Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Yet the stranger made no threatening motions, only studied Baltraine with mild amusement. “But that’s all right. The world has room for all four of Odin’s forces. In fact, no one could exist without its opposite. But it does exclude you from ruling Béarn.” His scrutiny persisted. He remained in place, yet that did not fully pacify Baltraine. This stranger did not broadcast any motions, and he looked quick enough to kill before Baltraine could think to dodge. “Kedrin tried to warn you of that in his own way. Now, I believe, you understand why.”

  “Who are you?” Baltraine demanded again, this time in an awed whisper.

  “I am the Keeper of the Balance.” Though more full, the answer still did not jibe with Béarnian religion. “I brought the Staves of Law and Chaos to mankind and sanctioned my own beloved people to protect Béarn’s balance, no matter the cost. The king or queen of Béarn is mankind’s fulcrum, the force that keeps the entire world in balance. Improperly chosen, he assures destruction. You, Baltraine, cannot rule.”

  “I know that!” Baltraine answered defensively. “I’m just doing the best I can to find the proper heir.”

  The Keeper acknowledged Baltraine’s claim. “True. But you have another agenda as well, one your bent toward self, what we call evil, cannot allow you to forget. Cling to your concern for all of Béarn. Seek Kedrin’s advice and follow it. Then, no matter what happens, at least you did all you could.”

  “I will,” Baltraine promised and meant it. Already, his many worries trickled back into his mind, and he added many questions to the boil of desperate thought. Consideration swiftly became an agony he felt little able to contain. He had always considered his loyalties his greatest strength, whether to his family, self, king, or kingdom. Now, those ideals came into conflict, and he urgently needed to place them into proper sequence. “Thank you,” he said, looking to the Keeper of the Balance and instead finding empty air between himself and the aisleway. The absence shocked him. He could not recall looking away, only inside himself, yet the other had disappeared without a flash of light or even a slow fade. Neither had he walked away. It seemed more as if he existed one moment and not the next.

  Baltraine shivered at the idea that he might have suffered a hallucination. He justified the madness that implied by recalling the stress which had driven him to the temple and to such deep contemplation. Real or imagined, the Keeper had supplied competent advice he had little choice but to try to follow.

  Steeling himself for a confrontation he would rather have avoided, Baltraine headed toward Béarn’s dungeon.

  Chapter 23

  Pudar

  In my time, I’ve seen a lot of friends and loved ones die. Some of them, I had to kill myself.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Captain perched on a boulder on the island beach, one knee tucked to his chest and the other leg dangling comfortably along the cold, gray surface of the rock. The moon glittered from the red and gold highlights in his hair like tiny stars in a brown halo. The lap of the sea soothed him, music to ancient ears that missed the ceaseless roll and crash of breakers. He had sailed the Northern Sea for millennia, and it called him like a distant lover. The sea breeze carried the familiar odor of salt, a friend he had come to miss over the two centuries he lived on the solid ground of the elves’ island. Now, for the first time in longer than a hundred years, he felt truly free.

  Guilt settled over him when his enjoyment grew too great, a human emotion he had learned to recognize. The freedom was artificial, the result of ignorance rather than any active solution to the problem. While he sat on the beach, the other elves grew more ponderous in their ways, more human, and their strategies continued unabated. The only thing that had changed was that he no longer knew what they plotted or did. As much as he appreciated that lull, he knew he alone benefited from it. Once, that understanding would not have entered his mind, let alone bothered him. Elves lived for the moment, doing whatever brought them joy at the time and harmed no other. They played, they laughed, they sang, and they coupled without need for or understanding of reason. That which made them happy was all that mattered.

  Captain looked out over the sea, watching white water touch the shore, speckled with spindrift. The waves tumbled to the beach and receded, taking and giving in a relentless cycle. One claimed a shell, and the next would return it, sending it tumbling farther up the beach, safe until the tide waxed again. Nearest the water, the sand seemed smooth as glass, while the same sand farther up the beach grated between Captain’s toes. Longing filled him, and he dreamed awake of his ship dancing through the sea, foam spirals, lit by dawn light, curling redly in its wake. The clean salt smell tingled through his questing nostrils, and the sun bleached his hair nearly blond. The wrinkles salt and sun etched onto his face had become beloved friends he would not have traded for the supple softness of an infant.

