Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “It’s the elves,” someone whispered near him, and Ra-khir realized it was true. The vibration that seemed to shake the earth itself was not the marching feet of the Kjempemagiska but the sheltering rise of jovinay arythanik. To Ra-khir’s surprise, the simple realization that they had power on their own side buoyed his mood. Suddenly, success became not just a desperate need against great odds but a rallying force.

  As the Renshai had no archers, they stood on the front line. The sight of the Kjempemagiska marching toward them in lockstep brought the urge to charge, but Saviar resisted. Doing so would make them a target for the continent’s bowmen, and King Griff had chosen the battlefield well. It stood on higher ground than the approaching army so the giants appeared slightly smaller than they would have otherwise. Along with the other infantries, the Renshai remained at the top of the slope, watching, waiting.

  The woodlands rang with jovinay arythanik in the voices of several dozen elves. Other elfin cries rose over the steady drone, speaking guttural syllables Saviar had come to associate with magic. Below and ahead, several of the giants raised weaponless arms, as if to throw invisible boulders. Right hand clamped to Motfrabelonning’s hilt, left on the sword touched by elfin magic, Saviar saw glimmering auras appear around nearly all of the giants’ forms. Magic, he realized. He also knew only beings of chaos, such as Myrcidians and elves, and people clutching imbued items, such as himself and his brothers, could see the glow.

  Saviar crouched, trying to prepare for anything. He had no idea what the giants might be capable of doing with magic, only that he needed to tend to his defense. The elfin chanting became impossible to ignore. It seemed to quake the ground, joined and interwoven not only with one another but with the grasses of the plain, the trees of the forest, the clouds in the sky. It felt like a cold, strange wind rushing through and past him to gather around the Kjempemagiska. Saviar saw no result from the magic the giants attempted. Their auras fluttered, warped together, then disappeared entirely. Whatever the elves and Myrcidians were doing, it was, for the time being, thwarting the Kjempemagiska’s magic.

  Several shouts went up from the giants; then, abruptly, they charged with a coordination too precise for random guessing. Saviar had heard nothing from them, yet they sprang forward in a wave, swords drawn and sweeping, as though signaled and directed.

  The command to fire came from many directions. The bowmen let loose a volley that showered down on the Kjempemagiska like a rain of narrow sticks. If any hit their mark, the giants gave no sign. Not one stumbled or even hesitated, and the only cries Saviar heard were the kind made by eager men charging into battle. A second volley flew through the air, the shafts clicking against stone and grasses. Again, the Kjempemagiska appeared to take no notice, their headlong charge unslowed and unsullied. A third round of arrows, quarrels and bolts took flight. Then, the swordsmen of the continent raced forward, and the bowmen fell back to trade bows for swords and knives, hammers and axes.

  Now the Renshai charged forward, swords ready, battle-screaming. Other armies rushed in as well. It appeared the Northern warriors led the way, as eager for Valhalla as the Renshai. Cries ululated in ringing echoes, steel thudded against wood and bodies, sang against other steel. Then, Saviar engaged a Kjempemagiska, and the rest of the world faded around him. He led with his off-sword, as much to test it as to surprise his opponent.

  Saviar’s sword dragged along the straps of the Kjempemagiska’s sandals, slicing one but hanging up on a second. The giant swept a massive, curved sword in Saviar’s general direction, his movement far quicker than the Renshai expected, yet poorly aimed. Saviar dodged easily, driving Motfrabelloning across the giant’s knee. This blade penetrated more easily, slicing open his leggings and shaving a line of skin. Blood welled from the injury, and the giant bellowed in rage. This time, the curved sword sped for Saviar at lightning speed. It was all Saviar could do to spring aside, and the breeze of its passage staggered him. Apparently, the last strike was not intended wholly for him. More likely, the Kjempemagiska believed he could easily take down multiple humans with a single strike.

