The Western Wizard (84 page)

“Tell me!” Episte screamed.

Colbey would not lie, especially not to Episte. “I did kill her. It was—” But the explanation never came.

With a howl of desperate courage, Vashi launched herself at the wall of archers. “Modi!” A dozen shafts flew for her. More than a few found their point-blank target, but the damage was done. Half the archers needed time to reload, and Colbey struck faster than thought. Near the center of the semicircle, three of the still-armed archers fell dead before they saw him move.

The room erupted into action as the Renshai plunged into the fray en masse. The archers abandoned their bows, unable to fire without hitting friends as well as
foes. Some of the survivors drew scimitars. Half chose to run; these fled through the door. Colbey heard the bronze portal crash closed behind him and the bolt slam into place. Apparently, they preferred to lock their crazed leader inside his court with a pack of Renshai so that the tower would not run with Eastern blood.

While Colbey, Tannin, and Mitrian slashed through the archers, Rache found the opening the others missed. Where Colbey’s blade reaped the foremost bowman, Rache slipped through, charging toward the dais and the frenzied youngster who paced before it. Though hard pressed by exhaustion to a battle with bowmen that would, under other circumstances, seem scarcely worth fighting, Colbey did not miss the wave of outrage, hatred, and grief wafting from Rache as he passed.

Colbey dispatched the last of the archers in front of him, trying and failing to channel strength to his body. He stumbled, alert, but physically unable to respond to the lightning fast dodges and strikes that usually came so naturally to him. He discovered that only three archers remained standing, one engaged with Tannin and two with Mitrian. Even as he watched, Mitrian cut down one. Regaining his balance, Colbey turned his attention to the battle at the dais.

Nearby, Carcophan and Shadimar stood in animated dispute, the wolf circling their feet. Rache’s and Episte’s swords swept for one another in slim arches and circles. For each of Rache’s power strokes, Episte had a block or a parry, and he returned them with murderous slashes far quicker than those of his younger foe. Entranced, Colbey watched both adolescents engage in the finest battle of their short existences. And he wished them both the best.

Episte was a flame of fury. The tip of his blade bit rents the length of Rache’s body. Repeatedly, Rache’s sword thrusts clanged against the breastplate, unable to pierce it. The armor did not appear to hinder Episte at all. Even with its weight and bulkiness, he outmaneuvered Rache. Two dozen harmless strokes cut air in both directions. Then Episte caught Rache’s sword between his own weapon and one lacquered greave.

Colbey saw the death stroke coming. If Rache wrenched downward, he opened his head to Episte. A
leaping back-step would give Episte a free stab at Rache’s chest. An instant’s pause would place the younger completely at the mercy of his frenzied brother. Apparently, Rache saw the same stalemate. “Modi!” he screamed, lowering his sword and dropping his body together. Episte’s blade whistled overhead, so close it tore some of the sandy hairs from Rache’s head. Rache sprang backward and to his feet. Colbey could see the sweat flung by the movement, colored red by numerous superficial wounds. Rache’s motions had become nearly as awkward as Colbey’s own; the intensity of his concentration and the constant need for attack and parry had sapped the young Renshai of strength. With the new vitality that certain death brings, Rache howled and plunged for Episte.

Mitrian ran her sword through the last of her opponents, pulling the blade free without bothering to watch the Easterner fall. Instantly, she spun, eyes riveting on the battle by the dais. With a cry of horrified alarm, she raised her sword and charged.

Colbey swore, stepping clumsily into her path. “Mitrian, no. It’s not your battle.”

Mitrian skidded to a stop. Her feet slipped on the blood-rimed floor, and momentum carried her into Colbey. She caught her balance with wide flailings of her arms. Then, bearings regained, she glared at Colbey. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of my way!”

“It’s not your battle,” Colbey repeated.

Several braziers had been scattered during the fight with the archers, leaving much of the room in darkness. Rache’s and Episte’s swords became pulsating dazzles of steel in shadow.

“Not my battle!” Mitrian screamed. “That’s my son!” She tried to veer around Colbey, but he shifted to block her path again. “No!” she shouted. “No!” A look of horrified understanding crossed her features. “You bastard! You’re so damned interested in their technique, you don’t want anyone interrupting your pleasure. Rache’s my child. I won’t let him die for your amusement.” She lunged, jabbing for Colbey’s abdomen with deadly accuracy.

