Legendary? Is that how the common man denies hard-won skills these days? In my time, they credited it to lies or magic.

—Colbey Calistinsson

THE GROUND SEEMED TO QUAKE under the feet of the advancing Kjempemagiska. Well-trained, the white steeds of the Knights of Erythane held their ground, but Darby’s horse bolted. Worried the panicked animal might harm the infantry, Ra-khir broke ranks to catch the fleeing animal. Seizing its bridle, he reeled the small chestnut against Silver Warrior’s flank. The stallion held firm, pinning the other horse between itself and the trunks of the forest, while Ra-khir held its head high and tight until it could no longer buck.

The remainder of the knights charged as the Kjempemagiska screamed down upon the armies, en masse. One sweep sent Sir Garvin, Sir Thessilus, and Knight-Captain Kedrin airborne, their horses toppling like tenpins. Garvin fell in two places, cleaved in half. Thessilus landed in an awkward position and went still. Apparently, the giant’s blade had lost some of its momentum by the time it struck Kedrin, because his roll appeared deliberate. Garvin’s mount went straight down, Thessilus’ head over tail, and Snow Stormer fell sideways, a gash in his side.

“Dismount, if you can’t control him,” Ra-khir instructed Darby. Tasked with the oversized sword his sons had insisted Thialnir and Kedrin give him, he could not follow his own advice. On foot, he could barely handle the weapon. He wheeled Silver Warrior and galloped toward the fray, sword held out in front of him, lancelike.

Six of the knights managed to surround one giant, and the battle appeared promising until another Kjempemagiska struck from behind his companion, taking down two more knights and tramping onward as if it had taken no effort whatsoever. At full gallop, Ra-khir rammed him, impaling him. The impact sent Ra-khir floundering backward, unseating him. Silver Warrior skidded to a stop, too late. Still embedded in the giant, the huge sword was wrenched from Ra-khir’s grip. He slammed to the ground, contact jarring through his spine, in time to see a booted Kjempemagiska foot speeding toward his head.

Desperate, Ra-khir dove between two deadfalls. The foot crashed onto both trunks, splintering them but saving Ra-khir from crushing. Seeming not to notice him, the Kjempemagiska moved onward. Ra-khir scrambled to a crouch between the shattered deadfalls, reassessing the battle. He could hear Silver Warrior whinnying wildly, seeking him. Nearer, he found his head-struck father staggering purposelessly. Ra-khir seized Kedrin’s arm and pulled him down into the hollow of the deadfalls. “Captain, listen to me.”

Silver Warrior’s distress brought the memory of another horse that could pass for its identical twin. When Colbey had descended into the abyss to battle demons, he had believed it a suicide mission and had given his steed, Frost Reaver, to Ra-khir. The stallion had called frantically for its centuries-old master, its own life prolonged by a steady diet of Idunn’s golden apples of youth. That gave Ra-khir an idea, and he blurted it aloud before he could consider it further. “Call all the Knights of Erythane to battle, Captain. We can’t spare a single one.”

Kedrin’s white-blue eyes seemed incapable of focusing on Ra-khir, but his reply suggested his ears still functioned. “What are you babbling about? The Knights are here, Ra-khir. They’re all right here.”

Ra-khir grabbed his father’s shoulders, then ducked to avoid another blow, pinning Kedrin to the ground. A massive sword hissed over the deadfalls. “No. One’s missing. One’s always missing. Captain, you need to call Sir Colbey to active duty.”

An Erythanian infantryman tripped over the deadfalls and nearly collapsed onto the knights.

For a moment Kedrin stared at Ra-khir in disbelief. Humans prayed to gods, humans begged gods, humans beseeched the gods; but humans did not demand the service of gods, even one who did not claim the title. Whatever he was, the immortal Renshai lived and married among the gods; and, even in his mortal time, no one had ever dared tell Colbey what to do.

Kedrin’s pupils dilated until they threatened to take over his irises. “I can’t do that!”

Ra-khir studied the battle. Piles of human bodies littered the ground, but only one Kjempemagiska lay still, the one he had skewered before he lost his mount and his weapon. This war required every man. As soon as his father regained his wits, they both had to return to it for however short their lives might last. “You have to, Captain. If you don’t, we’re all doomed.”

Kedrin sat up just as a Kjempemagiska sword lunged toward them. Ra-khir drew and parried with his regular sword, enhanced only by exposure to elfin magic. The massive blade hammered his own, shocking agony through both arms all the way to his shoulders. He bit back a scream and threw himself at his opponent, trying to protect his father as long as possible, to give him the opportunity to do what had to be done. Only the Knight-Captain might have the authority to do what Ra-khir had suggested.

Ra-khir raised his sword again, prepared to meet the next assault but hoping he could dodge rather than needing to deflect again. He doubted his arms could take another hit. He flew at the giant, ducking under the curved blade, cutting in to score a slash that barely grazed the giant’s ankle. The huge sword came at him again. Ra-khir spun away, using all his strength to score a line of scarlet across the Kjempemagiska’s wrist. Unlike the oversized sword, his blade required great strength just to leave a mark.

Frustration seized Ra-khir. In a fair fight, he had a chance. With his weapons curtailed, he doubted he could last much longer. “For Erythane and Béarn!” Ra-khir raced for the giant, leaping into the air and putting every bit of body weight behind the attack. It was sheer desperation. If he aimed right, hit hard enough, he might cut open the chest or abdomen with enough force to cause lethal damage. Whether he hit or missed, Ra-khir doubted he would have a second chance.

Ra-khir’s blade struck true, driving through the giant’s finely woven coat and plunging into his belly. Ra-khir sagged, trying to rip the sword downward, to open the wound enough to assure his opponent’s death. The curved sword dropped from the giant’s grip. He roared, catching Ra-khir in both hands and squeezing.

Air rushed from Ra-khir’s lungs. His bones creaked, and an agony beyond any he had known raced through every part. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing emerged. No air remained in his body, forced out by the strength of those crushing fingers. The world faded into swirling spots of black and white. Ra-khir’s consciousness faded.

Then, something swift and silver streaked past Ra-khir’s head, severing both of the giant’s wrists. Helpless, Ra-khir fell like a stone, the crash of his body against the ground reigniting the anguish and sending it spiraling through his entire being. Air rushed into his lungs so suddenly, it seemed to fill every part of him. He fought his way back to consciousness just in time to see the giant tumble backward. A golden blur of movement whisked toward the giants, lightning incarnate.

Colbey! Ra-khir realized. Though his whole body screamed with pain, he staggered to his feet. The tide of the battle turned in that moment, and—somehow—everyone knew it. One by one, the giants fell like trees before a relentless ax. Humans rallied behind the immortal Renshai, finishing off his kills, dragging aside the injured humans, driving in to attack with renewed and hopeful vigor. The cries of the hurt and dying were usurped by cheers. Dispirited men came to life, and Ra-khir could see the wave of confident expectation flying down the front line as if carried on a lateral wind.

