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

the fjords or to hear the ceaseless crash of waves against shore, but he knew those things like the sight
and sounds of his own parents. Across the Amirannak Sea, on the northern mainland, the other
Northland tribes kept a wary truce with the exiled Renshai they hated.



Rache glanced at the moon through the thickening night, and its position in the sky drove all other
thought from his mind. Modi's wrath, I'm late! Fear gripped Rache and swelled to self-loathing. He had
never arrived late for a sword practice before. He ran, swerving between the towering trunks, shed
needles crunching beneath his feet as if in accusation. His lateness went far beyond careless folly, it
demonstrated disrespect for his teacher, his torke. So many years, Rache had pushed himself, hoping
someday to earn the chance to be trained by Colbey Calistinsson, the most skilled sword master of the
Renshai and, therefore, die best in the world. Now that dream had become reality, and Rache had
proven himself unworthy of the honor.



Colbey! Tears pooled in Rache's eyes. The wind of his run splashed the liquid from his lids, and sweat
trickled, salty, on his tongue. He sprinted toward discipline, and he was glad of it. It's nothing more than I
deserve. An



adult thought in a child's mind. For the Renshai, war training began in infancy, and it left no time for
youthful play or fantasy. Rache was as much a man as a ten-year-old could be. And though he could not
fathom the reason, he knew punishment would absolve his guilt.



Rache second-guessed Colbey's inflicted penalty. Probably a one-on-one after practice. The thought
made Rache smile. Colbey had never lost a battle or a spar, even by fate. A spar with the master served
as a proper punishment for adults, especially those who had experienced combat and knew the
importance of maintaining control at all times. Colbey's easy victory made them feel helpless and
wretched, reminding them of the Renshai's second worst sin, disrespect for a torke, only one step below
cowardice. But to Rache the idea seemed as much a treat as a penalty. He held Colbey in too high
esteem to revile him as an enemy, even for the duration of the one-on-one. A spar would give Rache the
opportunity to watch the beauty of Colbey's perfect dance, the grace of a live, golden flame in flawless
harmony with his sword.



Guilt and anticipation blinded Rache to a growing red glow from the southern corner of the town. Even
the acrid odor of smoke passed unnoticed. He skidded from the edge of the forest between two aging
pines and into the practice clearing. Blurred by wind, tears, and sweat, Rache's gaze bypassed the
massed group of flailing student swords, and he ran straight to the leader at the front, gathering breath for
apology.



Rache slid to a winded stop. Damp grass mulched beneath his sandal, an agile sidestep all that spared