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

hold grief at bay. Faith stricken, he ground his face into the sand, besieged by a single, unspoken
question: Why did I survive? But the answer came in a thousand different voices. It was the breath of the
wind, the swish of the receding tide, the steady pounding of his own heart: Because, Rache Kallmirsson,
your mother was a coward.



"No!" Rache shouted at no one, and his words emerged hoarse as a whisper. His hands spasmed,
grinding the jagged fragments deeper into flesh. Guilt knotted in his gut, twisting with a pain worse than
his strained and hammered muscles, the salt-rimed sword scratch or the bloody tears where calluses had
torn loose from the palmar pads below each finger. Little of what had happened made sense to Rache.
He had been told a Renshai named Episte was stationed in the high king's city of Nordmir to uncover
plots and inform the Renshai of coming attacks. But the Northmen had struck without warning. His
mother had mentioned the need to fulfill a prophecy; yet Rache had always thought of prophecies as
Wizards' glimpses into a future already predetermined by the Fates, not events mortals must fulfill. And
his father's comment, that this prophecy boded as much evil as good, gnawed at Rache. Still, his mother
had sold not only her life but her soul for him; and Rache had no choice but to survive. Maybe, if I can
spend my own life bravely enough, the gods may find it possible to forgive her.



Rache uncurled his fists and rose to his hands and knees. Pain rocked through him. His vision spun, but
he held the position, strengthened by another thought. If Colbey was, in fact, on his deathbed, surely he
found an opportunity to die in combat rather than of illness. Rache staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth
against the myriad aches inspired by the movement. Pain, at least, he understood.
 Rache had lost his sword at the fjord, his sheath and sandals in the sea. Without the weapon he had
carried since infancy, Rache felt naked despite the gashed and tattered tunic and breeks that, though
grimed with sand and sour with old water, still covered him adequately enough. The taste of salt made
him crave fresh water, and grit grated between his teeth. Where do I go? Rache turned his thoughts to his
own survival, glad for the excuse to push memory to the background. Details receded, leaving a wake of
sorrow.



Cold, alone, empty, Rache considered his next course of action. Obviously, hunger and thirst took
precedence. The Renshai skills were few and specialized: swordsmanship, warcraft, medicine to protect
the wounded from becoming infected and to heal the sick so they could live long enough to die in battle
with dignity. In the warring years, the Renshai had gathered their food from the stores, herds, flocks, and
gardens of their victims. In the subsequent twenty years of peace on Devil's Island, they had turned to
more mundane means. Rache knew how to hunt and fish, to gather certain roots and berries that graced
the evergreen forests on the island. But without a bow, nets, or boats and ignorant of mainland plants,
Rache found his knowledge woefully inadequate.



Needing a goal, Rache chose to head for the high king's city. There he might uncover details of the
battle; if other Renshai lived, he would need to track them down. There was still the Renshai, Episte, to
find, though likely the king had discovered the spy in his castle. That would explain why the older Renshai
had not warned his people of the Northmen's attack.