Mickey Reichert: Flight of the Renshai

"Get up," Calistin demanded.

Saviar's throat finally spasmed open, admitting air. Through it all, he had managed to keep hold of his sword, the pattern of the knurling ingrained against his palm. He did not yet trust himself to speak. He drooled out a mouthful of scarlet spittle. "Leave me alone," he finally managed.

"Saviar, it's important you know-"

Saviar rose, whirling on his brother. "By Sif and Modi, go away, Calistin. Leave me alone, or I'll…" He could not finish. A thousand possibilities whirled through his mind, but he had to discard all of them. Violence would never succeed against Calistin, and the only things the younger man owned that mattered to him were his swords. Saviar could do nothing to harm his little brother in any way, and that had nothing to do with honor, morality, or even love.

"But…" Calistin sheathed his sword and stared at his brother. The last dying rays of sunlight struck golden highlights from his hair, and he appeared tiny, almost frail. Though nearly eighteen, he still had the proportions of a young boy: skinny with an oversized head, short torso, legs, and arms. Large, blue-gray eyes studied Saviar from baby-round features. He looked more like a lost child than a Renshai warrior. "… I'm just trying to help you…"

Saviar wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smearing a line of blood across his sleeve. He sheathed his second long sword and emphasized each snarling word, "Just. Leave. Me. Alone!" He turned his back on his brother, a sign of grave disrespect, a gesture Renshai used to convey that an opponent had so little skill that even a surprise attack from behind was no threat. At the moment, Saviar would rather die than turn, even if Calistin did assail him again. He strode blindly toward the family cottage, not caring if his brother followed.

The sun crept further toward the horizon, leaving a spray of colors across the sky that Saviar ignored. For the moment, anger would not allow him to enjoy anything, no matter how magnificent. He wove through the crude dwellings to his own, then crashed through the door and into the common room and its familiar sparse furnishings. He slammed the door behind him. Only then, he verbalized his rage, "I swear from the highest mountaintop, to every god listening: I am going to kill my little brother!"

Kevral appeared in the doorway separating the two main rooms. Though in her mid-thirties, she appeared a decade younger. If any silver had entered her short-cut locks, it remained hidden amid the white-blonde strands. Despite two pregnancies, she still had a thin, almost boyish, figure. She held a cleaning rag in one callused hand and a vial of oil in the other. "Really, Saviar? So you've mustered an army?"

Startled silent, Saviar flushed. "Sorry, Mother. I didn't know you were home."

"You're bleeding." It was a statement of fact, devoid of concern. Kevral tossed the rag in a perfect arc. Saviar snatched it from the air and held it against his mouth. It smelled oily and tasted sweet and metallic. She had clearly used it to clean at least one of the swords strapped always to her waist, and Saviar could not help feeling honored. Renshai revered their swords, none more so than Kevral. She owned a weapon given to her by the immortal hero, Colbey. The other blade seemed just as extraordinary to Saviar, handed to her by an Einherjar warrior in Valhalla named Rache. The latter blade even had a name, Motfrabelonning, meaning "Reward of Courage," though it had once borne the name Tisis, "Vengeance."

Saviar explored the wound as he staunched the bleeding. It seemed to originate from his lips, which now felt torn and puffy. Blood also welled from the slash across his forearm, staining his opened sleeve.

"You were talking about Calistin, right?"

Saviar blew his nose into the rag, glancing at the result to ascertain that it was not also bloody. He was the oldest, by only a few moments in Subikahn's case, and definitely the largest of the three brothers. "Who else?"

Kevral smiled. "Then I was right.You would need an army to kill him."

"I suppose." Saviar had no wish to discuss Calistin's prowess with his proud mother. "Where's Father?"

"Drilling." Kevral referred to the knight training.

Saviar tried to sound casual. The Renshai considered Ra-khir a mediocre swordsman, but Saviar had watched his father duel on the Bellenet Fields with many different weapons and impressive skill. It was a guilty pleasure. Most Renshai disdained the Knights as semi-competent warriors wedded to a rigid and foolish code of honor, even as the rest of the Western populace admired them. Subikahn smiled tolerantly when Saviar spoke of his father's ability and passion, listening politely though he clearly did not share Saviar's ardor. Since the Renshai leaders had recognized Calistin's skill at age six, they kept him so immersed in Renshai swordwork that he had lost all interest in anything else, including his father's talents. By decree, no one bothered Calistin. He had no responsibilities, no chores, and no distractions. He was expected to practice sword form and craft every waking moment, with or without the guidance of the best Renshai torke.

Rag still clutched to his face, Saviar ran back outside. The sun had set, leaving the Fields of Wrath awash in gray; but the sounds of clashing steel still dwarfed every other. Though anxious to reach the Knight's tourney field in time, Saviar kept his step careful and attentive. To blunder into a mock battle might result in an ignoble death, and he also worried about Calistin finding him again. One more encounter with the arrogant, little brat might set Saviar over the edge into a madness he could not control.

But no one accosted Saviar as he dashed across the Road of Kings, lined by flawless carvings of bears and statues of the legendary, ancient King Sterrane. Moonlight lit glimmers of quartz in the stonework, making them appear to glow, and Saviar shivered in the cold evening air. Renshai never admitted fear, but Saviar and Subikahn had whispered their childhood trepidations to one another and once avoided those massive memorials. Bearnian carvers had a talent for making their creations eerily lifelike; and, in the darkness, they seemed to move.

Saviar needed only to cross a farm field to enter the town proper, but he chose a shorter route to the Bellenet Fields that took him through the forest. Leaves sloshed beneath his feet, saturated into soup by winter snows, now melted by the thaw. The first green buds graced the tips of some of the otherwise naked branches. The birds had gone to nest, but a strident hoot cut the air directly over his head, warning the animals of a human intruder.

Saviar looked up, at first seeing nothing. Then, suddenly, a massive feathered head whipped around to reveal two glaring eyes, like freshly washed dinner plates. A ghostly form rose soundlessly into the air, resembling a small boy in size and shape. An owl, Saviar realized, watching it disappear into the darkness. He had often considered owls the Renshai of the animal world: swift and graceful, silent and deadly. He quickened his pace. If the night creatures had come out of hiding, it seemed unlikely he would reach the practice grounds in time.

Saviar raced from the forest onto open ground, startling a ground dove into whirring flight. There, he found only the hulking figures of tourney fences. No man or animal stood upon the fields. Damn. He started to turn to leave, but need held him in position. He could not return to the Fields of Wrath now, not with Calistin waiting to pounce on him and his mother still lauding her youngest son's skill. Saviar could never admit to Kevral that, sometimes, not too often, he wished he were anything but Renshai. To speak such words would wound her deeply.

Instead, Saviar headed toward the Erythanian stables where the Knights of Erythane kept their horses. Since the day he had earned the title Apprentice Knight, Ra-khir had insisted on tending to his own white charger. He trusted no groomsman to do as thorough a job on his beloved and hard-earned Silver Warrior.