Colbey seemed unstoppable, his blades never still. It appeared as if he killed a giant with each stroke, though Ra-khir knew better. It took five or six, all well-aimed, to down each opponent. He just did so with extraordinary quickness, his weapons swift-moving blurs, his exuberance and energy apparently unwaning.

But Ra-khir understood Colbey better than most, knew the immortal Renshai relied on the human combatants to finish the jobs he started, knew his endurance had limits that would not allow him to plow through more than a hundred Kjempemagiska, at best. For all his ability, the immortal Renshai was fallible; and, the longer he fought, the sooner he would make that inevitable and fatal mistake.

Ra-khir had to rally every possible combatant, to drive them all at the giants simultaneously, in order to break the Kjempemagiska’s spirit and send them into awkward and desperate retreat before Colbey made that lethal error and the giants, once again, took the upper hand. He did his best to spur everyone around him into action, raced down the lines with his optimism seething, whipped the humans into a frenzy that could last beyond whatever Colbey could manage. The war was definitely not over, and the more they accomplished before the fall of their would-be savior, the better chance they had of winning this war.

It soon seemed to Ra-khir that he need not have done anything. Each unit saw the wild warrior and gave him their own interpretation. The silver-striped blond hair gave away a Northern heritage that every tribe claimed as one of its own. He was a god to others, a hero from their ancient legends, a magical being unleashed by the elves. Ra-khir made no effort to disabuse them of any notion that caused them to rise up and fight, especially since the truth might dishearten them. Too many peoples of the continent hated Renshai without reservation and, quite often, without reason.

By the time Ra-khir reached the opposite front of the battlefield, the Renshai had already identified their leader. They hooted and howled, leaving bloody corpses in their wake with the same fervor as Colbey, without need of his help. Calistin and Saviar formed the leading edge of another onslaught, equally bloody; Ra-khir knew that, if they survived this battle, the legends would surely merge. He saw no sign of Subikahn but did not let that worry him. It was unreasonable to believe he could find any individual soldier in a war this large.

Ra-khir ached in every part. Sharp pain stabbed through him with every breath. Each movement sparked a fresh wave of anguish he was finding it increasingly difficult to cast aside, even in the name of desperation. He had made it across the entire front solely on the strength of a pure and absolute need, but even that seemed no longer enough. His consciousness wavered. Reality closed in tight. For the moment, the troops had rallied; but it lasted only so long as Colbey Calistinsson and Calistin Ra-khirsson remained alive to lead. Soon, fatigue would increase the likelihood of a misstep. Their luck could not hold up forever. And, once they fell, the tide of the war would turn again. Then, nothing could stop the Kjempemagiska.

Bodies littered the battlefield, the vast majority of them human but a growing number the enormous forms of Kjempemagiska, killed not only by Colbey, Calistin, and Saviar but by their encouraged followers. Ra-khir estimated a dozen Kjempemagiska bodies mingled with the smaller corpses, then another dozen, a third. Aggrieved roaring filled the air, sounds as mournful as a lone and anxious wolf seeking the comfort of its pack. It occurred to Ra-khir that the loss of only two of their own had caused them to retreat the first time. With a jolt that sent anguish coursing through him, Ra-khir realized they were about to do something hysterical and enormous, something the peoples of the continent had no means to handle.

Waves of nausea passed through Ra-khir, and he cursed the injuries that made him feel so fragile. He did not know who to turn to, what to shout; but he suspected the elves needed to know and probably already did. He could almost feel the giants withdrawing, a physical retreat of such force it seemed to suck him into it as well, like an undertow. A warning speared his head, laced with panic, *Stay low. Hang on!*

The message did not seem personal. Ra-khir did not believe someone had sent it directly to him, but it galvanized him. Despite his own wounds, he needed to find a way to assist the battle, whatever it took. And, at the moment, it took the right weapon.

The enemy’s retreat incited the others as well. Warriors surged around Ra-khir, pounding toward the front, prepared to follow their golden leaders into what had finally become a two-sided battle. Finding a Kjempemagiska corpse, mangled nearly beyond recognition, Ra-khir grabbed for the vanquished sword. Mounted, he had found their weapons unwieldy. Grounded and aching, the weight nearly undid him. He seized the hilt at a dead run, but his arms failed him. Still gripping the weapon, he toppled to the ground, and the pounding feet of the soldiers behind him smashed his left ankle and slammed against his head. Like an anchor, his grip on the sword kept him from moving, but he did draw himself in, attempted to leave as small an area as possible for others to trample.

The world turned dazzlingly white. At first, Ra-khir thought the blow to his head had ruined his vision. Then, he remembered during the previous war, when Saviar had thrust Motfrabelonning’s hilt into his hand and allowed him to see the flashing auras that accompanied the use of magic. Someone kicked Ra-khir’s fingers as he passed, and the knight lost his grip on the sword. The light disappeared. Ra-khir lunged forward, seized the hilt again, and the world seemed to ignite into blinding brilliance.

Ra-khir wobbled to a stand, the sword a sagging burden in his fist. The pain in his left ankle surpassed the myriad aches of the rest of his body, refusing to take any of his weight. Gradually, the lights took form: a massive horseshoe around the battlefield perfectly defining the woods, a separate mass toward the northwest comprised of giants, a few stragglers here and there who Ra-khir had no means to identify. The air became thick, heavy with expectation. It seemed as if the entire world, and every living thing in it, paused for the barest moment.

Then, an explosion shattered Ra-khir’s hearing, stole the last of his deteriorating vision, and flung him effortlessly into the sky. Wind rushed around him with such force it threatened to tear out his lungs and violate every part of him. Even his organs felt abruptly cold. All senses failed him, and he knew nothing but a terrible force that hurled him like a wet and boneless doll. The pain coalesced into an agony beyond bearing. Position lost all meaning, and not a single sense remained to anchor him. Merciful, empty darkness settled over Ra-khir, and he knew no more.

Gradually, the sky turned a sickly shade of green, heralding an upcoming storm of tremendous magnitude. Abruptly, Kentt shoved Mistri from his grasp and, for the first time, rose fully to his feet, towering over the others hidden amidst the dunes.

The instant he did so, Rantire drew, crouching. Tae’s heart pounded. The Kjempemagiska did not carry any obvious weaponry and seemed too focused on the horizon to mean them any threat. He only hoped Rantire would not read his lack of reaction to her aggressive stance as a grave and personal insult. “He’s not a warrior,” Tae reminded her. “He’s concentrating on something far away, something bigger than you or me or even Mistri.”

