Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Ra-khir’s heavy tread made the floorboards creak. She waited until the shuffle step that indicated he had stepped around their moldy chest before she turned, blinking away the jagged afterimages the lightning had etched across her retinas. Ra-khir had bashed his shins on that chest so many times it had become a household joke. As obvious as it was, the chest seemed to defy his every effort to notice its presence. On several occasions, he had moved it to one side or another to see if that helped. But if it did, he would never know. Kevral repeatedly inched it back into its original position whenever he left the room. She did not know why she chose that cruel little joke; she simply found it entertaining.

  Having avoided the usual pitfall, Ra-khir perched on the chest, leaving the more comfortable barrel seat for Kevral if she chose to relax. “Good afternoon, Kevral.”

  Kevral leaned against the window frame and made a thoughtful noise she hoped would pass for a greeting. The afternoon seemed anything but good to her.

  “What’s wrong?” Ra-khir pulled an unfamiliar, oblong fruit from his pocket and used his cloak to shine the skin.

  Kevral ignored the question for the moment, more interested in the food. “What’s that?”

  Ra-khir glanced at Kevral, then followed her gaze to the fruit. He stopped rubbing. “I’m not exactly sure. Fruit merchant said I could pick what I wanted, and this looked interesting. Want some?”

  “Sure.” Kevral watched Ra-khir’s hand retreat. He fumbled briefly in his pocket, emerging with his utility knife. “How much was it?”

  “She just gave it to me, like always.” Ra-khir cut the fruit in half, exposing pale pink meat and a core of seeds, which he dug out with the point. He offered half to Kevral.

  The oddity of the fruit merchant handing away merchandise no longer surprised Kevral. It had begun on their second day in Pudar and persisted. Every day, she insisted Ra-khir take at least a single pomegranate and sometimes a bucketload of fruit so stuffed it fed all of them for a day. She never asked for anything in return, did not even hint that her behavior might seem unusual. If she wanted something personally from Ra-khir, she gave no indication, at least in Kevral’s presence. The Renshai would call nothing the fruit merchant said or did flirtatious, though a woman of middle-age surely knew a few subtle tricks for reeling in a man to whom she felt attracted.

  The daily allotment of fruit was odd enough even without the windfalls that fell into their lap at the oddest moments. Ever since the dead rabbits they discovered on the trail, they had never gone hungry. Though none of them had a job or any other means to make money, it seemed to find them whenever they needed it. Often, it came in the form of merchants offering to trade goods for minor chores that scarcely seemed worth the bother. How and why they chose Kevral, Ra-khir, or Matrinka over others in the press of people smashed into Pudar’s market streets always seemed a mystery.

  Kevral accepted Ra-khir’s offering.

  Ra-khir took a bite of the fruit and returned to his original question. “So, what’s wrong?”

  Kevral poked at her half of the fruit, avoiding Ra-khir’s stare. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Thunder rolled through Kevral’s ears. Ra-khir raised his brows. “So you’re moping for no reason?”

  “Who said I was moping?”

  “I did,” Ra-khir returned. “But only because I saw you.”

  Kevral made a noncommittal noise, then took a bite of the fruit. The firm, grainy texture made a pleasant contrast to its sweet taste. She chewed appreciatively and swallowed before continuing. “Good choice.” She inclined her head to indicate the fruit.

  “Thank you.” Ra-khir ate more of his own. “I like it, too.” Though Kevral still had not answered his question, he did not press. It was part of his chivalry. He had opened the lines of communication and left it to Kevral to discuss her problem if she wished.

  Kevral sighed. Turning away from the window, she headed to the barrel. Like the chest, it had come with the cottage. A previous tenant had cut out part of one side, hollowed it into a chair shape, then added a cushion. Kevral placed one knee on the cushion and leaned on an armrest. She ate the remainder of her fruit and licked juice from her fingers before speaking again. “I’m tired of waiting. I feel for Darris and all, but there’s nothing I can do for him. He’s got good care. While we’re stuck here, who knows what’s happening to Béarn or to Griff.”

