The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “What about me?” El-brinith said.

  Kevral appreciated the sacrifice. “You’re no smaller than me.”

  “True.” El-brinith sized the young Renshai with her gaze. “But I’m a bit more . . . um . . . streamlined at the moment.”

  Chan’rék’ril looked worried, though Kevral could not define the subtle changes in expression that gave her that impression. “More risk than with her.” His head barely moved in Rascal’s direction. “But we’ll have to make do with what we have.”

  They all glanced once more at Rascal, who turned toward them, still with arms doubled over her chest and her lower lip jutting.

  Chan’rék’ril delegated swiftly, using khohlar concept to send Ra-khir, Darris, and Andvari to specific places to help move and steady rock. Every step onto the piled rubble sent pieces shifting dangerously, usually toward unseen portions of the mound. Every click, grind, or scrape made Kevral cringe as she imagined rock tumbling onto Tae’s helplessly pinned face. She also worried for the men, pitched headlong to their own demises. Once in place, however, they fell into a cooperative rhythm, Chan’rék’ril cautiously easing free the top layers of rock and the men guiding the boulders harmlessly aside.

  Kevral suffered a new hatred for the bulge that hampered her ability to rescue a trapped friend. Though not clumsy, El-brinith lacked the experience to handle the situation as deftly as a daily-trained warrior or a sneak thief. Rascal’s size gave her all the advantages, yet there seemed no way to convince her of their need. Kevral had to try one last time, before Chan’rék’ril widened the hole that last dangerous notch, before El-brinith desperately risked her own life and Tae’s to squeeze through it. She walked toward Rascal, the Pudarian back-stepping warily at her approach.

  “Hold still,” Kevral instructed.

  “Hain’t lettin’ ya kill me.”

  The words sounded ludicrous to the Renshai warrior. “If I planned to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

  “Ya hain’t that fast.”

  “Yes,” Kevral said, eyes trained on Rascal’s. “I am. Don’t force me to show you.”

  Rascal only glared with clear defiance. “Killin’ me hain’t makin’ Tae ’live.”

  No, but it’ll give me satisfaction. Threat did not seem like the best approach. “If El-brinith is killed, we’re trapped here. We need both elves for the transport.”

  “Hain’t askin’ her ta risk it.” Rascal’s shoulders zipped upward, then lowered with slow insolence. “‘Sides, we’s trapped here anyways. Thought we’s needin’ all us ta go. We’s loss’t Tae.”

  Kevral pursed her lips. She had nearly forgotten that the focused transport spell required all members of the group. She verbalized the loophole, “Captain said he might make it work without one of us. But we can’t even trigger it without El-brinith.”

  “If’n ya loss’t Tae an’ me, loss’t two. Cain’t work either.”

  Kevral glanced behind her at the working men, then back to Rascal. She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Rascal, Tae’s done so much for you. He’s practically fathered you since you joined us: helping, teaching, supporting. If not for him, one of us would have killed you by now. Don’t you feel any loyalty at all?”

  Light brown eyes sparkled between narrowing lids. “Lo’lty?” she repeated. “I seed what lo’lty gets ya.” She whipped an arm toward the rubble. “Tae’s lo’lty ta ya gotted him kilt.”

  A painful flare of guilt saved Rascal’s life. Kevral could not deny that her impulsiveness had caused Tae’s predicament. Had she heeded his many warnings, she would not have triggered the trap and he would not lie buried beneath tons of rubble. “I made a mistake, Rascal. A big one. But that doesn’t mean you should compound it.”

  “Which’s cum’poundin’ it? Not goin’ affer him? Or gettin’ misself kilt, too?” Rascal’s hands became white fists at her sides, and she balanced on the balls of her feet, prepared for a swift escape. “Hain’t gettin’ ya people. Ya ’grees ta try this quess thin’ knowin’ least one a ya’s goin’ ta die. Ya’s all fightin’ types.” She flicked a wrist toward Darris. “Ev’n body guarders what’s trained ta die for others. Gettin’ daid hain’t no big deal for types like ya. You’s got close youself lass time. Why’s ya gettin’ so fussled now?”