Taking a cue from her father, Mistri also turned in the direction of his stare. The sky was darkening far too swiftly, as if something menaced the sun itself. Tae doubted their decision to look toward the distant battlefield was random. Tae prodded softly in usaro, “What is it?”

Kentt seemed so utterly focused, even beyond his own safety, Tae did not expect an answer. “Magic. It’s magic.”

“Yours?” Tae prodded.

“No.” Kentt finally spared his human companions a glance. “I have nothing to do with it, but it’s bad. Very bad.”

Tae glanced at Rantire who remained in a crouched and armed position, though she made no move to attack. “Please, you need to tell us. What’s happening? What can we do to stop it?”

Kentt seized Mistri with both hands, pulling her against him and folding his arms across her. “We cannot stop it. We can only hope to survive it.”

Tae looked toward Béarn. So many people inhabited the castle, including the royal family. Without Griff or his heir, without the focal point of all neutrality, the world was doomed whether or not the Kjempemagiska lost the war. “Can we protect the castle?” Imorelda’s claws sank into Tae’s neck. He could feel her fur bristling. He attempted to pull her into his arms, but she shoved her head through the neck of his tunic. The cloth tightened dangerously, and he swiftly undid the clasp, worried she would throttle both of them to death.

Kentt glanced at the sky, now so dark Tae could barely make out the dune in front of him. Sand started to swirl.

“Not necessary. It’s carved from the mountains. If anything can withstand the force of this backlash, it can.” He dropped back to a crouch, pulling Mistri with him. “It’s us you have to worry about. Those on the beach, the ocean, the flatland.”

Something akin to lightning cleaved the sky. The wind screamed toward them, flinging sand with a violence that drove it deeply into Tae’s face. He slammed his lids shut, scratching grainy trenches across his eyes. The pain was overwhelming. Screams wrenched from his throat, unbidden, and opened the way for fine dust to fill his nose and mouth. Choking, he dropped to the ground, clutching his tunic, with Imorelda beneath it, against his chest. Her claws gouged through his undergarments and into his flesh. “Can you help them?” Tae gasped out, swallowing salt and grit as the wind threw the words back into his face. Only then, he remembered he could communicate without opening his mouth. *Please, help us! Help them!*

Gales tore at Tae’s clothes. Imorelda hunkered against him, snuggled between the layers. The exposed skin of his hands and feet, his face and neckline seemed suddenly on fire. He could feel the wind-driven sand tearing, dared to wonder how fast the wind must be blowing to lend the sand such power. The pain rose to raw agony. He found himself screaming. Then, something enormous covered him, shielding him from the bulk of the storm.

*I’m trying, Tae.* The grief of the world seemed to accompany the sending, buffeting Tae with waves of hopeless agony. *Two enormous and opposite magical forces have collided. Devastatingly! Explosively! We’re suffering only the distant backlash. No one at the site could possibly have survived.* The Kjempemagiska’s mental sending became a head-filling howl of misery. The intensity of Kentt’s despair nearly overwhelmed Tae. He, too, lost all will to live.

*We’re going to die,* Imorelda moaned. The instant she broke the contact between human and Kjempemagiska, the intolerable depression lifted and Tae found himself capable of mustering courage again.

*We’re going to live,* Tae assured her, now realizing Kentt’s own body cocooned them nearly as fully as he shielded Imorelda. *We’ve survived worse.* He did not mention the fate of all their relatives, their acquaintances, their friends on the battlefield. Imorelda did not understand the language of Heimstadt, and Tae had to believe Kentt was wrong to keep himself from becoming paralyzed with heartache, too.

*There’s nothing worse.*

Tae knew he needed to keep in contact with Kentt, regardless of the discomfort. Now fully assured the bottomless angst eminated from the Kjempemagiska, Tae believed he could keep his own emotions stable. *Imorelda, I’m sorry. If we’re going to live through this, I have to be able to communicate with them.*

Imorelda shifted beneath him, but she said nothing more. Soon, her wild but familiar discomfort was replaced by the searing agony of Kentt’s misery.

Tae sent, *Kentt, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But you can’t surrender. You have to survive for Mistri.* Only then, he realized Mistri had not been silent. Her screams and sobs had formed a continuous noise in his mind, one so consistent he had blocked it out entirely. *We need you, and you need us. Both of you.* Tae had no idea of the truth of his words. Kentt’s belief that all the Kjempemagiska soldiers had died was unwavering. It was not a supposition; somehow, he knew. Tae had to assume the giants had some sort of magical connection, but it could not extend to humans and elves. It was still possible that some of the peoples of the continent, or the elves, were alive.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm was over. The sand settled back into its place, the sun reappeared, and daylight bathed the shores of Béarn again. Silence assailed them, as if all hearing had ceased to exist. Tae scrambled free of Kentt to look at the castle. After the near-total darkness, the sunlight blinded him. He shielded his eyes, desperate to see, and the familiar mountains filled his vision. The castle looked the same as it always did, gray and welcoming, as stunning a piece of stonework art as human tools could master.

Kentt’s anguish had turned to a numb hush, letting Tae’s own emotions emerge. He savored the sight of Béarn Castle, still standing. He turned to assist Rantire but found her already beside him, her posture defensive, her face flayed raw, sword still clenched in her bloody fist. Tae loosened his hold on Imorelda, lowering her gently to the ground. The effort of shoving through his neck hole had scraped some fur from the top of her head; otherwise, she looked none the worse for wear. Her feeble meow of welcome was the first physical sound he heard.

Kentt rose. Apparently, he had used magic to shield them, because he appeared entirely unruffled. The sand and wind had left him unscathed. He released Mistri and spun her around, looking for injuries. Her clothing was badly wrinkled, imprints of the dunes temporarily impressed on them, but she also appeared fine. Finally, Tae turned his attention to the open shore. A few of the warships remained, most of those listing. Others had vanished, leaving only scraps floating on the sea. Debris riddled the beach: wood, straw, metal. Clothing and bodies.

Tae resisted the urge to flop onto the ground and sob. Now was not the time to grieve or even to demand answers. There were still lives that might be saved. And, Tae realized, for once he was not among the critically wounded.

Saviar could not recall the last time he felt so physically battered and exhausted. Lungs smoky, head still dizzy from the swirling winds that had pummeled the battlefield and beyond, he staggered toward the center of the field. The elves had used khohlar to assure the disoriented survivors that no danger remained. Even the Renshai instincts, pounded into him since birth, could not override the emptiness he felt. Had a demon dropped from the sky, he doubted he could raise enough energy to care, let alone defend himself.

