Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Shadimar could see Olvaerr intermittently through the dappled patterns of moonlight the leaves left across the Fields of Wrath. He dragged Tannin, the last remaining Renshai.

  Chezrith continued to coo and paw over Rache.

  Shadimar mentally touched Trilless in warning. At Olvaerr’s return, they would need to join together again to move their captives. It seemed strange to see Renshai without swords; the apprentices had carefully disarmed each one before hauling them to the clearing. It only made sense to leave weapons beyond reach of anything short of magic than to have to deal with protecting the weapons, from captives as well as would-be rescuers.

  Trilless’ presence slipped comfortably into position, linked with Shadimar. He reached for Carcophan’s consciousness, shocked to brush an obvious jealous rage. It seemed surprising enough to find any emotion so superficial, but he had believed Cardinal Wizards above pettiness. Feeling like a voyeur, he withdrew.

  Taking the obvious hint, Carcophan buried his concern enough to join with his colleagues. Still, Shadimar could not help feeling the smoldering rage just below the surface. The source came with it; apparently, Chezrith had made some comment about Rache’s body or her interest in it.

  Trilless initiated the magic this time, and Shadimar appreciated her effort. Carcophan could not accuse him of drawing too much chaos if he handled the formation and directing instead.

  A moment later, Carcophan’s presence became a drawn thread in Shadimar’s mind as he tended matters on the outside. “No, you can’t have him!”

  The sudden distraction drew Shadimar from the spikes and lines of chaos forming in his mind’s vision. Trilless swore, dragging at him and Carcophan both. Shadimar found his attention divided between a spell more difficult than any he had ever attempted and Chezrith’s sour reply. He missed most of the words, but the last thought penetrated the growing swirl of magic.

  “ . . . if I can’t have him, no one will.” Chezrith flipped up Rache’s tunic, and moonlight flashed off something metal in her fist.

  Mind clotted with chaos, Shadimar’s thoughts moved in slowed motion. Logic told him what they already knew. The channeling of chaos had to take precedence over Chezrith’s action, no matter how horrible the maiming she meant to inflict on Rache.

  The pool of chaos widened, Trilless speaking the first necessary words of the incantation. She could not work the sorcery alone, but she could not afford to lose the intention, to let raw, undirected chaos free on man’s world at a time of change. Shadimar and Carcophan both veered back to aid her. The staff fed the Eastern Wizard the power he needed at once. He molded chaos with ease, the danger to Rache gradually losing importance until wholly forgotten.

  A glimmer of movement carved through his earthly vision. Chezrith screamed, the sound cut off midway. She collapsed onto Rache, two raggedly bloody holes scoring her cloak at the throat.

  An instant later Carcophan’s presence disappeared from Shadimar’s mind. The backlash of chaos he had begun shaping sent Shadimar into an uncontrolled spiral. Trilless’ scream sounded out of focus, ranging from the low rumble of demon laughter to the shrill of dolphin speech. Colors snapped and capered through his sight, alternately bright as leaping flames and as depthlessly dark as demon forms. He grasped desperately for anchorage, hand winching closed around the staff. For a moment, he found himself. Then, another gathering of chaos in the form of a second incantation sent him tumbling end over end, suffocating him beneath its presence. He clawed frantically for consciousness; and, suddenly, the staff was with him, standing, grounding, and supporting. He knew, without need to consider, that Carcophan had tossed that other spell, presumably at the bowman.

  Shadimar could still feel Trilless’ presence spinning, her life force growing weaker. Chaos seemed to surge and pulse around him, horrifying for its tremendous beauty and newness. He had to rescue her, but first he had to stop Carcophan. They had little choice but to finish what they had started, to shape the chaos they had gathered into its proper spell. If Carcophan called more for himself, it would surely set the Ragnarok in motion.

  Shadimar flung himself at Carcophan’s mind. He met a boiling mixture of hatred and grief. The need for vengeance had driven him to madness. From the first touch, Shadimar knew Chezrith was dead. Her slayer was a teenaged girl, scarcely more than a child. Carcophan had already slammed her with a spell that had stolen her consciousness and, probably, her sanity. He prepared to animate a boulder to crush the last life from her as well.

