Colbey shook his head, trying to regain his bearings. The efforts of his mental exploration, the hallucination, and the heavy acrid reek of the charred forest made him queasy. Wildly, he glanced at Kirin to see if the Northman had also seen the vision.
But if he did, Kirin gave no sign. His forehead creased, making his look urgent. “Colbey Calistinsson, I have one last pact to make with you.” He met and held the blue-gray eyes. “The man who wins this duel will not bar the loser from Valhalla.”
Colbey nodded once, still dizzy. Until the woman’s words, he had not realized what he had tried to do. Wrapped up in Valr Kirin’s certainty, Colbey had sincerely believed that he would betray the Renshai, that he would serve Carcophan, and that, for the good of the world, he must die. He did not know if that certainty came from Valr Kirin or himself, but it would not fully leave him. But if Sif told me to believe in myself, how can I do otherwise? I did not war for seventy years to die a coward. “I would have it no other way. I would never dismember a noble enemy, and you are the noblest I’ve faced. Before we start, though, I do have one question in the name of your blood brother in Valhalla, Rache Kallmirsson.”
Now Kirin nodded curtly. Though he did not visibly flinch, Colbey could feel a flurry of radiating emotion. At the time of the pact, Kirin had never guessed that Rache was Renshai. Sometime in the past decade, he had learned this fact. His more obvious thoughts and actions told Colbey that Valr Kirin had worked through his conflicting loyalties on the matter. Colbey guessed that the relationship might have started the spark of peace between Kirin and the Renshai, though it did not apparently extend to the feud between Colbey and Kirin.
“Whoever killed Rache’s son, Episte, mutilated him horribly.” Colbey felt his own composure wavering, the vision of the headless body filling his memory with agony. “Why?” His voice betrayed his pain.
“No,” Kirin said.
Colbey waited. The lieutenant had not directly addressed his question.
“No.” Kirin’s hand clenched around his sword hilt. “It wasn’t one of mine.”
“Circumstance says it was. I found him among dead Northmen.”
“It could not have been one of my men.” Kirin did not waver; though, from the edge of his gaze, Colbey could see Olvaerr shuffling nervously. “There’s nothing more to say.”
Colbey glanced at Valr Kirin’s son, tangibly touching his nervous energy, keyed nearly to the point of breaking. The need to know goaded him to search the youngster’s thoughts, yet Colbey resisted, Sif’s words still echoing in his head.
Valr Kirin paced backward a step and drew his sword from its plain scabbard. The blade glowed so brightly that the cloudless sky paled before it. White flames danced along its edge.
Panic touched Colbey from a source behind him, so strong that it tore past Kirin’s aura of determination and Olvaerr’s confusion. Without understanding why, Colbey knew the sword’s name, Ristoril, the Sword of Tranquillity; and he knew the information could only have come from one source. Shadimar? The Eastern Wizard’s fear, so unfamiliar and uncharacteristic, shattered Colbey’s concentration.
Valr Kirin’s sword lunged for Colbey, as if sword, not man, was the wielder. Colbey drew Harval and parried. The swords met with a clang that seemed far too loud to Colbey in the dead stillness of the ravaged forest. Sparks erupted from the contact, milk-white pinpoints against misty gray shadow. Colbey twisted, and the Nordmirian’s blade scratched along his own, locking on the crossguard.
Secodon emitted a long, tortured howl.
Slowed by the energy wasted in his mental exploration, Colbey did not press quickly enough. Kirin jerked his sword free, then bore in for another cut. This time Colbey dodged, returning a sweep that Kirin scarcely met. Again, the swords chimed together, the sound as clear and precise as music. Immediately, Colbey reversed, and Kirin slashed. Colbey met this new attack with a parry that he continued into a sweep for Kirin’s neck. The Nordmirian backpedaled. The tip of Colbey’s sword skimmed along his helmet, leaving a scar across the steel.
Colbey surged in. His blade whipped upward in a feint that fooled Kirin. He raised his sword to block, even as Colbey’s countercut opened his shirt, mail, and abdomen. The Northman staggered, his face as pale as his sword.
Valr Kirin made no sound, but Olvaerr screamed as if the wound were his own. “Father, no!” The youth’s blood rage hammered Colbey from without, and Kirin’s son drew and sprang for the Renshai.
