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

him from a fall. He wiped moisture from his eyes and took a clear look at the torke. Instead of Colbey's
cruel, gray eyes beneath a fringe of white-tinged golden hair, Rache met a glance as soft and blue as his
own. Though blond as allIRenshai, this torke sported the long braids of the warrior Northmen. Rache
knew her as one of the finest sword mistresses on Devil's Island, but she was not Colbey. Rache stared,
assailed by a mixture of confusion and unconcealed horror.



She stiffened, outrage etched into her features. "You're late."



Rache gaped. Her anger scorched him. He wanted to accord this torke all the honor she deserved, but
she was not his torke. Colbey was beginning his sixth decade, ancient for Renshai, whose love of war
rarely brought them through their thirties. Colbey's sick; he's dying. The worst possibility rushed to
Rache's mind, filled it, and could not be banished. He could conjure no worse fate. Renshai died in
glorious battle, their souls taken in honor to Valhalla to serve as Odin's Einherjar. Cowards died of illness
and withered in Hel. Colbey is a hero. The consummate hero. Surely he would have stumbled from his
deathbed and challenged one of us. We could have given him the death in battle he deserved. And should
he win the spar even through fevered delirium, I, for one, would be proud to die on his sword.



"Rack-ee Kall-meeTS-son, defend yourself," the torke demanded, distinctly enunciating every syllable of
his name in her annoyance. The students paused in their practice, nudging one another and passing hissed
comments. "You're late, and I want to know why."



Rache knotted his small, callused hands. He met the torke's stare and tried to explain, but he managed
only to gasp out his concern. "Where's Colbey?" He spoke softly, then louder, almost in accusation, '
'Where is Colbey?"



The torke's cheeks went scarlet, and anger spread like a rash across her face. "Rache, you disgrace
your namesake!"
 It was the basest insult anyone could hurl at a Renshai. Rache, like most Renshai, was named for a hero
who had died in valorous combat, one whose soul would watch over him from Valhalla. It was an honor
that had become all the more sacred as peaceful times had prevented the younger Renshai from attaining
patrons. Rache recoiled as if slapped, hurt beyond physical pain. He cried, not caring who saw. He tried
to sputter out the torke's deserved apology, but concern channeled his thoughts in a single direction.
"Where's Colbey? Please, just tell me, where's Colbey?" He became aware of a distant sound, constant,
muffled, and metallic. He attributed it to his own heart, though the rhythm seemed erratic.



The entire class had ceased its practice, apparently shocked by the exchange. The torke's fist blanched
around the hilt of her sheathed sword. "Colbey's old enough to take care of himself. As for you, little
man, you've delayed this lesson long enough. I believe-"