Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  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, Calistin 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.

  An insubstantial image of Treysind stood beside the boy’s ravaged body, talking earnestly and softly with Randgrithr. Then, suddenly, they both turned toward Calistin.

  Instinctively, Calistin raised his sword. He knew he looked a fright, covered from the tips of his hair to his toes in sticky, giant’s blood and sweat, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side. Sparing him barely a glance, the Valkyrie turned back to Treysind’s soul, her gestures broad and irate. Then, she let her hands fall in obvious defeat, sighed, and nodded.

  Treysind’s body remained where it had fallen, but the image of him at Randgrithr’s side flew at Calistin like an angry wraith. Startled, Calistin kept his sword in battle position, but the image only dissipated like a loose sand sculpture in the wind. Warmth suffused Calistin, so vast and sudden he was seized with the urge to strip off his clothing and leap into the ocean. A new rush of sweat further slicked his every part. Then, as quickly as the fire had flared, it disappeared. A breeze from the ocean whipped his damp limbs into gooseflesh.

  The Valkyrie raised her arms to leave, but Calistin caught one, jerking her to face him.

  Randgrithr turned and glared at Calistin. “What do you want, Calistin Ra-khirsson?” She made a gesture to indicate the body-strewn beach. “A war of this magnitude is not enough for you? You want at me, too?”

  Calistin did not seek a battle this time, but he would gladly fight her if she wished it or refused him the information he craved. “You came for Treysind?”

  The Valkyrie regarded Calistin. “He died in brave and glorious combat. He gave himself for you. Twice.” She shook her head. “I’m not at all sure you’re worth it.”

  Calistin gritted his teeth at the insult but did not otherwise react. He could not imagine any Einherjar would prefer Treysind over him as an opponent. Yet the Valkyries clearly saw the world differently than their charges. Or, at least, this one did. “I saved his life, too.”

  The Valkyrie’s brows rose over pale eyes, and a thick wad of yellow hair escaped her helmet. “Perhaps. But you did not give him . . . everything.”

  Startled, Calistin back stepped. “What?”

  In that moment, Randgrithr raised her hands again and disappeared in a golden flash of light.

  Valr Magnus rose, staring at the place where she had stood. “That . . . she . . .” He looked helplessly at Calistin. “Was that a . . .”

  “Valkyrie, yes.” Calistin kicked Treysind’s body, wrestling a mass of emotions he could not handle. “You idiot child!” He hammered a toe against Treysind’s ear, sending the bloodless face flopping sideways. Sand splashed, clinging to the sightless eyes.

  “Stop that!” Magnus made a move as if to grab Calistin but stopped short of doing so. “He’s your brother. Don’t dishonor him like that.”

  Calistin bit his lower lip, wanting to continue until the head came fully free and he could send it flying into the surf. “That’s not my brother. It’s nothing but an empty container. He’s dead, and his soul . . . his soul . . .” Calistin gazed into the sky. Multihued bands touched the western horizon in layers of color. Only a bare tip of the sun remained.

  “. . . found Valhalla,” Magnus finished. “He’s Einherjar. When your time comes, you’ll see him again.”

  “No.” Calistin understood the Valkyrie’s words in a way the general never could. “No. He refused her. He chose not to go.”

  Valr Magnus stiffened. No Northman could understand why anyone given the opportunity would not accept Valhalla. “Are you sure?”

  Calistin nodded grimly. “He made the ultimate sacrifice,” one the Renshai found himself incapable of imagining. In all the annals of history, in all the fairy tales of yore, no one had ever performed such an unselfish act, not even one lover for another. For Treysind, Calistin realized, had given up not only his life, but his afterlife. With Randgrithr’s help, Treysind had donated his soul to the one living being who had none. I’m not at all sure you’re worth it, the Valkyrie had said, and Calistin had to agree. It was a gift like no other; surely no man could ever live up to anything so singularly precious.

  Galloping hoofbeats pulled Calistin from his thoughts, and a horse skidded to a stop in front of Valr Magnus, plowing up sand that clung to the drying blood on both men. The Béarnian rider called out, “General, there’s an officers’ meeting at Béarn Castle as soon as everyone can be gathered.”

  “Thank you.” Valr Magnus waved the soldier off.

  The Béarnide reined his horse and headed along the beach to inform the others.

  Calistin found himself nearly incapable of thought. Every part of him ached, and his arm desperately needed the attention of a healer. He battled emotions he usually kept well-suppressed, and his thoughts scattered like the sand beneath the horse’s hooves.

  Valr Magnus cleared his throat. “So, Calistin. The war is essentially won. Do you want that battle now?”

