Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Within moments, Colbey felt eyes upon him, knowing the certainty of Khitajrah’s presence. Her obvious awe meant little, but her pride in his skill warmed him. He had forgotten the joy that came from those few who appreciated who and what he was. Equally, he missed the satisfaction that accompanied the successes and failures of teaching eager students. He looked forward to seeing the other Renshai again. He wanted to watch the West find the promise of its new youth. And, for the first time in years, he thought of the closeness that had escaped him since his sterility had become apparent and the Renshai women had shunned him as anything more than a friend and teacher.

  Colbey spiraled into a wild sequence of slash and countercut, amused that his thoughts had turned to companionship at a time when world and eternity hung in the balance. What better time? The ideas of love, sex, and partnership seemed out of place in a mind that had long discarded them as unnecessary distraction, and he wondered what it was about Khitajrah that had reawakened needs long buried. He doubted he could have found a woman less like the type he had believed he wanted, even up to the moment he had awakened; and he wondered if there lay the answer. One thing seemed certain. The most beautiful of goddesses, Freya, she who represented battle, fertility, and sex in its purest form, sanctioned this union. Colbey’s loyalty lay with his religion and its tenets: swords, death in combat, and law. And now, the West and Khitajrah.

  CHAPTER 23

  Thor’s Solution

  The horses loped easily over the forest trails that ran from Pudar toward Erythane. Fat green buds clung to the branches, swaying in a spring breeze; and sunlight beamed through the leafy canopy. Warm and surrounded by new growth, riding a well-conformed horse and savoring the afterglow of a grueling sword practice, Colbey reveled in the beauty of the woodlands. The world felt right for the first time since the Great War that had seen the deaths of so many, Westerners and Easterners alike.

  Khitajrah rode a responsive, docile bay gelding, muscled for endurance as well as short bursts of speed. Colbey admired the animal that appeared to be Frost Reaver’s equal in every way but familiarity and ownership. In some respects, it seemed superior. Its brown hide and sable hair would better handle the sun and would make it less of a beacon when it came to quiet movement. Still, Colbey knew he had an attachment to the white stallion that no horse, no matter its virtues, could match.

  Colbey rode the chestnut gelding he had discovered at Crossroad Fyn’s. True to her claim, Khitajrah had, apparently, watched him horse shopping. She had purchased the gelding for him sometime during the days he had sprawled in coma from her poisoning. He did not know where one Eastland woman had come upon so much money, but he guessed the answer lay with the simple saddles that graced the backs of both horses and made her gem-encrusted bridle seem gaudy. Once, he suspected, her horse’s tack had matched. Clearly, the saddle had gone to barter, perhaps purchasing his own mount and plainer gear. The aristiri perched on his saddle’s cantle, taking no more notice of the mane whipping into its face than the horse did of its presence. Occasionally, it leapt into the air, gliding cautiously so as not to slap horse or Renshai with its wing beats.

  “So what is this broken magical thing?” Khitajrah’s question shattered a long silence. She, too, seemed affected by the beauty of the day. Despite her flirting the previous evening, she now treated him like a new acquaintance, apparently uncertain or embarrassed about how quickly she had taken to him.

  “A gem,” Colbey replied, unsure whether to mourn or cheer the loss of intimacy. It only made sense for her to feel as if she knew him better than she did. They had, in a fashion, saved one another’s lives. The mind link brought them closer than most lovers became in a lifetime, and she had nursed him back from the edge of oblivion, though she had been its cause. “A damaged gem.” Although uncertain whether the topaz eyes in Mitrian’s hilt held the answer to Bahmyr’s death, Colbey discovered the staff he had slid through the bindings of his gear seemed positive this was the item chaos had indicated.

  “Well that narrows it down.” Khitajrah met Colbey’s vagueness with sarcasm. “What kind of gem? Who owns it? Would he be willing to sell it?”

  A warning, mental touch from the staff stole Colbey’s attention. Although he saw nothing unusual, it felt as if a power beyond his comprehension hovered nearby. He answered as briefly and quickly as possible. “It’s part of a larger whole. No, I don’t think my friend would sell it, but she might sell its one time use. Now hush. Something’s wrong.”

