Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Ra-khir knew better than to seek advice. The decision lay wholly in his hands, not as simple as it seemed. If Markanyin stumbled, the king would have ample opportunity to hide or slay Kevral. Yet Ra-khir doubted Cymion would do so. If he wanted Kevral for breeding purposes, it made sense that the child she carried held significance to the king. Murder seemed unlikely, at least over the next nine months. He would have that long to find her. “It will suffice,” he said. He seized the general’s hand in a solid grip. “Please. Do your best.”

  Markanyin clamped onto Ra-khir’s hand. “Oh, did I forget to mention, young man? You’re coming with me.”

  Ra-khir did not hesitate. He had tried once, but then without the support of peers and general. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  * * *

  The ocean frothed around Colbey’s legs, slowing his run toward the figure on the beach. He recognized the other immediately, and the familiar elfin features did not fool him. He read more from bearing than vision, and the movement as the other braced to meet him completed the picture. “Odin!” he shouted, leaping for the shore. Wet sand splashed beneath his landing. He executed a perfect slash/jab combination. Inches in front of his target, the blade slammed into something solid. The strike jolted pain through his arm, wrenching his shoulder to the bone. Through gritted teeth, he watched colors shoot outward from the point of impact, summoned chaos shaped into law. *I saw you die!* Colbey sent the message to test the permeability of the barrier, not waste strength conversing in battle.

  A grin overcame Odin’s new face. *Do you think I trusted my very existence to a cocksure Renshai with an agenda of his own? I had a contingency plan.*

  It all made sense to Colbey suddenly. Somehow, Odin had preserved a tiny portion of self in the Staff of Law. At first, it had retained only a quiet spark. Over the centuries, it grew, gradually recognizing self. And, by way of balance, the Staff of Chaos had awakened also, though much later and more slowly.

  *An unexpected side effect.* Odin responded to the thought, though Colbey had not intended the god to follow the path of his reasoning.

  Colbey tensed. Odin had always managed to manipulate his mind, as others never could. How could he hope to fight an entity of power beyond his comprehension?

  *Though it makes sense now. Where Odin exists, Loki must also.*

  That misconception revealed the vulnerability Colbey would not have believed existed a moment earlier. Unable to attack physically, he launched a mental assault. His consciousness flew outward, then crashed against a barrier with a force that sent him reeling. He funneled power for another attempt. Experience flashed a warning. His head pounded, the pain at two intensities. Not for the first time, Odin had twisted his perceptions. The mental wall he had battered so intently was his own. Had he persisted, he would have destroyed himself.

  Odin laughed, the sound like the slam of wave against cliffs. Colbey rose to shaky legs. He felt the warmth of a mental attack an instant before it struck. Worried to take another strike at the barrier, he forced it down. Odin’s thought-spear whistled through, toward another wall. Again, Colbey pulled it down. More slowly now, Odin’s advance arrowed through. Colbey opened four more barriers, then trapped it neatly between two. Another thought-spear followed the first, again caged as its momentum dwindled. Odin seemed to take no notice.

  *Come on, Loki!* Odin taunted. *It’s you and me, Prince of Demons.*

  This time, Colbey mounted a more cautious attack, though it went against everything Renshai. He would not fall prey to the same mistake again. This time, Odin admitted him to a vast chamber that promised wisdom beyond even the comprehension that so much knowledge existed in all the worlds. Words glowed upon a wall like stone, and Colbey knew without knowing how that it represented a prophecy:

  Thee Father shal avert hys fate.

  Then thee worlds shud celebrate.

  But far ynto dystrukshon hurled

  Law’s vast plan ys then unfurled:

  A new world to create.

  All must dye to pave thee way.

  A syngle god to rule thee day.

  Thee only enemy wyll make

  One small lapse; a fatal mystake

  Leave thee world at thee mercy of Gray.

  The message seemed clear, yet Colbey banished the words from his thoughts. As a Wizard, he had learned that these predictions did not occur without champions to deliberately fulfill them. Even then, deep interpretations remained hidden. He had suffered twice for mistakes in reading, the first when he had avoided Rache Kallmirsson. The second had sent all three of the Wizards hunting him. Ultimately, that mistake resulted in the Ragnarok.

