The Western Wizard

Book 2: Renshai Trilogy

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Science Fiction; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Book two in the acclaimed, bestselling epic fantasy Renshai Trilogy—an intricate world of Norse mythology, slashing swordplay, and devastating sorcery. When Odin breathed life into the mortal realms, he also created the Cardinal Wizards: the Northern Wizard as the representative of Good, the Southern as master of Evil, and the Western and Eastern as the keepers of the balance between Good and Evil, each neutral, both sharing the burden of holding their fellow magic wielders in check. But now the days decreed in ancient prophecy have come upon the mortal realms. The Great War has been fought and a Renshai has proven its Champion. Yet even as the war’s heroes struggle to place the rightful king of Bearn upon his throne, and the also true Renshai seeks to train a new generation of his warrior race, the word is carried forth on falcon’s wings that the Western Wizard is no more. And unless Shadimar, the Wizard of the East, can find the one mortal with any hope of surviving the challenge of the Seven Tasks of Wizardry, the worlds of gods and mortals alike will fall....

Release date: August 4, 1992

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 640

Sample

For centuries, the Amirannak Sea had kicked spindrift on the ragged Northland shores, but the Northern Sorceress, Trilless, watched waters glazed with calm. Perched upon a seaside cliff in the country of Asci, she stared into the fjord, watching wind scarcely ruffle ocean the color of steel. The tide tugged so gently that the waters barely seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat.

Trilless had come to this unpopulated shoreline for the quiet solace it offered, yet the ancient champion of all goodness found no peace within or without. For all its stillness, the ocean seemed coiled and restless, locked into the dark instant of lull that preceded the most violent storms. As if in answer, the memories and surviving slivers of identity from Trilless’ eighteen predecessors seemed to writhe within her. Always before, they had remained quiescent, a conglomerate of experiences and references she called upon in time of need. Now, they heaved and fidgeted like tempest-wracked waves, while the ocean itself remained uncharacteristically stagnant.

More than four centuries ago, the ceremony that had established Trilless as the Northern Sorceress, one of the four Cardinal Wizards, had also, by necessity, claimed the life of her direct predecessor. Trilless knew that the pool of knowledge granted to her by that ceremony made her the most powerful of her line, just as her own successor would gain the benefit of her lore and become even more wise, knowledgeable, and skilled. The first four Cardinal Wizards established by Odin, including the original Northern Sorceress, had no magical powers. Haunted by dreams and images, they had written or spoken their prophecies, leaving them for later, more adept successors to fulfil. Now, Trilless found herself haunted by the first prediction of the first Northern Sorceress:

In an age of change

When Chaos shatters Odin’s ward

And the Cardinal Wizards forsake their vows

A Renshai shall come forward.

Hero of the Great War

He will hold legend and destiny in his hand

And wield them like a sword.

Too late shall he be known unto you:

The Golden Prince of Demons.

Clearly, that promised age of change had come. Trilless knew a tense expectancy that seemed to follow her, an inescapable current that suffused the world and all the creatures in it. Some of the tenets had already come to pass. Goaded by Carcophan, who was the current Southern Wizard, King Siderin of the Eastlands had launched the Great War against the mixed races of the Westlands.

Trilless’ brow knit. A scowl formed naturally on her creased features at the thought of Carcophan, her evil opposite. Law and propriety had barred her from directly observing or taking part in this war. But, through magic, she had glimpsed those parts which involved Northmen. Only one of the eighteen Northern tribes had chosen to aid the Westerners in the War; the Vikerians had gone, allied to the Town of Santagithi. Their second-in-command, a lieutenant called Valr Kirin, showed promise as a warrior and as a possible champion of goodness. But, despite his competence, the hero of the Great War was not Kirin ‘The Slayer.’

Trilless’ thoughts flowed naturally to the Renshai who had earned the title ‘Golden Prince of Demons,’ Colbey Calistinsson. She saw his cold blue-gray eyes in a hard face scarcely beginning to show age. He kept his mixed gold and white locks hacked short, a style that looked out of place amid the other Northmen’s war braids. Though relatively small, he moved with a strength and agility she had never seen matched in any warrior or acrobat. At sixty-five, Colbey was older than any Renshai in history, except for the ancient Episte who had died a decade and a half ago. Enamored with war, Renshai rarely lived through their thirties, and inbreeding had fostered a racial feature that made them seem younger than their actual ages. This, combined with a custom of naming infants for brave warriors slain in battle, had given rise to rumors that Renshai drank blood to remain eternally young.