Bodies and body parts littered the grasslands, chunks of armor and broken swords, bark and limbs as big as cottages. The forest trees, once wreathed in multicolored leaves, now stood or leaned like shattered skeletons, their tops charred. The grasslands smoldered in several places. Dazed humans walked in crazy circles or made their shuffling way, like things half dead, toward the center of the battlefield. Saviar saw the corpses, too. They hung in trees, carried by the gale. They lay buried beneath fallen trunks, smashed in trampled piles, flung across open terrain as if prostrated before demanding gods.

A snort caught Saviar’s attention. To his right, at the edge of the forest, a white stallion nuzzled a human form dressed in the familiar blue-and-gold tunic of the Knights of Erythane. Saviar might have ignored the scene, one more casualty in a war that had claimed thousands, but it struck him odd to find a knight on the Renshai side of the battlegrounds. The generals had placed them at opposite ends of the front; and, while the winds might have dragged flotsam from anywhere, Saviar thought he recognized the horse as well. “Silver?”

The horse lifted its head and turned to look at Saviar. It trumpeted out a shrill whinny, and its forehooves beat the ground in a frantic tattoo.

With a sigh of resignation, Saviar walked toward the horse. The last thing he wanted to find now were the bodies of his family members, but he owed Silver Warrior that much. The horse had served his father well for many years, and Ra-khir had shown equal dedication to the animal, insisting on tending it himself instead of trusting it to the ministrations of groomsmen.

As Saviar expected, he discovered Ra-khir on the ground in front of Silver Warrior. Though still, he seemed intact, red-blond hair obscuring his features but his powerful body, and knightly garb, unmistakable. Saviar closed his eyes and knelt. His father had never sought a place in Valhalla, at least not before Kevral’s soul had gone there, yet Saviar wished it upon him anyway. Death in the flurry of swordplay would earn him that honor, but Saviar doubted the Valkyries would choose souls stolen in the mayhem of a magical storm. The means of his death mattered.

Tentatively, Saviar reached out a hand and gently brushed away the errant locks to reveal his father’s familiar features. The purple stars of broken blood vessels marred his handsome cheeks, the look of someone squashed beneath a heavy object while still alive. Perhaps a tree had fallen on him, taking his life, then the powerful winds had whisked the trunk away to drop it harmlessly aside or onto another. Tears stung Saviar’s eyes. The means of his father’s death allowed him to mourn. He laid a hand on a ravaged cheek, surprised to find it warm. He touched Ra-khir’s lips, feeling a soft rush of air. Shocked, he pressed fingers to his father’s neck, rewarded by the throb of a living artery.

Silver Warrior stuck his head over Ra-khir’s, watching.

Afraid to shake Ra-khir and risk further injuring him, Saviar put his mouth close to his father’s ear. “Papa, wake up. Wake up! Wake! Up!”

The green eyes shot open. For a moment, Ra-khir stared uncomprehendingly. Then, suddenly, he sprang to a crouch. His eyes told Saviar he regretted the motion. His entire body seemed to spasm, and he released an involuntary moan of pain.

The abrupt movement startled Silver Warrior, who jumped back with a whicker of alarm.

Saviar seized Ra-khir’s arm. “Papa. Are you hurt?”

“Not . . . fatally,” Ra-khir managed. He added sullenly, “Though, for a while, I might wish it so.”

Saviar remained still, allowing his father to rise at his own pace. Pretending not to watch Ra-khir move like a man twice his age, Saviar caught Silver Warrior’s flopping reins and held them near the stallion’s mouth. “I got tossed around a bit, too.” It was gross understatement. The gale had flung him like a toy, slamming him against a tree before he managed to wrap his arms and legs around a sturdy branch and cling until it passed.

“One of the giants got hold of me,” Ra-khir explained, his breathing quick and shallow, a sure sign of broken ribs. “He nearly crushed me. I suspect I was out for most of the . . .” He seemed at a loss for words. “. . . tossing.” Though fully standing, he clutched at Silver Warrior’s saddle for support. “Magic, I believe.”

Saviar harbored little doubt. He, too, had seen the surging auras prior to the explosion and killer winds. Fires had ignited in the tops of the trees and all along the plain, extinguished by the gale that had seemed determined to leave nothing living in its path. Yet, somehow, hundreds had survived. Hundreds out of tens of thousands. Saviar scanned the battlefield again, confused. Though an appalling number of bodies littered the ground, there were not nearly enough to account for all the dead. Surely, the winds had carried away some, but that could not justify the sparseness of the casualties. He estimated a thousand human corpses, but he doubted that number would more than double once those crushed beneath trees, driven into the forest, torn apart or blown away were added to the total.

Elfin khohlar touched Saviar’s mind again. *All survivors come to the center of the field for counting and sorting. Assist the wounded to accompany you, if possible, but don’t delay. Do not attend the corpses at this time. All will be accorded proper honors, but it is imperative we identify them first. You have nothing to fear from giants; they have all perished.*

Saviar wondered how the elves could possibly know the status of the Kjempemagiska, but he had no way to question.

Ra-khir looked at Silver Warrior’s saddle but made no effort to mount. “Your brothers, Savi. Have you seen them?”

Saviar stepped to his father’s side. “Want me to help you up?”

“No,” Ra-khir responded, too quickly. Then, apparently trying to hide the extent of his discomfort, he covered badly, “We’ll leave Silver Warrior open in case we come upon wounded needing our assistance.” He took the reins from Saviar and allowed the horse to support part of his weight. “Your brothers?” he reminded.

Saviar wanted to talk about anything other than Subikahn. “Calistin was beside me, at the front, last I saw him. The giants hadn’t touched him, but I don’t know about the storm.”

They headed toward the middle of the plain. Others joined them as they walked, most appearing dazed and confused. Saviar steered several in the right direction, looking for anyone who needed extra assistance. “And Subikahn,” Ra-khir pressed, studying Saviar over the horse’s neck.

Saviar realized he had made a mistake by mentioning Calistin first. He had always considered Subikahn a sibling and Calistin a plague the gods had forced him to endure. “When I last saw him, he had suffered a critical injury. He had mages all around him, though, attempting to fix it. I don’t know if they succeeded or what happened afterward.”

“Oh.” Ra-khir continued to examine him over Silver Warrior. Though separated for months at a time growing up, the twins remained closely linked emotionally. It surely seemed odd Saviar had not waited to assure Subikahn’s survival before returning to battle.

Saviar did wish he had remained long enough to know whether or not the healers believed they could save Subikahn. Ambivalent about his brother and their future, he still wanted to know whether Subikahn had found Valhalla or if he would see his twin alive again. At the time, he could think of nothing to say. Now, he had a million questions that begged answers before he lost Subikahn’s earthly presence forever.

As Ra-khir still prompted him with silence and an anticipatory expression, Saviar explained, “There wasn’t time for conversation.”

