Saviar considered. It seemed as if days had passed since the start of the magical storm. “Not sure, exactly. Shortly before some crazed Knight of Erythane cleaved his way through the giants, spurring the troops to follow.” He studied his father. “That’s what I heard, anyway. Is it true?” Working together, he and Calistin had cut a similar swath; but Calistin was the most talented human swordsman alive, and Saviar was no slouch, either. Whoever it was must have wielded a significantly magicked sword, and he knew of only one knight who had one. “Was it . . . you?”
Ra-khir put his hands on his hips, turning Saviar a mock-stern look. “Thanks for sounding so incredulous.” He smiled, glancing toward the ongoing conversation between Kedrin and Captain. The ranking commander of Béarn’s troops, Captain Galastad, had joined them. “But, no, it wasn’t me.”
Saviar looked over the remaining knights but did not see anyone who looked the part. He ran through their names in his head. The people of Erythane always knew and revered the current two-dozen Erythanian heroes, weaving their names into poetry, rhymes, and songs. He caught himself humming the familiar tune aloud and, apparently, so did Ra-khir.
“Think less conventionally, Saviar. Most people don’t know that, at any time, there are actually a maximum of twenty-five knights. But you do.”
Saviar’s gaze went instinctively to Darby, then stopped abruptly as he realized the truth. “Colbey Calistinsson.”
Ra-khir did not confirm Saviar’s guess; his smile did it for him.
Though Saviar had figured it out himself, he still did not believe it. “A lot of the Renshai were saying it was Colbey, but I dismissed them. I mean, every group out there was trying to claim the mystery warrior as one of their own, and I figured that, if Colbey had joined us, he’d be at the Renshai end of the battle.”
Ra-khir shrugged. “He came when we called him, and it’s a lucky thing he did. Without him, I don’t believe any of us would have survived.”
Saviar did not know whether his father meant any of the knights or any of the people of the continent. Ultimately, it did not matter. Even with Colbey’s assistance, they would have eventually been overpowered if not for the magical intervention. Whose? Saviar suspected he would not find out until he learned what the elfin Captain was telling the ranking officers of Béarn and Erythane.
Suddenly, khohlar filled Saviar’s mind in a voice he somehow knew belonged to Captain. *I apologize for the intrusion into your minds, but it’s the nature of khohlar to reach everyone within range. Your leaders have requested you not leave your camps at this time and feel it’s best for all of you to listen while I explain the magical events that ended the war.*
Saviar doubted, given the opportunity, any man would choose to leave. Though odd, khohlar was not uncomfortable or painful, and curiosity had to plague every man and woman who had taken part in the war. The luxury of denying the existence of sorcery no longer remained. Before the arrival of the elves on Midgard, the majority of humans believed in it only as mythology and timeworn legend. The reality of it had become undeniable to those few who had had dealings with the elves, and their experiences had radiated outward. Reactions toward it differed greatly: from appreciation to suspicion, skepticism to distrust, excitement to hatred. No one on the field could dismiss it anymore, but many might still find it terrifying or abhorrent.
*They have chosen to have me communicate in this form in order to reach all of you at one time with consistent information rather than allow rampant miscommunication, speculation, and rumor.*
Saviar appreciated the point. With each telling, stories changed, often vitally. Better for everyone to experience the same description and draw simultaneous conclusions, whether similar or differing. He sat on a deadfall and waited for Captain to continue. It helped that he could see the elf, where many of the men could not. Captain still verbally discussed the situation with Kedrin and Galastad, as well as several other world leaders, including Valr Magnus, who had joined them. Ra-khir took a seat beside his oldest son, the slow caution of his movements revealing his aches had worsened.
Captain’s presence returned to Saviar’s mind, but this time no specific words accompanied the khohlar. Instead, he showed an image of the familiar battlefield, the long stretch of plains grass surrounded by a horseshoe-shaped, dense forest which had hidden the elves. In the projection, the area that had once contained the many human armies seemed strangely empty, and Saviar came to realize the khohlar was mapping only the areas of magical activity.
