Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Just before they left the house, Kevral had recited a crisp warning to her companions not to reveal their true mission to anyone. At a time when enemies remained hidden and dangerous, they could not afford to have any person other than themselves knowing of Griff’s existence. Once outside, however, Kevral had lapsed into silence. After monitoring Ra-khir and Matrinka, the princess alone should prove a simpler matter.

  Kevral and Matrinka wound through roadways lined with stands, empty and covered with tarps. Shops, usually cheerful, were now bolted and forbidding. Many concerns flooded Kevral’s mind. She had watched Matrinka and Darris over the weeks, had seen their love strengthen as the threat of death hovered over them. So many times, they sat in silence, studying one another with a passion that seemed tangible or whispering conversations Kevral could not politely overhear. The sweet, knowing smiles they exchanged had come to define affection in Kevral’s mind. Sometimes it seemed nauseatingly sappy, and Kevral would practice sword maneuvers to rescue herself from the need to watch them. Sometimes, she knew mild pangs of jealousy, wondering. Once or twice, she had passed a moment with Ra-khir that evoked the same feelings. Often these had come during the most innocuous of conversations, spurred more by a glimpse of his eyes, features, or physique in just the right light. From moment to moment, she could not always remember if she cared for Ra-khir or loathed him, if she envied Matrinka and Darris or found them silly and tragic.

  Kevral swept these concerns away, appalled by her contemplation of petty matters when Tae’s life hung in the balance and their own fate seemed uncertain. Eventually, surely, Pudar would allow citizens and visitors free access to the streets again. She would not allow the grief of a city to keep her from carrying out the mission they had left Béarn to complete. If a kingdom had to fall, she much preferred Pudar to Béarn. The high kingdom of the West served as the central focus of balance and the cause to which Colbey had dedicated the Renshai in perpetuity.

  The castle came into view, a vast structure of stone towers and turrets that cut a jagged outline against the gray sky. Thick with damp, the air tasted wet and heavy. The dinginess of the day made the empty shops, stands, and roadways look like moldy bones from a long-dead village. Kevral took Matrinka’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. For Tae, they would fight together and, perhaps, without the support of their male friends: one of whom had to follow his honor and the other of whom was recovering from an enemy’s arrow.

  The castle loomed nearer. Matrinka had chosen a dress she had hauled along and never before had the opportunity to wear. Kevral owned nothing so feminine and had donned the least travel-damaged of her tunics and britches, her wardrobe as practical as her short-cropped hair. The wrought iron gates remained closed as they approached, guarded by two sentries who stood inside the gates. These wore leather armor, broad swords belted at their waists, and had ax-bladed pole arms in hand. They did not speak as the women approached but opened the gates and freely allowed them access.

  Matrinka curtsied politely to each. Kevral nodded stiffly, saving her manners for the inner courtroom. Resigning the formalities to Matrinka left her attention and hands free to guard. She did not know how other escorts handled such situations, but no one had reprimanded her for meager shows of respect in Béarn and she doubted they would do so here. The guards gave her no clue as they silently shut and bolted the gates. One led them toward the castle in silence while the other remained in position at the gates. Not one of them betrayed a hint of emotion, their faces locked into somber masks.

  The one guard turned them over to two more at the castle entrance, then returned to his partner. These exchanged bows for curtsies from Matrinka before opening the door. Again, one remained at his post while the other guided them to an archway where a man dressed in more formal and colorful attire greeted them. “Welcome to Pudar’s castle.” His tone did not match his words; his dull monotone fit the dreariness of the day and the mournfulness that had assailed the city.

  “Greetings,” Matrinka returned. “I am Matrinka, and this is Kevral.”

  “Yes. That’s right,” the man replied, as if they might have gotten it wrong. His brown hair contained stray wisps of gray, mostly concentrated at the temples. Creases marred a face just entering middle age, and hazel eyes, much like Darris’, studied them from a maze of crow’s-feet. “Ladies, come with me.”

  Matrinka obeyed, Kevral shuffling after. Tapestries lined the walls, a myriad different stories and panels jumbled together without discernible pattern. Unlike the paintings in Béarn, they told no contiguous story. Shortly, their guide led them into another room, furnished with couches, chairs, and a table that held a bowl of fruit. “Wait here, please. We’ll come for you soon.” His gaze slid to Kevral’s swords, and he frowned. “You’ll have to leave the weaponry.”

  Kevral tensed. Her first instinct, to fight, passed quickly. She made no response for several moments, trying to imagine what Colbey would do in her situation. History told of many times when the greatest of all swordsmen had come into the presence of kings, but none of these addressed the details. A saying attributed to him did, however: “A Renshai is dangerous so long as he shares a room with a sword.” In the past, the meaning had escaped Kevral. Now she saw it clearly. So long as the king’s court contained a sword, and the presence of guards would assure that it did, she had nothing to fear. More than a hundred Renshai maneuvers involved disarm and recover tactics weaponless against an armed enemy. “Of course,” she said, as if no time had passed. “So long as you return them when we leave.”

