The Western Wizard (5 page)

Horror flashed through Colbey’s mind as her sword neared the ground. By Renshai tradition, a sword was the most important and deeply personal part of a warrior; to let an honored opponent’s sword touch the ground was
considered the basest insult. Instantly, he whisked his right sword into its sheath. He dove for the falling weapon, catching the hilt a finger’s breadth before it hit the grass.

Colbey’s gaze lost his opponent for only the barest fraction of time. Yet, when he looked up, a sword clenched triumphantly in each hand, three cold steel blades in the hands of three identical women slammed down toward him.

“Modi.” Colbey called to Sif’s son, the god of battle wrath. From infancy, he had been taught to shout the name whenever he or his people needed an extra burst of blood lust. Decades of training responded to Colbey’s need. Rage surged through him, bringing strength like a second wind. He rolled, parrying despite the awkwardness of his position. He felt the blades scratch down the two in his fists, felt the swishing pass of the third as it missed his skull by a finger’s breadth. He spun to his feet, slashing a furious barrier of metal between him and his three opponents.

“General Colbey!” The cry seemed distant and unimportant, yet it jarred Colbey’s concentration. The triple images of the woman blurred.

No!
Colbey forced his attention back, needing this fight which was the greatest challenge of his life.

“General Colbey!” The Pudarian voice grew louder, followed by Santagithi’s sour reprimand.

“Be still, soldier. It’s not polite to interrupt a man’s prayer. Nor wise, if his gods hold him in half the regard that I do.”

“Prayer.” The Pudarian snorted. “He’s just practicing.”

The women faded to oblivion, leaving only a pale outline of light. The sword that had been hers disappeared from Colbey’s hand.
Three women. Three sparring partners. Three other Renshai.
Colbey pounced on the significance of the number, narrowing his concentration, trying to recreate the phantom that must have come from his imagination. Still, he could not let go of the possibility that his sparring partner had been a divine manifestation of Sif.

Santagithi continued in his usual gently authoritative manner. “He is a Northman. To them, war
is
religion.”

The Pudarian’s tone went icy. “With all respect, General, I need to speak with the other general, not with you. Prince Verrall wishes Colbey now. His grace must not be left waiting.”

The light winked out. Annoyance suffused Colbey, and he glanced directly at the speakers for the first time. Santagithi stood with one foot propped on a weathered stump. Dark blond hair flecked with gray fringed features just beginning to wrinkle. Tall and broad, he towered over the darker Pudarian soldier, yet the smaller man glared back with a look of controlled defiance. Colbey, not Santagithi, was the leader of Pudar’s army, and the man seemed determined to make that point clear.

Colbey jabbed his remaining sword into its sheath. “Prince Verrall will not wait for a man to finish his prayers? Then ‘your grace’ has none. What does he want?” Colbey did not mince words, nor question semantics. King Gasir of Pudar had died in the war, leaving no direct heir. Of his four nephews from two brothers, Verrall had legal claim to the throne. Until his coronation, however, he could not use the title “king,” so he had chosen “prince.”

The Pudarian blanched beneath Colbey’s intense scrutiny. “He . . . his grace wants to speak with you as soon as possible.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Very well,” Colbey sighed in resignation, the conversation sounding almost too vivid and real in the wake of his holy experience. “Take me to him, then.” Colbey had no interest in politics, and royalty meant little to him. The other seventeen Northern tribes, and most of the West’s largest cities, were separate monarchies, each country organized under a high king. But the Renshai had never had a government. For the rare matters of diplomacy, they had chosen whoever seemed the best speaker for the occasion.

“This way, sir.” The Pudarian turned, relaxing as he no longer had to confront Colbey’s cruel features and
hard blue-gray eyes. He headed toward the center of the camp.

Colbey followed, and Santagithi joined him. The broadboned Westerner dwarfed the slight Renshai.

Colbey smiled. “You would join me?” They wound between trees and tents.

“I think it would be best.”

“Your company is always a pleasure, but you don’t often offer it.” Colbey could not help asking, “Do you think I’m in danger?”

“Do I think
you
are in danger?” Santagithi’s mouth twitched upward. He cleared his throat, as if to make one of his ringing diplomatic or strategic announcements. “Isn’t that rather like worrying about a wolf being attacked by a flock of starving hens?”

