Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Ah.” Shadimar smiled, apparently glad for the point Sterrane had chosen. “Whether he has come to rescue or damn them remains to be seen.” He swung about to face Colbey. “You need only give us the staff you carry. The Renshai, your friends, and even you will leave here free and unharmed.”

  A sudden flurry of conversation among the Renshai reinforced the realization that they could hear the exchanges around them, though the barrier prevented Colbey from reading their thoughts or listening to their discussions. Their attention shifted to him. Tarah and Modrey studied him with nervous interest. Rache and Tannin stared with a fierce criticalness befitting Renshai. Mitrian looked stricken, her eyes crinkled and her mouth twisted.

  Colbey said the only thing he believed he could. “You know I can’t give you the staff.”

  “Because you would place ownership of a polished stick before ones you claim to love.”

  Colbey kept his gaze on Shadimar, bombarded by the emotions of the myriad around him. He sensed uncertainty among his friends, a wavering rather than a break in their loyalty. Trilless seemed smug. A bitterness colored Carcophan’s amusement, a sour rancor whose source seemed other than Colbey. Colbey addressed the Renshai directly. “Because this so-called ‘polished stick’ contains a force that makes the Cardinal Wizards seem little more than fettered slaves.” He turned his attention back to the Wizard. “I don’t bow to terrorism. My honor, and that of those involved, does not allow it. If I gave you the staff, it would make a mockery of the exchange. We would all die within the day.”

  Colbey sensed anger and scorn beneath Shadimar’s sullen mask. Nevertheless, the Wizard pitched his voice to soothe. “Colbey, beneath what the staff has made you into, I know there’s a fair and honest man. Do you think, for a moment, that the world is safer in your hands than in those of the world’s guardians chosen by Odin?” He unfolded his arms broadly to indicate Carcophan, Trilless, and himself. “Give us the staff. We’ll destroy chaos, and the world will fall back into harmony.”

  Colbey sighed, his mind forming arguments his tongue would never speak, not even to remind the Wizards that he, too, had been selected by Odin. He had rehashed the same ground with Shadimar too many times to believe he could convince the Wizard now. “I can’t give you the staff, and I won’t. Surely, you’ll take something else in trade for the Renshai.”

  Before Shadimar could reply, Carcophan cut in. “There is one other thing we will take.” Though he addressed Colbey, his glare fell fully on the trio at the opposite side of the clearing. “We’ll take the life of this murdering little witch . . .” He jabbed a steady finger at Sylva. “. . . along with the staff.”

  *Stop it!* Shadimar’s mental reprimand struck so hard Trilless recoiled, and even Colbey felt it ring clearly through his mind. *Keep your grudges private. Better yet, Wizards hold no grudges at all.*

  Arduwyn crouched into a hollow between a standing tree and a deadfall, arrow to string in an instant.

  Though he made the movement appear casual, Colbey deliberately stepped between Arduwyn and his target. He doubted the shot could do anything more than further enrage the Southern Wizard. “Surely, we can find a compromise.” Colbey spoke to Shadimar, ignoring Carcophan’s outburst. To the best of her ability to remember, Sylva had already explained how she came to wander the woodlands in madness, her memory ending just after she had slain the woman threatening Rache.

  “No compromise,” Shadimar returned. “The world can’t afford it. The staff or the Renshai. Your choice.”

  Colbey traced the knurling on Harval’s hilt. “I need time to think.”

  “Take time.” Shadimar wriggled his fingers toward the Renshai, murmuring something Colbey could not decipher. Spots and random squiggles defined the wall caging the tribe, appearing as red-hot images then fading back into obscurity. Colbey could not know for certain; but he guessed Shadimar, about to say something the Renshai would not approve of, had stolen their hearing as well as their freedom. “But not too much time; we’ve waited long enough. For every half day you delay, one Renshai dies.”

  Outrage sputtered like a fuse through Colbey, but he squelched it before it became an all-consuming explosion. Without a word, he turned to leave, trusting his own instincts to guard his back. Should any Wizard start a spell for the purpose of attack, he would meet a Sword of Power in the hands of a berserk Renshai.

  “One last thing,” Shadimar called.

  Colbey froze, but he did not turn. He hoped the stiffness of his demeanor cued the Cardinal Wizards how close he had come to violence.