Ra-khir accepted that. “No, I suppose not.”

They stopped to help an unconscious Western teen whose legs splayed at awkward angles. Saviar hefted him onto Silver Warrior’s back, arranging him sideways across the saddle, then they continued to the center of the battlefield. Knight-Captain Kedrin arrived at nearly the same time, supported between two other Knights of Erythane. Filthy and sodden, they had all lost their hats and, apparently, their mounts. At the sight of his son and eldest grandson, Kedrin smiled tiredly.

A group of men who appeared war-weary but otherwise well greeted each straggler as he or she arrived, directing them to various places. Saviar lowered his head and awaited their turn. Fatigue pressed him until he thought he would fall asleep on his feet, then a young Erythanian approached them. “Sir Ra-khir, glad to see you.” He executed an awkward bow, then glanced at Saviar who resembled Kedrin more than anyone. “This must be your son.”

“Saviar,” the Renshai introduced himself.

The Erythanian pointed to himself. “Rayvonn. I’m supposed to inform everyone that the healers are overtaxed and taking only the most severely injured. Those bleeding heavily or unconscious.” He gestured toward a makeshift series of tents. One of the plains fires had been coaxed into life in the middle of the grouping, and people raced around assisting those most in need. He looked at the man dangling from Silver Warrior’s saddle. “That would include him.”

Rayvonn continued, “We’re asking the able-bodied to assist in the sorting process. Everyone else is supposed to go there . . .” he pointed southward, “. . . if they’re Eastern. There . . .” He turned westward, “ . . . if they’re Northern.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Or there if they’re Western.” He added, somewhat conspiratorially. “If they don’t remember, I’m sending them to the healers.”

Saviar grinned at the feeble joke. “Thank you. Let me get these two sorted and I’ll see if I can muster the energy to join you.” He would have preferred to sleep, but he supposed he fit the definition of able-bodied. Before Ra-khir could stop him, he hoisted the unconscious teen from the saddle and into his arms. He did not want to try separating the steed from his knight, and Ra-khir could use the animal’s support, emotionally as well as physically. “I’ll meet you in the Western camp.” Ignoring Ra-khir’s protests, he carried his limp burden toward the healers.

The deadweight on his shoulders proved more of a burden than Saviar expected. He staggered into the healers’ camp, and it took extraordinary effort to ease the teen to the ground rather than dropping him unceremoniously at the healers’ feet. He knew nothing about the young man he had delivered, so he said nothing, simply tottered off to rejoin his father. He had taken only a few steps when Calistin appeared at his right elbow. “Been drinking, brother?”

Saviar wanted to turn Calistin a withering look, but that would take too much effort. Instead, he went still, waiting for his younger brother to catch up. In a moment, they were walking side by side. “The Western camp is over here.” Saviar inclined his head in the proper direction, his arms aching. He glanced at Calistin, surprised to find every part of him covered in gore. Torn nearly in half, his tunic hung in long tatters, revealing his sinewy, hairless chest, also caked in blood. “Is any of that yours?”

Calistin walked in the indicated direction, at Saviar’s side. “Is any of what mine?”

Saviar could scarcely believe Calistin needed clarification. “The blood, the guts, the bits of . . . stuff.”

“Oh.” Calistin looked himself over. “Not much, I don’t think.”

Saviar did not envy the healers’ task. Everyone surely had bruises and gashes from the tremendous force of the wind. Exhaustion and shock affected them all. Broken bones and crushed organs would prove common enough, but he doubted many who tasted the giants’ curved swords had survived. The power behind those deadly blades could cut through trees, and the Kjempemagiska often mowed down several men with a single strike. He hoped the elves still had some magic to assist, assuming many had survived.

Calistin’s voice jarred Saviar from his thoughts. “Where’s Subikahn?”

Saviar did not wish to repeat the conversation he had had with Ra-khir. “He hasn’t shown up yet. Papa and Granpapa are at the Western camp, though. They’ll be glad to see you.”

“What about Darby?”

The name did not immediately register. “Who?”

“Papa’s shadow.”

Saviar had forgotten about Ra-khir’s squire. “Haven’t seen him, either.” Not that I was looking. He hated himself for harboring resentment against the youngster, but he still felt as if Darby had stolen the life and attention rightly his. More so since Ra-khir had started spending all his off-time with Darby’s mother. He did not go so far as to wish the boy ill. Surviving one’s first battle was always a challenge, especially for someone inexperienced and constrained by a burdensome sense of honor. Hopefully, he was smart enough to run away and hide.

The Western camp seemed remarkably sparse, consisting of a couple of hundred men and a few well-tended fires. Apparently, the storm had carried or chased the game away. The odor of roasting meat was conspicuously absent, and the men gnawed on hard tack. They had crudely sorted themselves by representative country, those officers who had survived and arrived hovering over them, counting and recounting as more battered warriors arrived.

Saviar spotted Thialnir, his arm bound against his chest, a long line of crusted blood where something sharp had opened his cheek. The Renshai had started with nearly three hundred warriors. Now, Saviar estimated between seventy-five and ninety remained, plus an additional twenty-seven, mostly children, in Béarn. On a percentage basis, they had clearly done better than most, especially given their placement on the front line. Some countries and tribes, it seemed, had lost the entirety of their armies. Still, the number of survivors was too small to fully explain the dearth of bodies on the battlefield.

Calistin joined the Renshai, his welcome hardy and secure. Saviar paused only long enough to make his presence known and ascertain Subikahn’s absence before seeking out Ra-khir and Kedrin. He discovered them just beyond the Erythanian gathering. Seven additional knights had joined them as well as Darby who appeared windswept and sported an enormous bruise across his forehead. Seated on the root ball of a freshly toppled tree, Kedrin was in deep discussion with the elf known as Captain while Ra-khir stood by, watching and listening.

Saviar sidled up beside his father and whispered, “What have we learned?”

Reluctantly, Ra-khir turned from Kedrin and Captain to address his son. “They’re discussing how best to inform everyone what happened.”

“What happened?” Saviar pressed.

Ra-khir shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure, but Captain seems to know. Your brothers?”

The abrupt change of subject nearly defeated Saviar. He cursed the exhaustion that made every little thing difficult. “Calistin has joined the other Renshai. Still no sign of Subikahn.”

“Or, apparently, the Mages of Myrcidë.”

That intrigued Saviar. “You think they’re still together?”

Ra-khir shrugged. “They were when you last saw them. How long ago was that?”

Saviar considered. It seemed as if days had passed since the start of the magical storm. “Not sure, exactly. Shortly before some crazed Knight of Erythane cleaved his way through the giants, spurring the troops to follow.” He studied his father. “That’s what I heard, anyway. Is it true?” Working together, he and Calistin had cut a similar swath; but Calistin was the most talented human swordsman alive, and Saviar was no slouch, either. Whoever it was must have wielded a significantly magicked sword, and he knew of only one knight who had one. “Was it . . . you?”

