Flight of the Renshai

CHAPTER 9

Exhaustion hounded Saviar as he stumbled over the threshold to the practice courtyard set in the middle of the castle grounds. It had become familiar over the past few days, yet Saviar still marveled at its size and scope. Constructed for multiple uses: guards, members of the royal family, visiting dignitaries, and the Renshai who guarded the heirs, it seemed well suited to their many styles of combat.

An enormous rack near the door held a variety of weapons, the like of which Saviar had never seen. Swords of myriad types alternated with axes, lances, and spears. Staves and hammers held their places, along with incomprehensible polearms that combined loops, scoops, and points with blades. Shields and helmets, sticks and bones, lumpy wooden-and-iron implements that seemed little better than clubs: everything had a place in the practice courtyard of Bearn. They all had one thing in common to Saviar's mind; only the most desperate warrior would use them. The blade edges were notched, cracked, and blunted, the points worn down to bruising nubbins.

The terrain also ran the gamut, mostly vast open space. In one area, someone had built a crude series of ceilingless rooms, including a spiral staircase, apparently as preparation for indoor battles. Another area, the one Saviar had thus far chosen, had sticks and stones strewn over it in random patterns, along with a tattered pack spewing rotten boots and clothing. The left boot sole had become a convincing nemesis, having already turned his ankle twice.

For a change of pace, Saviar chose an open area, though many of his torke would have admonished him. "Tiredness is not an excuse for laziness," Kyntiri often told them. "When you're sick, shy of sleep, or injured is the best time to push yourself past any limits. Your enemies will not give you quarter for weakness, and the worst of them will target those most-vulnerable moments." Driving the words from his mind, along with the accompanying guilt, Saviar drew his sword, parried an invisible blade, and cut for his nonexistent opponent all in the same smooth motion.

Fatigue seemed to lift from Saviar's body as he launched into a complicated svergelse. He spent hours performing sword maneuvers daily, yet he never tired of them. At times, he did not want to start; but, once he did, he always found that strange, soaring pinnacle of joy that his torke so often lauded. His sword dipped, cut, and wove through the air, the breeze of its motion cooling limbs swiftly bathed in sweat. His sword became an extension of his arm, moving swifter than the eye could follow.

Saviar leaped and parried, thrust and slashed through an army of enemies, his pace never faltering and his mind never budging from his svergelse and imagined foes. He cut through a dozen, then a score, battling them in pairs and trios, midgets and giants, fast and slow. His defense was movement; Renshai relied on nothing else. Battle was life, was death, and everything between them.

The door creaked open. Alert to movement, Saviar knew it at once, pausing in his lethal dance to gauge the intruder. In battle mode, his mind sought clues as to the intention of the other, cautious friend or lethal foe. He had wholly forgotten his location, the inner sanctum of Bearn, where no enemy could enter without first undergoing the scrutiny of an entire force of kingdom guards.

The newcomer was a stranger, an adolescent male with pale, rugged features, blond braids, and alert, blue eyes. He wore an emerald-colored tunic of odd design, cut low in the back, and heavy woolen leggings. Leather, thick-soled sandals hugged his feet, the laces criss crossing up his britches to disappear beneath his skirting. A broadsword that looked too big for him swung at his side, and he clasped a huge, studded shield in his hand.

Saviar caught himself staring. By coloring, the youngster could easily have passed for Renshai if not for his bulk and the shield. Blocking blows with anything but one's own blade was considered cowardice by Renshai. Could this be a Northman?

The newcomer met Saviar's stare with a smile. "Hullo." He spoke the Common Trading tongue with a heavy, musical accent. "My name is Verdondi Eriksson."

Saviar did the only polite thing. "Saviar." He lowered his weapon. "Uh, Ra-khirsson."

"Uhlrrakirsson?" Verdondi's eyes narrowed in clear confusion. "That sounds like a Northern name."

Saviar grinned at the misconception. "My father is Ra-khir, not Uhlrrakir. The "uh" part was just my incompetent stuttering."

Verdondi laughed, then his lids drooped further and his fair brow crinkled. "So, Ra-khir is a… an… Erythanian name?"

