The words made no sense. The twins had exchanged practice blows since infancy, but they had never harmed one another. Renshai learned control before all else. Nevertheless, Saviar believed he knew what Subikahn was trying to say. “You? You cut me?” His brother had always led him to believe he had received the wound during the Northmen’s attack.
“Accident,” Subikahn huffed out.
Saviar felt as if icy hands clutched his heart. Infections never happened quickly. Wounds took time to fester, and even longer to pollute the blood and body. Any Renshai with significant fever would furiously attack someone certain to kill him, to assure his death in combat and his place in Valhalla. The Renshai even had a name for it: tåphresëlmordat.
For nearly a year, Saviar had wondered why he had not done as any Renshai would, worried he had fallen prey to unspeakable cowardice. Subikahn seemed to be protecting Saviar, deliberately hiding the fact that, when it came to ending his own life, Saviar had showed himself to be a worthless craven. Many times, Saviar had plied Subikahn with questions, to no avail. Still, if Saviar had not had the wherewithal to initiate a battle, Subikahn should have forced him to attack. At the least, Subikahn should have ended Saviar’s suffering with a nådenal, a needle-shaped, guardless dagger subjected to rigorous ceremony, its purpose to end the life of a suffering ally too weak to perform a proper tåphresëlmordat.
The oft-repeated question arose again. Why didn’t I attack before the fever took me? The words stuck in Saviar’s throat. This time, he knew, he would get the truth; and the answer would change the world forever. Either Saviar was a coward unworthy of the Renshai or Subikahn was. Either way, Saviar did not want to know.
But Subikahn did not need the question spoken aloud. In this situation, the Renshai mind was transparent. “My . . . fault,” Subikahn said, staring at Saviar, who found it impossible to meet his brother’s gaze. “You . . . challenged. I . . . refused . . . you. Lied. Told you . . . you . . . all right.”
Saviar clenched his teeth but let his brother speak. Subikahn’s actions were unforgivable.
“If . . .” Subikahn’s tongue flicked across his lips. “If . . . mages hadn’t saved you . . . I . . .” He licked his mouth again. “I . . . condemned your soul to . . .”
“No!” Saviar shouted. He would not allow his brother to speak the word “Hel,” could not, at this moment, contemplate the possibility. The mere idea was blasphemy. “No!” The Renshai had no written laws, only a strict code adhered to for as long as the tribe existed. There was honor, and there was condemnation. It was the way of Renshai. Honor was given to one’s swords, the swords and person of allies, even the swords and person of enemies who had proven themselves worthy through honest combat, no matter how reviled. “No!” Dishonor to a weapon could be arduously atoned. Dishonor of a warrior was inexcusable, and even inadvertent condemnation of a deserving ally’s soul to Hel was an immorality beyond contemplation. “No.” Saviar leaped to his feet, needing to sate his rage on something other than Subikahn.
Only as he lurched away, mind numb with incomprehension, anger, and horror, did Saviar notice five people moving cautiously toward them. Under other circumstances, he would have recognized them immediately as Mages of Myrcidë. Now, lost in a fog of disbelief, grief, and rage, he felt driven only to destroy.
“By the gods,” one mage shouted, “he’s still alive!” He slammed past Saviar in his headlong rush to Subikahn. “Jeremilan, everyone, come quickly! He’s alive!”
It was nearly beyond Saviar’s control to clutch his weapon in hopeless rage rather than cut the mages down as they raced past him to kneel at Subikahn’s side. They spoke amongst themselves in a language Saviar did not know, their auras flaring around them.
A fire churned inside Saviar. His head pounded, his gut seethed, and his knuckles whited around Motfrabelonning. Instead of the mages, he turned his sword on the giant lying still on the ground. The blood intermittently spurting from his stump suggested he still maintained the last vestiges of life. Saviar leaped onto his face, driving his blade through one eye, then the other, ending with a slice that opened the Kjempemagiska’s throat nearly from ear to ear. Little blood emerged, most of it already on the ground, and even less satisfaction accompanied the mutilation. Light reflected from the giant’s bloodless skin. Saviar whirled to see the mages swarming over his twin, their auras flashing and light blossoming around the Renshai’s still form.
