the Northmen dismount and ready weapons. He counted enemies, not bothering to turn.

If Mitrian protested, Colbey did not hear it. He followed the soft shuffle of footsteps as Santagithi’s men disappeared deeper into the cave mouth, leaving only the two elders to hold the entrance.

Santagithi called after the retreating men. “Go to Shadimar. He’ll know what to do.” He did not bother to suggest that he would meet them there. Clearly, the general did not question his own death, nor even Colbey’s. He approached the old Renshai. “The horses . . .” he started, the remainder of his plan wafting plainly through his thoughts.

Colbey waved Santagithi silent. “I know what you’re thinking. Good idea.”

Santagithi did not question Colbey’s knowledge. “Back here. Come on.”

Colbey moved around behind the clustered horses. Taking bandages from his pack, he bound the wounds on his hand and calf, while Santagithi set the trap. “There’re thirty-one of them,” Colbey said, his blood warming to the imminent combat. He listened to the conversations outside the cave. “They’re coming in after us.”

Swords rasped from sheaths, the sound echoing through the caverns. The Renshai could scarcely hear the Northmen’s approaching footsteps beneath the stomping of their own horses, but their brief verbal exchanges gave away their positions.

“Now,” Santagithi said. His sword came free, flat slapping horses’ flanks. Colbey drew both of his blades, spooking the beasts. Panicked, the horses raced for daylight, heedless of the Northmen they trampled. Screams replaced conversation and the sounds of readied weapons. Yet as the horses thundered away, fifteen Northerners remained on their feet. These threw themselves upon Santagithi and Colbey.

Steel chimed a reverberating chorus, like a carillon. Backs tight to the wall, Santagithi and Colbey fought side by side, as one. The Northmen struck in anger and with certain triumph, but the two men fought for their lives. Five Northmen died before a single one of their blows landed.

Colbey’s blade opened a sixth man’s throat, but his block fell short. Pain seared his chest and side. Ribs snapped, and Colbey’s mind told him the wound would be fatal. Joy thrilled through him, bringing a battle madness he could never quench. Finally, he had found the death in combat he had sought, yet it would not find him an easy victim. Glorious combat was not enough. To die in honor, he had to take every Northman with him. Otherwise, they would surely dismember him, and he would lose all the purpose and direction his life had held.

“MODI!” The cry came naturally, trained through nearly a century. His charge became the rush of a whirlwind, and he left a line of dying men in his wake. No longer needing to concern himself with defense, he slashed like a crazed thing. Control snapped, plunging his brain into a darkness deeper than hovering death. He was a spinning flicker of lightning, yet far more deadly.
The gashes their swords tore in his abdomen and sides meant nothing to him, and his thrusts sent every Northman in his path to Valhalla.

Santagithi continued to fight as well, though he found himself slightly less pressed. He dodged a Northman’s stroke with ease. His foot twisted on an irregularity in the stone, and he fell to one knee. He threw up a hand in defense, but a Northman’s sword sliced through his face. A second sword buried in his spine.

With a roar of rage, Colbey sprang upon the remaining pair of Northmen as they extinguished all life from Santagithi. One lost his head before he could free his sword from Santagithi’s back.

The last Northman shrank from the icy glare of the grim-eyed demon who faced him.

To Mitrian and the twenty-eight survivors of the war with the North, dawn seemed a welcome change from the confining darkness of the caverns. Homeless and horseless, they stared at the layered pink horizon in sorrow. A pair of brothers in guardsman’s uniforms clung to one another, unabashed. Aside from Mitrian, Garn, Rache, and Episte, who had one another, every other man and both of the women were alone. Mitrian resisted the urge to clutch her child and husband. Such an action would be cruel to the rest of the scraggly band that was all that remained of Santagithi’s people. And still they were not safe. Too many soldiers, wearied by war and running, depended on the guidance of their three remaining leaders; Bromdun, Garn, and Mitrian had little choice but to follow their general’s last command.

Thoughts of Santagithi sank Mitrian into the same grieving quagmire as her charges. She knew her father and Colbey had chosen to sacrifice their lives for these townspeople who quivered on the stones awaiting their leaders’ orders. She felt guilty mourning the lives of heroes when she still had so much. Yet, for all the relief she felt over the presence of three loved ones, it did not ease the ache of losing her father and the man who had trained her. These pained first, peaking crescendos of agony surrounded by the duller throb of too many friends dead to sort individuals from her mind.