  The clatter of falling stone jerked Kevral’s attention behind her. The men stopped working, all staring at the same spot near Darris’ left foot. A hole had opened between the pile and the ceiling that seemed barely big enough for a cat. “Most soldiers don’t go to war because they want to, but because they have to. Reluctantly. In defense of cities or countries. At their king’s command. Others dedicate themselves to their rulers with more enthusiasm. They’re not seeking death but fulfilling honor or moral need.”

  Rascal did not blink. “Hain’t explain’ ya.”

  Chan’rék’ril stepped back. “Can’t risk anything more. Any luck, Kevral?”

  Kevral studied Rascal, who continued her stance of stalwart refusal. “Renshai do leap joyfully into battle, but it’s usually not to die. It’s for the excitement of besting a challenging opponent, of honing our skills until the day we can die in ultimate glory, hopefully at an old age. Warriors remain aware of death and don’t fear it, but the camaraderie that develops between those who face death together, especially repeatedly, is stronger than the ties that bind any other. Even in the heat of battle, we grieve for one another. And we’re prepared to do everything we can to help one another.”

  “I hain’t no warrior.”

  “Kevral?” Ra-khir pressed.

  Kevral threw up her hands. “Rascal, you owe him.”

  “Hain’t owin’ nobody nothin’. An’ hain’t dyin’ for a daid man. Cain’t make me.”

  The urge to stuff Rascal through that hole became nearly irresistible. “You’re right, Rascal. If your own sense of honor and fairness can’t make you, no one can.” With that, Kevral returned to the others. “Stubborn as a rock, with half the virtue. I caused this mess. I’m going in after him.” She measured the opening with her gaze. The baby kicked wildly, a cruel reminder of why she could never fulfill her determined words.

  El-brinith’s voice glided through Kevral’s discomfort. “If only we had the shard.”

  Kevral looked up. “We do.” Concern for Tae had not allowed her to mention it sooner. Thrusting a hand into her pocket, she withdrew the blue fragment and offered it to the elf.

  Taking it, El-brinith soothed. “Kevral, it’s best if I go, and not just because of size or risk to an innocent infant. We might manage the transport magic separated, which would save whoever goes to rescue Tae from a return trip.”

  Kevral recalled the mission as an attempt to locate, not rescue, allowing Chan’rék’ril the details he needed to safely direct the unburying efforts. Hope formed an excited tingle in her chest. “You can still transport? From in there?” She gestured toward the pile.

  “I don’t know.” El-brinith glanced at Chan’rék’ril for support. “Depends on how far Tae fell. How much weight pins him.” She looked back at Kevral. “It seems worth trying.”

  The men clambered down from the rock pile, stepping as lightly as their own bulk allowed. Chan’rék’ril perched on a boulder, head in his hands, watching El-brinith float delicately to the top of the pile. She paused there, measuring the created cavity with a doubtful frown. She clasped her hands, holding her arms straight out in front of her. Without hesitation, she pitched herself through, pointed fingers leading. The darkness swallowed her arms; then she poised, shoulders trapped against the rubble.

  Kevral mentally willed the elf forward, not noticing she had, herself, physically shifted until a stone rolled under her foot. El-brinith bobbed for several moments. A shoulder slipped through, dislodging a patter of rock. Kevral flinched, awaiting the deadly avalanche that might follow. Then the elf’s second shoulder followed the first, and her body slipped behind it like a baby escaping the womb.

  The moments that followed passed like hours while
those left behind displayed nervousness in ways that had become characteristic. Darris paced. Andvari traced the haft of his ax with a finger that circled the same design a thousand times. Ra-khir smoothed wrinkles from his britches with palms that left sweaty marks. Rascal crouched, hands twitching at intervals. Chan’rék’ril sat perfectly still, head bowed into long-fingered hands. Kevral caught herself clinging to the hilts of her swords, tensed near to breaking.

  Suddenly, Chan’rék’ril rose and calmly said, “We need to move as near the rocks as possible.”

  They all did as instructed, including Rascal. “Did she find him?” Kevral asked, nearly in concert with several others.

  Chan’rék’ril sent brief khohlar, before starting into the familiar chant. *A glimpse. Can’t get close enough to tell much. Spell is worth trying.*

  Kevral braced for the blinding, disorienting moment of transport, squeezing her lids shut. The chant continued long past its usual time. The swirl of movement did not come, nor the bright flash that seemed to always accompany magical travel between worlds. Not working. Kevral opened her eyes. As if waiting for that moment, a brilliant blast of whiteness exploded across her vision.

