Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Until this evening, Tae had not dared to light a fire that might draw enemies far more dangerous than bloodsucking blackflies. Then he had beaten the natural scavengers to a dead squirrel. Having mostly depleted his rations, hunger would not allow him to pass up the feast; yet he refused to eat old meat raw. Once created, the fire produced smoke that kept the insects mostly at bay, and Tae found himself loath to extinguish it even after his meal. Tiredness slowed his thoughts and weighted his usually wiry movements. If the bugs kept him up most of another night, he might not have the strength to face the danger that would catch up to him eventually, with or without the campfire.

  Tae Kahn rolled to his back, shaggy black hair falling into eyes nearly as dark. Eighteen years old, he had only just begun to shave; and the thin stubble that had formed since his run began tickled only because he was unaccustomed to it. Traveling light had served him well in the East where he could always find a city in which to steal supplies and clothing. Now, ensconced in forest, he scrounged for food, cast about for water, and his clothing had become a grimy mess inside and out. Though accustomed to handling circumstances as they came, he could not help cursing the father who had condemned him to a life of bluff and bluster, of remaining always one step ahead of the law and the lawless. The men who had killed his mother, who had stabbed him sixteen times and left him for dead were enemies not of his own, but of Weile Kahn, his father.

  Despite these disturbing thoughts, sleep overtook Tae, gliding him into the nightmare memories that used to haunt his every slumber and awaken him tremulous, sweaty, and screaming. It all merged into a spinning blur: scarred and filthy strangers, the sharp agony of their knives, the struggle that gained him nothing—his ten-year-old strength no match for adults, the deathly silence that followed his mother’s screams, and the stench and drip of his own blood that filled the hours until his father found them. Now, Tae whimpered and kicked in his sleep, drawn toward consciousness; and the sound of movement jerked him suddenly to full awareness.

  Instinctively, Tae leaped into a crouch just as a meaty hand closed over his arm. Through a curtain of his own hair, he caught a glimpse of three men in front of him in addition to the one, between him and the campfire, who held him. Tae whipped out his dagger and slashed for the gripping hand as it levered his arm behind him. Before his blow landed, a sword blade flashed silver in the moonlight, tearing the knife from his hand and a furrow of skin from his palm. Agony followed its path. He hesitated for an instant that gave the first stranger the opening he needed to seize Tae’s other wrist and pin both arms behind him.

  Tae struggled to free his arms, kicking backward at the man who held him. His heels met flesh solid as stone. Lacking momentum, he could do little damage with his feet, but he continued to kick and writhe. The man’s fingers tightened to bruising vises. In the hands of one of the other four, the sword tip found the hollow of Tae’s throat and its wielder threatened, “Be still.”

  Tae obeyed, keeping stance and expression defiant. Show no fear. The tenet came foremost to his mind, as always. Predators could smell fear; and, he had learned, it drove them to sadistic rages. On the streets, the “cringers” became the prey of every rowdy and tough who wanted anything they had. Tae glared up at his captors through the gaps in his leaf-strewn veil of hair, meeting and holding each dark gaze without flinching. The closer warmth of the man holding him blocked that of the fire. Blood trickled from hand to wrist and pattered, drop by drop, to the leaves. With any luck, it would make the other’s fingers slippery as well.

  “Tae Kahn, Weile’s son.” A muscled Easterner with a neatly trimmed beard stepped forward now, studying Tae as if purchasing him from a slaver.

  Tae remained still, though his heart rate quickened. They knew his name and his father. No bandits, these men; they had clearly hunted him. And they would surely kill him. The fact that he did not recognize them meant nothing. The fringe assassins usually remained outside the politics of organized crime, and Tae had never paid enough attention to the men who visited his father. One thing was certain: if professional killers held him, they would slaughter him swiftly and without much preamble. His only hope lay in making them uncertain they had the right victim, and even that would only gain him time. And, he hoped, an opening.