The entire forest glowed faintly blue, highlighting the location of the elves, hiding amidst the foliage and between the tightly packed trunks of myriad trees. Saviar could also make out a tiny patch of aqua near one edge, which he felt certain represented the Mages of Myrcidë, though nothing in Captain’s sending gave him this impression. He suspected anyone who did not know about the mages would unconsciously blend the patch into the vaster expanse of blue.
Sparks of glaring red defined the location of the Kjempemagiska. Unlike the steadily pulsating glow of the elves, crimson bursts appeared sporadically or in larger patches. These radiated outward in stabbing spurts; and, where they appeared, they became swiftly smothered by blue, like water rolling over sparks of fire, killing it wherever it ignited.
This time, understanding did accompany the sending. Captain wished them to recognize the situation: the elves kept alive a fused and relatively steady bunker of magic on which they remained fully focused while the giants used their magic periodically and singly, which allowed them the freedom to physically fight as well as cast occasional spells. These spells did them little good, however, as the elfin wash of unremitting protection overcame the smaller, individual magics.
As Saviar watched the pictures forming in his head, he noticed the red flashes gradually disappeared as the Kjempemagiska realized the futility of their magic. The flares never stopped entirely, though. Either the giants cast from habit or to test the longevity of the elves’ shielding; but the Kjempemagiska spells never materialized, forcing the giants into an exclusively physical fight.
Though the Kjempemagiska had seemed unstoppable, Saviar realized the enormous and unsung role the elves had played in a war in which they had remained essentially invisible. To men watching their ranks cut down around them, desperately trying to inflict some sort of damage on creatures too large and too invulnerable to best, it had seemed as if the elves had done little to assist. Now, Saviar realized, they would all have fallen in moments had the Kjempemagiska retained their battle magic.
When Saviar looked closely at the map Captain created in his mind, he could see a rare figure of white light. From their locations, it dawned on him that he was seeing the shadow magic from the few weapons on their own side that carried it. The brightest light, he felt certain, represented the Sword of Mitrian in Calistin’s hand, bolstered by the diamonds Colbey had secured from his wife. Saviar picked out himself and Subikahn nearby, the three forms a ceaseless blur of motion, sometimes near and other times separated by battle. He could see the moment when Subikahn dashed off on his own, headed toward the aqua glow of the Mages of Myrcidë.
Focused on that precise location, Saviar saw the white light representing Subikahn fly in a wild arc. Soon after, a brilliant flare of quickly-snuffed red appeared in front of Subikahn, then the glow that represented him became still. Even then, it continued to burn, though whether because Subikahn remained alive or because the glow would highlight the weapon with or without a wielder, he could not know.
Apparently, Captain sped up the images of war because it seemed like no time at all before the glow representing Saviar arrived near Subikahn. Soon afterward, it departed, and the white wash of Subikahn’s sword became lost beneath flashes of aqua magic.
On the opposite side of the battlefield, a golden glow winked into existence, so intense he found himself unwittingly riveted. This new addition surged forward as if unhampered, and Saviar imagined Colbey Calistinsson sli
cing down giants with an ease and fervor no mortal could match. Saviar found himself coveting the centuries the immortal Renshai had had to hone his craft, to perfect every one of the Renshai maneuvers and create so many new ones of his own.
Captain sped through most of that time as well. Then, dizzily, he slowed the action nearly to a crawl. At the far edge of the war front, away from the sapphirine glow representing the position of the elves, a new light was rising. It started as pinpoints of crimson, dying out beneath the rush of elfin magic. Then, gradually and awkwardly, the spots of red light began to fuse. Through Captain’s khohlar, Saviar came to understand that the Kjempemagiska had had little previous experience with shared magic, that they had nothing precisely like the elfin concept of jovinay arythanik. Still, they were learning as they went, consolidating power, dragging it all together.
