Beyond Ragnarok

Book 1: Renshai Chronicles

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Science Fiction; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

An epic sword and sorcery fantasy, this novel continues the history of the people and gods of Midguard. Following 300 years after the tumultuous events of CHILD OF THUNDER it tells of a new threat to Midguard's hard won peace. The old king of Bearn is dying and his heirs are falling prey to disease and murder, those not killed outright are failing the traditional test of kingship. With their failure comes the threat of chaos-without a tried and tested ruler Bearn will fall and the balnce between good and evil won by the legendary Renshai,Colbey Calistinsson, will be lost. A new Renshai of equal talents to Colbey's is the only hope for Midguard...

Release date: July 1, 1996

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 744

Sample

The valley is called Vigridwhere converge in battleSurtr and the gracious gods;a hundred leaguesis it every which way—yes, that’s the appointed place.

—Verse Edda, Vafprudnismal 18

The battle plain of Vigrid sparkled in Asgard’s eternal light, an emerald grassland stretching as far as Colbey Calistinsson’s vision. Though half-mortal and raised by human parents, he rode toward the gods’ war, Ragnarok, honestly. A bastard son of Thor, Colbey had been recruited by the leader of the pantheon, Odin, to change the tide of the ghastly war. Unlike the army of gods around him, he wore no coat of mail or helmet, only a light linen tunic and breeks over an average-sized body honed more for quickness and agility than strength. Golden hair riffled free around a clean-shaven face, his locks short and feathered so as not to obscure sight during battle. His tribe, the Renshai, spurned shields and armor as cowards’ tools, though he spoke nothing of his prejudice to the Divine Ones. Even had he not held them in an esteem beyond awe, they already knew.

Colbey’s sword, Harval, the Gray Blade, felt only vaguely familiar in his hand. Though it had served him faithfully for years, Odin had recently imbued it with aspects of good and evil, law and chaos, so that Colbey could wield it in the gods’ cause of balance after the Ragnarok. After the Ragnarok. The phrase seemed nonsensical. Fate had decreed that the Heavenly War would spare only two hidden humans and a handful of gods. Yet those survivors included the sons of Thor; and Colbey, Odin assured him, was one. Still, experience had taught Colbey that prophecies could be thwarted. In fact, he had learned that such divine forecasts required champions to fulfill them, at least on man’s world of Midgard. Odin’s certainty that Colbey would help him kill the Fenris Wolf and elude his own destiny, to die in the wolf’s maw, assured Colbey the gods’ history was not fully preordained either.

Renshai fought without pattern or strategy, and the rigid, somber procession of gods riding toward Vigrid unnerved Colbey. The mental control Renshai exercised, on and off the battlefield, had strengthened his mind. Later, the title of Western Wizard had been unwittingly forced on him, along with its collective consciousness. His psychic war against millennia of previous Western Wizards had destroyed them and left him with the ability to read minds, though it cost him volumes in concentration and vigor; but he chose not to do so to anyone he respected, finding it a rudeness beyond excuse. Nevertheless, strong thoughts and emotions radiated to him without his intention. Now, he felt bombarded by a wild tumult of fear, excitement, stoicism, faith, doubt, and hope that made his own battle joy seem muddled and weak.

Odin the AllFather rode at the head, light reflecting from his helmet in a multicolored halo, his mail pristine. The one-eyed leader of the gods perched proudly upon his eightlegged steed, his spear raised and ready for combat. Just behind him, Thor and Frey rode at Colbey’s either hand. Colbey’s birthfather brandished his short-handled hammer, Mjollnir. Though fated to die, Thor kept his red-bearded head high; his mood, stance, and attitude defined commitment. Even in the face of imminent death, he would not falter.

Colbey looked longest at his brother-in-law Frey, studying the aristocratic features and honey-blond war braids. The handsomest of the gods affected rain, sunshine, and fortune, but his foremost concern now was the fate of the elves he had created. Colbey sensed a fatherly worry transcending irrefutable legend which stated Frey would die on the sword of the fire giant, Surtr. The events slated to follow his death bothered him more, the inferno Surtr would then live to kindle on the worlds of elves, men, giants, and gods as well. Destiny decreed all Frey’s “children” would die in the blaze. And the humans Colbey had pledged to rescue would perish simultaneously.

