The Western Wizard (73 page)

The wolf bounded from the direction of the camp, skidding between Colbey and Shadimar.

Colbey studied the wolf only briefly. If he wanted to attack Shadimar, its presence would prove no deterrent and little more than a delay.

He had to understand what had turned the Eastern Wizard against him. He needed to convince the guardian of the West of the truth necessary for the Wizard to make his earth-shattering judgments, and he wanted to regain the trust and brotherhood they had shared. Yet Colbey saw no purpose to driving their conversation into another loop. If his deeds and motivations over the last several months could not convince Shadimar of his allegiance, words could do nothing more.
I can fight a battle unarmed, but not an argument.
Colbey considered requesting Shadimar’s permission to enter his mind; but, under the circumstances, he had no doubt the Eastern Wizard would refuse him.
The safety of the Westlands and the Renshai is at stake. Shadimar can’t protect them without the truth. And I can’t convince him of that truth unless I know the source of this misunderstanding
.

Shadimar spoke so softly that Colbey, lost in thought, nearly missed the command. “Give me Harval.”

Colbey’s hand slipped to the sword, at first believing compliance might convince Shadimar in a way no explanations
or questions could. Then he recalled the Wizard’s words in the town of Greentree: “Like Wizards, demons can’t be harmed by anything of Odin’s world. Without Harval you can’t do anything against your enemies, except die.” If he gave the sword to Shadimar, Colbey knew he had no chance to stand against the Northern Sorceress who had sent minions, in man and demon form, against him. Still, Colbey did not wholly deny the weapon from its guardian. “I will give it to you, though you know that would make me helpless against our enemies.”

Shadimar balked at the word “our,” his hands clutching into fists. Despite his obvious discomfort, he wore an expression of wary hope.

“I ask only one thing.”

Shadimar nodded carefully.

“You need only say that we are still friends and that you will do nothing to harm me or the Renshai.”

Shadimar opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again, glancing at the sky as if for heavenly guidance. “I . . .” he started, and stopped. He whirled suddenly, his back to Colbey. His fist slammed against an oak, loosing a shower of acorns that drummed onto the stump and rattled across the forest’s carpet of leaves. “Damn you! You know I can’t lie!”

Secodon crouched, but he seemed confused by the strength of the emotions radiating from his master, unaccompanied by a direct command.

Colbey removed his hand from Harval. Justifying his intrusion with need, he eased a mental probe into Shadimar’s mind.

The Wizard remained in position, his fingers tensing and loosening. He seemed to take no notice of Colbey’s presence.

Immediately, Colbey found his awareness thrust amid a turmoil of frustration, concern, and rage, liberally entwined with constraints born of law and honor. Emotion scrambled the thoughts into an unreadable jumble. Unable to sort anything out, Colbey pushed past to the source of Shadimar’s distress. His consciousness snaked through blinds and passages, weaving through ideas that bore little
significance to him, mostly unintelligible fragments of magic and legend. Beyond it all, he discovered a poem:

Colbey’s mind froze there, strength draining away from the effort of maintaining the contact. Shadimar’s understanding filled in the gaps in Colbey’s knowledge. He knew that the poem came from an origin too ancient and honor-bound to lie. He discovered that the Eighteenth Dark Lord was the Southern Wizard, Carcophan. And, like Shadimar and his sources, Colbey saw how the prophecy had to refer to himself.

Colbey discovered other things, too. He found the end of a more familiar lyric, one there could no longer be any doubt described himself: “He will hold legend and destiny in his hand and wield them like a sword. Too late shall he be known unto you: The Golden Prince of Demons.”
Too late. What does that mean?

Before he could contemplate this for too long, Colbey found a prediction that distressed Shadimar more, one that promised the
Ragnarok
would occur when three Swords of Power existed on man’s world at once. Harval was one and Ristoril another. He understood that Ristoril had already returned to its rightful place, but only time would tell if the last Sword had existed on this world simultaneously.

