The Western Wizard Read Online Free PDF Page A

the present. The responsibility of recreating the greatest of all tribes from a Western townswoman and two young boys gnawed at him. The honor, glory, and skill of the Renshai must live on. Fifty years of training the world’s best swordsmen had made him confident of his abilities. That he could make them competent, he harbored no doubts. The uncertainty came with thoughts of what philosophies to instill, what purpose the Renshai would have in the new order of the world. The only possibility that made any sense at all to Colbey was to have the Renshai become soldiers for hire, to fight for money or glory, but only where the cause was right. And to make allies where before they had only enemies.
    As easily as the idea came to Colbey, it brought with it no fanfares or certainties. Logic told him the decision was right, yet he wanted something more, approval from a deeper portion of his being or from the golden-haired goddess who guided the Renshai. Colbey whipped his swords into a forward cross block, then whirled, slicing opposite loops to meet imaginary opponents beside and behind him. Faster than thought, he spun again, gliding the blades through controlled, committed arcs. Like all of the Northern deities, Sif took her sacrifices on thebattlefield, and Colbey had delivered hundreds of Easterners to her in the Great War. Afterward, he had recited his quieter, more personal prayers alone beside a campfire. Now, seeking guidance, Colbey dedicated his practice to Sif, sincerely trying, as always, to make it his finest effort. The elderly Renshai twirled and lunged, his swords carving the air in flawless arcs, lines, and ovals, a lethal whirlwind of flashing gold and silver.
    Sif never directly answered Colbey. He sought only the peace of mind that he had always truly believed came from the goddess, though he had no proof but faith. Now, a pinpoint of light sparked before him. Gradually, it grew and spread, widening to a vast, shapeless glimmer. Colbey continued his practice, creating a grand new sword maneuver in his exuberance. He kept his attention partially on the glowing object, uncertain whether to attack or painstakingly avoid it. Never once did he question its presence. That his goddess would send him such a sign was an honor he dared not belittle with doubts. Other realities touched his subconscious. He knew that Santagithi had emerged from the tent and sat watching Colbey’s prayer, deferentially silent and still. A few of the Pudarian soldiers stopped to stare from a distance, nudging one another and passing whispered comments. Yet these things seemed of so little consequence, Colbey ignored them.
    The light surged and sputtered before Colbey. Still uncertain of his role, he finally decided to bring a sword stroke through the image. As tentative as the decision seemed, Colbey never jabbed or cut without a full commitment to the blow and its consequences. The blade cleaved the glow. Fully powered, it met no resistance. A gold-white star flashed from the steel like a highlight, then disappeared, and the glimmer flared suddenly into the form of a woman in black leather.
    The functional battle garb detracted nothing from a face and figure that redefined Colbey’s feminine ideal. Long blonde hair spilled free in the spring wind, so thick and saffron that it seemed like strands of spun, metallic gold. She clutched a gleaming broadsword that lashed abruptly for Colbey’s head.
    For a fraction of a heartbeat, Colbey hesitated. Thelack of reaction from the spectators told him that he alone saw the image. If she did not exist, he had nothing to fear from her attack. If she was a manifestation of his goddess, then he would die on her sword with honor.
But not without a bold and glorious fight! She deserves that much. And so do I.
    Colbey flicked his left sword into a block, boring in rather than retreating or dodging. Her blow crashed against his left blade with an unexpected strength. His right sword swept beneath her guard.