The Western Wizard (52 page)

Colbey performed a dexterous series of blocks, immediately followed by quick-slashes, reveling in the balance of the weapon in his grip. The person came closer. The elder Renshai could follow the unknown’s passage by the line of bowing corn tassels and the faint thump of stalk against stalk. As the other came to the edge of the clearing, Colbey lowered his sword. He caught a flashing image of blue cloth among the greenery. Episte shoved aside a pair of stalks in his path and looked in on the clearing. His gaze rolled from the scorched vegetation to the bandage on Colbey’s hand, and stopped there.

Colbey sheathed his blade, pleased to see Episte despite the disruption of his practice. The apology he needed to give the youngster held a significance that hounded him, yet comforting, emotion-laden speeches had never come easily to him. He considered his words carefully, certain the right ones could strengthen their relationship regardless of the discomfort on both sides that would invariably hamper the initial proceedings.

While Colbey studied his method, Episte blurted without preamble, whatever approach he had rehearsed en route lost in a sudden boil of emotion. “Is that the hand you hit me with?”

Colbey followed the youngster’s attention to the bandage. Shadimar had given Colbey a poultice, claiming its use once daily would undoubtedly prove enough to heal a scrape. Shadimar’s lack of sympathy and insistence on understatement confused Colbey, and the concoction had had no instantaneous effect, though it had deadened the pain. As to Episte’s question, Colbey did not need to ponder long. Ever since he had struck his student, the impression of the contact seemed to linger on his flesh, a hot and ugly reminder. “Yes. Same hand. Poetic justice, isn’t it?” He flashed a mild smile, trying to lighten a difficult exchange.

Episte’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Episte. One’s own flaws are the hardest to recognize. The honor comes with admitting and atoning for those mistakes.” Colbey personalized
the apology. “I’m sorry, Episte. You were right about the demon.”

Episte’s tone did not change. It remained hurt and resentful. “You should have believed me.”

“I should have,” Colbey admitted.

“You called me a liar.”

Colbey resisted the urge to defend his action. Surely even Episte had to see how farfetched the story must have seemed. “There’s a virtue to accepting apologies, too, Episte.”

Episte ignored the warning. “You hit me. I never thought my
torke
would hit me. Especially in the face.”

Colbey could feel the first stirrings of his own anger, nearly lost amid the tide of guilt. Though he reviled what he had done, he could not undo it. Yet the incident could not rest until Episte acknowledged his regret. “I said I was sorry. I am.”

“I never thought my
torke
would hit me.”

“That’s enough. I know what I did.” The repetition fanned Colbey’s growing annoyance. “You’re insulting my apology.”

Episte turned away, rubbing at the site on his cheek where the blow had landed. Still, he did not permit the apology.

Frustration drove Colbey to strike back in kind. “You’re not blameless either.”

Episte spun back, hurt instantly replaced by rage. “So now you’re holding me at fault for getting hit by you?”

“No. I’m holding you at fault for attacking your younger brother at the festival.”

Episte avoided Colbey’s eyes. His mouth opened, then snapped closed. He spoke in a flat tone indicating building anger. “Rache told you that?”

Colbey kept his gaze fixed on Episte. He had regained the upper hand, yet that was never what he had sought. “The farmers told me. And Garn gave me details.”

“It was spar.” Episte defended himself.

“Spar indicates a willingness on both sides. What Garn described didn’t sound like that.”

Episte chewed his lower lips, still dodging Colbey’s gaze. “It’s none of your business. What happened at the festival is between Rache and me.”

The disrespect further enraged Colbey, and the immediate importance of the apology receded. “First, there’s a reason why the Renshai tongue doesn’t have a separate word for teacher and sword master. If you learn nothing else, I would have you understand this: Violating the bond of brotherhood is every bit as dishonorable as striking a student. Second, whatever you think of what I did once, I’m still your
torke
; and you will address me with respect.”

This time, Colbey’s cold eyes caught and held Episte’s, though not for long. The teen glanced away swiftly.

“Do you understand that?”

Episte went perfectly still, gaze on his boots. “Yes,
torke
,” he said, his tone expressionless and unreadable.

