Sivard nodded dully. “Decades.”
“It shreds men and has killed every champion you sent against it? You say even Thor might not be able to slay it, without his hammer?”
Sivard did not reply.
Colbey stared. What is this? The test of stupidity? “You expect me to walk into a room with it?” Colbey snorted with self-righteous indignation. “I have no feud with Fenrir’s son. What makes you think I’d just march to my death?”
“I–I . . .” King Sivard stammered. Apparently this thought had never entered his mind. “You’re a hero. That’s what heroes do.” Abandoning that line of thought, he tried another. “If you want a reward, we can pay you whatever silver we can find. You can have your pick of our women. I’d sell my own daughter to the man who kills that . . . thing. But it carries a treasure more valuable than any I can give you. It has a golden ring. Those few who got close enough to see it died, but tales of its worth survived them.” Only then, his gaze strayed to the collection of copper, silver, and gold on Colbey’s fingers. He looked up quickly, apparently not wishing to be caught gawking, and his eyes betrayed sudden disappointment. “I guess money isn’t really something you need.”
Nothing the king had mentioned had interested Colbey, except for the beast’s ring, presumably the one he needed to start the next task. But the challenge promised by Fenrir’s spawn offered intangibles that did intrigue the Renshai. Whether or not he won the match, he could not lose the fight. If Fenrir’s spawn killed him, Colbey would die in battle and find Valhalla. If Colbey killed the beast, he would simply continue his trials. That had problems and implications of its own, but Colbey already had those to face. He drew his sword.
Frightened by the sudden movement, King Sivard sprang aside.
The grip nestled into Colbey’s callused fist, as if molded to fit it. Even so, the Renshai realized that it was not Harval. The balance felt nearly perfect, but Colbey knew his sword like his own arm. He swung the blade a few times, testing, reassuring himself that it would serve as well as any other. He would never allow himself to become dependent on a single sword or its magic. The weapon was only a tool; he was the power. Without a word or qualm, he strode to the indicated door.
King Sivard pushed past Colbey gingerly, unable to hide a grin. He produced a long brass key, which he positioned in the hole beneath the knob. “I’ll lock the door behind you. The previous champions had a key, too, and it’s still in there. You can find it and escape when you’ve killed Fenrir’s spawn.”
The door swung open a crack on well-oiled hinges.
Though Colbey’s thoughts and attention turned naturally to the task at hand, he had the presence of mind to wonder why Sivard had not passed him the key that had just opened the door. The answer came with little thought. For all of the king’s bold chatter, he did not expect Colbey to survive the battle. Colbey suspected that, if the previous champions did have a key, it did not fit the lock. Only a fool would chance the key falling into the hands of a beast he sought to contain. Still, becoming trapped did not bother Colbey. Presumably Fenrir’s spawn carried the ring he needed to leave.
Colbey slipped inside, and the door slammed and clicked closed behind him. The room seemed huge and oddly chill. A corpse sprawled just inside the door, its helmet shattered and its armor dented. A wooden shield lay across the body, and it still clutched a battle ax in its lifeless hand. A gilded table in the center of the room supported an enormous, gold hammer with a disproportionately short handle. Mjollnir, hammer of Thor. All doubt fled Colbey at the sight, and he stared in awe and wonder.
The gut-wrenching odor of carrion seemed to suffocate Colbey then. It did not emanate from the dead man he had stepped across, but from a second one deeper in the room. By craning his neck around the table, he saw a half-staved skull. Thick strands of scarlet-stained, yellow hair poked at random from the ruined head. The sword at the corpse’s side lay unblooded. A hideous-looking creature crouched, feasting upon the rotting flesh.
As Colbey approached, the creature rose, towering more than half again Colbey’s height. Coarse, gray fur tumbled along its head and neck. Its face resembled Secodon, but Shadimar’s wolf had soft, brown eyes and those of Fenrir’s spawn glowed red. It sported the body of the most muscle-bound caricature ever drawn of Thor; its chest jutted like two boulders on a massive torso. Triceps and biceps bulged from its arms, and smaller muscles stretched along its forearms. Its legs made its arms look tiny. To Colbey, it seemed like a mountain covered with rugged crags. Yet he did not fall prey to belief in the common myth. Large did not necessarily mean slow.
