Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The best defense is a dead enemy.

  —Calistin Ra-khirsson

  WIND RIFFLED THE WILD GRASSES of the empty prairie adjacent to the Bellenet Fields of Erythane, where the Knights of Erythane held their jousts and practices. A haven to Saviar in his youth, the land now felt tainted by the heavy threat of war and death. That, in itself, seemed a strange paradox. Saviar reveled in the familiar exhilaration that thrilled every Renshai anticipating a great and worthy battle. Still, he had come here, in his youth and adolescence, to visit his father, usually when the demands of his mother, his brothers, and his torke had become too great to bear. Watching Ra-khir and the other knights had served as a comfortable escape and left him with fond memories of his interactions with his father.

  The surrounding woodlands hid the elves so well that nothing revealed them to Saviar. Trained for stealth and alertness as well as the sword, he looked and listened intently; only the natural noises inherent in wind and nature touched his ears, and the swaying branches gave no hint of the intelligent creatures hidden within the confines. Of the twenty-six Myrcidians, Jeremilan had spared just under half. Though he was among them, Chymmerlee was not. Saviar could understand that decision. She was with child. Though she had gotten into that state in a most vulgar fashion, he understood the hopes of the Myrcidians rested upon that tiny life and Chymmerlee’s as well. The crime that had resulted in its existence revolted Saviar, but the child and its unwitting mother were blameless.

  Though Renshai milled about Saviar, and the armies of myriad cities readied all around the plains, Subikahn’s approach still caught him by surprise. It was all he could do not to draw, whirl, and impale his twin. “You of all people should know it’s unwise to sneak up on a Renshai.”

  Subikahn turned his brother a withering look. “I didn’t sneak. I came openly.”

  Saviar did not believe it. “Then you need to learn to walk louder. I didn’t hear you, and I wasn’t so absorbed in thought that I didn’t notice Calistin.” He gestured toward their younger brother who perched on a large stone and examined the edges of his blades with an intensity that suggested he had not already done so dozens of times. Saviar understood Calistin’s consternation. They were used to keeping their weapons pristine, but the sword his mother had given him, like the one she willed to Calistin, contained what the elves referred to as shadow magic. Their edges rarely dulled and never notched, no matter the intensity of their use. Each of the brothers also had a sword recently exposed to elfin magic.

  These had bothered Calistin more. The Renshai had thought long and hard before allowing their blades to become anointed. First, they had had to agree to release the swords to strangers, something Renshai never did because it would leave them essentially naked. A few had refused to allow it, though most had agreed, and those remained beside their swords throughout the long procedure. Even then, the Renshai had required reassurance from the elves that this magic would only negate the Kjempemagiska’s unfair and unnatural defenses, allowing the Renshai to cleave what they otherwise could not, and it would not assist in their own defense.

  On the plain, the soldiers seemed tight as coiled snakes. Saviar heard none of the usual joking and laughter, no spontaneous games, and fights broke out at intervals. The captains did not wait for things to worsen but intervened much more quickly than usual, and Saviar noticed some of the farmers quietly sneaked away when they thought no one was watching.

  Only the Renshai looked eager, and nearly all of them had come. Griff had invited the youngest Renshai children to Béarn Castle in order to free up as many of their parents as possible. The servants of Béarn watched the youngsters while those Renshai serving their time as guardians of Béarn’s heirs remained at the castle as well. That pleased everyone involved except, perhaps, Béarn’s servants who had to tend a band of tiny, active risk takers who carried swords and had no appreciation for courtly manners or royal furnishings. The older Renshai children enthusiastically joined the war preparations, hoping to become blooded, which would grant them instant status as adults no matter their ages. Saviar could scarcely begrudge them; he had won his own adulthood less than a year previously in the same manner.

  “Saviar, Subikahn!” It was Calistin who called, which startled Saviar. Their younger brother rarely deigned to recognize them.

  With a questioning glance at one another, the twins trotted over to their brother. Calistin had sheathed his swords and crouched in ready position on the boulder. As they approached, he waved them closer. “Here.”