  A golden blur whipped past Saviar to draw a gaping hole in the giant’s legging and calf. Muscle bulged through the opening, and the giant kicked at his new threat, missing Calistin by less than a finger’s breadth. Saviar plunged in, burying both swords in the Kjempemagiska’s thigh. Motfrabelloning parted flesh like honey, but the other jarred Saviar’s arm to the elbow, as if he had stabbed a tree trunk. Flesh parted, but with grinding slowness. The giant jerked, tearing the inferior sword from Saviar’s hand and sending it flying. Saviar’s first thought, to rescue his weapon, passed quickly. He could not afford to lose Motfrabelloning, so he clung to the hilt with both hands.

  The giant flailed. Saviar lost touch with the ground, his body swaying wildly with every motion of the enraged Kjempemagiska. Air surged around him, threatening to sunder his hold. If his grip faltered, Saviar knew he would not only lose one of the few weapons that could fight these monsters, but also his life. Whatever he struck, whether rocks, trees or solid ground, would surely kill him if the giant did not.

  The giant’s free hand raced toward Saviar, seeking to crush him in an enormous fist. Subikahn dove in, severing the thumb before it reached its target. The giant howled, his injured hand whipping to his face. His sword continued its downward slash. Calistin avoided it, threaded between steel and wielder to bury the Sword of Mitrian into the Kjempemagiska’s groin. The hesitation allowed Saviar to wrap his legs around the giant’s bleeding knee and Subikahn to jab for the other. Braced, Saviar dragged Motfrabelloning downward, felt flesh part under the blade, then blood geysered into his face. The force drove him backward, his fingers still clenched to the hilt. The sword came free, and he tumbled to the ground in a scarlet fountain of Kjempemagiska blood.

  The giant let out a haunting scream, like a dying rabbit magnified a thousand times. He collapsed so suddenly, it was all Saviar could do to scramble out of the way. The enormous body thundered to the ground, quaking it, then went still. Steeped in blood, salt in his nose and mouth, Saviar crouched and reassessed the situation. To his left, the forest still trembled with elfin magic. To his right, the Kjempemagiska had made headway, carving through the middle of the continent’s main infantry, leaving raggedly piled bodies in their wake. At least two hundred men had fallen in the first few moments of battle.

  It seemed hopeless, yet Saviar did not allow despair to take root. He was Renshai, his lot to die in glorious battle, taking as many of the enemy with him as possible. No matter the situation, no matter the odds, he would fight until his last dying breath; and he knew his brothers would do the same. If the giants had to fall one by one, triple-teamed by the last three humans in the world, Saviar would never stop. Not bothering to look for his lost and dishonored sword, he raced back into battle.

  As Saviar, Subikahn, and Calistin launched themselves at their next opponent, it suddenly occurred to Saviar this one did not come at them with the same exuberance as the one they had killed. The giant hesitated, an error that cost him a gash across one arm from Saviar and a hip tear from Calistin. In that moment, Saviar realized the noises of the battle had changed. He could hear the shrieks and sobs of the dying, but the clang of weapons diminished, as did the triumphant deep roars of the Kjempemagiska. The one they fought now had to tear his gaze from his fallen companion and, even then, only after the Renshai had wounded him as well.

  Cries of “Modi!” filled the air around them, the Renshai battle cry that beeseeched the god of wrath. As always, it spurred Saviar. Most often used by critically injured Renshai charging into their last battles, it also had a place as a rallying cry for those who simply needed to recharge their excitement for war. Like blackflies, Saviar and Subikahn nipped here and there at their opponent, never in one place longer than an instant. The giant’s great sword swept around them with a speed that belied his enormous bulk, but the need to hold all three broth
ers at bay simultaneously prevented a well-directed swipe at any of them.

  Again, the sons of Kevral worked together, dancing around their opponent, driving in whenever they could, always keeping him enough off-balance to create openings for one another. Slashes appeared on the giant’s legs, tearing his leggings to scarlet-stained ribbons. And, although none of the Renshai had yet scored a blow deep enough to threaten life, they also had not taken a single wound themselves. The winds generated by passes of the Kjempemagiska’s huge blade stole many opportunities, forcing the brothers to regain their balance before slashing in again.