Colbey chuckled, watching the back of the Pudarian’s shaking head. It went against Santagithi’s usual tactful finesse to insult anyone, especially within earshot of a soldier so closely linked to the prince of the West’s largest city. He tried to guess the reason as they finished the trip in silence, and he believed he understood. For Santagithi, the war had proven taxing—physically, mentally, and emotionally. He had lost both of his captains to death. Despite being Renshai and a cripple, Rache had been like a son. The second had been Santagithi’s confidant. His only daughter had run away from home with Garn, the gladiator who had paralyzed Rache. Nearly a year later, the Great War reunited father and daughter, only to reveal that she had borne him a grandson, married Garn, and, taught by Colbey, she had become as skilled at war as any of his soldiers. Named the West’s prime strategist, Santagithi had had to orchestrate the Great War, coordinating armies of mixed backgrounds and even a single tribe of Northmen. The lives of thousands of men, and ultimately of their wives and children, had lain in his hands. Even the kings and generals had pinned their hopes on the man that the Eastern Wizard had called their finest strategist. Now, Colbey suspected, Santagithi simply needed a chance to shake off the lead weight of responsibility heaped upon him.

The Pudarian came to halt before a huge, enclosed tent in the center of the camp. Four Pudarian guardsmen stood
watch at the corners, each clutching a bladed pole arm that Colbey’s sword-skewed education did not allow him to identify by name. The Pudarian escort nodded to his on-duty companions, then addressed Colbey and Santagithi. “One moment, please, sirs.” Raising one folded tent flap, he disappeared inside. The canvas flopped back into place behind him.

Thoughts wafted to Colbey from the nearest sentry. Bored, he explored them, finding the man unusually alert and restless for a soldier on a routine watch. Curious, Colbey probed, discovering an awe that bordered on fear; he, it seemed, was the source of the sentry’s discomfort. The Renshai suppressed a smile of amusement. He held a neutral stance, defensible, yet in no way coiled or threatening, hoping to put the man at ease.

The mind-reading ability had come to Colbey eleven years past. Shortly after the Western Wizard had informed him that the tribe of Renshai had been massacred five years earlier, a madness had descended upon Colbey. It had taken the form of driving obsessions, voices in his head, and glimpses into the past and future. One by one, he had crushed the intruders and the seeds of insanity they represented, systematically destroying them with the same competence and control he used on the battlefield. At first, he had believed that the madness itself caused him to accidentally catch stray thoughts of people around him, ideas that he later discovered he had read verbatim. Since every voice had disappeared, he realized that each winning war had honed his mind in the same way every battle enhanced his skills. Now, he was just beginning to explore the possibilities of a mental tactic that went far beyond the philosophy and mind over body mastery he had learned since infancy.

The guards stood in stony silence. The one Colbey had studied shifted uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny. Santagithi stood with his head raised, his gaze following the sweep of stars across the heavens.

Shortly, the tent flap jiggled, then folded aside. The Pudarian who had escorted Colbey and Santagithi peeked through the opening. “General Colbey, Prince Verrall will see you now.” He gave Santagithi an apologetic
glance. “Sir, he asked for the general alone. He would be happy to meet with you later if you feel the need.”

Colbey glanced at Santagithi. The Western general’s expression did not change, but Colbey sensed discomfort in his companion’s demeanor. Though he had no reason to think the prince meant him any harm, the decision to meet after dark and Santagithi’s casual insistence on accompanying Colbey made him careful. He trusted Santagithi’s instincts.

Inexperienced in affairs of state, Colbey chose his words cautiously and kept his tone respectful. “Please thank his grace for seeing me.” Since the prince had called for him, Colbey guessed his gratitude was unnecessary, but it helped him lead into his request. “Please also inform him that Santagithi has come along as my . . . as my . . .” The idea of Colbey needing a bodyguard seemed ludicrous. Unable to think of a better word, Colbey found an equally absurd one. “. . . my retinue. Anything the prince can say in my presence, he can say in front of Santagithi.”

The Pudarian stared, as if waiting for Colbey to admit he was joking.

