"I… can… stem… his magic," Chymmerlee panted. "Or… I can… talk. Not both."
Sword readied, Saviar hovered over Chymmerlee while Subikahn crouched quietly in shadow. Ra-khir continued to watch around them. Suddenly, just as Chymmerlee predicted, pirates swarmed toward them.
Both young Renshai leaped into battle, and even Ra-khir found himself hard-pressed for the first time since the war began. Silver Warrior reared and bit while Ra-khir's sword flashed around him. They worked together like a team, well- and long-trained for battle. The sword never gashed the horse; the stallion never unbalanced its rider. Instead, they slashed and stabbed, danced and bit in a wild flurry of warfare. And left a trail of bodies in their wake.
Calistin cut down the last of his enemies with an easy gut slice, then whirled to face more that never materialized. The putrid reek of bowel and blood filled the air, obscuring the odors of sea wrack, death, and sweat. The dying man writhed at his feet; but, for the moment, the Renshai had no opponents. Clutching a dripping sword in each hand, he surveyed the beach. Something, he did not yet know what, had changed significantly. Nearby,Valr Magnus chopped down his own final pirate and found himself as strangely open as Calistin. He crouched, clearly also sensing that the tide of battle had become altered in a big way.
"There!" the general said suddenly, jabbing his sword southward.
Calistin turned to see a giant standing on the shore amid a haphazard pile of continental soldiers. He moved easily, clearly unconcerned about the men hurling themselves at him. A human wall of hacking blades left him without a scratch. He took them down without effort, his movements revealing only derision and contempt. At length, the soldiers dropped back to circle him warily, afraid to move within striking distance of his blade. The pirates' ranks on the shore had noticeably thinned. Either the continental armies had cut most of them down, or they had turned their attentions elsewhere.
No longer racing with exertion, Calistin's heart slowed to a steady pound, like war drums. A smile eased its way onto his face. Finally, it seemed, he had discovered an opponent worthy of his skill. Without hesitation, he charged, battle-screaming. His booted footfalls pounded the packed, wet sand, and his swords streamed lines of scarlet in his wake.
Men from both sides of the war scurried out of Calistin's way, and he found his route to the Kjempemagiska unbarred. As he plunged toward Firuz, he suddenly regretted his decision to run the entire distance. He threw himself into the combat with his legs taxed and his lungs winded, while Firuz only waited, with a curious expression, to receive him. As Calistin drew near, the Kjempemagiska raised his sword suddenly, intending for his crazed opponent to impale himself on the stop thrust.
Calistin dodged easily, closing under the sword and delivering a slash that cut a bloody line through Firuz' leggings and across his shin.
The Kjempemagiska roared, leaping back in surprise. His sword whipped down with shocking speed for one so large, and Calistin found himself hard-pressed to avoid it. He threw himself sideways, keeping his feet but missing his opening for another attack. The sword sped past him with such size and force that it overbalanced him. Even a few of the men standing back staggered in the gust of its passing.
A voice entered Calistin's head.*So you have a weapon imbued with magic, little man. Now that I know it, you will not touch me again.*
Calistin drove in, slashing with his mother's sword in his right fist, raising the left in defense. This time, he went for the knee, hoping to incapacitate. The giant moved with impressive speed. Calistin's blade barely skimmed his clothing, and the massive, curved sword slammed down hard on Calistin's left-hand blade. The attempt at a parry nearly proved Calistin's downfall. His blade shattered beneath the mighty blow; and, though the breaking steel absorbed most of the force, Calistin felt something snap in his forearm. Agony shot through his arm.
"Modi!" Calistin shouted, as much cursing his own incompetence as channeling the god of wrath. With no sword to honor, he dropped the useless hilt and forced himself to the attack. He threaded through a wild sweep of defense to bury the sword given to his mother by Colbey into the meaty part of Firuz' lower leg.
The giant roared and jerked. Sword trapped deeply in flesh, Calistin grasped the hilt like a lifeline. Firuz ripped the blade free, leaving Calistin staggering but armed. He managed to dodge the Kjempemagiska's riposte, though it moved with impossible speed for one so massive. Whatever magic he had lost, the giant could still clearly keep his own movements stronger than humanity and quicker than liquid.