Trilless sighed, missing the connection between Colbey and the doom suggested by the first Northern Sorceress’ forecast. So far, the Renshai’s actions fell well within the tenets of Northern honor. She found him as predictable as any of her own followers, though he had chosen neutrality over goodness. She doubted any mortal could challenge the Cardinal Wizards, let alone begin the Ragnarok, the great war destined to destroy the gods. Still, the prophecy implied that he would have some connection to the primordial chaos that Odin had banished to create the world.

Below Trilless, the ocean remained gray and still. The presences of her predecessors shifted fretfully, reminding her that the poem never stated that Colbey would directly cause the Wizards’ broken vows, the change, or the rise of chaos. Yet just the linking of his name with those events made their imminence loom. How many more years can a sixty-five-year-old mortal have? Trilless answered her own question. At most, a decade. To a sorceress nearly five centuries old, it seemed like an eye blink.

Trilless rose, her wrinkled features lost in the shadow of her hood. She wore a white cloak over robes so light they enhanced an otherwise nearly invisible tinge of pink in her ivory-pale Northern skin. To the Northmen, white symbolized purity. And, though no law of gods or Wizards made her dress the part of goodness to the point of caricature, she chose to do so anyway. It reminded her always of her job and her vows, and it gave added credence to her station. Odin’s constraints against direct interference kept her contacts with mankind rare and brief. Few enough men believed in Wizards anymore.

Other concerns touched Trilless then. The Southern Wizard had disappeared even before the Great War had begun. Surely, he knew that his champion had been defeated; yet he had chosen not to acknowledge the loss or the rout of his followers. The experiences of Trilless’ predecessors led her to believe that he had retired to a private haven to sulk. It was not uncommon for a Cardinal Wizard to withdraw for decades, returning only when large-scale events made a swift or strong defense necessary.

Yet Trilless knew her opposite too well. Despite two centuries as a Cardinal Wizard, Carcophan had scarcely more patience than a mortal. She could not help but admire his dedication to his cause though it stood in direct opposition to her own. She guessed Carcophan had left to plot in quiet; and when he struck, she knew it would be with sudden and unexpected competence and efficiency. His predecessors had relied on subtlety, insidiously infusing the followers of neutrality and goodness with his evil. Trilless and her predecessors had done much the same thing with their goodness. Over the millennia, this had led to a balance and a blurring of the boundaries and definitions of their causes. But Carcophan tended to choose warrior’s tactics: abrupt, committed strategies that resulted either in massive victories, or, as in the Great War, in wholesale defeat. I need to know what he’s planning.

And Trilless faced one more urgent worry. Odin had decreed that the number of Cardinal Wizards should always remain four; yet she had not heard from Tokar, the Western Wizard, in nearly half a century. Ordinarily, this would not have bothered her; the actions and locations of the paired champions of neutrality, the Eastern and Western Wizards, meant little to her. But when she had last seen Tokar, he had just chosen his apprentice, which meant that his time of passing was imminent. As well, the attack by Carcophan’s champion should have brought the Western Wizard into the foreground. But it had not.

Shadimar, the Eastern Wizard, had taken over the tasks the Western Wizard had been destined to fulfill. While Odin’s Law allowed this, the Eastern Wizard was always the weaker of the two and far less capable of handling his stronger compatriot’s duties in addition to his own. Odin’s laws stated that if a Wizard was destroyed, the others must band together to replace him; but strict protocol regulated who could initiate the proceedings. Neither Trilless nor Carcophan benefited from neutrality, and their causes could only strengthen without the Western Wizard to oppose them. Had Shadimar requested their aid, Trilless and Carcophan would have had no choice but to give it. There could be only two reasons why Shadimar had chosen not to do so. Either the Western Wizard still lived, or Shadimar was as uncertain as she of the fate of the Western Wizard. Until Shadimar could prove his partner’s death, revealing his need to work alone could only make him vulnerable.

Trilless wrestled with the problem. She knew there were only two ways to discover the fate of the Western Wizard, and both seemed frighteningly dangerous and difficult. The first involved trying to link minds with the missing Wizard. This had its practical difficulties. Although the Wizards could touch thoughts, to do so uninvited was considered a rudeness bordering on attack; and it required knowledge of the other Wizard’s location. That could only be achieved by physical means, and Tokar had not deigned to answer the messages she had sent him. The second means of gaining knowledge involved summoning. The idea sent a shiver of dread through her. Several Cardinal Wizards, including some of the Northern Wizards, had called forth creatures called demons from the magical plane of Odin’s banished Chaos. But Trilless had never done so.