  Kevral’s eyes snapped closed reflexively, etching a colorful web of afterimages over the darkness. She blinked desperately, needing to see the result of the elves’ work. Gradually, she registered the moments of sightlessness alternating with the simple decor of the strategy room from which they had left for the task. She skipped her ruined vision over her companions, registering none of them until she found the limp figure on the floor. Tae lay with his arms and legs tucked against his abdomen, eyes closed. Dust covered every part of him. Gaze trained fanatically on him, Kevral watched for the subtle rise and fall that would indicate breathing; but the flecks of light that still spotted her vision foiled details. “Is he. . . ?”

  Ra-khir caught Kevral’s arm and steered her for a door she only now noticed was open. Heads poked through, waiting impatiently for the room to clear. “Let the healers work.”

  “Healers?” Kevral allowed herself to be led. “So quickly?”

  “El-brinith used khohlar to alert them.” Ra-khir politely worked the two of them around the rushing healers, human and elfin, apologizing for every movement. Andvari and Darris also blundered through the crowd. Kevral never saw Rascal leave, but soon only the elves and a horde of healers filled the room. She barely had time to notice Matrinka among them before the door swung closed, plunging the hallway into silence.

  Ra-khir’s grip left Kevral’s arm, and she took his hand as it fell away. “Was he breathing, at least?”

  “I didn’t notice,” Ra-khir replied, his voice thick with otherwise well-hidden discomfort. “I’m sure the healers will let us know as soon as possible. In the meantime, we need to clean ourselves.”

  Kevral nodded. She needed a bath, wishing it would scour away the guilt as easily as the dirt. At least, the knight’s need to appear immaculate gained her a means to occupy her time until the answers arrived. Rascal’s words returned to haunt her: “Gettin’ daid hain’t no big deal for types like ya . . . Why’s ya gettin’ so fussled now?” For all the times she had plunged into battle, she had seen death as a distant obsession. Tae’s risk-taking had endeared him to her. She had always known it would likely kill him, yet that did not soften the blow when it happened. Might have happened. Kevral tried to put the sight of the tons of boulders from her mind, along with the still form on the strategy room floor. “Ra-khir, do you think Rascal’s right? That we’re insane to cry for one who came to grips with his mortality years ago?”

  Ra-khir answered the only way his honor allowed. “No.” He elaborated, “No one belittles the grief of those who lose elderly relatives to long-term illnesses, no matter how predictable their passing. No matter how honorable, the death of a loved one is tragic.”

  Kevral sighed as she walked, understanding the point, though it contradicted the Renshai teaching that a brave warrior who died in battle should be celebrated, never mourned. The method of Tae’s accident allowed for sorrow.

  Kevral did not notice Andvari until his soft voice filled the thoughtful hush. “Berserk. That’s what we call soldiers who fight without emotion, without worry for the safety of self or companions. Most reach that state through drugs or deliberate mental isolation.” He added carefully, “It’s no coincidence that the word has come to mean ‘crazy.’”

  That point, though more subtle, did not escape Kevral either. Even among those who anticipated a sudden, violent end, the ones who did not lament fallen companions were the ones most would consider mad. “Thank you,” Kevral said, meaning it. With Ra-khir, she headed to their room.

  * * *

  The Sea Knighty reached Nualfheim during the third week, hull scraping sand with a sharp and prolonged grating that set Captain’s teeth on edge. He sprang over the gunwale to haul the ship to safety without destroying the planking. Homogeneous eyes followed his every motion, elfin spectators scattered across the beach. His crew joined him to assist, tugging at the mooring lines. The ship glided along the sand, leaving a triangular trail etched deeply into wet embankment. Captain secured the ship to a doranga tree, the rope snuggling between circles of roughened bark. Only then, he dared to face the many svartalf who had watched their approach and landing in silence.

  Curving toward its zenith, the sun beamed down upon the beach, warming the sand where the waves did not touch it. Bits of quartz glimmered amid the tan chips of rock and shell. The tide kicked up shells, seaweed, and bracken, reclaiming half in its relentless return. Planted on the shore, a sea slug followed the receding waters, humping across the sand, dragging a shell the length of Captain’s forearm. Sand fleas, uncovered by the surge, dug furiously back into the beach, disappearing beneath a shallow layer to emerge with every subsequent wave.