  A polite noise interrupted his reverie. Captain stiffened and turned, discovering several elves standing behind his natural seat. Moonlight glazed worried expressions across their faces, and the jerkiness of their movements suggested restlessness and discomfort. He estimated their number between six and a dozen. Most seemed young, though at least one bore scars from the fires of Ragnarok.

  Captain smiled in greeting, resisting the urge to fret. It did not fit the elves of his youth, the lifestyle to which he wished he, and all of his ilk, could return. Yet he could not keep his mind from thinking, and he guessed Dh’arlo’mé had sent these to worsen his exile. Banning him from society and politics had not proved punishment enough. Perhaps the leader of the elves would not desist until the dissenter was dead.

  Egged on by glances from his fellows, Eth’morand Kayhiral No’vahntor El-brinith Tahar stepped to the front to speak. “Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor, we’d like to talk to you.”

  Captain drew both knees to his chest and clasped his hands together on his calves. He nodded his readiness to engage in conversation, still refusing fear or intimidation. He had lived long, even for an elf; and he had nothing to fear from death. Surely even Dh’arlo’mé would find the patience to wait until an elder died naturally, if only because execution would result in the loss of his soul from the pool of elves. As an infant, with memory mostly scrambled, Captain could easily become as compliant as his peers. It worked in Dh’arlo’mé’s best interests to suffer Captain now and wait for old age to take him rather than lose any more elves permanently.

  Eth’morand hesitated for a time that tried even elven patience. Captain waited in silence, raising his brows to indicate interest. He would not press. Eth’morand would speak in his own time. Captain called khohlar, offering wordless reassurance. Whatever the bad news, he would not hold the messengers responsible.

  Finally, Eth’morand gathered his courage. “We’ve talked to the human, Brenna, many times. Mostly late at night.” His blue eyes met Captain’s amber, and Captain read need in their depths. “We like her.”

  A younger elf named Reehanthan Tel’rik Oltanos Leehinith Mir-shanir got straight to the point. “We think we might like humans. We’re not completely happy with Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin’s plans. We find them too . . . dark.”

  Dark. Captain noted the coincidence. He had described Dh’arlo’mé’s ideas using the exact same adjective. Dark. Svartalf. Dark elves. The name fit Dh’arlo’mé and his followers perfectly.

  Eth’morand furthered the elaboration, the intended speaker from the beginning. “We want to talk with you, to find out or, for some of us, remember how elves used to be.”

  “We don’t believe our lord, Frey, intended us to fight anyone,” Reehanthan interrupted again. “We want peace, if we can have it. Will you help us?”

  Captain looked over the group like a proud human father, though he did not speak yet. He needed time to consider their request and the possible consequences of any action he or they might take. But first, he had to understand exactly what they expected of him. “What do you want me to do?” Though not a direct answ
er to their question, he hoped his tone indicated guarded interest.

  “Teach us about elves,” Eth’morand’s statement emerged more like a question. “Teach us about humans. Guide us toward a means to handle the situation without killing anyone.”

  “To handle it like elves,” another added.

  Captain studied these elves who had chosen him mentor, moving from one starry-eyed, eager face to the next. Memories rushed down on Captain, confidences shared by millennia of Cardinal Wizards, including the last Western Wizard, Colbey Calistinsson. The Renshai had described the exuberance of those born in the aftermath of war with an uncharacteristic fondness and enthusiasm. Usually hypercritical, especially of all humans not Renshai, Colbey had discovered a cause as significant as his goal, since birth, to die in glory and find Valhalla. He had dedicated himself to rescuing the world’s human children from the Ragnarok, knowing the very chaos that inspired them also brought the doom upon them. Already pledged to finding and maintaining the balance between the world’s forces, Colbey had found a second purpose he had never expected: defending humanity. And, apparently, he had succeeded.