Trilless looked out over the Amirannak Sea, her legs braced and her focus distant. Clearly she had no choice. Given his recent defeat, Carcophan could not afford the risk of a summoning. Weak and burdened with the tasks of two Wizards, Shadimar could hardly be expected to accept the peril either. Of the three Cardinal Wizards who had been killed unexpectedly, two of them had been slaughtered by demons, and both slain in such a manner had been Eastern Wizards. Though knowledge of the Western Wizard would serve Shadimar best, Trilless could understand his hesitation. Still, this ignorance could not continue. Someone had to determine the fate of the Western Wizard. Clearly that someone would have to be Trilless.

The memories of the previous Northern Wizards fluttered, some in agreement and a few in opposition to the decision. Then, as Trilless came to her conclusion, the suggestions disappeared beneath a rush of unified support. Those few who had summoned demons came to the forefront with solid advice and the words of the necessary incantation.

Trilless closed her eyes, blanking her mind except for the guidance of her predecessors. Slowly, cautious to the point of paranoia with every syllable, she began the incantation that would call the weakest of demons to her.

Gradually, a dark shape formed above the glass-still waters. Horror shivered through Trilless from a source unlike any she had known before. The familiar tingle of magic strengthened to a stabbing rumble that tore through her like pain. Space and time upended, physical concepts that lost all meaning. She gritted her teeth, not daring to cry out and lose the steady, unwavering cadence of her incantation. She grounded her reason on the constancy of Odin’s world and the necessary constraints of his laws. The collective consciousness of her predecessors began a low, changeless chant that gave her focus.

As the creature’s presence strengthened, Trilless shifted her spell, weaving tangles of enchantment about the hazy shadow. She worked with methodical efficiency, winding webs that shimmered white against the shapeless, sable bulk of the demon she had summoned.

‘Lady.’ The demon’s voice made the threatening hiss of a viper seem benign. ‘You called me to your world. You will pay with the lives of followers, and perhaps with your own. You had best hope your wards can bind me.’

Trilless tossed her hooded head without reply, keeping her attention fully focused. She knew that when the time came to return the demon it would demand payment in blood. But the amount it took would depend upon the quickness and competence of her craft. Dismiss it, distract it, and slay it. Trilless let the process cycle through her mind, hoping the knowledge of her predecessors would enhance the procedures while she concentrated on more immediate matters. Stay alert, she reminded herself. To lose even one life to this abomination would be a travesty.

Demons cared nothing for good or evil. They followed no masters and obeyed no laws. The only feature about it on which Trilless could rely was its certain and violent inconsistency. And the longer she kept it here, the stronger it would grow. ‘By Odin’s law I have called you here. You must answer my questions and perform a service to the best of your knowledge and abilities.’ Trilless hated wasting time with formality and information she believed they both already understood, but her predecessors assured her of the necessity. Unlike men the demons had no natural constraints. They were bound only by the laws thrust upon them and then only when on the world Odin created.

Wound with enchantments, the demon assumed a vague manshape. Its eyes looked like points of fire in a bed of dying embers. ‘Ask, then, Wizard. But hope your answers are worth the blood I shall claim in return.’ A glob of spittle fell from his mouth and struck the ocean with a hiss. Smoke curled from the water as its surface broke in widening rings.

Trilless raised her arms to a sky gone dull as slate. She knew that the demon, though forced to answer with truth, could deceive to the limits of that boundary. Clearly, it would reveal more of the information that it wanted her to have, skewed in the direction of primordial chaos. She would need to phrase her questions carefully. ‘At this time, is there a living Western Wizard?’

The demon faded into the gloom. Its semisolid form oozed beneath Trilless’ wards. Abruptly, wind chopped the jeweled calm of the sea, took down the hood of the sorceress’ cloak, and spilled her white hair into her face. But the demon’s bonds held. The gale withered and dropped. The demon’s eyes gleamed, and its jaws parted to reveal pointed teeth as dark as its form. ‘Lady, I do not know.’

Trilless gritted her teeth, prodded by frustration and rage. She dared not believe she had taken such a risk for nothing. ‘Who does know?’ She tried to keep her mood hidden, but her question emerged like a shout.