  “Certainly.” The man gestured the women to the couch and sat on a chair across from it.

  Matrinka and Kevral complied.

  The man then launched into a dissertation on the proprieties of the king’s court that Kevral tuned out after the first sentence. Matrinka leaned forward, showing a proper interest that Kevral attributed to breeding. She had heard a man blather on this long only once before, a Knight of Erythane at a state dinner. And she suddenly remembered where her disdain for knights had shifted from distant understanding to reality. Though alert to sudden movements that might pose a threat to Matrinka, Kevral otherwise let her attention wander where it would. Listening to the minister’s litany would surely lull her to sleep.

  At last, the lecture ended. Kevral left her sword belt in the minister’s care, and guards accompanied them both to the presence of the king.

  A dozen guards filled the audience chamber, dressed in mail over the standard tan uniforms. Their tabards bore the wolf symbol of Pudar, silver against a light brown background. A short-hilted, heavy-bladed sword hung at every left hip. The king sat on a padded chair. Inset gemstones in an array of colors glittered and winked in the light of lanterns that hung from rings in every wall. Curly, auburn hair ringed his face, liberally flecked with gray. He appeared old to Kevral, with his cheeks sagging and demeanor slumped. Blue eyes looked out from half-lidded eyes that sparked to life when the two women entered. He waited until they came directly in front of him before speaking. “You are companions of the man who killed my son?”

  Matrinka executed an elegant curtsy. Kevral was still trying to copy the movements when the princess addressed the question. “No, Sire.”

  The king blinked, obviously taken aback. “No?” He glanced at the guard who had accompanied them, seeking confirmation that he attended the right audience. “You did not travel with one called Tae Kahn?”

  “Yes, Sire.” Matrinka’s reply could be taken either way in light of the king’s question. It required explanation, and she gave one freely. “We’re Tae’s friends.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed to slits, and the wrinkles deepened. “Are you playing a game with me?”

  “Certainly not, Sire.” Matrinka displayed no fear as she returned the king’s scrutiny, and her tone contained all the proper strength of a woman trained to court. “I simply wish to convey that we were once companions of Tae, not of the man who caused your son’s demise. As to that, Your Majesty, we woul
d like to express our sincerest sympathies regarding your loss and the kingdom’s tragedy.”

  “Hmmm.” The king sat back, obviously uncertain how to handle the situation. Matrinka’s good wishes certainly sounded earnest to Kevral, but her approach might be considered insolent under the circumstances. No matter how politely, she had questioned the king’s judgment.

  Kevral remained silent. So far, Matrinka seemed capable of handling the situation. She was in her element now, and Kevral suspected their time spent traveling, and their confrontations with death, had strengthened Matrinka as well. Proud of her charge, who had come a long way since their first meeting, Kevral fought a smile.

  The king of Pudar stiffened, leaning forward. The circle of guards tightened. Though subtle, the threat tripled Kevral’s wariness. She measured the tiny details that would reveal each man’s ability. Colbey had read his enemies’ builds and movement, calculating their best maneuvers with a glance. Less experienced, she found the exercise difficult.

  A long silence dragged before the king broke it once more. “My guards witnessed the event. An Easterner conclusively identified Tae Kahn and led us to you. I want only the names of his relations, then you may leave without further hardship.”

  Matrinka curtsied again, though it seemed unnecessary. Kevral attributed the maneuver to delay. “Majesty, we understand your need and again extend our sympathies at your loss. But we have lost someone dear to us as well and cannot stand to do so in ignorance. Knowing the particulars would prove invaluable.”

  Attentive to the guards, Kevral missed the king’s expressive reaction to Matrinka’s long-winded demand. The guards grew restless, some hands sliding to rest on hilts and others twitching. Kevral mentally prepared herself for action.

  The king’s pause grew dramatic. When words came, his voice boomed, displaying waning patience. “So you want to know what happened.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Matrinka’s voice sounded like a whisper in the wake of the king’s.

  “I’ll tell you what happened.” The king’s fists clamped to the edges of his hand rests, blood draining from every finger. Though small, the violence of the movement drew Kevral’s notice at once. “The Easterner you call Tae was getting the worst of a battle our informant says he caused by trying to steal. My too kindhearted son and his entourage attempted to rescue Tae, and the nasty little bastard slaughtered my son. The crown prince of Pudar! Killed trying to rescue a filthy, disgusting, thieving, little street rat. Now!” The king’s voice became a shout. “All I want from you is the names of his family.”

  Though unaccustomed to court, Kevral knew they had prolonged the audience past the king’s patience. Anything more might cause consequences they could not afford to pay. Surely Matrinka would end the discussion here.

  Matrinka maintained all the calm dignity the king had lost. “Sire, forgive my persistence, please, and bear with my need. What does Tae say in his defense?”