Colbey’s heart quickened. The total destruction of the world made the claim that he would betray Renshai seem minimal. Yet, for reasons he could not explain, his probe kept returning to the original verse: “A swordsman unmatched by another mortal man.” Desperately, Colbey searched for the loophole. Perhaps, somewhere, there lived a swordsman more skilled than himself, but he did not consider that too probable. A warrior of such ability
could not remain secluded long, and Trilless’ certainty had convinced Shadimar. Only one other suggestion presented itself. And, in his excitement and rapidly growing fatigue, Colbey spoke his thought aloud. “If I really am a demon, or part a demon, perhaps I’m not a mortal man.”

Fogged by an effort that had nearly drained him of physical and mental energy, it took Colbey a moment to find the error in his logic.
If I was a demon, the Northmen’s swords could not have drawn blood from me. And they did.

Even as the thought came, understanding of Colbey’s presence flared abruptly through Shadimar’s mind. The Wizard yelped, panic obscuring his thoughts. Mental barriers dropped like portcullises. They sealed mental and emotional pathways at random, revealing to Colbey that Shadimar could not detect the specific location of his probe.

Caught, Colbey retreated. His thread of thought crashed against a barrier in his line of escape. His reality wavered, threatening unconscious. Uncertain what the effect of collapsing while ensconced in another’s thoughts would be, on himself or on the Wizard, he drew back and thrust hurriedly against the barrier.

The wall shattered like ancient bone. Shadimar screamed in agony, collapsing to his knees on the forest floor, and Colbey jerked free. Dizzied, he forced his body absolutely still, unwilling to spend even a fragment of his failing stamina. His mind staggered through a haze of whirling flashes of color. Shadimar’s form went misty, a warped, unidentifiable shadow highlighted by the moon. Secodon whined in terror, standing protectively over his master.

“Why?” Shadimar said, rising to his hands and knees. Then louder, “Why!” Yet, despite forcefulness and volume, Colbey knew the Eastern Wizard did not expect an answer. And, for the moment, Colbey feared attempting one might drain him of whatever awareness remained. A thought slipped clearly from the Wizard, bathed in an aura of hope.
If I gave Harval to Carcophan’s champion, then he has no reason to summon the Dark Sword. The
world may yet be safe thanks to my own gullible stupidity.

Despite the risk, Colbey knew he had to speak. He kept his voice barely above a whisper, still holding his position with grim stoicism. War had made him adept at hiding weakness from enemies. “Wizard, once-brother, I give you back your own words. You once told me that prophecies do not predict the future, only guide Wizards to their responsibilities. Why would you damn me for a prophecy I have evaded?”

Shadimar climbed gingerly to his feet, the wolf a quiet sentinel in front of him. His movements seemed uncharacteristically clumsy. He spoke equally softly, wincing with each syllable, like a man awakening from a drinking binge who finds every light too bright and every noise thunderous. “I can believe that a prophecy was thwarted. I cannot believe that a Wizard would have a hand in ruining his own task. Had you told me that Carcophan had come to recruit you and you killed him, then I would believe you had thwarted the prophecy.” Shadimar paused for breath. “Carcophan would not abandon the champion rightfully his without a struggle, the like of which would be beyond your imagination. Anything less would violate his Wizard’s vows. The consequences of that would prove far worse than anything you could do to him.”

After decades of war, Colbey doubted any struggle could be beyond his imagination, but he appreciated the rational exchange of information, so he let this pass. The need for sleep pressed Colbey unmercifully, but he would not drop the conversation just as he had begun to understand Shadimar’s concerns. “Carcophan has not approached me yet. When he does, I’ll refuse him. He won’t find it easy to take an unwilling champion who wields a sword that can kill him.” He clutched Harval’s hilt. “My friend, I’ll do what’s best for you and the Westlands.”

A slash of strength returned to Shadimar, born of raw anger. “You’re no friend of mine.” Rage flared, then died without the physical energy it needed as fuel. Still Shadimar curled into his own defensiveness, the entire emotional exchange readable to Colbey. “A friend would
not rape my thoughts. No man could have the mind powers you possess. They could only come of chaos. And since only the Cardinal Wizards can manipulate magic, you can be nothing other than a demon. The Golden Prince of Demons. And nothing an unbound demon says can be trusted.”

