Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The gaze the Eastern woman returned showed no trace of fear. She threw back strong shoulders, drawing to her full height. “I am Chezrith Fentraprim’s-daughter from the city of Prehothra. No mortal, perhaps no one, epitomizes evil better than I do. Carcophan could look long and far, but he would never find a more capable apprentice.”

  Olvaerr stiffened, awaiting retribution for Chezrith’s hubris, if not from Odin then, at least, from Carcophan. But neither showed sign of surprise or offense. Odin’s attention turned to Dh’arlo’mé.

  The elf waited patiently, green eyes bright. When the divine gaze touched him, he rose. For a moment, Olvaerr thought the elf, too, had met Odin’s gaze. But a slight deviation of the outworlder’s head cued Olvaerr that he actually steered his attention toward the empty socket. He remained in position, anticipating a command or question.

  Odin obliged. “State your full name and why you believe you should become the next Northern Wizard.”

  Olvaerr felt sweat draw a ticklish line along his spine. I’m next. What answer does he want? He tried to guess Odin’s interest or need. What could I say that would convince him of my worthiness in a way the Tasks of Wizardry would have? It seemed impossible to replace the skill invoked by a series of god-mediated tests with a single response. A million questions descended on Olvaerr at once. Is there one right approach? Did Chezrith pass or fail? What am I going to say when he gets to me? He could not begin to fathom a god’s motives, the AllFather’s even less so.

  “I am Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin. As an elf . . .”

  At first, Olvaerr thought Dh’arlo’mé had chosen to answer in some elven tongue, until he switched smoothly back to the Western trading language. The length of the elf’s name astounded him nearly as much as the elf’s ability to remember every syllable. He supposed one who had lived for centuries might have the time to memorize endless details.

  “. . . I have no need for immortality or for power. I agreed to succeed Lady Trilless because it is the right thing to do. I could champion no other causes than law and goodness. If my mistress believes I am best qualified to follow her, I would never presume to doubt her judgment.” Dh’arlo’mé executed an agile, elegantly formal bow, then retook his seat. Carcophan and Chezrith sat also.

  Olvaerr fidgeted, knowing he had to come next, his mind still drawing a blank on the proper response. It only made sense for Odin to hold his judgment of the answers until the end, though Olvaerr could not help wishing for the added clue of a response to his colleagues’ words. He glanced up, only to find every eye once again on him.

  The god shifted, the movement, though slight, seeming oddly significant. A smile threaded across the ancient, shadowed features, this time appearing benign. “Årvåkir, why do you believe you should become the Eastern Wizard?”

  Though asked a direct question by one he felt nearly certain was the father of gods, Olvaerr still hesitated, almost overwhelmed by the gravity of his situation. He rose, considering for many moments, though no one else seemed concerned by the length of his pause. “I would be lying if I told you I felt as confident about Shadimar’s choice as my colleagues do about the decisions of their master and mistress. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn there are others who would make stronger, more competent Wizards than me.”

  Olvaerr glanced at his companions. A frown scored Shadimar’s ancient features, but he said nothing. Chezrith and Dh’arlo’mé looked startled. Trilless kept her gaze locked on the figure in the corner, and Carcophan betrayed no emotion at all.

  Olvaerr continued. “My father taught me to commit myself to causes with every fiber of my being. No matter how small my skills, I will develop them to fullest potential and dedicate them, without hesitation or fail, to neutrality.”

  Though he had remained silent through the others’ presentations, Odin prompted Olvaerr. “Your father devoted himself to goodness. He was Trilless’ champion.”

  Olvaerr had an answer. “My father’s cause is not necessarily my cause. He encouraged me to find my own way, and he taught commitment to ideals, not necessarily the ideals themselves.”

  “And your father’s enemy?” Odin prompted.