  *No, you idiot!* Shadimar leapt ruthlessly into Carcophan’s mind, tearing at the fragile web of chaos his crazed emotions were weaving. *Throwing spells from anger? Colbey’s doing. His chaos.* Though Odin’s Laws forbade such intrusion, Shadimar grasped Carcophan’s rationality and drew it back into the bond. The framework of the Southern Wizard’s rage-inspired spell collapsed, and he joined the reckless swirl of partially directed chaos.

  The whirlwind swallowed them both, but Shadimar kept his grip on the staff. He still spun, but the stability of the staff kept him oriented; and he dug for Trilless even as he lessened the velocity and randomness of chaos. Fresher, Carcophan also directed the magic, weakening the chaos-enemy even as fatigue threatened to drown him beneath it. At first, Shadimar found no evidence of Trilless, and it occurred to him that unfashioned chaos might slay Wizards as easily as demons could. Then, he caught sight of the glint of light that was her, one winking star nearly lost beneath chaos’ explosions and flares.

  Centered on the staff, Shadimar worked methodically, structuring chaos in a straight line toward Trilless, the pattern inherent in his choice of direction making the chaos more supple and easy to fix. Carcophan shaped the spell also, but his inability to differentiate direction made his efforts less precise and wore him down more quickly. Then, just as Shadimar reached Trilless, he felt the staff flicker. The momentary loss of support shocked panic through him. It made no sense that a finite amount of called chaos could overwhelm the Staff of Law. It seemed more to Shadimar as if his cause chose to abandon him as a weak man would a cause.

  Shadimar clung. *I’m your champion,* he reminded.

  His hold wavered. The staff seemed about to respond, then it did not.

  *Hold tight. It’s our destiny to work together. The Lawbringer and the Staff of Law.*

  *It must be,* the staff returned, though its response seemed to bear no relation to Shadimar’s words. Its manner changed, and its presence strengthened. *I would not leave you. I could not.* As Shadimar grasped Trilless more firmly, it hauled both Wizards back.

  Then, as the last piece fell into place, the spell triggered. The ground quaked and shuddered, then folded. Trees shifted, trunks tilting as if to crush them between rows of wooden teeth. Then, all went still.

  The Renshai lay where they had on the ground, Chezrith’s still corpse sprawled over Rache. Olvaerr and Dh’arlo’mé stood rooted in place, seeming uncertain whether to revere or curse the events of the last few moments. Trilless lay near the Renshai, her eyes closed but her limbs dragging purposefully to her body. Carcophan knelt, head low, gray-flecked hair hanging in a curtain that hid his expression. Shadimar managed to keep his feet, but he leaned heavily on his staff. Though his head pounded and every part of his body ached, he managed a grin. They had escaped offworld, creating a plane that consisted of the area encompassed by the spell, only as far as he could see.

  All that remained was to summon Swiftwing and direct the bird through the connection between worlds. The messenger falcon, he believed, could find Colbey.

  * * *

  With Loki’s help, Colbey caught up to Khitajrah and the horses quickly. He found her trotting back the way she had come, leading his chestnut gelding. Her own mount balked, twisting repeatedly as if to bolt in the opposite direction, clearly reluctant to face Thor’s hammer again. The aristiri wheeled over her head, occasionally breaking through the foliage to become visible against the sky.

  Apparently catching sight of him, Khitajrah reined her horse,
awaiting his approach. When he came near enough to distinguish features, she smiled with relief and welcome. “Colbey!” She dismounted, drawing up his horse to handle necessities before barraging him with questions.

  Colbey appreciated Khitajrah’s self-control. Few could hold back curiosity about such a grand event for even a moment. Yet she seemed free of that strange proclivity most had for stating the obvious or satisfying interest before safety. Though surely she wondered, she clearly planned to leave Colbey with time to think before speaking. It was a trait that, as far as he could tell, characterized people who did more than lie around and listen to tales about others.