  “We have a right to know how you got here.”

  Colbey hesitated longer than propriety demanded, but the Wizards seemed not to notice. Centuries of existence had made them maddeningly patient. Colbey recalled how his own ignorance of the Wizards’ repertoire made him cautious. Had the lives of so many not fallen into his hands, Colbey and Harval would long ago have resorted to physical combat. The unpredictability of the Wizards and their spells had become the key to their danger. Now, he hoped, misconception about his powers would beleaguer them at least as much. “Magic,” he replied. “I used magic.”

  “What kind of magic?” Shadimar demanded.

  Colbey chose not to answer.

  * * *

  Back at camp, Colbey let rage overtake him until the world seemed to blur behind a burning, red curtain. Coherent thought receded, lost in the boil of Colbey’s fury.

  “What now?” Arduwyn asked, pillowing Khitajrah’s head on his uninjured thigh. She breathed in erratic patterns to avoid the pain, and the need for her body to heal apparently made her sleepy. Sterrane slumped on a log, his meaty hands cupping his face and black hair jutting from every hole and crevice of his grip. Mar Lon strummed his mandolin softly, apparently willing to sacrifice Sterrane’s safety to draw him from melancholy. Sylva stroked the crests of her last few arrows in mindless repetition, head low.

  Guilty for Khitajrah’s pain, though he had not caused it, Colbey knelt beside her. He stroked the Eastern-dark hair, pulling sweat-dampened strands free of her forehead. She caught his hand, smiling sweetly through her pain.

  Arduwyn’s jealousy pulsed against Colbey, and he could feel the hunter wrestling the emotion down with guilt.

  “Do you see the sword Mar Lon has there?” Colbey nodded toward Mar Lon’s hip.

  “I see them both,” Khitajrah replied.

  “The one with the hilt shaped like a wolf’s head. It belongs to the Renshai woman. The dark-haired one, not the blond.”

  Khitajrah grunted, saying nothing.

  “Do you see the yellow gems of the eyes?”

  Khitajrah squinted. “Not from here.”

  “They’re there. One’s broken.”

  Khitajrah considered the significance for a moment. “That’s the magic?”

  “Yes.” Colbey squeezed Khitajrah’s hand, then freed his own from her grip. “The item you’ve been seeking.”

  Khitajrah smiled, lids sagging closed, features becoming peaceful.

  “I don’t know what the next day holds, so I thought it best to tell you now in case I can’t later. The sword belongs to the Renshai. It has to stay with them, you understand.”

  “You’ll tell them to let me use it? Just once?”

  “I’ll ask them.” Colbey glanced from Arduwyn to Khitajrah. Each grimace from the woman sent a wave of concern and sympathy grinding through the hunter. “If I die, ask them yourself. Arduwyn will stand behind you, I believe.”

  Arduwyn nodded vigorously, though he had no way to understand the significance of the request.

  Khitajrah groped for Colbey’s hand, caught it, and clasped it with affection. Then her fingers fell away. Every wrinkle fled her features, and her breathing became regular and rhythmic.

  Arduwyn stared at Colbey, desperation and sadness as clearly in his gaze as radiating from his person. “You and her . . .?” He left the question unfinished, prodding Colbey for an answer the Renshai felt too confused to understand hims
elf.

  “I don’t know,” Colbey admitted. Untangling relationships seemed of little importance in the wake of other matters. “But I never shied from healthy competition, and you never hesitated to stand against me before.” He smiled. “Let the battle begin.”

  Shocked, Arduwyn found no reply.

  Colbey stole the reprieve to rise. Before he could cross the clearing, Mar Lon turned the conversation back to its original question.

  “What do we do now?”

  “I think.” Colbey strode from the campsite and deeper into the forest. The aristiri wheeled from a distant treetop and zigzagged after the Renshai. Within the space of a short jog, he found a suitable place and launched into a practice more energy-consuming and brutal than even most of his own, while the hawk studied him and his maneuvers from a nearby limb.

  The world disappeared, along with its problems and paradoxes, as Colbey gave himself fully to his sword and his goddess. Though he always gave his all to every practice, this one put his previous work to shame. He became a silver flicker of flame, whirling and reversing with a speed that seemed impossible. A sword in each hand, he cleaved a thousand imagined enemies and faced a million more. Despite the beauty of his speed and grace, the lethality of his movements could never be mistaken for dance.