Ra-khir put his hands on his hips, turning Saviar a mock-stern look. “Thanks for sounding so incredulous.” He smiled, glancing toward the ongoing conversation between Kedrin and Captain. The ranking commander of Béarn’s troops, Captain Galastad, had joined them. “But, no, it wasn’t me.”

Saviar looked over the remaining knights but did not see anyone who looked the part. He ran through their names in his head. The people of Erythane always knew and revered the current two-dozen Erythanian heroes, weaving their names into poetry, rhymes, and songs. He caught himself humming the familiar tune aloud and, apparently, so did Ra-khir.

“Think less conventionally, Saviar. Most people don’t know that, at any time, there are actually a maximum of twenty-five knights. But you do.”

Saviar’s gaze went instinctively to Darby, then stopped abruptly as he realized the truth. “Colbey Calistinsson.”

Ra-khir did not confirm Saviar’s guess; his smile did it for him.

Though Saviar had figured it out himself, he still did not believe it. “A lot of the Renshai were saying it was Colbey, but I dismissed them. I mean, every group out there was trying to claim the mystery warrior as one of their own, and I figured that, if Colbey had joined us, he’d be at the Renshai end of the battle.”

Ra-khir shrugged. “He came when we called him, and it’s a lucky thing he did. Without him, I don’t believe any of us would have survived.”

Saviar did not know whether his father meant any of the knights or any of the people of the continent. Ultimately, it did not matter. Even with Colbey’s assistance, they would have eventually been overpowered if not for the magical intervention. Whose? Saviar suspected he would not find out until he learned what the elfin Captain was telling the ranking officers of Béarn and Erythane.

Suddenly, khohlar filled Saviar’s mind in a voice he somehow knew belonged to Captain. *I apologize for the intrusion into your minds, but it’s the nature of khohlar to reach everyone within range. Your leaders have requested you not leave your camps at this time and feel it’s best for all of you to listen while I explain the magical events that ended the war.*

Saviar doubted, given the opportunity, any man would choose to leave. Though odd, khohlar was not uncomfortable or painful, and curiosity had to plague every man and woman who had taken part in the war. The luxury of denying the existence of sorcery no longer remained. Before the arrival of the elves on Midgard, the majority of humans believed in it only as mythology and timeworn legend. The reality of it had become undeniable to those few who had had dealings with the elves, and their experiences had radiated outward. Reactions toward it differed greatly: from appreciation to suspicion, skepticism to distrust, excitement to hatred. No one on the field could dismiss it anymore, but many might still find it terrifying or abhorrent.

*They have chosen to have me communicate in this form in order to reach all of you at one time with consistent information rather than allow rampant miscommunication, speculation, and rumor.*

Saviar appreciated the point. With each telling, stories changed, often vitally. Better for everyone to experience the same description and draw simultaneous conclusions, whether similar or differing. He sat on a deadfall and waited for Captain to continue. It helped that he could see the elf, where many of the men could not. Captain still verbally discussed the situation with Kedrin and Galastad, as well as several other world leaders, including Valr Magnus, who had joined them. Ra-khir took a seat beside his oldest son, the slow caution of his movements revealing his aches had worsened.

Captain’s presence returned to Saviar’s mind, but this time no specific words accompanied the khohlar. Instead, he showed an image of the familiar battlefield, the long stretch of plains grass surrounded by a horseshoe-shaped, dense forest which had hidden the elves. In the projection, the area that had once contained the many human armies seemed strangely empty, and Saviar came to realize the khohlar was mapping only the areas of magical activity.

The entire forest glowed faintly blue, highlighting the location of the elves, hiding amidst the foliage and between the tightly packed trunks of myriad trees. Saviar could also make out a tiny patch of aqua near one edge, which he felt certain represented the Mages of Myrcidë, though nothing in Captain’s sending gave him this impression. He suspected anyone who did not know about the mages would unconsciously blend the patch into the vaster expanse of blue.

Sparks of glaring red defined the location of the Kjempemagiska. Unlike the steadily pulsating glow of the elves, crimson bursts appeared sporadically or in larger patches. These radiated outward in stabbing spurts; and, where they appeared, they became swiftly smothered by blue, like water rolling over sparks of fire, killing it wherever it ignited.

This time, understanding did accompany the sending. Captain wished them to recognize the situation: the elves kept alive a fused and relatively steady bunker of magic on which they remained fully focused while the giants used their magic periodically and singly, which allowed them the freedom to physically fight as well as cast occasional spells. These spells did them little good, however, as the elfin wash of unremitting protection overcame the smaller, individual magics.

As Saviar watched the pictures forming in his head, he noticed the red flashes gradually disappeared as the Kjempemagiska realized the futility of their magic. The flares never stopped entirely, though. Either the giants cast from habit or to test the longevity of the elves’ shielding; but the Kjempemagiska spells never materialized, forcing the giants into an exclusively physical fight.

Though the Kjempemagiska had seemed unstoppable, Saviar realized the enormous and unsung role the elves had played in a war in which they had remained essentially invisible. To men watching their ranks cut down around them, desperately trying to inflict some sort of damage on creatures too large and too invulnerable to best, it had seemed as if the elves had done little to assist. Now, Saviar realized, they would all have fallen in moments had the Kjempemagiska retained their battle magic.

When Saviar looked closely at the map Captain created in his mind, he could see a rare figure of white light. From their locations, it dawned on him that he was seeing the shadow magic from the few weapons on their own side that carried it. The brightest light, he felt certain, represented the Sword of Mitrian in Calistin’s hand, bolstered by the diamonds Colbey had secured from his wife. Saviar picked out himself and Subikahn nearby, the three forms a ceaseless blur of motion, sometimes near and other times separated by battle. He could see the moment when Subikahn dashed off on his own, headed toward the aqua glow of the Mages of Myrcidë.

Focused on that precise location, Saviar saw the white light representing Subikahn fly in a wild arc. Soon after, a brilliant flare of quickly-snuffed red appeared in front of Subikahn, then the glow that represented him became still. Even then, it continued to burn, though whether because Subikahn remained alive or because the glow would highlight the weapon with or without a wielder, he could not know.

Apparently, Captain sped up the images of war because it seemed like no time at all before the glow representing Saviar arrived near Subikahn. Soon afterward, it departed, and the white wash of Subikahn’s sword became lost beneath flashes of aqua magic.