  Captain wondered if he could ever prove Colbey’s hand, not humans’, had rescued mankind from the fiery death that had damned the elves. He wondered if it was even true. As powerful a swordsman as Colbey had become through endless practice and sacrifice, surely he could add little to a fight between gods. Little, indeed. Captain shook his head at the thought. Too many had met their doom underestimating the Golden Prince of Demons, and Captain would not fall into that trap. He recalled the glow restored to the jaded, old Renshai’s eyes when he spoke of the new vitality of human youth and their honest quest for competence and worth. Nothing, Colbey had insisted, meant more to any teacher than spirited students eager to learn.

  Now Captain had his own opportunity to enlighten, and pleasure burned like a fire deep within him. That, in itself, came of his long association with humans. Original elves knew nothing of emotions such as pride, self-regard, and esteem. Frey had created them innocent and happy. On Alfheim, they had frolicked among trees known on no other world, playing and cavorting as the moment’s whim pleased them. They knew nothing of sadness or pain, nor of the satisfaction of personal achievement. They knew only joy but gained no specific pleasure from it. Lighthearted play defined what they had all once been.

  Yet Captain realized elves could never return to the life they had once exclusively known. They had suffered too much, from the blistering agony of Ragnarok’s aftermath to the bitterness spawned by believing in a mortal source for their tragedy. Dh’arlo’mé had ruled too long, pounding hatred, rage, and greed too deeply into the collective elfin psyche to ever fully disperse. The dark elves flourished on the negative. Captain had little choice but to expose his prospective followers to the positive human drives and emotions: honor, glory, accomplishment, generosity, sacrifice, and too many others to consider in the moments Captain had to decide his next course of action. His elves, the light elves or lysalf would have to become something other than what they had once been. Millennia on man’s world had changed Captain too much for anything else to be the case. And Brenna’s conversation had already laid the groundwork for him.

  “All right,” Captain finally said softly, and the group of elves relaxed visibly. He had not realized the length of his considerations nor the significance to the others of his answer. “I’ll teach. But I won’t condone any action that tears us apart as a people or fosters violence of any kind.”

  Accommodating nods traversed the group.

  Captain scratched at his sun-bleached hair, missing the salt that used to always crunch beneath his fingers. He loved the sea and mourned the boat, the Sea Seraph, he had come to equate with his life. “What’s happened since my exile?” He had counted fifteen sunsets since the argument that expelled him from the council, scarcely a moment in the lifetime of an elf. Yet he doubted Dh’arlo’mé had remained idle.

  Eth’morand took the lead again. “Too much, I fear. A human sold information for gold and trinkets.” The disdain in his voice came through clearly, once outside elfin repertoire. Captain shrugged off the change. Once taught a general dislike of humans, judgment of individuals’ behavior—and, eventually of elfin actions—followed naturally. “He told us about how humans don’t have a single leader or council. Dh’arlo’mé’s already sent elves to stir trouble in other kingdoms, especially the big trading city, Hudan.”

  “Pudar,” Reehanthan corrected, the Western syllables harsh for elfin lips.

  “Thank you. Pudar.” Eth’morand swayed gently as he continued. “Xyxthris . . .” He mangled the human name, so it emerged in a long hiss. “. . . that’s the man who’s telling things, he said we could do more damage attacking men at the source of their profit than the source of their morality.” His long-lashed lids slid briefly over the gemlike eyes, and mild perplexity creased his features. “I’m not sure what he meant by that.”

  A chill spiraled through Captain. He knew only too well, and the moment he dreaded had arrived. Dh’arlo’mé had finally learned enough to begin a war in earnest and had already acted to initiate one. He could no longer count on elfin longevity to drag out this foolish cause until hatred stretched into eternity and all reason for vengeance became forgotten. Dh’arlo’mé had grown as impatient as a human, and Captain could only hope, but doubted, it would make him careless as well. The very qualities the Northern Wizard had treasured in him might prove the elves’ downfall: intelligence, charisma, and attention to thorough detail. Forbearance, however, could no longer be counted among his virtues. Perhaps he had lost track of others of his strengths as well. Captain could wish, but he would heed the lesson of Colbey Calistinsson to never underestimate an enemy.