Colbey wrenched his sword upward to meet Olvaerr’s unexpected rush. The chest thrust meant to painlessly end Kirin’s life became a broad sweep, and the magically sharpened steel claimed his arm at the shoulder. Colbey’s blade met Olvaerr’s, and the child’s wild eyes reflected the crazed grief and desperation that Colbey could read easily. Rage tightened Colbey’s grip on his sword. He had broken his last vow to Kirin, his promise to send the noblest of his foes to Valhalla, and he had no intention of claiming the Nordmirian hero’s son as well. To kill Olvaerr also meant breaking a vow to the gods, and it would reawaken a feud that had taken more than a century to quiet.
“Korgar, no!” Mitrian screamed.
Before Colbey could interpret the cry, the barbarian ran toward the fray, spear leveled. Olvaerr’s sword hacked frenzied, unpredictable arcs, and the youngster seemed oblivious to his defenses. Colbey carefully measured a disarming maneuver. Before he could strike, Korgar charged in from behind him. Colbey dodged, guessing the barbarian’s path by sound, but he misjudged. A meaty shoulder grazed him, and the power behind the charge knocked him to one knee. The spear plowed for Olvaerr.
“Korgar, stop!” Colbey managed a desperate upstroke that tipped the point of the spear toward the sky. The barb tore Olvaerr’s tunic, scratching across mail. Unable to check his charge, Korgar knocked the youngster sprawling. Then, tripping over the butt of his spear, Korgar pinwheeled over Olvaerr’s head. All three men lurched to their feet. Immediately, Olvaerr resumed his assault, hacking at Colbey repeatedly with tireless, powerful strokes that rage made dangerous. Colbey only defended, seeking the opening that would end the onslaught. Patience had won the attention and respect of many students enraged to reckless stupidity. Though he had no time for such thoughts, Colbey could not help seeing Episte in this other youngster’s rage-driven violence, and the relationship with his dying father that Colbey respected and envied.
Behind the Nordmirian’s son, Korgar made another charge, spear lowered and aimed for Olvaerr’s back.
“No! Korgar! Stop!” Colbey’s options ran short, and he still saw no opening. He blocked mechanically, aware it was no longer Olvaerr who needed to be halted. Time ran out in a heartbeat, and still Olvaerr left him no opening. “No!”
The point of Korgar’s spear drew within a hand’s breadth of Olvaerr’s back. Colbey had no choice but to stop Korgar instantly, or momentum would finish the attack for the barbarian. Out of time, Colbey dove though the frenzied slashes. Korgar or Olvaerr? Though he hated the decision, Colbey made it instantly. He jabbed his blade through Korgar’s throat and deep into his spine. The barbarian crumpled, spear slamming to the ground, point gouging flesh from Olvaerr’s thigh.
Olvaerr hesitated an instant, and Colbey snatched the hilt from the youngster’s grip with his free hand. There was no need to check Korgar. Colbey’s blood brother was clearly dead for a god-witnessed vow that Olvaerr had broken in a fit of grief and anger. The youth had brought dishonor to his people, had freed the Renshai from their vow, and had damned his valiant father’s soul to Hel. Colbey turned on the Northman to say as much, but all words failed him. His mind soured with the image of his slapping Episte, the look of wounded betrayal that had formed in the youngster’s eyes, a look that Korgar never had a chance to mirror. Olvaerr knew what he had done. If he shared any of his father’s honor, the agony of memory would haunt him for eternity. Nothing Colbey could say would come close to its pain, nor did he have any way to soften it.
Again, Colbey glanced at Korgar’s corpse. Guilt ground
through him, accompanied by an understanding that evoked terror. Another betrayal. First Episte’s mother, then Episte, and now Korgar. Who’s next? Colbey recalled the certainty he had found in Valr Kirin’s mind. Maybe he and the Northern Sorceress are right. Maybe I can’t escape this destiny, no matter my intentions. Colbey shivered, trying to throw off the chains of this speculation. To believe that all life was predestined and all fate inescapable meant denying the control of body and mind that he had striven for for too long. It reduced decision to meaninglessness and took glory and principle out of the hands of mortals. Colbey shifted Harval and Olvaerr’s sword into the same hand.
Olvaerr seemed to awaken from a trance. His gaze strayed behind Colbey, and he gasped like a man dying. “Father.” The youngster hurled himself at the bloodstained battlefield.