The accusation pained and seemed, at the same time, outrageous. “If I had a year of life for every man who attributed my sword skill to magic instead of practice, I could outlive the gods.” Colbey felt his own vitality returning, though he still felt dizzy. “Now you attribute the mental control I’ve driven myself to achieve for seventy years to that same magic.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you knew better.”

Secodon crouched, his brown eyes fixed on Colbey and his lips pulled away from his canines. Colbey saw the same violence echoed in the Eastern Wizard’s stance. Instinctively, Colbey went on his guard, though the effort sent a wave of vertigo through him. The wolf, Colbey believed, he could handle. He had no experience on which to judge Shadimar’s threat. Logic and observation told him that the Wizards practiced only illusion. Shadimar’s confidence suggested otherwise. “You know what you are.”

Colbey had tired of hearing those words from men who believed him other than what he knew. Yet when so many with power felt so sure, he could not help wondering whether he was not the one who was mistaken.

“As did Kirin and Trilless. And so now do I.”

“We’re no longer brothers or friends?” Colbey needed to know for certain.

“How could we be?”

“And I am no longer your champion?”

Shadimar went silent.

“Answer me, Shadimar. I have a right to know.”

The Wizard looked up, his gray eyes cold. The certainty of violence became stronger; it now radiated from his manner and thought as well. “You are still my champion.” The trailing idea came to Colbey as emphatically as the spoken words.
Death alone can sever that tie, once made.

Colbey had tired of the mistrust. It incensed him that
a Wizard he had considered a brother had written off not only his life, but his honor, on the basis of an ancient prophecy that Colbey had had no hand in writing. “My death or yours, Shadimar?”

The Eastern Wizard made a sharp cry of distress, pierced by Secodon’s whine. Shadimar’s hand whipped upward, and he enunciated a foreign string of syllables.

Colbey hesitated only an eye blink, not wanting to act on a misunderstanding. But the murder in Shadimar’s intentions struck unmistakably and without place for doubt.

I won’t die like this.
Colbey drew Harval and charged.

Secodon launched for Colbey’s sword arm, but the Renshai anticipated and dodged. He lunged beneath the wolf’s attack.

The tempo and intensity of Shadimar’s chant changed instantly. Colbey’s sword jabbed true, but he met no resistance. The Wizard and his wolf had disappeared.

Under ordinary circumstances, Colbey could have recovered instantly. Now, however, fatigue robbed him of all grace, and he did not even try to pull the blow. Momentum carried him into the stump that Shadimar had used as a seat. He toppled over it, not daring to shield his fall. Further deliberate movement would drain the last dregs of his awareness, and he would not let Shadimar return to find him helpless and unconscious. Delicately, Colbey sheathed Harval.

Destined to betray . . . his clan.
Colbey lay still, considering the words of the prophecy.
It can’t mean me. I would never stand against the Renshai
. Yet the direction of his earlier thoughts, while on watch, bothered him. Before Valr Kirin’s death, Colbey had never thought to question the basic tenets and foundation of his theology and the Renshai’s place within it. In fact, he had quelled the questions of those who dared to doubt, at times with violence.
Ungrounded superstition. And how much more of my religion is the same?
He thought about the Renshai then, the wild, savage tribe he had known as a child. It bore little comparison to the scraggly band of six that now called themselves by the same name, half of whom had never learned a single of the sword maneuvers that distinguished the Renshai. All lacked the lunatic, frenzied need for battle that stole meaning from all in life
except the chance to die in glory. By choice, Colbey had trained the savagery away, replacing it with a morality based on thought rather than arbitrary rules. And now he scarcely recognized the tribe he protected, nurtured, and called his own.

Colbey remained in place, trusting his instincts to warn him of Shadimar’s return, not even wasting the shred of vitality that forced alertness might cost him. His mind returned him to a day among central Westland farm towns and wearied Pudarian soldiers. He had placed the question of the Renshai’s future to Sif, and her presence made him certain that he had trained her people as she preferred. Yet among Renshai, Colbey had become the piece that jarred, the last, ruthless remnant of a tribe that had softened its tactics, if not its rigid pursuit of perfection in sword technique.
Mitrian knows the Renshai maneuvers, and she has an imagination that will drive her to create more, even as she masters those she knows. She can teach and lead.