  Suspicious of his brother’s motives, Saviar leaned against the rock, trying to appear casual but capable of moving in any direction in an instant. Calistin had created many of the Renshai maneuvers, and he seemed to relish trying them out on his brothers, often without warning.

  If Calistin noticed his brothers’ discomfort, he gave no sign. “Subi, I’ve been asked to give you something, at least for the duration of the war.”

  Subikahn pressed his fingers against the rock, as wary as his twin. “Oh?” he said carefully. “What would that be, Calistin? A skull fracture?”

  Calistin lowered his head, clearly reluctant. He sighed, then released the sword Kevral had given him from his belt and held it out to Subikahn, still in its familiar and well-worn sheath.

  Struck speechless, Saviar could only stare. It was rare for any Renshai to hand his sword to another, but Calistin was known for being not only the consummate Renshai but also an unfeeling bastard. It seemed impossible he would hand over any sword, especially one with such physical and sentimental value. Especially to a brother.

  Subikahn was understandably dubious. “So what happens now? I reach for the sword, and you slice off my hands?”

  A frown scored Calistin’s youthful features. He appeared more like a child approaching puberty than a man of eighteen, yet the coiled irritation bespoke the mind of an unrepentant killer. “If you wait too long, I’ll retract my offer, no matter that the order came from Colbey himself.”

  No name could have galvanized the twins more. “Colbey spoke to you?” Saviar wondered why it surprised him. Of all the Renshai warriors, Calistin was the most skilled, and Saviar could think of no one more likely to draw Colbey’s attention. He asked the question that surprised him more. “And he told you to give your sword to Subikahn?”

  Calistin tipped his head, looking even more annoyed. “Isn’t that exactly what I just told you?”

  Subikahn accepted the sword with proper reverence and studied it in the dappled shadows. “We believe you.” He kept his eyes firmly planted on the weapon he now held across both hands, instinctively testing its balance. “We’re just having trouble grasping why the world’s greatest Renshai would disarm our best warrior mere hours before entering the most important battle of our lives.”

  “Because he gave me this.” Calistin drew the sword from his other sheath so swiftly it seemed to materialize in his hand. Highlights danced from its edges, dizzying, almost blinding in their intensity. The hilt was different than the standard Renshai sword: the guard broader and shorter, less suited for the special disarming maneuvers; the grip split-wrapped; the pommel shaped like the head of a wolf with diamond eyes that seemed to writhe. The gemstones put the blade glimmers to shame, shining as if the light itself originated from them, like stars in a cloudless sky.

  Subikahn recognized it first. “That’s the Sword of Mitrian!”

  When he realized his brother was right, Saviar all but swallowed his tongue. The Renshai’s only artifact, the Sword of Mitrian maintained a place of honor in the common house on the Fields of Wrath. No one had the right to wield it. Legend stated the Eastern Wizard had created the item in exchange for the Pica Stone, using yellow gemstones that held the captured soul of a great warrior as the wolf’s eyes. Eventually, the gems were shattered, the soul freed to its proper afterlife, and the last shred of magic used to resurrect the great king of Béarn at the time. Since then,
the sword contained no magic and had become a symbol of Renshai greatness.

  Calistin explained, “The diamonds belong to Colbey’s wife, apparently, and he borrowed them without her permission. The sword, we all know. When the war has ended, both need to be returned to their rightful owners.” His gaze went to the sword in Subikahn’s hand. “And my property as well.”

  It was a warning, not a request, Saviar noted. If Subikahn attempted to keep the sword, Calistin would have no qualms about retrieving it, even if it meant hunting down and killing his own brother. It would prove an interesting dilemma. Calistin would win in a straight fight between them, but he would have to find Subikahn first. All made moot, Saviar realized, by the fact that Subikahn would surely return the sword just as he had given Saviar back his weapon when they met up in Béarn.

  “Of course,” Subikahn said simply. If he felt any jealousy toward his brothers for their inheritances, he never verbalized or demonstrated it. “And thank you. There’s no way to know whether or not the swords the elves’ worked on will strike, and we need usable weapons in as many hands as possible.” He laced the sheath to his sword belt, shoving aside the weapon currently residing on his left hip. Renshai always carried at least one sword but often as many as three.