I need to get higher, Calistin realized; but the possibilities defeated him. They fought on flat shore, and the surrounding men made it impossible to lead the giant to the dunes, even if he bothered to follow. Calistin knew better than to jump, which would fully commit his momentum and rob him of the dexterity that was his only hope against the giant. He could not win this contest strength to strength. He reassessed his targets. Only two lethal areas seemed accessible: the massive arteries in the back of the thighs and the groin. Anything else was out of reach.
Calistin bore in, slashing, dancing, always moving. His sword scored several nicks against various parts of the giant's hands and legs. Firuz' own brutal attacks fell on empty air as Calistin remained in perpetual motion, anticipating the strikes and gliding through them. Then, abruptly, the side of Firuz' blade slammed across Calistin's cheek and neck with bruising force. The impact sent him airborne, crashing into the piled corpses, where he rolled down the opposite side, entangled with floppy arms and twitching legs. Bruised and aching, he rolled swiftly to his feet, but the giant had not followed. Firuz stood back, watching, a lopsided grin wreathing his massive face.
CHAPTER 46
The qualityValkyries seek is courage.Valhalla is the reward for any man who dies bravely in battle.
-Freya
Theworld disappeared into a red fog of battle, and Saviar saw nothing but targets and weapons. His arms and legs kept moving long after exhaustion overtook understanding, emotion, and most of his awareness. Hearing and smell, feeling and taste all lost meaning. Nothing remained but the sole concern of his current universe: anticipate, dodge or parry, and slash. Even the slam of his sword into flesh lost significance, except to create a hole where more enemies could flood in to meet him.
Saviar knew he had given up ground. He could sense Chymmerlee directly at his back, felt the swish of Silver Warrior and Ra-khir's sword at his left and the cut of Subikahn's to his right. They formed an unwavering triangle that seemed to remain in place more from habit and raw necessity than the skill and talent it once represented. They continued to fight because to do otherwise might mean the end of their world. They could not afford to collapse, to die, though Saviar secretly wished he dared. The promised rewards of Valhalla had never beckoned so strongly.Yet he kept fighting, kept hacking at his fresher, eager foes; and they continued to tumble back from his assault. Only to be replaced by more.
Saviar's arms had gone beyond aching to numbness. His thoughts wallowed through inertia as thick as pudding. His legs felt detached, though they continued to work in concert with his body. Eternally, his Renshai instincts, his constant and obsessive practices, came through; he chopped down enemies in singlets and pairs. Quitting was not an option, so onward Saviar went, buoyed beyond fatigue, beyond strained agony, nearly beyond consciousness itself by forces he could not name.
The triumphant blare of a horn managed to penetrate Saviar's thoughts, although its meaning eluded him.
Subikahn shouted breathlessly, "It's the East!"
The East. The words were insignificant sounds in Saviar's ears. The. He had to define it. East. Understanding seeped slowly through his brain. Then the sound of clamoring steel chimed across the beach and joined the echoes from the great mountains and buildings of Bearn. The East! It came to him like lightning through a crackling wall of dancing spots. The armies of the East had arrived, abandoning their previous station on the Western Plains. Strong, untired reinforcements. If he could have dredged up th
e energy, Saviar might have cheered.
Then, suddenly, Subikahn gasped.
The sound proved so compelling, Saviar could not help glancing toward his twin, even though it opened his defenses. Luckily, no one gaffed him through the hole. Subikahn remained standing, his motions as swift and graceful as ever, at least to Saviar's exhausted eye. Whatever had happened was not a deathblow. Subikahn stared out over the enemies to the newcomers; and something there held his gaze as much as any one thing could keep the focus of a man engaged in battle, hemmed in by enemies.
Though concentrating on his opponents, Saviar dared to look.The man at the head of the Eastern cavalry caught his eye like a golden beacon. Tall and blond, unarmored and unhelmeted, he stood out magnificently among the swarthy Easterners, which also made him an obvious target. Saviar's own resistance decreased noticeably as the pirates turned some of their attention to this new threat.
"It's Talamir," Subikahn said. Though he spoke barely above a whisper, Saviar heard him. "Talamir's… alive. He's alive."
For the moment. Hard-pressed to his own defense, Saviar did not speak aloud, even had he had something useful to say. The sight clearly galvanized Subikahn, whose strokes became as swift and vigorous as if he had newly joined the fight. Saviar did not try to match him. The sharp sting of small cuts and injuries seemed the only thing keeping him awake. He plunged back into a battle that, at least now, seemed to have a positive end.