Anger gave Colbey new strength. He drew and cut in
one movement. Their swords rang together. Instantly, the elder reversed the direction of his attack. The tip of his sword claimed the wolf’s head hilt, and Mitrian’s sword spun to the floor. Though he had plenty of opportunity to honor the blade by catching it, Colbey drew his other sword instead. Mitrian’s sword crashed, ringing, to the floor.

“Modi!” Mitrian dove for her hilt.

As her hand closed over the familiar haft, Colbey slammed a booted foot down on the blade hard enough to pinch her fingers between sword and floor. “That’s the last time anyone tells me what I am or why I do what I do! When Renshai lose respect for a
torke
, there is nothing more for him to teach. But this one last lesson you will learn.” Keeping his foot in place, Colbey motioned Mitrian to her feet.

Reluctantly, Mitrian released her sword and obeyed, rage still radiating from her person as well as her expression.

“Rache has the right to live or die by his own hand, with his honor intact. If you fight for him, you turn him into a coward.”

“But—” Mitrian started desperately.

“There are no exceptions.” Colbey met and held Mitrian’s gaze. “You are not a Renshai only when it suits your needs. Law and glory does not change just because it involves your son. The better swordsman will win. And the other will die a man. Don’t buy your son’s life at the price of his honor.”

Mitrian lowered her head, not quite hiding her tears.

“When their battle is finished, then you can challenge, if you feel the need.” Colbey released Mitrian’s sword. Cut to the heart, he considered the potential of the two young Renshai who had once found solace in one another’s presence but now thirsted for one another’s blood. Together, they could have made the Renshai great. Now, brother against brother, they would die. It was an old, tired, familiar irony. Always, it seemed, those who could form the most undefeatable alliances became the most powerful of enemies. The most capable warriors solved their problems with swords instead of a heated argument
over mugs of mead. Colbey watched the battle, regathering the strength that came with rest.

*  *  *

Rache felt as if his sword had quadrupled in weight, and sweat stung every part of his body. He and Episte exchanged strokes as swiftly as when the fight had begun, but the deadly accuracy waned as they both wearied. Rache made another futile stab for an opening in Episte’s armor. Again, Episte caught Rache’s sword against his greave.

“Modi!” Rache doubted the same maneuver would work twice, so he relied on speed. He leapt backward. For the second time, Episte’s sword whistled over Rache’s head. Rache knew that stroke should have claimed his neck. Episte could easily have taken his life. If Episte had missed, it was because he wanted it that way. If Rache still lived, it was because Episte had not yet chosen to kill him. The older teenager was toying with him as cruelly as Colbey had played the Erythanian knight.

Humiliation transformed to wild fury. Rache fought his final, desperate battle with dignity, mixing uniquely perfect Renshai techniques with the less directed power attacks that Garn had taught him. No matter Episte’s methods, Rache promised himself that he would fight the best battle he could. He would avenge his father’s death and Colbey’s honor, and damn the cost. Years of love transformed into a hatred heated by Episte’s decision to belittle as well as to kill.

“I loved you, damn it. You were my hero.” Rache’s own words brought him a second wind. He rained hammer blows on Episte, each relentless surge driving Episte backward. For the first time, Rache was in control, and his mouth twisted in a howl of triumph.

Episte’s foot met the obsidian stair of the dais. He parried as he climbed, weaving a wild web of defense. But Rache did not pause until he pressed his opponent against the jeweled wooden chair that served as a throne. A sudden pang of guilt rose then, driving Rache to the very hesitation that Colbey warned against, that had cost many men their lives. “You killed my father!” Now Rache knew no mercy. He lunged, thrusting with all the power he could put into the blow.

Episte dodged like an eel.

Instead of flesh, Rache’s blade cleft nothing, then embedded deeply into the wooden base of the chair. Episte’s blade sped for the hilt of Rache’s sword and Rache’s fingers.

Rache sprang backward to avoid the blow, disarming himself. Episte advanced. Nearly helpless, Rache retreated. His foot came down on empty air, and he tumbled down the dais stairs. His head banged against wood, and the steps stamped bruises across his limbs. He crashed to the floor, prone, aching in every part of his body. Instinctively, he tensed to roll and rise. Episte’s booted foot jarred into Rache’s back, sprawling him. The sharp nip of a blade at the base of Rache’s neck foretold his death. He dared not move. He steeled his mind for death, knowing in his heart that he had given his all.