  Tae sagged forward, revealing defeat he did not have to feign. “I’ve only got a few coppers. They’re in my right pocket. Take anything else you want. I won’t fight.”

  The speaker smiled, eyes revealing grim amusement. He inclined his head toward the swordsman. “Kill him.”

  The killer back-stepped, looping his sword for momentum. Tae slumped further, drawing the holding man with him. The blade sped for his neck.

  Abruptly, Tae flung himself over backward. Caught off guard, the man holding him toppled. The sword whisked over Tae’s head. The man behind him slammed into the campfire, screaming. Sparks and ash swirled crazily. Tae turned his own fall into a controlled flip. Fire licked at his arms and hands, then he flew free, rolling to snuff stray flames. He lurched to his feet, running, not daring to waste the moments looking back would lose him. Night vision would work to his advantage. The others had been facing the fire’s light at Tae’s back and would need to adjust to the darkness.

  The screeches of the burning man and the speaker’s cursing drowned the sounds of pursuit. Tae sprinted down a game trail, clenching his bleeding palm in his other hand, dodging between trunks to foil his pursuers’ aim. He had not seen a bow, but desperation had given him little time to take in details. Now, youth and agility would give him advantage where his smaller size and musculature had previously failed him. He raced through the forest, unaccustomed not only to the terrain but to the country. Lost in forest, without even the blanket he had brought, and hunted by assassins, he saw little chance of survival. Yet the boy who had lived through sixteen stab wounds was no stranger to desperate hope. Tae ran on.

  * * *

  Matrinka lay on her bed and stared at the familiar parade of painted animals on the ceiling of her bedroom until they blurred to random blotches of color. Mior sprawled against her side, sleeping. Though Matrinka could not see the two Renshai, she knew they remained alert near the door until her new, single guardian came to replace them, an event scheduled for this day. I failed. The thought had obsessed Matrinka in the two weeks since the staff-test had deemed her unworthy of rulership and no logic, rationalization, or self-flagellation had banished it. She felt as if gods had swept down, flayed open her soul, and spat upon what they found inside. Always, she had sought to follow the moral course, proud of the choices she made and the effects that followed naturally from them. Now she discovered she had lived a lie and could no longer trust any action or thought of her own.

  The passing week had not proved wholly unproductive. From the depth of depression had come a resolve to change, to find some niche where her faulty judgment could still help the causes of Béarn. Somehow, she could stand behind those who handled the affairs, assisting without becoming involved in the day-to-day decisions that she could not appropriately make. In better moments, becoming more frequent, she considered such positions; but mostly the implications of her failure still haunted her days and dreams.

  A knock on the door roused Matrinka, mercifully claiming her attention for a few moments. The Renshai took defensive positions, Nisse moving directly in front of her and Kristel remaining at the door. “Who is it?” the latter demanded.

  Matrinka could not hear the reply, but it apparently satisfied Kristel. She glanced toward Matrinka but had obviously learned not to bother to catch her eye. “Our replacement, Princess.”

  Princess. The title only reminded Matrinka of her failure, and she winced in reply.

  Kristel opened the door to reveal a stranger more girl than woman. She wore the simple, tan uniform that Renshai preferred in the service of the king, loose-fitting to allow free movement. A long sword graced each hip. In front, she wore her blonde hair short, parted in a feathered masculine style. Behind, the s
traight, thin hair fell to her shoulders. She sported the slighter, sinewy build that nearly defined Renshai, lacking the Béarnide’s healthy bulk and the curves that made the kingdom’s women beautiful. Her large, blue eyes held a hard edge, and she studied the room and its occupants with the same alertness as her two counterparts. She glanced from Kristel to Nisse and said something musical. Apparently, she had spoken Renshai; and, although Matrinka could not understand, she could tell that it contained no trace of a Western accent. It also seemed to annoy the other Renshai, who frowned and exchanged knowing glances before leaving the newcomer to her charge. Matrinka could tell by their attitudes they did not care for her guardian.