‘More powerful demons,’ it suggested, then laughed. ‘Perhaps.’ Its features contorted to a blur, then returned to a facelike configuration. ‘Though one of your own did witness the ceremony.’

Trilless considered. The demon had volunteered the information; apparently, it had more to say on this topic, and that intrigued her. Its words gave her two courses to follow, and she chose the more promising one. ‘By ceremony, do you mean Tokar’s ceremony of passage?’

‘Yes.’

‘So Tokar is dead?’

‘As dead as any Cardinal Wizard can be. His being, as such, was utterly destroyed.’

Trilless concentrated on the demon’s explanation. A Wizard’s ceremony of passage did result in the utter destruction of body and soul, leaving only memories, including misconceptions and weaknesses, that joined the collective consciousness and became a part of his apprentice. ‘What happened to Tokar’s successor?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I do not know.’

Trilless abandoned this line of questioning, following the other path instead. ‘You said that one of my own witnessed the ceremony.’

The bulk of the demon darkened until it seemed less a being and more the absence of being, a dense hole in the cosmos. ‘I said this.’

‘Who?’ Trilless asked. Then, realizing she had left the question far too vague, she clarified. ‘Who witnessed the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage?’

‘Many birds.’

The answer seemed obvious. The Western Wizard had an empathic link with birds similar to the Eastern Wizard’s connection to land animals and her own with denizens of the ocean. The Southern Wizard could command the creatures of transition, those that lived part of their life cycle on land and part in water or those land creatures that laid eggs. Recognizing the demon’s answer as delay, Trilless pressed. ‘Who is the “one of my own” who witnessed the ceremony?’

‘Carcophan.’

Trilless’ eyes narrowed. The response seemed unlikely. ‘The Western Wizard witnessed Tokar’s ceremony of passage?’

‘No.’

Trilless froze at the seeming contradiction, retracing her thoughts for the mistake. She rephrased the question more carefully. ‘Was there a mortal or a Wizard present at the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage who was not Tokar or his apprentice?’

‘Yes,’ the demon said, supplying nothing more.

‘Name all the mortals or Wizards present at the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage.’

The demon’s face became manlike enough to reveal a toothy grin. ‘That, Lady, was not a question.’

Near-immortality had bestowed patience on Trilless. She did not allow the demon’s stalling to fluster her. ‘Who is the “one of my own” who witnessed the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage? And what makes you refer to him as “one of my own”?’

The demon chose to answer both questions at once. ‘He is a Northman, Wizard. Men call him Deathseeker. The gods use the title Kyndig.’ He used the Northern pronunciation Kawn-dee, which translated to ‘Skilled One.’ The demon’s features achieved a near-human sneer. ‘You call him the Golden Prince of Demons.’

Trilless recoiled as if slapped. Immediately sensing the new weakness in her wards, the demon thrust at the enchantments that held it. Hurriedly, Trilless fought vulnerability, plugging the gap with webs of utter purity. Her magic burned it. Screaming, the demon struggled backward, deeper into the sorceress’ wards.

Annoyance made Trilless’ head throb. Pain was a tool of evil, not good. Despite the nature of the demon, she had no wish to torture it. She softened the magics of her bindings, and the demon’s shrieks changed pitch to the deep rumble of laughter.

Trilless spoke in a controlled monotone. Over time, her magic was losing power while the demon gained more. She could not afford to keep it much longer. Yet, one question still begged asking. ‘I know Carcophan is plotting against us already. Who is the Southern Wizard’s new champion?’

The demon writhed in its bonds. It waved one splay-clawed hand and spoke in a voice that could quail a brave warrior. ‘Carcophan has no champion yet.’ The hand dissipated. Though not bound to say more, the demon chose to continue, perhaps hoping to further rattle its keeper. ‘But it is fated. Carcophan shall command a swordsman unmatched by any other mortal.’

Trilless paled, but this time she retained control. ‘Who is this mortal?’

‘I do not know.’

‘What more do you know about Carcophan’s champion?’

‘Only what I’ve told you.’