  Saviar mulled Subikahn’s words. The generals had led the troops to believe exposure to the elf’s magic was a sure thing. The reason for their deception became instantly clear. If the leaders displayed their doubts, pessimists among the troops would assume the worst, others might panic, and still more might see defeat where none existed. Whether or not the magic succeeded, they needed the men present, fired up and hopeful.

  Saviar considered. “So . . . the three of us and Valr Magnus may have the only usable weapons?” He left out Rantire who he knew was at the castle guarding Griff, as always.

  Even Calistin seemed rattled by the realization. “Four? Against an army of thousands?”

  “A bit more than that.” Subikahn glanced around to assure no one could overhear. Elves filled the forest, quieter than mice, but the possible lack of useful weapons was information they already knew. “My father took six utility knives from the giants’ ships, and they also contain shadow magic. He kept one; Weile has another. He gave one each to Ra-khir and Kedrin. The last two were given to Darris and Marisole.”

  “Who aren’t even here,” Calistin pointed out.

  Saviar understood Tae’s decision. “But who are charged with guarding the king and his heirs.”

  Subikahn continued, “At first, he suggested Renshai should wield them, but I couldn’t find any takers. They’re giant utility knives, by Modi. Their balance is . . .” He shook his head. “. . . inferior is understatement. They thought it better to take their chances with elfin magical exposure.”

  Saviar nodded carefully. If he did not already have a sword with special properties, he wondered if he would have made the same decision. “So what’s our strategy?” It was a dangerous question. Renshai fought without pattern or leadership by design. “Do we cluster together to try to bring enemies down quickly or spread out to take on as many as possible?”

  To Saviar’s surprise, even Calistin did not rebuke him, though Subikahn spoke first. “My father says the giants won’t hesitate to kill those they consider inferior but have little experience with violent deaths of their own kind. Few things can harm them in their own world, so, like elves, they surely have extended lifespans.”

  Calistin was not only listening, he was giving due consideration to his brothers’ words. That, in and of itself, struck Saviar as a small miracle. “I had trouble killing one, even with the assistance of a warrior who could pass for Renshai.”

  Subikahn made a strangled noise. Saviar could only stare. Calistin had just confessed to having difficulty vanquishing a foe. Then, he had praised the skill of a ganim. Three surprises at once on the heels of Calistin passing a sword to a brother, was more than they could handle.

  As usual, Calistin did not seem to notice his brothers’ consternation. “I think we should work together, at least until we’ve killed one and have a feel for how much effort it takes and see their reaction to losing one of their own.” Only then did he realize his brothers were gawking at him, utterly speechless. “What?”

  Saviar found his voice. “We’re just wondering who you are.”

  Subikahn added, “We seem to have misplaced our brother, Calistin.”

  Calistin’s features hardened into their usual iron. “Yes, I’ve changed. Don’t think it doesn’t bother the piss out of me.” His blue-gray eyes narrowed. “And don’t think, for one moment, I can’t still best both of you with a broken leg and an eyepatch.”

  “Found him!” Subikahn said, pointing at Calistin.

  Saviar stifled a chuckle, trying not to think too hard about the coming war. Renshai relished a challenge, no matter how one-sided. In the coming hours, so many of them would find their rightful places in Valhalla. Nothing else truly mattered.

  On the opposite side of the battlefield, Ra-khir waited with the rest of the Knights of Erythane. During the last battle, a strange series of events had placed him at the head of a Renshai army. His position had been more titular than real. Unaccustomed to strategy, the Renshai had ignored nearly all of his commands; but they had needed him simply to become a part of the combined armies. He had presented them only as outcasts in the command of a Knight of Erythane, bypassing the inevitable complaints from the Northern armies. At least, it had allowed him to fight at the sides of two of his sons as well as help protect Chymmerlee.