  The new Renshai said nothing more, diligently exploring the room in a dogged silence whose rudeness irritated Matrinka, especially when the newcomer rearranged a few of her personal belongings. At length, apparently satisfied, the Renshai stopped in front of Matrinka and bowed. She used the Béarnian tongue with surprising fluency and none of the lilt she had adopted to speak Renshai. “Princess Matrinka, I am your guardian. I will remain at your side and protect you at all times, except when others I trust take my place. Nothing can or will harm you so long as I am with you.” She fell silent, stiffly attentive, awaiting a reply.

  Matrinka shifted away from Mior, then sat up. The cat yawned and stretched, fixing yellow eyes on the Renshai. *Tight, isn’t she?*

  Matrinka gave no direct reply to the rhetorical question, though she did acknowledge the cat’s presence in her mind. The new guardian disappointed her in many ways. First, her rigid dedication to her job would certainly preclude any privacy, let alone such simple pleasures as a walk in the courtyard. Second, she seemed unlikely to prove any more pleasant company than the pair who had just left. Third, her formality would grow tiresome if not nipped swiftly. Matrinka set her mind to doing just that. “Just call me Matrinka.”

  The Renshai nodded but said nothing further.

  Matrinka asked the obvious question. “What’s your name?”

  Again, the Renshai bowed, seeming even younger than when she first arrived. Matrinka wondered if her failure at the staff-test had condemned her to become a babysitting service for half-grown Renshai, a testing ground prior to their assigning to a more deserving subject. If so, she and her self-proclaimed guardian had definitely started this relationship with the wrong one in control.

  Unaware of the myriad thoughts flooding Matrinka’s mind, the Renshai responded to her query alone. “Princess, with all due respect, I think it best that we not exchange names. Such could only risk placing our relationship on a level that might impair my ability to properly perform my duties.”

  The severity and size of the words issuing from a figure that seemed as small and fragile as a china doll momentarily disarmed Matrinka. “How would that be so?” she finally managed, trying not to sound patronizing.

  The Renshai bowed a third time, gaze still fixed on Matrinka, though her stance revealed wariness that went far beyond the focus of her attention. “If we became friends, I might get too relaxed in your presence to properly guard. Worse, you might worry for me, interfere with my efforts, and get yourself hurt or killed.” A slight smile crossed features otherwise wholly taut. “If you hate me, you won’t do that.”

  “I’m not going to hate you no matter what.” Matrinka lowered her feet over the side of the bed, not yet realizing she had not brooded about her failure since the new Renshai entered. “There’s never reason to hate anyone.”

  In response, the Renshai just shrugged.

  Already doubting her own wisdom, Matrinka took the unspoken disagreement hard. Am I wrong about that, too?

  *Nonsense,* Mior supplied. *You’re not wrong.*

  Still bothered by the situation as well as the manner of a guardian who had just sworn to become a constant companion, Matrinka hurled her next observation at the object of her discomfort. “I can’t just call you ‘You Standing There.’”

  “You may call me whatever you wish,” the Renshai supplied easily, surprisingly quick for one so young and annoying.

  Matrinka refused to create a name for a person who obviously already had one. “What do you want to be called?”

  The guardian Renshai tensed, turning toward the door and cocking her head to one side. Apparently, she had heard some noise Matrinka had not. It did not concern the Renshai, however, because she relaxed, returned her regard, and responded, “I should be near enough to you always that you don’t need to call. I would find neither ‘Renshai’ nor ‘guard’ offensive.”

  Matrinka shrugged, finding the whole business nonsense. “This seems silly.”

  “To you, perhaps, Princess.” The Renshai’s careful smile and light tone kept her from sounding insulting. She obviously had experience with bandying words as well as sword strokes. “Please trust me to know the best way to handle the job I was assigned.”

