Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  CHAPTER 17

  Valhalla

  Damned is right. One of Hel’s own children.

  —Valr Kirin, about Colbey

  Colbey Calistinsson paced the bank of his favorite pond while Freya perched on a hillock, calmly watching her husband’s agitation with a patience of which only gods and elves seemed capable. Always before, Colbey had noticed how the faultless colors of Asgard seemed to imitate Freya: the sky the same shade as her depthless eyes, the sun the perfect gold of her cascading tresses, the clouds emulating the alabaster hue of her skin. The fluid circles of the ducks lost their fascination, this once. The widening rings that accompanied their paddling still sparkled like bracelets, yet Colbey noticed none of it. His attention was riveted inward, searching for an answer he believed should have seemed obvious.

  Freya’s gaze followed Colbey without judgment. A simple green dress fanned around her bent legs, and flat-soled slippers peeked out beneath the fabric. Despite its looseness, it could not hide the firm but gentle curves of a figure human women could only envy. Only the sword strapped around her waist ruined the image. On any other, the combination would have appeared ludicrous, like a princess attending a ball blithely wearing shackles in place of jewelry. Even had the irony touched Colbey, he did not have the concentration to appreciate it.

  Colbey shifted his track so that he walked back toward Freya rather than in a line in front of her. The sword at either hip bumped against his side, the uneven listing of Harval like dead weight. The Staff of Chaos seemed out of place in his fist, and its length hampered his otherwise gliding steps. Colbey stopped several paces before he reached Freya, planted the base of the wood on the ground, and dropped to a crouch. He ended the pacing to commit himself to conversation, but restlessness still drove him to movement. He quelled the need, instead explaining the situation regarding the Staves of Law and Chaos. He told the story directly, devoid of opinion or prognostication. She needed to understand the situation to be of assistance.

  Freya listened in interested silence while Colbey detailed his story. He stopped just before Kevral’s request and looked askance at the goddess.

  Freya assumed a cross-legged position, then smoothed wrinkles from her dress. Soft blue eyes met Colbey’s. “You are the Keeper of the Balance. I trusted your judgment when the other gods turned against you. I still do.”

  Colbey nodded, appreciating Freya’s support, though he would have had no choice but to proceed without it. They both knew many of the gods would oppose his new decision, so neither bothered to speak the concern. Colbey had not yet reached the true dilemma, the one still missing an answer. Freya seemed to sense that lack.

  Finally, Colbey said, “Kevral agreed to take the staff. She asked to look upon Valhalla before doing so.”

  “A reasonable request under the circumstances.”

  “Indeed,” Colbey agreed. They had reached the crux of the matter, and he admitted weakness to Freya as he would never have done to any other. “So why does it bother me?”

  Freya had a ready answer. “For the same reason you haven’t looked upon Valhalla in the three hundred twenty-seven years you’ve been here.”

  Freya had an undeniable point, Colbey knew, but he still could not explain his lapse.

  “Last time we discussed this, you told me the time wasn’t right yet. Is it now?”

  “I don’t know,” Colbey admitted. “I haven’t figured out what’s been wrong.”

  Freya blinked deliberately. She shifted into a more defensible position, from which she could rise and draw a weapon should the need arise. “Colbey Calistinsson/Thorsson, you’re afraid.”

  Colbey stiffened, the insult worth the attack she obviously expected. No cruder words existed in the Renshai language than those for cowards. “What!” He was on his feet before he realized he had moved. “How dare you! I’m not afraid, I’m just . . .” No explanation followed, as if his mind shut off the part of his brain that did the thinking, leaving him incapable of further speech. “I’m just . . .” he repeated. “I’m just . . . !” Enraged by his inability to continue, Colbey fell silent. Images filled his mind, of Odin’s enormous, mocking form. Everything the gray god said whipped him into frenzied irritation. Odin had bought the knowledge of the universe with an eye, tortures beyond human endurance, and a hanging for nine days and nights that should have killed even him. Though knowledge of the future still eluded him, it never seemed that way. Every prediction he made came maddeningly to fruition, no matter how hard the gods tried to resist.

