The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Ow, ow, ow.” Ra-khir skittered to the far side of the room. “Time!” He called an end to the match.

  But Kevral refused to accept the halt. Raging toward him like a wounded bear, she cut the air in front of him with agile sweeps, then jabbed for his midsection. Ra-khir redirected her attack, but another followed before his riposte. Again, he managed a parry, only to have her cut back in without following the natural extension of the stroke. Faster and faster she fought, her sword disappearing into the same blur as during her practice. Less acquainted with the Renshai practice of sparring with live steel, Ra-khir dared not trust his own control. Worried about accidentally harming her with a desperate defense, he kept his movements short and crisp. He tipped aside a dozen strokes before her blitz overwhelmed him. Her blade sliced through his defenses more than a dozen times, slamming him with the flat, nicking him with the tip, leaving tiny rents in his clothing. Scarlet splotches blazed across her cheeks, and her eyes seemed on fire with madness.

  “Kevral!” Ra-khir shouted, stung by a myriad of tiny cuts. He said nothing more, nearly breathless from protecting himself. He withdrew continuously, Kevral bearing in and shadowing his every movement. Only her continued use of flat and tip demonstrated that she still maintained some control. Soon, Ra-khir began to worry that, too, would break and the battle would begin in earnest. Even if he found an opening, he could not kill Kevral; he could only die at her hand.

  Ra-khir’s back slammed the wall, stealing the last of his air. He ducked a slash that tore a line of paint from the wall. His sword cut shielding arcs in front of him, ringing against the steel of Kevral’s blade, rapid and musical. Then her sword tip carved the hilt from his hand. The weapon flew toward Kevral, who snatched it from the air. He stood still, the stone cold against his tunic, bravely facing mercy or death, whatever she chose to deal.

  For an instant, Kevral stood with a weapon in each hand, staring at the man she loved. The fire disappeared from her eyes, quenched by a moisture that welled into tears. She returned his sword, then hurled her own to the floor. It was a clear gesture of disdain, not for him but for herself. Then she collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

  Still clutching his hilt, Ra-khir wrapped his arms around Kevral. Nearly paralyzed by propriety, he worried about his actions even as he comforted. Nothing in his honor forbade dropping his sword on the floor, yet doing so might offend Kevral since she had gone to the trouble of handing it to him. Ordinarily, he would not have let such an issue bother him; but it might prove highly significant to Kevral. For now, he continued to hold the sword and her, careful to keep the sharpened edges turned from her back.

  For a long time, they stood locked together, Kevral crying and Ra-khir remaining quietly steadfast. He fought the sensual excitement that accompanied her closeness, resigned to the adolescent body that would betray him despite his best efforts. Experience taught him to worry only for her; she would likely notice nothing but words and gestures that caring and honor would keep wholly focused on her needs. He tried to think of words to question her tears without sounding ignorantly oblivious or stupidly obvious. It seemed prudent to let Kevral broach the subject and console in silence until she felt ready to talk.

  Finally, Kevral did so. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Reminded of his bruises, Ra-khir suffered their dull aches and the sharper twinges of the scratches. “I’m fine. Nothing Captain can’t handle.” He deliberately used the elder’s name rather than simply saying “elves.” It might stimulate her to discuss her real concern.

  The baby kicked, abrupt movement against Ra-khir’s upper thigh. “Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have taken out my anger on you.”

  “Better me than anyone else.” Ra-khir tightened his hold. “I love you. I always will.”

  Kevral raised blue eyes that glimmered like diamonds in the torchlight. Ra-khir had never seen the self-assured Renshai look vulnerable before, and it awakened protective urges he had long suppressed. “Captain said I probably lost my soul.” She repeated, “My soul.”

  “I just left Captain. He seemed uncertain.”

  “He said something was missing.” Kevral turned away, and Ra-khir seized the opening to sheathe his sword.