The sword flicked across the back of Rache’s neck. He felt a momentary pressure at his throat, then the medallion he had worn since the battle near Greentree slithered free of his tunic.

Episte gasped and then he gave one wrenching sob and began to speak, his voice cooing and childlike, the soft alto he had used before time and puberty had deepened it. “No, Episte. You can’t kill Rache. He’s your brother.” The sword slipped from his shaking hand. He pulled the helmet from his head and tossed it to the ground. Episte sank to the floor, arms wrapped around his legs, his face hidden against his knees. And he wept.

Rache rose hesitantly and stared, with absolutely no idea of what to do next. The certainty of death had stolen the anger and vengeance that had driven him. The sobbing, huddled figure at his feet seemed too pitiful to kill, and it reminded him of the Episte he had known more than a decade ago. Uncertain whether to comfort, ignore, or kill, Rache turned to Colbey for guidance.

Corpses littered the courtroom floor, along with shattered and overturned braziers. Blood painted the floorboards red. Rache spotted Vashi among the bodies, pierced by more arrows than he bothered to count. Tannin kept a hand clamped around the fletching of a single arrow in his chest, unsure how to remove it. Mitrian returned Rache’s gaze, a cautious smile on her face. The
Wizards still stood in conference, their demeanors solemn. They had taken no direct hand in the conflict.

Colbey gave Rache no answer. His aging features twisted in agony, and a tragic warmth filled his blue-gray eyes. As he passed Rache, he clamped a hand to the younger Renshai’s arm. Though silent, the gesture conveyed an approval that, for a time, stole all of the pain from Rache’s battle. Colbey rarely gave praise, and its scarcity made it priceless.

Leaving Episte to Colbey, Rache turned to give his mother a hug, then help her tend to Tannin’s wound.

*  *  *

Colbey entered Episte’s mind, not caring if the search brought him to the very edge of death. He had to know what remained of the child he had loved. Had to know what he could salvage.

Colbey’s exploration first touched an empty sorrow, without obvious cause. Beyond it, Colbey found only the aching, boiling bitterness that had grown and spread to destroy Episte.
He’s gone. Dead.
Yet, despite the obvious conclusion, loyalty and grief would not allow Colbey to abandon his charge without a thorough search. Desperately, he scoured Episte’s thoughts, seeking the source of the mercy he had shown Rache. There, if anywhere, he would find whatever meager sparks of Episte had survived.

Even as the thought emerged, Colbey blundered into a fading glimmer of childhood, a state of being that had come to life in Episte’s earliest years. Again and again, the youngster had retreated to this pocket of memory when his suffering had grown greatest: at the sight of his mother’s corpse and after the humiliation at the hand of his
torke.
Colbey cringed at the last; but he did not allow his own regret to surface now, clinging to the last of his failing energy in the desperate hope of saving Episte. The effort seemed incalculable and oppressively bleak. He would have to rebuild all that had been Episte from a single, dying slash of remembrance.

Even as Colbey prepared for the task, the dark, formless presence he had glimpsed earlier enfolded the final thought that he recognized as Episte’s.

No!
Though shaky from exertion, Colbey drove in to
rescue the young Renshai. He struck a blackness deeper than unconsciousness. Then that, too, shattered to a vision that snapped through Colbey’s mind in an instant that dragged like forever. Alone, Episte battled three Northmen in the woodlands outside of the village of Greentree. One lay dead at his feet, neck slashed open by Episte’s blade. He impaled the second through the abdomen. Colbey experienced the thrust as his own. He knew the strange jolt as the tip slammed bone, followed by the abrupt feeling of wrongness. When Episte jerked back to face the last of his enemies, he held the hilt and a clinging shard of a sword that should have withstood the impact.

Episte whirled. The last Northman stared, fear wild in his eyes. Repeatedly, his gaze strayed to the dead men. Surely one was a father, brother, or uncle who had coaxed him to his first battle and now had abandoned him, in death, when he needed the assistance most. He stood no taller than Episte, clearly several years his junior. Episte flung his hilt to the ground, feeling a kinship with the Northern teen. He, too, was far from home, alone in a war he was fighting for long dead ancestors.