The Western Wizard (51 page)

Colbey rolled to his feet and charged in a motion. He slashed at the shapeless mass of fire. The blue flame strengthened, swirling around and through the red like a separate being. Colbey’s sword passed through the figure two hundred times in half as many seconds, yet it met nothing of substance. Blood oozed from his hand, burning like acid.

Gradually, the fire lost all shape, the crimson shrinking before the blue. Suddenly, all redness failed. The blue streaks gathered into a manshape. Then the fire disappeared, but the image it had formed remained. Where it had been, a man knelt in the grass, his shoulders bent and heaving.

Having seen the creature change form before, Colbey did not hesitate. He leapt upon the figure in the grass. At last, his sword met something solid, a wooden staff, and the steel snapped beneath the impact.

Colbey dropped his hilt, pawing for his second sword, and the other met his glance with ancient, gray eyes. Only then, Colbey recognized Shadimar. He recoiled in disbelief, unable to piece together the events of the last several moments.
The blue flame had to be Shadimar. But what kind of abomination was the red?

Shadimar recovered Colbey’s broken blade and hilt. “Worthless,” he grumbled. “Worthless despite skill, but I’ll change that if it takes every shred of magic I can call.” He stomped off across the charred porch, stopping only when he reached the doorway. He spoke to Colbey without turning, and the booming tone of his voice warned the Renshai not to even try to question. “I presume this blade was well made?”

“If you ever find one better, you’ll have to steal it from
my
sheath.”

Without a reply, Shadimar stormed into the common room, leaving Colbey in a night gone eerily silent. He stared at his mangled left hand, hoping desperately he would find a cure for what remained of it.

*  *  *

Curiosity haunted Colbey, and the ceaseless throbbing of his hand made sleep impossible. When he’d exhausted
every herb he could think of and find, the wound settled to a dull ache that still precluded sleep. Eventually, abandoning all hope of dispelling the pain, Colbey chewed some stems that blunted his mind and allowed him to sleep despite it.

Colbey awakened on the piled straw in the gathering house loft, in exactly the place and position in which he had fallen asleep. Sunlight streamed through the windows, trailing square funnels of light on the loft floor. Shadimar sat just outside one of these patches, his back propped against the wall, his head and shoulders sagging over a sword in his lap. Voices reverberated from the common room below, blending into a discordant hubbub that left no individual words to decipher.

Colbey sat up. From the scattered disarray of packs and hay, he knew the others had returned, slept, and already started another day. His head felt heavy, and his thoughts stumbled through fog. His hand ached incessantly. The slightest movement intensified the pain to a pounding, panting agony. Loss of control and concern for his limb drove Colbey into a foul temper. He un-wound the bandage from his hand, ignoring the flashes this sent through the wound. Four parallel gashes marred the flesh, their edges gaping. The inner skin held an unhealthy pallor that boded poorly for healing, and the outer had gone as red as a sunset. Colbey knew that most men would have sutured each gap, but he knew better. Though it would scar more, the wound would heal better from inside to out. And experience told him that closing dirty injuries made them more prone to infection.

Colbey cleared the wound meticulously, though every touch sparked more pain. Applying the most potent of the pastes he had created the previous night, he re-wrapped it with a clean bandage and hoped for the best.

When Colbey had finished, Shadimar looked up. “Come here.”

In no mood for power struggles or lectures, Colbey remained in place. “What do you want?”

“I want you to come here.”

Pain and the aftereffects of the sleeping herb made Colbey sullen, and the Wizard’s half-answer increased his annoyance. “Why?”

Shadimar fixed a stone-hard gaze on Colbey. “Because I need to talk and to give you something. I don’t want to shout, and I won’t throw it across the loft.”

Colbey started to grumble something about the Wizard coming to him, then stopped. He saw no reason to antagonize Shadimar, and he could not help becoming interested in the sword in Shadimar’s lap. It looked like a twin to the broken blade, except that it was whole. Rising, he walked to the Wizard, mustering mental strength to banish the shreds of fatigue left by the sleeping herb. “What do you have?”

“I repaired your sword.” Shadimar pointed the weapon at Colbey.

