The Western Wizard (75 page)

The need to run seized Arduwyn with a violence that sent him surging to his feet. He ached, the hurt of losing Bel reducing his leg’s injury to a distant, dull throb that could not stop him. It was an agony too sharp and new to share, and the idea of facing strangers or friends seemed a chore too painful to bear. He surged to his feet.
Have to go. Have to get away. Have to run.
The idea seized control, and no logic could displace it. Solace would come, not from any person, city, or town, but from movement and from the woodlands. Only one regret could penetrate the irresistible, driving necessity of escape.
Sterrane will take care of Sylva, and she couldn’t have a better guardian.
Arduwyn limped for the door.

*  *  *

King Sterrane of Béarn shuffled through Arduwyn’s quarters, not bothering to knock until he reached the bedroom that belonged to the hunter’s daughter. There he raised a hand as thick and nearly as furred as a bear’s claw, knuckling it into a fist. The tears had stopped, arrested by the physician’s news, but his eyes ached and burned. His grief had dulled from the fire that had seared his gut to a flat emptiness that memory could no longer spark into wild jags of crying. Still, the task he had come to perform gnawed at him.
I should never have left the room, but Sylva needed the time away. She’s been through too much
. He tapped on the chamber door.

A moment of silence followed. Then the panel swung partway open, framing Sylva in the crack. Her strawberry blonde hair lay in disarray, her dark eyes red and swollen. She studied Sterrane expectantly, needing his
news too much to waste time with amenities or questions.

“Father well,” he said in his broken Western tongue.

A slight smile twitched at the corners of Sylva’s mouth, and Sterrane thought he read relief in her eyes, tempered by uncertainty. Obviously, she could tell he had not yet finished.

“Ardy . . .” Sterrane said. Unable to deal the girl more bad news, he clung to the good. “. . . well. Get all better.”

“He ran, didn’t he?” Though barely thirteen, Sylva spoke with a rare insight. No malice touched her words.

Sterrane placed a fatherly arm around the youngster, gently steering her back into the room. The bed lay against the far wall, the coverlets rumpled. A chest of clothing sat in the space at the foot of the bed. Beside it, a shelf held an assortment of knick-knacks, ranging from a smiling horse Sterrane had carved from a block of wood as a present for her third birthday, to an emerald necklace that Arduwyn had bartered on her thirteenth, to the bow and green and pink fletched arrows she and her father had crafted together. Sterrane led her to the bed. He sat, and she sat beside him. Despite the revelation that she had guessed accurately, she did not cry.

“How you know?” Sterrane asked.

“Because Mama . . .” Sylva’s voice broke on the word, but she managed to continue without losing a word, “. . . always said he was a runner. She said that whenever something bad happened or he had to take too much responsibility, he would go off into the forests looking for ‘something.’ She had to make him take vows just to come home each night.”

Sterrane knew he needed to make Sylva understand, to keep the vital bonds between father and daughter alive. Still, though his block to learning languages hampered his ability to soothe with speech, it never occurred to him to use anything but the native language of Sylva and her parents. “Ardy love you. Not run
from
you.”

Sylva spared Sterrane the need to explain. “I know. I spent enough time with Papa in the woods to know lots of things Mama couldn’t ever understand.” She patted Sterrane’s hand, switching into the role of comforter. “It
wasn’t his vow that kept him coming back, it was his love for her. He just needs to work things out for himself, before he can help me. The forest puts him in the right mind-set. When the time comes, he’ll return.”

Sterrane stared, shocked by the girl’s calm acceptance. He had seen her just after Bel’s death, racked by a grief that left no place for logic. Yet, clearly, she understood her father as well as any man or woman could. “Me love him and you. If need, me
always
here.” He emphasized the important word, hoping she would understand that no affairs of state, kingdom, or family would take precedence over her need. “Always. You
my
daughter until Ardy comes back.”

Sylva wrapped her arms around Sterrane’s huge waist, pressing her cheek into his soft, ample belly. “I love you, too, Uncle Sterrane the bear.” She addressed him by the play name she and her half-siblings had used for him since childhood, when the high king had romped and growled with them on the floor.

A sudden warmth replaced the emotional void, and Sterrane began to cry again.

