The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Ra-khir managed an awkward, weaving dodge that spared him both claw strokes. Then the rodent head dipped forward, fast as a snake striking. The jaws closed around his torso, and red droplets pattered toward the forest. The knight screamed, the sound rending Kevral’s heart yet oddly reassuring. At least the bite had not instantly killed him.

  The lizard tails whipped out, Kevral barreling between them. Redirected by the need for evasion, she lost the positioning of her sword. She managed only to slash a tail as she crashed against the beast with enough force to jar Ra-khir free. The knight tumbled. Kevral slid across the smooth bulk, momentum spilling her over its haunches. Tossed back into open air, she willed herself upward, only then realizing that Ra-khir’s fall remained uncontrolled. The demon plunged toward the smoking forest, no active flames remaining from its previous attacks.

  Panic tore through Kevral, concern for Ra-khir stealing all joy from the battle. If he still lived, impact with the ground would surely kill him. She turned her fall into a deliberate dive, forcing herself to greater and greater speed. In less than a second, she reached the demon and the treetops. The ground seemed to bound upward to catch her.

  Chan’rék’ril’s panicked khohlar reached Kevral, sending full concept faster than he could speak a single word: *I can handle Ra-khir. Save yourself.*

  Kevral attempted a frantic rise, too late. She plummeted helplessly, unable to overcome inertia and air currents. The death she had envisioned for Ra-khir had become her own. She struggled hopelessly, refusing to surrender. A moment later, she slammed, shoulder leading, against something solid. Agony rocked through her. Her breath dashed from her chest in a rush. She felt herself tumbling as blackness overtook her. She awakened almost immediately, flopping limply from the demon’s bulk, air wheezing back into her battered lungs.

  “Kevral!” Darris shouted. She saw him running toward her before the demon interposed itself between them. Understanding seeped slowly to the fore. The demon had broken her fall, its softer body and its own downward motion rescuing her from an impact that should have killed her. Its claws sped toward her. She gathered all of her strength into a roll that barely saved her. Her fist ached, impressions of the sword’s knurling tattooed against the palm. True to her Renshai instincts, she had clung to it even through her brief spell of unconsciousness. She slashed for the only part of the demon she could reach, and whetted steel carved a line of blood across its chest.

  The creature bellowed, recoiling. Likely, it expected her sword to accomplish nothing more than Ra-khir’s. Its head reared back, preparing to strike or breathe fire. Bruised, burned, and battered, Kevral found her feet unsteady. She could dodge its bite, but she could not escape a blast of fire.

  Clambering to the demon’s back, Darris grabbed its head and clamped his fingers over its eyes. Seizing the moment of blindness, Kevral dashed forward, slashing the fine membranes of its right wing.

  The demon roared. The mangled wing flashed downward. The tails lashed for Kevral, and its head flailed. Hurled to the ground, Darris stumbled to his feet. A claw thrashed toward him. Tangled into the silken wing, the tails missed Kevral. She struggled to its back, veering from the whipping opposite wing and the tails that beat the air in a wild assault. She plunged her sword as deep as her strength allowed into the creature’s spine.

  The demon stiffened, a single spasm, then flopped to the forest floor. Its red eyes opened widely, like coals pressed into shadow. Pained bleats emerged in bursts from its jaws. Kevral collapsed to its bulk, too weak even to remove her sword and finish the suffering beast.

  El-brinith approached Kevral, nervously watching the limp creature. Her hands felt soothing as ice against Kevral’s burns, and the gentle elfin touch channeled back a bit of her wrung-out reserves. The repetitive howls of the demon ached through her ears, stealing concentration. As soon as the Renshai could walk, she jerked her sword from its wedge between the demon’s vertebrae, splattering them both with blood. Reluctantly, she abandoned El-brinith’s ministrations to jab the blade through the demon’s eye. Scarlet welled around the wound. The mouth remained open, drooling a red froth that rekindled Kevral’s terror. She had done no injury to internal organs, so the blood was likely Ra-khir’s, not the beast’s.

  Again, Kevral ripped the sword from her enemy. Though it came free much easier, the effort proved too much. She stumbled two steps backward, then collapsed on the ground. Her consciousness swam but did not recede. El-brinith set to work again. Unlike Matrinka, she did not chastise. Kevral forced a smile. “Will I live?”