  Colbey collected the lead rope of his gelding, looping it securely around the cantle ring. His gear had shifted slightly askew in the horse’s wild rush. This time, he had fastened the staff well enough, and it still lay thrust through the bindings. It tapped the edges of his consciousness, apparently wanting all the answers he had not yet given Khitajrah. Ignoring the intrusion, he retied each knot snugly, then vaulted into the saddle. He swung the horse’s head about, and Khitajrah’s mount cheerfully followed suit. He reined toward Béarn.

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” Khitajrah asked the important question first.

  Colbey’s arm ached from his attempt to parry Thor’s hammer, and his fingers felt raw. Otherwise, he had suffered no injury, and those he had seemed insignificant. “No, I’m fine.” He wanted to continue, but he still needed time alone to contemplate the events of the last hour. Thor’s son. A child of the thunder. The revelation explained much about why magics meant to identify him, from Carcophan’s summoning of demons to the seer’s crystal, had failed. The Renshai’s slow aging had only partially explained Colbey’s spry suppleness as he neared eighty, although it was hard to judge since he had no elder Renshai with whom to compare the process. Members of the warrior tribe rarely lived far into their thirties.

  Still, Colbey saw small importance about the knowledge. Whether Colbey Calistinsson or Colbey Thorsson, he would have changed little of what he had done since birth. Those things he would have changed had nothing to do with his parentage. He would as quickly have dedicated his life to his gods and to his swords, to the death in glory that was the reward of every Northman. Even if he could trust the Shape Changer, the news could not make a difference to him. In every way, he was still Colbey.

  Sunlight speared between the branches. As a bar fell across Khitajrah, it lit red highlights in the Eastern-black hair. The horse’s canter alternately fanned it into a silky curtain and tossed it carelessly back to the nape of her neck. Although she lacked the classic curves that most men found beautiful, her nimble countering of the movements of horse and saddle intrigued Colbey every bit as much. To him, proper motion added a loveliness no primping could match.

  The sight stirred memory of the woman of gold who had awakened him from death in the Wizards’ trials. She had spoken the words that convinced him Loki’s pronouncement was truth: “You won’t be damned because one truthseeker could not handle what he found.” Unconsciously, he fingered the gold band she had given him, wondering how it fit in with her obvious sanctioning of Khitajrah in dream. In some cultures, a ring symbolized marriage. It seemed foolish for the goddess to direct his thoughts to women and bondings while the world threatened to crash down around mankind and gods alike. He reminded himself that she had given him the ring before he had freed the Staves of Law and Chaos. Still as the priests and faithful told all, time and again, the immortal gods worked in ways mere mortals could not fathom.

  Yet, as Colbey rode in silence through the forest, one motivation seemed clear. Shortly before his birth, Sif had visited the Renshai tribe and soon thereafter became their patron. Surely, she had found some satisfaction in the subsequent adulation of her husband’s illegitimate child. Nor did Colbey begrudge her that small victory. His loyalty to her would never waver; and he believed his deeply rooted faith had, perhaps, won her favor despite rather than because of Thor’s indiscretion. He launched into a graceful kata from horseback, his sword a deadly, silver blur and his practice dedicated, as always, to his goddess.

  At his side, Khitajrah veered away from the path of the dancing sword, though surely she knew he held enough control not to harm her. Her recessed eyes met Colbey’s, and she opened the conversation. “That man . . . creature . . . man in the meadow?”

  Colbey did not miss a beat of his svergelse. “A god, yes.”

  “A god?”

  “Yes.”

  Khitajrah considered that for a moment. “A Northern god, I presume. Chaos said the Northern religion comes the closest to the real gods.”

  “Thor, god of Law and Thunder.” Colbey kept his techniques relatively simple, sticking with the standard Renshai maneuvers rather than creating more. Springing off and returning to the saddle might make for difficult conversation. “I believe he came to kill me.”

  Khitajrah made no reply for some time, clearly struck silent. Then, in an obvious attempt to share his cavalier attitude, she returned a matter-of-fact statement, though her delay blunted the effect. “I’m glad he changed his mind.” She grinned nervously, with a hint of flirtation. She seemed as rusty as he when it came to courting games.