  Odin’s laughter rang out again, this time directly on top of him, with all the fury of an avalanche. This close, the voice seemed a shout. *YOU’RE DOOMED, LOKI. WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE YOUR FATAL MISTAKE NOW, OR SURPRISE ME WITH IT LATER?*

  Colbey kept his reply low and even. *Perhaps, Odin, my fatal mistake is not being Loki.*

  *Colbey!* Recognition finally dawned, and the laughter broke off, as if choked. *Fool! Your mistake is clear. You didn’t bind with the staff!* It seemed as much question as statement, suffused with shocked incredulity followed by triumph. *You played right into the prophecy.*

  Colbey refused to let the grim gray father’s confidence shake him. *I don’t believe in prophecies.* Only then, he remembered that, while mental conversation did not cost him energy, time away from his body did. He jerked back to withdraw. And slammed himself against a solid barrier that had arisen as they talked.

  The laughter rang out again. *Now what will you do, Colbey Thorsson? Your mistake has come to claim you. Your power can never outlast mine.*

  Colbey did not grace the taunt with a reply. He gathered his energy for attack, only then realizing how weak he had already become. If he remained, his strength would slowly dwindle into nothingness. His only hope lay in battering at the walls that held him and trusting his power to shatter Odin’s defenses.

  Even as Colbey funneled his reserves to the task, he recognized his error. Odin need only twist him again. The desperate charge would slam against his own barriers, and he would waste the last of his strength destroying himself. Will he use the tactic or not? The life or death of the universe rested on Colbey’s guess, and he made it in the instant between committing to the attack and striking. At the last moment, he jerked back his power. His mental being skidded against the wall with a gentle thud, and he looked back into a mind familiar and foreign at once. The honor, the tenets of war, and the fading religion once deeply ingrained sat in mirror image to his usual perspective. Gently, he flipped self around and looked back out of his own eyes.

  The moment he did so, a presence pressed him. *Bind now! It’s our only hope.*

  Colbey ignored the Staff of Chaos’ entreaties to assess self. The mental sparring had tapped him even more than he realized. His legs felt rubbery, and the sword seemed like a lead weight in his grip. His bleary gaze registered Odin as a gray blur, like stone. Only one course of action remained, the one he had trusted since infancy. He channeled his last desperate reserves and lunged for law. This time he met no obstacle.

  Apparently also tired, Odin lurched backward with a hiss. The sword/staff slashed a line along his chest. It dragged through strangely, accompanied by spits of lightning that spiraled through a rainbow array of colors. Colbey’s vision disappeared. His world narrowed to the sensations in his arms. A fragment of law winked from existence, accompanied by a like amount of chaos from the sword. Then, something exploded against him, searing flesh, pounding hearing, and hurling him like a rag. Bright light slashed across his closed eyes. Agony invaded every part. He thumped to the ground with a force that slammed the breath from his lungs, rolling from habit rather than intention. He still clutched the hilt of his sword.

  Scarcely daring to believe he still lived, Colbey opened his eyes. He recognized the patternless swirl of the world that had become his home. The blast had returned him to the plain of chaos.


  *Ease up,* the sword/staff demanded. *You’re hurting me.*

  Painfully, Colbey pried his fingers free. All his strength seemed trapped in that one location. He lay still, waiting for the return of the energy he had expended.

  *What happened?* chaos demanded.

  *I don’t know.* Colbey gave the only answer he could, though he believed he might have the right one. When the Staff of Chaos met a being bound to the Staff of Law, they had canceled those parts of one another that had come into direct contact. Colbey had suffered the backlash, and it had blown him back to the world from which Odin had summoned him.

  Colbey let his thoughts run as strength gradually seeped back into his mind and body. Remembering the mental attacks he had walled away, he opened his barriers and released them. The tiny manifestations of law met the randomness of chaos-stuff. Sparks shot from the contact with a high-pitched shriek, then fizzled into nothingness. Colbey sagged to the ground, many understandings coming to him at once. He had weakened not killed the AllFather, foiled his plans for the moment, but more battles lay ahead. Colbey managed a weak smile at the thought. Three centuries of peace on Asgard had left him hungry for war, but he did not relish facing off with Odin again.