“You will apologize to Rache.”

“Yes,
torke.
” The blandness of the response indicated that Episte was responding without listening to or considering the demands and questions.

Still short of the needed acknowledgment, Colbey pressed one last time. “Did you understand my apology?”

“Yes,
torke.
”

“Do you have anything to say, Episte?”

Colbey held his breath, hoping his student would take a moment to give the question the consideration it deserved.

But Episte’s response came equally quickly. He did not modulate his voice in any way. “No,
torke.
”

Colbey hesitated, fingers unconsciously massaging Harval’s hilt. He could not force his apology upon the boy, yet the absence of acceptance left a hollow in his gut that made him feel incomplete. It was not a need to have things settled so much as a need to reestablish, and to enhance, the bonds beyond blood they had once shared. From this point on, he had no choice but to leave the initiative in the youngster’s hands. “You’re dismissed, Episte.”

“Yes,
torke
,” Episte said in the same monotone. Without another word, he spun on his heel and headed from the clearing.

Colbey and his students, Garn, Shadimar, and Secodon set out from Greentree that day, their bellies full of festival leftovers and their packs crammed with rations for travel. The farmers knew their herds well enough to recognize the earliest signs of improving health. And, if the lack of a corpse failed to convince them of the demise of Flanner’s bane, the charred porch left little doubt that the Renshai and the Wizard had confronted the creature and survived.

Gradually, the fields of the farm town merged into a vista of oak forest. Well-rested and fed, the horses threaded easily between the trunks, choosing deer trails and more open routes whenever possible. Freed from the burden of hunting, Mitrian chatted animatedly with Garn, who seemed thrilled at the companionship. The two younger Renshai rode ahead or halted, exploring every nook and hollow that might catch a teenager’s fancy. Even Shadimar seemed uplifted. His features lost some of their craggy solemnity, and he occasionally spoke to the wolf, where it perched on his horse’s rump.

Only Colbey seemed alone, a prisoner of the body that had served him unfailingly for seventy-six years. He bore the scars of countless battles, the worst of which still puckered the skin across his chest and side. In the past, Colbey’s natural defenses had always repaired the breaks, cuts, and illnesses, with the help of a handful of herbs. But, despite Shadimar’s poultice, the claw strikes of the demon did not heal.

Unwilling to alarm his companions, Colbey kept his hand bandaged. When traditional herbs failed, he led the party in wild loops for legendary cures, without explanation. The salivary gland of a black squirrel gained him
nothing more than the sap of a maple mixed with river tar. As the wound worsened, Colbey lost the will to unwrap the bandage every day, and pain forced him to wield a single sword, right-handed. Unconsciously, Colbey used his students as an outlet for his frustration. Episte and Mitrian appeared eternally tired, and Rache became haggard due not only to the added violence of the old Renshai’s training, but also to Garn’s insistence that he learn the use of other weapons as well.

Two weeks outside of the farming town of Greentree, Colbey found himself too troubled to sleep. He took first watch that night. The sky formed a film of gray, tapering to pink at the horizons. The moon hovered like a blood spot, dull compared to the campfire’s light and heat. Colbey looked at the withered shadows of the trees. His gaze dropped slowly to the ground, passing over each of his sleeping companions in turn, then flickered across the layers of cloth that enwrapped his left hand.

Colbey looked away. Again, he stared into the distance, but his focus always returned to the same thing, like a fishing line cast outward and always reeled back. The silver disappeared from the sky, replaced by a darkness spoiled only by the dwindling fire and the diffuse glow of the moon. Time passed in a throbbing cycle. The pain of the wound had become too familiar, and deeper with time. From the position of the moon, Colbey knew he should awaken Mitrian for her watch; but he saw no reason to disturb her while he could not sleep. And he knew he had no choice but to look upon his hand.