Once again, Saviar checked the urge to plow through the mages, sword leading. He had not forgotten his promise to protect them. It took all his effort not to attack, so he found it impossible to keep offense and suspicion from his tone. “What in coldest Hel are you doing?”
Fully focused on Subikahn, the mages did not respond, but Saviar discovered his own answers. There could be only one reason the Mages of Myrcidë had come to this spot; they had planned to secretly desert the battle. Apparently, the Kjempemagiska had found them first and nearly slaughtered them before Subikahn arrived. He had saved their lives and now, Renshai or not, they were doing whatever they could to save his.
The Myrcidians blocked Saviar’s view, but he could still picture the slash in Subikahn’s tunic and abdomen in his mind’s eye, the glistening loops of bowel freed from their confinement. No one could survive such an injury. And yet, Saviar realized, these same users of magic had nursed him from the brink of certain death as well. A coward’s death. A sure commitment to Hel because my own brother thought too little of me to grant me the opportunity—the right—to earn Valhalla.
Without the ministrations of the mages, Subikahn would die in minutes or hours. The manner of his death, succumbing on the battlefield to wounds sustained in valiant combat against an opponent who would also die from his injuries, would surely win Subikahn the rewards of Valhalla. An eternity of blissful combat. A place among the Einherjar heroes. The greatest rewards of the universe, the same ones he would have withheld from me.
Under other circumstances, Saviar would have driven the mages away, preventing them from stealing the ultimate honor any man could receive from the brother he loved, until a moment ago, without conditions. Now, Saviar hesitated, horribly conflicted. He loved Subikahn without reservation, had for as long as he could remember. They shared a closeness he had always believed only twins could understand. But Subikahn’s actions as Saviar had grown more helpless were abomination, the supreme demonstration of dishonor, the epitome of degradation. If he stopped the mages, Saviar allowed Subikahn the honor all Renshai had strived for for eternity, one he had always before believed they both deserved. But, clearly, his brother did not find him worthy of the same.
Had the other Renshai known of Subikahn’s prior actions, they would have inflicted punishment upon him that Saviar could only imagine. He had never heard of any Renshai abandoning his honor in such an appalling manner. Banishment seemed the least of the possibilities. More likely, they would have forced him to die in some lingering and dishonorable way, his soul condemned to Hel, his mind forced to contemplate his crime and his eternal damnation for all eternity. Perhaps they would have deliberately infected him with disease or, worse, locked him up until he gradually starved.
Saviar loved his twin too much to allow it to happen. He would never tell anyone what Subikahn had told him. If he died now, Subikahn would go to his pyre a casualty of the war, a hero in every mind but Saviar’s. Yet, Saviar saw an end more just, in its way, more horrible. If the Mages of Myrcidë healed Subikahn, he would have to suffer not only the knowledge of what he had done to Saviar but also live with the realization that his deathbed confession was no longer a secret. In some ways, it seemed the perfect punishment for his crime. Subikahn would have to confront his dishonor and also the condemnation of his brother, things he had, thus far, managed to avoid.
Not wanting to dwell on the situation a moment longer, Saviar steeled himself and charged back toward the battle.
As Tae Kahn walked through B�
�arn’s courtyard with Mistri and Rantire by his side and Imorelda perched on his shoulders, the guardsmen stepped aside without comment. The flower beds that bore a brilliant array of blossoms in spring and summer now lay fallow. The statuary and benches looked strangely worn and haggard, as if displaying the mood of the men chosen to remain behind and keep the city of Béarn.
Tae knew he might never see even the gardens again, let alone the Eastlands he loved and ruled. The petty arguments and differences between the peoples of the continent seemed long ago and far away. Nothing seemed good or wholesome or right anymore. This day, the world would either end or continue wholly changed. The war would take its casualties, mostly at random, leaving them sorrowful and broken, a tattered group of loose societies unbalanced and unhinged by death, grief, and destruction.
Tae had little to say to his companions. Ignorant of the coming storm, Mistri fairly skipped, and Tae found himself jogging to keep up with her. Griff and Matrinka had briefed Rantire and assured him she knew when to remain watchful and when to attack. Since she did not speak a word of Heimstadr, and Kentt knew none of the continental languages, Tae had no concern she might verbally antagonize him into a hostile action simply to sate her hatred, bloodlust, or desire for battle.