  The ancient, clichéd adage ran through his head: Be careful what you wish for. . . .

  * * *

  After sending guards to fetch the king’s adviser, General Markanyin led Ra-khir and Mior to a waiting room inside the castle. Two plush couches, piled with satin pillows faced one another. A low table between held baskets decorated with grapevines dangling withering fruit. A few wrinkled winter apples lay in the bottom. When merchants once again traveled the many roads leading to the world’s largest trading city, Ra-khir suspected fruits of myriad shape and color would again cram the king’s baskets. A window at the far end of the room admitted the intermittent breezes, whipping the light curtains into undulating, fairy dances.

  The general gestured at Ra-khir to sit. Though he would have preferred pacing, Ra-khir remained true to the formal manners knighthood required. He was a knight all times, not only when it suited him. Markanyin also sat, directly across from Ra-khir on the opposite couch.

  Mior walked lightly across the pillows, paws leaving indentations, then settled into Ra-khir’s lap. He stroked her from neck to tail base, alternating hands in a steady pattern, appreciating her choice of resting place. It gave him a legitimate, repetitive action on which to focus his nervous energy without violating protocol. Dander skittered through sunlight beaming in the window, and Ra-khir carefully gathered up each shed hair that settled on clothing or cushions.

  At length, a middle-aged man appeared in the doorway, dressed in formal silks. Rich brown hair fell in oiled ringlets to his shoulders. Though his expression revealed severe concern, his hazel eyes settled on Ra-khir without the guilty skittering the knight expected.

  Markanyin tensed to rise. Ra-khir did so more quickly, dumping Mior to the floor to execute a flourishing bow that included the grand removal of his hat. The cat stalked beneath the table, flicking her tail to protest the assault upon her dignity. Markanyin and the man in the doorway also bowed. Stepping into the room, the newcomer claimed a seat beside the general. Ra-khir returned to his place, but Markanyin remained standing for introductions. He gestured at the man in silks. “Lord Javonzir, adviser to King Cymion.” The general inclined his head toward Ra-khir. “Sir Ra-khir, a Knight of Erythane.”

  “Thank you, General,” Javonzir said.

  Markanyin sat.

  Ra-khir leaned forward, fully on the offensive. This time, he would not cease the verbal attack until he won. He would temper his words with manners, but he would not allow them to cripple him. He had already once sacrificed his knighthood for Kevral. “My lord, Lady Kevral is alive.” He made a statement of fact that he would not allow to fall into question again.

  “Indeed,” Javonzir said.

  Hostility trickled from Ra-khir. After his bout in King Cymion’s court, he had expected any other answer.

  “The elves informed me not long ago.” Javonzir hesitated, as if about to say more, then fell silent.

  Ra-khir guessed at the words unspoken, realizing Javonzir had sent the elves to catch the knights before they left Pudar. Likely, he had done so without the king’s consent, which accounted for his current secrecy.

  “You’re the babies’ father?”

  The query raised ire. Ra-khir had suffered enough for a claim that seemed as unlikely as Kevral’s death had been. “My lord, I’m not convinced that this dead baby, now four times mentioned, ever existed.”

  “Not baby,” Javonzir clarified. “Babies. Twins. And they’re very much alive.”

  Ra-khir gasped in a sudden breath. He choked, coughed, and sputtered while thoughts rushed through his mind. He had believed the baby a ruse created by the king to explain Kevral’s falsified death. He had even considered the possibility that the king had spoken truth in this regard. He had never dared allow his mind to contemplate this last possibility. Guarded joy filled him. “Where are my children?” he managed, voice hoarse and weak. He could scarcely believe the words issued from him. I have children. Children. Me. Precious, wonderful children. He did not yet even know their gender, yet protecting them became an instant obsession.

  “The boys are fine, Sir Knight.” Javonzir looked toward the window, then back. “And their mother also.”

  Ra-khir found his normal voice. “Lord, thank you.” Many questions sprang to mind, and it took all of his self-control not to demand all three be brought into his presence immediately. Knight training had taught him patience. Javonzir would surely explain the situation now that the reassurances had ended. Delicate negotiations had to follow such a serious admission of guilt.

