A FLASH OF LIGHT BLINDED MATRINKA—
As her vision cleared, she gazed at a scene out of some nightmare. Three immense bears towered over the screaming mass of royal children, mouths gaping and claws as long and sharp as daggers. At least one had already claimed a victim; its nails dripped congealing trails of blood. Matrinka took in the other details in an instant; three missing bear statues in a garden, a decapitated body, children screeching and crying from what seemed like a million places.
Their Renshai guardian dodged and hacked at all the bears in turn, his grace belying his age and his sword a silver blur. His tunic hung in tatters, and red lines scored his ribs. Only one bear returned his strikes, the others avoided him, intent on the children. Had the warrior had only himself to defend he might have managed to battle the three effectively or slay the one attacking him. But to limit his cuts to one meant leaving its two fellows free to shred Béarn’s young heirs. Instead he bounced from one to the next in an obvious attempt to draw all the danger onto himself. The more the bears separated, the more difficult the strategy became.
Two bears charged the fallen children. A wild chorus of terrified screams filled the air, followed by a haunting shriek of pain that cut off in mid-shrill.
“No,” Matrinka whispered, grief aching through her fear. “Do something. Do something. . . . The children,” she sobbed.
DAW Books Presents
the Finest in Fantasy by
MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
FLIGHTLESS FALCON
SPIRIT FOX (with Jennifer Wingert)
The Novels of Nightfall:
THE LEGEND OF NIGHTFALL
THE RETURN OF NIGHTFALL
The Books of Barakhai:
THE BEASTS OF BARAKHAI
THE LOST DRAGONS OF BARAKHAI
The Renshai Trilogy:
THE LAST OF THE RENSHAI
THE WESTERN WIZARD
CHILD OF THUNDER
The Renshai Chronicles:
BEYOND RAGNAROK
PRINCE OF DEMONS
THE CHILDREN OF WRATH
The Renshai Saga:
FLIGHT OF THE RENSHAI
FIELDS OF WRATH
The Bifrost Guardians Omnibus Editions:
VOLUME ONE:
GODSLAYER
SHADOW CLIMBER
DRAGONRANK MASTER
VOLUME TWO:
SHADOW’S REALM
BY CHAOS CURSED
Copyright © 1995 by Miriam S. Zucker.
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-101-66389-9
Cover art by Jody A. Lee.
Map by D. Allan Drummond.
DAW Book Collectors No. 994.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
First paperback printing, July 1996
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
— MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
Version_1
To D. Allan Drummond
(in lieu of proper payment)
Thanks for . . . a lot.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to the following people: Sheila Gilbert, Caroline Oakley, Jonathan Matson, Jody Lee, Mark Moore, Dave Countryman, Jennifer Wingert, Dan Fields, and the Pen-Dragons, each helping in his or her own way to make this a better story.
For patience, support, love, and example: Benjamin, Jonathan, Jacob, and Arianne Moore. Also Sandra Zucker, always interested and always caring.
Contents
Prologue
1. King Kohleran’s Heirs
2. The End of Innocence
3. The Staff-Test
4. The Last Heir
5. Tae Kahn
6. Subtle Tactics
7. Reuniting
8. The Trap Sprung
9. Knight’s Honor
10. The Torturer
11. The Only Answer
12. New Information
13. Oa’si
14. Ravn
15. The Captain
16. A Renshai’s Kill
17. Words in the Dirt
18. Breakthrough
19. Béarn’s Betrayal
20. The Portal
21. The Bond Sundered
22. The Keeper of the Balance
23. Pudar
24. Shattered Peace
25. The Lifers’ Cell
26. Ravn’s Lesson
27. Pudar’s Audience
28. Uniting Predators
29. Rantire’s Advice
30. New Alliances
31. The Black Renshai
32. Affairs of the Heart
33. The Last Supper
34. The Balance Wavers
35. Griff’s Guardian
36. Weile Kahn
37. The Best
38. The Truth Dawns
39. Ambush
40. Frost Reaver’s Charge
41. The Southern Weathered Range
42. The Battle Within
43. A Renshai’s Promise
44. Nualfheim
45. Division
Epilogue
Prologue
The valley is called Vigrid
where converge in battle
Surtr and the gracious gods;
a hundred leagues
is it every which way—
yes, that’s the appointed place.