  “And something was there,” Ra-khir reminded. He sought the best possibility. “Spiders on our world feed on blood, draining it bit by bit. The loss of a soul might work the same. We interrupted the spider’s meal, and it took only part of your soul. Like blood, your body will create more until it’s back to its normal strength.”

  Kevral considered the words, her back to Ra-khir. “Perhaps,” she said at length. She turned. “If that’s right, we’ll know over time.”

  Ra-khir nodded encouragingly, wondering if it would not prove better if they could never confirm his notion. So long as it remained a possibility, he could keep hope alive for both of them.

  Kevral raised less optimistic ideas. “Or perhaps what they sensed is the normal feel of a soul-emptied human.”

  Ra-khir wished he had knowledge to argue.

  “Or they even created that ‘something there’ sensation to make me feel better.”

  “Lie?” Ra-khir gave his head a hard toss, though it awakened a deep ache where his skull had struck the floor. “The lysalf? I don’t think they’re capable.”

  “Or,” Kevral said carefully, “it could be the baby.”

  Ra-khir cocked his head, red hair slithering over his ear. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. “Its presence might interfere with their search.”

  “You’re spending too much time with Matrinka, finding the best in everything.” Kevral looked down at the sword near her feet, cringing. Renshai law deemed her unworthy of wielding it unless she performed a complicated ceremony of apology. Only now, he noticed she had not wielded the weapon that Colbey had given her. Dropping that would have disparaged the old Renshai as well as herself. “I meant the spirit echo they’re finding is the baby’s. Or it’s mine and the lost soul is the baby’s.”

  Kevral’s interpretation made so much sense, Ra-khir found no grounds to contradict. He made a mental note to ask Captain before he left for the svartalf’s island. Ra-khir appealed to Kevral’s strength, her spirit as Colbey called it. “We can only speculate, so we might as well believe the best. Colbey told me to tell you never to surrender.”

  “Colbey?” A light of determination entered Kevral’s eyes at the mention of her hero. “You saw Colbey?”

  “I’ll discuss the details later,” Ra-khir promised, knowing she would want to hear direct quotations and descriptions of his every movement. “The important thing is the message he asked me to pass along to you.”

  “Never surrender,” Kevral repeated.

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he know—?”

  “Only what I did.” Ra-khir took Kevral’s hand. “Not much at the time. And little more now.”

  Kevral lowered her head. The blonde locks sagged across her brow, the feathers limp from sweat. She had more to think about, Ra-khir knew. She had to come to grips with the possible loss of Valhalla, the trivialization of all she had sought that formed the basis of her culture and religion. Yet she would not listen to lectures from him. Not here. Not now. Over time, he would chip away at those insecurities, find other reasons for her to live and to care, build a new future as vast and significant as the first.

  When Kevral was ready, Ra-khir would be there.

  CHAPTER 15

  Law’s Reach

  With Law’s reach long

  And new grip strong

  The world could little change.

  Is as it was

  Was as it is

  For none to rearrange.

  —The Guardian of the Tasks of Wizardry (Odin)

  AS the shard-questing party gathered in a strategy room filled with elves, Kevral suffered the awesome afterimages of a dream unlike any she had ever known. Chased by faceless enemies, she had drawn her sword to battle, only to have
it disappear in her hands. She had run, a terror beyond reality washing through every part. It gripped her, inescapable, for what seemed like hours before it finally occurred to her that she always carried a second weapon. Again, she had whirled, finding the creatures so near she could feel their warmth and gag on pants of putrid breath. Yet they remained blurry and indistinct. She had dismissed this as normal in a way only dreamers can, though frustration added its fire to the mix. She raised the sword that Colbey had gifted her, drawing strength from the control and security battle offered. It rattled free, growing unbearably heavy in her hands. Its weight bore her to the ground, and the nameless things that sought her sprang upon her.

  Kevral had awakened then, dread a bonded part of her. Her heart hammered as hard and fast as it did in war. The baby thrashed, as restless as she. It took a long time, eyes pried wide open, to convince herself of the unreality of the nightmare. Vestiges of it had colored the remainder of her sleep. Now, the vividness of the images finally faded, but memory of the stark fright remained. For the first time in her life, she felt out of control. Even the duties of her waking life became too much: the loss of her baby seemed inevitable, and she had even lost the distant promise of Valhalla.