  *Yes.* El-brinith did not bother with words. *And the baby, too.*

  For the first time, Kevral found herself actually glad of that assessment. So many times before she thought of the baby as a real entity, she had hoped it would simply die within her. “What’s the damage?” She both hoped and dreaded that El-brinith would read her need to know about Ra-khir’s condition as well. She could not bring herself to ask directly yet. Renshai mind techniques included assessing the details of one’s own wounds, but Kevral could not yet spare the energy for a search.

  *Snapped the left collarbone. And a rib. The rest is bruising and burns. Healers back home can handle it all, so long as it doesn’t get . . .* Kevral inserted the word “infected” for the vast concept that followed. Elves did not suffer from illnesses or the decay that afflicted dirty human wounds. Kevral refused to contemplate the eventuality now. Burns, especially ones as extensive as she had suffered, became infected more easily than any other kind of wound. She would place her trust in Matrinka’s capable hands and hope her worst concern was scarring.

  Kevral cleared her throat, forced to ask what El-brinith had not addressed. “Ra-khir? Is he. . . ?”

  El-brinith sent general khohlar, her obvious target her elfin companion. *She wants to know about your charge.*

  *Punctured spleen,* Chan’rék’ril returned.

  Kevral’s heart froze. A splenic injury could bleed a man out in less time than it took to find the wound. She had never heard of anyone surviving such a thing.

  *Lost a lot of blood, but I got it staunched. Nothing else inside. Lots of external punctures.*

  Kevral thanked every god for elfin magic. Nothing human could have saved Ra-khir. “He’s going to live?”

  El-brinith remained as elusive as most healers. “Captain and the others should be able to handle it.”

  “Jealous of my scars, huh?” Tae spoke from so close, it startled Kevral. “Had to get a few of his own.”

  “I’m all right, too.” Darris limped to a rock near Kevral and sat. Dirt streaked his whole body, and twigs lay entangled in his curls. “If anyone wanted to know.” No malice entered his tone. He, too, simply intended to lighten the mood.

  “Hey,” Tae said. “Aren’t you supposed to sing that?”

  Darris complied:

  “I fell on my head

  The demon was dread.

  Now please take me

  Home to bed.”

  Tae tried one of his own to the same simple tune:

  “You fell on your brain.

  The demon’s now tame.

  That verse you sang

  Was remarkably lame.”

  Now strong enough to clean her sword, Kevral set to work, smiling at her friends’ efforts to cheer her. “Tae, singing may not be your best skill.”

  Tae feigned a pout. “Well, then. Perhaps I’m better at this.” He extended a hand to reveal a ragged chunk of blue stone.

  Kevral stared at the Pica shard, then at Tae. “Where did you get that?”

  “Rascal and I sneaked in the back of the cave and took it.”

  Kevral glanced in Ra-khir’s direction. “How long have you had it?”

  Tae followed Kevral’s gaze, and all humor vanished.

  Rascal stepped from the brush, ignoring Tae’s brisk, silencing gestures. “Long ‘nuff ta git back an’ watch mosta the fight.”

  Kevral swallowed hard.

  “What!” Darris glared at their
Eastern companion. “You mean we could have avoided most of this?”

  Kevral cringed. She understood Darris’ rage. She and Ra-khir might still succumb to infection. Any of them could have been killed outright. But now was not a good time to question Tae’s judgment, especially when the blame better lay on herself. “No, Darris, we couldn’t have. I wouldn’t have left the battle. And Ra-khir would have worried for others this abomination might have harmed.” She waved at the massive corpse. “Tae knew that.”

  Tae shrugged, nodding. “I did try to suggest it before the two of you went charging in, but you didn’t listen then. And you wouldn’t have in the middle of combat.”

  “You’re right,” Darris said, calm now. “I’m sorry I got angry.”

  “I understand.” Tae beckoned Rascal.

  With clear reluctance, the girl plucked a whole, small ruby from her pocket and passed it to him. “We found this. Amid some quartz, pyrite, and scraps of steel. A collector, too, though more in the sense of a crow.” He pocketed the ruby. “I promised Rascal she could have it after we completed the last task, if you don’t think that’s a problem.”