  Ra-khir finished his fruit also, politely wiping his mouth and fingers with a handkerchief. “They’re fine,” he reassured. “A few weeks won’t make any difference.”

  “How do you know that?” Finally, Kevral met his green eyes.

  “I don’t,” Ra-khir admitted. “But it doesn’t do any good to assume the opposite. There’s no way to know. We’ll have to deal with the situation as it comes.”

  “That’s what I mean.” Kevral settled uneasily into the chair. “When it comes? It’s already here. The longer we waste, the worse things can get.”

  Ra-khir nodded, acknowledging the truth of Kevral’s concern. “But we’re stuck here. It doesn’t help anyone to have us worrying about something we can’t affect.”

  “There is another solution.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Instead of me learning not to worry, we can move on without Darris.”

  Ra-khir frowned, obviously taken aback by the suggestion. “Leave Darris?”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a member of the group. It would be wrong.”

  Kevral heaved a loud sigh. Ra-khir’s honor had become like a brick wall against which she repeatedly banged her head. “Tae was a member of the group, too.”

  Even Kevral saw the difference, but Ra-khir felt obligated to explain. “Tae betrayed the party. Darris got wounded assisting it.”

  “And Tae’s probably out there now selling information about us and the heir to anyone who’ll buy it.” Kevral knew she played both sides of the issue, but Ra-khir always brought out the worst in her, and being cooped up in Pudar for two weeks spurred an irritability she seemed unable to shake.

  Ra-khir sucked in a deep breath, then released it slowly. “Maybe so. There’s nothing we can do about that, either.”

  Kevral quelled her natural urge to pursue the issue. She had chided Ra-khir enough for his mistake already, and sniping would accomplish nothing more than driving him away. She saw merit to ridding herself of one so incompetent who consistently irritated her, yet she had to work past a gnawing sensation of guilt and a deep realization she did not want him to go. About one thing, Tae had proven definitively right. She was too hard on Ra-khir, and she could not figure out why his every tiny fault bothered her so much. “You’re right,” she admitted grudgingly. “There’s not much we could do about Tae now. But we can continue the quest without Darris.”

  “Matrinka wouldn’t leave him.” Ra-khir pointed out the obvious. “No matter how good the healers are here.”

  “We’ll leave her, too.”

  Ra-khir’s mouth widened, but nothing emerged for several moments longer than comfortable conversation usually warranted. “You’d leave Matrinka?”

  Kevral despised the dilemma, caught between her loyalty to a princess of Béarn who had become her charge and to a prince who was their last hope for salvation. “Probably not,” she admitted. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t do anything rash.” A slight smile crept across Ra-khir’s lips. “I mean rasher than usual. You’re good, but enough enemies can kill even a Renshai. Another sword arm can only help you.”

  “Not if it’s incompetent.” As soon as Kevral spoke, she rued the curse that drove her to always say the worst possible things in Ra-khir’s presence.

  Ra-khir’s grin wilted, but his voice remained calm and conversational. “I’m no Kevral, and I thank the gods for that. This world couldn’t handle two of you.” He winked to show he meant no offense, though she surely deserved it. “I’m not Renshai, but I’m hardly the stumbling dullard you seem intent on calling me. I may not slaughter as many
as you, but I won’t get in the way of your sword. And I may just take down one or two of my own.”

  Kevral shrugged, grudgingly conceding the point.

  Ra-khir finished, just irritated enough to add his own mild taunt. “You know, Kevral. If I keep practicing, especially with your guidance; and if you learn how to trust a little, we’d make a pretty damn good fighting team.”

  Kevral smothered a snort, reminding herself of her promise to ease off insulting Ra-khir. “Renshai fight without strategy or pattern.”

  “I know.” Ra-khir held Kevral’s gaze again with green eyes that sparkled like diamonds. Even disheveled and sedate, he was strikingly handsome. “That’s always been the Renshai’s weakness.”

  Bothered by the passion stirred by Ra-khir’s appearance, Kevral looked away. “The Renshai have no weaknesses.”