  “. . . Valhalla,” Captain said, as if in echo.

  The word jerked Kevral instantly from her thoughts. “What?”

  Captain’s amber eyes swung to the Renshai. “The next shard. The Asgard shard.”

  Kevral nodded, suddenly intensely interested. “What about it?”

  Rascal made a loud sound filled with disdain.

  Ra-khir placed a protective arm on Kevral’s shoulder. “Because it’s on a known plane, a close one, they localized it for us.” His expression questioned her comfort and whether or not she felt prepared for chasing after another shard.

  Had Ra-khir asked her moments before, Kevral might have leaped on the opportunity for delay. “Valhalla?” She could scarcely believe it. “The shard is in Valhalla?”

  Concern creased the old elf’s features, and the others remained solemnly silent in deference. “It may well prove the most difficult of your tasks. The gods may take exception to humans on their world, and their whims dispose them to slaughter as often as mercy. Also,” he looked directly at Ra-khir, “we have reason to believe Odin has returned there, in the guise of Dh’arlo’mé. We already know that elf’s opinion of humans, and he’ll have essentially limitless power.”

  Even the normally unshakable El-brinith shivered at Captain’s words. Darris clasped his hands. Rascal sidled toward the exit, halted by Tae’s deliberate step into her path. Under ordinary circumstances, they would grant anyone’s wish to refuse; but the magic and the urgency of their mission did not allow it this time.

  “I can’t transport you inside Valhalla, because there’s surely magic warding it. It’s traditionally exclusive about who gets in.” Captain studied the group. “I’d worry for your safety if we attempted to thwart gods’ magic. Do you want some time for strategy?”

  “Will you be all right?” Ra-khir whispered in Kevral’s ear.

  “May be my last chance to see Valhalla,” Kevral returned nearly as softly, delight pounding through her previous dense sorrow. “Nothing could keep me away.”

  When no one else answered Captain’s question, Tae spoke. “Send us just outside the fence, if you can. We’ll handle it from there.”

  Captain switched to khohlar, *Ready?*

  A chorus of mental reassurances followed. Captain looked toward the humans, but none of them bothered to speak. The chant of the jovinay arythanik swelled, filling the room with the familiar rumble of sound. Captain’s staccato syllables chopped through the chorus of steady elfin voices. Eagerness lengthened the preparations. A queasy sensation seeped through Kevral, its source contained pleasure. Circumstance had granted her one more opportunity to see Valhalla, and she would savor every moment of the experience, no matter how horrible the end result.

  Light exploded through the room, raw agony against Kevral’s retinas. Anticipation had, once again, stolen remembrance of the need to close her eyes. Desperately, she blinked away long slashes of white that destroyed her vision and remained even when she screwed shut her lids. Gradually, her vision returned, showing her a wonderland still vivid in her every memory. Her companions seemed to disappear around her; she could spare attention only for the wrought-iron fence and the brisk movement taking place within it. A massive war erupted in every corner, the maneuvers of the participants honed over years, decades, or centuries. Swords, spears, axes, and hammers caught the light of Asgard’s eternal sun, flinging silver glimmers in a million directions. Men and women, rewarded for their valor, locked in a conflict that sent them lunging and surging, charging and retreating, battle cries and horn blasts reverberating. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, blood mingling with ankle-length grasses that never needed cutting. At the end of the day, survivors and dead alike would rise and retire to the feasting hall for the night, only to battle again the following day. Dense longing filled Kevral, and the idea that she might lose all this slid from concept to bitter reality. Eyes burning, she drifted closer, hands reaching for the bars.