The rest of the gods followed in steady ranks, including the watchman, Heimdall. He and the traitor god, Loki, would die on one another’s swords. One-handed Tyr would slay and be slain by the hound from Hel. Vidar, a son of Odin, was fated to kill the mighty Fenris Wolf only after it swallowed his father. Lesser gods trailed behind, surrounded by the ranks of those brave humans who had died in glorious combat, the Einherjar of Valhalla. Those heroes were fated to die in the conflicts against giants and against the souls in Hel, who had died cowards or of disease.

Colbey patted his horse, a mortal, white stallion named Frost Reaver who had served him well and faithfully for years. Like all Renshai, Colbey had dedicated himself since birth to becoming one of the Einherjar. He had practiced combat maneuvers with an obsessiveness that made even necessities seem distraction. He had joined every war and skirmish, honing his battle skills until he had become the best, and his dedication had proven his downfall. He had become so competent with swords and horses that an honorable death in battle eluded him. Yet he had achieved his goal in a different way. Though not one of Valhalla’s heroes, he would have the distinction of fighting in the Ragnarok on the side of the gods. Whether he lived or died in the battle did not matter to Colbey, so long as he gave his all.

Figures became discernible on the plain ahead, distance creating the illusion of smallness though the shortest of their leaders, like the gods, towered to half again or double Colbey’s height. Only the hordes of Hel’s dead compared to normal men in size; the giants, monsters, and gods overshadowed the others nearly to obscurity. Colbey tried to pick specific enemies from the group. His icy, blue-gray eyes sought out the massive, animal shapes from the others: the Fenris Wolf and its brother, the Midgard Serpent. For now, the man-shapes remained indistinguishable.

The maelstrom of others’ emotions bombarding Colbey changed to a mixture of bravado, desperation, and placid acceptance. Colbey attempted to focus in on Odin, but the AllFather’s thoughts had always proven singularly impossible to read. The one time Colbey had attempted to invade Odin’s mind, not knowing his identity, the leader of the pantheon had manipulated Colbey’s thoughts with a strength and agility that had chilled the Renshai’s blood in his veins. The wisdom of the world sat behind that one unreadable eye; nothing seemed to escape him.

Colbey loosened his sword in its scabbard and hoped Odin did not already realize that his chosen savior planned to betray him.

On Alfheim, the world of elves, stars speckled the night sky so densely the darkness seemed penciled between them. Beneath their steady light, Dh’arlo’mé tossed and turned on his bed of spongy kathkral leaves, uncertain whether to welcome or curse the rest he needed. Though he’d required it for several months, ever since the Northern Sorceress had taken him as her apprentice, sleep still seemed a new concept to the elf. The Sorceress had explained the strange, human phenomenon as a means to reset body and mind, a condition that sprang out of the need to escape heavy thoughts, injury, and sickness. Until Dh’arlo’mé had willingly embraced the Wizard’s cause, championing goodness for the human masses, he had had no need of sleep, no reason to wrest burdens from a mind that knew only joy and a body designed to last millennia.

Dh’arlo’mé ran long fingers over his high, sharp cheekbones and heart-shaped lips. When he chose to become one of the four Cardinal Wizards, he knew he might come to regret the decision. But even the gods could not have predicted the sequence of events that assured the Ragnarok, the fated battle that would claim the lives of nearly all mankind, all elves, and most of the gods. The memory would not leave Dh’arlo’mé. Despite his best efforts, the pictures paraded through his mind, accompanied by odors, sounds, and the strangely gentle caress of the wind. Three of the four Cardinal Wizards lay on a moldy carpet of leaves, their life’s blood puddling like spilled wine. Each had taken his or her own life, the price for abandoning Odin’s laws, for hunting down one of their own like an animal, and for loosing chaos on the world of men, a world that, until that time, knew only order.

The last of the Wizards, Colbey, the Western champion of Law, had argued for salvation and forgiveness for his peers. But Odin had granted no quarter, and the Wizards apparently agreed with the cruel, gray god. They died by their own hands, permanently, in the manner of humans. At the time, Dh’arlo’mé had appreciated Odin’s mercy; he alone of the apprentices had survived the events leading to the coming of the father of gods. Only now, he understood the callousness of leaving him to perish with his brethren in the coming war. The hopelessness haunted every hour, and Odin’s decree still echoed in his head:

Wizard only in name,

Your Mistress to blame

Her bones rightfully soon entombed.

Go back to the one

Who calls you her son

Alfheim is already doomed.