Colbey whirled, realizing how distracted he must have become to leave a noble foe bleeding but alive. It was a cruelty no warrior deserved. Decades ago, every Renshai had kept a nådenal, the mercy needle of Sif, in a side slit in the sword sheath, and Colbey still carried one. Reserved for ending the life of suffering Renshai too injured to stagger back into battle, each nådenal was crafted of silver, used only once, and melted in the pyre of its glorified victim. Never before had Colbey fought an enemy worthy of Sif’s mercy needle. Yet, now, he believed he had found one. The tear-shaped haft filled his hand, devoid of a crossguard, and the long, slender blade tapered to a perfect point. He slid the silver dagger from its rest, the religious symbols carved into its side flickering in the sunlight. The crafting of a nådenal required the cooperation of a Sif priest and a smith, and any flaw in construction or ceremony meant that the materials must be discarded. Colbey knew that he held the last one.
Scarlet froth bubbled from Kirin’s lips, and the glow of the sword he had carried dulled to ordinary steel. Blood stained the charred grass, seeming like far too much to allow the Nordmirian life, yet his chest still fluttered with shallow breaths. His glazed eyes could have seen nothing, and Colbey hoped the lieutenant would never know the role his own son played in this treachery.
“Kirin,” Colbey said. He knelt at the Slayer’s side, eyes naturally seeking a site for a mercy stab.
Apparently, Colbey’s voice was the cue that Kirin awaited. Blanched lips stirred, forcing words between them. “I should have known better than to trust you,” he said. And died.
Olvaerr wrapped his arms around the corpse, soiled with his own tears and his father’s blood. The other Northman shifted restlessly, clearly uncertain what to do.
Colbey froze, the nådenal still unblooded in his hand. Apparently, Sif had denied Kirin its honor, though her reasons baffled Colbey. Perhaps her decision stemmed from the same lost body part that would bar Valr Kirin from Valhalla. Perhaps she still held a grudge from the Nordmirian’s role in the Renshai slaughter, or perhaps she had another sacrifice in mind. Colbey did not ponder his goddess’ motivations long. Quickly, he sheathed the dagger, then rose to meet the Northman’s gaze, still clutching Harval and Olvaerr’s sword. “I did not break my part of the vow, and I forgive Kirin’s son his grief madness. Get the prisoners.”
Obviously relieved, the Northman raced toward the Wolf Point.
Colbey turned his head to glance back at Valr Kirin, his vision arrested by a figure standing over the corpse and the sobbing Olvaerr. There, an unearthly woman stood, not Sif, but just as familiar to Colbey. Valkyrie! Colbey stared, unable to move, even had he wanted to tear his eyes from the vision. Seamless, silver armor enclosed perfect curves and sinews trained to war. She shimmered, bathed in golden halos, and her yellow hair tumbled from beneath a horned helmet. She clutched a spear, and a jeweled sword girded her hip. Colbey had seen her once before, or one of her eleven sisters, when Episte’s father had died in the Great War. Colbey harbored no doubt that she had come for Valr Kirin, to take the Nordmirian lieutenant to his rightful place in Valhalla.
The Valkyrie knelt at Valr Kirin’s side, placing her spear upon his chest. She balled her gauntleted hands into claws, as if drawing something from the corpse. Blood discolored her fingers, striping her gauntlets in patterns of silver, black, and red. She tossed something unseen onto her shoulders, then faded into the black expanse of infinity, leaving the corpse noticeably different in Colbey’s eyes. The last trickle of bleeding ended, and the blue eyes became empty as marbles.
Only then, the significance of the vision penetrated. Valr Kirin found Valhalla, even missing a major body part! Colbey’s world blurred and spun, the importance of his discovery spanning generations of hatred and slaughter. Gods! The conclusion came first, followed by a million details that stormed forward for consideration. The centuries of persecution for nothing. The heroes mourned. The ugly killer prejudices and hatreds. All for nothing. The big issues too overwhelming, Colbey’s mind glided to the smaller ones, the myriad of individuals who paraded through his mind. So many corpses arose in his memory, haunting him with the ugliness of their deaths. All wrong. Colbey set them to rest, one by one, lingering last and longest over Episte. And that reminded him of another suffering soul who would need whatever solace he could offer.
Shadimar approached, claiming Valr Kirin’s sword. Olvaerr glanced up, clearly offended by the action.
Colbey stole that moment to quick-clean and sheath Harval. He seized the youth’s shoulder.
Olvaerr spun, baring his teeth like a cornered beast. Terror appeared in his moist eyes, but he met Colbey’s gaze.