Now it was Saviar's turn to laugh. "Not exactly. His father named him Rawlin; his stepfather, Khirwith, called him Khirwithson and tried to lose the original name. As I understand it, my child-papa got it all blended together and the new mess stuck."

"So his stepfather would have had him being Khirwithson Khirwithsson?"

"Apparently." Saviar had never thought about it in detail. In Verdondi's voice, though, the name sounded stupid, which seemed appropriate. Ra-khir rarely spoke of his stepfather; but, when he did, Khirwith came off clownish and dull. "Ra-khir even has a hyphen in the middle."

This time, they laughed together.

Verdondi pulled at his leggings, bunched beneath the leather straps. "So, Saviar Rah-hyphen-khirsson. How about a spar?"

Saviar accepted in a heartbeat. He had often longed to try his hand against a stranger, especially one his own age.

Verdondi unsheathed his sword, laying it gently on the rack. He sifted through the Bearnian weapons, choosing a similar sword and cramming it into his emptied sheath. When Saviar made no similar move, Verdondi eyed his opponent's more slender sword, then picked one of similar size. He headed toward Saviar, offering the hilt. "Here."

Saviar accepted the inferior weapon, staring at the blunted edges, the notches, the broken tip. No Renshai would be caught dead on his pyre with such a pitiful excuse for a sword. "What's this?"

Verdondi stared. "Your practice weapon, of course. You didn't think we were going to spar with live steel, did you? Someone might get hurt."

"Um." Saviar recovered quickly, cheeks hot with embarrassment. He should know better. Though Renshai never stooped to using blunted weapons, the Knights of Erythane considered them a normal and safe part of training. "Of course. I'm sorry. Stupid of me." Reluctantly, he placed his regular sword on the rack and replaced it with the practice blade. "So, where did you want to spar? Field, forest, or indoors?"

Verdondi looked over the practice area, head bobbing. "I've never fought in a castle before. Let's try indoors, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." When Saviar had first arrived in Bearn, he had found himself intrigued by the castle facade training area as well. He headed toward it, Verdondi trailing.

"So what's an Erythanian doing in Bearn anyway?" the Northman asked as they walked. "You don't seem old enough for the army."

Saviar gritted his teeth. Though larger than most Renshai his age, he apparently still appeared somewhat younger. Calistin had already fought in a few battles on the shoreline, but Saviar could not join him until he passed his tests of manhood. "My grandfather's the captain of the Knights of Erythane, and my father's a knight, too."

"Really?"Verdondi sounded so excited, Saviar turned to face him. "Your father and grandfather are knights?"

"Yes." Saviar studied the young Northman. "Do you know of them?"

"The Knights of Erythane? Who doesn't know of the Knights of Erythane?"

Saviar had no answer, so he continued to the simulated castle interior.

"Competent and honorable warriors are appreciated everywhere."

Now in place, Saviar faced his new companion again. He gained a new appreciation for the paternal side of his family. He had become so accustomed to the Renshai belittling the knights' rigid code, to the normalcy of skilled swordwork. Until this trip, he had never realized just how much the populace adored and respected the knights or how far their influence extended. "That's good to know."

Verdondi studied the layout. "Are you in training, too, Saviar?"

"In… training?" A wave of ice washed through Saviar. He knew better than to mention his Renshai background to any Northman.

"Yes, in training." Verdondi looked at Saviar as if he had gone mad. "Are you going to be a Knight of Erythane, too?"

The question caught Saviar oddly off his guard. "Well, I… I'd like to."

"With a family like yours, how could you not?"

"I don't suppose I… couldn't."

Verdondi shook his head, clearly impressed. "Talk about honor. What father could resist pressing his son to follow in his footsteps?" He walked to the bottom of the spiral staircase and looked up it. "Your father sounds like a special man."

"He is," Saviar admitted, gaze following Verdondi's. "Isn't yours?"

Verdondi grinned. He stood straight and tall, and his chest seemed to expand with the motion. He was a well-built youngster with bulky muscles evident beneath his tunic. "My father is the captain of the Sea Dragon."

