The Western Wizard (53 page)

Energy rose fresh within Colbey, spurred by his battle cry and frustration. He lunged to meet the last six of his attackers. Even as he did so, other Renshai joined him, drawn by his shout. Three more Northmen came as well. Moonlight danced from a dozen weapons. Screams resounded, thunder to the lightning exchange of swordplay. Blood splashed the trees, and war howls shattered the quiet of the night forest.

When the last of the Northmen fell in red defeat, Colbey found himself without new injury. He glanced at the swordsman at his side. It was Rache. The youngster’s sword dripped blood. His gaze locked on Colbey’s hand, and his face twisted into a grimace of horror.

Shadimar caught Colbey’s sword arm. “Come with me.”

Though still curious about the spearman who had come to his aid, Colbey followed Shadimar into the forest. As he walked, he cleaned and sheathed his sword. At length, the Eastern Wizard gestured to a tree stump, and Colbey sat in the indicated place. Shadimar reached for Colbey’s left hand.

Colbey pulled it away. “Just a scratch,” he gave the Wizard back his own description by way of explanation. “Your demon—”

Shadimar placed his hands on his hips. His voice held the hard edge of controlled anger. “You may attribute the storms at my home to me without insult. But I won’t take credit for the work of the Good One or of the Evil One. I took you as my champion. The day I gave you Harval, I put all possible trust into your hands. At the time, I thought them capable. Now I’ve come to doubt your judgment.”

Colbey lowered his head. “Without a chance at Valhalla, my life has no meaning. I thought I could kill as many enemies as possible while you escaped.” He looked up, no longer ashamed. “Once they killed me, they might let the others live. More than enough friends have died for me.”

Shadimar stood, immobile as a mountain. No part of him moved, except for his lips. The explanation seemed
lost on him; clearly, Colbey had misinterpreted the Wizard’s scolding. “Why didn’t you show me your hand before?”

Colbey blinked, incredulous. “You knew about it. A scratch, you called it.”

Shadimar frowned, deeply thoughtful. “And so I believed. Anything more damaging should have aged you decades.”

“Renshai tend to mature slowly.”

Shadimar denied the explanation. “Even Renshai would show the effect of forty years at once.”

Without a ready answer, Colbey shrugged. “Then apparently the ‘scratch’ was just dirty and deep enough to fester.”

“Apparently.”

The Eastern Wizard’s quiet consideration unnerved Colbey. For now, understanding and explanation had to take a back seat to solution. “You gave me a poultice. I used it. And a dozen other potential cures. Are you telling me now you could have done more?”

“Indeed.”

Crushed, Colbey stared at his good hand, still smeared with Northmen’s blood. “Can you still?”

Shadimar scowled. “Maybe. I’ll need your help. What would you customarily use for such a wound?”

Colbey balled his good hand to a fist, seeing the other scarcely respond to his command. “I’ve seen wounds in this state before. The Renshai knew how to cure them.” He rose. “We put the injured man at the front of a battle. Then, when the fighting grew most vicious . . .” Colbey met the Wizard’s gaze. “. . . we cut him down from behind.”

For some time, the harsh orchestra of crickets was Colbey’s only reply. Shadimar stood in silence, his expression unreadable. At long last, he spoke. “I meant
herbs
, Colbey!”

“I’ve tried every herb in this damned forest!”

“Try again.” Shadimar tossed his head. “Gather what you need. With my help, the result might be better.”

With a surge of desperate hope, Colbey slipped into the forest. He gathered sprigs of
ranweed
and the clear, green stems of touch-me-not. He scored a pine for sap
as a thickener and collected the central eyes of
garlet
flowers. By luck, he found a rare red-capped mushroom. He picked it as well. He returned to find Shadimar sitting on a stump as weathered as himself, writing on a silver piece of bark with a stylus.

Shadimar did not acknowledge Colbey’s return. The Renshai sat. Working one-handed made his task difficult, but he tore cloth for a bandage and crushed the herbs for a poultice. When he finished, Shadimar crumbled the bark into the mixture and helped Colbey apply it to his wound.

Colbey stared at his carefully wrapped hand without comment. As a young man, he had never believed in sorcery; and, until Greentree, he had never placed much stock in creatures of myth. But the healing in Shadimar’s ruins and the demon battle in the farm town gave Colbey a new perspective. Doubting Shadimar’s enchantments would do Colbey no good, so he chose to believe.

“Let’s get back,” Shadimar said.

Colbey nodded his agreement.