Sword readied, Colbey stepped around the table. Fenrir’s son leered, brandished a club as thick as a tree trunk, and growled a warning. Without hesitation, Colbey swung for its abdomen. The spawn leapt backward. Its riposte fell short.
For a full minute, not a single blow landed. Colbey’s strokes came swift, short, and fine, always directed toward his opponent’s face. Less sure, Fenrir’s spawn swatted pendulously at the golden-haired flea who had spoiled its dinner. Withdrawing from the steel waving in its face weakened the beast’s strokes, yet Colbey knew a single blow could smash any bone it hit.
For a moment, the beast hesitated. Colbey thrust. The tip of his sword gashed his enemy’s side, then the resistance disappeared. Half of his blade clattered to the stone floor. The hilt remained in his fist, stubbornly supporting a hand’s breadth of blade. Shocked, the Renshai lost his timing. He stumbled aside. A wave of air lifted the hair on the side of his head, and Colbey realized he had narrowly escaped death.
Broken? How? Unable to comprehend how such a minor strike could snap tempered steel that he had deemed sturdy, Colbey feigned a dodge to the left and dove sideways. A back muscle tore painfully. He rolled across the stone, grabbing for the dead man’s hilt. Catching it, he rose and brandished the sword.
Back in the fight, Colbey howled wordlessly. The sword lacked the fine balance and meticulous edge of one of his own, but it was still a sword. He sprang at the beast. The blade carved the air with controlled power, lunging at the creature from all directions. Fenrir’s spawn heaved madly in defense. A lucky sweep met Colbey’s sword and smashed it. Shards flew, struck the back wall, and scattered to the floor like metallic rain. Colbey paused in disbelief, weaponless once more. Countless times, he had seen swords break in battle, but never before had he seen steel fragment. The club grazed his hand, snapping a finger like a twig.
Pain mobilized Colbey. He dodged the wild sweeps with the same agility he had lent to his now-broken swords. Croaking noises erupted from deep in the beast’s throat. Laughter. Its confidence pleased rather than cowed Colbey. Smug opponents grow careless, he reminded himself as the hurricane strokes forced him to retreat.
But the beast could afford arrogance against a weaponless foe. Though not fast, the monster’s attacks seemed ceaseless. Colbey’s concentration channeled into dodges, and his steps grew less sure as he approached the room’s center and tried to recall the precise location of the table by memory. He skirted it successfully, but the beast’s club crashed against it. Wood splintered, spilling Thor’s hammer to the floor with a jolt that seemed to shake the entire room.
Each of the spawn’s broad sweeps sent Colbey straggling toward the door that he knew he could not open. He slipped on the corpse, fighting for balance, and his other heel touched the back wall. No place to go. No way to avoid the next strike. The club swept air from Colbey’s left to his right. As it flew past him, the Renshai followed its course. When the return stroke came, he hoped it would not have gathered enough impulse to damage him severely.
Colbey gauged the distance to the dead man. The club slammed into his gut, stealing breath. He wrapped both arms around the weapon and clung. The beast bellowed, thrashing to and fro to shake Colbey free. The stench of Fenrir’s son nearly overwhelmed the Renshai.
Suddenly, timing carefully, Colbey released his hold. Momentum bowled him across the floor. He scrabbled for the dead man’s ax, only to find the
pole broken and the head detached from it. Instead, he snatched up the shield, securing a hold before the wolf-man turned to resume its attack. In normal combat, Renshai spurned shields and armor as cowards’ protections, used by soldiers too unskilled or lazy to dodge and tend defense. In a direct one-on-one conflict, Colbey would still have to counter each strike. The shield would only replace the sword as a parrying tool.
A string of saliva oozed from the beast’s open jaws. Oily sweat added a sheen to its massive frame.
Colbey’s limbs ached from overuse. The strained back muscle throbbed, and his broken finger jabbed pain the length of his arm. He caught the next bone-wrenching assault on the shield. His evasions remained nimble, but fatigue slowed him. Even his mind could no longer pump reserves to his failing body.
Fenrir’s spawn also panted, but the gross swings did not tax him to the extent they did his quarry. Colbey caught more blows on the shield as his strength diminished. He allowed the beast to herd him where it would.
Thoughts closed in on Colbey, self-deprecating realities he had never needed to consider before. Perhaps Episte was right and I am a fool. I put so much time and effort into swordplay, I became the best. But, without a sword, I’m as helpless as a townsman. Colbey dodged a blinding stroke. Perhaps not helpless, but another man might know how to use this damned shield as a weapon.
Again, the club thumped against the shield. The wood cracked open, and Colbey’s arm went numb. The force of the blow drove him to his knees. Agony dazed him. He watched the club rise. As quick as he was, Colbey knew he could not avoid this stroke. And, although he had faced death before, this time he did not feel at peace.
Flung wide, Colbey’s right hand touched a pipe-shaped object and closed around it. Thrilled to find anything to place between himself and the oncoming beating, Colbey jerked it before him. The bar rolled on a rounded base. The club struck gold with the fury of a galloping horse. And, this time, the wood exploded.
The beast loosed a terrified shriek and ran. Colbey’s gaze found the object in his fist, and he could not help staring. He held Mjollnir’s haft. The shortened handle of Thor’s hammer rested in his palm, and the head lay on the floor. Colbey laughed with sudden understanding. He bulled through pain with need, wrapping his tingling left hand below his right. With a surge of strength more mental than physical, he raised the hammer and hurled it.
Mjollnir tumbled through the air, swift but unsure. A crash slammed through Colbey’s ears, and the whole room jarred and shook. When Colbey staggered to his feet, his opponent had gone gray, the wolfish sneer transformed into a grimace. His chest had become a mass of crimson speckled with gray-white chips of shattered ribs. The flaming eyes had gone cold.
It’s not Mjollnir. Colbey approached his dead foe. It was never Mjollnir, but it looked so real, I believed. He knelt beside the crushed wolf-man and poked a finger in its eye. It gave no response. Colbey took one of the beefy hands and examined it. On the smallest finger, it wore a ring of gold. He eased the jewelry free, studying the fine runes carved inside, uncertain what sort of instrument could have engraved the tiny letters: “A wise man knows his limits. A hero achieves beyond them.”
“Audacity!” Colbey said aloud, and the word echoed. How could I possibly have failed this test? He laughed, thinking of the many people who had cursed or ridiculed his brashness in battle, mostly men who would rather attribute skill to luck of birth than believe any man had more self-motivation and will than themselves. He guessed that the nature of this task changed from Wizard to Wizard, that each faced his own “Mjollnir” true to his faith and beliefs.
Colbey rose, and the sudden movement sent a wash of spots across his vision. He kept his balance by an act of will, and the weakness reminded him how near he had come to death. One task remaining.
Colbey raised the ring, but he could not leave without a word to the finest, strongest enemy he could ever remember facing. “Thank you for a noble battle, Fenrir’s spawn.” Then, Colbey placed the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. This time, the swirl and flash of magic proved too much for him, and he spiraled into oblivion.
* * *
Colbey awakened to the mingled odors of sweat and alcohol, and the combination made him queasy. He opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of rows of men. Before he could fully gain his bearings, an angry shove sent him airborne. Colbey swore, twisting like a cat. He landed on his feet on a floor of cold earth, and he glanced about quickly, needing to understand position and situation. A circular granite wall enclosed him, spanning as much territory as the whole of the Wizards’ Meeting Isle. Seats rose in tiers from the walls, crammed full of men whose shouts wafted to him, disparate and indecipherable. Although he had never entered an arena before, Colbey drew on the dying memories he had gleaned from an ex-slave and friend named Garn.
The gall of men who would treat him as a common gladiator outraged Colbey. His cheeks flushed hot, and his hands fell to his hilts. He scanned the opposite end of the ring, seeking the opponent he guessed he must face as his final test. Once, Shadimar had promised Colbey that the tasks would herald the finest battle of his life. Now, Colbey felt certain he faced the trial the Eastern Wizard had meant.