  “Ra-khir, errors were made, some of those grievous.” Javonzir rose, decorum forcing Ra-khir to do the same. “Sadly, desperate situations sometimes result in such.” He walked to Ra-khir. “Harm was inflicted on you and on Lady Kevral. You have my sincerest apologies, and the king’s as well.” He took Ra-khir’s hands into each of his own, begging forbearance with gesture as well as words. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Had I only known sooner, I would have ended it before it began.”

  Ra-khir swallowed hard. The more he heard, the more certain he became that the fault lay wholly with King Cymion. “My lord, I understand.” He mentioned nothing of forgiveness. The nature of the crime forbade it, and such could only come from Kevral. Memory resurfaced with a rush of pain. “Is it . . .” The question stuck in his throat. “Is it true that she is again . . . with . . . child?”

  Javonzir winced but did not dodge Ra-khir’s stare. “Yes.”

  Ra-khir wrestled his anger. “Whose?”

  Javonzir politely tugged at his fingers. “The crown prince’s.”

  Ra-khir finally realized that his grip had tightened painfully. He threw Javonzir’s smaller hands free, and the adviser back-stepped onto Mior’s tail. The cat yowled, swiping a claw across his ankles. Startled, he stumbled aside, slamming a shin against the table and staggering to recapture balance.

  Ra-khir hurried to the window, not trusting himself to speak. He looked out over a courtyard warmed by summer sunshine. Courtiers settled on benches, their shadows stretching across a green expanse of grass. In Béarn, he would have seen children giggling and ducking around statues, and their conspicuous absence forced him to contemplate a side that, moments ago, seemed only evil. He would always despise King Cymion, yet he could also understand the desperation that might drive a king, and a prince, to commit an act so loathsome. He could not excuse, but he would bargain as necessary. “My lord, just tell me what I have to do to release my lady and my children.”

  “Two promises,” Javonzir said softly, “and all four of you may return to Béarn together.”

  Ra-khir appreciated that Javonzir did not add “against your honor.” Such was unnecessary. No matter how much Ra-khir despised the terms, he would never break his word. He whirled. Javonzir s
tood beside the couch he had once occupied. General Markanyin had also risen, remaining as quiet as he had throughout the negotiations.

  Javonzir fidgeted, finally displaying the discomfort he had hidden until that moment. “First, when the time comes, that which belongs to Pudar is returned.”

  Ra-khir did not need explanation. Javonzir referred to the baby forced upon Kevral. “And the other?” He refused to make concessions until he heard all parts of the agreement.

  “Your word that the incident is kept between those who already know, and that no retribution is carried out against Pudar for this unfortunate indiscretion.”

  Ra-khir disliked the terms, yet understood their necessity to Pudar. They could have asked far more of him. “I can vow for myself. But I can’t speak for Kevral.”

  The general said his first words of the meeting. “Ra-khir, I believe that is exactly what my lord seeks. Your promise that you will protect Pudar from the swordmistress’ wrath.”

  I could easier contain a hurricane. Ra-khir sighed, head shaking. “I can promise only to do everything within my power. To attack Pudar, she will have to kill me first. I don’t think she’ll do that.” I hope not.

  “Then you agree to the terms?” Javonzir said softly.

  Ra-khir could scarcely control his impatience. Every moment he wasted cost Kevral another in the dungeon. His heart ached for a glimpse of the babies. “Yes, lord, I do.” Despite their necessity, he hated the words. He fought to keep from imagining prying Kevral’s infant from her arms to bestow it upon the man who had raped her. Yet, weighing Kevral’s freedom and the lives of her two other children, his own sons, he could find no other answer.

  * * *

  Footsteps pounded echoes through Pudar’s dungeon, their uncharacteristic speed jarring Kevral from another swordless practice. She dropped to a pose of crouched defiance, watching shadows shift between distant bars. A guard’s voice rang through the dank corridor. “She’s in the cell on the end, sir.” Animal nails clicked against stone. Mior streaked suddenly into view, squeezing through the bars to join Kevral.