The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Ra-khir did not know how long he remained, suspended in the world Frost Reaver created. As they crested a rise, the horse’s hooves clattered on stone. Ra-khir drew rein, as much to sit and enjoy the sunset as to rescue Reaver from a potential fall. The horse responded reluctantly, slowing in a graceful arc that defied increments and gaits. He went still, coat silver against the grayness of dusk. Ra-khir swung down, snapping the reins into loops against the bridle but not bothering to secure the horse. He trusted Frost Reaver not to stray, and he only wished to keep him from tangling a leg in the leathers.

  Patches of snow decorated the highlands. Breath steaming, Ra-khir found a boulder jutting like a chair from the main rock of the mountain. Perching on it, he studied the horizon where the sun sank below the world’s edge. Like a diver plunging into ink, it left a wake of color splashed across the sky. Bands of purple and aqua, pale greens, yellows, and oranges gave way to a vast expanse of scarlet. Red-pink slashed through the others, like the blood of some sacrificial elf splattered in battle. With the vision came happy memories, snuggled against Kevral beneath travel blankets, talking about trivialities deep into the night. Even the remembrances of her taunts and threats against his honor, in the days when they could all have benefited from lessons in tolerance, returned to him in a sweet rush. He smiled. They had all come so far, suffered so much, and survived it. The experiences had made every one of them stronger.

  A tug at Ra-khir’s belt jerked him from reverie. A fuzzy head butted the hand that fell naturally toward his sword hilt, then vanished. His fingers fell on empty leather. “Hey!” Ra-khir sprang to his feet, balanced on the rock. Frost Reaver capered like a puppy, the hilt of Ra-khir’s sword clamped in his mouth. The blade jutted sideways, gleaming red in the fading light.

  “Hey!” Ra-khir repeated, too concerned about the horse cutting his lips to see the humor in the situation. “What are you doing?” He lunged for Frost Reaver. “Give me that.”

  The horse waited until Ra-khir had nearly reached him, then spiraled away, trotting just beyond reach. Two blasts of gray steam emerged suddenly from his nostrils, accompanied by a snort.

  “Reaver, come on. Give me the sword.” Ra-khir approached more slowly this time, hand extended as if offering a treat. Again, Frost Reaver allowed him almost within reach before veering. Ra-khir dodged the clumsy blade sweep that accompanied the movement.

  Frost Reaver’s circular run brought him within a length of Ra-khir again.

  “Reaver, stop it.” The exertion warmed Ra-khir, even as the coldness of winter evening drove him to pull on his gloves. “If you misstep, you might stab yourself.”

  The horse snorted again, this time retreating as Ra-khir advanced.

  “This is not funny.” Ra-khir tried to keep his tone stern, even as it occurred to him that he was wrong. He could not help finding humor in it.

  Apparently another did also. A musical voice with a Northern accent touched his ears. “Actually, it’s hilarious.”

  The sword clattered to the stones, and Frost Reaver trumpeted a series of low-pitched twisted whinnies that Ra-khir had only before heard in response to the oat bin opening. The horse trotted to his side, ears pricked in opposite directions.

  Ra-khir retrieved his sword as he scanned the dusk. The sun had nearly disappeared, making vision difficult. The voice had not sounded threatening, but the ability of the other to catch him off-guard made him wary. “Show yourself, please.”

  A figure appeared amidst gray air and stone. Shorter and narrower than Ra-khir, the other moved with a familiar grace. Blond hair topped the head, remarkably visible through the gloom.

  Frost Reaver darted forward, nuzzling the newcomer hard enough to off-balance him. Staggering a step backward, the man caught his equilibrium swiftly, dropping to a crouch to save his dignity. That allowed the horse the opportunity to lip saliva through the golden hair.

  “Colbey?” Ra-khir guessed, wondering what Kevral would think if she saw her hero roughed about by a horse.

  The blond responded to the thought rather than the words, clinching his identity. “Nothing like a happy horse to destroy all semblance of composure.” He shoved Frost Reaver’s muzzle away. “Stop that.”

  Ra-khir resisted the urge to laugh, instead executing a formal bow. “Greetings, lord.”