Doomed. Dh’arlo’mé rolled, accidentally yanking the fine, red-gold locks trapped beneath his arm. With eyes as glazed and steadfastly colored as emeralds, he studied the open sky, its familiar pattern of stars unchanging and broken by the shadows of broad-leafed trees. Elfin giggling trickled through the branches, the sound more normal than the previous silence yet perpetuating, rather than distracting from, his concerns. Within days, all elves would die in fiery agony, and Dh’arlo’mé seemed helpless to find understanding, let alone a solution. Danger held no meaning to those who lived without weather or individuality. Death came to elves only after centuries or millennia of play, and then it only meant a new beginning as an infant, stripped of memories from the previous lives, though a few always slipped through. Yet, if Ragnarok destroyed all, no more babies could be made to reuse those souls. Utter, irrevocable destruction of all elves would result.

Dh’arlo’mé sighed, struck by the irony. He required sleep to escape the worries that now troubled him, the same worries that would not allow him to relax enough to rest. The burden of knowledge had become unbearable, the understanding that the world and elves he loved would vaporize into fiery devastation, leaving nothing, not even a single mind to cherish the memory. And he was helpless to prevent it. Helpless. Dh’arlo’mé hated the word like an enemy. What little magic the Northern Sorceress had managed to teach him during his short apprenticeship, all the natural power and chaos of elves, and all the sleepless hours could not spare one life from the holocaust. Helpless. Dh’arlo’mé cursed the hours wasted trying to make the other elves understand. To them, imminent meant a decade, and the concept of total annihilation either could not register or did not matter. He had tried to harness their natural power, to combine magic to find salvation. But though their attention spans far exceeded those of humans, their attitudes remained habitually frivolous.

Helpless. An image of Odin filled Dh’arlo’mé’s mind, the robust figure and cold, blue eye blurred by a sudden flash of light. The god’s magic had opened a gate to the world of elves through which he had returned Dh’arlo’mé to his damned people. The thought sparked insight. Dh’arlo’mé sat up, buoyed with new hope. Maybe not helpless.

Dh’arlo’mé rose, rushing to the knobby roots that cradled the texts and tomes the Northern Sorceress had spared him.

Odin’s horse leaped for Fenrir, its four forelegs outstretched as if to embrace the massive wolf. Thor’s mount, too, sprang for the monster. Frey charged the fire giant destined to slay him, and the other gods and the Einherjar took their places in the struggle. Colbey had intended to accompany his brother-in-law; but war rage overtook him, and he sprinted in Odin’s wake as if sucked in by momentum. The wolf danced aside, its quickness astounding for its size, its black fur bristling in deadly warning. Odin’s spear lunged for a broad head that dodged and reared out of the weapon’s path in an instant.

Before Thor could reach his father’s side, a monstrous head whipped up, hissing, in front of him. Coils still enwrapping the world, the Midgard Serpent opened its maw, revealing a vast red plain striped with teeth as long as a man’s body. The raw stench of its breath blasted Colbey, and each fang dripped clear venom like a hungry dog’s spittle. The sight proved too much for the horses. Thor’s balked, throwing off the timing of his attack. His sword scraped harmlessly along the bridge of the serpent’s nose. Frost Reaver’s hooves clawed clouds, and the stallion twisted at the peak of his rear. The mortal beast toppled over backward. Colbey sprang free as his horse struck the ground, glad he habitually used no saddle. He rolled, tucking his limbs as close to his body as the sword allowed. He came up in a ready crouch to the drum of fading hoofbeats. An ax in the hands of a dead man from Hel whipped toward his head.

Colbey blocked as he rose, catching the force of the blow on his sword. The other’s strength slammed him into a crouch. He lunged, burying the sword in his enemy’s gut. As he jerked it free, three others swarmed upon him at once. Colbey caught one blade on his, raising it to duck beneath the other two. A broad riposte sent the trio into awkward retreat. Colbey sliced down two before they could think to defend. The last slashed furiously. Colbey’s sword cut beneath the wild web of attack and gutted the man, now twice dead.

Embroiled in the thick of the battle, Colbey hacked and parried like a mad thing, sending masses of Hel warriors to their final demises. Einherjar surged around him, their varied war cries ululating into an echoing frenzy. Though it had been his lifelong dream to battle amid the bravest of slain warriors, Colbey found no joy in the arrangement now. Something unseen prickled and worried at his mind, driving him always toward one goal. For the first time, war became dull routine where always before it had overwhelmed him with excitement, no matter the conflict. The oddity struck him, even as he sliced through or under armor and around foemen’s shields. Though it went against honor and training, he allowed long-ingrained habit to take over, trusting eye, reflex, and instinct to protect him while he sought the force that stole joy from his battle and coaxed him toward a goal he could not yet identify.

