The word “baby” turned his face a deeper red, and she noticed he avoided his mother’s gaze at least as fanatically as Ra-khir did. “It’s possible . . .” he finally managed, though he got no further.
Kevral reassured with the best smile she could muster, “I know. But I can allow myself to believe it a certainty.” At least I know it’s not twins with different fathers this time. The elves had detected only one, though they could tell her nothing about gender or parentage.
“Tell Ra-khir . . .” Ravn swallowed hard and glanced at the knight, whom he could tell himself if he wished to do so. The two had never met face-to-face, but the god had likely seen the young knight through whatever magical means deities used. “Tell him I won’t interfere. I couldn’t if I wanted to. It’s a lot like my father’s situation. Love and nurturing matters more than blood.”
Kevral tried to grin again as his face blurred through welling tears. “Thank you,” she managed, fighting for control. “But it won’t matter.” She gulped several breaths of air while he watched her with wonder. She called upon the Renshai mind-over-body techniques to steel herself. Ravn did need to know. “Pudar has claimed the baby, and it looks like they’ll get it.” She rolled her eyes up to his, gentle blue compared with his father’s icy blue-gray. “Can you help?”
Ravn closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He winced as he choked out the necessary words. “Even for that, I cannot interfere on Midgard.” He released Kevral’s hands.
“I understand,” Kevral said. And did.
Ra-khir and Freya had entered their own conversation, punctuated by the knight’s bows. His eyes flitted from the woods, to the field, to the sky, averted from Freya’s enthralling beauty and the private conversation between Kevral and Ravn. As that came to an end, Kevral rejoined her husband in time to hear him remark: “I spoke with Colbey only a few days ago.”
A light flickered through Freya’s eyes. Kevral thought she saw a hint of innocent worry and need before the blue orbs turned cold. “Indeed? Where?”
Guilty for her time with Ravn, Kevral linked her arm through Ra-khir’s. He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze but otherwise showed no notice of the gesture. “On a mountain in the outlying region of Béarn. He gave me his horse.” He glanced at Kevral, guarding his tongue. “He seemed resigned to the possibility he might die, but he promised not to surrender.”
Freya nodded, her response surprisingly restrained.
Ra-khir seemed not to know where to go from that point. “If I . . . if I see him again, My Lady, would you like me to tell him anything?”
“No.” Freya swallowed hard, but her words emerged with a frigid calculation that revealed no hesitation. “It’s best if you have nothing to do with him, either. He’s . . . dangerous.”
“Dangerous, My Lady?” Ra-khir pressed gently, while Kevral stifled the urge to mention how ridiculously self-evident that was, now and in the past.
Ravn came over to stand beside his mother. His choice of position seemed every bit as supportive as Kevral’s for Ra-khir.
“It’s not something with which mortals need to concern themselves.” Freya’s tone held a warning that quelled the possibility of further questions. “Now, I will allow Kevral access to Valhalla for the purpose of retrieving this shard with the understanding that the rest of you will wait outside. And none of you will interfere with the system Odin created there.”
Ra-khir paled. “But, My Lady, I was hoping you would allow us, please, to speak with this warrior. See if we can’t convince him to help without bloodshed.”
The skin around Freya’s eyes flickered, the last vestige of a stifled wince. “That’s all I can offer. Anything more would require Odin’s approval, and I prefer not to disturb him for mortal matters.”
Kevral read the implied warning. Involving Odin might well prove fatal. “Thank you, Lady.” She finally remembered a curtsy. “And you.” She performed another for Ravn, who returned a stiff and stony-faced nod.
“Likely, he’s watching us now,” Ravn said. “If he sees the need to step in, he will.”
Freya shook her head slightly and frowned at her son, but Kevral appreciated the candor, suspecting their expressed attitudes toward Colbey probably had a basis in Odin’s spying. It surprised her that Ravn had dared to discuss the baby, and she suspected that his surprise at seeing her and his need to place her at ease had overridden memory or common sense. She only hoped Odin would not see the similarity between her baby and Colbey’s origins as a threat.
Ra-khir executed one more flowery bow. “Thank you, My Lady.” He turned Ravn a direct and knowing stare. “And thank you, too, My Lord.”
