The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Several of the gods shifted anxiously in their chairs, but no one rallied to his or her feet.

  Ravn glanced around the gathering, their sheepish acceptance of one unproven grating at his sensibilities. No matter his awesome personality, no one should rule deities without some demonstration of his worth. Not even the First Father of the gods, if, indeed, this force of law in elfin form was Odin. Against every rational fiber of his being, Ravn forced himself to stand.

  The edges of Odin’s lips twitched upward, thinning the heart-shaped lips, the first hint of expression. “I would expect nothing less from the Son of Chaos.”

  Murmurs traversed the room. Freya closed her fingers over Ravn’s wrist. “Odin is who he claims. He could be no other.”

  Odin’s grin broadened. “Come.” He spread his arms to Ravn in wide welcome. “Approach me.”

  The need to obey nearly overpowered Ravn, but he managed a soft reply to his mother. “I’m not challenging his identity. It’s his right to rule I question.”

  Freya stiffened, eyes twitching wide in disbelief. Apparently overhearing, Frey also turned his head toward his nephew. Ravn had never seen either caught off-guard before.

  “Ravn,” Freya hissed. “You’ve never seen—”

  “Come,” Odin said again, his tone still friendly. “Come to me, Raska Colbeysson.”

  Ravn took two steps in the indicated direction before he realized he had moved. He forced himself to stop. “If we’re going to fight, it seems best to do so outside.”

  Odin leaned forward, dropping all of his features into the hat brim’s shadow. “First,” he said. “We talk.” He raised a hand, palm up, then beckoned with his index finger.

  This time, Ravn went. To fight further would have required too much strength to bother, especially in the moments before battle. As he rounded the table and started past his uncle, however, he came to another halt. Unclipping the long sword, Harval, from his belt, he set the sheathed weapon on the table in front of Frey. “If I die, the balance is yours to uphold.”

  Frey darted a glance from weapon to nephew to Odin. He opened his mouth, surely to refuse. His commitment to the elves whom he had created made neutrality impossible. Returning his gaze to Ravn, he placed a hand upon the stained leather sheath. His handsome features crinkled, and a light kindled in the depths of his eyes. Ravn could imagine the thoughts taking shape behind the sculpted cheeks and broad, sky blue eyes they shared. Frey had denounced Dh’arlo’mé as bitterness transformed his jovial elfin innocence into a cruel and desperate vengeance aimed at mankind. Either his rage against the elf whose body Odin had claimed, or Ravn’s own courage, allowed the god of elves and sunshine to accept his nephew’s gift. “I prefer that you wield it and believe you most suited for the job. But if the need arises, I will do my best to see it done right.”

  “Come,” Odin said, more firmly.

  As Ravn scrambled to obey, Frey pressed his own sword into his nephew’s hand to replace the one he now guarded.

  Warmth suffused Ravn. To trust another with one’s sword was the highest compliment among all of Northern background, not just Renshai. He had had little choice but to keep the Sword of Balance from one pledged to an extreme, such as law. But nothing had forced Frey to hand his personal weapon to his nephew, not even the possibility of leaving Ravn undefended since the youngest among the gods always carried a second sword.

  At last, Ravn came before Odin, meeting the green eye with the defiance adolescents perfected. A moment later, the orb seemed to penetrate him, not simply reading his mind but tearing directly into his system. The Meeting Room faded around him. The quiet exchanges of his peers became the occasional stiff song of a distant bird and the rattle of leaves and branches in a familiar, cold wind. Knobby gray-and-brown trunks of varying widths towered over his head, their waving leaves resplendent in shades of green, indigo, and orange. Carpeted in mulch, the ground lay speckled with crisp, dying foliage that crunched beneath his boots.

  It never occurred to Ravn to wonder how he came here. It seemed perfectly natural to find himself suddenly thrown into woodlands, without purpose or memory of how he came there. His hands went naturally to his hilts. The left latched onto the scimitar and the right stroked the frigid metal pommel of Frey’s broadsword.

  A sound from behind sent Ravn spinning into a crouch. A man swung gracefully from a tree branch, landing on the ground at what was no longer Ravn’s back. “Looking for me?”