  “I stand corrected, Ra-khir. It’s only hilarious when it’s happening to someone else.” Colbey rose, ignoring the knight’s formality. “Good to see you, too.” He caught Frost Reaver around the neck, hugging, this time deliberately sacrificing dignity.

  Ra-khir gave the two a few moments before walking to the horse’s side. “Would you like to return for some grooming and feed first or just take him from here?” He patted the silky side, noticing frost clinging to the animal’s whiskers. A wisp of longing glided through him, swiftly staunched. Ra-khir could not tolerate envy in himself. He would miss Frost Reaver, but the horse had never belonged to him. He considered himself lucky to have ridden the stallion once, let alone the dozen or more times he had gotten.

  Colbey smoothed back the white forelock. “He’s yours, Ra-khir.”

  The words made no sense. “Excuse me, Lord?”

  “I want you to keep him.”

  “You mean Reaver?”

  “Yes.”

  Ra-khir scarcely dared to breathe, let alone believe. “Keep Frost Reaver? Me?”

  “This isn’t high strategy, Ra-khir.” Colbey spoke the insult with such gentleness, it did not offend. “I want you to keep Frost Reaver forever.” Though he addressed the knight, he studied the horse, as if reading the animal’s reaction to his decision. “Think about it a while. It’s a long-term commitment. He’s likely to outlive you, having eaten his share of Idunn’s golden apples of youth.” He grinned, slapping Frost Reaver’s neck. “Maybe more than his share. He’s frisky as a colt.” He gave the stallion a mock stern look. “A very bad colt.”

  Keep Frost Reaver. Ra-khir wondered if he would ever wade past the shock of Colbey’s suggestion. “Of course, I’ll keep him. I’d be honored. And, certainly, I’ll return him to you if you change your mind.”

  Colbey shook his head with a slow sadness. “There’s no turning back for me. I want Reaver happy, and he clearly is with you.”

  “Th–thank you,” Ra-khir stammered, endless thoughts of soaring over snow and grasslands filling his vision. A thought stepped in to ruin the image. What about Silver Warrior?

  “What about Silver Warrior?” Colbey voiced the concern aloud.

  Apparently, Ra-khir’s worry had emerged strongly enough to drift to the immortal; he trusted Colbey not to invade his mind. Ra-khir flushed, sorry to have brought up an issue that might prove no problem at all. “He was my assignment when I earned my knighthood. It’s only been a few months. I don’t think my father will mind assigning him to the next apprentice who passes the tests. In the meantime, I can exercise him when I’m home.” He would miss the horse, yet no knight charger would ever go uncared for or even unassigned.

  “It’ll work out.” Colbey’s tone revealed no doubt. “And now—”

  Worried that Colbey might leave without addressing significant concerns, Ra-khir said, “Sorry, lord, for interrupting. I have questions that I could not forgive myself forgetting to ask one who lived among gods.”

  Colbey stiffened, and his expression hardened. “If it’s the answers of the universe you seek, I have no knowledge—” This time he broke off himself. “What’s happened to Kevral?”

  Ra-khir shuddered, glad he did not need to converse with the old Renshai often. He wondered if Colbey’s tendency to jump past words to thoughts bothered his family as much as it did Ra-khir.

  “Ravn despises it,” Colbey confirmed. “Now, what’s happened to Kevral?”

  “She got bitten by a spirit spider.”

  Colbey shook his head to indicate he had no experience with such things.

  “Chan’rék’ril also got bit, and he’s certain his soul can no longer pass into the body
of a newborn elf.” Ra-khir winced at a tragedy that his concern for Kevral only now allowed him to contemplate. One less soul among the elves meant one less elf for all eternity and that all the memories and experiences of the elves who had shared that soul through millennia had died. Now, more than ever, the fate of the elves clearly rested on Tem’aree’ay’s mixed baby. “The lysalf are determining whether or not Kevral lost her spirit as well.”

  “Her soul,” Colbey corrected.

  Ra-khir blinked. “I wasn’t aware of a difference.”