It took General Valr Magnus longer to clear a path along the beach, and he arrived just in time to see Calistin tumble down a pile of the dead and dying. Without a thought, he dove for Firuz, only to find himself unexpectedly jerked backward by his sword arm. He whirled, catching his balance, but unable to stop the movement from appearing awkward. He slashed blindly at the person or object that had stopped him, but his sword cut through empty air.
Magnus found himself staring at a warrior he had never seen before, clearly of the continental forces by his dress and a Northman by coloring. He wore no armor, jewelry, or adornments. His tunic and breeks, though simple, looked richly tailored; and he wore a sword at either hip. "Sheathe your weapon, Valr," the man commanded.
Affronted, Valr Magnus ignored the demand. "I'm not letting Calistin fight that abomination alone."
"Nor should you." With a movement so quick Magnus could not follow it, the stranger drew and flipped his own right-hand weapon so that the hilt faced the general. "But your blade can't hit him. Mine can."
Magnus blinked, uncertain. From the corner of his eye, he saw Calistin spin to his feet and fling himself at the monster again. There was no time for questioning. The offered weapon appeared finely polished, oiled and cared for. Dutifully, he slammed his sword into its sheath and closed his fingers around the other's hilt. For an instant, his touch met resistance, and the stranger looked distressed. Then, it came free in Valr Magnus' hand, and the extent of its fineness became abundantly clear. The balance awed him, a perfection he would not have believed any blacksmith could achieve. The blade glimmered, just heavy enough for solid momentum and steel integrity, yet light for speed. The split-leather haft fit his hand as if crafted especially for it. Whirling, he breathed out a grateful "Thank you," as he charged Firuz.
Calistin became a golden blur of motion, his sword slicing nicks into flesh that felt as thick and solid as wood. Firuz' attacks still came as swiftly and with the force of a galloping steed, but Calistin never held still long enough for the massive sword to touch him. A couple of times, it came dangerously close, rocking him in the wave of air that accompanied its passing. Always, that proved enough to dislodge Calistin and to steal any opening he might have for a dangerous riposte. His left arm ached excruciatingly, and his right felt heavy with exhaustion.
They both knew time favored the Kjempemagiska. Calistin's constant need for motion would become his undoing. Fatigue took even the gods, eventually; and both attack and defense required Calistin to make ten or twenty movements for every one of the giant's. It would only take one miscalculation, a single lucky swing, to remove Calistin permanently from the battle.
But Calistin refused to consider the odds. He defied them daily. Three to one, a hundred to one, a million to one; all that mattered was the one. He drove in again and again, hoping fortune would favor him with just enough time to jab in a lethal blow. All he needed was an opening. He would handle the rest.
And that opening did finally come, after what seemed like grim hours of dodge and slash, whirlwind grace and steel lethality. Calistin managed to stab his blade deeply into the giant's left leg.
Firuz let out a bellow of outrage and pain, stock-still for a moment in deadly stalemate. If he moved too quickly, he might dislodge the sword causing dangerous tearing or bleeding. But, if he remained still too long, he gave Calistin the opportunity to shove it deeper or jerk it loose with the same horrible consequences.
The moment lasted less than a small, grim fraction of a second. As Calistin wrestled to wrench the gouge into a tear, Firuz kicked him with his unharmed leg. Calistin sprang, but his hold on his own hilt limited his movement.The giant's shin caught him an off-balance blow with enough force to free sword and Renshai, sending them spinning in an awkward arch.
Then, another blade joined the battle, in the grip of Valr Magnus.
Twisting, trying to keep his steadying movements unpredictable, Calistin shouted a warning. "No, Valr! Your sword can't-"
But, miraculously, it did. The blade carved a line of leather from Firuz' sandal ties and kissed open a spot of blood just below his knee.
Calistin charged in again, with renewed vigor. The two men fell into a cooperative rhythm, as they had on the shore, two insidious mosquitoes assaulting their massive foe. Magnus had the great advantage of height and reach, but Calistin moved more quickly and with a fluid grace that seemed more liquid than human. Magnus demonstrated a great skill and quickness of his own, and his strength made Calistin's seem paltry.
