"Reichert, Mickey - Renshai 1 - Last Of The Renshai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

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 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 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 all/Renshai, 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

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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

The Last of the Renshai

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enough to take care of himself. As for you, little man, you've delayed this lesson long enough. I believe-"

"Fire!" The cry cut over the torke's tirade.

Rache sifted the speaker from among his classmates. The child stood with a finger jabbed toward the south, and every student turned in the indicated direction. Rache could see a small but angry collage of red, black, and orange flaring from a few thatched rooftops. Wisps of smoke swirled in the spring breeze, lost in the darkness but coloring the moon a sickly gray. The noises Rache had attributed to his heart resolved into the bell of sword-play.

The torke stiffened. A strange, unreadable expression crossed her features. "We're under attack," she said with unusual calm. "Go. Go! Warn your families. No one should be caught unaware." A light blazed in her eyes, a pure, cruel joy of battle. She whisked her blade free.

As if it were a signal, seven strangers with swords and shields burst from the southern and eastern woods, their blades dripping scarlet rivulets.

The torke sprinted past the crowd of youngsters. She sprang for the warriors unhesitatingly, and the nearest students joined her.