  “Is my enemy, too.” Olvaerr did not consider falsehood. “That’s a benefit I didn’t expect, but I could hardly refuse. Colbey killed and mutilated my father, in the manner of Renshai. It’s a pleasure to work against that demon, and I’ll gladly slaughter him if the need and opportunity arise.” Now the attention of every Wizard switched from Olvaerr to Odin, awaiting some reaction to the pronouncement of plans to destroy the Western Wizard. Olvaerr turned his regard there, too, needing comfort of his own. “Colbey tried to make me believe my father found Valhalla, though he lost an arm in the battle.” He kept his gaze fixed on Odin’s face, hoping for some confirmation. True to Northern religion, Olvaerr believed a warrior must be set to pyre intact to obtain the final reward of Valhalla, but he could draw a permanent solace from Odin’s reassurance that Valr Kirin had proved the exception and reached the divine battleground anyway.

  Odin gave no response, to Olvaerr or to the Wizards. He stepped into a more concentrated area of light, and he seemed to grow there. Olvaerr realized that the god stood half again as high as the tallest man he knew. He spread his arms, and they seemed to encompass the back wall, his fists like boulders, cocked upward. He took two steps forward, his gliding strides and broad arms bringing him within reach of both heads of the table. He chanted then, his voice a powerful monotone, his tone lacking even the standard, Northern rising and falling pitches:

  “Men create myth

  To share with their kith

  To fight what they cannot explain.

  Fear mothers hate

  And violent fate

  When enemies they can’t restrain.

  “Man now or elf

  If hate turns to self

  And the need to atone should arise:

  Break this stone

  Call justice home

  And follow the path of the wise.”

  Odin’s fingers edged open with an unhurried deliberateness to reveal two matching sapphire chips. As his hands came fully uncurled, the fragments seemed to nudge themselves into rounded shapes so slowly Olvaerr wondered if he imagined the transformation. The gray father of gods placed the gems on the tabletop, one before Trilless and the other near Carcophan’s hand. He stepped back while the Wizards’ attention shifted to his offering, and his eye pinned Shadimar. “You crafted your own destiny. You have no need of this.” Without explanation, his form faded into the dull stone of the back wall, then disappeared.

  Wizards and apprentices sat in uncertain silence. With the impatience of youth, Olvaerr broke the hush. “Did we pass?”

  Trilless responded with a bland tone indicative of a phrase long-quoted, devoid of any personal emotion or interpretation. “To fail even one of the Tasks of Wizardry means death instantaneously.”

  Carcophan chose a harsher way to say the same thing. “He didn’t slaughter you, so he must have found you worthy enough.” Apparently unable to resist, he added. “The Eastern Wizard always has been the weakest.”

  Shadimar had a ready answer. “No more.” He thumped the base of the staff on the floor to remind the Southern Wizard of the force that more than equalized their power. “And the staff tells me that Odin sanctioned all of our apprentices.”

  “Did it also happen to explain the meaning of the poem? Or the purpose of this?” Carcophan curled his knuckles around the sapphire Odin had given him.

  “It seems clear enough to me.” Trilless deposited her own gemstone into a pocket. “He’s concerned about our turning against the Western Wizard, as am I. He worries that we’ve done so from ignorance and fear. And he’s given us a means to realign our vows and priorities if things go too far.”

  Carcophan sneered vindictively, and he turned his head toward his opposite across the table. “It’s easy to twist one’s own beliefs and biases from rhyme. When the
Guardian spoke of ignorance and fear, he specifically attributed it to men, not Wizards. I believe he referred to the Ragnarok. He wants us to break the gems if the chaos touches even us. Then, he’ll come or send minions to help us remain untainted.”

  Olvaerr saw merit to both interpretations. He had drawn a total blank on his own, but he could not help wondering why Odin would omit the Eastern Wizard from his protection. He questioned aloud. “Why not Shadimar, too?”

  “Perhaps he only had two gems,” Dh’arlo’mé ventured, and was immediately shut down by Trilless.

  “Those shards came from the Pica stone, I believe. I don’t know the extent of magic required to breathe life back into a shattered masterpiece, but it might tax even the AllFather’s sources. Nevertheless, there are many more pieces.”

  “Odin has a direct link to me already.” Again Shadimar indicated the staff, this time by running his hand along the shaft. “That only reinforces the probability that the gems somehow summon him.”