  Matrinka sighed. Mior’s mental touch seemed amused. *I like her. She reminds me of someone.*

  *Let’s see . . . a young, female predator.* Now, Matrinka smiled inwardly. *Of course you like her. She reminds you of you.*

  Mior puzzled that thought in silence while Matrinka turned her attention back to the Renshai. To disengage from conversation meant pondering her inadequacies again. “No offense, um, Renshai, but aren’t you a bit young for this job?”

  Matrinka’s guardian frowned and jerked her head slightly backward, obviously unhappy with the question. “By Renshai law, I’m a woman.”

  Matrinka called on her lessons regarding Renshai. “You’ve killed someone already?”

  “Blooded?” The Renshai laughed. “My people abandoned that as the measurement for adulthood centuries ago.” She sobered, becoming more like Kristel and Nisse in demeanor. “If we hadn’t, every young Renshai would be sparking feuds and fights to the death. Now we have to complete a certain level of training. Most don’t manage it until they’re about eighteen. Some never.”

  Matrinka studied her guardian, from the wide, twinkling eyes to the child-stout legs. “You don’t look eighteen to me.” She kept her estimation to herself. Thirteen maybe.

  “I’m fifteen,” the Renshai admitted with a casualness that could not quite hide pride, although she obviously tried.

  An idea niggled at the back of Matrinka’s mind but could not be called to the foreground yet. She let it simmer while she displayed the knowledge her previous guardians had given. “You must be of the tribe of Modrey.”

  The Renshai blinked, surprised. “I am. How did you know that?”

  Finally having gained the upper hand, Matrinka feigned the same composure the Renshai had moments before. “You look younger than your age. That means you probably have more original Renshai blood than most.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “Thank you.” The compliment warmed Matrinka. In the past, her tutors had considered her inattentive and underachieving. When a topic interested her, she could recite lessons back verbatim. However, her mind tended to wander and she missed details when the matter did not enthrall her. She could name every flower, tree, and vegetable in Béarn; but her own lineage eluded her when she tried to remember more than two generations. Mathematics seemed a whole different language.

  Matrinka’s introspection brought the glimmer of thought to consciousness. I’ve been looking for a way to serve the kingdom that doesn’t require my judgment. A year younger than me, and this Renshai already found one. “How hard is it to become a warrior?”

  The Renshai blinked, obviously taken aback by the question. “Hard? Compared to what?”

  Now it was Matrinka’s turn to be surprised. “Well, I mean, just is it. Compared to anything.”

  The Renshai shrugged. “Compared to being born an heir, it’s very hard. Being born’s only hard for your mother.”

  The insult shocked Matrinka, the last thing she expected from one committed to protecting her. Breeding and training held her temper in check, but the weight of her shortcomings seemed even heavier a
burden. She returned sarcasm for sarcasm. “Maybe I could learn to hate you.”

  The Renshai smiled without malice.

  Matrinka pressed the issue. “So why are you guarding me anyway? It’s clearly not from an inherent respect for me.”

  Matrinka’s guardian continued to smile, blue eyes friendly beneath the wild feathers of her hair. “First, I respect any heir to Béarn’s throne. Second, it’s my job.”

  Matrinka met the Renshai’s gaze earnestly. “Would it make any difference if you knew I failed the staff-test?”

  The Renshai did not pause, even long enough to consider the implications of such an admission. “Not at all. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re a servant, a farmer, or the queen herself. A job is a job. There’s nothing honorable about a duty in and of itself; it’s the performance of that duty to the best of my ability that gives it virtue. It’s my competence and dedication to guarding, not who I guard, that matters.”

  From the mouth of one so young, the philosophy impressed Matrinka. Even knowing that the girl was nearly her own age did not detract from the Béarnide’s amazement. Matrinka could not have come up with words of wisdom so swiftly or with such agility. “You still haven’t answered my question. Not really.”

  The Renshai hesitated. “You mean the one about becoming a warrior?”