  Around them, the pace of the war slowed notably, as if something invisible had demoralized the attackers at a time when they should be bellowing in triumph. The tying up of their magic clearly bothered the Kjempemagiska, but not enough to keep them from diving into physical battle. Several Kjempemagiska gathered around their fallen comrade. When they realized they could no longer help him, their cries of dismay rose over the screams of the injured humans. They had clearly believed they could win this war without a single casualty, and Saviar drove in for a deeper strike, determined to prove them as wrong as possible.

  The Kjempemagiska defended the furious attack on his thigh with a strong chop at Saviar’s body. Forced to change direction in an instant, Saviar dropped. The sword whistled over his head, slicing fine red hair, and buffeting him with a whirlwind of air that sent him tumbling. He scrambled for purchase, not quickly enough. The sword screamed down on him, destined to pin him to the plains.

  But the giant’s focus on Saviar forced him to take his attention from Calistin. The younger brother plunged the Sword of Mitrian through his back, severing the left kidney. Blood boiled from the wound, and the giant’s attack on Saviar wobbled. The sword missed the Renshai by a finger; the giant managed one step, then collapsed. Saviar eeled aside to avoid the growing shadow, but he could not move far enough fast enough. The massive body slammed down on his legs, sending agony shooting up his spine, knocking all breath from his lungs, and leaving him gasping for air.

  “Modi!” Saviar gasped out. He struggled to free himself, the movement sending waves of pain through every part. He could not afford to remain trapped more than a moment. Soon, the giants would come to tend their fallen brethren, and their revenge would be swift and horrific.

  Calistin appeared around the massive body, wiping blood from his sword with a filthy rag.

  “Help me,” Saviar called, writhing and shoving but doubting Calistin would lend a hand. The youngest of the brothers had shown nothing but disdain for warriors who could not save themselves.

  But, this time, Calistin did not hesitate. Seizing a spear from the giant, he levered it over a rock and under the body, shoving downward with all the strength his sinewy body could muster. Nothing visible happened, but Saviar could feel a tiny shift. Desperate, he wriggled and pulled, jerking his legs free but leaving his boots behind.

  “Thanks, Calistin!” Barefoot, he leaped to his feet and prepared for the next attack.

  The best laid plans are more often thwarted by inexperienced allies than enemies.

  —General Valr Magnus

  IN A BEDROOM on the highest floor of Béarn Castle, Tae Kahn kept his eyes shut and regulated his breathing to maintain what passed for normal sleep, uncertain what had awakened him. Then, Imorelda’s plushy paws batted his face, and her voice impaled his head. *Wake up! Someone’s talking to Mistri.*

  Tae sat up, taking in the room in an instant. Mistri was sitting in her adult-sized bed, the covers drawn around her. Afternoon light streamed through the window. She had gone down for a nap, and Tae had chosen to accompany her, grabbing some sleep while he could on the floor at the foot of her bed. *Put me on their level, Imorelda. Hurry.*

  Tae’s brusque delivery earned him an aura of lingering disapproval, but Imorelda did as he bade. A male voice full of desperate hope filled his mind in an instant. *Mistri? Mistri, where are you?*

  *I’m here, Poppy!* she sent.

  *Where’s here, Mistri? Are you well?*

  Tae waited for her answer with the same anticipation as her father.

  *I’m fine, Poppy. I’m well.*

  Tae hesitated, torn between two approaches. If he only listened in on the conversation, Mistri’s father would not know of his presence unless and until she told him. He could learn a lot before the Kjempemagiska discovered him. On the other hand, Mistri liked him and would, probably, reveal him early. Once she did, the father would wonder how long and why he had eavesdropped, which would make it difficult to develop a trusting relationship. *Sir, no one has, or will, harm your daughter.*

  The Kjempemagiska’s suspicion was tangible. *Who are you?*

  Mistri clutched her blankets tighter and studied Tae. *That’s my friend, Poppy. Tae. He takes good care of me and Bobbin.* Smiling, she crawled across the bed and reached for him.

  Tae gave Mistri his hand. Hers was larger and softer than his own.