Colbey frowned, reminding himself that Shadimar would know little of weapon etiquette. To a warrior, displayed steel meant a challenge, and anyone who offered anything but a weapon’s hilt might just as well have attacked. “Thank you for your effort, but it’s of no use to me now. Even if you could fix it in a way that didn’t disrupt the balance, it would always have a weak point.”

Shadimar smiled. “Try it.” Apparently, recognizing his impropriety, he placed his other hand on the blade. The grasp was awkward, even for one not trained for war, and his excessive caution became his undoing. While guarding his fingers too well, he touched his palm to the blade. It left barely a scratch, a short scarlet line that did not even draw enough blood to bead. Yet Shadimar stared in fascination or horror.

Colbey accepted the sword, more interested in it than in the Eastern Wizard’s antics. He had trusted the sword for too many years to dismiss it without at least a glance. It had changed little since he had drawn it to battle the creature that the farmers of Greentree had called Flanner’s bane. All its weight seemed bunched just beyond the hilt. If anything, its balance had gone from the best he had ever wielded to perfection. The notches the edges had accumulated through the decades had vanished, and they looked as sharp as the day of their forging. In the shadows, the color seemed ideal. When Colbey carried it to the sunlight, he approved even more. Not so much as a hairline remained to show where the steel had broken.

Lowering his head, Colbey put the sword to its final test. He swept the blade in a long stroke, feigned a block, then reversed the cut. That one maneuver told him all. This was the sword against which all future swords must be measured, one that was everything that Colbey had always imagined the gods would use. Need and longing filled him, followed by the realization that it already belonged to him. Joy swept him then, and he launched into a swirl of grace and movement designed to test the sword and himself to their joint limit. The steel did not disappoint him. It became a willing partner, stabbing and slashing imaginary enemies as if telepathically linked. The balance made it feel weightless. The pain in Colbey’s hand seemed to disappear, as his concentration narrowed in on the sword.

Shadimar watched, clutching at the miniscule nick on his palm with the intensity that Colbey had earlier given his damaged hand.

Colbey halted his practice, exhilarated. The fog had lifted from his thoughts, and all irritation had left him. “It’s better than before the break. How?” Colbey broke off, bothered by his own question. The first stirrings of warning rose, and the realization that he might have to refuse Shadimar’s gift made him ill.

“Magic,” Shadimar said softly, the precise word Colbey had hoped not to hear, though he knew there could be no other explanation. “No object currently on man’s world has so much power. Use it with care.”

“No.” Colbey flipped the sword with none of Shadimar’s caution. He offered the hilt. “I can’t take it.”

Shadimar’s face went so blank, it seemed as if even the features had been washed from it. His ancient eyes held no fire of emotion. “I have paid a high price for it and for you.” He made no motion to take the sword. “Without it, you can do nothing for me except die.”

Colbey turned away. The idea of losing the weapon he had searched for all his life hurt. “I think using it would violate the Renshai code of honor. We rely only on personal skill because it has no limits. Like armor, magic would become a crutch. Crutches are too easily lost, and their wielders with them.”

Bitter lines etched across Shadimar’s empty features.
“Enchanted or not, a sword is only as good as its wielder. It won’t replace skill. It will only help you enhance what you already have.” The Eastern Wizard’s mood radiated to Colbey. Many earnest thoughts troubled Shadimar, but they concerned matters beyond Colbey’s experience and made little sense to him. He plucked out only vague premonitions of a serious danger and doubts that seemed to pertain as much to Colbey as to the enemies they would need to face.

Shadimar continued, “That creature we fought last night was a demon. It could only have come from four sources, three if you discount me, and I did not call it. Since the Western Wizard is dead, that leaves two. Either Trilless or Carcophan could have called it. The question is why.”

Colbey lowered the hilt to the ground, balancing the blade against his hand. The Wizard seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Colbey, and the Renshai believed it wrong to interrupt.

“If he or she had called it for information and lost control, it would have slaughtered his or her followers, then left. And if I could best it by myself, either of them could have done so more easily.” Shadimar stared at Colbey, and his tangible emotions receded. Colbey felt certain the Wizard had come to a conclusion. “That demon was given a task. It was summoned
specifically to kill someone.
”

“Who?” Colbey asked, the possibilities few.

“The one and only person it attacked with intent to kill.” Shadimar rose. “You, Colbey. It wanted you.” He glanced at the Renshai’s bandaged hand. “And had it inflicted more than a scratch, each claw strike would have aged you a decade.”