  I thwarted him. Colbey reminded himself of the betrayal at the Ragnarok. Yet memories crowded in on him, pounding on his sensibilities. Odin had decreed he would fight in the Great War. The AllFather had known, before Colbey’s birth, that he would choose to undergo the Eighth Task of Wizardry, even that he would take both staves. Odin had insisted Colbey would take the cause of balance upon himself and accept the immortality he despised. All of those things, Colbey had done. That he had taken them all on willingly did not matter. He had acted according to Odin’s wishes, as had every creature through eternity. But I thwarted him once.

  Again, Colbey recalled his first meeting with the AllFather, as the Keeper of the Eighth Task of Wizardry: “You do still fear one thing. And although you wouldn’t have any way to know it yet, that fear has been recognized. You will never reach Valhalla.” Never reach Valhalla. Realization outraged Colbey, and his hands closed around his sword hilts, not to battle Freya but himself. “You’re right,” he said, the words the most difficult of his life. “I’ve been afraid.” The self-loathing he expected did not come. The fear had remained beneath the level of his understanding. He could forgive even himself for acting upon an emotion unrecognized. Now that he had identified it, however, he would fight it with the same savagery he displayed in war. He would confront his fear with the same ruthless courage as the most powerful enemy in the universe . . . which it was.

  Freya did not gloat over her triumph. Not even a hint of a smile eased onto her face. She shared Colbey’s concern, loving him too much to enjoy being right at his expense. “What are you going to do?” she asked softly.

  “I’m going to Valhalla, of course.” Colbey could not conceive of any other course. He would prove Odin wrong again, or perish in the attempt. “If you will indulge me by performing the magic necessary to bring Kevral and her companions here.”

  “They can’t walk?” Even those gods capable of magic avoided it as much as possible, especially spells that might affect Midgard’s balance.

  “It would take too long. The matter is urgent, and the risk less than delay. Every moment Dh’arlo’mé goes unchallenged raises the danger.”

  “Very well.” Freya rose, taking Colbey’s callused hand into her own. “I’ll work on the spell. You get yourself ready.” She did not specify whether she meant emotionally or physically, avoiding insult.

  Colbey settled into the patterned calm that always preceded battle, yet a hint of wild excitement sneaked through his composure. If all went as planned, he would soon look upon Valhalla.

  * * *

  The flawless golden circle of Asgard’s sun beamed down upon the emerald grassland, and a cyclical cool breeze fluttered each spear in a delicate wave. Weather never disrupted the perfect days of the gods’ haven. The ponds remained full without rain, and the fluffy white clouds served no purpose but decoration. Twining puffs of wind kept the temperature steady, attuned to the gods’ comfort. Colbey had always found it a trifle colder than his ideal, yet that better suited his many sword practices. Over time, he had grown accustomed to it.

  Kevral, Ra-khir, and Tae did not seem to notice the chill. They stared, gazes glued to one of Asgard’s many wonders before jumping restlessly to find another. Colbey did not interrupt, allowing them to orient themselves, sharing their thrill not wholly vicariously. He still enjoyed the highlights Asgard’s sun sparked from the grasses and the arching sky that seemed to define the color blue.

  At length, Colbey followed
the route he had avoided, without considering the reason, since arriving on the world of gods. Evergreens composed of symmetrical triangles alternated with towering deciduous trees not found on man’s world. Seed pods spiraled to the ground, myriad shapes, each with its own aerodynamics. These Colbey studied with the same intensity as his companions. He had never seen this type of tree before, and its rain of pods promised years of entertainment.

  Forest soon gave way once more to Asgard’s vast stretches of meadow. Clover and wildflowers grew among straight grasses never taller than his ankles. A wrought iron gate became visible in the distance, and Colbey headed toward it, swords tapping his hips reassuringly and the Staff of Chaos clamped tightly in his fist. His human companions scurried at his heels, too preoccupied with location and future to bother with anything more complicated than whispered exchanges about the scenery.