Ravn smiled, clearly realizing that Ra-khir had not thanked him for the same reason and appreciative of the knight’s understanding. “You’re welcome,” he said. “And good luck.”
Kevral cherished the god’s blessing. They would surely need it.
CHAPTER 16
The Ultimate Sacrifice
Never surrender.
—Colbey Calistinsson
SKÖGUL and three of her sisters revealed a massive gate, by magic, in the fence around Valhalla. Dressed in golden armor that shimmered like fire in the sunlight, the Valkyries all clutched spears, points angled toward the heavens. Though hard, Skögul’s expression suggested no particular malice, despite Freya overruling her command; and she opened the gate a crack for Kevral’s entrance. The other three muscled in to assure that no one attempted to accompany the Renshai, though none of her companions showed any inclination to violate their oath to the goddess. Ra-khir did, however, catch Kevral’s hand as she started to move. “Careful, my love. Try to avoid a battle if you can.” His eyes beseeched a promise she could not give him.
Acid seemed to scald Kevral’s veins, the desperate need for battle irresistible. On the walk over, she had finally considered Mundilnarvi’s odd name. Andvari had added the final clue by stating that it sounded like the ancient form of Mundinari. Surely, she would face a warrior with centuries in Valhalla to learn his craft. In that time, he had surely fought many Renshai. Her tricks and swift maneuvers would not catch him off-guard. This would surely prove the greatest battle of her existence, her final opportunity to fight Einherjar. If she survived, she accomplished a worthy feat; and, if she died, she would do so with honor. No matter how competent, this Einherjar would earn himself an admirable battle.
“Kevral.” Tae tugged at her other sleeve. “See if you can work a deal that he gives us the shard even if you lose.”
Ra-khir turned his Eastern companion a grim-lipped glare that Tae deliberately ignored.
“You may have to do better than your best,” the Easterner reminded. “The future of all children depends on you.”
Kevral fixed her gaze on the swarming chaos of battle. The urge seized her to dart to the center of the conflict, joining ancestors and bygone enemies in a wild flurry of thrust and dodge. Their war howls stoked her excitement, melody to the underplay of thumping hammers and clashing steel.
Giving up on the possibility of peaceful diplomacy, Ra-khir spoke the best words he could have chosen, Colbey’s own. “Never surrender, Kevral. Never surrender.”
Kevral stepped through the gates at Skögul’s side. As the metal snapped closed, cutting off the sounds of her companions’ concerns and encouragements, Skögul pointed. “That’s Mundilnarvi.”
Kevral followed the gesture to a massive Northman leaning against the fence, apart from the battles. A knotted, dark green scarf covered the top of a head that seemed too large even for his massive torso. Sandy war braids hung past shoulders that bunched like boulders beneath a bulky leather tunic. He wore a massive, broad-bladed sword at his right hip, and a hand ax graced a loop at his left. Green eyes studied her hungrily, like prey. The warrior belted out a laugh. He spoke in a thickly accented bass, his structure archaic: “The contaminated bloodline grows puny—weaker with each generation.” He held up an irregular shard of sapphire, then flipped it into an inn
er pocket beneath his tunic. “Let us not tarry. A real battle awaits.” He jerked his head toward an armored Northman, as sizable as himself, standing nearby. “Be at you in trifling time.”
The waiting Northman gave no response, features screwed in condemnation.
Kevral’s heart beat a slow, heavy cadence in her chest, the calm anticipation of war. She returned a wry, verbal shrug in the form of a Renshai proverb, “The larger the enemy, the larger the victory.”
Mundilnarvi smiled. “Slaughtered my fully shareness of Renshai at the magnificent battle which as much as ended your bloodline. Defiled at fully every corpse.” He took a menacing step closer, his eyes narrowing to animal slits. “Everyway I could.” He made an unrecognizable gesture she guessed was once obscene. “And at yours, too.”
Kevral felt her insides boil with revulsion and need, but she forced calm. Her rage would instantly gain him the upper hand. “If you fight half as much as you yammer, your friend will wait a long time.”