  Kevral shook her head. “Not for me.”

  The Pudarian’s gaze followed the trinket from Tae’s hand to a pocket or pouch inside his vest. A look of determination filled her brown eyes. Kevral did not envy Tae’s need to keep it from its eventual owner until the right time, but she understood it. Once Rascal had the gemstone, she would disappear to spend it, risking the entire mission.

  *Let’s go,* Chan’rék’ril sent. *Sooner is better for Ra-khir.*

  Kevral rose, finally daring to look closely in that direction. The elf crouched over Ra-khir’s still form whose head lay cradled in Andvari’s lap. The Northman tended the wounded warrior like a brother. Apparently noticing Kevral’s attention, Andvari rose, lowering Ra-khir gently to the ground. To her relief, the Knight of Erythane stirred at the motion, her first objective sign that he still lived. Only then, she realized Andvari held Rache’s sword, the blade freshly oiled and the sheath well-soaped. Hilt leading in the proper gesture of peace, he offered it to Kevral.

  As Kevral accepted the sword, her mind flashed back to the time of its giving and the blood brotherhood that had developed between a Renshai who had lost all his kin and a Northman who had participated in the slaughter.

  “I’m afraid it touched the ground,” Andvari said, deferring to a Renshai doctrine that the other Northern tribes had never shared.

  Atoning for dishonoring swords has become a familiar pastime. Kevral did not have the opportunity to speak the words aloud before elfin magic opened the way to Béarn.

  CHAPTER 22

  Threats and Decisions

  Like ripples on a pond, fame spreads until its own vastness leads to its demise. Lasting glory is achieved by heroism day to day.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  COLBEY walled his worry for his family into the furthest reaches of his consciousness, safe from exploitation. Odin must not know of the one place on chaos’ world that he could access and the treasure trove he would find there. The old Renshai would have preferred to lock those he loved into a stronghold more secure than the impenetrable one he had crafted for Modi and Magni, but that would leave Freya and Ravn wholly dependent on him. His worry seemed ludicrous. The fate of every world lay in his hands, yet he refused to trust the lives of wife and son there. They deserved the chance to rescue themselves when the masses of power destroyed one another, paving the way for a newer, more stable balance. And as the Keeper of the Balance, Ravn would have time to hone his abilities, to gain wisdom, to achieve the necessary strength to prevent such a thing from happening again.

  *To Asgard,* Colbey told the Staff of Chaos. *The practice field.*

  Hungry for the battle that it hoped would destroy law utterly, leaving itself in control, chaos triggered the proper transport. Colbey derived no satisfaction from its dutiful response. Their association lasted only so long as their goals overlapped.

  The familiar tingle of magic surrounded Colbey, captured in one of the darkest songs of Béarn’s bards. An ancestor of Darris’ who had lived during Colbey’s mortal years had found the sensation so hideous and invasive, he had compared it to rape and never allowed the Wizards to transport him again. Yet, Colbey found comfort in the prickle that enveloped him like a second skin. The sudden blast of chaos-stuff in a contained area made even the ceaseless parade of colors on its world seem dim. The new and vibrant shades defied Colbey’s description, unlike anything within the constraints of Midgard’s rainbow. Ideas usually whirled through the soup of chaos’ world, hopelessly ungraspable. Here they found fruition, shaped by the modicum of law necessary to direct chaos into magic. Every time Colbey transported, he learned something new about the world’s composition, its science, its mathematics, the concepts of its past and future genius.

  This time something felt different to Colbey. The use of magic always required restraint, but this time it seemed more like bondage. The dribble of law that usually shaped the spell grew into a dangerous torrent that beckoned with surprising gentleness. Chaos channeled him toward Asgard, but it labored too hard for the location of his landing. The brilliance that chaos sparked allowed him to divine the answer within the seconds of the spell’s existence. Other magic had acted upon his, guiding him toward a defined destination.

  Too late to cancel the transport, Colbey attempted one of his lightning retreats. His body could not physically affect the formless, but his mind might. He concentrated on the mental aspects of movement, galloping from the landing point the outside force had chosen.