Once made, the decision allowed him to notice something that had slipped past his gaze before. Swollen red streaks ran along his arm, their edges just beginning to show beneath the bandage. Once discovered, the infection filled his thoughts, and he could not turn away again. Despair threatened to overwhelm him. He had outlived his peers by nearly five decades. He had dedicated his life to his swords and accomplished more than any Renshai before him. Nothing remained except to train his successor and die in glory; but Colbey knew now that he would lose his hand and his arm and, therefore, his chance to enter Valhalla. Moments passed like days while Colbey stared at his inflamed hand, knowing it would
soon steal the dignity from life and the honor from death.
The other Renshai deserve better than a ravaged old man condemned to the frozen wastes of Hel.

Colbey unwrapped the bandage. He could combat a dozen Northmen at once and enjoy the challenge, yet it took all of his courage to look upon his own hand. Once he did, he could not tear his gaze from it. Its back had become a grossly swollen mass of clotted blood and fluid. His fingers had shriveled and purpled, becoming black at the tips. All about it crept the red rash.

“Days.” Only one solution presented itself to Colbey.
I have to die in battle, before the infection claims my hand.
His thoughts raced.
I have to find a town in these dense, forsaken woods, an army to attack and a war in which to die.
Once a threat, death became a mellow promise, and the aching in Colbey’s hand gave way before the strength of his mind. Yet guilt rose to spoil the serenity that should have come with the decision.
To kill innocents to preserve my place in Valhalla would undermine all I’ve tried to do to recreate the Renshai and restore the honor stolen through decades of wanton killing.

A swishing noise snapped Colbey’s attention from his thoughts. Instinctively, he leapt aside, and a dozen arrows fell about the scarlet flicker of the campfire.

“Up!” Colbey screamed. He scattered the coals with a wild kick that plunged them into darkness. “Scatter,” he whispered gruffly. “They can’t take us all!” He added quickly in Renshai, “We’ll meet back at the damaged tree.” It was a landmark all of his companions would remember, a lightning-struck oak with barkless stripes running down its trunk that they had passed during the day. Hoping Mitrian would interpret for Garn, Colbey headed directly for the bowmen.

The Renshai’s feet made no sound on the carpet of greenery that wound beneath the trees. His eyes adjusted to the more complete darkness, and he slowed his pace to think. Without the guidance of the fire, night would foil the archers’ aim, and they would need to draw hand weapons to battle. Having lost the advantage of surprise, they would need numbers to fight Renshai. Colbey’s mind traced the trajectory of the arrows, and memory told him
that the shafts had come from many directions. If so, the enemy would need to regroup.

With the stealth of a predator, Colbey doubled back on his trail. In the distance, he heard some indiscernible calls. A closer movement froze him. An instant later, he heard musical voices using the Northern tongue:

“Aksel, is that you?”

“Quiet. Yes. This way.”

Moonlight glimmered from blond war braids, and the pair passed Colbey, apparently without seeing him. Colbey followed, heart pounding. He touched the cold steel of Harval’s hilt with fingers slick with anticipation, scarcely daring to believe his luck.
How generous of the Northmen to come along just when I needed a target.
Blood lust burned like fever, and Colbey went dizzy with hatred. It took a monumental effort to keep from leaping upon these Northmen.
Better to find the other Northmen and fight them all at once.
He tried to clench the fingers of a dying hand he had not had the chance to rebandage, but they would not obey him. He let the arm hang and trailed the Northmen into the woods. At length, he found a gathering of fair-skinned archers.

Colbey sprang with a howl. Two fell before they saw the danger. A third leapt to meet Colbey. The Renshai chopped him down with a single stroke and turned to face the next. Had the Northmen considered their strategy, they would have surrounded Colbey and struck from all sides. But hatred or overconfidence drove them to riot. They bore in on Colbey, a waving wall of steel.

They fought nine to one, but Colbey delivered three blows to each of the most agile Northmen’s one. The Renshai let the battle madness take him, without regard to defense. He sought death. He and the sword became a team of slaughter, and two more reavers fell before the Northmen finally closed around him. Three swords swept for Colbey. He knew, with a master’s eye, he could block only two.

Colbey loosed a glorious death scream, “Modi!” One sword glanced from his blade. A second fell against it with an impact that nearly wrenched it from his hands. The third never landed. Its wielder staggered backward, run through by a spear Colbey never saw coming. Suddenly,
the Renshai had an ally, a dark stranger who jabbed far more slowly.