Saviar made an awed noise, mostly from politeness. He knew little about sailing or ships, but he suspected becoming a captain took knowledge, ability, and courage.

"He commands the ship, the crew, and is representing Nordmir at the Council meeting with the king of Bearn."

"Impressive."

"Captain Erik Leifsson. And I'm going to be a naval captain, too, someday." Verdondi added softly, "I hope."

"Sounds wonderful," Saviar said, now meaning it. "Traveling the world, commanding a squadron of men and a shipful of sailors, forging into battles." He shook his head in genuine awe. "I could live like that and never regret a moment."

A proud smile hung on Verdondi's face, and he drew himself up to his full height. "Defender or attacker?"

"Huh?" Once again, Saviar found himself driven into confusion and sounding silly.

This time, Verdondi accepted the blame. "I'm sorry. I changed the subject rather abruptly, didn't I?" He tipped his sword toward the spiral staircase. "Defender seems more suited to you, you being Erythanian and this being Bearn. My goal will be to reach the top, yours to keep me at the bottom."

Saviar hopped up the stairs, finally understanding. He sheathed the practice weapon. "Ready?"

Verdondi patted his hilt, still at the bottom of the staircase. "Ready." Suddenly, he drew his sword and charged.

Saviar met him more than halfway down, drew, and cut in one fluid motion. He caught Verdondi a blow to the head that jarred him backward. The Northman lost his footing and started to tumble.

Realizing he had badly overestimated his opponent, Saviar caught Verdondi's arms as he fell. The weight of the Northman nearly swept them both down the steps. Saviar jerked upward.

Verdondi struggled, staggered, then caught his balance. "Whoa, thanks. Can't believe I let that stroke get through." He clamped a hand to his head, then looked at his palm.

Saviar danced clear, sheathing his sword. He could not see where his blow had landed beneath the golden braids, but no blood stained Verdondi's pale hand. A solid bruising seemed more likely. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?" Stopping in the middle of a spar unnerved him. An amputation would have to have occurred before a Renshai would quit fighting, even in practice.

"Don't apologize for my incompetence." Verdondi rubbed at the sore spot, then looked at the railing. "I'm a bit thrown by the staircase. I've just realized why the craftsmen spiraled it rightward."

Saviar had not noticed. "Why's that?"

Verdondi again took up a position of attack. "Because my right arm's against the wall. See?" He tried to raise his sword, limited by the railing and the wall stones. "While yours is free, unhampered. Smart design. If it wasn't on purpose, it should have been."

Saviar touched the railing with his left hand, realizing Verdondi spoke the truth. Such details did not usually concern Renshai. In fact, he imagined his people demanding backward spirals just for the challenge. He considered the other staircases in the castle and realized they all twisted the same way. "I'm pretty sure it's by design."

"Clever."

"Want to defend for a bit?"

Verdondi looked up and down the stairs, clearly pondering.

"It doesn't matter to me," Saviar assured him.

"Well… if you're sure it doesn't matter…"

Saviar made a broad gesture to indicate Verdondi should pass him, then headed down the steps. He waited for Verdondi to reach the top, sword clutched in his right fist.

"Ready?"

"Whenever," Saviar called back. Then, realizing he, as the attacker, had to make the first move, he drew and charged upward with a battle scream.

They met nearer the top than the bottom this time, and their swords clashed together. Pain thrummed through Saviar's arm, the first time he faced an opponent with as much strength as himself. He parried deftly, then flicked his sword beneath Verdondi's. He could have disarmed the Northman but withdrew instead. It would have required a deft Renshai maneuver that would have made the other young man suspicious. Saviar had no intention of revealing his Renshai heritage to a visiting Northman of any age.

Instead, Saviar awaited an attack. It came high and sweeping. He riposted, then bore in with a gut shot that would have skewed his opponent had he not pulled it.

"I'm dead," Verdondi announced honestly. His arm drooped to his side. "No wonder you don't care if you're defender or attacker. You didn't tell me you were ambidextrous."