The two elders brushed through the foliage. Sooner than Colbey expected, he heard voices. Apparently, his companions had shifted their position to escape the Northmen’s bodies and the odor of death and blood, choosing the direction the two older men had taken. Colbey adjusted his course to veer directly toward them.

Almost immediately, a man appeared before them, as if created from the shadows of the brush. He stood as large as Sterrane, yet as firm and lean as Garn. Sable hair hung crookedly to his shoulders. He wore only a loincloth of spotted animal hide, and he clutched a stone-tipped spear.

Startled by the other’s sudden appearance, Colbey shied into a defensive crouch, hands falling naturally to his hilts.

A moment later, the man disappeared, seeming to fold into the darkness of the greenery. Colbey searched, eyes tracing the position where he had stood, seeking outline where he knew he would find no movement. When the figure eluded him, he turned his attention cautiously to Shadimar.

“I saw him,” Shadimar confirmed. “He was real.”

Recalling the spear that had saved his life during the battle, Colbey guessed he had discovered his ally. The animal movements, the primitive weapon, and the loincloth identified him as one of the barbarians who roved the southeastern Westlands in tribes. Once, only shortly before Colbey’s birth, the exiled Renshai had lived among these barbarians, learning the herbal lore that formed a basis for healing and a stealth that pervaded the Renshai sword maneuvers. Colbey recognized the barbarian’s hiding technique as well. The Renshai called it
brunnstil
, which literally meant “still and brown.”

“
Brunnstil
,” Colbey said softly. He imitated the maneuver, trying to become one with the forest. For all his practice and skill, he knew he could not match the barbarian’s thoroughness. Respect blossomed for the wild man.

The barbarian appeared again, this time in front of Colbey and just beyond his reach. Strong hazel eyes trained unwaveringly on the Renshai. “
Brunnstil
,” the barbarian echoed, his voice deep and his gruff dialect emphasizing the consonants. Muscles pulled taut beneath his bronzed skin, and Colbey noted the wiry tension that characterizes one who survives by wile and quickness as well as strength. “Ranshee?”

Colbey blinked, the second word meaning nothing to him, though he recognized something familiar about it. An instant later, the answer came.
Renshai.
He nearly laughed. “Renshai.” He restored the vowels and the melodious Northern pronunciation. “Yes, I am Renshai.”

“Ran-shigh.” The spearman attempted it again, coming closer. He broke into a rapid, guttural patter in a language Colbey did not understand.

Colbey glanced at Shadimar for help.

The Eastern Wizard shrugged to indicate ignorance.

Colbey shook his head.

Apparently recognizing the gap, the spearman fell silent. “Korgar,” he said. “Sangrit.”

Colbey took a logical guess. He pointed at the barbarian. “Korgar Sangrit?”

“Korgar.” The barbarian hammered a fist against his own chest. He pulled free a knife from the waistband of
his loincloth, the steel polished and the hilt of Northern design. “Sangrit.”

Colbey back-stepped. In his culture, waving a weapon was a sure gesture of challenge. But the barbarian kept his spear couched, holding the dagger with its blade pointed at the sky. His expression and voice revealed no malice. Certainly, the barbarian had taken the weapon from a Northman’s corpse. If the stranger’s people could work steel, Colbey felt certain the spear would not have a stone head.

At Colbey’s retreat, the barbarian frowned. “Korgar.” He tapped his chest. “Sangrit.” He jabbed the knife upward, then opened his mouth to indicate a missing word. The intensity of his gaze told Colbey that the barbarian expected him to supply it.

“Colbey,” he said. Again, he glanced at Shadimar. “Does he want me to fight?”

Shadimar made a noncommittal gesture. Clearly, he knew less about barbarians than Colbey.

That surprised the old Renshai, but he saw no reason to make an issue of it now.

“Coolba.” The barbarian mangled the name. He took a stride forward, letting the spear fall to the ground. With his now free hand, he made a lightning grab for Colbey’s right arm.

Instinctively, Colbey jerked away. The barbarian’s callused fingers scratched across the back of his wrist and fell free. Emotion wafted from the massive figure, its rawness buffeting Colbey: disappointment, frustration, and a waning respect. Colbey tried to grasp thoughts to explain the feelings. He became lost in a maze of superstition and custom, with origins lost to logical understanding. He did read violence in the barbarian’s intentions, but it lacked malice or hatred.

The barbarian made a hissing noise of annoyance and reached for Colbey again.

This time, Colbey allowed his hand to be caught. Meaty fingers engulfed his narrow wrist until it almost seemed to disappear. His flesh looked sallow in the barbarian’s dark grip, and the idea of surrendering his only useful hand brought sweat to Colbey’s temples.