  Khitajrah whispered, “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not sure,” Colbey admitted, still sensing a massive presence. It reminded him of the staff, limitless in its scope, not necessarily with an intention of harm yet dangerous for its hugeness and alien sense of unbelonging. *What is it?*

  The staff seemed equally uncertain. *I don’t know,* it returned. *Something feels out of place.*

  *Wizards’ magic?* Colbey guessed.

  The staff returned a sensation that combined curiosity and uneasiness. *I don’t think so. I’m not certain. Stay cautious.*

  Colbey broke the contact. The staff had told him nothing he did not already feel himself, and its warning was unnecessary. It seemed more distraction than help. If it had some sudden revelation, he felt certain it would tap on his barriers for attention. He pulled up his horse.

  Khitajrah drew to a halt also. She opened her mouth, as if to question again. Then, apparently thinking better of it, she said nothing. Colbey’s doubts must have come through clearly enough.

  Colbey dismounted, flipping his horse’s reins over the furry head and loosening Harval in its scabbard. If a shape-shifting mass of demon chaos attacked, he wanted as much mobility between the trees as possible. On open ground, the horse would have given him speed, power, and elevation. In the forest, the animal’s size would hamper the distinctive Renshai maneuvers he would need to face such a creature. From the ground, he would not have to deal with the animal’s panic.

  Khitajrah shifted her weight in preparation to join Colbey, but he stopped her with a gesture. “Stay there. If there’s a fight, run for Béarn. You’d only get in my way.”

  Khitajrah frowned, but she did reseat herself. “Your confidence in my ability is touching.”

  “It’s not your ability I’m doubting.” Colbey suspected from Khitajrah’s manner and movement that she had little or no experience with battle. Her grace and coordination came from some other form of exercise. “Fighting magic takes certain equipment you don’t have.” He did not specify further. Should she prove weaker than he believed and fall prey to chaos again, he did not want another enemy after the sword and staff.

  “Magic? You think there’s magic about?”

  “I don’t know,” Colbey reiterated. “It may be nothing.”

  Khitajrah rode on, holding her mount to a walk so that Colbey could keep pace. Conversation disappeared. The aristiri perched on the saddle, head cocked, as if testing the air for Colbey’s concern. The staff’s presence seemed to hover nervously around him, its aura difficult to separate from the more foreign sense of wrongness.

  For some time, they continued in a silence broken only by the crush of leaves and snap of twigs beneath the horses’ hooves. The roadway opened onto a vast meadow of clover. A deer glanced up from its grazing, spotted the intruders, and bounded away, a spindly-legged fawn dogging its mother’s leaps. The fluidity of their movement made the horses seem cloddish and ponderous. Gaze locked on the beauty of the deer’s run, Colbey lost the edge of wariness for an instant that nearly cost him his life.

  The aristiri screeched, the flap of its wings hammering Colbey’s ears as it took flight. Gaze wrenched suddenly in its direction, he caught a glimpse of something vast streaking toward him.

  “Run!” Colbey shouted, diving and rolling from the path of the oncoming object. Something gigantic struck the ground just shy of his head. The earth trembled, bowling Colbey into a wild, uncontrollable spiral. For an instant, his limbs felt liquid. Then ground and
self seemed to come back together, and his gaze fixed on the object that had nearly crushed him. It was a hammer, its head the size of his mount and its handle proportionately short, the length of his arm from fingertips to shoulder.

  “Run!” Colbey hollered again. “Go!” He staggered toward the weapon, catching a glimpse of Khitajrah’s horse struggling to its legs, its rider still clinging to the saddle. It shot down the roadway at a full gallop, though whether at Khitajrah’s command or panicked beyond obedience, he did not know or care. His own horse sprinted after it. Mjollnir. Thor’s hammer. There seemed no other possibility. Channeling strength from mind to body, he seized the handle and tried to lift.

  But unlike his experience during the Tasks of Wizardry, the gold rebuffed his efforts easily. At first, he felt no movement. Then, suddenly, the whole of the weapon shifted, rising of its own accord. Colbey flinched back as the hammer soared into the air, nearly catching him in its retreat, then flew toward the heavens.