All Renshai were. If not born to use both hands equally, they learned to at such an early age it seemed as if they were. At any age, if one hand showed more promise than the other, they practiced only with the weaker one until they managed equal competence. It had not taken a thought for Saviar to draw left-handed. When the time came to attack, instinct had taken over. He smiled. "You didn't ask."

"You're full of surprises, Saviar Ra-khirsson." Verdondi headed down the staircase. "I'm considered one of the best warriors of my age, and you're making me look like a beginner."

Though grinning inwardly, Saviar allowed no sign of it to appear on his face. "I've just had more experience with the staircase. Why don't we spar on open ground?"

Verdondi gave a respectful bow. "How honorable of you to give up your advantage.You clearly are your forefathers' son." He headed toward the open practice area.

Following, Saviar bit his cheeks to keep from laughing. What Verdondi had attributed to knightly honor was actually a Renshai desire to make an easy battle more challenging and interesting. For the first time, Saviar truly appreciated his heritage: the obsessive focus on swordwork, the secret maneuvers, the endless practices. Even he, as yet incapable of passing his manhood tests, might actually be a match for three non-Renshai.

Verdondi braced himself, legs solidly beneath his body, knees bent, hand on hilt. "All right. I'm ready." His eyes followed Saviar's every movement.

Saviar took a position directly opposite Verdondi and beyond sword range. Though he kept his weight balanced, he strove for a more casual look and did not bother to clutch his hilt. "Begin."

Verdondi drew his sword. In the same space of time, Saviar freed his blade, lunged, and cut. Verdondi retreated, rescuing his legs but losing the opportunity for attack. Saviar saw an opening, but resisted, not wishing to humiliate his companion. Instead, he flipped his sword into position for a low cut that Verdondi successfully blocked with a quick parry.

Again, Saviar surrendered an opportunity, this time for a gut slash. Verdondi managed a hacking cut that Saviar easily dodged. He counted his openings, two this time, one nearly at his opponent's back. He resisted both to feign a high slash to the neck, followed by a swift slice to Verdondi's hip. Suddenly realizing the blow would fall, Saviar switched to a blunt side hit that slapped against Verdondi's hipbone.

"Damn it!" Verdondi halted the match again. "Your father is an outstanding teacher, and you have incredible natural talent."

"Th-thank you," Saviar stammered, cheeks flushing. No one had ever complimented his abilities with such strong words. Renshai used praise sparingly; excellence was simply expected. Saviar also did not bother to correct the misconception. Verdondi did not need to know it was his mother, not his father, who had trained him. He sheathed his sword.

"When I become a captain, I'm coming back to recruit you. That is, if you're not caught up with knightly duties."Verdondi jammed his practice sword into place as well.

Saviar grinned, "And I might accept…" The idea suited him until the reality of the details caught up to him. Eventually, a ship full of Northman would discover his heritage, and he would have no place to hide. He would have to either slaughter all his shipmates or die on their swords. He added his one out, as Verdondi had, "… if I'm not caught up in knightly duties."

Verdondi laughed. "It's all right if you are. Among knights, I'm sure your talents won't get wasted either."

Saviar finally found a response. "Thank you for your generous compliments."

Verdondi continued, "And being shipbound isn't all excitement and glory either. There's a lot of loneliness and tedium, too." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Especially the girls. No women allowed on board."

Saviar's cheeks grew hotter. He had found himself staring at the female Renshai, enamored of their looks and grace, imagining situations of which no Knight of Erythane would approve. The girls had clearly noticed him as well.They giggled around him and found lame excuses to touch him, all of which excited him wildly. The idea of actually courting one, however, terrified him. "I… think I could handle that."

"And for every fascinating diplomatic mission, like this one, there are several hundred routine patrols."

Saviar wondered whether or not the spar had finished. He felt uncomfortable with a grubby practice weapon where his zealously tended sword should sit. He remembered what his grandfather had told him. "Did you come to barter iron ore with King Griff?"

Verdondi chuckled, then covered his mouth, clearly mortified by his reaction.

Confused, Saviar sought clarification. He shook back red-blond hair damp with sweat. "What?"