  Only after the ship lay safely docked did Captain bother to address Nualfheim’s masses with khohlar. Fewer than two hundred elves made their homes here, more than four times the number in Béarn; and it seemed as if every one now stood upon the sand or studied him from the branches of high trees. *Fellow elves. Greetings.*

  No response followed Captain’s call. He looked to his crew. Dhyano stood to his right, only two steps behind him. His blue eyes remained focused ahead, and his thin-lipped mouth remained pursed. Sal’arin clung to a line already taut and secure, and her amber eyes followed every slight movement. Reehanthan and Tel-aran stood together, their discomfort so subtle even he could barely read it. Irrith-talor kept a hand on the gunwale, looking as if he might attempt sudden retreat at any moment, driving the Sea Knighty back into the ocean. Ke’taros had gone below to assist their only passenger, a moronic elf who bore the name Khy’barreth.

  Captain tried again. *My peers, we have come to make peace.*

  Eight svartalf sorted themselves from the others, forming a semicircle in front of the grounded ship. Seven had served in the Nine, the elfin council, when Captain had sat among them. The last, he knew, had replaced him at the time of his exile. Apparently, they had not yet filled the slot Dh’arlo’mé had vacated. As usual, Vrin’thal’ros chose to speak for them. *You’re not welcome here, Lav’rintir.* His attention barely shifted to the others. *And your lav’rintii. You were banished for eternity.* The wind fluttered a strand of silver hair over violet eyes that fixed back on Captain.

  *Circumstances have changed.* Captain stuck with khohlar, though his speaking voice would carry to every ear. It seemed prudent to use uniquely elfin communication while convincing dubious elves that living among humans, or at least remaining at peace with them, posed no threat to elfin society. *Dh’arlo’mé has forsaken you as well as us.*

  *Lies!* Clear disdain tainted Vrin’thal’ros’ sending. *Dh’arlo’mé will return. And you must leave.* He started to turn his back.

  *Dh’arlo’mé exists no more.*

  Vrin’thal’ros whirled to face Captain again. *Are you confessing to . . .* He sent a convoluted concept of causing the de
ath of one’s own. Murder did not exist in elfin culture or language.

  Captain explained without bothering to directly address the question, *He chose a new identity for himself. He joined with the Staff of Law to become Odin. If you continue to follow him, you no longer heed the words of an elf but of a god who is not your creator.*

  Ke’taros appeared on the deck, herding Khy’barreth. Reehanthan and Tel-aran assisted the infantile elf to the beach.

  Murmurs of khohlar suffused the crowd, and many more singular exchanges probably occurred.

  Vrin’thal’ros would have none of it. *Dh’arlo’mé told us you would lie.*

  “He’s not lying, Vrin’thal’ros Obtrinéos Pruthrandius Tel’Amorak.” Though soft, the voice carried. Captain knew it well. Hri’shan’taé, a female second in age only to himself, had spoken sooner in a dispute than he had ever heard her before. Known for slowness in emotion and decision, she rarely said a word until all of the others had finished. At times, she waited long enough that even the elves had forgotten the topic. “We all saw that creature summoned by Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-krin. Human, it may have seemed; but he used demon-summoning magics to bring it. And it called him Odin.”

  Captain hoped Hri’shan’taé might prove more willing to listen. Like himself, she recalled, even still embodied, the unhurried joy of elves. He knew demon summoning brought the Prince of Chaos, and Colbey had claimed Dh’arlo’mé/Odin had evoked him more than once.

  *Dh’arlo’mé,* Vrin’thal’ros sent. *Odin. It doesn’t matter. We follow the ways of elves and you the ways of humans. Dh’arlo’mé led us through the worst times in our history, and he never turned against us.* Though elfin subtle, the look he turned Captain felt barbed.

  Captain doubted he could convince Vrin’thal’ros of the truth, that Odin had performed the summoning in the hope of bringing a demon to destroy elves and humans alike. Instead, he indicated Khy’barreth. Raven hair hung barely below his ears, kept short because it otherwise grew too difficult to detangle. The blue eyes that stared out from his angular face looked flat and dead. Captain switched to voice, a subtle insult to Vrin’thal’ros and homage to Hri’shan’taé. “This is how Dh’arlo’mé cares for his own. He ruined Khy’barreth’s mind, then left him to rot in Béarn’s dungeon.”