Then, as if to answer his concern, a pair of black birds circled, then dove, momentarily blotting the sun. Colbey recognized them at once: Hugi and Munin, Thought and Memory, Odin’s pets. The crows twined through the tide of dead, those who had perished in glory and those in cowardice or of illness. They rushed Colbey, swirling around his head like inky halos, guiding him toward Odin and the Fenris Wolf. A voice rattled through his head, “It is your task, your destiny, to slay the wolf and rescue the AllFather.” A pervading sense of rightness filled him, as if his conception had heralded this moment. All of his past glories paled, and his fate became a bright and beckoning tunnel. Here, he would find the answer to the endless, aching search. Once he’d believed he lived only for the chance to die in glory. Now, truth and reality became an undeniable constant that had eluded him through eternity. He had found his only purpose since birth.

Colbey directed his attacks, hammering and slashing through the ranks of Hel’s dead as if possessed. Yet, despite a focus and certainty that should have brought the excitement back into his battle, he felt even more distant. The simple pleasure of war that had spurred him from childhood through old age had disappeared. This purpose, this thing that purported to be all that mattered to him, stole the meaning from all other joys once his.

Forces rose to battle his concern, pounding at his doubts with the strength of his enemies’ blades; but the need to combat his natural wonder had the opposite effect. Questions turned to suspicion, and he recognized the feeling of “rightness” and security as foreign. Only one being had managed to influence Colbey’s thoughts in the past, the same who would benefit if the old Renshai truly believed in the mission with which the other had charged him. Odin. The AllFather’s decision to use him, even against his will, raised an ire that no magic or mental skill could quash.

Colbey channeled his rage into controlled sweeps and lunges that sent a dozen dead men back to their pyres and triple that number seeking more evenly matched opponents. The Einherjar followed him like a guiding light, hewing and slashing a path of corpses in his wake. Colbey paid them no heed, turning his attention to the crows who cackled, swooped, and pressed him toward the wolf and the father of the gods. Like a sheep or a slave, they herded him, and Colbey would have none of it anymore. Quicker than a heartbeat, his sword cut air, then cleaved a feathered head from its neck. Hugi plummeted. Odin’s presence in Colbey’s mind flashed in outrage, then faded as closer events commanded its attention. Odin could not afford two battles at once. If the one he fought to save himself killed him, the other no longer mattered.

Colbey savored the clarity of mind that followed the abatement of Odin’s will. The character of the mental presence mutated from deceptive to guilt-inspiring, plucking at Colbey’s religious foundations, his personal dedication to the gods and their causes throughout his mortal life. But the fueling of long-ingrained loyalties only strengthened Colbey’s devotion to his true cause, that of mankind. His allegiance went first to those he championed, the humans whose only means to avert destruction lay in the hands of the Einherjar, those who had managed to die in glory prior to the Ragnarok. And with Colbey Calistinsson/Thorsson.

Colbey continued to fight Hel’s hordes, blood wrath once again a welcome friend. Now properly redirected, he scanned the teeming masses of warriors for the ones he sought, hoping he had not overcome Odin’s misdirection too late. The AllFather still raged within him, reduced to making vague, grand promises of rewards, the effort far too late. Colbey could feel Odin groping for the best words and strategy, weakened by his losing battle with the Fenris Wolf. Once, the Renshai might have suffered sympathy for the great, gray god whose long-known doom had come to claim him. Now, Colbey gritted his teeth and strained his vision for a glimpse of the elf-lord and his fiery enemy. Tipping the tide of Frey’s conflict had been his goal from the start, allowing his wife’s brother to destroy the fire giant and thus rescue mankind from its ruin.

Colbey discovered the whirling blur of combat that was Frey and Surtr. Far to his left, they stabbed and capered like elemental dancers. Surtr’s jagged beard swept around his coarse features, the hair as sinuous and red as the force he represented. Sweat sheened every part of Frey that his armor did not hide, pouring in rivulets from his face. Heated by Surtr’s presence, the mail surely hampered as much as protected; but the god chose to leave it on. Colbey could not help but suffer a shock of contempt at the display, though he dismissed his aversion as easily as he had avoided disdaining the others their shields and protections. His religious faith and awe of the gods went every bit as deep as the code of the Renshai.