  Though simple, her statement held many meanings and questions. In six words, she had managed to express concern, interest in Colbey, and wit. In addition, she clearly meant to elicit more information about the conflict, without demanding explanations Colbey felt unwilling to give. The depth of her character impressed him, and he felt glad to have the opportunity to travel alone with her and get to know her better. “Harval had a hand in his decision, I think.” He froze for an instant in the middle of a maneuver to indicate the blade, then continued. He had meticulously scrubbed the blood from the sword, but she might still notice the droplets on his clothing as well as the missing companion longsword.

  Khitajrah could not contain her surprise. “You fought with a god?”

  “I’d prove a weak and miserable follower if I didn’t.”

  “You fought with a god?”

  “It was that or get crushed by him. A rousing battle seemed more fun.” Colbey smiled, meaning nothing proud or boastful. After battling demons and Wizards, as well as discovering he had been sired by a god, little seemed shocking anymore.

  “The god of law, you say.” Khitajrah placed more pieces in the puzzle. “Why would he attack you?”

  “Do I look like some pompous priest to you? I don’t presume to understand gods.” Colbey launched into a flurry of feigned offense and lesser amounts of parry, covering a complete circle about himself and his horse. “My best guess would be that he’s as worried as the Wizards that I’ll loose chaos.”

  “But you fought chaos, too. Doesn’t that gain you any favor?”

  Colbey finished the third cycle before she finished speaking. Imagining an army in mail, he changed his tactics to cut/jab combinations and Renshai triple twists. “I have to assume that, for all their divinity and wisdom, the gods don’t know everything either.”

  “Once again, you quote chaos.”

  “It’s a gift,” Colbey returned, his sarcasm evident.

  Khitajrah placed all into a neat package. “So championing balance makes you an enemy of law and of chaos?”

  “Obviously.”

  Khitajrah flushed, apparently embarrassed by being caught saying something already clear. “But I’d have thought neither would bother with you at all.”

  “I would have thought the same.” Colbey continued his practice, separating mental conversation from the reflexive need to hone technique. “When you stand on the boundary between warring countries, you become the target of them both. It took me time to figure that out myself. I think it comes of the fact that law’s so used to having no competition, it believes the world will collapse at the merest touch of chaos. Chaos, as you learned, is just as extreme. It hooks with promises of genius and progress, then beelines for utter ruin, subversion, and mayhem.” He managed a shrug amid
the flurry of swordplay. “Considered that way, balance’s champion might prove most dangerous, using each against the other.”

  Khitajrah considered for quite some time, and the ride continued in a silence broken only by songbirds, the rare snap of an animal moving through brush, and the rattle of wind through the branches. At length, she spoke as if no time had passed. “Law, honor, honesty. It all fits this world. Why change it? And why balance?”

  Colbey took the bait eagerly. Day passed to evening as he espoused his theories, Khitajrah listening with a rapt attention that could not have been feigned. Her questions helped direct his own goals and reasons, and he appreciated the challenge and support her intelligent questions gave him. They chose to make camp in the depths of unnamed forest. They slept close, warmed by one another as much as by the fire, and only gentle dreams of Freya disturbed Colbey’s sleep.

  CHAPTER 25

  Back to Béarn

  Colbey awakened before the sun. The campfire had burned down to winking red coals; and the branches scattered moonglow to a steady glaze beneath the canopy. Stars glimmered through the spaces between. The summer air seemed crisp and clean, untainted by human noise or odors. Even the fire no longer trickled smoke or the sweet, charcoal aroma of burning wood.

  Not wanting to awaken Khitajrah, Colbey slipped beyond the trees for his practice, remaining close enough to catch glimpses of the woman between the trunks. He attributed his protectiveness to the fact that he had rescued her once from chaos. It seemed a shame to then lose her to highwaymen or predators.

  Colbey did not bother to search for a clearing. Swordplay among hampering brush, trunks, and limbs would work him better than unhindered combat. His enemies would not always give him the option of battle in an open field or roadway, but he practiced in those conditions as well. Experience told him that the best technique varied from terrain to terrain and enemy to individual enemy. Becoming accustomed to one practice field or opponent, no matter how restrictive, might narrow rather than hone his repertoire.