  Yet despite their silence, their emotions gave them away. Concern wafted clearly to Colbey, Ra-khir’s and Tae’s desperate while Kevral’s seemed more sad and curious. Excitement waged a furious battle against Kevral’s worries. Anticipation of visiting Valhalla filled her with unabashed desire that he should have shared without misgivings. Once, Colbey would have attributed his distress to the concern that Valhalla might not live up to expectations built on several lifetimes of anticipation. Now he knew the truth. His thoughts returned to the Ragnarok and the ghastly war he had waged against Odin at a time when the gods needed them both. Centuries later, Colbey could still revive the feeling of the AllFather’s presence in his skull, assuring him he had been born and lived only for the honor and pleasure of rescuing Odin from his fate. Colbey had fought off Thought and Memory, Odin’s crows, as they drove him toward the combat between Odin and the Fenris Wolf. Later, Odin’s coercion had turned to threat, manipulation, and finally pleading. No strategy could work, nor did it. Colbey had already dedicated himself to mankind’s cause.

  Colbey steeled himself for inevitable combat. Though long dead, Odin had surely left some barrier to Colbey entering Valhalla. Had the battle involved an obvious opponent to pit weapons and skill against, he would have approached it with the zealous passion of every war rather than the trepidation that haunted him as strongly as the anguish Tae and Ra-khir suffered for Kevral.

  Movement flashed between the wrought iron bars, and the clang of steel floated like savage music on the breeze. Battle madness stirred within Colbey. A long time had passed since he had wielded his swords in anything but spar. Not since the Ragnarok had his skill claimed lives; and even forcing his wife and son to use sharpened blades against him did not stir his blood to fire as war once had. His heart rate quickened, and his palm went slick around the staff. A smile jerked onto his features. Valhalla. His thoughts soared as the scents of blood, heat, and sweat perfumed the air. Valhalla.

  Kevral charged the gates, hands grasping the black, square-shaped rods that enclosed the battlegrounds, face shoved against the rectangular opening between them. Ra-khir and Tae drew up beside their companion, also looking through the gate, though they did not touch it.

  Colbey leaned the Staff of Chaos against the bars and took his first look at Valhalla. The Einherjar fought in couples and groups, dressed in everything from Renshai tunics to encasing armor. Swords, axes, and polearms cut gleaming arcs through air or slammed against shields with thumps that added percussion to the lighter chime of parried blades. Every man fought with a dedication Colbey understood with every modicum of his being. Only the bravest warriors wound up here, chosen on the battlefield by the Valkyries or by Freya for glorious deaths in the wild, courageous flurry of combat. Now they spent their days in the warfare they loved, the euphoria of blood lust a constant. Those who died rose at night to feast among the winners and fight more battles on the morrow.

  Colbey circled Valhalla, seeking an entrance. Beyond the myriad battles, a common house sat in the middle. Otherwise, it consisted only of a vast grassland sprinkled with the blood of warriors slain for the day. His gaze clung to the violence, and he found his own blood warming in response. Nothing could please him more than charging into the fray, battling until every muscle in his body screamed for mercy, then thrilling to the pain itself while still waging the war. His wife and son remained the only things more sacred than this place, the only deterrent to remaining permanently among the Einherjar. Here, at last, Colbey had found his place, exactly where he had always known it was.

  Colbey found himself back at his starting point too soon, recognizing it only by the presence of Ra-khir and the Staff of Chaos. He had found no entrance or exit, realizing only then that Valhalla needed neither. Those who earned it came by magic and could never leave, even should the desire ever touch them. And only those chosen could enter. “Where’s Kevral?” Colbey did not look at Ra-khir as he spoke, unable to tear his gaze from the combat.

  Suddenly, Colbey recognized the agitation radiating clearly from Ra-khir.

  “There,” Tae’s voice floated down from on high.

  Grudgingly, Colbey tore his attention from the battles to find Tae clinging to the wrought iron, near the top of the gate. He followed Tae’s pointing finger back into the compound. Only then, Colbey bothered to dig individuals from the mass of combatants, not just by strokes but by appearance. Kevral capered like a warrior possessed, exchanging Renshai maneuvers with a blond in war braids whom Colbey recognized as Modrey. Terror accompanied irony. In Colbey’s final days as a mortal, the Renshai tribe had grown to three couples from which all members of the tribe currently descended. Kevral fought her own ancestor who, if killed, would only rise in the evening to share ale, boar, and roots with the other Einherjar. If mortal Kevral lost, she would simply die.