  Olvaerr’s face twisted as he considered. The description did not fit the Odin he had studied as a child in Nordmir. It was not the AllFather’s way to directly interfere with men or their decisions, right or wrong. With Ragnarok and his own destruction at stake, his methods might change, though the legends also suggested he let gods make their own mistakes as well. Unwilling to shed skepticism on the speculations of his superiors, Olvaerr kept his opinion to himself. He had promised Odin to follow Shadimar and his cause unwaveringly. That, at least, the god appeared to have sanctioned.

  Follow the path of the wise. Though Olvaerr knew the last line of Odin’s rhyme referred to a course of action after the breaking of the Pica remnants, it seemed appropriate here as well. For now, the Cardinal Wizards held more experience, knowledge, and wisdom than any mortal. Yet Olvaerr could not quite shake the religion lessons pounded into him since infancy. The wise gods, Kvasir and Mimir, both came to horrible ends: the first murdered by dwarves, his blood brewed into the mead of poetry and the second slain by gods, his head preserved to advise Odin.

  Dh’arlo’mé prompted Shadimar. “Does the staff tell you more?”

  Chezrith had remained quiet since her brief speech to Odin. Suddenly, her low-pitched voice rang out, her guttural accent sounding animal in the wake of Dh’arlo’mé’s lyric quality. “I know a way to get the Staff of Chaos without harming Colbey.”

  Startled by the sudden interruption, Olvaerr switched his attention instantly to Evil’s apprentice.

  “We only need to trade it for something he wants more.”

  Carcophan’s jaw clamped shut, and he looked embarrassed for his successor’s outburst.

  Shadimar answered both apprentices in turn. “First, the staff seems certain that Odin sanctions what we’ve done so far, though he does urge caution. That’s understandable. When you teeter on the brink of destruction, it doesn’t take much to drag world and self into oblivion. Second, what could Colbey want more than the Staff of Chaos?”

  “The Staff of Law?” Dh’arlo’mé suggested.

  Shadimar dismissed the possibility. “He already had it. He gave it away.”

  “Besides, we can’t give him the Staff of Law,” Trilless said. “I won’t cheat another Wizard. If honor isn’t a strong enough reason . . .” Trilless made it clear she had added the last for Carcophan, “. . . Kyndig’s vengeance might prove nearly as horrible as his loosing chaos.”

  Olvaerr doubted anything could rival Ragnarok, but he did see Trilless’ point.

  Chezrith leaned forward, elbows pressed to the table. “We’ll trade him the Renshai.”

  The resemblance to the events leading to his father’s death tightened Olvaerr’s throat until he could barely speak. When he did, it was to say something unnecessary. “Which Renshai?”

  “The entire tribe,” Chezrith separated her hands in a gesture to indicate the simplicity of such a plan. “How difficult could it be for three Wizards and three potentials to catch and hold five mortals and an infant?”

  A shiver shuddered through Olvaerr, so hard and quick his hip banged the table. He sat down to cover the movement. Show no fear. Memory returned in a rush. His father’s men had kept three of the current Renshai hostage in exchange for Colbey himself. In the end, Valr Kirin had gotten the one-on-one combat he sought, a death he had expected, and an amputation he had not. Yet Olvaerr saw the differences here. The Wizards wanted an item, not a person. Surely Colbey would exchange a thing for promised peace for himself and his people. Without the staff, the trouble he could cause, though large, would become comparatively insignificant.

  Nods swept around the Meeting Room table, no objections raised by Cardinal Wizards or apprentices. And, in the same room they had taken their vows, the Cardinal Wizards laid their plans against the Western Wizard.

  CHAPTER 22

  Dreams of Gold and Demons

  Oblivion receded to a hazy gray curtain, spliced through with flashes of thought and memory. Colbey chased the bright spirals until he managed to assign identity to self, though place and understanding eluded him. Gradually, form appeared from the ceaseless ring of movement surrounding him. Demons circled, each pass bringing them closer; and they changed shape with every cycle. There was no pattern to their alterations. Human/animal mixtures melted to black globs of shapelessness or detailed parodies at random. The rotations changed direction without warning so that the whole seemed more like constant motion than directed attack.