“Olvaerr, listen to me. This is important.” Colbey hoped desperately that he could get Valr Kirin’s son to believe him. “Your father found Valhalla.” Releasing Olvaerr’s shoulder, he offered the youngster’s hilt.
Olvaerr stared at the weapon. Colbey understood how much the sword had to mean to the young warrior. It had probably been cautiously selected by his father, whose taste, Colbey guessed, would be rivaled only by the Renshai’s own. Yet, Olvaerr made no move to take the hilt. Instead, he raised his face to the still summer sky and shouted. “Mighty Thor, my lord, creator and sower of storms, god’s champion of law and honor, please forgive my transgression against you. I will atone however you would have me, and I would dare to ask one more thing. Please. Damn this demon to the coldest, deepest part of Hel. See to it that he dies in the same agony and ugliness he has inflicted upon so many. I will have nothing that he has touched, with his hand or with his madness.” The youngster glared briefly at Colbey, then whirled to Shadimar, apparently to claim his father’s sword. Yet, though the Wizard had not moved, the weapon that had once graced his hand had disappeared. Olvaerr turned on his heel and stormed back toward the Wolf Point.
There, at the rock formation, Colbey could see shifting figures. He believed he recognized Tannin among them, apparently moving up to meet his sister.
Believing things were progressing properly at the cave, Colbey turned back to his own people. Mitrian watched the cave, apparently trying to pick Rache from the mass of figures. Arduwyn huddled over Korgar’s body, trying to restore some dignity to his death. Colbey felt grief radiate from the hunter, and it pained him that a man who had scarcely known Korgar seemed so much more affected than the man who had taken him as a brother. For his own part, Colbey felt emotionally drained.
Colbey looked at his other blood brother, finding Shadimar still and silent among the charred skeletons of the trees. The Eastern Wizard’s gaze locked fanatically on Harval. The strange swirl of idea and feeling radiating from the Wizard became too complicated for Colbey to try to decipher, and he left Shadimar to make his own decisions. He knew that the words Valr Kirin had spoken meant more to Shadimar than he could understand. He knew that the sword the Nordmirian had wielded held a significance that the Wizard alone knew. And he knew that Shadimar had just watched a blood brother, who carried the only weapon that could slay Wizards, ruthlessly slaughter his other brother.
This time, as always, Colbey had chosen to place the vow he had taken for the Renshai over one he had taken for himself. For the first
time in his life, he questioned this decision.
CHAPTER 27
The Next Betrayal
Arduwyn’s horse charged along the familiar pathways of the Erythanian forest, its hooves drumming on the hard-packed earth. Three days to make a journey on horseback that only took that long on foot. Arduwyn’s thought comforted, bringing a joy that was immediately tempered by concern. Though he cantered through the forests he loved, caressed by autumn winds carrying the smells that had grown so cherished and important to him as a child, Bel’s threat stole all enjoyment from him. Even the memory of Korgar lying dead at Colbey’s hand could not hold his thoughts for long. Always, his mind circled back to Bel.
Sunlight stabbed through holes in the interweave of branches, blinding and warming Arduwyn in cycles. Contemplating Bel and her threat had become tedious to the point of agony. He had rehashed the need to return in time so often he had left nothing for consideration. But the pictures and doubts returned to haunt him again and again. He forced his thoughts to Garn and Mitrian. The years had made the man seem even more dangerous, ridding him of the last of his teenage gawkiness yet leaving the squat power that had won so many contests in the gladiator pit. Warfare had toned Mitrian’s sinews, enhancing the feminine curves on a sturdy frame that she could only have inherited from Santagithi. Arduwyn had not yet seen a single gray hair on either head. By the look of them, the years had only improved their beauty and their marriage, and Arduwyn longed for a chance to chat with old friends he had missed so much.
Arduwyn considered their child, unable to keep his thoughts from straying to the other man who had borne the same name. Months of tracking Rache Kallmirsson through the Westland forests had brought a deep respect and a closeness that the Renshai did not have the knowledge to share. Crippled and alone, he had fought scores of Eastern assassins sent to slay him, as well as the usual bandits and the disappointment that grew whenever Colbey used the information Arduwyn gathered to evade Rache once again. Then, as now, Colbey’s reasons defied Arduwyn’s understanding, and the turn of his thoughts to the Golden Prince of Demons made him shudder. The power that Colbey held over Arduwyn never seemed to lessen, a shocking, supernatural hold that came as much from fear as awe.
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