Mundilnarvi clapped his left hand to his hand ax, Kevral’s eyes naturally following the movement. Too late, she recognized the feint. His sword jerked free first, thrust at her face. Her swords glided out and up as swiftly as a blink, yet almost not fast enough. She caught his blade on a crossblock, the force of the blow aching through her arms. She riposted immediately with both blades, only to meet low blocks by sword and hand ax. Strong, arrogant, and fast. Kevral faced the challenge bravely. He might well prove more than she could handle.
The battle erupted into a riot of attack, dodge, and parry. His sword came at her nearly as quickly as she could return, his speed incalculable for one without Renshai maneuvers. Her preference for evasion over block, further evened their speed. She could not afford to parry too many of his power strokes. If they did not snap her blades, they might shatter her arms. Repeatedly, she bore in, forced to pirouette beneath his longer reach, only to find herself foiled by his hand ax and sword defense. Like every non-Renshai she had ever met, he used his second weapon only for protection, but he would take an occasional swipe when he found her too near for a full force attack of his blade. He relied heavily on thrust, aware as she that he did not need much momentum to power it through her small form.
For longer than any spar, Kevral exchanged jabs, sweeps, and deflections with her massive foe. Breath rattled in her throat, and the air seemed unusually thin. Fatigue weighted her arms, as much from the force of his attacks as the lengthy duration of the battle. Then she managed a weaving sweep and spin that opened the fabric of his tunic and rang against a band of steel. As she rolled past, swinging back to catch a sure riposte, his laughter rumbled through her ears. “Hidden armor befuddles Renshai every time.”
“Coward,” Kevral growled, bounding in for an attack before reining anger. He hooked her gut thrust with the hand ax and hammered down her sword with a directed head strike. A Renshai twist saved her from his assault, but his blade slammed her own down on her head. Pain shocked through Kevral, dropping her to one knee. His sword screamed toward her, and she spiraled awkwardly away. “Modi!” she screamed, which kindled his laughter anew.
“Hurt?” Mundilnarvi back-stepped, as if in sympathy though she knew he only gathered momentum to run her through.
Kevral lunged into a crossblock, needing both arms to redirect a mighty thrust that would strain her sinews. Even as his sword sped toward her, she sighted another movement at the edge of her vision. She barely managed to jerk sideways before his ax flew true. Only the abruptness of her movement saved her chest from the blade. Instead, the pole crashed against her right shoulder. Her arm flopped to her side, Colbey’s sword lost to her fingers.
“No!” The need to rescue the weapon from disrespect stole all focus on pain. Kevral dove for the sword, driven backward by a sudden flurry of attack from Mundilnarvi. The sword tumbled, plowing up a furrow of dirt. Pain receded, leaving her right arm desperately numb. She raised the other sword bravely, the fight essentially over.
But Mundilnarvi did not press his advantage. Leaning deliberately over Colbey’s sword, he spat upon the blade.
Nothing could have enraged Kevral more. With a screech of frenzy, she launched herself at Mundilnarvi with a savagery he barely defended. The swords sliced and hewed in a wild death dance that neither dared to slow. When they finally disengaged, air-hunger burned Kevral’s lungs. Her head throbbed, holding thought and strategy at bay. She surged in with a dangerous in-and-out maneuver she had learned from watching Colbey, though not yet perfected. None of her blows landed, but the last left her an opening. Even as Mundilnarvi closed his defenses, her blade licked through, whipping across his head.
Contact thrummed against Kevral’s hand, and triumph surged through her. She completed her follow-through from practice rather than any belief she needed to do so. His scarf slid down her blade. No one could have survived that cut. Yet, miraculously, he had, his secret the same that had fended her last successful hit. A dented helm protected his skull, well-hidden beneath the scarf. Mundilnarvi seized her moment of surprise to snatch up his hand ax, and Kevral chose to grab Colbey’s sword rather than press. Stinging fingers scarcely managed the task, and an arm that felt like a boiled noodle seemed incapable of raising the blade. Yet somehow she met his next attack with a double defense, careful to take the blow mostly with her good left arm.