The sensations Captain sent were ones Saviar had never experienced before. It felt as if something sucked him toward the gathering magic, compelling him forward. He clutched the Pica Stone, drawing its expansive energy into his being, using it as a focal anchor even as he warned the other elves to hold their voices, their spells, their very beings. At the moment when the elves became uncertain whether they could continue to fight the force that hauled them inexorably closer and into the battle, the tide reversed in an instant, hurling them backward in a frenzied explosion that seemed to rip through the fabric of the universe.
Blinded, deafened, jolted with a bolt of intense pain, the elves collapsed and the storm raged in. Captain sent desperate callings to his followers, urging them to stay on task, not to lose the cadence of their magical song at the risk of surrendering every elfin and human life. Saviar could feel their group resolve wavering as they contemplated the horror of the forthcoming cataclysm, the agony they would suffer when magic collided. One by one, they disappeared from the jovinay arythanik in despair.
But one voice remained strong, a tiny point of sound that never hesitated, never surrendered. Incapable of contemplating the future, this one elfin spirit remained wholly dedicated to the cause, a beacon for the others, an anchor on which to recreate the jovinay arythanik. Bit by bit, it swelled back to life, resolve and need replacing panic. The elves rebuilt their strength around it, gave their all, and made it even more powerful. And now, Captain added one piece that, at the time, the elves had not known, the identity of that one small soul: Ivana. Her simplicity had been their salvation.
Then, the conflicting magics struck one another like thunder, shaking the ground, roiling the air, rendering the world itself unstable. Unable to succeed in their intended purposes, the magics backlashed like whipcracks instead, the red smashing into the giants and the blue encompassing the elves. Struck down by their own destructive spells, the giants knew nothing more.
More defensive in nature, the elfin spells did not immediately kill its masters, though it reverted to the raw chaos of its origins. For the humans, this manifested as a brutal, unstoppable tempest. To the elves, it went far deeper. It entered their very beings, ripping at their organs, ravaging their souls, threatening to shatter every bone to splinters. Though Saviar could tell Captain now attempted to mute the extent of his pain, some slipped through the khohlar. He could hear soldiers gasping at the enormity of Captain’s sending and found himself gritting his teeth against the inevitable fragmentation of his body, an agony beyond bearing.
Captain’s desperation came through clearly. He knew he had to do something to lessen the storm, or sacrifice the lives of every elf and human within furlongs of the battlefield. He fought through excruciating pain, seeking anything on which to ground his reason, to lessen the impact of the backlash. Hopelessness swam down over him, and he fought it with a grit and determination that any Renshai would admire. At long last, he noticed one detail that had, previously, eluded him: the opening they had created to bring in more elves. It vented a bit of the wind, though only temporarily. Since they still existed on the same plain, the magic only looped around and returned.
Gates! Captain realized and sent the word in khohlar to every one of his followers. Saviar supposed the message must have touched the human minds as well, but the ferocity of the storm had stolen any means or desire to focus on a stranger’s voice in their heads. *Open gates! Any kind! Anywhere!*
Somehow, the elves found the wherewithal to respond to the command. Saviar came to realize that only some of the elves had the ability to create these openings to other worlds, other plains of existence. Usually, they required the combined magical forces of many elves, but the swirling chaos that threatened to destroy every living thing provided the necessary power as well. Gradually, gates winked into existence, openings in Midgard that mitigated the storm by venting power off of their world, sucking it into indefinable elsewheres.
It was this venting, Saviar realized, that had allowed any of them to survive the massive collision of magics. By rights, it should have killed all of them, quite possibly the entirety of Midgard. But the venting itself had unintended consequences. The catastrophic winds had picked up any elf or human near an opening like insignificant flotsam, dragging them through the gate along with the banished chaos.
Captain returned to words, *There are thousands of worlds of which our kind has explored only a few. We know some are not compatible with life, but most do harbor living creatures of one form or another. It is possible that we can find and return many of the unfortunates carried from our world through the gates, but it will take enormous planning, careful magic, and brave volunteers willing to make several dangerous journeys to restore our loved ones. I believe there are some among you able and ready to take on these challenges.*
Exhausted as he felt, Saviar found himself intrigued, almost eager. He knew his parents had undertaken a similar mission in his infancy, though it had involved retrieving only shards of the then-broken Pica Stone rather than living beings.