Apparently drawn by the sound of the exchange, Mitrian,
Garn, Rache, and Secodon approached from behind the barbarian. The wild man turned his head to them. Then, apparently deeming them safe, he returned his attention to Colbey. “Coolba. Korgar.” He raised the knife. Hazel eyes without a hint of animal color or movement bored into Colbey’s gray-blue ones. “Sangrit?”

Colbey nodded, uncertain what his agreement entailed. Before he could ponder, the blade flashed in the moonlight. It slashed a shallow line across his wrist. For an instant, he felt nothing. Blood beaded the cut, trickling into his palm. The pain followed, a sharp jab that quickly settled to an ache.

Mitrian gasped. Rache leapt to his
torke
’s aid.

“No.” With his bandaged hand, Colbey made a gesture to stay the other Renshai.

Korgar flicked his gaze to Rache and growled. He passed the dagger to Colbey, rested his right wrist on Colbey’s bandage, and used his other hand to close the Renshai’s fingers around the hilt.

Not wanting to hurt the stranger, Colbey hesitated. He knew enough of barbarians to realize that reticence would be seen as weakness. Taking the knife, he opened a gash on the barbarian’s wrist, using care that it fell into the size and shape of the one Korgar had inflicted.

Korgar closed his bleeding hand about Colbey’s. Again, he met the Renshai’s gaze. “Korgar. Coolba.” His face wrinkled into deep lines of concentration. His grip tightened. His lips seemed to bend around syllables never meant for his palate. “
Brorin.
” It meant brother in Renshai and the pronunciation was nearly flawless.

Sudden understanding made Colbey smile. “Northmen exchange vows and share tribes. Apparently, barbarians take the words ‘blood brother’ more literally.” He clapped his still trickling hand to Korgar’s shoulder. The words jarred a memory. The elder Rache had become blood brother to Valr Kirin, a bond that had grown into the alliance between Vikerin and Santagithi’s Town. The train of thought sobered his mood. “There are more Northmen out there, I’m sure.” His gaze passed over his assembled companions. Korgar had discovered Secodon and crouched, stroking the wolf. Mitrian and Garn were nodding agreement, and Rache studied Korgar. Shadimar
leaned against a sapling, silent. Colbey saw no sign of the remaining Renshai. “Where’s Episte?”

Every eye turned to Rache.

The youngster fidgeted. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since we all went in different directions. I heard
torke
’s shout and came here.”

Thinking back on the battle, Colbey recalled the three Northmen who had joined in later. He tried to remember if they had arrived blooded. He was certain only that they were winded.
Maybe they came upon Episte first. They might have wounded or killed him.

“He’s probably waiting at the burned tree,” Mitrian said, though concern shone through her thin facade of casualness. “Where we were supposed to meet.”

Mitrian’s explanation seemed as likely as his own, yet Colbey could not banish alarm. “We need to find him. Before the Northmen do.” He glanced into the sky. Dawn grew on the horizon, and they could no longer rely on darkness to shield them. He cursed the time Shadimar’s cure and Korgar’s ceremony had stolen, wishing he had counted companions before moving on to other things. He plunged into the woods, the others at his heels.

“What about the horses?” Garn asked, always practical.

Colbey frowned. “There’re more Northmen in these woods. The first place they’ll look for us is the camp. We can’t risk getting the horses or supplies.” He pushed on, need gnawing at him, sparking a guilt that joined the aching burden of concern. Like nothing else, Episte’s disappearance translated Colbey’s feelings for the boy into love. The possibility that the teenager had died was like a physical pain, and he forced his thoughts to channel into two directions: Episte would return or they would find his corpse intact and surrounded by the bodies of enemies, his soul a treasure of the gods’
Valkyries.
Yet, for once, these thoughts did not sooth. Episte had to live for too many reasons to contemplate. Episte was alive. Until he had proof, his mind could not convince him otherwise.

The deer path widened to a trail. The opening accorded Colbey a distant impression of the lightning-struck oak, and he squinted for a glimpse of Episte in its
shadows. He saw no figures, and concern flared, burning him with a doubt that bordered on fear. As the group drew up to the tree, he still saw no sign of Episte, and the silence of his companions became conspicuous beneath the morning trills of birds. Mitrian stared at her feet. Garn continued to glance through the brush long after the others had surrendered to despair. Rache rubbed at his arms, his lip trapped between his teeth and his eyes moist. Shadimar stood, etched like a statue against the dawn. Korgar’s hand wandered over Secodon. The wolf lay on its back submissively, its paws in the air. Apparently, the barbarian knew the most satisfying places to scratch a wolf.