  In his mind, Colbey crouched in their center, his stance defensive and his swords positioned for potential combat from any side. En masse, the demons rushed him. Colbey hacked a furious framework of steel. In his left fist, Harval gashed through demon flesh as black and substanceless as ink, flinging dark blood. His right sword met no resistance, cutting through the transmuting bodies without leaving a mark. Although he still jabbed and slashed with a speed few men could match, his every action felt ponderous. Exhaustion and something else weighed him down, tying his mind and the mental image of his body always to the edge of oblivion.

  A gentle hand caressed Colbey’s earthly arm from inner elbow to wrist. The mental demons retreated, their presences becoming distant threat. Not for the first time, a woman joined Colbey’s inner perceptions. He knew her at once, the same who had rescued him from the explosion of the seer’s crystal during the Seven Tasks of Wizardry. Yellow locks tumbled like waves around peerless features that defied capture by the finest artist’s talents. Muscle and sinew defined shapely hips, breasts, and buttocks. Clearly, heredity had played a hand in her beauty, but effort and dedication to sword also had a significant role. Her carelessness of stance and grace of movement told him that she did not primp. Her attractiveness came as a natural result of training, her goal competence rather than appearance, though she possessed both in equal quantity.

  The woman’s huge blue eyes had become familiar to Colbey in the time he lay unconscious. Wisdom as well as concern reflected from them. He also believed he saw affection, though he attributed that to his own desire. It seemed instinctive for any man to fall instantly in love with this woman’s beauty, yet it was not Colbey’s way to study only the superficial. Function, not form, obsessed him. Too often, he had seen men choose the gem-encrusted or intricately carved hilt, only to have the blade crack or the grip become impossibly slippery in battle. Yet this woman seemed to have it all: Northern fire and savagery, dedication to sword, intelligence, and depth of character as well as a blinding radiance that could enrapture the coldest man or draw envy from the most self-satisfied woman.

  Sword drawn, shield raised, the woman crouched at Colbey’s side, adorned with gold jewelry from a slender anklet to a necklace engraved with patterns that seemed to writhe like a metallic snake around her neck. The latter clinched her identity, though it still seemed sacrilege to imagine he had drawn the attention of a goddess. The Necklace of the Brisings belonged wholly to Freya, defining her as certainly as Thor’s hammer did the raging, red-haired god of law and storms.

&nbs
p; Again the circle of demons closed, but this time Colbey had an ally in the battle. At first, as he slaughtered demons, he took care only not to harm or hamper his companion. As her skill with a sword became apparent, he grew to expect her to handle those nearest her. Her skill excited him every bit as much as her beauty. He had trusted few men or women to guard his back, but he no longer doubted that this woman’s skill approached his own.

  As each demon collapsed, Colbey felt his strength and clarity of mind grow, no matter whether he or the woman took the creature down. One by one, they whittled the demons in a battle that seemed to last for days. No words passed between them. The fight demanded concentration that neither would sacrifice, as if the outcome meant as much to her as to him.

  When the last demon fell in black defeat, the bodies dissolved into nothingness, and the vision-hazing grayness went with them. Colbey faced the woman of the dreams, wanting to express both his gratitude and attraction. Yet one thing obsessed him more. Sheathing Harval, he met her single sword to single sword. “Now it’s you and me.”

  The Freya-vision dropped her guard, her laughter hearty and entertainingly musical. “No wonder you’re not married, Kyndig.” Her voice emerged deep and sensual, as powerful as any man’s. “Do you always feel this need to slaughter women who help you?”

  Despite deep-seated pain, Colbey smiled. “Not slaughter, just spar. It doesn’t matter who wins. I just have to know who’s the better swordsman.” Having never known a Northman who could resist such a challenge, he reflected the need back on her. “Don’t you?”

  “I already know.” The woman sheathed her sword and lowered her shield, not bothering to share her so-called knowledge with Colbey. “Some day, Kyndig, we’ll spar; but this isn’t the time. When I best you now, how will you know if it’s the poisoning or my skill?”