  A woman appeared suddenly between Kevral and the fence. Blonde hair flowed from beneath a winged helmet. Blue eyes as hard as diamond chips glared into Kevral’s face. The fine construction of her armor might make even a Knight of Erythane suffer a moment’s jealousy. She clutched a spear in a tight diagonal across her body, and a sword swung at her hip. “Living mortals may not enter.”

  Kevral gave only a single step of ground, assuming an offensive stance. “Who are you?” They had met no opposition the last time they had come to Valhalla.

  “I am called Skögul, Raging to the most common human tongue.” Only her mouth moved. “My twelve sisters and I choose who passes through the gates called Valgrind.” She lowered her head to glare into Kevral’s face. “And we have not chosen you.”

  Rage flared up in Kevral, and her hand fell to her hilt. Ra-khir seized her wrist, never knowing how near he came to losing his hand; and Tae moved to Kevral’s other side.

  Darris sang softly:

  “Across the vast heavens

  Valkyries ride proud,

  The manes of their horses

  Like ink stripe the cloud.

  The host of thirteen,

  Always shunning the meek,

  Fly over the battle:

  The brave dead they seek.

  Whisked home to Valhalla,

  Battle rage reigniting,

  Blessed forever—

  Their souls ever fighting.”

  Kevral stiffened, never having heard the familiar Northern war song in the trading tongue. The translation remained remarkably true, if somewhat forced by the rhyme scheme; and it reminded Kevral that she faced a creature she had worshiped since infancy. Hostility receded, and she managed a stiff curtsy, though her gaze remained locked on Skögul’s sculpted face. She did not recall any gates at her last visit and had assumed the valiant dead entered by magic. Or, as she once had, by a challenging climb.

  Releasing Kevral, Ra-khir bowed, demonstrating none of Kevral’s caution. Kevral could not help wondering whether he trusted Skögul not to attack or his Renshai wife to protect him against such uncordialness. “Please forgive my wife’s impertinence. She meant no disrespect. It’s just that we’ve come here before, and no one stopped us then.”

  Andvari added a more relevant detail. “She’s Renshai.”

  Barring Rascal and the elves, the entire party turned to glare at the Northman, who became visibly self-conscious beneath their scrutiny. The others had learned long ago not to mention Kevral’s heritage to strangers. Even so many centuries after the Renshai’s falling out with the North and their reign of terror across the West, prejudice remained. The mere mention of the guardians of Béarn’s heirs sent some townsfolk fleeing and others tiptoeing around offense as if facing angered royalty. Kevral made a mental note to kill her irritating companion the mo
ment the mission ended, even as Ra-khir surely reminded himself to warn Andvari not to announce her heritage again.

  As Andvari slunk as far into the shadows as Tae, Kevral turned back to the Valkyrie.

  “Ah,” Skögul said, nodding thoughtfully and seeming to take no notice of the humans’ chagrin. “That explains it.”

  “My Lady,” Ra-khir continued, as if Andvari had not interrupted. “Our world requires a broken bit of something that happens to have come to rest in Valhalla. If we could just retrieve it—”

  “No!” The spear butt slammed the ground. “No mortal will enter Valhalla.”

  Kevral grinned, about to reveal that she already had once before, but Ra-khir anticipated the gloating and forestalled it with a warning tap of his boot against her ankle. “My Lady, perhaps you would consent to relay our need to those inside. Or allow us to speak with them through the fence.”

  Kevral lowered her head. The disappointment of remaining outside overpowered the joy that should have followed such a reasonable suggestion. She could already feel the slam of swords against her own, the music of clattering steel, the sweet perfume of exertion. Desperate craving exploded into need. The spirit spiders had stolen her chance to arrive here by merit. She gritted her teeth as the rest of her body seemed to lapse into boneless weakness, unable to bear her own weight, let alone the sacrifice. In a moment, her last chance to enter Valhalla would disappear. She found herself hoping the Valkyrie would refuse, shocked when Skögul did exactly that.

  “Impossible.” Fine gold ringlets slid across the Valkyrie’s forehead. “No sound can penetrate that.” She gestured over her shoulder toward the fence, without bothering to look where she indicated.