  Ravn studied the lithe, tall figure and a handsome face halfway between round and oval in shape. Blond hair fluttered in the breeze. Eyes not-quite blue, green, or gray danced with mischief, seeming to change color with the light. Though a stranger, he had an odd familiarity about him, and the sword at his right hip bore the split leather grip, S-shaped guard, and simple pommel that Colbey preferred. Ravn did not believe he now faced the one he sought. “No,” he said. “Not you.”

  The other laughed. “You don’t recognize me.” It was a statement not a question, so he added, “Do you, child of wrath?”

  “Child of wrath?” Ravn’s eyes narrowed, contemplating nonsensical words. “I’m not Modi’s son. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” He shook his head at another realization. “In fact, Modi has no offspring, so you’ve mistaken me for nobody.”

  The stranger back-stepped with a dexterous hop that seemed more elflike than human. “Don’t take me literally, Raska Colbeysson. The Renshai are the followers of Modi, hence the children of wrath—by word, by law, by nature.” He made a grand flourish, as if to royalty, adding agile sweeps that belittled his own gesture of respect. “Child of chaos, if you prefer. Do you recognize me now?” The eyes mutated through a wild spectrum of colors.

  That, and the habit of immortals to use titles in place of names, allowed understanding a slow dawning. Ravn took a wary back-step. “Loki.”

  “Indeed. Are you ready?”

  Ravn could not imagine a Northman born who did not relish the chance to rid the world of the First Father of Lies, he who had dedicated himself to the ruination of all things living. For now, it did not occur to Ravn that the Lord of Chaos had died at the Ragnarok centuries past. He drew his swords.

  Loki unsheathed and cut faster. Even as Ravn jerked backward, the tip of the blade slashed skin and sleeve from his wrist. Renshai training overrode his natural inclination to let go of the hilt in the injured hand. Instead, he used the blade to block, charging in low with the scimitar. Loki skipped aside, trailing mocking laughter. His blade launched in, met a block or parry, and retreated three times before Ravn found an opening. He lunged in, only to find it closed.

  “Got you.” Loki’s blade slashed for Ravn’s face. The Renshai ducked, throwing up a defensive block. Loki’s blade skipped past his own, plowing a line of skin from his scalp.

  Searing pain grappled for Ravn’s concentration, and lost. Renshai fought, not through pain, but because of it. “Modi,” he hissed, using the second wind the cry brought to leap upon his opponent.

  But Loki slithered aside with lithe, animal grace. His sword cut the air with a swiftness that revealed only starry flashes of silver. Even so, Ravn recognized it. Chaos. But that’s Father’s sword. How? The need for defense usurped further thought. As he whirled back toward his dodging opponent, he barely avoided a lightning-quick attack then parried another before he could manage a riposte. Renshai maneuvers, he realized, at the same time knowing that only one immortal besides himself had learned them. “Father?”

  The chaos-sword blazed toward Ravn again. He spun aside, brisk defense stealing his memory for location. His foot slammed down on a root, bruising his instep through the boot sole. He rocked backward, catching balance too late. Loki’s leg jammed behind his ankle, and an elbow crashed into his face. Ravn toppled. He tensed to roll, only to find the chaos sword at his throat. He went still.

  Fear spread through Ravn like a net. His mouth went dry, his heart pounded, and tremors wound beneath his skin. He clamped down on the emotion, refusing
to reveal it to his enemy. If not truly, he would at least appear to die bravely.

  When, after several seconds, the death blow did not fall, Ravn raised his gaze to his opponent, meeting the other’s gaze with square courage. The eyes now held Colbey’s familiar blue-gray coloring, and the chiseled features lapsed into the familiar blunt cheekbones, gently-arched chin, and average nose of his father. The four straight scars in front of one ear completed the picture, left from a long-ago battle with a demon. Three things jarred: disheveled golden hair usually worn too short for knots, a wild sparkle in his icy stare, and an expression of twisted cruelty Ravn had never before seen upon Colbey’s face.

  “Father,” Ravn said with relief. His heart slowed, and he wet his lips with returning saliva. “Let me up. Please.”