Another dead end. Trilless hesitated. There were more questions she would have liked to ask, but none seemed worth the risk. Clearly unless Colbey died before Carcophan selected his champion, he was the only mortal who answered the demon’s description. That, combined with the early prophecy that linked the Golden Prince of Demons with Ragnarok left her little choice. Her course of action seemed clear. First, Colbey must be questioned about the ceremony he had witnessed. A Wizard’s passage required the use of magics more potent than the sum of all the spells used throughout the centuries of his reign. Any interference could cause consequences she could only begin to contemplate. Since Colbey had become a follower of neutrality, his interrogation could only be carried out by Shadimar. Afterward, Trilless had no choice but to see to Colbey’s death.

Odin’s laws bound the Wizards to see that their predecessors’ prophecies were fulfilled; yet, as far as she knew, no Wizard had been specifically assigned to instigate the Ragnarok. In fact, it would stand against the survival of nearly all of the gods, the Wizards, and the world to assign anyone to such a task. Fortunately, without a Wizard to back it, the prophecy had little chance of coming to fruition, and Trilless saw no reason why she should not oppose it. Still, it went against her many oaths to confront any mortal directly or to suggest that another Wizard do such a thing. Even if she did, Shadimar might mistrust her intentions. Their causes did, at times, come head to head. She could only choose her own champion, send him or her after Colbey, and hope that Shadimar did not step in the way. To let Carcophan’s champion skew the balance toward evil meant a fate nearly as ugly to Trilless as the Ragnarok. And there was only one way to even the odds between Colbey and whatever champion she chose to send against him, Ristoril, the White Sword of Power. The calmness that accompanied this decision felt as right as the eternity she had dedicated herself to preserve. Many Northern Wizards before her had placed the Great Sword in a champion’s hands.

‘Demon,’ Trilless said softly, her mind made up. ‘You still owe me a service. I would have you retrieve the White Sword of Power.’

This once, the demon had no taunts. ‘I shall fulfill your request, though it is folly. Should Carcophan recall the Dark Blade, his champion would still best yours by skill. You take an unnecessary risk with lives you claim to protect. Including your own.’

Trilless stood statue still. She knew the demon spoke truth. Another prophecy claimed that the Ragnarok would occur when all three Swords of Power existed in Odin’s world of law at once. Previous mages had already crafted two of the Swords, storing them on the plane of magic when not in a champion’s hands. Yet the third Sword had not yet been crafted, and Trilless believed it would require a joint effort of Eastern and Western Wizards to create it. So long as the Western Wizard did not exist, she was taking no risk. Without Ristoril, her champion had no chance at all against Carcophan’s chosen one. Surely Carcophan knew this, too. He would have to guess that Trilless might call the White Sword against Colbey. After all, the Southern Wizard had been wise enough to withhold the Dark Sword from Siderin. ‘You cannot defy me.’

‘As you wish, Lady.’

Trilless tightened her control on the snarled webs of warding as the demon bellowed harsh, vulgar syllables that made her ears ache. Yet the result of his ravings was beautiful to behold. The sun shouldered through a crack in the clouds, as golden and bright as the elves who dwelt far north of the Amirannak Sea. Gradually, light emerged from the globe, streaming tendrils of sun that dropped from the sky and merged at Trilless’ feet as a starry burst of energy.

Its brilliance obscured the demon who summoned it. Within the light, a shape took form. Silently, the Sorceress watched as the sun streamers guttered and sank, leaving only a great Sword sheathed in a worn leather scabbard. Despite its imposing size, the plain steel hilt suggested nothing of the Sword’s power. Yet Trilless knew the Sword of Tranquillity as a mother knows her child.

Lightning flared, breaking the peace of the union between mistress and treasure. The demon’s obligations finished, Trilless could no longer hold it. Enchanted fetters fell from it with a sound like breaking harp strings. The demon howled its challenge, each word louder than the one before. ‘I’ve served you, Lady. Now, I’ll claim my BLOOD!’

‘No!’ Trilless screamed. Breakers frothed against the cliffs as the sorceress pictured the demon ravaging innocents as the price for her knowledge. Tapped of power by the summons and wards, Trilless struggled to gather strength to call magics of slaying upon the demon. Yet, constrained by Odin’s laws to never directly harm men or Wizards, Trilless had no practice with such spells. She had carefully drawn the sequence to the forefront of memory before summoning the creature, and she mouthed the syllables from rote. But now, her concentration seemed scattered, and the hubbub of internal suggestions only added to the confusion.

Vibrant sparks of sorcery flashed from Trilless, their glow rivaling the sun. They struck the dark shape of the demon, spattering harmlessly to stone. The demon laughed, huge, serrated wings unfurling from its dark formlessness. Blood-flecked saliva oozed from its mouth.