Colbey Calistinsson rode at the head of the band of Renshai, his mood setting the tone for the day. Despite their triumph at Wolf Point, his companions remained generally quiet, whispering amongst themselves, and Colbey made no attempt to overhear their comments, especially those concerning Shadimar. He had simply told his companions that the Eastern Wizard had left. Only Mitrian had dared to question the reasons and whether Shadimar would return. Colbey’s silence about the first and ignorance of the second had pacified even her. He scarcely noticed when Garn caught up with them on the trail and related his story, Mitrian tending to his scratches and bruises. That Rathelon had died was all Colbey needed to know.

The day seemed attuned to Colbey’s somber disinterest. Clouds obscured the sun, scudding across the dark sky, leaving just a hint of coming rain. Although he had attended his practice, as always, Colbey had ignored his own grooming as well as Frost Reaver’s. The soiled ribbons and elegant braids had fallen from the charger’s mane, and its shaggy hair flew as free as its rider’s. Colbey took to riding farther and farther ahead of the party, on the pretext of scouting. Apparently recognizing his need for solitude, or perhaps to escape his disposition, the others did not press.

Near midday, Colbey discovered a town amid the fields, one among many farm villages in the central Westlands. Cottages lined both sides of the main street, which was wide and cobbled, dirty and completely deserted. Its stillness awakened deep, sweet memories of
panicked townsfolk cowering behind the walls of fortresses or temples, raining arrows, rocks, and less lethal objects upon the Renshai warriors. Colbey forced this thought aside with a toss of his head and glanced cautiously at the shuttered windows and bolted doors. Frost Reaver’s hooves clopped down the thoroughfare, bouncing echoes across otherwise soundless streets.

A dark head poked through a nearby doorway. “Hey, old man! Come here. Quickly.”

Colbey drew rein.

“Quickly,” the man cried urgently. “The streets aren’t safe.”

Though afraid of nothing, Colbey dismounted, wondering if he would soon face another demon like Flanner’s bane. The challenge lifted his mood enough for him to head toward the call, leading Frost Reaver by the bridle.

At the door, a man met Colbey. Behind him, a plump Western woman clutched a baby to her breast. A girl with hollowed eyes and a dripping nose peeked from behind the woman’s leg, shying from the white-haired stranger. A mangy dog growled, but it kept its distance.

As Colbey stopped directly in front of the cottage, a soft-eyed youth slipped past his mother and siblings. Pushing the mutt aside with his leg, he slipped into the street, reaching for Frost Reaver. “Is that an Erythanian charger?” Hope filled his expression.

“It is.” Colbey refused to relinquish his grip on the bridle.

The older man studied Colbey’s lean, grizzled figure doubtfully. “You’re a knight, then? We could use your sword arm to defend Sholton-Or. Let my son take your steed to the stable and please come inside.”

Again, the boy reached for Frost Reaver and, again, Colbey refused him. “No. I’ve only come for supplies. If I join your battle, it won’t be cowering behind locked doors.”

The youth dropped his hands to his sides. The elder frowned. “At least accept our hospitality long enough to hear our story. We can pay you for your help, if not in money, then with the supplies you need.”

Colbey saw no reason to let his own troubles drive him to rudeness. No matter Shadimar’s doubts, the Renshai had pledged to aid the Westlands. He removed the bridle, exchanged it for a halter, and tethered the lead rope to a ring post next to the cottage.

The younger man returned to the cottage. The woman and her children retreated, and the father gestured Colbey inside.

Colbey entered a room furnished simply with stools, crates, and chests. A fire burned in the hearth, and doorways led to the pantry and sleeping quarters. Taking the baby, the youth sat on a crate, balancing the infant on his knees. The woman disappeared into the pantry. The girl skittered through one of the other doorways, studying Colbey from around the corner. The father motioned toward the most comfortable-looking stool nearest the fire. “Sit. Please.”

Colbey obliged, and the man took a perch on a nearby chest. “A stranger came to Sholton-Or two days before you. A Northman, our chieftain believes.”

Colbey suddenly became fully engrossed in the story. The woman appeared from the pantry, offering each of the men a steaming mug of tea. Colbey accepted his, but caution did not allow him to sip it. He set the drink on the floor beside him, untasted.

The man took a small drink, then put his mug aside as well. “The stranger joined us at the tavern. He seemed a quiet and mysterious man. He called himself Eksilir.” He gave it a reasonably proper Northern pronunciation.