  The creature towering over Ravn did not move the blade from his throat. “I am . . .” he said carefully. “. . .not your father . . . anymore.” He studied Ravn intently, clearly seeking movement. “I am . . . the Father of Lies. Of the Fenris Wolf. Of the Midgard Serpent. Of Hel and of Odin’s steed.” He lowered his head but not his guard. “I’m sorry, Ravn. I tried to resist. Chaos was stronger.” The blade retreated, but only to gather momentum.

  Ravn seized the only moment he had, eeling aside though he knew it futile. Colbey’s practiced speed made his turtle-like in comparison. Ravn anticipated the sharp sting of steel through his vitals, the instant of agonized understanding before death claimed him.

  Ravn’s vision filled with the light of myriad candles, reflections swaying through a hall of gods and goddesses. He met Odin’s green eye and found it brighter than sunlight. Burned by its intensity, he looked away. He could still feel the pressure of a sword tip against his neck, his sleeve flapped open, and a droplet wound down his forehead from the stinging injury across his scalp. He rubbed at the trickle with the back of his hand, surprised by a smear of scarlet. The line between illusion and reality blurred; fact lost logic and relevance.

  Ravn drew breath to ask what had happened, but Odin answered before the words emerged.

  “The truth is self-explanatory.”

  Certain he would receive nothing more, Ravn did not bother to question. With the eye of every god upon him, he headed back around the table to his seat, pausing only to exchange swords with Frey.

  Unlike her son, who still labored to separate actuality from inflicted fantasy, Freya kept the presence of mind to ask the question Ravn had abandoned. “What did you do to him?”

  The Great One’s head swiveled toward Colbey’s family, the elfin features a sharp contrast to the demeanor of a god. “Only showed him his folly.” His gaze shifted directly to Ravn. “Revealed the future to him.”

  Ravn searched for his tongue, but words continued to fail him. Uncontrollable trembling seized his hands first, then traveled through his body in a violent wave.

  An awed murmur swept through the meeting room, but it did not affect Freya. “That’s bluff, Gray Father. Your wisdom spans all, but the future has always defied your knowledge.”

  Though slight, the smile that touched Odin’s lips held a perfect measure of defiance. “Not anymore. Rebirth restructured my mastery, and the youth of my new body adds strength as well. Nothing limits me now.”

  Ravn knotted the tatters of his shirt into a wrist bandage, then pressed a fist to his head to stop the bleeding there. The wound gradually dulled into an ache that throbbed deep within his skull. He clung to his faith. “Illusion,” he insisted. “Not future.”

  Odin’s grin wilted to neutrality and barely beyond to a frown. “Your loyalty is touching, understandable, and also foolish. I can prove that Colbey exists only as an entity bound to chaos.”

  “Not necessary,” Vali said, earning a glare from his brother.

  “I would see this proof,” Vidar countered, and others nodded to indicate their interest. Even Loki’s widow, Sigyn, who had suffered enough insults toward her late husband, made a gesture to indicate Odin should proceed.

  Odin’s gaze speared Frey, Freya, and Idunn in turn, the three most magical left among the gods. “Summon a demon.”

  Alarmed glances and bits of conversation followed the order. Ravn understood their reluctance. Like ripples on a pond, even the smallest magics of gods tended to result in massive unintended consequences. The act of calling a demon would result in repercussions that went far beyond their ability to control and banish it.

  Odin accurately read the problem. “You cannot damage the balance any more than the one you call already has. Trust me, no harm will come to the world’s equilibrium as the result of this action, and you will learn whom to trust and whom to destroy.”

  Even Ravn could see the need to give Odin the chance to prove himself, though he worried for the cost.

  A long time passed in silence before Vidar said quietly, “Do it.”

  Freya, Frey, and Idunn came together in whispered discussion. By mutual consent, they could call forth the least powerful of the creatures.

  “You need not bother with bindings,” the AllFather said. “You cannot contain it.”

  Alarm sent Ravn surging to his feet, memories in Colbey’s voice filling his mind: “I confronted [Odin] because he attempted to summon a kraell, the most powerful of all demons. He made no attempt to bind it; he intended for it to scour the living worlds: men, elves, gods.” Ravn warned softly, “Mother.”

  Freya excused herself from the group to come to him.