Then, suddenly, laughter filled Calistin's head.*She's wavering.*
Calistin had no idea what Firuz meant, nor did he care. He knew better than to converse during a battle of this magnitude. A truly competent torke would sprawl him the moment he opened his mouth, a well-taught lesson. Yet, even without question, the answer came. With an abruptness Calistin had to attribute to magic, Firuz' movements accelerated. The change caught both men off guard, but Valr Magnus took the first blow. It caught him hard in the side, hurling him into the air. Blood splashed Calistin, then he found himself too hard-pressed to his own defense to worry about his companion. *Stand still, you gnat!*
In comparison to Firuz' newfound speed, Calistin felt as if he might have obeyed the command. He found himself pushed beyond the limit to dodge the giant's wild blows, more by anticipation than skill. Things made sudden sense. Whatever had curtailed the Kjempemagiska 's magic had started to fail. Calistin had no idea of the full range of Firuz' abilities, but he knew he had better act swiftly. The sooner he took the giant down, the less chance Firuz would have to regather his power, to demonstrate the supernatural talents he was gradually regaining.
Calistin bore in, sacrificing agility for speed. The best defense is a dead enemy. He sprang for Firuz' thigh.
But the giant's superhuman speed defied even Calistin. Another kick sent him sprawling, then the giant's sword screamed down on the Renshai.
Battle-trained eyes knew death when they saw it, and Calistin could not move quickly enough. I'm dead. Nevertheless, he flung himself sideways, attempting to roll.
"No!" someone screamed. A small figure flew over Calistin. In the instant it took the sword to skewer this new body, Calistin's roll carried him free. His rescuer collapsed, run through by Firuz' blade, flopping onto Calistin's trailing and injured left arm.
Agony burst through Calistin a second time. "Modi," he screamed, to clear his head. "Modi!" He jerked free, pain whitewashing his vision, and stumbled toward his opponent. Despite the near-miss, despite the anguish chewing at his consciousness, Calisti
n had to claim what might prove his only opening. In the instant it took the magically quickened giant to dislodge his blade from the corpse, Calistin sprang through his defenses to bury Kevral's sword in the right side of Firuz' groin.
The blade cut deeply into flesh. Ignoring all sight and sound around him, with no regard to defense, Calistin ripped the blade downward with all the strength remaining in his arm and body.
Blood shot from the wound with a force that sent Calistin tumbling, sword still gripped tightly in his fist. Like a wave, it encompassed him, salty and stinging, battering him helplessly until he worried he would never breathe again. Then, Firuz' body toppled, amid running screaming men. The torrent of arterial blood dropped to a trickle, and Calistin sprang to his feet, spitting and dripping.
Only then, Calistin glanced at his savior, the one who had taken the blow that should have killed him. Treysind lay, still, on the sand, his chest torn open by the giant's massive blade. Shattered ribs poked through the opening, and blood dripped mercilessly onto the sand.
"No!" Calistin found himself seized with a sudden urge to tear apart anyone and anything in his reach. He threw himself on the boy, shaking until loops of bowel appeared at the wound. "No, Treysind! Wake up!" It was raw stupidity for a Renshai to act like an ignorant child who cannot tell that his mother has died. Calistin knew death better than anyone, knew a fatal wound when he saw one, and even an infant could see that no life remained in Treysind's body. "Get up, do you hear me! Get! Up!" He shook Treysind even more violently. "I told you not to help, you stupid child! You weren't supposed to be here!"
"Calistin,"Valr Magnus said sternly, but even he knew better than to step within Calistin's reach.
Then, Calistin saw the Valkyrie, and his blood ran cold. Randgrithr, Shieldbearer. He knew her name just as he had Hildr's, the Valkyrie who had accompanied his mother to Valhalla. For Valr Magnus? Calistin thought he had heard the general's living voice, but the Valkyrie must have come for someone brave, someone who had died in glorious combat. He glanced past Treysind's body to the Aeri general. The Northman's mail hung in strips, revealing a heaving well-muscled chest, and the entire left side of his body was smeared scarlet. He stood in clear awe, his blue eyes wide, his jaw drooping, and his nostrils flared. Slowly, he collapsed to one knee, not from pain or fatigue, but in a gesture of overwhelming respect.
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