"Mickey Zucker Reichert - Renshai 01 - The Last Of The Renshai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

The Ragnarok in my lifetime. Shadimar let his chin sink back into his palms. Davrin played a gentle song
of comforting, passed along and perfected across hundreds of generations. Yet today the melody fell on
deaf ears. We can only hope, Shadimar brooded, that my reign is infinite.



PROLOGUE



Year: 11,224 (Year 10 of the Reign of Valar Buiranesson)



Ten-year-old Rache Kallmirsson leapt and kicked and spun, his sword slicing arcs through the
deepening dusk. Light flashed like a signal from the blade, as if it gathered the glow of the stars and
crescent moon to scatter them from the silver of the steel or the gold of his close-cropped hair. An
outsider might have been hard-pressed to differentiate whether Renshai-child or sword initiated each
action, but to Rache every movement was his own, precise and directed. Called Gerlinr, the Renshai
maneuver had a proper sequence of motion and balance; every deviation, no matter how slight, was a
mistake that could spell the difference between life and death in combat. Each sweep, trip, or thrust was
designed to cut down an enemy who had avoided the previous one, or to finish the opponent who had
not blocked quickly enough.



Rache whipped the sword in a sidestroke, seeing nothing but the imagined form of an enemy before him,
hearing only the crisp whistle of his blade through air. Like all Renshai, Rache was physically immature
for his age, his blue eyes relatively wide, his head, body, and legs proportioned more like a
seven-year-old than a boy who had reached double digits. Though honed and finely-balanced, his sword
was small, lighter than the weapons the adults used, and the leather-wrapped hilt felt snug and proper in
fists scarred from practice. Rache's strokes lacked the power his adult musculature might someday lend
them, but it did not matter. The Renshai maneuvers were designed for speed and agility, and Rache had
both beyond his years.
 Rache sprang into the last sequence, snapped through a wild parry of a fancied enemy attack, then
performed the final stroke. He ended in a well-set stance, prepared to cover his mistakes or his enemies'
wiles, to defend or attack again. He held the position as if he had hardened to stone, reviewing each
purposeful movement, every twitch. I've mastered Gerlinr. Self-esteem flooded through Rache, the
innocent, shameless pride of a praised child. Tonight is the night I move to the next class. He sheathed his
sword with reverence. The promotion would make him only the third of the ten children his age to
advance to daylight training sessions. He knew a few younger ones had already surpassed him; one girl,
scarcely five, had left her peers far behind. But the gods had granted her a rare natural dexterity and
competence. Rache's progress pleased him.



Gradually, Rache lowered his concentration to let the remainder of the world in. The familiar scenery of
Devil's Island rilled his vision: swatches of evergreen woods interrupted by the cleared patches for
cottages, cook fires, and sword lessons. Rache practiced too far inland to see the sheer cliffs enclosing