Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Pressing her advantage, the Valkyrie struck again. This time Calistin parried, managing a crisp riposte with his mother's sword that the Valkyrie redirected. Again, she bore at him. Calistin dodged, lunged, and drove for another furious, two-bladed assault that the Valkyrie met with a flurry of defense.

Joy suffused Calistin as he fought the first real battle for his life. He could die; she might actually best him, and that realization brought an excitement he could barely fathom. The Valkyrie went on the offensive now, jabbing and sweeping with remarkable speed and skill. Calistin dodged and parried, avoiding blocks, with the memory of her strength still strong in his mind. He drove in relentlessly, with one sword, then the other, drawing the combat closer, trying to take advantage of his smaller size and shorter weapons. Clearly anticipating his intentions, the Valkyrie kept her steps always sideways and backward, mindful, like Calistin, of the many obstacles around them.

At last, Calistin managed a studied cut beneath the left sleeve of her byrnie that sliced undertunic and flesh. Blood trickled from the opening, winding down her wrist, between her fingers. The Valkyrie stiffened, clearly startled by the wound, opening herself to another attack that she barely remembered to defend.

"Who are you?" she demanded, batting aside both of his weaving blades. "Who in darkest, dampest, coldest Hel are you?"

Calistin wove a bold web of attack. "Calistin Ra-khirsson of the tribe of Renshai."

The Valkyrie blocked the sword in his right hand, Kevral's, the one with which he had injured her. She seemed less concerned with the other, which scratched harmlessly across the links of her byrnie. "Renshai," she said, without the hatred that seemed to drip from the word when others spoke it. "Your death will be a pity."

"Yours more so," Calistin returned as he fought. Renshai training taught him never to converse in battle; it interfered with concentration. That small lapse had also turned the tides of battles. "I do not intend to lose." He dove for an opening, more interested in bringing the fight in close than in actually scoring a hit. He became suddenly aware of another presence, but his instincts told him the second bore him no threat.Yet.

A female voice cut over the din of combat, obsessively compelling. "Calistin Raskasson, stop immediately!"

Calistin nearly had a seizure in an effort to fight the compulsion. If he went still, he died.

The Valkyrie lowered her sword.

Only then, Calistin ceased his own assault, retreated to a safe distance, and turned to face the speaker. Habit drove him to correct her mispronunciation of his father's name, but the sight of her struck him dumb. Long, honey-blonde hair fell to her shoulders in thick, burnished waves, outlining a perfect face. Every feature seemed chiseled by an artist so loving he spent years on every cut. Usually, art sought the beauty no reality could ever capture. Here, it seemed certain, no man could improve upon her, no mere craft of mortal making could ever capture such breathtaking exquisiteness. Lashes, dark despite her pallor, curled from large eyes the color of brilliant sky. Her nose was perfectly straight and of just the right size. Her lips were full, moist, and red as berries. Her neck was delicate, white, and lineless, and enhanced by a choker of fluid gold incised with twisting, weaving patterns. She had strangely powerful shoulders that suited her. Generous, vivacious breasts began a series of curves that precisely defined proper female proportions. Long, shapely legs completed the picture. The simple dress she wore seemed unworthy of her, and the sword at her hip only made him desire her more.

Calistin found himself sinking to the ground in front of her, as if he faced royalty. He caught himself, turning the movement into a wary crouch.

"You will not interfere with Valkyries," she commanded.

"But she was about to take…" Calistin found himself gesturing dully. "He's not worthy of-"

Her voice was like music; he could listen to it forever. "It's not your job to decide who's worthy. That job belongs to Shrieking and her sisters." She made a movement toward the Valkyrie. Bracelets glimmered on her wrist, until they became lost beneath her sleeve.

When it came to words, Calistin knew he fought a losing battle. He sheathed his swords; they alone could help him, but he refused to attack the vision in front of him. "But he's… racist. A hater of Renshai, without just cause."

The woman smiled, as did the Valkyrie. At least, she made no further move toward the Northman. "Calistin, if the Valkyries limited themselves to those who like Renshai, Valhalla would contain only… well, probably only Renshai."

That sounded delightful to Calistin, exactly how a place like Valhalla ought to work, but he knew better than to say so. That would make him seem equally bigoted.

"I believe you know, Calistin, that the quality the Valkyries seek is courage. Valhalla is the reward for any warrior who dies bravely in battle."

"Yes, but…" Calistin pursed his lips. He was not used to mincing words. "Doesn't a man's character count at all?" Even as the question left his lips, it seemed wrong. It was the sort of thing one of his brothers might ask. Nevertheless, he continued, his own voice sounding odd in his ears, "His causes mean nothing?"

"Nothing," the woman confirmed. "Many a friendship has been formed in Valhalla. Some over days, others only over millennia. Your brother's sword is a testament to that."

Motfrabelonning. Calistin knew the story. "I…" He glanced at the Northman's headless corpse. "… won't…" He paused, knowing he now fought only a war of stubborn will that he could not win. "… don't think…"

"Calistin," she said firmly. "If you insist on interfering with Valkyries, the gods will have no choice but to smite you down."

Calistin's heart rate quickened, not from fear but from excitement. For a moment, he imagined himself surrounded by Frey, Heimdall, and Vidar, exchanging lightning sword strokes until their superior might destroyed him. He could think of no better, no more worthy, way to die. That would surely earn him a place in Valhalla.

"And that would be a terrible shame. It would wound your father deeply."

"My father knows I'm Renshai." Calistin still felt odd about the way he and Saviar had left Ra-khir, desperately grieving for, of all things, a Renshai. "He knows it's my mission, my destiny, to die in combat. What could please him more than me falling to the might of the gods themselves? Surely, the Valkyries would choose me, and I would have my fiercest wish, the only thing that really matters."

The Valkyrie called Hlokk, or Shrieking, finally spoke, "We never took men felled by Thor's thunderbolts nor shot down by Ullr's distant bow. And you, Soulless One, can never find Valhalla no matter how bravely you die."

It was the second time Hlokk had called him soulless. A sword thrust through his heart could not have shocked, or hurt, Calistin more. He glared at the Valkyrie, hands balled on his hilts, uncertain whether to scream, attack, or cry. Never before in his life had he felt helpless. "What do you mean?" he said, not trusting his voice above a whisper.

Hlokk did not answer, only stepped around Calistin and reached toward the fallen Northman.

Calistin rounded on the other woman, whose identity suddenly became desperately important. "What does she mean? And who are you?"

But the beauty had silently vanished in the moment he had looked away, leaving no sign she had ever existed. Calistin whirled back toward the Valkyrie, only to find her gone, too. "No!" he screamed. "No! No! No!" His blades cut the air where the women had stood, meeting no resistance. "Why would you-How can this be?" He launched into a crazed flurry of svergelse, his blades cutting the air all around him. "What did you mean? What did you mean?"