Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Darby cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, stalling. "Well, sir, I wouldn't lie to a Knight of Erythane."

Ra-khir nodded encouragingly. The basest hypocrite would give no different answer. "That's good to know."

"I… thought…" Darby paused to stare at his feet. "Well, I just figured…"

Ra-khir waited patiently.

"The battle was over, and… and…" Darby sighed. So far, he had said essentially nothing in a whole lot of words. "… and the victors left so much they clearly didn't want or need. So, I thought…"

"You would take it?" Ra-khir supplied.

"Well, yes, actually, sir. My ma and I and my sister could use it." Darby finally met Ra-khir's gaze. "Is that bad, sir? It's not a crime," he added hastily, "least not in these parts. Abandoned stuff belongs to the one who found it."

Ra-khir considered. "I don't believe it's bad, no. But can your ma and sister really use these weapons? And armor?"

Darby flushed. "I thought I'd sell it, sir." He added quickly, "Is that bad?"

"No," Ra-khir admitted. "Once the combatants have moved on, and the owners of the property are dead by other hands, I see nothing inherently evil in making decent use of what's been left behind."

Darby heaved a loud sigh. "Thank you, sir."

"For what?"

"For putting my conscience at ease."

Ra-khir shrugged, surprised it mattered to the little urchin. "What's a fine boy like you, one that listens to his conscience, doing in a woodland battlefield?"

Darby stared. Then, apparently worried about the rudeness of doing so, he rubbed his eyes with a filthy fist. "No disrespect, sir. But haven't we already had this exact conversation?"

Ra-khir laughed. He had asked the same question, in a slightly different form. "I just mean, most urchins don't care much about the morality of their actions. You have some breeding, Darby. Why aren't you out apprenticing a trade, something more refined than battlefield robbery?"

Darby took a backward step, sucking air through his teeth. "Robbery, sir? Didn't you just say…?"

"Poor choice of words." Ra-khir hurried to put the boy's mind at ease. For reasons he could not wholly explain, he liked Darby. "If the owner is dead in deliberate combat, and the victor has no interest in the spoils, then they become fair game for seekers such as yourself."

Darby gave a heavy nod.

Realizing he had gotten sidetracked, Ra-khir tried again. "So how come you're legally scavenging a battlefield rather than apprenticing a regular trade?"

Darby shrugged. "I haven't any trade to apprentice." There was more to the story, they both knew.

Ra-khir continued to look at the boy, brow cocked.

Darby stared back, defiantly at first, than with less assurance. Finally, he cracked. "My pa died in an accident that involved a…" He considered his words carefully, "… popular leader. A lot of people blamed my pa for it, so hardly anyone wants to mix around with us."

"That's not fair."

Darby threw up his hands. "Fair or not, it's how it is." He rubbed his hands together, and dirt fell in peels from his palms. "My ma gets work now and then, when they can't find no one else. Same with me, when there just aren't enough other men to do the job. My sister… well, the only things men want her for, they can't have."

Ra-khir's expression became as deadly serious as Darby's.

"I'm trying to gather up as much of value as I can before bigger men find this treasure and take it."

Ra-khir sighed. He knew what he had to do, even if it meant further delays on his hunt. These corpses were fresh. He had nearly caught up with the Renshai, but duty bound him, as always. A Knight of Erythane is honorable in every situation, not just when it suits him. "Darby, you gather what you want on that wagon and your person. When you're finished, Silver Warrior and I will help you get it safely home." He patted the horse affectionately, earning a dry-nosed snuffle for his loving gesture.

"Really?" Darby stared, his obvious joy tempered with awe. "You'd do that for me?"

"What sort of knight would I be if I didn't help someone in need?"

"But I'm not really-" Darby started. Then, apparently realizing he was talking himself out of a princely escort, he let the argument drop. "Thank you. Thank you so much, sir." He hurried off to finish loading the cart.

Ra-khir removed Silver Warrior's bridle to allow his loyal white stallion to graze. He continued to study the battlefield until he spotted a string of haze floating toward the sky. He followed it to the smoldering remains of a massive pyre. Wet ash filled a hole apparently hacked into the ground using the discarded helmets of Northmen, which now lay, filthy and abandoned, near the hole. A slurry of charcoal and charred bones filled the pit, leaving nothing identifiable in the way of clothing, soft tissues, or features. Renshai had built it, Ra-khir felt certain. Clearly, they had won the battle, cremated their dead, then moved on, leaving the Northmen's broken bodies for the crows, dogs, and buzzards to devour.

And the Northmen either had no survivors or those had retreated too far away to tend their own dead. Yet. If they existed, Ra-khir hoped they did not return before Darby collected his spoils. He did not want to oversee disputes over whether or not the boy had taken something of value or desecrated their dead. Darby clearly meant no disrespect and had obeyed the laws of property abandonment.

Tears welled in Ra-khir's eyes as he stared into the pit, watching gray ash curl in the wind. The smoke had withered to a trickle, and no clear fire remained. That meant at least a few hours, more likely a few days, had passed since the pyre was lit. He wondered whose scorched bones still occupied that pit, whose organs formed the ash, whose teeth still clung to their smoldering jaws. A scavenger might find some lumps of melted coins in the heap, but not a single sword. Those required loving restoration, if necessary, and the honor of use. In the best circumstances, they would go to a relative or to a child named after the deceased in tribute.

Saviar might lie in there, Ra-khir realized. Or Calistin. That seemed far less likely. He found it impossible to consider his youngest's death, not only because of his preternatural sword talent, but because people of Calistin's temperament never seemed to die young.

Saviar seemed a far more likely victim of the Northmen's attack, not quite yet a man by Renshai standards, never having experienced a real battle. Ra-khir felt the familiar cold touch of despair, but this time he did not succumb to it. He had no way of knowing the fate of his sons, and it did no good to mourn in ignorance. Until he received word of their deaths, from a reliable source, he had no choice but to believe he could still find them alive.

Ra-khir stepped back from the pit. The quiet stillness of the forest, the gentle breeze caressing the leaves all seemed to belie the grotesqueness of the scene in front of him. Once again, he glanced over the corpses: the sightless eyes, the bloodless faces, the bits of gore splattering the ground and tree trunks. One, in particular caught his attention, a Northman's headless torso, the neck hacked to pieces, clearly after death. Here, someone had vented his anger in a burst of violence so bloody it brought to mind the ancient accusations against the Renshai tribe that had led to their initial banishment.

Ra-khir turned away. There was nothing more he could glean from the carnage. He headed back to find Darby with a well-loaded cart, still stuffing coppers into his pocket.

The boy looked up at Ra-khir's approach. "I'm ready when you are, sir."

Ra-khir nodded. Though relatively small, the cartload dwarfed the even tinier donkey. He whistled for Silver Warrior, who came to him at a brisk trot.