  Seizing a bar in each fist, Colbey shinnied up gates that towered to three times his height. Not meant for climbing, the cold metal left him little purchase and no ledges for his feet. He braced against the sides, relying on quickness as much as friction. Kevral could only have entered in this manner, and he never doubted his ability to do the same. He kept his attention riveted on the battle below. Modrey had improved considerably, though the same lack of natural dexterity that had made him the least competent of Colbey’s students then still hampered him now. Kevral gave her all to every stroke and defense. Colbey expected nothing less; yet her ability to hold her own this long against a Renshai centuries more practiced impressed him.

  Colbey struggled to the top, using a horizontal support to brace his feet while he clambered over the upper spikes. Once on the opposite side, he scrambled down like a spider, leaping the last several feet into the compound. The instant his feet touched the ground, he galloped for Kevral and Modrey.

  A light sheen of sweat bathed Kevral’s radiant features as she slammed in a low stab that Modrey scarcely dodged and raised her second sword to parry his return. Her sword looped around a feint instead, and Modrey’s blade screamed toward her head. She jerked up her attacking sword, but Colbey could see it would arrive too late.

  There was no time for finesse. Colbey barreled in low, hurling himself at Modrey. His shoulder struck the man’s legs, bowling him to the ground. Colbey spiraled to his feet, drawing, anticipating Kevral’s riposte. He blocked easily, redirecting her hand toward him. Catching the hilt of her sword, he pirouetted under the second, using the tip of his blade to cut it from her grip. His spine slammed her abdomen. Impact staggered her a backward step, but she managed to save her balance as Modrey had not. He caught her falling sword in the same fist as his own, neither tearing free nor releasing her other hand. “What in Hel are you doing?”

  Modrey clambered to his feet, studying the newcomer first in confusion, then disbelief.

  Kevral loosed a snorting laugh, and only the esteem in which she held Colbey kept it from becoming derisive. Excitement emanated from her in waves that seemed to crash against Colbey’s sensibilities and even to usurp his own. “What am I doing? I’m not the one who dove like a maniac into someone else’s battle.”

  “Colbey,” Modrey said softly
.

  Colbey had eyes and ears only for Kevral. He sheathed her sword properly, then released her other hilt, seizing her forearms. “You’re not an Einherjar. If you die, you’re dead.”

  Kevral smiled, shaking her head at the absurdity of Colbey’s words. “If I die fighting bravely, I am an Einherjar.”

  She’s right. Colbey froze, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “That’s not the point.” He hid his discomfort from Kevral; she would never know how foolish he felt. “Right now, I need you alive.”

  “Colbey!” Modrey shouted. “It’s Colbey!”

  The sounds of battle became irregular, slackening and interspersed with whispers.

  Kevral stared back, saying nothing, expression hidden behind a taut and painful mask. Colbey read her thoughts, though whether because they slipped to him unbidden or because they so matched his own, he did not know. Kevral needed that battle, and she had nothing to lose. If she accepted the task that Colbey offered, no reason remained for her to live. No feat could compare to the chance to pit her skill against Einherjar. She embodied a perfect paradox, the rare win/win situation. If she lost the battle, she won the fight and a place among them. If she won the battle, she had bested the best. That victory might hold her even through the desperate task Colbey gave her. Regardless of the outcome, the chance to fight Einherjar was irresistible.

  “I’m sorry,” Colbey said, inflicting a pain beyond that he had already caused her. “I didn’t bring you here for war. I forbid this. Return to your friends and your purpose.”

  Kevral tensed, as if she might challenge Colbey. But respect and awe won out over desire. Kevral slammed her other sword into its scabbard and stormed toward the gates.

  With a deep sigh and a painful pang of guilt, Colbey watched her go and tensed to follow. The burden of eyes on his back became too heavy, and he turned to find the Einherjar massed behind him. They studied him, expressions somber, eyes tracking up and down his person with an attentive scrutiny that made him feel like a chicken in a market square. He recognized several even as they struggled to do the same: students, rivals, and enemies. Knowledge he had not used for centuries eased back into his mind. First, he recalled their pet maneuvers, their strengths and weaknesses, the strokes and weapons most suited to their strengths, sizes, and muscular development. Their names returned to him only then: