Embroiled in the thick of the battle, Colbey hacked and parried like a mad thing, sending masses of Hel warriors to their final demises. Einherjar surged around him, their varied war cries ululating into an echoing frenzy. Though it had been his lifelong dream to battle amid the bravest of slain warriors, Colbey found no joy in the arrangement now. Something unseen prickled and worried at his mind, driving him always toward one goal. For the first time, war became dull routine where always before it had overwhelmed him with excitement, no matter the conflict. The oddity struck him, even as he sliced through or under armor and around foemen’s shields. Though it went against honor and training, he allowed long-ingrained habit to take over, trusting eye, reflex, and instinct to protect him while he sought the force that stole joy from his battle and coaxed him toward a goal he could not yet identify.
Then, as if to answer his concern, a pair of black birds circled, then dove, momentarily blotting the sun. Colbey recognized them at once: Hugi and Munin, Thought and Memory, Odin’s pets. The crows twined through the tide of dead, those who had perished in glory and those in cowardice or of illness. They rushed Colbey, swirling around his head like inky halos, guiding him toward Odin and the Fenris Wolf. A voice rattled through his head, “It is your task, your destiny, to slay the wolf and rescue the AllFather.” A pervading sense of rightness filled him, as if his conception had heralded this moment. All of his past glories paled, and his fate became a bright and beckoning tunnel. Here, he would find the answer to the endless, aching search. Once he’d believed he lived only for the chance to die in glory. Now, truth and reality became an undeniable constant that had eluded him through eternity. He had found his only purpose since birth.
Colbey directed his attacks, hammering and slashing through the ranks of Hel’s dead as if possessed. Yet, despite a focus and certainty that should have brought the excitement back into his battle, he felt even more distant. The simple pleasure of war that had spurred him from childhood through old age had disappeared. This purpose, this thing that purported to be all that mattered to him, stole the meaning from all other joys once his.
Forces rose to battle his concern, pounding at his doubts with the strength of his enemies’ blades; but the need to combat his natural wonder had the opposite effect. Questions turned to suspicion, and he recognized the feeling of “rightness” and security as foreign. Only one being had managed to influence Colbey’s thoughts in the past, the same who would benefit if the old Renshai truly believed in the mission with which the other had charged him. Odin. The AllFather’s decision to use him, even against his will, raised an ire that no magic or mental skill could quash.
Colbey channeled his rage into controlled sweeps and lunges that sent a dozen dead men back to their pyres and triple that number seeking more evenly matched opponents. The Einherjar followed him like a guiding light, hewing and slashing a path of corpses in his wake. Colbey paid them no heed, turning his attention to the crows who cackled, swooped, and pressed him toward the wolf and the father of the gods. Like a sheep or a slave, they herded him, and Colbey would have none of it anymore. Quicker than a heartbeat, his sword cut air, then cleaved a feathered head from its neck. Hugi plummeted. Odin’s presence in Colbey’s mind flashed in outrage, then faded as closer events commanded its attention. Odin could not afford two battles at once. If the one he fought to save himself killed him, the other no longer mattered.
Colbey savored the clarity of mind that followed the abatement of Odin’s will. The character of the mental presence mutated from deceptive to guilt-inspiring, plucking at Colbey’s religious foundations, his personal dedication to the gods and their causes throughout his mortal life. But the fueling of long-ingrained loyalties only strengthened Colbey’s devotion to his true cause, that of mankind. His allegiance went first to those he championed, the humans whose only means to avert destruction lay in the hands of the Einherjar, those who had managed to die in glory prior to the Ragnarok. And with Colbey Calistinsson/Thorsson.
Colbey continued to fight Hel’s hordes, blood wrath once again a welcome friend. Now properly redirected, he scanned the teeming masses of warriors for the ones he sought, hoping he had not overcome Odin’s misdirection too late. The AllFather still raged within him, reduced to making vague, grand promises of rewards, the effort far too late. Colbey could feel Odin groping for the best words and strategy, weakened by his losing battle with the Fenris Wolf. Once, the Renshai might have suffered sympathy for the great, gray god whose long-known doom had come to claim him. Now, Colbey gritted his teeth and strained his vision for a glimpse of the elf-lord and his fiery enemy. Tipping the tide of Frey’s conflict had been his goal from the start, allowing his wife’s brother to destroy the fire giant and thus rescue mankind from its ruin.
Colbey discovered the whirling blur of combat that was Frey and Surtr. Far to his left, they stabbed and capered like elemental dancers. Surtr’s jagged beard swept around his coarse features, the hair as sinuous and red as the force he represented. Sweat sheened every part of Frey that his armor did not hide, pouring in rivulets from his face. Heated by Surtr’s presence, the mail surely hampered as much as protected; but the god chose to leave it on. Colbey could not help but suffer a shock of contempt at the display, though he dismissed his aversion as easily as he had avoided disdaining the others their shields and protections. His religious faith and awe of the gods went every bit as deep as the code of the Renshai.
The battle tide surged dizzily around Colbey. Einherjar locked with the warriors of Hel. Gods, giants, and the monsters who were Loki’s children dodged and attacked repeatedly, the noise of their movements thunderous. The crash of massive weapons and the hollow drumbeat of fists against flesh blended into a frenzied cacophony that dwarfed the normal sounds of battle. The music Colbey knew as warfare had become amplified to a sound that ached painfully in his ears and forced him to strain for the telltale rustle of nearer enemies. Still, he surged toward Frey and Surtr, slaying hundreds who dared delay him, unbalancing the Einherjar/Hel horde struggle as he had not done for Odin.
Lightning cleaved the sky in a spreading zigzag, as if the world of gods were cracking like an eggshell. Thor bellowed in triumph, the cry echoing over even the pounding and rattle of unearthly weapons against armor. The head of the Midgard Serpent collapsed, the impact quaking. It writhed, coil looping over coil, stirring clouds and wind into a tempest that shattered many warriors. Some, more distant, lost their footing and fell, turning the tide of several battles. Thor staggered only seven victorious steps before plummeting to the ground, poisoned by his now-dead enemy. Thor’s wife dodged through the battles with a dexterity that revealed her own martial training, carrying a cup of antidote. Her cry of grief told Colbey what he did not pause to see; either she arrived too late or the treatment failed. Either way, Asgard’s mightiest lay dead.
Finally, Colbey cleaved a clear route to Frey and Surtr. The god panted, mouth wide, nostrils flaring, chest rising and falling in rapid, massive waves. His horse sprawled nearby, the victim of a blow landed early in the combat. Blisters scarred Frey’s face in dashes and lines, as if caused by a splashed boiling liquid. Rents marred his mail, the links shattered in places and scratched in others. His notched sword sagged, revealing an exhaustion that might soon prove fatal. Love had driven Frey to buy his wife with his horse that did not shy from magic or flame and his sword that fought giants of its own accord. Now, it seemed, he would pay for his marriage with his life and those of all men, elves, giants, and most of the gods. Nevertheless, Colbey did not disdain his brother-in-law’s decision. He would have sacrificed as much or more for his own wife, Freya.
Surtr raised his flaming sword for a killing stroke, eyes glowing red with triumph. Frey tried to dodge, clumsy with fatigue. He tripped over nothing Colbey could see, falling helplessly to the grassy plain of Vigrid. The sword blazed toward Frey’s head. Colbey dove between them, hammering his sword against Surtr’s forearm. Even with momentum, his strength seemed puny in compa
rison, but surprise worked as well as power. The point of Surtr’s blade plowed into soil a finger’s breadth from Frey’s chest, igniting the underpadding of the god’s mail. The instant it took the giant to free the blade cost him a slash from Colbey’s sword that stretched from knee to ankle.
Frey rolled out of range, snuffing his smoldering clothing. Surtr bellowed in rage and pain, turning his attention to the new danger. The giant towered half again Colbey’s height, his sword as long as the Renshai’s entire body. Flames leaped and capered along the steel, trailing in the breeze of its every stroke. Apparently mistaking Colbey for one of the Einherjar, his expression remained neutral and he swept ponderously, as much to drive Colbey backward as kill him. “Back to your own battle, little manling.”
Colbey ducked easily under the attack, not bothering to parry. He had seen the damage the burning sword inflicted upon Frey’s blade. Flawlessly, he executed the Renshai triple twist designed to penetrate mail. Harval ruptured the links, biting into underpadding, then falling free. Colbey rushed in for another strike.
Surtr redirected his blade to block; the Renshai’s extraordinary competence would not catch him off-guard again. Sword struck sword, launching a wild spray of sparks. Pinpoint burns stung Colbey’s limbs, and tiny fires sputtered and died in the grass. Faster, Colbey pulled out of the block first, closing the space between them to accommodate his shorter weapon. Their proximity would also make it more difficult for Surtr to gather momentum for his colossal sword. A single, landed blow from that weapon would sunder or smash Colbey.
Reflexively, Surtr back-stepped. Colbey charged in, plugging the gap, striking for the groin. Surtr twisted with impressive agility. The point of Colbey’s sword bit flesh from the giant’s thigh, flinging blood that scorched like cinders. Surtr flailed directionlessly. Colbey dodged, lunging for an opening that existed for less than half a second. A lucky kick slammed Colbey’s legs, sprawling him. Pain flared through the Renshai’s knee, and Surtr raised his sword for a deathblow.
Colbey waited until the blade began its descent, fully committed. He rolled free, feeling the warmth of its approach as he staggered to legs bruised and strained by Surtr’s kick. Again, he rushed the monster, diving through the flaming web of offense, the sword’s lingering light revealing patterns that would otherwise have remained hidden. He struck for the large artery in the thigh, blade gliding beneath the mail skirt. Surtr jerked, hammering his hilt toward Colbey’s skull. Colbey skipped aside, sacrificing attack for defense. His blade skimmed flesh, drawing a superficial line of blood. The giant’s hilt clipped the side of his head, screaming past his ear. Though glancing, the blow shot white light through his vision, blinding and dizzying. Had the blow landed squarely, it would have fragmented his skull.
Colbey staggered several steps, blood lust buzzing through him like a living thing. Only once had he faced an opponent as apt and worthy, the day Thor, misreading a situation, had charged him with being an enemy of law. The Renshai tried to clear his head. The blazing sword speeding toward him seemed triple-bladed. No time to dodge. He dropped flat to the ground, hearing the whoosh of its passage overhead, feeling the sting of its loosened sparks. Faster than a heartbeat, he bounded to his feet and launched himself at the giant.
“Modi!” Colbey gasped, calling upon Thor’s son who ignited a warrior’s battle wrath. He shouted from habit; the Renshai as a tribe had responded to injury this way since long before his birth. Pain provoked rather than daunted them; and he learned to fight not through pain but because of it. Now, amidst the gods, the cry seemed ludicrous. But it spurred Colbey just the same. He became a savage blur of offense, the sword a silver extension of his arm, never still. The blade tore furrows in flesh and armor, rending mail links with maneuvers none but the Renshai knew.
Surtr set to parry and block, weaving a defense with his sword to cover the gaps in his armor. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And from where in the nine worlds do you come?”
Colbey gave no answer. Clever talk could only steal concentration and vigor better spent on battle. When Surtr died, it would not matter who had slain him, only that he would not live to set the worlds on fire, to cause the prophesied destruction. And, if Surtr survived, it did not matter one iota whether Colbey did or not. As a son of Thor, he might outlast the fire giant’s conflagration, but the cause to which he dedicated himself would have disappeared. He would have failed to rescue the Renshai and all mankind.
Frey returned to the battle with a wild roar and bold assurance. His sword swept for Surtr’s neck, far above the reach of Colbey’s blade. Surtr battered it away, then whipped his blade downward to smash Colbey. Too late. The Renshai’s sword penetrated mail and tunic and plunged into his abdomen.
Surtr reared back, his expression one of betrayal. Fate had decreed that he would win this battle, that his fires would sweep the nine worlds and nearly all things living would die at his whim. Fuming, he threw back his head and hands, opening his defenses at a time Colbey anticipated the opposite. Words spewed from the giant’s mouth, uninterpretable yet as blisteringly hot as his sword. Smoke roiled from his fingertips, twining in the air above him, then thinning to colored streamers that disappeared in the wind. Frey screamed, jabbing for the exposed chest as Colbey slammed his blade home, hilt-deep into the giant’s abdomen. Surtr collapsed, arms akimbo, fingers limp; yet, apparently, the damage had already been done.
Frey and Colbey tore their weapons free together, flinging blood now no warmer than their own. Despite the victory, Frey’s face went ashen, his blue eyes and demeanor radiating pure agony. He lowered his head, mumbling something unintelligible, fingers thrashing in nervous triangles.
Colbey could not fathom the emergency, though he guessed the actions of giant and god had some basis in magic and felt certain he needed to understand quickly. Terror, rage, and grief poured from Frey, threatening to overwhelm them both with its intensity. “What happened?” Colbey demanded.
Frey gave no answer, only traced an invisible rectangle in the air in front of him. The outline shimmered slightly, almost undetectable, then gradually grew denser and more visible.
“What happened?” Colbey repeated, giving his brother-in-law one last chance to answer before desperation drove him to actions he might regret. He could sense that sorrow and terrible anger were hampering Frey’s speed and craft; and Colbey hoped that would delay the god enough so that he could find answers before there were none to find. When Frey gave no response to his question, Colbey violated his own law for the first time. Uninvited, he entered the thoughts of one he considered a friend and ally, did so for the good of mankind and gods alike.
Understanding came in an instant, the details unimportant. Surtr’s spell had kindled magical fires on the other worlds, including Alfheim; and Frey was building a gate to transport himself and Colbey to the elves. The Renshai drove perception one step farther. While they battled to save elves, Surtr’s flames would incinerate Midgard and all mankind. He would lose the very cause he had rescued Frey and spent Odin’s life to protect.
“No!” Colbey seized Frey’s arm, shaking.
The rectangular outline wobbled, and Frey hissed in outraged warning. His concentration narrowed to the final sequence of his spell, and he blotted out the physical world, including Colbey’s pleas. Nothing external could change what would happen next, so Colbey scrambled for mental control. Helplessly, he watched as each foreign syllable slipped from concept to articulated, as the gestures and intent powered the whole into operative magic. Ignorant of the workings of any magic, he dove ahead, exploring each as yet unspoken sound until he found one he recognized, the last of the sequence: the Northern term for Alfheim.
Alfheim. The chain of idea trickled through Frey’s head in a fraction of a second, yet Colbey caught the last before it disappeared. *Midgard,* he inserted.
Frey’s consciousness bucked against the change. *Alfheim.*
Colbey persisted, *Midgard.*
The spell wavered as Frey’s gr
ip on the magical tapestry as a whole weakened.
*Midgard!* Colbey bullied through the modification, the intensity of concentration draining volumes of physical endurance. Entering minds always cost him dearly, and the effort of wrestling a god, at a time when his strength was already compromised by battle, tired him.
Light flashed, exploding through Colbey’s eyes. Vision disappeared, burned away. His orbs felt on fire, and agony urged him to tear out his eyes to stop the pain. Instead, he drew his sword to combat enemies he could not yet see. His face felt flushed and acrid smoke funneled into his lungs, a hot anguish that eclipsed the pain of head and eyes. He managed to pry his lids apart, blinking through a web of rainbow afterimages. Either the world or his vision had washed red. Multihued flames chopped jagged tendrils and spirals across the landscape, all beneath it dead black and gray. Beside him, Frey howled in wordless sorrow.
* * *
One thousand, five hundred and forty-seven of the three thousand elves agreed to assist Dh’arlo’mé’s strange tests, though curiosity, kindness, or appeasement seemed the inducements rather than any belief in or concern for the imminence of their destruction. Within a day, he had lost a third of them to boredom. Now, two days later, only six hundred and thirteen remained, melding, concentrating, combining, and experimenting with the natural magic that they and their forefathers had used daily without comprehension of its mechanism. From Dh’arlo’mé’s observation, the law/chaos balance was skewed far toward law on man’s world, precluding magic for all but the four Cardinal Wizards whom Odin had established and later destroyed. On Alfheim, chaos played a larger role. Magic simply was, as it had always been, a means to enhance love and play that required no explanation.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 2