  The reply came back, *Is he . . . alsona?*

  Mistri squeezed Tae’s hand. *No, Poppy. Not alsona.* She clearly struggled with the concept. *More . . . alsona-like.*

  “Human,” Tae supplied the preferred word. He knew the Kjempemagiska term for the people of the continent; but, as far as he could tell, it translated into something more akin to “wild pigs.”

  *Hyoomin,* Mistri attempted a literal translation. *He’s alsona size, but with hair like ink. And skin like mehiar.* As she spoke the word, she pictured a drink that resembled tea strongly flavored with honey and milk.

  Confusion floated through the contact. Tae waited. If emotion that strong came to him, it indicated the man intended to communicate it. *Tae?*

  *I’m here, sir.* Again, Tae addressed Mistri’s father with the honorific he knew the alsona used when speaking to Kjempemagiska. He had assumed it akin to “sir,” but he suddenly realized it probably meant “master”. He did not mean to imply inferiority in any way, nor that the people of the continent intended to enslave themselves to these giants.

  *You’re yonha?*

  Tae sighed, hoping his explanation made sense. *You call us that, yes; but it’s not accurate. We’d prefer you thought of humans as smaller Kjempemagiska.*

  *Alsona?* the giant suggested.

  Tae knew the world literally meant “people,” but sharing connotation with the men of the island was dangerous. *No, because we’re not slaves. We’re free, and we intend to remain that way.* He did not care if his words conveyed threat. As much as he intended to befriend this giant, he did not want any misunderstandings about the conditions of such a relationship. *May I have your name, Mistri’s Poppy?*

  Amusement crept through the contact. *I’m called Kentt, and I recognize your name. Tae. You’re the one who came to Heimstadr and abducted my daughter.* Fresh emotion accompanied the words. Though Tae could not quite place it, it did not seem friendly.

  Mistri released Tae’s hand, headed for the window, and looked out over the Béarnian courtyard.

  Tae followed her, wondering if she could spot Kentt. If so, the guardian Renshai ought to have noticed him as well. *Mistri’s capture was accidental. We were intending only to rescue Prince Arturo, the one you call Bobbin. Mistri chased after him and nearly drowned. We rescued her. As you know, however, it wasn’t safe for us to return her at that time.*

  The reply was ice. *We would have rescued her.*

  Tae did not believe that to have been the case. *You could not have reached her in time. We believed our only choices were to pull her aboard or let her drown.*

  A short silence followed. Tae imagined Kentt rehashing the scenario in his head, surely not for the first time. Tae now suspected Kentt was the Kjempemagiska with whom he had exchanged anari from Captain’s ship. At length, Kentt sent, *We would have let one of yours drown.*

  It was not the response Tae expected. He countered with, *Apparently not.
You saved Prince Arturo.*

  *Bobbin was nothing more than a plaything for Mistri. A pet.*

  Mistri intervened, her expression one of a child affronted. *Bobbin is my friend, Poppy! I love Bobbin, and you did, too. You know you did!*

  Tae did not allow himself to laugh. He did not know how much of his emotion, if any, came through the mental communication. He did not have the kind of experience with it the others did, and his sendings were buffered by Imorelda. *We see all intelligent life as equally valuable, whether Kjempemagiska, alsona, human or elfin. If attacked, we won’t hesitate to kill those who try to harm us; but we do not visit those sins upon their children.* Tae put his hands on Mistri’s shoulders. “Is he out there?”

  Mistri shook her head. “Can’t see. He near enough to anari.”

  Tae already knew that.

  Kentt said quietly, *Bobbin showed small signs of . . . intelligence. He managed a few simple words in usaro.*

  *We’re all highly intelligent,* Tae insisted, trying not to think of Ivana. He knew his share of stupid people, but other than the half-breed human, they still fell well above the level of animals.

  *Then why are you the first to talk?*

  Tae sucked in a deep breath, uncertain how much to reveal to Mistri’s father. The Kjempemagiska might be playing Tae, pretending to go along for the sake of information.

  Mistri proved less patient and circumspect. *Tae’s the only one who hears anari. They can’t answer what they can’t hear. They do usaro, but they use different . . . words.*