*We’re coming,* Tae sent randomly as the guards ushered them into the outer courtyard. *We need to know where to find you.*
When no reply came at some length, Mistri added, *Poppy?*
*Mistri,* he sent back. *My beloved. Are you truly a group of only three?*
Mistri did not hesitate, *Tae, a lady and me. And Imorda.*
*Imorda?* He echoed the childishly incorrect pronunciation, then added, *That’s Tae’s pet?*
*Yes.*
The giant continued to address his daughter, which Tae understood. Mistri would not lie to him. *What kind of animal is Imorda?*
Mistri looked at Tae.
“Do you not have cats?”
Mistri shook her head.
“Describe her to him.” Tae did not want to put words in the child’s mouth. Kentt would know at once if she sounded coached. “Just be sure to include her size. I suspect he’s worried about his safety and wants to make sure she isn’t a . . .” He did not know the island animals, so he had to resort to description himself. “. . . huge and vicious brute.”
Mistri tried. *She’s little and furry. She’s nice, and she can’t hurt anyone, Poppy.*
Kentt reminded, *Jarfr are little and furry, too.*
Mistri laughed out loud. *Poppy, jarfr are big. Imorda’s more like . . .* She studied the cat on Tae’s shoulder’s. * . . . mermelr.*
Tae got the mental image of an oversized, squat squirrel with a less flexible tail.
*But with stripes like yessha . . . *
This time, Tae saw something horselike with alternating bands of brown and white.
* . . . and a longer, thinner tail.*
Tae wondered if Mistri could simply focus on Imorelda, sending that picture to her father the same way he received ones of the animals she mentioned. He supposed the way they received anari might differ from his own. Or, perhaps, she did send Kentt the image of a cat, one Tae did not see because he already had his own ideas of how they should and did look.
*Sounds like a strange beast indeed.*
Having left Béarn proper, Tae headed toward the shore, though he had no particular reason for choosing that direction. It made sense given that Kentt had arrived by sea and no one had yet spotted him. *Kentt,* he reminded. *We don’t know how to find you.* Only then, Tae realized the giant was stalling not because he had a plan to ambush them but because he worried they might harm him. Given his size and abilities compared to theirs, his threat to bring down the entire castle, it seemed impossible, yet the emotions slipping through the contact made it clear. Tae realized the giant might not be a warrior at all, just a concerned father who had begged to join the assault for the sole purpose of rescuing his missing child.
Tae tested his theory, *Kentt, you’re not a soldier, are you?*
Another pause, this one shorter, then a gentle, *No.* Had he spoken aloud, the word would have emerged in a whisper. *I begged to come along. No one believed I would find my daughter alive. Or, if I did, she would serve as the bait in a colossal trap. Nevertheless, they indulged me, let me swim alone to shore to spy under cover of the illusionary ships. They promised that, once the main battle ended, they would help me rescue Mistri.*
Most of that explanation had to go over Mistri’s head, but she caught enough to become concerned. She studied Tae with the wide-eyed innocence of any child. “You not gonna hurt Poppy?”
Tae said the only thing he could, “Of course not.” He had no particular intention of or reason to do so; if the Kjempemagiska attacked, however, he would defend himself. He saw no sense in trying to explain war or trust or danger to a child nor did he feel knight-bound to any agreement, whether or not he considered it an oath. “And I hope you’ll see to it your father doesn’t harm us, either.”
Mistri gave him a look that suggested he had said something particularly stupid. “Lots said he shouldn’t fix Bobbin. But Poppy fixed him. Twice. Poppy’s . . .” She searched for the right word. “. . . nice.”
Tae put a reassuring hand on Mistri’s arm. “He sounds good-hearted, your Poppy.” It suddenly occurred to him that, in her own innocent way, Mistri had made a significant point. The Kjempemagiska must have figured out that Arturo had originated from the continent, yet Kentt had chosen to allow him to live. Love for his daughter explained some of it, but he had likely developed some affection for Arturo as well. Tae switched to the trading tongue for Rantire. “Kentt’s not a soldier. He only came to get his daughter back, and he’s promised not to attack.”
Rantire bobbed her head once. “If he’s a civilian, and he doesn’t do anything aggressive, he has nothing to fear from me.”