  Colbey whirled, standing and drawing his sword in one motion. He had little doubt about what he would find standing behind him in the meadow, and the sight did not disappoint him. At the far edge of the vale, a giant stepped from the forest. He stood twice Colbey’s height, muscles massive and defined beneath skin as white as Frost Reaver’s coat. Flame-red hair bristled from head and chin like a lion’s mane. The face looked as hard and bright as polished steel, and the angry blue eyes seemed to impale him. Thor. Colbey harbored no doubt. He froze, unwilling to move. Always, he had dedicated himself to the will of his goddess. If Sif’s husband wanted him dead, he had no right nor intention of fighting the sentence.

  Mjollnir returned to its wielder’s hand. A moment later, the hammer sped for Colbey again. Survival instinct drove Colbey to dodge. He discarded it, finding other reason. What god could respect a man who died without a fight? Again, Colbey swerved from the path of the blow. Once more, the hammer slammed ground into crater; and the jolt of its landing stole Colbey’s balance. He tumbled to the clover, scarcely managing to roll to his feet before the weapon flew back toward Thor.

  Colbey charged, swords clearing their sheaths in an instant. The hammer tumbled over his head, outstripping him back to the hand of its master. As Colbey cleared half the distance between himself and the god, Thor gave a mighty roar. “Die, you miserable little traitor to the gods! Mjollnir will crush you like the insect you are.” The hammer pounded air, screaming toward Colbey at impossible speed. Colbey checked his rush into a side step, using his swords to parry the hammer aside. Gold shattered the steel of his right hand sword and drove Harval from his grip. Though only a light graze, the power behind the racing weapon ached through Colbey’s arms and the breeze of its passage slammed him to the ground. The hammer sank into the earth so deeply, even its handle disappeared.

  Thor growled something wordless. The hammer twisted in its rest.

  Gaining his feet again, Colbey retrieved Harval and ran at Thor.

  Movement jolted through the ground as the hammer shifted. Colbey managed to keep his balance, continuing his rush, giving his all to the battle. So many times, he had believed he had finally found the death in glory he had sought; yet the Guardian’s threat haunted him: “You do still fear one thing. And, although you wouldn’t have any way to know it yet, that fear has been recognized. You will never reach Valhalla.” Bothered but not daunted, Colbey sped toward the god of storms and law. He would not let his knowledge of such a prophecy, by itself, make it truth.

  The ground quivered and shook beneath Colbey’s feet as the hammer lurched free of its pit. Thor filled the Renshai’s vision, a towering giant all muscle and red hair. This time, Colbey beat the hammer to its wielder. He launched himself at Thor.

  Braced for the attack, Thor threw up a shield as broad as Colbey’s body. His other fist raced toward the Renshai.

  Colbey dodged between sword and strike. Harval jabbed flesh and tore, dragging an angry red stripe through leather leggings and up Thor’s leg. The god kicked and spun. Colbey’s sudden side step barely saved him from a crushing. He turned the movement into a high, whirling kick, foot slapping Thor’s armored hip with a force that sent pain lancing through Colbey’s leg. It seemed not to affect Thor at all. The follow-through of Colbey’s sword creased the links of mail, splitting a few.

  Mjollnir sailed back toward Thor. The god raised his hand in anticipation. “World-destroyer. Scum-eating slave of chaos!”

  Colbey leapt again. This time, his sword slashed a line into the muscle of Thor’s arm and missed his chin by fingers’ breadths. With a roar of rage, Thor caught the hammer in his other hand and swung it for Colbey.

  The strength behind the blow seemed incalculable, but the speed surprised Colbey more. He ducked, the breeze of its passage cold on his scalp. A second of hesitation, and the hammer would have torn his head, crushed and bleeding, from his body. His riposte impaled Thor’s arm near the pit. Though Thor grunted in agony, the pain did not slow his next attack. He reversed the direction of his strike effortlessly. Once again, the hammer sprang for Colbey’s head.

  Colbey jerked Harval, to free it from its deeply buried rest. The sword came only partially loose, blood splattering Colbey in a sudden wash. He sprang aside as he pulled, hoping the direction of his dodge would catch the god off-guard. The hammer swished across in front of Colbey, skinning the knuckles that gripped Harval. He dodged Thor’s kick as the blade came free. Then the god’s foot thrust between Colbey’s legs, sending him into a wild tumble. He rolled to rise as the hammer screamed down on him.

