The Western Wizard Read Online Free PDF

She leapt backward into a crouched defense, her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure over features that clearly revealed surprise. She skipped to the left, as light and quick as an animal and with a grace that might have sent a practiced dancer into a jealous rage. Colbey did not press his offensive, instead using the instant to assess her potential. Already, he could tell that she would prove the most potent threat he had ever faced. And the challenge thrilled him.
    The woman remained crouched, patient as eternity. Colbey waited, too, content to enjoy the fatal beauty of even her slightest movements. He made an almost imperceptible gesture, indicating that she should take the next attack.
    The woman laughed, the sound deep and resonant yet still somehow feminine. Suddenly, she lunged. Colbey sidestepped the jab, then returned a double stroke of his own. She met the attack with a snaking parry that redirected both of his blades.
    Now, Colbey laughed, too, feeling carefree and as vibrant as a child. More than fifty years had passed since any opponent could meet him stroke for stroke. Even the next best Renshai had never returned more than one attack for every two. He rescued his left sword from her maneuver, using what little remained of its momentum to catch the knurling of her hilt near her fingers. Torn from her hands, the sword pinwheeled between them. Colbey’s other blade driven toward her abdomen seemed certain to land.
    Horror flashed through Colbey’s mind as her sword neared the ground. By Renshai tradition, a sword was the most important and deeply personal part of a warrior; to let an honored opponent’s sword touch the ground wasconsidered the basest insult. Instantly, he whisked his right sword into its sheath. He dove for the falling weapon, catching the hilt a finger’s breadth before it hit the grass.
    Colbey’s gaze lost his opponent for only the barest fraction of time. Yet, when he looked up, a sword clenched triumphantly in each hand, three cold steel blades in the hands of three identical women slammed down toward him.
    “Modi.” Colbey called to Sif’s son, the god of battle wrath. From infancy, he had been taught to shout the name whenever he or his people needed an extra burst of blood lust. Decades of training responded to Colbey’s need. Rage surged through him, bringing strength like a second wind. He rolled, parrying despite the awkwardness of his position. He felt the blades scratch down the two in his fists, felt the swishing pass of the third as it missed his skull by a finger’s breadth. He spun to his feet, slashing a furious barrier of metal between him and his three opponents.
    “General Colbey!” The cry seemed distant and unimportant, yet it jarred Colbey’s concentration. The triple images of the woman blurred.
    No!
Colbey forced his attention back, needing this fight which was the greatest challenge of his life.
    “General Colbey!” The Pudarian voice grew louder, followed by Santagithi’s sour reprimand.
    “Be still, soldier. It’s not polite to interrupt a man’s prayer. Nor wise, if his gods hold him in half the regard that I do.”
    “Prayer.” The Pudarian snorted. “He’s just practicing.”
    The women faded to oblivion, leaving only a pale outline of light. The sword that had been hers disappeared from Colbey’s hand.
Three women. Three sparring partners. Three other Renshai.
Colbey pounced on the significance of the number, narrowing his concentration, trying to recreate the phantom that must have come from his imagination. Still, he could not let go of the possibility that his sparring partner had been a divine manifestation of Sif.
    Santagithi continued in his usual gently authoritative manner. “He is a Northman. To them, war
is
religion.”
    The Pudarian’s tone went icy. “With all respect, General, I need to speak with the other general, not with you. Prince Verrall wishes Colbey now. His grace must not be left waiting.”
    The light winked out.