—Verse Edda, Vafprudnismal 18
The battle plain of Vigrid sparkled in Asgard’s eternal light, an emerald grassland stretching as far as Colbey Calistinsson’s vision. Though half-mortal and raised by human parents, he rode toward the gods’ war, Ragnarok, honestly. A bastard son of Thor, Colbey had been recruited by the leader of the pantheon, Odin, to change the tide of the ghastly war. Unlike the army of gods around him, he wore no coat of mail or helmet, only a light linen tunic and breeks over an average-sized body honed more for quickness and agility than strength. Golden hair riffled free around a clean-shaven face, his locks short and feathered so as not to obscure sight during battle. His tribe, the Renshai, spurned shields and armor as cowards’ tools, though he spoke nothing of his prejudice to the Divine Ones. Even had he not held them in an esteem beyond awe, they already knew.
Colbey’s sword, Harval, the Gray Blade, felt only vaguely familiar in his hand. Though it had served him faithfully for years, Odin had recently imbued it with aspects of good and evil, law and chaos, so that Colbey could wield it in the gods’ cause of balance after the Ragnarok. After the Ragnarok. The phrase seemed nonsensical. Fate had decreed that the Heavenly War would spare only two hidden humans and a handful of gods. Yet those survivors included the sons of Thor; and Colbey, Odin assured him, was one. Still, experience had taught Colbey that prophecies could be thwarted. In fact, he had learned that such divine forecasts required champions to fulfill them, at least on man’s world of Midgard. Odin’s certainty that Colbey would help him kill the Fenris Wolf and elude his own destiny, to die in the wolf’s maw, assured Colbey the gods’ history was not fully preordained either.
Renshai fought without pattern or strategy, and the rigid, somber procession of gods riding toward Vigrid unnerved Colbey. The mental control Renshai exercised, on and off the battlefield, had strengthened his mind. Later, the title of Western Wizard had been unwittingly forced on him, along with its collective consciousness. His psychic war against millennia of previous Western Wizards had destroyed them and left him with the ability to read minds, though it cost him volumes in concentration and vigor; but he chose not to do so to anyone he respected, finding it a rudeness beyond excuse. Nevertheless, strong thoughts and emotions radiated to him without his intention. Now, he
felt bombarded by a wild tumult of fear, excitement, stoicism, faith, doubt, and hope that made his own battle joy seem muddled and weak.
Odin the AllFather rode at the head, light reflecting from his helmet in a multicolored halo, his mail pristine. The one-eyed leader of the gods perched proudly upon his eight-legged steed, his spear raised and ready for combat. Just behind him, Thor and Frey rode at Colbey’s either hand. Colbey’s birthfather brandished his short-handled hammer, Mjollnir. Though fated to die, Thor kept his red-bearded head high; his mood, stance, and attitude defined commitment. Even in the face of imminent death, he would not falter.
Colbey looked longest at his brother-in-law Frey, studying the aristocratic features and honey-blond war braids. The handsomest of the gods affected rain, sunshine, and fortune, but his foremost concern now was the fate of the elves he had created. Colbey sensed a fatherly worry transcending irrefutable legend which stated Frey would die on the sword of the fire giant, Surtr. The events slated to follow his death bothered him more, the inferno Surtr would then live to kindle on the worlds of elves, men, giants, and gods as well. Destiny decreed all Frey’s “children” would die in the blaze. And the humans Colbey had pledged to rescue would perish simultaneously.
The rest of the gods followed in steady ranks, including the watchman, Heimdall. He and the traitor god, Loki, would die on one another’s swords. One-handed Tyr would slay and be slain by the hound from Hel. Vidar, a son of Odin, was fated to kill the mighty Fenris Wolf only after it swallowed his father. Lesser gods trailed behind, surrounded by the ranks of those brave humans who had died in glorious combat, the Einherjar of Valhalla. Those heroes were fated to die in the conflicts against giants and against the souls in Hel, who had died cowards or of disease.
Colbey patted his horse, a mortal, white stallion named Frost Reaver who had served him well and faithfully for years. Like all Renshai, Colbey had dedicated himself since birth to becoming one of the Einherjar. He had practiced combat maneuvers with an obsessiveness that made even necessities seem distraction. He had joined every war and skirmish, honing his battle skills until he had become the best, and his dedication had proven his downfall. He had become so competent with swords and horses that an honorable death in battle eluded him. Yet he had achieved his goal in a different way. Though not one of Valhalla’s heroes, he would have the distinction of fighting in the Ragnarok on the side of the gods. Whether he lived or died in the battle did not matter to Colbey, so long as he gave his all.
Figures became discernible on the plain ahead, distance creating the illusion of smallness though the shortest of their leaders, like the gods, towered to half again or double Colbey’s height. Only the hordes of Hel’s dead compared to normal men in size; the giants, monsters, and gods overshadowed the others nearly to obscurity. Colbey tried to pick specific enemies from the group. His icy, blue-gray eyes sought out the massive, animal shapes from the others: the Fenris Wolf and its brother, the Midgard Serpent. For now, the man-shapes remained indistinguishable.
The maelstrom of others’ emotions bombarding Colbey changed to a mixture of bravado, desperation, and placid acceptance. Colbey attempted to focus in on Odin, but the AllFather’s thoughts had always proven singularly impossible to read. The one time Colbey had attempted to invade Odin’s mind, not knowing his identity, the leader of the pantheon had manipulated Colbey’s thoughts with a strength and agility that had chilled the Renshai’s blood in his veins. The wisdom of the world sat behind that one unreadable eye; nothing seemed to escape him.
Colbey loosened his sword in its scabbard and hoped Odin did not already realize that his chosen savior planned to betray him.
* * *
On Alfheim, the world of elves, stars speckled the night sky so densely the darkness seemed penciled between them. Beneath their steady light, Dh’arlo’mé tossed and turned on his bed of spongy kathkral leaves, uncertain whether to welcome or curse the rest he needed. Though he’d required it for several months, ever since the Northern Sorceress had taken him as her apprentice, sleep still seemed a new concept to the elf. The Sorceress had explained the strange, human phenomenon as a means to reset body and mind, a condition that sprang out of the need to escape heavy thoughts, injury, and sickness. Until Dh’arlo’mé had willingly embraced the Wizard’s cause, championing goodness for the human masses, he had had no need of sleep, no reason to wrest burdens from a mind that knew only joy and a body designed to last millennia.
Dh’arlo’mé ran long fingers over his high, sharp cheekbones and heart-shaped lips. When he chose to become one of the four Cardinal Wizards, he knew he might come to regret the decision. But even the gods could not have predicted the sequence of events that assured the Ragnarok, the fated battle that would claim the lives of nearly all mankind, all elves, and most of the gods. The memory would not leave Dh’arlo’mé. Despite his best efforts, the pictures paraded through his mind, accompanied by odors, sounds, and the strangely gentle caress of the wind. Three of the four Cardinal Wizards lay on a moldy carpet of leaves, their life’s blood puddling like spilled wine. Each had taken his or her own life, the price for abandoning Odin’s laws, for hunting down one of their own like an animal, and for loosing chaos on the world of men, a world that, until that time, knew only order.
The last of the Wizards, Colbey, the Western champion of Law, had argued for salvation and forgiveness for his peers. But Odin had granted no quarter, and the Wizards apparently agreed with the cruel, gray god. They died by their own hands, permanently, in the manner of humans. At the time, Dh’arlo’mé had appreciated Odin’s mercy; he alone of the apprentices had survived the events leading to the coming of the father of gods. Only now, he understood the callousness of leaving him to perish with his brethren in the coming war. The hopelessness haunted every hour, and Odin’s decree still echoed in his head:
Wizard only in name,
Your Mistress to blame
Her bones rightfully soon entombed.
Go back to the one
Who calls you her son
Alfheim is already doomed.