If Colbey had sustained a scratch, he dared not envision a significant injury. Still, he did not argue; it was not his way to burden others with complaints about his wounds. Instead, he shook his head, seeing flaws in the Eastern Wizard’s conclusion. “It had me in the cornfield, if it wanted me. Why didn’t it just keep shooting fire then?”

Shadimar looked past Colbey, at the ladder leading down from the loft. “There is only one explanation. Its
task was to kill you and no one else. Failing that, it had to wait until it got you alone.”

Colbey’s brow furrowed. The noises wafting from the common room below seemed to disappear. “Why me? I thought these were your enemies.”

“She sees you as a threat.”

“She?” Colbey prodded.

“Trilless.” Shadimar paced. “I have to guess it’s her work. The use of a demon screams Carcophan, but the instructions to hurt no one except you fits Trilless perfectly. And there’s precedent. I believe she goaded the Northmen against you.”

Colbey corrected, fishing for the extent of Shadimar’s knowledge. “You mean against Santagithi.”

“I mean exactly what I said. Nothing less.”

Traitor that Emerald was, she was not a liar.
Colbey let the knowledge pass. What Emerald had been no longer mattered, except in that she was Episte’s mother. Colbey would never disparage her memory in the boy’s presence. “This Trilless is the Northern Sorceress, right?”

Shadimar nodded confirmation as he ambled past Colbey.

“For someone who never met me, she’s been a constant source of trouble.”

“It’s not personal.” Shadimar turned and headed back the way he had come. “It never is for Wizards. For reasons I don’t yet have the knowledge to fathom, she sees you as a threat to her cause.” One brow arched, apparently in memory of the demon. “Obviously, a serious threat.” He stopped directly in front of Colbey. “Like Wizards, demons can’t be harmed by anything of Odin’s world. Without Harval . . .” He pointed at the sword. “. . . you can’t do anything against your enemies, except die.”

Colbey’s gaze strayed to the bandage. Had the demon’s claws caused much more damage, he would have lost his hand. He had heard rumors of men living nearly a century, then dying as feeble, twisted gnomes as frail as china dolls. A deeper slash would have left him dead of “age” and handless, barred from Valhalla as the price for a single wound that, without this weapon, he could
not defend. Colbey raised the sword again, studying it in the stream of sunlight. It looked no different than before: fire-hardened to Colbey’s meticulous specifications, cold silver steel crafted to kill.
Perhaps I will keep you.
He directed the thought at the sword, prepared for a mental battle of control and will. Nothing ensued. The sword had no sentience of its own; it would obey its wielder without question or regard to action. It was a tool, like any weapon, yet with potential for greater harm.
Is it any difference to own a sword whose balance and sharpness come from magic than to find one as well made by more mundane means?

Colbey internalized the question, seeking Sif’s guidance. He received nothing direct, but his thoughts did shift slightly to a statement Shadimar had made indirectly: “Like Wizards, demons can’t be harmed by anything of Odin’s world.”
If Harval can kill demons, then it can kill Wizards as well.
Colbey considered the significance of his realization, and it made him smile.
You started this feud, Trilless. You had best hope I don’t finish it.
Again, Colbey flipped the weapon, this time catching the hilt. He slid the Gray Blade into the sheath it had occupied before the breaking. Its presence felt good.

*  *  *

Colbey chose a secluded clearing amidst the corn stalks for his practice, a circular burn apparently left by Trilless’ demon. Black stubble crunched beneath Colbey’s boots, and Harval flickered between the rows of stalks. He concentrated on single-blade patterns and thrusts. Though he hated letting one limb lie dormant, Colbey’s herbal studies allowed him to understand the need. First, the injury needed to heal. Sudden, committed movements would hamper his body’s restorative powers. Once the wound had closed, rehabilitation could come later.

A feeling of presence touched Colbey first, a distant sensation of another’s staring. So soon after the demon’s attack, it made him leery; but he continued his practice without a break in stride. The
svergelse
gave him an excuse to have his sword drawn, and he saw no need to alert the other to his vigilance. So far, nothing about the being made it seem overtly malicious. His mind told him that the approaching creature was human. So long as he
held a sword, Colbey believed he could handle any warrior in existence.