The battle tide surged dizzily around Colbey. Einherjar locked with the warriors of Hel. Gods, giants, and the monsters who were Loki’s children dodged and attacked repeatedly, the noise of their movements thunderous. The crash of massive weapons and the hollow drumbeat of fists against flesh blended into a frenzied cacophony that dwarfed the normal sounds of battle. The music Colbey knew as warfare had become amplified to a sound that ached painfully in his ears and forced him to strain for the telltale rustle of nearer enemies. Still, he surged toward Frey and Surtr, slaying hundreds who dared delay him, unbalancing the Einherjar/Hel horde struggle as he had not done for Odin.

Lightning cleaved the sky in a spreading zigzag, as if the world of gods were cracking like an eggshell. Thor bellowed in triumph, the cry echoing over even the pounding and rattle of unearthly weapons against armor. The head of the Midgard Serpent collapsed, the impact quaking. It writhed, coil looping over coil, stirring clouds and wind into a tempest that shattered many warriors. Some, more distant, lost their footing and fell, turning the tide of several battles. Thor staggered only seven victorious steps before plummeting to the ground, poisoned by his now-dead enemy. Thor’s wife dodged through the battles with a dexterity that revealed her own martial training, carrying a cup of antidote. Her cry of grief told Colbey what he did not pause to see; either she arrived too late or the treatment failed. Either way, Asgard’s mightiest lay dead.

Finally, Colbey cleaved a clear route to Frey and Surtr. The god panted, mouth wide, nostrils flaring, chest rising and falling in rapid, massive waves. His horse sprawled nearby, the victim of a blow landed early in the combat. Blisters scarred Frey’s face in dashes and lines, as if caused by a splashed boiling liquid. Rents marred his mail, the links shattered in places and scratched in others. His notched sword sagged, revealing an exhaustion that might soon prove fatal. Love had driven Frey to buy his wife with his horse that did not shy from magic or flame and his sword that fought giants of its own accord. Now, it seemed, he would pay for his marriage with his life and those of all men, elves, giants, and most of the gods. Nevertheless, Colbey did not disdain his brother-in-law’s decision. He would have sacrificed as much or more for his own wife, Freya.

Surtr raised his flaming sword for a killing stroke, eyes glowing red with triumph. Frey tried to dodge, clumsy with fatigue. He tripped over nothing Colbey could see, falling helplessly to the grassy plain of Vigrid. The sword blazed toward Frey’s head. Colbey dove between them, hammering his sword against Surtr’s forearm. Even with momentum, his strength seemed puny in comparison, but surprise worked as well as power. The point of Surtr’s blade plowed into soil a finger’s breadth from Frey’s chest, igniting the underpadding of the god’s mail. The instant it took the giant to free the blade cost him a slash from Colbey’s sword that stretched from knee to ankle.

Frey rolled out of range, snuffing his smoldering clothing. Surtr bellowed in rage and pain, turning his attention to the new danger. The giant towered half again Colbey’s height, his sword as long as the Renshai’s entire body. Flames leaped and capered along the steel, trailing in the breeze of its every stroke. Apparently mistaking Colbey for one of the Einherjar, his expression remained neutral and he swept ponderously, as much to drive Colbey backward as kill him. “Back to your own battle, little manling.”

Colbey ducked easily under the attack, not bothering to parry. He had seen the damage the burning sword inflicted upon Frey’s blade. Flawlessly, he executed the Renshai triple twist designed to penetrate mail. Harval ruptured the links, biting into underpadding, then falling free. Colbey rushed in for another strike.

Surtr redirected his blade to block; the Renshai’s extraordinary competence would not catch him off-guard again. Sword struck sword, launching a wild spray of sparks. Pinpoint burns stung Colbey’s limbs, and tiny fires sputtered and died in the grass. Faster, Colbey pulled out of the block first, closing the space between them to accommodate his shorter weapon. Their proximity would also make it more difficult for Surtr to gather momentum for his colossal sword. A single, landed blow from that weapon would sunder or smash Colbey.

Reflexively, Surtr back-stepped. Colbey charged in, plugging the gap, striking for the groin. Surtr twisted with impressive agility. The point of Colbey’s sword bit flesh from the giant’s thigh, flinging blood that scorched like cinders. Surtr flailed directionlessly. Colbey dodged, lunging for an opening that existed for less than half a second. A lucky kick slammed Colbey’s legs, sprawling him. Pain flared through the Renshai’s knee, and Surtr raised his sword for a deathblow.