  Knight-Captain Kedrin had given a long motivational speech to prepare the twenty-four knights and two squires for battle. The battle plan called for as many volleys as possible from the bowmen, followed by an attack by the infantry. Cavalry remained at the back to catch whoever plowed through the armies or attempted escape. Mounted on their snow-white chargers, the Knights of Erythane had to remain toward the rear by order of King Humfreet.

  Ra-khir understood the decision of his monarch, though it niggled at his honor and made him feel unworthy. He wondered how much that had to do with nearly two decades of living with four Renshai on the Fields of Wrath. They would dismiss anyone not eagerly plunging toward the fray as a coward.

  Ra-khir also knew both kings had tasked the Knights of Erythane with the safety of their magical brethren. He knew the effort it had taken to convince the elves to assist, not to mention the many rewards King Griff had promised to them once the war was won. The Myrcidians, he understood, had been even more difficult to convince. Neither had sent a full contingent, and Ra-khir knew, if they lost a single life, their cooperation could disappear in an instant.

  The reports of the earliest scouts were sobering. Ra-khir learned only what his father had passed along, and he doubted even Kedrin knew the full extent of the damage. Survivors described an enormous wall of water that enfolded the twin cities, pouring over cottages, shops, and solid stone buildings, collapsing them like toys. Then the water sucked back into the ocean, dragging debris and bodies, live and dead, helplessly out to sea. All that remained of Corpa Schaul and Frist were barren hunks of land littered with wood and straw, bits of stone, and bodies of humans and animals. Bleating sheep and goats kicked furiously in the swirling water, sobbing people clung to flotsam and the tops of trees, dogs pawed through the rubble.

  Then, the giants came. The tsunami seemed not to have affected them at all, and they poured in from ships anchored well off-shore. Like children hunting fish, they casually speared the clinging and floating survivors, not seeming to notice or care about gender or age. Infant or adult, man or woman, struggling mightily or barely clinging to life, the giants left them mangled and lifeless. Often, they did not bother to clear the body from their spears before stabbing the next, collecting impaled children along their hafts like gruesome trophies.

  By the time the giants made landfall, the surf roiled with scarlet fro
th and sharks feasted on the carnage. The giants shoved the gore from their spears and fell upon the wreckage. Anyone who had not already run, whether because of shock or terrible curiosity or injury, was slaughtered. If the giants heard or understood the human prayers and pleas, they paid them no heed and afforded them no mercy. The Kjempemagiska picked through the wreckage of the cities, pocketing anything that took their fancy and destroying whatever did not.

  Apparently satisfied, they created enormous bonfires over which they roasted scores of animals, some of the witnesses swore humans as well, and consumed them, tearing off entire cow legs with the ease of a human removing drumsticks from a well-cooked chicken. In the evening, they smoked pipes, cleaned weapons, and chortled to one another. They played weird and horrific games on the rubble, using human heads as balls, intestines as ropes, or hurling planks and logs great distances, cheering the results.

  Ra-khir glanced around at the gathered men of the continent and knew it all came down to this standoff. If the Kjempemagiska triumphed, no human could hide for long; the giants’ superior might or magic would find them. Small pockets of resistance would prove hopeless against such a threat. It was here and now, now . . . or never. Anyone who hid, any coward who ran, only prolonged his death. They needed every capable soldier, every usable weapon. Every lethal trick at their disposal.

  Scouts came charging in, their horses lathered and rolling their eyes in terror. “They’re here!” The message ran through the ranks. “To arms! To arms!”

  Then, the commanders took over, shouting instructions to their men in strident voices devoid of any fear. Ra-khir heard more than saw the preparations: the whisk of swords from sheaths, the clanking of those few lucky enough to have armor, including the Knights of Erythane, and a faint buzz that grew louder by the moment. Soon, only that one noise filled his ears and, then, his entire being. His heart rate seemed to slow to its cadence, the ground hummed under his feet, even the trees rattled in time to the rising and falling beat. They’re coming, Ra-khir realized, and fear welled up inside him. He forced it down with all his will; he could not afford to succumb to it, to let it slow or stop or even inconvenience him.