  The last edge of sun tumbled over the horizon, leaving them at the mercy of half-moon and stars. Colbey explained, “The soul is a spark of life that remains after the body ceases to function. Spirit is the way that same creature handles life, his internal courage and daring.” Darkness hid the intensity of his features as well as the scars and gentled blue-gray eyes as icy as a winter gale. “Kevral’s spirit, her fortitude, if you will, should bring her through whatever the elves discover. She’s too strong to let it crush her.”

  Ra-khir said nothing. He trusted Kevral’s resilience and stamina also, yet this went beyond a disappointment, an injury, even beyond death. It threatened to topple the core of her beliefs, the very epitome of her existence.

  Colbey clamped a hand to Ra-khir’s arm, its cold seeping through layers of linen and silk. “I’m not saying it won’t take time, soul-searching if you’ll pardon the pun. And pain.” He released his grip. “But I know she’ll come through it. You must believe in her, too.”

  “I do,” Ra-khir said, defensively. “I do,” he repeated with sincerity. “I just hoped you could give me some information that might help.”

  Colbey had heard enough to anticipate the question. “You want to know what happens to souls after bodies die.”

  “Is there . . .? Is there . . .?” Startled by the directness of the question, Ra-khir lost the means to diplomatically couch his query. He wondered how long it would take to achieve the complete imperturbability of his father. Kedrin never stammered. “. . . some vow that gods take not to reveal such information?”

  Colbey ruffled the feathers of his hair with a hand small compared to Ra-khir’s. Even in the darkness, the knight could make out the white disarray of calluses against the Renshai’s palm. “Not to my knowledge, though such would not affect me. I’m not a god, just an immortal. That, by the way, comes as much from my time as a Wizard as my blood parentage.” He waved the same hand. “I don’t believe I know any more on the matter than you and Kevral, though you’re welcome to the information. I have discovered only warrior souls in Valhalla, including a few who doubted its existence. Before the Ragnarok, Hel contained its share also; but those were destroyed during the battle, along with their keeper. I don’t know whether Hel still exists or if souls still go there; and I have no experience with other places souls might or might not find.”

  Ra-khir nodded his understanding and appreciation. Other than the mention of Hel, Colbey had revealed nothing he did not already know. Despite disappointment, he still appreciated the effort and candor. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Colbey insisted. “Rather, pay me back with a favor.”

  Ra-khir dodged the trap that had nearly claimed Kevral, responding “anything” to a similar request from Colbey. “Do you have a specific favor in mind?”

  “You’ll see the Captain tonight?”

  “My father?”

  “I meant the elf.”

  The winter chill cut through Ra-khir, no longer partially negated by the sun. “Yes. I’ll need to talk to him about what he found.” He knew he could simply ask Kevral, but he worried that concern might make her information less complete. He had watched Matrinka repeatedly and patiently describe the same details of a child’s illness to her distraught mother.

  “Could you please tell him that the leader has abandoned Nualfheim for Asgard?”

  “Certainly.” Ra-khir breathed a mental sigh at the simplicity of the assignment, hoping Colbey could not read the reaction. The words themselves meant little yet, without definition of the clearly Northern term, Nualfheim, but surely would with the clarity the Captain would add. For now, he had other matters nipping at his mind. Likely, any message from Colbey would bode more danger than he currently wanted to know.

  “And please tell Kevral . . .”

  Ra-khir naturally completed the sentence with “Good-bye,” so it took him several moments to realize Colbey had not done so. The words “don’t you think it would be better if you told her yourself” died on his tongue.

  “Tell her to never surrender. And neither, I promise, will I.”

  Ra-khir looked pointedly at Frost Reaver.

  Colbey shrugged. “But it doesn’t mean I can’t prepare for the worst.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Brothers

  A pact of brotherhood is stronger than any ties to family. Trust, honor and loyalty are sweeter and stouter than bonds of blood.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  COLBEY watched the white charger gallop toward its destiny, the cloak of its regal passenger flapping like a linen mane. He felt no guilt—Ra-khir would treat the stallion well and Frost Reaver had indicated his own comfort with the arrangement—but he still suffered a dense sorrow, as if a hole replaced his heart. Long after his friends and companions had succumbed to their mortality, the horse had remained with him. More recently, he discovered many of his bravest friends and relatives in Valhalla; but circumstances had stolen his contact with them as well. Permanently, it seemed.