  Ravn whispered fiercely. “Remember what Father said. Demon. No bindings. He’s trying to trick you into destroying us all.”

  Freya heaved a deep sigh. “Ravn, your father . . .” She broke off, onto another track. “We’ve considered it. We won’t summon anything we can’t handle even without bindings.”

  Ravn had anticipated that but still worried. “What if he interferes?” He indicated Odin with a slight movement of his head.

  “We’ll detect it and break the spell.”

  Odin’s easy ability to manipulate his mind kept Ravn skeptical. “What if he does it without your knowledge?”

  Freya turned her son a reassuring smile. “Ravn, he could have called a demon himself and sent it against us. I do believe he’s trying to show us something we need to understand. Trust me. I’ve known Odin millennia longer than you.”

  Ravn nodded erratically. He no longer felt certain who or what to trust. He still saw gaps in the explanation: Colbey had claimed to have stopped Odin’s summoning earlier. Perhaps the grim gray father of gods believed Colbey would not interfere with Freya’s summoning as with his own. Or, perhaps, he intended to confuse Colbey by having others do the summoning. Frustrated by his own ignorance of situation and magic, Ravn found himself incapable of constructing answers. He had to believe that, if Colbey could tell when and the type of demons Odin called upon, he would surely know when and how Freya, Frey, and Idunn did so as well.

  This time, Frey proved the voice of reason. “You say our bindings cannot hold this demon, nor apparently do you intend to direct which one we summon. How can this be?”

  Odin said only, “You will see.” He folded delicate arms across his chest in a gesture more suited to one of great musculature and power.

  Vidar fidgeted in his chair, only his stint as leader overcoming his fearful reverence for his father. “I can’t allow them to bring a creature beyond their ability to contain here, at least not without a full explanation. It would place too many gods and worlds in jeopardy.”

  “Very well.” Odin leaned across the table, gaze fastening and releasing each deity in turn. “No matter what you call, the Prince of Demons himself will answer the summons. We all know nothing of law can survive on chaos’ world. If Colbey comes from there, you must agree he could only have bound to his charge.”

  Again, nods circled the group, some reluctant, others thoughtful, and most eager. Some, like Vali and Sigyn, sought any excuse to condemn Baldur’s murderer.

  Odin’s glittering eye pinned Freya once more. “Will that convince y
ou?”

  The goddess lowered her head. “I’m afraid it’ll have to.”

  CHAPTER 8

  All For One

  Loyalty cannot be bought or sold.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  A breeze twined through the alien forest of the first bard’s world, sending high weeds bobbing, spilling seeds, and setting branches clicking in the trees. A steady rain of dry leaves pattered to the forest floor and onto the heads of the two elves and five humans gathered beneath it. Apart from the others, Tae stood with a cold hand pressed to the bark of an unfamiliar tree, watching and listening for danger. Darris perched on a weathered gray boulder, observing in a thoughtful hush, his mind likely occupied with Jahiran. Ra-khir and Kevral were poised near the elves, awaiting requests and occasionally exchanging soft comments that Tae could not hear. Andvari sat cross-legged on the ground, dragging a whetstone across a dagger blade that had seen no use since its last sharpening.

  At length, El-brinith looked up from her crouch, head barely moving. The flat sapphire eyes held a gleam of sincere sorrow. “I can’t get us back to Béarn until we all come together.”

  Darris raised his head. Chan’rék’ril nodded gentle agreement. Ra-khir paced two steps from the others, his expression unaccountably relieved. Kevral spoke the question on every mind, “What do you mean?”

  “The spell’s keyed specifically to us. All eight of us.”

  Ra-khir said more with a single word, “Rascal.” He had never felt comfortable abandoning her here, though her own unsociability condemned her.

  Tae sighed, stirring strands of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

  Kevral looked at her husband, then back to El-brinith. “Is that right? We need her to travel?”

  “I’m afraid so,” the elf said in her high, musical voice.

  Andvari lowered knife and stone to his lap, shaking back war braids that had fallen over his shoulders. “Fool,” he grumbled. “Best off rid of her—”

  Kevral could not resist baiting him. “Why? You don’t like Westerners either?”