On the opposite side of the battlefield, a golden glow winked into existence, so intense he found himself unwittingly riveted. This new addition surged forward as if unhampered, and Saviar imagined Colbey Calistinsson slicing down giants with an ease and fervor no mortal could match. Saviar found himself coveting the centuries the immortal Renshai had had to hone his craft, to perfect every one of the Renshai maneuvers and create so many new ones of his own.

Captain sped through most of that time as well. Then, dizzily, he slowed the action nearly to a crawl. At the far edge of the war front, away from the sapphirine glow representing the position of the elves, a new light was rising. It started as pinpoints of crimson, dying out beneath the rush of elfin magic. Then, gradually and awkwardly, the spots of red light began to fuse. Through Captain’s khohlar, Saviar came to understand that the Kjempemagiska had had little previous experience with shared magic, that they had nothing precisely like the elfin concept of jovinay arythanik. Still, they were learning as they went, consolidating power, dragging it all together.

The sensations Captain sent were ones Saviar had never experienced before. It felt as if something sucked him toward the gathering magic, compelling him forward. He clutched the Pica Stone, drawing its expansive energy into his being, using it as a focal anchor even as he warned the other elves to hold their voices, their spells, their very beings. At the moment when the elves became uncertain whether they could continue to fight the force that hauled them inexorably closer and into the battle, the tide reversed in an instant, hurling them backward in a frenzied explosion that seemed to rip through the fabric of the universe.

Blinded, deafened, jolted with a bolt of intense pain, the elves collapsed and the storm raged in. Captain sent desperate callings to his followers, urging them to stay on task, not to lose the cadence of their magical song at the risk of surrendering every elfin and human life. Saviar could feel their group resolve wavering as they contemplated the horror of the forthcoming cataclysm, the agony they would suffer when magic collided. One by one, they disappeared from the jovinay arythanik in despair.

But one voice remained strong, a tiny point of sound that never hesitated, never surrendered. Incapable of contemplating the future, this one elfin spirit remained wholly dedicated to the cause, a beacon for the others, an anchor on which to recreate the jovinay arythanik. Bit by bit, it swelled back to life, resolve and need replacing panic. The elves rebuilt their strength around it, gave their all, and made it even more powerful. And now, Captain added one piece that, at the time, the elves had not known, the identity of that one small soul: Ivana. Her simplicity had been their salvation.

Then, the conflicting magics struck one another like thunder, shaking the ground, roiling the air, rendering the world itself unstable. Unable to succeed in their intended purposes, the magics backlashed like whipcracks instead, the red smashing into the giants and the blue encompassing the elves. Struck down by their own destructive spells, the giants knew nothing more.

More defensive in nature, the elfin spells did not immediately kill its masters, though it reverted to the raw chaos of its origins. For the humans, this manifested as a brutal, unstoppable tempest. To the elves, it went far deeper. It entered their very beings, ripping at their organs, ravaging their souls, threatening to shatter every bone to splinters. Though Saviar could tell Captain now attempted to mute the extent of his pain, some slipped through the khohlar. He could hear soldiers gasping at the enormity of Captain’s sending and found himself gritting his teeth against the inevitable fragmentation of his body, an agony beyond bearing.

Captain’s desperation came through clearly. He knew he had to do something to lessen the storm, or sacrifice the lives of every elf and human within furlongs of the battlefield. He fought through excruciating pain, seeking anything on which to ground his reason, to lessen the impact of the backlash. Hopelessness swam down over him, and he fought it with a grit and determination that any Renshai would admire. At long last, he noticed one detail that had, previously, eluded him: the opening they had created to bring in more elves. It vented a bit of the wind, though only temporarily. Since they still existed on the same plain, the magic only looped around and returned.

Gates! Captain realized and sent the word in khohlar to every one of his followers. Saviar supposed the message must have touched the human minds as well, but the ferocity of the storm had stolen any means or desire to focus on a stranger’s voice in their heads. *Open gates! Any kind! Anywhere!*

Somehow, the elves found the wherewithal to respond to the command. Saviar came to realize that only some of the elves had the ability to create these openings to other worlds, other plains of existence. Usually, they required the combined magical forces of many elves, but the swirling chaos that threatened to destroy every living thing provided the necessary power as well. Gradually, gates winked into existence, openings in Midgard that mitigated the storm by venting power off of their world, sucking it into indefinable elsewheres.

It was this venting, Saviar realized, that had allowed any of them to survive the massive collision of magics. By rights, it should have killed all of them, quite possibly the entirety of Midgard. But the venting itself had unintended consequences. The catastrophic winds had picked up any elf or human near an opening like insignificant flotsam, dragging them through the gate along with the banished chaos.

Captain returned to words, *There are thousands of worlds of which our kind has explored only a few. We know some are not compatible with life, but most do harbor living creatures of one form or another. It is possible that we can find and return many of the unfortunates carried from our world through the gates, but it will take enormous planning, careful magic, and brave volunteers willing to make several dangerous journeys to restore our loved ones. I believe there are some among you able and ready to take on these challenges.*

Exhausted as he felt, Saviar found himself intrigued, almost eager. He knew his parents had undertaken a similar mission in his infancy, though it had involved retrieving only shards of the then-broken Pica Stone rather than living beings.

Someone seized Saviar’s arm. He whirled and crouched, ready for a fight, and found himself looking into Calistin’s familiar face. “That’s where Subikahn is. And my sword.”

Suddenly, wholly engaged with his brother, Saviar stared. “Where?”

“Through one of those gate-things. He and the mages got pulled through together.”

Saviar considered asking how Calistin knew but thought better of the question. At the time, Calistin had been holding the only true magical item in the area. Even Saviar’s shadow-magicked sword allowed him to see auras and, once, a Valkyrie when he held it in his hand. It would not surprise him if Calistin had also figured out the magical code of Captain’s khohlar and did a more complete job of focusing on Subikahn in the chaos of the storm. “You’re sure?”

Calistin nodded.

Saviar could feel his heart rate quicken, his breath catch in his throat. His twin had confessed to an unforgivable crime, had all but damned Saviar’s soul to Hel. Still, he wanted to hear exactly why Subikahn had done it, wanted to force his twin to stare directly into his eyes and explain. “Was he still . . .” Saviar paused, waiting for Calistin to fill in the obvious blank. When he did not, Saviar reminded himself he was dealing with Calistin. Though brutally competent, his youngest brother had the social skills of a stone. “. . . alive?”

“Alive, yes, of course. Do you think I’d forget to mention Valhalla?”

Calistin had an undeniable point that made Saviar feel stupid. Calistin had a knack for that but rarely outside of swordplay.

Compassion entered Calistin’s tone, appearing even more out-of-place because, for once, Saviar did not share it. He was not ready to forgive his twin, not sure he ever could. “Subikahn’s alive on another world, and he needs our help to come home. We have to go after him, Savi. He’s our brother.”