Doomed. Dh’arlo’mé rolled, accidentally yanking the fine, red-gold locks trapped beneath his arm. With eyes as glazed and steadfastly colored as emeralds, he studied the open sky, its familiar pattern of stars unchanging and broken by the shadows of broad-leafed trees. Elfin giggling trickled through the branches, the sound more normal than the previous silence yet perpetuating, rather than distracting from, his concerns. Within days, all elves would die in fiery agony, and Dh’arlo’mé seemed helpless to find understanding, let alone a solution. Danger held no meaning to those who lived without weather or individuality. Death came to elves only after centuries or millennia of play, and then it only meant a new beginning as an infant, stripped of memories from the previous lives, though a few always slipped through. Yet, if Ragnarok destroyed all, no more babies could be made to reuse those souls. Utter, irrevocable destruction of all elves would result.
Dh’arlo’mé sighed, struck by the irony. He required sleep to escape the worries that now troubled him, the same worries that would not allow him to relax enough to rest. The burden of knowledge had become unbearable, the understanding that the world and elves he loved would vaporize into fiery devastation, leaving nothing, not even a single mind to cherish the memory. And he was helpless to prevent it. Helpless. Dh’arlo’mé hated the word like an enemy. What little magic the Northern Sorceress had managed to teach him during his short apprenticeship, all the natural power and chaos of elves, and all the sleepless hours could not spare one life from the holocaust. Helpless. Dh’arlo’mé cursed the hours wasted trying to make the other elves understand. To them, imminent meant a decade, and the concept of total annihilation either could not register or did not matter. He had tried to harness their natural power, to combine magic to find salvation. But though their attention spans far exceeded those of humans, their attitudes remained habitually frivolous.
Helpless. An image of Odin filled Dh’arlo’mé
’s mind, the robust figure and cold, blue eye blurred by a sudden flash of light. The god’s magic had opened a gate to the world of elves through which he had returned Dh’arlo’mé to his damned people. The thought sparked insight. Dh’arlo’mé sat up, buoyed with new hope. Maybe not helpless.
Dh’arlo’mé rose, rushing to the knobby roots that cradled the texts and tomes the Northern Sorceress had spared him.
* * *
Odin’s horse leaped for Fenrir, its four forelegs outstretched as if to embrace the massive wolf. Thor’s mount, too, sprang for the monster. Frey charged the fire giant destined to slay him, and the other gods and the Einherjar took their places in the struggle. Colbey had intended to accompany his brother-in-law; but war rage overtook him, and he sprinted in Odin’s wake as if sucked in by momentum. The wolf danced aside, its quickness astounding for its size, its black fur bristling in deadly warning. Odin’s spear lunged for a broad head that dodged and reared out of the weapon’s path in an instant.
Before Thor could reach his father’s side, a monstrous head whipped up, hissing, in front of him. Coils still enwrapping the world, the Midgard Serpent opened its maw, revealing a vast red plain striped with teeth as long as a man’s body. The raw stench of its breath blasted Colbey, and each fang dripped clear venom like a hungry dog’s spittle. The sight proved too much for the horses. Thor’s balked, throwing off the timing of his attack. His sword scraped harmlessly along the bridge of the serpent’s nose. Frost Reaver’s hooves clawed clouds, and the stallion twisted at the peak of his rear. The mortal beast toppled over backward. Colbey sprang free as his horse struck the ground, glad he habitually used no saddle. He rolled, tucking his limbs as close to his body as the sword allowed. He came up in a ready crouch to the drum of fading hoofbeats. An ax in the hands of a dead man from Hel whipped toward his head.
Colbey blocked as he rose, catching the force of the blow on his sword. The other’s strength slammed him into a crouch. He lunged, burying the sword in his enemy’s gut. As he jerked it free, three others swarmed upon him at once. Colbey caught one blade on his, raising it to duck beneath the other two. A broad riposte sent the trio into awkward retreat. Colbey sliced down two before they could think to defend. The last slashed furiously. Colbey’s sword cut beneath the wild web of attack and gutted the man, now twice dead.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 1