Colbey waited until the blade began its descent, fully committed. He rolled free, feeling the warmth of its approach as he staggered to legs bruised and strained by Surtr’s kick. Again, he rushed the monster, diving through the flaming web of offense, the sword’s lingering light revealing patterns that would otherwise have remained hidden. He struck for the large artery in the thigh, blade gliding beneath the mail skirt. Surtr jerked, hammering his hilt toward Colbey’s skull. Colbey skipped aside, sacrificing attack for defense. His blade skimmed flesh, drawing a superficial line of blood. The giant’s hilt clipped the side of his head, screaming past his ear. Though glancing, the blow shot white light through his vision, blinding and dizzying. Had the blow landed squarely, it would have fragmented his skull.

Colbey staggered several steps, blood lust buzzing through him like a living thing. Only once had he faced an opponent as apt and worthy, the day Thor, misreading a situation, had charged him with being an enemy of law. The Renshai tried to clear his head. The blazing sword speeding toward him seemed triple-bladed. No time to dodge. He dropped flat to the ground, hearing the whoosh of its passage overhead, feeling the sting of its loosened sparks. Faster than a heartbeat, he bounded to his feet and launched himself at the giant.

“Modi!” Colbey gasped, calling upon Thor’s son who ignited a warrior’s battle wrath. He shouted from habit; the Renshai as a tribe had responded to injury this way since long before his birth. Pain provoked rather than daunted them; and he learned to fight not through pain but because of it. Now, amidst the gods, the cry seemed ludicrous. But it spurred Colbey just the same. He became a savage blur of offense, the sword a silver extension of his arm, never still. The blade tore furrows in flesh and armor, rending mail links with maneuvers none but the Renshai knew.

Surtr set to parry and block, weaving a defense with his sword to cover the gaps in his armor. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And from where in the nine worlds do you come?”

Colbey gave no answer. Clever talk could only steal concentration and vigor better spent on battle. When Surtr died, it would not matter who had slain him, only that he would not live to set the worlds on fire, to cause the prophesied destruction. And, if Surtr survived, it did not matter one iota whether Colbey did or not. As a son of Thor, he might outlast the fire giant’s conflagration, but the cause to which he dedicated himself would have disappeared. He would have failed to rescue the Renshai and all mankind.

Frey returned to the battle with a wild roar and bold assurance. His sword swept for Surtr’s neck, far above the reach of Colbey’s blade. Surtr battered it away, then whipped his blade downward to smash Colbey. Too late. The Renshai’s sword penetrated mail and tunic and plunged into his abdomen.

Surtr reared back, his expression one of betrayal. Fate had decreed that he would win this battle, that his fires would sweep the nine worlds and nearly all things living would die at his whim. Fuming, he threw back his head and hands, opening his defenses at a time Colbey anticipated the opposite. Words spewed from the giant’s mouth, uninterpretable yet as blisteringly hot as his sword. Smoke roiled from his fingertips, twining in the air above him, then thinning to colored streamers that disappeared in the wind. Frey screamed, jabbing for the exposed chest as Colbey slammed his blade home, hilt-deep into the giant’s abdomen. Surtr collapsed, arms akimbo, fingers limp; yet, apparently, the damage had already been done.

Frey and Colbey tore their weapons free together, flinging blood now no warmer than their own. Despite the victory, Frey’s face went ashen, his blue eyes and demeanor radiating pure agony. He lowered his head, mumbling something unintelligible, fingers thrashing in nervous triangles.

Colbey could not fathom the emergency, though he guessed the actions of giant and god had some basis in magic and felt certain he needed to understand quickly. Terror, rage, and grief poured from Frey, threatening to overwhelm them both with its intensity. “What happened?” Colbey demanded.

Frey gave no answer, only traced an invisible rectangle in the air in front of him. The outline shimmered slightly, almost undetectable, then gradually grew denser and more visible.

“What happened?” Colbey repeated, giving his brother-in-law one last chance to answer before desperation drove him to actions he might regret. He could sense that sorrow and terrible anger were hampering Frey’s speed and craft; and Colbey hoped that would delay the god enough so that he could find answers before there were none to find. When Frey gave no response to his question, Colbey violated his own law for the first time. Uninvited, he entered the thoughts of one he considered a friend and ally, did so for the good of mankind and gods alike.

Understanding came in an instant, the details unimportant. Surtr’s spell had kindled magical fires on the other worlds, including Alfheim; and Fre