Despite her weakness and confusion, Trilless held her voice steady and raised one arm. The sleeve slid back, revealing pale, wrinkled flesh. ‘Take my blood, Vile One. You shall have no other!’

Bound by the sacrifice, the demon sprang with a wavering howl. His wail filled Trilless’ head, drawing and tugging, as if to pull out her soul. Claws tore her forearm like knives. She retreated, protective incantations burning her throat. Nothing of flesh or law could harm her, but she had dared to call a creature who could. Agony scattered her wits, and she called upon the memories of her predecessors for strength.

The sea surged and boiled. Trilless fell to her knees, drawing strength from the ocean’s perfect basic power. She recovered her senses quickly and, with them, confidence. Her shouted sorceries regained their rhythm. Light flashed, blindingly brilliant against the demon’s darkness, and the creature vanished before the spell sequence ended.

Trilless whispered the last few syllables from the deep-seated need for completeness. The demon’s claw strikes trailed blood, four ugly gashes only magic could heal. Had she still been mortal, each would have stolen a decade from her time left to live; but this meant little to one who had survived four centuries and who would choose her own time of passing. She guessed this incident would have a profound significance when passed, with her soul, to her successor.

The tide accepted Trilless’ blood and swirled it to the sea. Quietly, she began the sequence of magics that would restore the skin of her arm. The pain was not so easily banished, but she turned her concentration to the Sword for which she had paid. It lay so still, yet to her trained eyes so alive with magic. And, with that glance, came the memory of runes carved upon a tablet-shaped stone in the ocean, attributed to the early mages, though no Cardinal Wizard could trace the author through his memories:

A Sword of Gray,

A Sword of White,

A Sword of Black and chill as night.

Each one forged,

Its craftsman a Mage;

The three Blades together shall close the age.

When their oath of peace

The Wizards forsake,

Their own destruction they undertake.

Only these Swords

Their craftsmen can slay.

Each Sword shall be blooded the same rueful day.

When that fateful day comes

The Wolf’s Age has begun.

Hati swallows the moon, and Sköll tears up the sun.

If, indeed, Odin had crafted those phrases, he foretold his own doom. By legend, the Wolf’s Age began the Ragnarok, when the earth and heavens would run with the blood of men and gods.

Trilless retrieved the sword. It lay heavy in her hands. Summoning Ristoril to this world formed the first leg of a perilous tripod, and she had to believe that Carcophan would prove wise enough to keep his impatience and pride from doubling the danger.

The sorceress reminded herself of her own bold words. The Gray Sword had yet to be forged. Without the Western Wizard, she guessed it would be impossible. Lulled by this thought, Trilless rose and headed toward the Northland cities, trying to ignore the dark, forgotten chaos that hovered over the artifact. An aura of dread darkened her features and those of the sea.

A half-moon glazed light across the farm fields and forests of the central Westlands, and the sky seemed gorged with more stars than Colbey Calistinsson ever remembered seeing. Soldiers from a dozen different cities sprawled on grimy blankets or beds of piled leaves. Others gathered to talk or to play games with cards, stones, or dice, their laughter booming over the chorus of insects, the whirring calls of foxes, wolf howls, and the shy chitter of wisules. A general aura of fatigue still enwrapped the armies, even though three weeks had passed since the Great War ended, but triumph sweetened the exhaustion, tempering complaints and easing the grief over lost companions. Siderin had been defeated. The Eastlands had taken thousands of casualties; a long time would pass before they threatened the West again. And soon enough all the Westerners would be home.

Home. The word held little meaning for Colbey. Born during the Renshai’s hundred-year exile from the Northlands, he had spent his childhood rushing from battle to battle with his tribe, conquering, gathering food and plunder, celebrating those lucky enough to die in the glory of battle, mourning those who lost their lives to lingering injury or infection, and then charging into war again. When not engaged in battle, he practiced for it or taught the techniques to others. To Colbey, violence was simply a way of life. He knew no other.

Yet, in a matter of days or weeks, that would change. Rache had died in the Great War, leaving Colbey as the only full-blooded Renshai in existence. And Colbey knew from experience that he could sire no children, even had there still been a Renshai woman with whom to try.

These thoughts made Colbey frown. Standing just beyond the protecting canvas of the officers’ quarters, he stared out over fields so fertile they seemed to flow into one another like a vast green ocean. Fifty years