Colbey translated the name silently.
Exiled One.
By Valr Kirin’s vow, the Northmen should all have returned home. Curiosity soured to suspicion. He thought of Olvaerr and the loyalty to father that had driven him to break Kirin’s promise and nearly send his father’s soul to Hel.
Perhaps his attack against Kirin’s oath might have earned him exile.
The idea saddened Colbey.
If I could forgive the transgression, his people have no reason not to do the same.
“Could you describe this Northman?”

“Ach.” The man waved a hand in testy dismissal. “All Northmen look alike to me. Yellow hair, pasty skin,
armed with swords. I—” He broke off suddenly, as if noticing his guest for the first time. Golden hairs still wound through the white, and Colbey’s fair features betrayed his heritage. “Are you really an Erythanian knight?”

“Pledged in the service of King Sterrane. You needn’t fear me.”

The peasant cleared his throat, continuing more carefully. “He did have one identifying mark: a coiled serpent etched on the back of his hand. It looked scarred, colored, and permanent, though perhaps not fully healed.”

“A serpent.” Colbey considered. He recalled no such symbol on Olvaerr nor on any other Northman. “I still don’t understand. Why do you fear the streets?”

The man glanced around. His gaze fell on the girl peeking from the room, and he dropped his voice too low for her to hear. “Jake, our tailor, invited the Northman home. The stranger raped his daughter. When Jake tried to intercede, the Northman killed him. He left Sholton-Or a warning that won’t leave my memory, even for a moment.” The elder lowered his head. “He said: ‘In three days, a small band of Northmen crueler than I will descend upon your city.’” He made a gesture that Colbey did not recognize, though the crisp ease of it made him certain it was a well used religious warding. “Please forgive my language. I am quoting.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He called them . . .” He lowered his voice, peeking around as if afraid someone might spy on him in his own home. “. . . Renshai. Led by the Golden Prince of Demons himself. He said they’d kill everyone. Women. Children. Everyone.”

Colbey nodded solemnly, more in response to his own thoughts than the other’s words. Apparently, the Northman who called himself Eksilir, the Exiled One, hated Renshai enough to set the town of Sholton-Or upon them. Obviously, he had hoped the citizenry would fill them with arrows as soon as they approached the town borders.
Had I not been in my present mood and ranging far ahead, we might have lost one or two, at least, and slaughtered more than a few townsfolk in retaliation.
The intricacy of the plan astounded Colbey.
Northmen fight
with weapons, not tactics.
Immediately, the exception presented itself to him.
Valr Kirin.
However, he knew without need to ponder too long that, even had the Nordmirian lieutenant been alive, he would never have stooped to evil. Northmen’s laws forbade rape and violence against those who offered hospitality.

The man continued, oblivious to the turn of Colbey’s thoughts. “In front of the entire town, the Northman laughed at us. He stole the chieftain’s own horse and slaughtered the seven warriors we sent after him. Good fighters, all of them. Veterans of the Great War.”

The townsman’s words put the last piece in place.
A Northman destined to betray the West and his clan. A swordsman unmatched by another mortal man.
Colbey harbored little doubt that the Northman with the mark of the coiled serpent was the same one who had dismembered Episte and, most likely, the one who had set the man trap that had injured Mitrian.
Any Northman who dishonors the dead so completely, who would rape and lie, has already betrayed not only his tribe, but the tenets that unite the North, no matter how loosely, as well as his religion and his gods.
That last thought hit home, and Colbey cringed at the questioning he had done since the appearance of the
Valkyrie
at Valr Kirin’s death.
It’s not the gods and our religion that need questioning, it’s some of the arbitrary rules and restrictions placed on it by men. To hold Sif responsible for our own folly would be the most serious of mistakes.

Still, though Colbey believed he had found Carcophan’s champion, one part of the description did not fit.
A swordsman unmatched by another mortal man.
The phrase had circled Colbey’s head so many times, the syllables held a rhythm all their own.
Who is this Northman more skilled with a sword than I am?
Despite the danger, Colbey could not help but feel intrigued. The idea of matching blades with one whom the gods and Wizards considered the better swordsman became an irresistible challenge. If he could get the other to fight fairly, he might finally find Valhalla.