to obtain supplies because the odors of ale and fresh roasting beef perfumed the air.
Arduwyn ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts scattering into incoherency. While readjusting his bearings, he had completely forgotten Colbey’s words. “Huh?” was all he managed.
Colbey smiled, amusement seeming out of place on his flint-hard features. “I said she was right, too.”
Arduwyn shook his head, not comprehending.
“Bel. When she worried that you wouldn’t return.”
Though familiar with Colbey always seeming to have information he had no right or means of knowing, Arduwyn dared not believe the old Renshai had read his mind. “What are you talking about?”
Colbey remained still, a statue draped in shadow. “I saw you edging toward the forest. Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of running. I know you too well, archer.”
“Archer?” Arduwyn repeated, insulted. “If you knew me well, you’d know I prefer the term ‘hunter.’ I kill game, not men.”
The corners of Colbey’s mouth twitched upward again. “You killed your share of men a few days ago.”
Arduwyn scowled, hating the reminder, wondering why Colbey always seemed to find it necessary to bait him. “The war is over.”
“Yes. But not forgotten. Nor should it be. Distraction is not a substitute for learning to deal with reality.”
Arduwyn glanced toward the two guardsmen at the gates, aware that, as night fell, they would pull closed the panels. Once that happened, he would lose all chance of seeing Bel until the morning. Then he would have to explain not only why he had stayed away so long, but also why he had not returned to Bel the moment he hadarrived in Pudar.
She’ll think I don’t love her.
Arduwyn grimaced, hating the concept.
And nothing could be further from the truth.
Still stalling, he confronted Colbey. “And I suppose you remember every battle you’ve fought and every man you’ve killed.” He met Colbey’s gaze, doubting the possibility. Surely no one could remember fifty years of war.
“Every man who faced death bravely, I remember,” Colbey replied. “I pray daily for the ones who gave their all to a noble fight. The others have no significance to me, to the gods, or to themselves.” The matter-of-factness with which Colbey spoke of the value of men’s lives made Arduwyn shiver. “As to the battles, the larger causes may fade with time, but the details remain. Every sword stroke and its result changes the style of my combat. Every competent maneuver used against me remains vivid in my memory. And that’s the way it should be.”
Arduwyn recalled the wild blur of battle when Siderin’s men had rushed the Western archers. Blades had seemed to leap and slash from all directions, a crazed, lethal creature with a thousand arms. He had ducked and run, trusting luck and gods’ will to keep him safe, anticipating the agony of sharpened steel plunged through his back. As the archers nearest to him had fallen, he had whirled to fight. He had never seen the blow that claimed his eye, had never felt it land; yet its momentum had sent him tumbling down the dune to the feet of the Western forces and had probably saved his life. The idea of sorting individual sword strokes from the chaos seemed madness. For Arduwyn, war meant shooting enemies from a distance. When circumstance required hand-to-hand combat, he believed most men simply swung and thrust toward the enemy, dodging ripostes and praying that one of their own blows landed first. Yet clearly there were dimensions of skill that went far beyond his comprehension.
Santagithi strode toward Colbey and Arduwyn from the direction of the camps. The little hunter watched the West’s prime strategist approach. Had he not known that Colbey had two decades on Santagithi, he would have been hard-pressed to guess which warrior was older. Silver streaked both men’s hair, but it seemed less conspicuousamid the Northman’s yellow-white locks than the Westerner’s
Arduwyn ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts scattering into incoherency. While readjusting his bearings, he had completely forgotten Colbey’s words. “Huh?” was all he managed.
Colbey smiled, amusement seeming out of place on his flint-hard features. “I said she was right, too.”
Arduwyn shook his head, not comprehending.
“Bel. When she worried that you wouldn’t return.”
Though familiar with Colbey always seeming to have information he had no right or means of knowing, Arduwyn dared not believe the old Renshai had read his mind. “What are you talking about?”
Colbey remained still, a statue draped in shadow. “I saw you edging toward the forest. Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of running. I know you too well, archer.”
“Archer?” Arduwyn repeated, insulted. “If you knew me well, you’d know I prefer the term ‘hunter.’ I kill game, not men.”
The corners of Colbey’s mouth twitched upward again. “You killed your share of men a few days ago.”
Arduwyn scowled, hating the reminder, wondering why Colbey always seemed to find it necessary to bait him. “The war is over.”
“Yes. But not forgotten. Nor should it be. Distraction is not a substitute for learning to deal with reality.”
Arduwyn glanced toward the two guardsmen at the gates, aware that, as night fell, they would pull closed the panels. Once that happened, he would lose all chance of seeing Bel until the morning. Then he would have to explain not only why he had stayed away so long, but also why he had not returned to Bel the moment he hadarrived in Pudar.
She’ll think I don’t love her.
Arduwyn grimaced, hating the concept.
And nothing could be further from the truth.
Still stalling, he confronted Colbey. “And I suppose you remember every battle you’ve fought and every man you’ve killed.” He met Colbey’s gaze, doubting the possibility. Surely no one could remember fifty years of war.
“Every man who faced death bravely, I remember,” Colbey replied. “I pray daily for the ones who gave their all to a noble fight. The others have no significance to me, to the gods, or to themselves.” The matter-of-factness with which Colbey spoke of the value of men’s lives made Arduwyn shiver. “As to the battles, the larger causes may fade with time, but the details remain. Every sword stroke and its result changes the style of my combat. Every competent maneuver used against me remains vivid in my memory. And that’s the way it should be.”
Arduwyn recalled the wild blur of battle when Siderin’s men had rushed the Western archers. Blades had seemed to leap and slash from all directions, a crazed, lethal creature with a thousand arms. He had ducked and run, trusting luck and gods’ will to keep him safe, anticipating the agony of sharpened steel plunged through his back. As the archers nearest to him had fallen, he had whirled to fight. He had never seen the blow that claimed his eye, had never felt it land; yet its momentum had sent him tumbling down the dune to the feet of the Western forces and had probably saved his life. The idea of sorting individual sword strokes from the chaos seemed madness. For Arduwyn, war meant shooting enemies from a distance. When circumstance required hand-to-hand combat, he believed most men simply swung and thrust toward the enemy, dodging ripostes and praying that one of their own blows landed first. Yet clearly there were dimensions of skill that went far beyond his comprehension.
Santagithi strode toward Colbey and Arduwyn from the direction of the camps. The little hunter watched the West’s prime strategist approach. Had he not known that Colbey had two decades on Santagithi, he would have been hard-pressed to guess which warrior was older. Silver streaked both men’s hair, but it seemed less conspicuousamid the Northman’s yellow-white locks than the Westerner’s
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