  Colbey lost all concept of time. At intervals, he knew, his companions came to talk to him. He heard none of their proclamations or entreaties. His soul escaped through an opening he made, seeking Sif to beseech or demand a solution. His flurry of offense never lost its dimensions of prayer. He performed for his goddess and to sharpen his skill, for no other reason, though rage added power to each skillfully executed stroke. Yet Sif did not answer. And Colbey continued his sword work, oblivious to constraints of time or place.

  * * *

  Arduwyn paced, intentionally inflicting the pain that came with movement to take his mind from the worry he could displace no other way. His throat seemed to pinch closed, throttling him with responsibility that even the agony of his wound could not erase. The Renshai needed tending. And the one man who could help them had retreated so far into violence that no mortal could draw him back to reality.

  Mar Lon sang to the cadence of Arduwyn’s pacing, slowing the beat gradually, as if to draw the hunter to a stop. Despite the grandeur of the music, its intention failed. Arduwyn’s conscience bucked against the peace, finding him undeserving of the solace it promised. He waited only until the last notes pealed from the instrument before turning his discomfort on the bard. “We have to do something.” Arduwyn glanced through the branches. The morning had aged enough to make the midday deadline loom.

  Apparently surrendering to Arduwyn’s mood, Mar Lon replaced his mandolin, kneading away nervous energy against his sword hilt instead. “What can we do? None of us can budge Colbey. We have to wait for him.”

  “Why?” Arduwyn returned. His gaze jerked from Khitajrah’s sleeping form, to Sylva who watched him intently, to Sterrane who had not raised head from palms all morning.

  “Because it’s his situation. We’re along to help him.”

  “It’s our situation, too.” Arduwyn held out a hand to his daughter, and she came to his side. “Her husband and some of my closest friends’ lives hinge on settling this matter swiftly. We can’t wait for Colbey to indulge himself slaughtering shadows. We have real enemies to face.”

  Sterrane finally looked up. “Shadimar not enemy.”

  Arduwyn did not relent. “He is if he kills Renshai to get what he wants from Colbey.”

  Sterrane narrowed his eyes, but he said nothing.

  Arduwyn released some of his own pent-up anger to soften his words. “Fine. Maybe Shadimar’s right, and Colbey’s the enemy. Or maybe they both believe what they’re saying and each has a legitimate point. Let’s go and find out.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Mar Lon’s tone revealed his incredulity. “We promised Colbey our support.”

  Arduwyn had no intention of betraying anyone. “Colbey’s used to handling problems with violence. He’s no diplomat. Now he’s faced with a problem and, instead of considering it, he’s out finding himself an enemy he can best with a sword instead of his wit. Maybe we can negotiate where he failed.”

  Sterrane’s face bunched in serious consideration. “Talk Shadimar? That maybe work.”

  “Of course it maybe work.” Arduwyn adopted the king’s speech pattern routinely, the thought of doing something, anything, relieving some of his restless need. He gathered his belongings, stacking the longer term items and hefting personal gear.

  Mar Lon shifted his mandolin to his back, out of the way of free movement. “What about her?” He waved his fingers at Khitajrah.

  “She’ll be safe here. Clearly, the Wizards aren’t planning to hunt us down.” Arduwyn strapped his quiver in place. He had every intention of negotiating peacefully, but it made no sense to face a potential threat completely defenseless. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 32

  In Ruin and Confusion Hurled

  Though the clearing and his companions had faded in a blur of savage sword technique, Colbey gained an explicit clarity of mind that he knew only in battle and with the grandest of practices. The world slowed to a crawl, granting him more than enough time to map out each split-second maneuver, to consider and act faster than others could think to watch the motion. For hours that passed like an instant, he thrust, slashed, and spun, battling mock enemies by the thousand, offering earnest prayers to his goddess so she might steer him to the proper course that would allow her chosen, the Renshai, to live.

