Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Calistin swore, driving around the boy to attack Kwavirse at his weakest. "Treysind, you moron." Calistin neatly flipped his sword to the flat to score a slap on the older man's left shoulder. He had to pull the second blade to keep it from skewering Treysind on its way to Kwavirse's hip. "Get out of the damned way!"

Kwavirse withdrew and gestured an end to the battle. "You win, Calistin."

He always did. It had reached the point where only three types of Renshai dared to challenge him: the youngsters full of themselves and their progress, the most competent who could find few other opponents at their level or hoped they had reached his, and the sickest and oldest of the Renshai who would throw themselves upon Calistin, wishing to die in furious combat rather than of illness, to find their places in Valhalla.

Attention focused on Treysind, Calistin barely nodded. He spoke in hopeful Renshai, "Another spar, another time, perhaps?" He could fight every moment of every day and never get tired of it. Each new opponent, every motion, taught him something new to expect in combat.

Kwavirse rolled his eyes toward Treysind, who stood quietly in front of Calistin, examining the new hole in his sleeve. "Only if you lose the shadow. I almost killed the little guy."

Calistin gritted his teeth, already angry at the boy. "Killing him might teach him a lesson."

Kwavirse chuckled. "True, but not one he could use in the future."

Calistin seized Treysind's arm with a violence so sudden the boy cringed. He looked up at his savior with stoic blue eyes that carried only a trace of fear. Others who had grabbed him in the past had clearly beaten him. "Come on," Calistin growled in Common, half-walking, half-dragging the Erythanian toward a patch of withered briars. "We need to talk."

Once there, Calistin practically threw Treysind to the ground. "What in coldest Hel is wrong with you?"

The boy gathered his feet under him to crouch at Calistin's feet. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Well," he started very slowly, his pace quickening with every word. "Fo' starters, I's a orphan what's growed up on tha streets. I's small an' weak ish. Kinda ugly. Not smart at all. I don't talk so good. I looks kinda like a Renshai wit' dis orange… red hair, an' a lotta folks don't like that so's they beat me 'round, but I don't know how ta 'fend mesself wit' a sword an'-"

"No, no, no!" Calistin dropped to a crouch in front of Treysind. "I don't mean 'what's wrong with you' in general. I mean, why do you feel the suicidal need to interfere with everything I do?"

Treysind lifted his head. Hair fell in wild strands in every direction, including into his face. "I's jus' pratectin' ya, Hero. I owes ya my life."

Calistin heaved an exasperated sigh. They had already debated this point several times. Treysind would not leave him, and nothing he said would convince the boy not to die for his hero. "Fine, then. You owe me your life; I get it. But what good does it do me for you to skewer yourself during a simple spar? If you just want to die for no reason, why don't you go throw yourself in the well?"

"Well, I…" Treysind rearranged his legs under him in a pattern Calistin had never seen before. "… can't do that. I's gotta die savin' ya, Hero."

The Renshai thought he knew every wary position, but this one allowed the boy to look casually relaxed while still able to move in any direction in an instant. Calistin marveled at the simple logistics of the position. He adjusted his own crouch, modeling it, and found it as comfortable as his usual cautious squat, without looking so guarded and alert. "So jump between me and an arrow sometime, would you? If you insist on spending your life for me, that would be an actual useful way."

To his credit, Treysind gave the idea due consideration before speaking. "That would be fine, if I's could. But it don't do us no good if ya's daid 'fore tha' arrow comes."

Calistin sighed. He was wasting time with this silly discussion, time he could be spending sparring or practicing. "Kid, the best thing you can do for me is go away and leave me alone."

Treysind shrugged. "Can' do that."

The poor speech threw Calistin, and he dared to hope. "Did you just say you can do that?"

Treysind shook his head vigorously, sending his inhumanly orange hair flying. "Can not be doin' that. Can not. I owes ya m'life, Hero."

Calistin hesitated, torn between two actions. It seemed a simple matter, an act of mercy, just to run a blade through the boy and be done with it. No one would miss Treysind. Yet, though Calistin had killed a few pirates and several mortally sick or injured Renshai, he found himself incapable of slaughtering an unarmed, pitiful child. Explaining anything to Treysind seemed equally abhorrent. The Erythanian appeared incapable of grasping the concept that Calistin could defend himself better than anyone else in the world. He finally settled on something quick and easy. "Look, kid. Renshai sparring may look dangerous, but it's not."

"It's not?" Treysind's skepticism was tangible

"Not to other Renshai, no."

"But ya's usin' real sa-wards. An' so… so angry-like, deadly-like."

"It's how we train. But no other Renshai would ever hurt me."

"No?"

A thrill trickled across Calistin. He actually seemed to be getting through the boy's bricklike skull. "Never. I'm more likely to die tripping over you and… and falling into that well."

"I'd be fishin' ya's out, Hero. Right 'way, I's would."

Calistin was not so sure he would return the favor. "Of course you would."

Treysind nodded vigorously and somberly.

"So, we're agreed, then? No protecting me from other Renshai?"

Treysind considered for a very long time, gaze distant, features screwed up tightly. "I… s'pose… I… most times… I…"

It was hardly the sterling promise Calistin wanted; but, for the moment, it worked.

Saviar opened the guest room door to a heated discussion that ceased instantly. The Knights of Erythane would never inflict their personal problems on anyone, not even a family member. Father and grandfather gave Saviar welcoming smiles despite his sweat-soaked, filthy clothing and the hair dangling into his eyes. Though they remained perfectly meticulous, as always, they never expected the same of others.

Saviar dropped to his bed, delicately removed his sword, and pulled his cleaning kit from his pocket. A Renshai always tended his swords before his person. "So, how did things go with the Northmen?" He unraveled a spotless white rag and a vial of sword oil.

The ensuing silence piqued Saviar's curiosity. He looked up in time to see the knights just breaking a serious, nonverbal exchange.

Ra-khir cleared his throat. "Not bad, Saviar; but not as I might have wished either."

Saviar set to cleaning his weapon, concentrating on the blade but still allowing himself to glance up often enough to read expressions. "Let me guess, it wasn't all about ore."

"It wasn't," Ra-khir admitted.

"They brought up Renshai."

"Yes."

"And the 'right' of Paradisians to return to their homeland."

A stunned silence followed. Saviar feigned total engrossment in his weapon but could not suppress a grin. It was rare that he could startle his father speechless.

When the hush continued long past surprise, Saviar finally looked directly at his father. The moment he met those green eyes, Ra-khir spoke, "How could you possibly know that?"

Saviar considered leaving the knights in suspense, but swiftly discarded it. They would worry about a leak in the Council Room, which could turn into a grave political incident. "I sparred with Verdondi Eriksson, the captain's son.We also talked." He did not have to add the last sentence, usually. Most warriors would not think twice about chatting during practice. For Renshai, it was a dangerous offense. Like turning one's back, it implied that one's opponent was so poorly skilled that concentration and wariness were unnecessary in his presence. It was regarded as grave insult.