  Movement flashed at the corner of Colbey’s vision. Instinctively, he ducked and turned. A massive hammer whooshed through the air above his head, slamming the rocks just beyond him. Thunder slammed through his ears, and a tremor shook the mountain. The staff/sword screamed, *Watch out!*

  Colbey lowered his center of gravity, weathering the quake. *Thanks,* he returned with obvious sarcasm. Had he waited for the alarm, he would have become a bloody smear on rock. He sought the source of the attack, even as the hammer eased from its crater and sailed back over his head.

  Colbey discovered Thor’s sons before the hammer returned to them. Magni snatched its short haft from the air, and Modi’s fingers winched closed around the sword at his hip. Thirty lengths beyond Colbey’s sword range, he did not bother to draw. Orange war braids fell around somber faces and eyes that held a hint of premature triumph. Their stances contained no trace of the nervousness that had kept gods from challenging Colbey in Asgard. They clearly believed every deity stood at their backs, and Colbey had no choice but to assume them right.

  Magni hurled the hammer again, its lightning quickness a match for Colbey’s own. Again, he jerked aside, barely far enough. Its head grazed his shoulder, that meager touch enough to bruise. He staggered two steps sideways, grace stolen by the impact as well as the slam of Mjollnir against stone. Another thunderclap shattered his hearing. Once more, the hammer disengaged, darting back toward its wielder.

  Colbey leaped for the hammer. Experience and legend warned him he could not lift it, let alone catch it in flight. Frustration drove him to strike the flat of his sword against it instead. The collision jolted through his hands, raw agony.

  The sword thrummed, voicing its outrage. *Ow! Why in Hel would you do that!*

  Colbey had no reply. The hammer tumbled as it zipped toward Magni, and Colbey’s sharp eye detected imperfections in its course. If his maneuver made its landing unpredictable, it served a purpose beyond venting a bit of fury. He charged the divine brothers.

  Magni reached for his father’s hammer casually, with the ease of long practice. But instead of the hilt, he found his fingers wrapped around the head. It plowed through his catch, slamming his chest with enough force to hurl him backward. He lay still beneath the weapon.

  Modi howled with the familiar war rage Renshai called upon in times of need, granted by this very god. He lunged across his limp brother for the hammer.

  Colbey skidded to a stop just within sword ran
ge. Before Modi’s fingers closed around the hammer’s haft, the tip of the Renshai’s blade flicked across the sword at the god’s hip. The blade flicked free of its sheath, and Colbey snatched the hilt in midair. “If it’s a fight you want, make it fair, you coward!” He tossed the sword back to Modi.

  Twisting to face Colbey, Modi caught the weapon. Scarlet streaked his features. His eyes seemed to burn with real fire. He pitched toward Colbey, sword sweeping in a wild cross-stroke that Colbey barely caught on his own. The crash of steel rang as loudly as the hammer’s fall, and pain lanced through his right arm.

  *Dodge left!* chaos screamed in Colbey’s head.

  Worried for his grip, Colbey dove rightward, against the natural movement. Instead of sliding, pitting strength against strength, the blades disengaged, freeing a hand rapidly growing numb. As he rolled to his feet to face the next attack, Colbey changed the hilt to his left fist. *Stay out of this!*

  Without words, chaos radiated a sincere desire to help, not hinder. *You try saying nothing when it’s the only control you’ve got.*

  Modi’s next roaring attack precluded an answer. The god swept in with a gut level cut that combined all the strength of the ages. Unwilling to risk his other hand, Colbey ducked, forced to a low crouch by the height of the strike. At the end of his cut, Modi immediately reversed direction even as Colbey surged to stand. The Renshai caught the blow on his hilt, the area diffusing the impact, though it still hammered his wrist. Driven back to his crouch, he struggled against Modi’s wrath-driven power, clutching his hilt with both hands.

  Magni groaned.

  Modi stiffened, and the anger receded slightly. “I was going to torture you to death slowly; but if he’s alive, I’ll only torture you to death.”

  Colbey could not afford to let Modi gain control, to add strategy to mindless rage. “Is that any way to treat your brother, Brother?”