Saviar could not help wondering if a stranger had replaced his youngest brother. Again. But before he could say a word, Captain resumed his khohlar.

*Your commanders have asked me to inform you we need as accurate an accounting as possible to avoid stranding anyone, dishonoring them, or putting our heroic volunteers at unnecessary risk. To that end, they have asked me to tell you that no one is to leave his camp until every individual has met with his commanding officer to assist with making a complete list of survivors and missing soldiers. Only then, each commander will make arrangements for how to handle and account for those killed. They say you should feel free to sleep, eat, or converse while you’re waiting for your turn at your encampment.*

Calistin headed toward the Renshai camp, and Saviar reluctantly followed. He would have preferred to remain with their father and grandfather, to discuss the future and his role in it, but he did not want to make the situation any more difficult for Thialnir. They would celebrate, not mourn, their brethren lost in combat, but they would all find some secretive comfort in seeing a significant number of living, breathing Renshai remained.

The moment Calistin reached the Renshai camp, Valira flung herself into his arms. Shocked, Saviar could only watch as Calistin tensed. For a moment, he thought his little brother might cut her down from instinct. He had never shown his family more than the barest hint of empathy, and he seemed not to understand affection.

To Saviar’s surprise, Calistin raised his arms and wrapped Valira into his own, almost tender, embrace. It looked clumsy, lacking Calistin’s usual inhuman grace, but the near-normalcy of the exchange held Saviar spellbound. There was real affection in their interplay; and, if it currently all came from Valira’s side, Calistin at least appeared to be trying.

Valira’s hands slipped surreptitiously to Calistin’s sinewy rump, and Saviar thought his eyeballs might pop out of their sockets. Equally surprised by the impropriety, Calistin stiffened, then laughed. He caught Valira fully in his arms, hefted her over one shoulder, and carried her the last few steps into camp.

Saviar knew he ought to look away, but he found it impossible. A strange smile glued itself onto his face. Even in the wake of brutal war, with the bodies of brave warriors still cooling on the ground, maybe, just maybe, they would all find joy where they could.

While King Griff and his entourage prepared to visit the battlefield, Tae Kahn sat with Kentt and Arturo on a matching set of plush chairs while Mistri napped in her bed. The Kjempemagiska had to squash his ample bottom between the armrests, but he made no complaints as he studied Tae and the cat curled contentedly in his lap. Tae’s hands stroked and scratched her intently, eliciting a nonstop and contented purring. Rantire crouched near the door, looking bored.

“Will we accompany them?” Kentt addressed Tae, but his gaze remained on Imorelda. Everything about her seemed to fascinate him. He found it particularly interesting that the growl-like sound she made was actually a joyful noise.

Tae considered Kentt’s interest in Imorelda a positive sign. He could see parallels between his relationship with the super-intelligent cat and Kentt’s with Arturo. “I don’t think it’s wise.” He gave extra attention to the area behind Imorelda’s ears and under her chin. “The warriors know your people only as lethal enemies. We need to give the king a chance to explain you before you come walking onto the battlefield.”

“I would be noticed,” Kentt admitted, tipping his head to study Imorelda from a different angle. “And they won’t know I mean them no harm.”

Though he had insisted on being present, Arturo watched the conversation without speaking. Tae suspected he understood most of the exchange but worried his pidgin usaro could add little to it or would make him look stupid. Tae made a mental note to help the young prince learn the language so he could take a greater role in any future negotiations. Hopefully, Kentt, and maybe others among the Kjempemagiska, had a soft spot for their former pet.

Tae tried the direct approach. “Do you?” He realized it was a nebulous question. “Mean us no harm, I mean. Your people did come here to annihilate us, after all.”

“Yes,” Kentt said thoughtfully, though it seemed an extreme and dangerous admission. “But that’s no longer an issue. You won the war, and we’d be foolish to attack again. It will take several generations, many centuries, before we could possibly begin to forget our losses. And, having lost so many, we no longer have need for your land.”

Tae attempted humor. “Is that an apology?”

Kentt laughed. “No, but I will grant one if you want it and believe it will make any difference. Mistri and I are at your mercy. You have not imprisoned us behind bars, but we are just as surely trapped. We have no way to get ourselves home.” His gaze went to Arturo, and the smile forming on his lips convinced Tae he correctly understood their relationship.

Tae thought back to what the lost prince had told him. While Arturo did not have a full understanding of the Kjempemagiska hierarchy, he believed Kentt held some sort of nonmilitary leadership position. Kentt’s job, apparently, had something to do with studying the plants, animals, and minerals of Heimstadr and its surrounding ocean. Arturo believed he was alive because of Kentt’s curiousity about him as much as Mistri’s desire to keep him; over time, that had grown into real affection. While the other Kjempemagiska had treated him like a worthless animal, Kentt had taken a particular interest in his ability to learn spoken language alongside his daughter. Tae knew their relationship would have to change, but he hoped they could maintain their mutual affection for Mistri, and for one another, as Kentt learned to see Arturo as an equal.

“Your magic won’t take you home?” Tae asked.

Kentt tipped his head. “If it could, would we have arrived by ship?”

“I suppose not.”

Imorelda rolled onto her back. *Pet me.*

*I was sure that was what I was doing, my love.*

*Oh, is that what you were doing? I thought you were using me as a hand rest.*

Tae increased the rate of his ministrations, though he doubted anything would fully satisfy Imorelda. He knew the conversation bored her. She did not understand a word of it, and, thus, could not chime in as she usually did. “I imagine your ships are still where your bretheren left them.”

Kentt’s brows shot up. “Could you singlehandedly sail to Heimstadr?”

“No,” Tae admitted, then realized he knew someone who could. “We have some sensational sailors, though. I’m sure they could get you home.”

Kentt sat up straighter. “Would they?” His tone betrayed only a bare hint of hope. In the reverse situation, Tae doubted the Kjempemagiska would consider assisting one of the people of the continent.

But we are not them. The Kjempemagiska had lost all of their warriors, which might make them more amenable to treaties and cooperation, perhaps even to sharing their magic and technology with the peoples of the continent. The royal family of Béarn had every right to execute Kentt and Mistri, but Tae knew the giants were in no danger. Matrinka would insist on helping anyone in need, no matter their loyalties or proclivities. Before Griff could even speak, Arturo had decreed that no harm would come to either of them, but especially to Mistri. His love for her was clear and genuine, and Tae could not help wondering if Imorelda felt the same way about him.

“I believe it’s a real possibility, Kentt. Of course, you’ll need to give them a reason to risk their lives bringing the two of you home.”

Kentt studied the ceiling for several moments, then met Tae’s gaze with an earnest smile. “Consider us unusually tall humans. And name your price.”