Another man waited at the far end of the pit. From a distance, Colbey could see that he was not large, and he bore none of the brawny musculature that kept gladiators alive in the pit. But his sinews stretched taut beneath a plain gray tunic and breeks, the figure of a man accustomed to war. A pair of longswords graced his belt, and that surprised Colbey. He had met only one other man who, like himself, used two swords at once. That other had been a Renshai, a student of his, now more than a decade dead.
The man approached. Colbey studied his movements in fascination. The opponent carried himself with enviable grace and unshakable confidence. Each sinew shifted with a fineness Colbey envied, and the Renshai instinctively knew that many of the stranger’s best maneuvers would be similar to Colbey’s own. Ire was forgotten as excitement suffused the Renshai, and he felt torn. He harbored no doubt that this man could give him the finest battle of his life, and the need to know who would prove the better ached within him. Still, as a companion, this man would prove invaluable and, as a team, they would surely be unstoppable. His heart pounded a slow, joyous cadence, and the voices around him might have disappeared for all the heed he paid them.
Colbey tore his gaze from movement and form to features. The man’s hair was bright yellow. His eyes gleamed, blue-gray, evil, and painful to view. His face was of indeterminate age, and Colbey recognized it as his own. He gasped.
No movement betrayed the other’s attack, yet Colbey drew his swords. His opponent reached him before they came fully free. Colbey had never seen anyone move as swiftly nor with such practiced agility. His foe’s first strike was a Renshai maneuver invented by Colbey. His own parry redirected it from a death blow to a sweep that nicked his chest.
“Modi!” Colbey’s cry came naturally, though it seemed to spur his opponent as much as himself. He managed to catch both blades on Harval. His other sword creased his opponent’s thigh. Then, they dove at one another, merging into a swirling gold and silver cloud. Surely, no one but the combatants could follow the leaping blades, and it seemed ironic to set a battle between indistinguishable enemies in an arena. How can the spectators tell us apart to lay bets? The thought quickly faded as Colbey discovered that he needed his full concentration to counter the constant attacks.
Steel rose and dove, lethal accuracy lost to supreme defense. Despite the need for full attention to battle, Colbey could not stop himself from pondering the Wizards’ final test. Surely half or more of the potential Cardinal Wizards died during this one task. He imagined that the gods had created it to assure that their prospects could force themselves to do battle at their fullest potential, since the doubles probably fought as the apprentice usually did. But Colbey threw himself into every battle, even into every spar, with maximum effort. His could only be an even match.
Th
e clamor of ringing steel became pleasant and rhythmical. Colbey felt a rising pity as he faced the same enemy he had loosed on so many others. His parry fell short. An opening appeared for a fraction of a second. His opponent’s blade bore through. A fiery pain coursed along Colbey’s left forearm. Harval dropped from his grip, and his arm fell limp. The tendon! Colbey realized he had lost the arm’s use and the battle in less time than it took to blink.
A strangled cry wrested from Colbey’s throat. He used the damaged arm as a shield. With the time this bought him, he scuttled backward and across the pit. As the other man closed on him, Colbey gathered all of his mental will for a final surge. So long as he lived, he was not beaten. His chances had shrunk nearly to nothing, yet he had never played the same odds as other men.
Colbey tensed to channel all of his mental power to his languishing muscles, when another idea came to him. As always on the battlefield, he made his decision instantly, weighing consequences in a heartbeat. When his opponent sprang, Colbey gathered the stream of his consciousness, and hurled the mental energy into the other’s mind.
Colbey’s thoughts crashed into an empty skull. The being was no being. It had no mind or sentience, only the carefully patterned competence of the man it mimicked. Colbey would have spat an oath, but no strength remained even for this simple action. He had risked everything. And lost.
Drained, Colbey staggered, his probe still lodged in the void of his opponent’s head. A black and red curtain wove across his vision, blinding. He did not know how near his enemy’s sword hovered, when his mind touched a threadlike projection in the otherwise empty head. Instantly, he grasped for it, unconsciousness battering at the little awareness that remained. Already his mental strength began to dissipate, yet his probe shot along the cord to embed in a brain more powerful than any he had ever read or assailed.
Shock registered in the other mind. It dropped its animated Colbey-double to face the intruder in its mind. Colbey’s opponent fell limp.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 14