  The invader proved stronger. Like a whirlwind, it dragged him into a disorienting spiral. Colbey fought for reason. He pictured the second magic as an enemy, hewing at it with an imagined sword. The blade carved through, with no more effect than it would have on wind. He struggled against the inexorable pulling, allowing himself to spin in dazzling revolutions, more concerned with movement in the opposite direction of its vacuum. The combined strength of two magic sources defeated him. The spell he had requested and the meddler he believed was Odin both hauled him toward Asgard.

  The tremor of chaos subsided, and the colors dulled as the spell drew toward conclusion. Worried for his landing, Colbey attempted one last evasion, this time sideways. He plowed through the weakening forces, his body responding as well as his mind. He dodged, missing the destination the other intended by scant fingers’ breadths. A magical force as heavy as a hewn-stone rooftop crashed against his trailing foot, then hammered the ground hard enough to quake it. Agony shot through his leg, and he worried for the bone. Asgard’s blue-green grasses jabbed his face and neck. Exhaustion gripped his head like a vice. He had not realized just how hard he had labored against the magics, stealing the energy of body and mind.

  *Get him,* someone unseen instructed.

  A sword whipped toward Colbey. He rolled, feeling the cold passage of the strike. He gained his feet, relieved that both sustained his weight. The pain in his ankle faded slightly, a sure sign he had suffered no long-term damage there. When the blade sped toward him again, he drew-cut and met it, prepared for a power that would strain his arms. But the wielder proved no stronger than himself. The other disengaged from the block with a quickness that betrayed expertise. For a moment, Colbey worried that he battled a Renshai at a time when mental warfare had exhausted him beyond ethical considerations or, possibly, even a good fight.

  Colbey’s own speed, which usually granted him three strikes to any opponent’s one, succumbed to fatigue. He sacrificed his attack for a glance at his opponent. Blue eyes shone rabidly from the familiar face of the Renshai’s patron goddess, Sif. Tresses crafted from metallic gold flowed around features he had worshiped since childhood, and the excitement that should have accompanied a battle with an able foe turned cold. He had escaped one trap only to blunder into another. The struggle against his own weariness stole the bulk of his concentration. He did not wish to kill Sif, but he wou
ld do so if she forced his hand.

  Colbey mulled the best strategy as he met another thunderous rush. Grab her and transport. He started a complicated Renshai maneuver, ending with an in-and-out weave intended to bypass her defenses and disarm. But mind combat drained him worse than anything physical could. His movements turned sloppy, lacking power. She drove aside his assault with a deft flipflop that bared his head to her next stroke. He evaded it with a desperate spinning retreat that she trailed. Her sword skimmed an arm thrown out further than usual for balance.

  “I got a better fight from you centuries ago,” Sif sneered, ignoring a high feint for the low maneuver that followed.

  Colbey remembered. In his mortal years, she had appeared to him, sanctioning his decision to change the dedication of the Renshai from gleeful slaughter to hired swords in ethical causes. Renshai still sought Valhalla; but their glories, triumphs, and deaths came now at the price of enemies not innocents. Their current confrontation seemed to undermine the very principle that had brought them together.

  Steel flashed beneath Asgard’s perfect sun, highlights of gold and silver flickering over the uniform grasses. Colbey blocked, parried, or dodged all of Sif’s brutal assaults. More saddened than angered by her attack, emotions blunted by lassitude, Colbey’s only offense consisted of complex maneuvers intended to gingerly disarm. His own tired sloppiness, or her brilliant defenses, thwarted half a hundred opportunities. Doggedly, Colbey awaited more.

  Sif’s assault seemed to gain power, even as Colbey’s lost it. “If not for me, you wouldn’t exist.” She reminded him that she had discovered her husband’s tryst with a mortal Renshai that resulted in his conception. When that warrior had died with Colbey barely formed in her womb, Sif had transferred him inside his barren mother. Thus, she had dealt him mercy twice; once by this rescue and also by refraining from destroying him out of jealous anger. “I would never have spared you had I known . . .” Her voice caught, and her sword wavered before driving in for a neck strike that nearly landed for its unexpected hesitancy. Thoughts jumping, Colbey passed the insignificant thought that beginning students often proved most dangerous for that reason. Their inexperience made them difficult to defend against, though they always fell to competent offense. “. . . you would kill my sons!” She hammered his next attack with newfound rage.