"I'm sorry." Verdondi glanced around the empty practice area, as if concerned someone might overhear. "It's just such a simple name for a man of such might and power."

Now, Saviar laughed. He had grown accustomed to the unpretentious name of Bearn's great king. It fit the childlike, bearish man whose rulings seemed guileless and easy when he spoke them. Yet, when examined, those same proclamations held a complexity belied by the man's unpretentious wording and relaxed manner. Few could remain so consistently fair and proper. He never seemed to make a single mistake.

A common feature of all the greatest kings of Bearn, that effortless shrewdness soothed the populace, who treasured it and the man who displayed it. They would not have loved him any less had he borne the name Dirt, and they spoke his common moniker with a sweet reverence that made it seem as worthy as any knight's title. For centuries, a test designed by gods chose the proper heir to the throne, and Griff had passed with ease.

"It is a simple name for such a great and wonderful man. But it suits him."

Verdondi nodded, though he had no experience on which to base his own judgment. "Any merchant could deliver a load of ore, normally. But with the pirates off Bearn's coast, it seemed prudent to bring warriors."

"Like you and your father."

"Yes." Verdondi raised his head. Sunlight sparked highlights through the pale mane of hair, sweat plastered into an array of spikes. Wispy brows seemed to disappear against skin as white as skimmed milk. "Also, we came to offer assistance against the pirate scourge and the Renshai."

Saviar shook his head, trying to clear his ears. He had to have imagined the last word. "And the… what?"

"The Renshai,"Verdondi repeated clearly. "You must have heard of the Renshai. Everyone has.You know, 'the golden-haired devils.' "

"Devils…" Saviar ran his fingers through the tangles of his hair. A lump formed in his throat. "We don't call them that."

Verdondi finally headed for the racks where he had left their true weapons. "That's because a Knight of Erythane would never deliberately offend anyone, no matter how evil or creepy. You're too polite."

Evil? Creepy! The words hit Saviar like tongues of flame. He wanted to spit back an angry retort, but he held his tongue. Not only would his father and grandfather not approve, but it might start a very real battle in the practice court. Killing the son of a visiting dignitary would result in a dangerous, international incident.

Verdondi looked away from Saviar to retrieve his sword.

At the moment, that casual gesture came across as a grave insult. No one dared turn his back on a Renshai.

"Everyone else calls them demons or devils, and rightly so."

Saviar's heart pounded. He had reached a point of no return. In his place, his mother would announce her heritage and wind up killing the brash young Northman. His father would sanction neither a lie nor a battle. Ra-khir would see an opportunity to educate, but he would also find the right words to do so. I'm not a Knight of Erythane, and I'm not Kevral. Saviar chose his own course, though it involved a lie of omission. "I appreciate warriors no matter their origins. The Renshai are superior swordsmen. They have protected the heirs of Bearn for decades, and our enemies are their enemies."

Verdondi exchanged his own sword with the mangled practice weapon, then grasped Saviar's from the rack.

The lump in Saviar's throat became a boulder. Instinctively, he sought the best way to reclaim his sword and dodge any attack the Northman might initiate. No matter who held it, any sword in any room with a Renshai could belong to him in an instant. If the Renshai wanted it, it was his.

Apparently oblivious to his companion's upheaval, Verdondi carefully turned the sword around and offered the hilt. "Here you go."

Relief washed through Saviar. "Thank you." He accepted the offering, swiftly exchanging the practice sword for his own in his sheath. Its presence calmed him.

The entire procedure came across as boring routine. Verdondi clearly had no idea he was talking to a Renshai, and Saviar had no intention of telling him. "I'm not going to argue the sins of the Renshai with you, Saviar. Knights clearly know how to find the best in everyone and everything. That's a virtue."

"I'm not a knight," Saviar reminded.

"Not yet." Verdondi smiled. "But you were raised in a family of them, and that's going to reflect strongly on your character." He raised a hand, as if to forestall an argument. "Don't get me wrong; I think that's wonderful. I can't imagine what it would be like to grow up that way, but I'd consider it a high honor, indeed."