  But Sif gave Colbey no signs, no guidance that he could fathom. Once before, when he had needed to decide the fate and direction of the Renshai tribe, she had come to him in a triple image, battling him three swords to two and three bodies to one. Without words, she had directed his thoughts, Colbey believed, to a future he had tried to turn into reality: the Renshai as hired soldiers following their morality and honor. Another time, she had told him to have faith in himself after the Wizards and powers condemned him. Yet this time, when the life of every person and every Renshai lay at stake, it seemed as if Thor’s wife had abandoned him.

  Colbey spun, quicker than a cornered stag, sword whipping through two visions of enemies to meet four more at his back. Harval and the rescued Renshai sword jabbed, curled back in opposite loops, then licked out again. Assuming failure, Colbey blocked the ripostes, then drove in again for another attack.

  The aristiri glided down from its perch to land on the grass in front of Colbey.

  The Renshai did not slow for an instant. He hacked and stabbed at the same enemies, imagining them dodging strokes no man had ever escaped, seeing return slashes as quick as the ones he delivered.

  Long, human legs sprouted from the hawk body, as muscled as any warrior’s, their slender proportions perfectly female. As Colbey stared, locked into a deadly crouch, feathers gave way to linen and mail locked to full hips, a delicate waist, and breasts that held his gaze far beyond politeness. Then, all signs of the aristiri disappeared, and Freya stood in its place. A shield girded her left arm, and a sword graced her other fist.

  Colbey remained in position, uncertain of his next words or actions.

  Freya studied him in the full light that wove through the branches announcing the coming midday. “I’ll have that spar you promised now.”

  Colbey smiled. Before he could reply, Freya charged him. Her sword sped for his chest.

  Colbey sprang aside, returning the attack with a lightning quick one of his own. Harval rang against the shield. The other blade slid harmlessly from cloth-covered mail, creasing a wrinkle through the fabric that made its threads glitter and wink in the sunlight. Freya returned a thrust that Colbey’s right-hand sword battered aside. Harval leapt for her gut.

  Blue fire seemed to caper through Freya’s eyes, enhancing a beauty that already seemed impossible. He recognized battle joy, a perfect echo of his own magnificent excitement. The swords stabbed and
sliced with lethal grace in imponderable patterns and at a speed Colbey’s pounding heart could never match. Happiness swept him from head to heel, and his heart cried out for a daily partner with the skill of this one. Decades had passed since he had capered with a woman who could match him stroke for stroke, and that at a time when his own ability had been far less. His night with Khitajrah seemed to fade to insignificance. The sensuality of giving his all to a woman, of fending as many sword cuts as he gave, brought a euphoria that usurped even that of sex itself.

  No longer simply slowed, the universe seemed to jerk to a halt, half an hour of combat fleeing in an eye blink. Then, Colbey swirled his blade, driving in with a sudden charge that brought him under and through Freya’s guard. Harval stabbed through mail, guided to sweep harmlessly across Freya’s side. Colbey’s shoulder hammered into her chest. She fell, breathless and sprawling, this time unable to roll quickly enough to avoid the cross of steel he pressed to her throat.

  Freya’s breasts rose and fell in a heavy pattern, and sweat added a sheen to her ivory skin. The necklace glimmered and twitched with every breath, and the metallic threads sewn through her garments hurt his eyes. Her golden hair spread in a wave around a face blindingly beautiful. Winded, she spoke in spurts of gathered air. “As skilled . . . as your name . . . Kyndig.”

  “Colbey,” he corrected, finding himself equally breathless. He could not remember the last time any single spar had tired him.

  “Kyndig,” Freya repeated. “The children of Thor . . . are named . . . for warcraft.” Her voice became more fluent with time. “Magni, might. Modi, wrath. Thrudr, his daughter, power.” Her steady, sapphire gaze met his. “Kyndig, skill.”

  Colbey removed the threat, sheathing his swords. He had won the battle, yet no sense of triumph accompanied the victory. The glory and excitement had come and gone with the battle itself, its end leaving him only with a different, deep, and only partially familiar longing. His loins burned, and the fire seemed to spread throughout his being. He wanted to correct Freya again, to insist that she use the name given to him by the mortal parents he’d loved rather than the god who had chosen to abandon him. But the point seemed unimportant. His gaze traced her figure in a cycle he could not seem to stop, memorizing the perfection of arcs, curves, and bulges. “You’re the aristiri?”