“Someone’s working magic. We need to find Chymmerlee.”
Ra-khir did not fully understand, but he trusted the twins. “All right. What—?” The distant waves seemed to hesitate. Nearer the shore, the water sucked back from the edge. “The ocean . . . it’s changing.”
Subikahn grabbed Saviar’s arm, but his attention went to Ra-khir. “Can we borrow your horse, sir?”
“What?” Ra-khir had never even allowed groomsmen to handle his steed, and he would have to bend his orders, and knightly law, to allow such a thing. Nevertheless, he dismounted. The water drew farther inward, like a string of drool sucked back into a large dog’s mouth. He pointed toward his favorite vantage. “Meet me there, on that largest dune. The view is perfect.”
Saviar nodded as he swung into the saddle, and Subikahn leaped into place behind him. Silver Warrior galloped toward the castle, Ra-khir cringing at every wallowing step. Speed was dangerous in sand for a massive animal with such slender legs. He vowed to give the boys a strongly-worded lecture on the proper treatment of animals when they returned, then discarded the thought. He trusted Saviar’s wisdom and ability to weigh risk. The twins clearly saw a desperate need for speed that Ra-khir did not yet understand; and, while it seemed to him that one rider should have sufficed, especially since they would add Chymmerlee on their return, the boys had a reason for fetching her together. Saviar would not risk his father’s precious charger without desperate need.
“Godspeed,” he whispered beneath his breath. He could still feel the impression of the split leather hilt against his palm. It had been Kevral’s sword Saviar had handed him, he realized. She had never allowed him to touch it. For Saviar to do so meant a critical situation that words and expressions couldn’t explain. He looked back at the shoreline, where the water drew back farther and farther toward the anchored ships.
Though it seemed like hours to Ra-khir, only a few moments passed before he heard the familiar hoof falls and Silver Warrior came bounding through the sand. Three figures sat astride, one nearly as heavy as himself but the other two much lighter. Subikahn dismounted before the horse drew up, but Saviar waited and gently assisted Chymmerlee to the ground.
“It’s a tidal wave,” Ra-khir said in an awed whisper. “That’s what he’s preparing for. A massive wall of ocean that takes out all of our troops . . . and his as well.” Ra-khir had heard about the two types of pirates, the one huge and magical, the other mortal and bound to their bidding. It made sense that the creatures that called themselves Kjempemagiska might care little for servant underlings, but the thought appalled Ra-khir. Even the greatest gods of their world did not treat humans as expendable playthings, at least not in such numbers. We’re all going to die, Ra-khir realized with strangely little fear. Even those as far away as the castle might not survive.
Saviar’s mouth set into a grim line. “Chymmerlee?”
The Myrcidian did not respond, only opened her arms wide and mumbled strings of harsh syllables. Ra-khir’s attention flitted between her and the middle ship, where he had seen the glow while holding Saviar’s sword. He did not bother to ask what Chymmerlee was doing. It was clearly magic, and he did not want to distract her with foolish questions. He did, however, look askance at his son.
Saviar complied softly. “She’s a mage, Papa.”
Ra-khir considered. The word made sense in a fairy-tale sort of way. The only known creatures with magic living on the world of men were elves. However, Ra-khir had seen enough of the home of the gods, and of other worlds, in his time to know things existed of which men knew little or nothing. Now, he understood why both boys had insisted on fetching her; she was valuable enough to deserve two Renshai bodyguards. “Elfin blood?” he guessed.
Saviar shook his head. “His aura just flared up,” he informed those who could not see it.
Chymmerlee tossed her head suddenly.
The water rushed back toward shore in a large, tumbling mass that rocked the boats wildly and carried those closest to the shore into the sea. At least, the colossal behemoth of water the Kjempemagiska had apparently planned never made it to fruition.
“He knows he lost control of his spell,” Chymmerlee explained breathlessly, “but he doesn’t know why. He hasn’t found me yet. He’s convinced by centuries of spying that we have absolutely no magic here.”
Centuries of spying? The thought astounded Ra-khir and sent a shiver stabbing through him. They’ve been among us that long? His mind shot instantly back to his studies, and he did manage to pull out a few oddities.There were references to mages in the distant past, and most people knew of the Cardinal Wizards in stories their parents’ told. A few scattered references to giants and oversized weapons spotted the military history texts, and he remembered hearing of a detail about the Great War, hundreds of years past, where huge weapons left by a warrior from across the sea found their way into an armory. “Until the elves came to our world, that was essentially true.”
“Essentially,” Subikahn muttered.
“He’s getting off the ship.” Chymmerlee announced, though whether she knew from watching or feeling, Ra-khir did not know. Even he could see an enormous man stepping off a central ship and wading into the foam, apparently oblivious to the frenzy of sharks around him. Water that would have drowned a normal man came only to the middle of his chest. Although Ra-khir no longer saw the aura, he suspected that Chymmerlee and Saviar, who clutched the hilt of the magical sword, did.
As the Kjempemagiska came to shore, he was abruptly mobbed by continental soldiers, their weapons flying and weaving. The giant seemed not to notice. He drew his own massive sword with slow deliberateness and, with a single swipe, dropped ten or twenty men.
“Gods be damned,” Ra-khir whispered.
Saviar started running toward the shore; but, before he could take a second step, Chymmerlee snagged his arm. “Wait!”
Saviar stopped so suddenly he had to back step to keep from falling.
“I need you, Saviar. And Subikahn. I need people here to protect me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Saviar explained hurriedly. “If I keep him busy fighting, he can’t harm you.”
“True,” Chymmerlee admitted. “But once he knows I’m the one constraining him, he’ll send his entire army after me. I can’t fight them and hinder him at the same time.” She sized up her adversary and shook her head. “I’m not that strong, as mages go. One against one, he’d have me. So long as he has to fight your men, however, he can’t come directly after me.”
“We can’t afford to lose her,” Subikahn said.
Saviar glared. Clearly, he did not even need that possibility spoken aloud. “We’ll stay and protect Chymmerlee. I’m sure the others will see him as their primary target.”
Ra-khir looked worriedly at the shore. Men dove on the giant in droves, but he did not even seem to notice their blows. Every one of his strokes, however, effortlessly took down several defenders. At one point, he seemed to crackle with lightning, and warriors toppled in a piled up ring around him. The odor of ozone and charred flesh filled the air.
“No,” Chymmerlee gasped. Closing her eyes, she raised her hands and started speaking in odd gutturals. Saviar and Subikahn crouched in front of her. Ra-khir remounted Silver Warrior and circled them warily, prepared to take down any pirate who dared come too close.
“What happened?” Saviar demanded suddenly.
Ra-khir studied the battle on the shore. The soldiers attacking had become more cautious and hesitant, but the bigger change came from the Kjempemagiska. He held his sword in one hand, the other raised as if to do something, and he looked wildly frustrated. His head jerked in all directions, then focused suddenly and intently on the dune.
“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 Chymmerl
ee 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
THE WORLD 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 Béarn. 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 the energy, Saviar might have cheered.
Then, suddenly, Subikahn gasped.
The sound proved so compelling, Saviar could not help glancing toward his twin, even thoug
h 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.
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