The irony might have sent Saviar into spasms of laughter if not for the seriousness of the situation. The upbringing that so awed Verdondi was based on a misconception. Despite his parentage, for all intents and purposes, Saviar was raised the same way as any other Renshai. He answered the only way he could, "Thank you."

"But," Verdondi continued. "But you have to understand that your neighbors are not so tolerant and high in their ideals. They have not forgotten the rampage of the Renshai that left so many innocent Westerners dead."

"Rampage…?" Saviar could scarcely believe they were having this discussion. "People are holding a grudge for things that happened centuries ago?" As he understood it, the Northlands banished the Renshai for their ferocity, a quality normally prized in the warrior Northlands. Well over three hundred years ago, the other Northmen drove the Renshai out, mostly for their tactic of dismembering those dead enemies they wished to dishonor and demoralize. Then, all Northmen believed that only an intact body could ever reach Valhalla.

Angered, the Renshai had swept across the Westlands and Eastlands in a blaze of war that had left entire cities in ruins. They battled anyone who would fight them and took the offerings of those who refused. Then, as now, the Renshai knew nothing but swordcraft. They had obtained their necessities through slaughter as well as barter.

"Centuries, indeed."Verdondi's hand went to his hilt, his eyes distant. "Centuries during which the Renshai have pretended to grow more civilized. Yet, they still practice secret warcraft and witchcraft. They still fight like demons."

"What?"

"They drink the blood of innocents to maintain their youth and vigor, living vast lifetimes of which others only dream."

"No, that's not-"

"They make unholy alliances with creatures of the icy darkness to grant them sword skills beyond anything a normal man could accomplish."

Saviar could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "Verdondi, that's just insane! They're great swordsmen because they practice. Pretty much every moment of every day."

"Maybe." Verdondi did not argue. "But most Erythanians think otherwise. Bearnides, too. In fact, groups of Erythanians have come to us to try to reclaim Paradise Plains."

Saviar's brows furrowed. He had lived in Erythane his entire life and never heard of the place. "Where are these Paradise Plains?"

"You would know them as the Fields of Wrath."

The lump in Saviar's throat had grown large enough to interfere with swallowing. "But that's… where the Renshai live."

"Now." Verdondi studied Saviar. "The Erythanians who lived there before the Renshai drove them from their homes, the Paradisians…" He pronounced it Paa-rah-dee-shins. "They feel their homeland was taken unfairly. That the Renshai should be killed or driven out so they can return to the land rightfully theirs."

Saviar laughed. No other reaction seemed appropriate.

Verdondi looked personally affronted. "What's so funny?"

"Well, first. Historically, the Fields of Wrath were just barren, worthless land when the Renshai settled on them, with the permission of the Erythanian and Bearnian kings of the time. So infertile, in fact, that no crops grow on them to this very day."

"History written by the conquerors, no doubt."

Saviar conceded the point. Normally, the victors did write the accounts, usually by default; but that did not necessarily make them inaccurate. "Second, even if it were true, how can we right a wrong that took place several centuries ago? It would set an unbearable precedent. Every border in the Northlands would have to get redrawn, and many Western towns would simply not exist."

"But no one else is complaining."

No one else is complaining about Renshai, you mean. Saviar knew this so-called repatriation had little to do with logic and everything to do with prejudice. In those situations, it made little sense to argue. Whatever solution he and Verdondi agreed upon, if it were even possible to concur on the matter, meant nothing. The important conversation was currently taking place in the Council Room in Bearn. Suddenly, Saviar wished with all his heart that he had insisted on accompanying Kedrin there rather than allowing Ra-khir to talk him out of it. "But what if someone else does complain? What if this sets a standard so widespread that everyone wants the right to return to land claimed as ancestral? To what year, decade, century, or millennium do we set the map?"

To his credit, Verdondi gave the question due consideration. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "But is concern for precedent ever a reason not to do what's right?"

"I think," Saviar replied slowly, realizing he had entered the most earnest discussion of his life, and it was with another youngster. Had it not struck so personally, he might have enjoyed philosophizing. "… it depends on whose idea of right."