Mistri had to know, “What she say?”
Tae smiled at the girl. “She said she’s not going to hurt him, either.” He squeezed her arm gently, “Mistri, you need to get your father to tell us where he is.”
Mistri nodded vigorously, and Tae released his hold. *Poppy, where are you?*
*I’ll give you a signal. Follow.*
Tae cocked his head, then stroked Imorelda’s rump, the only place he could reach. She curled her tail around his throat but otherwise gave no reply. This was something new, and he needed her to focus.
A hum sounded through the link.
Mistri took Tae’s hand. “Come on!”
“Where?” Tae had no idea how to act on the noise.
“Follow,” Mistri pointed south of the docks.
Tae wondered if he could learn to pinpoint a mind-signal the way Mistri did. For now, he followed her. Though her legs were short and pudgy for her size, she moved swiftly; he found himself jogging again to keep up with her. Imorelda buried her claws into his shoulders for balance, and he tried to smooth his pace.
Down the beach they headed, around sand dunes that blocked their view of the docks and, eventually, the ocean as well. Mistri’s pace quickened until sand scattered beneath her feet, forcing Tae and Rantire to run along with her. At length, she slowed, winding around a tight collection of dunes, then stopped entirely. *Poppy?*
The hum stopped. *You’re close, I think. Look for a circle of sand hills, and you’ll find me in the center.*
Tae scanned the beach. Between high dunes, he caught spare glimpses of Béarnian warships just offshore, along with an occasional dragon-prowed Northern vessel. No sign of the gigantic, illusory fleet remained, at least that he could see. He thought he saw a natural formation that might fit Kentt’s description and pointed. “There?”
Mistri looked in the direction of Tae’s extended finger, then plodded toward the indicated dunes. Her breaths emerged quick and hard, which allowed Tae and Rantire to move up beside her. Tae co
uld hear his heart pounding in his ears, at least twice as fast as normal. Then, they stepped around the dunes and saw him.
Kentt sat in the sand. Had he stood, he probably could have peered over dunes that seemed more like tiny mountains to Tae. His sodden clothing was exquisitely crafted, the stitching small, straight, and even, the dyed colors steady enough to withstand his swim through salt and waves. Tightly woven, his sleeved, short-skirted coat and loose trousers might turn away a sword nearly as well as mail. His cloak was open, except at the throat, where a silver clasp pinned it. Wavy hair the color of tea spilled down his back, his features finer than Tae had expected, and his eyes a pale mixture of blue, gray, and green. Clean-shaven, he sported a lantern chin and a large mouth by human standards with lips to match.
“Poppy!” Mistri hurled herself into his arms.
Kentt seized his daughter, enfolding her into his enormous embrace. His body shuddered repeatedly, and it took Tae inordinately long to realize he was sobbing. “Mistri, oh, Mistri.” He grasped her so hard, he seemed certain to crush her.
Mistri squirmed in his grip.
Despite the danger, Tae found himself smiling. Their differences seemed vast and insurmountable; but, at least, they had one thing in common. The Kjempemagiska, apparently, also loved their children.
Legendary? Is that how the common man denies hard-won skills these days? In my time, they credited it to lies or magic.
—Colbey Calistinsson
THE GROUND SEEMED TO QUAKE under the feet of the advancing Kjempemagiska. Well-trained, the white steeds of the Knights of Erythane held their ground, but Darby’s horse bolted. Worried the panicked animal might harm the infantry, Ra-khir broke ranks to catch the fleeing animal. Seizing its bridle, he reeled the small chestnut against Silver Warrior’s flank. The stallion held firm, pinning the other horse between itself and the trunks of the forest, while Ra-khir held its head high and tight until it could no longer buck.
The remainder of the knights charged as the Kjempemagiska screamed down upon the armies, en masse. One sweep sent Sir Garvin, Sir Thessilus, and Knight-Captain Kedrin airborne, their horses toppling like tenpins. Garvin fell in two places, cleaved in half. Thessilus landed in an awkward position and went still. Apparently, the giant’s blade had lost some of its momentum by the time it struck Kedrin, because his roll appeared deliberate. Garvin’s mount went straight down, Thessilus’ head over tail, and Snow Stormer fell sideways, a gash in his side.
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