Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “You’ve damned your son.”

  Grief trickled through the black rock that Colbey’s consciousness had become, the only emotion strong enough to touch him. The woman’s response seemed nonsensical. “Had I known the price for Bahmyr’s life, I would never have bargained. Better he stay dead and I join him.”

  *Banish it.* The staff’s entreaty became entwined with an ancient lullaby, and Colbey fought for understanding.

  “That, too, can be arranged.” Chaos’ laughter prodded Colbey, bringing memories of Episte’s mockery: “I gave my love and trust to a Deathseeker so like my father, only to have him betray me.” And yet, the betrayal had actually come much later, when Colbey gave up the struggle to chaos. Not again. Not this time, chaos. Though he had no sympathy for nor ties to the woman who had tried to slaughter him, Colbey’s hatred for chaos remained stronger. He struggled for breath as well as words. “Begone,” he finally managed to say.

  The demon abandoned its banter with Khitajrah. “Is that really what you wish?”

  An instant later, Colbey’s ears failed, and he spoke to a nothingness he could neither see, feel, nor hear. “I am the Master. And I command it.” He had no idea whether or not the words had reached chaos when oblivion overtook him.

  * * *

  Sunlight filtered through blue-green trees of perfect confirmation, beaming through Frey’s hall window on Alfheim to illuminate the meeting of gods. They sat about a great table, Frey’s servants, Byggvir and Beyla, bringing food and drink as it pleased Asgard’s mighty. Frey glanced about the gathering. As always, Odin claimed the head seat, though Frey had called the meeting in his own hall. Odin’s wife, Frigg, sat to his left and his sons, Vidar and Vali, to his right. Thor and his wife, Sif, had also come, bringing Thor’s sons, Magni and Modi. There was Bragi, the god of poetry, and his wife, Idun, with her golden apples of youth. Aegir and Ran arrived from the ocean’s bottom. Heimdall the watchman had also come, briefly leaving his post on the Bifrost Bridge to join the gathering. Frey also saw one-handed Tyr and his own father, Njord. Others joined the group, their expressions mimicking Frey’s grim manner. Yet Frey waited, missing two. He had not invited Loki, but he suspected the Trickster would come on his own in time. Loki would never pass up an opportunity to stir up trouble. It was Frey’s own sister, Freya, whose absence bothered the god of sunshine, rain, and elves.

  Conversation stilled to empty silence as the gods ran out of words to pass to their immediate neighbors. Frey discovered every eye upon him, demanding explanation for his conference.

  Unable to delay any longer, Frey rose. He looked first at Odin. The grim gray father of gods remained quietly composed, expression shaded and unreadable beneath his broad-brimmed hat. His single eye seemed piercing, the repository for all knowledge.

  Frey cleared his throat. Accustomed to the lighthearted play of elves, the solid greatness of his colleagues seemed ponderous and nearly overwhelming. He had not thought out the details of his words carefully, hoping another would take over the task of speaker. But every eye remained fixed on him. Even the massive, impulsive Thor sipped at his drink and waited patiently for Alfheim’s lord to speak.

  Frey began: “I believe you all know why I called you.” He ran a hand through hair as golden as corn silk, and his strikingly handsome features crinkled. “Over the years, chaos has crept into man’s world, as the dispersing aftermath of the Wizards’ magics or our own presences on their world. Yet recently, I fear, it comes in larger doses. Someone has loosed chaos on the world of man, and only one thing can come of this.” He looked around the gathering. Odin remained unmoving, expression impassive. Thor scowled, revealing the first stirrings of his quick and deadly anger. Several expressions went stony. They had shared their plans to avert the Ragnarok, with Frey and with one another; but all had carefully avoided allowing the knowledge to reach Odin, Tyr, or Thor. The first two would not approve, and the last had a temper as potent and fickle as his storms. Others looked away uncomfortably. Most of these, Frey guessed, had ideas too fresh or self-focused to divulge. Vidar seemed to develop a sudden, intense interest in his mead.

  “Ragnarok is imminent,” Frey said, knowing the revelation was unnecessary but hoping that speaking the term of destruction would force them all to bond to the cause. Centuries of greatness and diverse interests usually drove them to handle problems alone or in small groups. Now, with chaos loosed and championed, the time had come to weave every tactic together, to keep one from interfering with another, to use Odin’s wisdom and foresight to determine which might succeed and which would surely fail.

  “Imminent, yes,” Bragi agreed. “And sad, is it not? It would seem to me more appropriate to spend our last meeting together feasting rather than in council.”

  The poet’s response told Frey that his colleagues still needed coaxing to reveal designs long-hidden in the AllFather’s presence. Frey understood Odin might see their plans as futility or worse, cowardice; but surely their leader did not expect them to sit idle knowing the day of destruction was at hand.

  “Last meeting, fah!” Thor thundered. “I, for one, won’t go down without a fight. I’ll find the one filling the world with chaos, and Mjollnir will stave in his skull.” His hand gripped the hammer’s haft convulsively, and the movement rippled from fingers to shoulder. It was not Thor’s way to plot far in advance, only to react with swift and efficient violence when the need arose.

  Sif gently placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “That will solve nothing. You know what happens when gods interfere on man’s world. Every small action we perform there snowballs into something huge. You might bring more chaos than you stop.”

  Thor’s scowl deepened. “We stand perched on the brink of Ragnarok already. Mjollnir may save us from it, or bring it sooner. I say it’s worth the risk.”

  Frey placed one knee on his chair, still standing but no longer the center of attention. As he’d hoped, he had started the discussion rolling, but it brought deep contemplation of his own. He had known for millennia that the end would come. But it had always seemed too far away to concern him. He had seen elves born and wither, their span so long they embraced the final oblivion when it came. He believed he would feel the same. Yet, now that Ragnarok was almost upon them, he only realized how much he enjoyed living and how much he still had left to do.

  “This is nonsense,” Tyr said, rearranging his mug with the stump of his missing hand. “The Norns wove our destiny millennia ago, and we’ve had all this time to accept it. Are we a bunch of wisules to question now that death is close at hand?”

  Frey had expected nothing less from Tyr, the champion of war and the bravest of the gods. He had sacrificed his hand in order for them to bind the Fenris Wolf.

  Frey’s father, Njord, added his opinion then. “The youngest of the Norns frequently rewrites the fate her sisters determine. Prophecies do not happen without support, and the future can be changed.”

  Frey regained the floor. “I know the worlds’ most intelligent beings have not sat in passive silence while their lives hang in the balance. Who among us has not acted to avert his fate?” The question was a formality. Over the centuries, he had discussed myriad possibilities with the vast majority of his fellows. He had helped more than a few with ideas and/or the execution of projects to protect themselves or others, and he had taken his need for survival fully as seriously. He held more than his own life in the balance. If he lost his battle against Surtr, as was his destiny, the lord of fire giants would destroy all of the nine worlds and nearly every living creature in a massive conflagration.

  The god of sunshine looked around the table at each god or goddess in turn. Only Thor, Tyr, Odin, and Vidar returned his stare. The first two, Frey suspected, held no secrets. As usual, Odin chose to keep his thoughts and actions to himself. Frey did not try to guess whether Vidar, as a survivor of the Destruction, had actually taken evasive action or simply felt the need to abstain from answering. As to the others, Frey suspected that, if he detai
led his activities, most would follow suit.

  From beneath his chair, Frey drew a colossal sword. Gently, he pulled it from its sheath and placed it upon the table before him. It spanned across his area, encroaching upon those of Tyr, Njord, and the empty place where his sister should have sat. The blade shimmered with an icy blue light. “This is Kolbladnir, the cold-bladed. I paid the dwarves to forge it and its magic to replace the one I gave away.” Frey recalled how he had paid for his wife with a sword that would fight giants of its own accord. It was prophesied that, for the loss of the weapon, he would die at the Ragnarok fighting the king of the fire giants. “I’ve also spent years working with a fine steed, teaching it not to shy from magic or flickering flames.”

  Sif spoke next. “I’ve gathered and studied every herb on the nine worlds to find the one capable of neutralizing the Midgard Serpent’s poison.” She referred to her husband’s fate, that he would kill the monster only to die of its venom. “I haven’t found the answer yet, but my work with mixtures seems promising.” She brushed back hair of spun gold, and the sunlight capered like fires through her locks. She took responsibility for the project upon herself by not naming the many who had assisted, but Frey knew that most of Asgard had some hand in Sif’s endeavor. Freya, Heimdall, and he had collected a vial of Serpent spittle for her trials, and Idun had donated one of her rare and precious apples to finding the antidote. “If anyone has suggestions, I’ll take them gladly.”

  Heimdall added his piece. “When the giants come, they may find the Bifrost sturdier than they expect. When I battle Loki, he may fair worse for a curse placed upon his sword.”

  The three confessions broke the floodgates. Gods and goddesses opened their various plans to discussion or ridicule until the whole blended into an unintelligible maelstrom.

  Unlike the other survivors of Ragnarok, who sat in an abashed hush, the quietest of the gods, Vidar, managed to talk over the hubbub. “I reinforced the Fenris Wolf’s fetters. He’ll find himself hard-pressed to get at my father. I also outlined battle strategies to give support where we know it’s needed.”

  Frey smiled. The damned had excluded Ragnarok’s prophesied survivors from their plans, believing they would see no need for averting fate. The elves’ god commended Vidar’s courage, every bit as impressive as Tyr’s bold confrontation of The End. Altering the course of battle would probably lead destined survivors to die rather than allow those slated for ruin to live. On many occasions, Odin had indirectly suggested that attempts to stave off the Ragnarok, no matter how innocent, would more probably magnify the Destruction than hinder or lessen it.

  A more directed rumble followed Vidar’s pronouncement. Clearly, many others had chosen to detail combat strategy as well. Frey mentally applauded his decision to gather the gods together. The finest strategists could work through the problem together, without feeling alone in their plans to escape destiny.

  Still, Odin passed no obvious judgment, his silence unbroken. Tyr voiced his disapproval, “Fate is what it is. Cowards run from death; the brave embrace it. Do we need lessons from our own heroes in Valhalla? We’ve all lived well. We can go down in glory or we can grovel for our lives like cravens. I, for one, will have no hand in thwarting destiny. The more we try to change fate, the more the same it stays.”

  The door flew open, and Loki stood framed in the doorway, amid a blast of cool air and sunlight. Wind fanned his yellow locks into a mane, and his green eyes danced with a mocking madness. “Ah, so here you are! Sorry I’m late. My invitation must have gotten lost.”

  “No loss,” Frey said. Though only a hint of breeze had funneled inside with Loki’s entrance, the entire hall seemed to have gone suddenly cold. “You weren’t invited.”

  “An oversight, I’m sure.” Loki stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He snapped his fingers at the servant, Beyla. “A mug of ale, please. It’s a long trip from Asgard to Alfheim.”

  Thor flexed his massive fists. Odin sipped his wine. His gaze did swivel to the newcomer, though he still showed no expression.

  “You weren’t invited,” Frey repeated. “You’re not welcome in my hall.”

  Loki ignored the hostility, turning his attention to Odin instead. “My blood brother, at least, will bid me welcome. Has even the AllFather forgotten his vows? Once, you promised you would never drink unless a drink was brought to me as well.”

  Odin blinked. He turned his head to his sons. “Vidar, Vali, make a place between you for the father of monsters.”

  Scowls scored the gods’ faces, yet Frey saw the irony in Odin’s choice. He had seated Loki between two of the Ragnarok’s fated survivors and directly across from two more, the sons of Thor. Though Frey found Loki’s presence as distasteful as the others did, he understood the need for tolerance. A blood brotherhood was a tie more sacred than even marriage or family relationship. To shed the blood of a god on Asgard or Alfheim would tear an irreparable gash in the barriers between the worlds of law and chaos. It would start the Ragnarok as surely as the prophesied attack by giants.

  Loki headed for the indicated place, but his need to incite got the better of him before he reached it. He stopped at Freya’s empty chair, and his sparkling eyes found Frey’s. “Where’s your wanton whore of a sister while all her lovers gather in one place?” He made a gesture that encompassed every god in the hall.

  Though incensed, Frey chose to ignore the gibe. Wanted by all, Freya had slept with only one or two, an impressive record for an unmarried deity over millennia; and Loki’s indiscretions spanned dozens. In the days when Loki had practiced mischief instead of outright evil and chaos, he had charmed many gods’ wives. Some claimed he had even seduced chaste Sif from her husband’s arms. In shape-changed form, he had mothered a horse. Still, Frey chose not to bandy insults with Loki, the king of lies and caustic affronts. No matter the facts, Loki would win any battle fought with taunts. “Freya does not discuss her comings and goings with me.”

  “Strange, she does with me.” Loki framed a cruel smile. “Perhaps she’s decided to join my side and help spread chaos.”

  “That’s absurd,” Frey returned, no longer able to hold his tongue. If not for Loki’s casual and self-serving evil, the gods would have no need for this council and the nine worlds would not stand poised on the brink of destruction. “If you’ve harmed her, I’ll tear your guts out, blood oath or no.”

  Loki laughed, continuing his walk to his indicated seat, turning his back on Frey with a scornful lack of concern.

  Frey let the matter drop, but Bragi found the opening more difficult to resist. The Lord of Chaos always inspired the worst in the gods. “Loki couldn’t hurt Freya. If they fought, she would wrest his miserable head from his body.”

  Loki did not miss a beat. “You should know, Bragi, soft cowering craven. Women have fought your battles forever.”

  Frey saw Bragi’s wife open her mouth to speak, and he rushed to talk over her. Her defense would only enforce Loki’s ludicrous accusation and start a chain of bandied venom he had no patience to suffer now. “Where is Freya?”

  Loki calmly took his seat, hooking Vidar’s ale and sipping from it. “Probably bedding every man on Midgard while she still can.” He laughed, spraying half a mouthful of ale back into the mug. “How should I know? Why not put the question to the all-knowing Father? From the high seat, Hlidskjalf, he sees all that happens in every world. Except when he misses things I see. Like the time Freya sold her body to four dwarves for a necklace after refusing the AllFather . . .”

  “Enough,” Odin said, his voice echoing through the hall. “Your nastiness has grown tiresome. Make a point or take your leave.” His eye swiveled to Frey then. “Freya is well. She’s doing her own part to forestall the Ragnarok.”

  “Where is she?” At last, Frey took his seat. “What’s she doing?”

  Odin answered evasively, “If she wishes you to know, she will tell you.”

  “I know.” Loki smirked.

  “Perhaps,” Odin r
eplied. “But your own rancor allows you to see only what you can use. In some ways, Loki, you’re the blindest of us all.”

  Loki gulped down several mouthfuls of ale, then loosed a massive belch without apology. “I can slip into places you would not think to look, and I hear things others would never want me to know.” He glanced about the gathering. “Go ahead. Hire the dwarves for magic weapons; their craft will only draw more chaos.”

  Frey slipped his sword from the table, placing it back beneath his chair.

  Loki continued. “Hone your battle skills. Reinforce your bridges. Plan your battles to the minutest detail. It will do you no good. Your strategies will fail, because chaos cannot be predicted.” He locked his gaze on Frey then, his irises changing from green to orange to violet in quick succession. “Predestiny and fate are constructs of law. Therefore, only the followers of chaos can defy them. Think about it.”

  A hush followed Loki’s pronouncement. Frey threw a quick glance around the table, but only Tyr met his gaze. The silence grew, blossomed, and seemed eternal. Immortality made every god and goddess patient, except one.

  Thor’s fist crashed against the table with enough force to send mead sloshing and mugs into a rattling dance. “I’ve heard enough words for one day. Chaos must be destroyed. Unless we act, the worlds will collapse into oblivion. They may do the same if we act, but at least we will have acted.” He clasped Mjollnir in his hand, striding through the door Loki had left open and onto the plains of Alfheim.

  Frey groaned, wishing Sif and her sons had found some way to exclude Thor from the conference. Tired of speculation, he pinned Odin with his attention. “Can we effect change? In this matter, do our actions make any difference at all?” The fate of every man, elf, and deity, of every plan, rested on Odin’s answer. With one query, Frey had summed up the entire purpose of the gathering and of centuries of preparation.

  Odin turned slowly and with dignity, drawing his face from shadow, though the hat still sheltered his eye. “For nine days and nine nights I hung from the World Tree, pierced by my own spear, a sacrifice to myself. I saw the worlds below and tried to trace the roots of creation. I gave away an eye. I drank from the cauldron, Odrorir, a vintage brewed from the blood of wise Kvasir; and I gained wisdom from Mimir’s head. Yet there are things even I do not know, such as the roots of the ancient, windswept Tree.”