Colbey made an exaggerated gesture of dismissal. “Go on. Tell him.”

Reluctantly, the Pudarian retreated.

Colbey glanced at Santagithi, hoping he had not offended the general. Though they had become fast friends, they had only known one another since the war. And, where Colbey’s title was wholly military, Santagithi was leader of a country as well. “Sorry about the retinue thing,” Colbey whispered.

A tight-lipped smile ruined Santagithi’s otherwise somber expression. He spoke as softly, “You must think much of my abilities to consider me an entire retinue.”

Colbey suppressed a chuckle. In his attempt to sound as respectful as possible, he had not realized he had used the plural.

The Pudarian’s head again appeared through the slit. “His grace again asked to see
his
general alone. He has promised to tend any business with the other general afterward.” He addressed Santagithi directly. “Or before, if you prefer, sir.”

“With all due respect . . .” At the moment, Colbey estimated the amount due as a spoonful. “. . . you know Santagithi has no business with the heir. He came with me. Verrall can see me with my retinue or not at all.”

Apparently briefed for this contingency, the Pudarian did not bother to consult the prince again. He sighed in resignation. “Very well, then. Both of you come inside.” He exited, holding aside the flap.

Santagithi and Colbey entered together. The spacious area enclosed by the canvas surprised Colbey. Prince Verrall sat in a crude, wooden chair in the center. Behind him, straw and blankets lay neatly spread as bedding. To his left stood a pile of supply crates. To his right, a series of crates surrounded a huge stump that served as a table. A dozen Pudarian soldiers armed with swords were positioned around the prince, and two boys in peasant garb waited behind the chair.

Colbey lowered his head respectfully. Santagithi bowed, and the prince answered with the same courtesy. “I didn’t expect the pleasure of your company, too, Santagithi. Please, accept my hospitality. My business is with my general.” He waved toward the table and crates. The boys scurried in the indicated direction to tend to Santagithi even before he arrived.

Colbey opened his mouth to protest again, but Santagithi squeezed his arm in warning. “Let it lie, friend,” he hissed, barely audibly. “There’s something to be said for compromise.” He spoke aloud, “Thank you, Verrall.” Without further comment, he took the seat closest to the prince and facing Colbey.

The peasant boys talked softly with Santagithi, then trotted off to attend some request. The prince turned his attention fully on Colbey. “First, General, I and all of Pudar would like to thank you for your leadership and your dedication to our effort in the war.”

Colbey glanced toward Santagithi, seeking clues to the proper formalities. But the town leader slouched with his head resting on a hand propped on the table. Legs crossed, he watched the proceedings with mild curiosity. As Colbey’s delay stretched past politeness, Santagithi raised his brows.

You bastard.
Colbey knew Santagithi was gleaning
some amusement from the situation. “You’re welcome.” Colbey could think of nothing better to say, but the ensuing hush encouraged him to continue. “Your uncle, King Gasir, was a good man and a decent soldier. He died bravely. It was my pleasure to honor his only request to me, that, in the event of his death, I lead his army in the war.” Colbey stopped, hoping he had said enough.

“Sire,” the nearest Pudarian hissed at Colbey.

Surprised by the address, Colbey glanced at his escort.

Prince Verrall continued, apparently unaware of the exchange. “As you know, King Gasir had four nephews. Though I am the second in age, my father was the king’s next eldest brother, while my cousin was born of Gasir’s youngest brother. I am, by law, the heir.” He studied Colbey with an intensity that seemed to bear no relation to his words.

Colbey nodded, rapidly losing interest.

“I am concerned my cousin may try to claim the Pudarian throne.”

Again Colbey nodded. He watched one of the peasant boys thread through the prince’s entourage with a mug of wine for Santagithi.

“Do you understand the situation, General?”

Colbey’s brows knit in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. The situation seemed obvious enough for a senile street beggar to grasp, and he wondered if he should take offense at the question. “It seems terribly clear, yes.”

“Sire,” the Pudarian guard whispered more forcefully.

“What?” Colbey hissed back.

The soldier emphasized his point with an abrupt gesture with both open hands. “Sire. Call the prince ‘sire.’”

“Why?”

“Why?” The guard’s voice rose an octave, serving as both outraged repetition and query.