Kevral switched to a defensive strategy, blocking strikes as strong as any blacksmith’s hammer. Even the small amount of force she allowed against her right sword seemed too much. The thunder strikes drove her into desperate retreat. Finally, one pounded hard enough to plunge her to her knees, strength failing. Howling his triumph, Mundilnarvi slammed his blade down on Kevral for the last time. She caught it on an unequal cross, then dropped her weakened right hand, guiding his blade downward. Both saw the opening at the same time. Kevral jerked her left arm upward, dropping her notched and battered blade to his shoulder. He jolted backward as she sliced, his ax whipping up to defend. Like a saw, the damaged blade chewed through the flesh where neck met shoulder. Blood geysered from the wound, hot against Kevral’s face. As he fell, she struggled to her feet, skewering his abdomen with Colbey’s sword. Too late, she remembered the armor, but it did not matter. The blade glided through the steel, and she buried it to the hilt inside him.
Not a single word escaped Mundilnarvi as he collapsed, though his eyes contained none of the terror death usually inspired and his lips held a slight smile. That night, he would rise to feast among his fellows once more, suffering only the teasing that must follow fairly losing a battle to a young mortal.
Sensation fully returned to Kevral’s arm in a white hot surge. She planted a foot against Mundilnarvi’s massive chest, bracing as she jerked on her sword. For a moment, it foiled her efforts. Then, gradually, the blade glided from flesh and armor, followed by a rush of dark blood. Drawing a rag, she set to cleaning gore from the steel, unable to keep herself from pitying him. The wild rush of battle had to lose some of its joy when a warrior no longer risked the ultimate sacrifice.
The ultimate sacrifice. Kevral shook her head, only now coming far enough out of her battle rage to realize that several of the Einherjar remained to watch her. Though great, death did not meet that definition; but she already had. To surrender one’s life to a cause required the bravery that resulted in Valhalla; yet it could not compare to giving up a soul. Colbey had chosen to do so for the good of the world. Kevral shook her head again, harder, inciting a wave of dizziness. She had lost that opportunity to a spider. Only now, she realized that bothered her as much as losing Valhalla.
Ignoring her audience, Kevral cleaned, rising rage making her movements nearly as violent as combat. For longer than necessary, she worked on Colbey’s sword, refusing to leave an invisible dot of grime on a blade dishonored by an enemy so abhorrent. No matter how many times she scrubbed, she could still imagine the filth he had spat onto it, evading her every effort. So she polished while anger burned and gradually receded, leaving her feeling spe
nt and the steel gleaming like quicksilver in the regular sunlight. Sheathing it, she raised the second sword for a similar workout, only to find the blade notched even beyond safe sheathing. Holding it across her arms, she lowered her head and muttered a prayer, as if over a fallen comrade. It felt odd to evoke the names of gods while on Asgard; yet she could not bear to do otherwise, especially when it involved a sword she had only recently suffered through a lengthy ritual to regain the honor to wield.
Finally, Kevral set to the task for which she had come. Laying the damaged sword across her vanquished foe, she rummaged through his pocket for the Pica shard. Finding it, she headed toward the gate, only then realizing she had never addressed, or even looked at, the Einherjar. Realization brought heat to her cheeks; and, though she still evaded their eyes, she became self-conscious for it. Not long ago, she had desperately wanted to find herself in this position. Now that she had, she could not stand to examine it too closely. Doing so might make living without it impossible.
Kevral carried her prize to the gates, where Tae, Ra-khir, the elves, and Darris watched her with joy and relief etched clearly on their faces. The four Valkyries guarded them vigilantly. Rascal crouched among the grasses, seeming to take no notice of the activity inside Valhalla’s fence.
“Are you well?” Ra-khir asked, his voice carrying easily through the bars.
Still in the mind-set that no sound could reach her companions, Kevral did not answer immediately. She realized the Valkyries must have dismantled their spell in the area of the gate in order to admit her. Apparently, they saw no reason to replace it until the time came for her to leave. “I’m fine,” Kevral finally answered distractedly, passing the shard through the opening.
Ra-khir accepted it, squeezing her hand. Skögul headed for the gate, and Kevral backed away to allow it space to swing open.
The Children of Wrath Page 36