  As fast as the thought came to Captain’s mind, he discarded it like poison. Dh’arlo’mé is an elf, not an enemy. Elf, us, and self sounded nearly alike in their language for reasons he dared not ignore. Instead, he concentrated on Eth’morand’s words, not quite a question but demanding answer. “Xyxthris meant other humans than himself will work for gold even if it costs others their lives. He meant elves can conquer humans more easily by attacking from more than one front. Humans don’t unify as well or completely as we do.”

  The group discussed Captain’s explanation in whispered bursts and khohlar concepts. More accustomed to human nature, Captain found their confusion and perceptions refreshingly strange. The strife elves could cause throughout the human kingdoms with a little knowledge and magic had already been aptly demonstrated in Béarn.

  “One more thing.” A usually timid elf named Ath-tiran Béonwith Bray’onet Ty’maranth Nh’aytemir stepped to Eth’morand’s side. “Xyxthris discovered secrets hidden in written notes of his people. First, there’s an heir to Béarn’s kingdom who lives far away. Dh’arlo’mé’s got us all using magic to find him. Apparently, there’s a test an heir has to pass to become ruler, and all of them have failed except this one. Including a girl-human who asked not to be an heir anymore but secretly still is.”

  That arrangement seemed odd even to Captain. “What good is that last secret?”

  Eth’morand made a throwaway gesture. “None as far as Xyxthris or we can tell. The human said he included it for completeness.”

  “And there’re other humans, too,” Reehanthan added.

  Eth’morand elaborated, “Other humans who will sell information. And some who’ll do worse things for a price.”

  “Like kill other people.” Reehanthan stepped in again, describing the heinous crime in the fewest possible words. The elfin language held no word for purposeful slaughter of one’s own.

  “Murder,” Captain supplied from the human Northern tongue, the one he had long ago learned to turn to for concepts outside elfin experience. Created by Frey, elves spoke the gods’ language in addition to their own. “Unfortunately, it’s true. The worst we can do cannot compare with the evil some humans can and will inflict on one another given the right circumstances
or the right price. It’s an integral part of humanity.” Captain glanced at the heavens, silently praying he would have the opportunity to show them examples of the positive parts of humanity, the qualities that made human life, however short, meaningful and special. About this, he suspected, the captured Renshai might prove the better teacher.

  * * *

  Rain pounded the roof of the cottage Kevral and her companions shared in Pudar, and the many streets and alleyways shattered thunder into echoes. Staring out the window, Kevral watched lightning crack open the heavens with the same boredom she suffered whenever she was not directly embroiled in sword work. They had arrived in Pudar two weeks prior, dragging Darris to a surgeon named Harrod that same day. Kevral understood little of the negotiating that followed, noticing only the Pudarian’s reluctance and Matrinka’s insistence even to the uncharacteristic point of yelling.

  In the end, they had agreed to postpone the surgery until Darris regained enough weight and strength to tolerate it. Gradually, Kevral had come to recognize and respect both sides. Harrod needed Darris in the best physical condition possible in order to survive the stress of any surgery, let alone the tricky procedure required to remove the arrow from his lungs. He saw no direct danger in leaving it in place, even for years. Matrinka insisted that the foreignness of the arrow’s head would draw infections to Darris’ body, thereby weakening him further and making the surgery even more perilous.

  Kevral did not have the knowledge to support either view, so she stayed out of the dispute. She trusted Matrinka implicitly and would have pressed the issue to the point of violence had the princess so instructed her. But Matrinka did not consult Kevral nor request her aid. Neither did she seek another surgeon, which told Kevral she held confidence in Harrod regardless of their disagreement. Mostly, Matrinka spent her time hovering over Darris, plying him with herbs at the first hint of fever. Only when he slept did she dare to leave his side. When he awakened, she was there. Their whispered conversations denied prying ears; they seemed oblivious to their companions’ presences when they talked. Kevral listened to them profess their friendship and love so many times it made her queasy, and their repetitive “good-byes” and pat phrases meant to hearten and strengthen had lost all charge for her. She preferred to keep her distance.