  Calistin glanced up.The general looked a fright, his helmet dented and askew, his mail sliced open, his every part smeared with blood. The Renshai knew he looked equally horrible: his arm broken, his body covered with bruises and slashes, fully steeped in Firuz’ blood. He considered the general’s offer for less than an instant. Magnus had killed his mother and exiled his people from the only home he knew. And, though that combat seemed grossly unfair, Magnus himself had fought with honor. The desperate urge to destroy Valr Magnus, once a burning and insatiable need, had died with Treysind. At the moment, Calistin felt nothing but overwhelming grief, sorrow, and fatigue.

  Still, the challenge needed answering, his honor and that of his tribe depended on it. “Valr.” Calistin’s voice sounded strangely raspy, and he cleared his throat. “For the first time in my life, I saw a live Renshai willingly give his sword to another.” He granted the general a look intended to demonstrate, beyond a doubt, the significance and seriousness of that statement. “I can have no quarrel with a man so respected by the immortal and consummate Renshai, Colbey Calistinsson.”

  All remaining color drained from Magnus’ face, making the blood still leaking from his side resemble fire. “Colbey Calistinsson?” He whirled toward the place where he had acquired his newest sword, though the stranger had long since disappeared. Valr Magnus muttered, clearly quoting, “Your blade can’t hit him; mine can.” A smile crossed his lips. “Colbey Calistinsson.”

  The moment was historic in so many ways—because of two enemies bonded against a magical foe, the pirates had lost their great leader and, soon, the war itself. Yet nothing cemented it more than the immortal being, dismissed by Northmen as a figment of foolish Renshai imagination, handing over his most prized possession to a Northman, a sworn enemy of Renshai, the very cause of their exile.

  To Calistin’s own surprise, a laugh escaped him.

  Valr Magnus also smiled, then honest laughter rumbled from him to join with Calistin’s own.

  For several moments the two stood, dripping, on the beach, laughing at a joke only they understood.

  “Come on,” Magnus finally said, placing an arm across Calistin’s shoulders. He reeked of blood and death, of sweat and steel, of salt and wind. “Let’s wash up and get to that meeting.”

  “Meeting?” Calistin gave the Aeri general a sideways look. “I’m not an officer.”

  “Sure you are.” Steel still clanged along the beach as the last battles raged to their foregone conclusion. Without the leadership of their only Kjempemagiska, the pirates seemed confused and uncertain. “You’re the captain of . . .” Valr pursed his lips. “The captain of . . . my . . . Renshai.”

  Calistin’s brows rose. It seemed petty to argue over the pronoun “my” when they had just laughed off a p
rearranged battle to the death. “So, basically, I command . . . myself.” Calistin stopped there, not bothering to mention what they both already knew. Once the war in Béarn ended, they would have to go their separate ways, not only because Calistin already had a commitment to his own people, but because all Renshai were banned from the Northlands.

  “Well, someone should. And I can’t think of anyone else you’d listen to.”

  Deliberately keeping his thoughts off Treysind, Calistin forced a smile. For the moment he wanted to enjoy this one small alliance, a tiny victory in a crusade that spanned centuries.

  The door to his sickroom eased open silently, yet the movement still awakened King Tae Kahn. Even a recovery from near-fatal injuries failed to steal the wariness ingrained in him nearly since birth. He remained still, as always, one eye open to a slit, just enough to catch the identity of the person who had disturbed him without revealing his awakening. He continued to breathe deeply, in the pattern of his previous sleep.

  The newcomer wore the familiar black and silver of his Eastern army, without the bulk of mail or lacquered leather. Instead of the ornate helmets that served as a badge of honor for the Eastern leaders, he wore only a hat from which jutted the familiar five feathers of his highest general. By movement alone, through the slit of one eye, Tae could tell this was not General Halcone, the previous high commander of his armies. Apparently, Tae now faced Weile’s acclaimed mystery general.

  As the other man turned to quietly close the door, Tae opened both eyes and sat up in his bed.

  The curtains to the open, fourth-story window fluttered in the breeze; then, as the door clicked closed, went dormant.Tae discerned as many details as possible in the moments before the man turned to face him. First, he was a bit shorter and far leaner than Halcone; and his movements demonstrated a grace and quickness that the former high general did not share. The visible flesh at his wrists and neck looked far too pale to fit the swarthy East, and the hair that feathered out from beneath his hat was short and brilliant yellow. A Northman, Tae realized, and that only confused him. Why would Weile Kahn put a Northman at the head of our troops? Why would the men accept and follow him?