  “Modi,” Colbey whispered, flinching aside. The hammer slammed ground, the shock of its impact momentarily stealing all power from Colbey’s limbs. He regained equilibrium quickly, ducking around Thor’s legs for an open strike at the mailed abdomen. As Thor tore his hammer from the ground, dripping chunks of earth and roots, Colbey jabbed with the intricate Renshai triple twist made for breaking mail. The blade sliced through space that seemed far too small, creating a slit that the triple loop construction should have made impossible.

  Before Colbey could thrust far, Thor’s meaty hand closed around his shoulder.

  A shriek split the air. From nowhere, the aristiri flapped between Colbey and Thor, buffeting the Renshai briefly as it passed. It dove for Thor’s face, battering the red-haired god with wings and talons at once.

  Thor reeled backward, dropping Colbey, tearing at the bird with both clawed hands.

  Though this opened Thor’s defenses, Colbey withdrew. He would not fight an unfair battle, especially against a god. “Formynder, stop!” he shouted, hoping the hawk would read his anger. “Off! It’s not your fight.”

  But the aristiri took no heed of its raging master. It poked and flapped, dodging the giant’s hands that sought to enwrap its wings repeatedly.

  Sensing another presence, Colbey whirled. He faced a lean, sinewy Northman, handsome in features and form.

  The other seemed to take no notice of the drawn sword, striped with god’s blood. “Come with me.” He extended a hand.

  Colbey glanced at Thor. The god caught the aristiri a resounding blow that sent it spiraling toward the ground. Just before it hit, it managed to reverse its momentum, wing beats strong as it soared back toward the Thunderer’s face. “I have to . . .” he started.

  The stranger interrupted, “You have to nothing. Thor’s a blustering fool, and an ignorant one at that. But the world needs both of you.”

  Colbey hesitated. It was not his way to abandon a battle, especially with a friend’s life at stake.

  “Don’t be stupid,” the man said. “No winners here and more losers than anyone can spare. Should either of you kill the other, you would start the Ragnarok at once.”

  Those words mobilized Colbey. The man’s casual and unavenged insulting of Thor gave the Renshai as many clues to identity as the comeliness of his features. Blond hair, youthfully tousled, danced in the breeze. Halfway between round and oval, the face seemed to define perfect features. Mischiev
ous eyes currently reflected sincerity and strong purpose, changing color with the light. Not a shadow or wrinkle marred the near-perfect features. Loki? Or Frey? The legends claimed both or either as the handsomest god as the story fit. The serious attempt to protect Thor made the latter seem more likely. Yet the eyes fit Loki. And Colbey felt a distant certainty that he had met this god before. About the figure’s divinity, at least, he felt certain. He had belittled Thor with a frivolous ease that made it seem commonplace, and he had approached too silently for any mortal. In the forest, Arduwyn might have come that close without Colbey’s knowledge, but he doubted any man could cross open meadow without alerting him, battle-occupied or not.

  Grudgingly, Colbey gave his hand. Light flashed, tearing his vision. He straggled backward, groping blindly for substance. His hand touched something huge and fuzzy, an animal where, moments before, a man had stood. Through a brilliant haze of colored lights, he caught glimpses of clover-filled meadow, his ears ringing with the slap of wing beats and Thor’s stalwart curses and shouts. Then he caught a glimpse of a horse, glossy black to the root of every hair, its eyes red as a demon’s. “Get on,” the horse said. “Hurry.”

  Colbey balked. The transformation clearly identified the other as Loki the Shape Changer, the lord of chaos destined to lead giants and Hel’s dead against the gods in the final battle. Nothing good could come of association with the god of destruction.

  The horse made an abrupt dive, driving its head between Colbey’s legs.

  Still mostly blinded and unprepared for the unhorselike maneuver, Colbey found himself hefted and tossed onto its back. Even as he caught his balance, sliding down the darkly-maned neck, an abrupt and wild leap carried them forward so fast and hard they seemed to fly. Now astride, Colbey naturally concentrated on balance. To leap free at such speed would mean falling to his death, and he never doubted Loki’s hooves would smash in anger whatever remained of his body. He fought for positioning, crouched on the withers, knees crushing the muscles of its upper forelegs, arm wrapped around its bull-like neck. He kept Harval clamped in a death hold. Wind ripped at his grasp and his balance. Though smooth, each of Loki’s mighty leaps shocked through Colbey, all but sending him spinning off into the horse’s whirlwind wake.