Mickey Reichert: Flight of the Renshai

"Even companions, sometimes, Darris." Captain Seiryn entered the discussion. Though negative, his assessment did not seem judgmental. "I've seen it. Renshai are highly skilled, brave warriors; but commanding them is a challenge. Rather like commanding a palace full of cats."

The seriousness of the circumstances kept anyone from laughing, but they all understood the reference. Bearn Castle had become nearly overrun with the offspring of the queen's favorite pet, a calico named Mior.The mother of these multitudes had passed away a couple of years earlier, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Only Darris and a handful of friends knew how severely her passing had affected Matrinka. She had had a bond with the cat that went far beyond mistress and pet. With a process no one seemed capable of explaining, they had exchanged a form of mental communication. Matrinka kept hoping she could create a similar attachment to one of the kittens, but every attempt had failed so far.

When no one laughed, Seiryn clearly felt obligated to explain. "Renshai don't use strategy or repeat patterns when they fight. Their only driving goal is glorious, individual death in battle. They are not only impossible to hold to a plan, they are also unpredictable." He shrugged in clear apology, not wishing to speak ill of a group of people the king admired. "Furthermore, a mortally ill or injured Renshai will attack anyone to assure himself or herself a death in combat. Any other death they scorn as cowardice."

Griff turned his attention directly on his captain. "Are you saying we shouldn't have Renshai among our troops?"

"No, Sire, I-" Seiryn started, interrupted by Zaysharn, who seemed to have completely abandoned his quiet persona.

"That,Your Majesty, is exactly what he is saying."

A scowl pinched Seiryn's face, and he glared at the overseer. "I am perfectly capable of making a point, Lord Zaysharn-and that was not it."

Zaysharn stood, presumably to level the argument. "Your men would agree with me."

"My men," Seiryn said through clenched teeth, "are not your concern."

Though wild with worry for Arturo, Darris could not help getting swept up in the discussion. His bardic curiosity demanded it.

The king swallowed hard, looking pained. "Is that true, Captain Seiryn? Are the soldiers unhappy about serving with Renshai?"

Seiryn backed down from Zaysharn with clear reluctance to face the king directly. "Sire, there is some discomfort in the ranks. Nothing I can't handle."

Saxanar made an archaic gesture indicating that he wished to speak, and the others yielded to his preeminence. "Some of the soldiers have threatened to quit."

"Let them," Seiryn grumbled. "I've enough real men among them; I don't need defeatists."

Saxanar ignored the interruption. "Others have simply expressed concern, and more just want reassignment. Perhaps if we went back to separating the Renshai into their own platoon-"

This time, Seiryn refused to allow the old minister to talk over him, "That didn't work. The Renshai need oversight, and we need their sword arms."

Zaysharn broke in again, "Instead of our own?"

"In addition to our own." Seiryn turned the overseer of livestock another pointed glare.

Aerean bounced to her feet. "I've heard a lot of talk in recent weeks about Renshai. Even the servants and commoners are talking about how fierce they must have been to become exiles from the Northlands for… for violence. How they slaughtered a path through the West and East before seizing the Fields of Wrath.

Though silent to this point, Darris could not help adding the perspective his studies gave him. "But that was hundreds of years ago!" He wanted to add more, that the Fields of Wrath had been considered uninhabitable wasteland when the Renshai settled there, but it seemed an insignificant point. The Renshai thrived on a barren plain because they did not need proper growing or grazing land. They dedicated every moment of their lives to learning warcraft and purchased their necessities by selling their one and only talent, mostly to the kings of Bearn. For far longer than the memory of anyone living, the Renshai had served as guardians to the princes and princesses of Bearn. Even the king had a Renshai who guarded him obsessively whenever business took Darris from his post.

Zaysharn turned on Darris. "Hundreds of years have not bred the ferocity out of wolves, nor out of Renshai either."

Aerean seemed not to realize the tangent the discussion had taken. "It's said they burn off horn buds at birth and hide the scars beneath golden hair. That some have seen tails tucked into their trousers."

A sudden silence gripped the room, and every eye turned to Aerean.

Aerean's cheeks flushed a brilliant red. "I'm just saying what I've heard, not whether I believe it."

Golden-haired devils from the North, the Westerners had called them in the years when Renshai ravaged the countryside. The prejudice lived on, long after a coalition of Northern tribes had all but obliterated the Renshai and the last surviving few had proven themselves reliable heroes in the Great War against the East. In the more than three centuries since, hatred for the Renshai had come and gone in cycles; each time, the legends grew more odious and, now it seemed, more literal.

Chaveeshia finally broke the silence. "They're not really demons." As the diplomatic link between the Fields of Wrath and Bearn, the diminutive woman voiced an opinion that carried the weight she did not. "I've seen bald Renshai without scars and Renshai newborn. No horns. No tails."

King Griff cleared his throat loudly. "No one believes the Renshai are actual demons."

Aerean shrugged but did not gainsay her liege. Darris doubted she personally expected to find horns and tails, but the common folk might. Since elves and their magic had come to Midgard, the populace had reason to believe in legends once dismissed as utter nonsense.

"What matters is keeping our troops strong and focused, especially given the enemy at our ships and coastline." Griff turned his attention fully back to Prime Minister Davian.

Though clearly reluctant, Davian returned to his report. "Your Majesty, I recommend we table the discussion on Renshai for another time. I…" He swallowed so hard, his words faltered. His eyes became a blurry smear of black. "I regret… to inform you… that…"

Torn between wanting to tear the words from Davian's throat and never having to hear them, Darris waited in the same breathless hush as the others.

"… the ship called Seven…" Davian lowered his head.

The wait had become intolerable. Darris felt tears forming in his own eyes, though he had not yet heard the words spoken. By all the gods, please let Arturo be all right. He felt selfish for the thought. The others aboard the ship also had kin, but he could only concentrate on the fate of his boy.

Davian tried to finish, his voice a gasp, "… and all aboard her…" He lapsed into a silence no one dared to break. A tear coursed down one cheek.

"… were… lost."

Horror gripped the room. His vision blurred, and Darris realized he was also crying.

King Griff clasped his hands over his lowered face, his cheeks seeming to melt into his palms. His voice emerged muffled. "All?"

Agony spiked through Darris. He wanted, needed to console his king, but he found himself unable to move. His thoughts remained frozen in place, incapable of further contemplation.

Davian addressed the hovering question. "It appears so, Sire." He glanced around the room, as if for help, but no one leaped in to rescue him from the words he needed to speak. "We have ships recovering… remains, Sire. We have found… no… survivors." He studied the king as he spoke, clearly weighing the effect of every word before allowing it to leave his lips. "I'm so, so very sorry, Your Majesty."