Someone seized Saviar’s arm. He whirled and crouched, ready for a fight, and found himself looking into Calistin’s familiar face. “That’s where Subikahn is. And my sword.”
Suddenly, wholly engaged with his brother, Saviar stared. “Where?”
“Through one of those gate-things. He and the mages got pulled through together.”
Saviar considered asking how Calistin knew but thought better of the question. At the time, Calistin had been holding the only true magical item in the area. Even Saviar’s shadow-magicked sword allowed him to see auras and, once, a Valkyrie when he held it in his hand. It would not surprise him if Calistin had also figured out the magical code of Captain’s khohlar and did a more complete job of focusing on Subikahn in the chaos of the storm. “You’re sure?”
Calistin nodded.
Saviar could feel his heart rate quicken, his breath catch in his throat. His twin had confessed to an unforgivable crime, had all but damned Saviar’s soul to Hel. Still, he wanted to hear exactly why Subikahn had done it, wanted to force his twin to stare directly into his eyes and explain. “Was he still . . .” Saviar paused, waiting for Calistin to fill in the obvious blank. When he did not, Saviar reminded himself he was dealing with Calistin. Though brutally competent, his youngest brother had the social skills of a stone. “. . . alive?”
“Alive, yes, of course. Do you think I’d forget to mention Valhalla?”
Calistin had an undeniable point that made Saviar feel stupid. Calistin had a knack for that but rarely outside of swordplay.
Compassion entered Calistin’s tone, appearing even more out-of-place because, for once, Saviar did not share it. He was not ready to forgive his twin, not sure he ever could. “Subikahn’s alive on another world, and he needs our help to come home. We have to go after him, Savi. He’s our brother.”
Saviar could not help wondering if a stranger had replaced his youngest brother. Again. But before he could say a word, Captain resumed his khohlar.
*Your commanders have asked me to inform you we need as accurate an
accounting as possible to avoid stranding anyone, dishonoring them, or putting our heroic volunteers at unnecessary risk. To that end, they have asked me to tell you that no one is to leave his camp until every individual has met with his commanding officer to assist with making a complete list of survivors and missing soldiers. Only then, each commander will make arrangements for how to handle and account for those killed. They say you should feel free to sleep, eat, or converse while you’re waiting for your turn at your encampment.*
Calistin headed toward the Renshai camp, and Saviar reluctantly followed. He would have preferred to remain with their father and grandfather, to discuss the future and his role in it, but he did not want to make the situation any more difficult for Thialnir. They would celebrate, not mourn, their brethren lost in combat, but they would all find some secretive comfort in seeing a significant number of living, breathing Renshai remained.
The moment Calistin reached the Renshai camp, Valira flung herself into his arms. Shocked, Saviar could only watch as Calistin tensed. For a moment, he thought his little brother might cut her down from instinct. He had never shown his family more than the barest hint of empathy, and he seemed not to understand affection.
To Saviar’s surprise, Calistin raised his arms and wrapped Valira into his own, almost tender, embrace. It looked clumsy, lacking Calistin’s usual inhuman grace, but the near-normalcy of the exchange held Saviar spellbound. There was real affection in their interplay; and, if it currently all came from Valira’s side, Calistin at least appeared to be trying.
Valira’s hands slipped surreptitiously to Calistin’s sinewy rump, and Saviar thought his eyeballs might pop out of their sockets. Equally surprised by the impropriety, Calistin stiffened, then laughed. He caught Valira fully in his arms, hefted her over one shoulder, and carried her the last few steps into camp.
Saviar knew he ought to look away, but he found it impossible. A strange smile glued itself onto his face. Even in the wake of brutal war, with the bodies of brave warriors still cooling on the ground, maybe, just maybe, they would all find joy where they could.
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