  “Ahh,” Ra-khir replied, with the tone of one who has just learned a great lesson. “So you’re saying skill has a finite limit. One the Renshai have discovered.” He shrugged. “I guess you can stop practicing now. You’ve found perfection.”

  Kevral sucked air through her teeth. Ra-khir had made his point reasonably well, and it seemed ludicrous to argue that a group of people had discovered the flawlessness an individual could not. Denying the Renshai any failings had been a foolish argument from the start. “All right. You’re not a complete toddlebum. I probably couldn’t kick you to death.”

  “Thanks.” Ra-khir accepted the backhanded compliment graciously. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  Finally, Kevral saw the humor in the situation, too. “Enjoy it. I don’t give praise freely.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’m not apologizing for that, mind you,” Kevral thought it best to clarify the situation. “Competence is a minimum expectation, not deserving of admiration.” Again, she quoted Colbey. “But I should be a little stingier with insults. I am sorry for that.”

  “Accepted.” Ra-khir grinned insolently. “You grobian ding-head.”

  Kevral laughed at Ra-khir’s nonsensical insult. “Grobian what?” She twisted into a normal sitting position on the barrel chair. “Should I guess that swear words and insults aren’t part of your knight’s training?”

  “We’re taught to flatter, never disparage.”

  Kevral guessed the meaning of the last word from context and appreciated that Ra-khir avoided mentioning that the Knights of Erythane softened their tone and vocabulary around women. Thinking back, she had never heard a knight curse or blaspheme, even in the company of guards and Renshai. “Yeah, well. A well-aimed sharp word works wonders in certain situations. Maybe I can teach you a few.”

  “From you?” Ra-khir flicked red hair behind his shoulders. “I’d rather learn sword forms. Better use of my time.”

  Kevral would never argue that point.

  Ra-khir brought the conversation full circle. “Look, I don’t know what you’re planning to do about waiting for Darris. But if you decide to leave, at least promise me you’ll let me know before you go.”

  The request seemed reasonable. As logic settled into place, Kevral realized she would probably need Darris or Matrinka to recognize Griff. Unless he proved shockingly docile, she doubted she could find the right words to convince him to return with her to Béarn either. “All right.”

  “Promise.”

  Kevral sighed. “I promise.” She studied Ra-khir, the strong chin and straight nose, the delicate cheekbones, the muscular build, and the red hair with just enough blond to soften the color. Colbey had once said that all redheaded Erythanians carried the blood of Renshai conquerors. The idea of Ra-khir as a distant relative made her smile. She just might come to like Ra-khir despite all he stood for, and that thought raised a pang of alarm. She sensed the avalanche of emotion poised behind such a change in their relationship. The details eluded her, but the intensity did not. Once begun, theirs would not prove a simple friendship. And for all her self-confidence in battle, Kevral felt unprepared for the events that might accompany the simple act of enjoying Ra-khir’s company.

  Chapter 24

  Shattered Peace

  Enemies most dangerous dwell in the least likely places.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Clouds enwrapped the crescent moon, turning its scant light into a subtle glaze. Accustomed to the night, Tae Kahn had little difficulty negotiating Pudar’s streets, despite the strangeness of a city so unlike the crushed and crowded kingdom of the East. The marketplace had long ago become the central attraction of Pudar. Houses radiated outward from it in concentric semicircles, the confluence broken by Trader’s Lake. The farther Tae traveled from the shops and stands, now tarp-covered for the night, the more modern the style of the homes became. Renovated areas interrupted the symmetry of this pattern. An affluent community near the market had sprung from the ruins of a slum, and inns and boarding houses vied for premium space. The fanciest catered to merchants, local royalty, and rare political presences. Yet even poor travelers desperate for the dazzle of Pudar’s famed market could find a crumbling dump of a cottage nearby.

  Tae Kahn studied the layout more from habit than interest. His life had too long depended on animal alertness and the ability to discern slight movement from shadow. Predators of every type preferred the night, and those who had most to fear from them had little choice but to become nocturnal as well. Under cover of darkness, he also had less chance of discovery by companions turned enemies. Tae bit his lip, hating the weakness that turned his thoughts repeatedly to those who had rejected him. A million times, his father had told him that obsession was synonymous with weakness. In the underground world of violence, invisible to most, preoccupation could prove fatal. Tae had heard of more than one gang lord who opened himself to assassination by coveting money, power, or women. Fixation with any one thing became a blind spot that allowed enemies quiet access.

  Yet Tae could not stop picturing Kevral: the short blonde hair that fell into wild feathers, the sinewy body and its competent grace that made her attractively feminine even lacking the usual curves, and the cold blue eyes as sharp as her sarcastic wit. He had too long treasured cleverness and strength not to appreciate both in his women. A thrill shivered through Tae, and he stopped at the mouth of an alley, surrendering to his thoughts. More than his feelings for Kevral kept him in Pudar. He savored the camaraderie he once shared as Ra-khir’s distrust had faded. Though Tae had run with gangs before, he had never felt so comfortable with any group. Street orphans knew little of trust. Desperate for the security of a family, they clung to one another; but they betrayed swiftly when circumstance favored self strongly enough. Through death and deception, Tae had lost so many. Even in a group, a child on the streets was always alone.

  Tae continued into an alleyway that had become familiar in the two weeks Matrinka and the others had chosen to stay in Pudar. His eyes sought discrepancies even as his mind worried other matters. The patterns of light and shadow were intimately familiar. Though he could not have drawn them for another’s inspection, they had become permanently etched on his memory. He would notice even minute changes.

  The money Tae had taken off their dead attackers and obtained from selling his horse had nearly run out, spent to feed himself as well as support and shelter his one-time companions. If they remained in Pudar much longer, as Darris’ condition suggested they might, Tae would need to resort to other means. He had stolen food on many occasions, but he had not lied to Ra-khir when he claimed he had pilfered other things only twice. He never doubted he had the expertise to part rich men and fools from their money, no matter the technique, but he cared little for petty theft. It made him feel as dirty as the lowest whore-bred scum in his father’s operation.

  A rustle, too loud for a rat, touched Tae’s ears as he reached the end of the alleyway. Street etiquette demanded he not intrude on the operation of another, no matter how nasty or dark the other’s work might prove. From habit, he switched directions, heading d
own a narrow thoroughfare that led toward the richer part of town. Having eaten a reasonable dinner of bread and fruit, with no particular goal in mind, Tae accepted the change in course with graceful ease. At the end of that route, another noise guided him to continue.

  Tae moved soundlessly through streets that changed from raunchy, trash-filled dirtways to cobbles scarred by the passage of hooves and steel-soled boots. No matter where he went, the sounds of others working influenced his course, driving him always toward the affluent sector in the northwest corner of town. Warning nagged at the edges of his mind, slipping to conscious thought, then gradually tingling through his body. He analyzed his concern. Is someone deliberately sending me there? The thought seemed madness. To do so would require the cooperation of at least twenty people, and he doubted his enemies from the East had that many more to spare. Such a masterful and well-orchestrated feat went beyond the ability of a street gang. More importantly, they would choose a better victim for such a scam. Tae, with his ragged hair and tattered clothes, should not draw the attention of thieves, except as a possible rival.

  Rival? Tae mulled that thought a bit longer. He had heard of gangs so possessive of territory, they ritually slaughtered anyone of their ilk who dared step upon it. Tae dismissed this idea, too. He had traveled here before without challenge, and it seemed unlikely hoodlums would set him up by leading him to a prosperous part of the city, that sector most likely to draw patrols and guards. In fact, Tae realized as he made another directional change to accommodate a sound and saw the massive, crenellated shadow in the distance, I’m headed toward the castle. Tae could not think of any location more heavily protected. Now the whole thing made sense. Fewer thieves would hunt the area near the castle. Therefore, avoiding movement would funnel him directly toward it. That none of his jaunts had ended here in the past scarcely diminished the thought. Perhaps he had simply been lucky before.