  The king’s lips pursed, but slight motions of his jaw revealed that he ground his teeth. He glared at Matrinka, as if deciding whether to butcher her for steaks or just boil her alive. “Some nonsense about chanting children on rooftops and confusion caused by a blow to the head. He never denied murdering Prince Severin, and he held the dagger wet with my son’s blood. Why then . . .” Blue eyes fixed the princess in place. “Why then are you the only one who won’t accept the truth?”

  Everyone in the room waited for Matrinka’s answer. Although some still touched their weapons, no guard seemed poised for imminent battle. Kevral suspected that had more to do with her gender than any particular belief that the king would free them unopposed.

  Matrinka’s gentle speech seemed misplaced. “Sire, do you truly wish an answer to that question? Or was it purely rhetorical?”

  Pudar’s king drew in an enormous breath, loosing it slowly through flared nostrils. “An explanation followed by a recitation of relations. Then we are finished here.”

  “Very well.” Matrinka did not flinch, composed despite the king’s intensive scrutiny. “Sire, with all possible respect, the event you described has flaws. Why would a prince with an entourage draw near enough to a brawl to fall victim to it? Why would a man slaughter his rescuer? Why would anyone who cared enough for his life to fight for it then kill the prince of Pudar, knowing the obvious penalty? Why would any man kill the prince of Pudar on a whim? If he planned the assassination, doesn’t it make sense that those men who attacked him, whose noise drew the prince, must have been a part of the conspiracy? But mostly, I know Tae well enough to believe he would never do such a thing, even in a state of confusion, pain, and fear.”

  The king stared impassively throughout Matrinka’s speech, though Kevral doubted he listened to a single word. The litany did move Kevral to thought. The queries held significance, whether Tae or another was the killer.

  “Are you finished?” the king said, manner and tone stiff.

  “For the moment, Sire,” Matrinka said. “I would need more information to continue.”

  “Good,” the king knotted his fingers in his beard, settling back into the chair. “Now that I have suffered through your rationalizations, your defenses, and your insolence, I return to my question. Give me the names of Tae Kahn’s relations, then my guards will escort you home.”

  “As far as I know, Sire,” Matrinka started carefully, back-stepping probably without realizing she was doing it. “Tae has no relations. We believe he’s an orphan.”

  “What?” The king bolted upright in his chair. The guards tensed visibly.

  “We believe he’s an orphan, Sire,” Matrinka repeated.

  “Liar!” the king of Pudar shouted. “You’re still protecting him, you witch!”

  Matrinka blinked several times in rapid succession, obviously taken aback by the king’s behavior.

  The king waved a hand in dismissal. “Take her to the dungeon until she chooses to talk.”

  The guards closed in, attentive to their king’s command yet approaching as though they expected no trouble from these two. Five interposed themselves between the women and their king, and an equal number retreated toward the door. Kevral had eyes only for the two who headed for Matrinka.

  Matrinka cringed, loosing a sharp, short noise of fear. Kevral leaped between her and the oncoming threat. As one guard reached for her, Kevral seized the opening. Her right hand darted to his sword hilt, and the blade rattled from its sheath. The guard grabbed for it, too late. Sharpened steel sliced his palm, and he recoiled beyond sword range. A wild, arcing cut sent the other skittering to safety as well, drawing his sword as he moved.

  The five in front of the king closed to a tight wall of defense, weapons springing free at once. Kevral charged her other opponent, sword carving the haft from his hands. His blade flew free. The guard retreated, but Kevral never slowed. Trained to respect steel, she caught the hilt effortlessly in her other hand. The instant it settled into her grip, she sliced a savage web of silver through the air, holding all comers at bay and keeping Matrinka pinned against the wall behind her. Anyone who attempted to take the princess faced deadly, flying steel without discernible pattern. Yet Kevral knew she could not keep up this undirected defense for long. Eventually, even a Renshai must tire.

  The first of the disarmed guards crouched, rage purpling his features. The second glanced from hand to Renshai in disbelief. The king said something she did not understand, and one guard broke away from the group at the door, charging Kevral with a bull bellow.

  Matrinka screamed. Kevral let the guard come to her, braced for his onslaught. His sword circled, then whipped suddenly down. She deflected it with a deft parry, then hammered his hand with the flat of the other blade. The sword fell from his grasp. Attempting to stop, he skidded into the wall. Dexterously, he bounced and twisted aside, but not before opening his head to Kevral’s offense. Instead of pressing her advantage, Kevral snatched up his sword a finger’s breadth from the floor. Better to win this fight by guile than slaughter. Killing gua
rds in a king’s court meant sure execution. Little good came of battling herself, and her charge, free of one room into waiting ranks of soldiers and an angered town. If it came to death strokes, she would deal them; but not before she exhausted other means of escaping first.

  Kevral hefted her three swords, two in the left hand and one in the right. Deliberately, she tossed one to the floor and stomped on it, a gesture of eminent disdain probably lost on Pudarians. She went still, eyes measuring the king’s guards, waiting for the next move.

  For several moments, they remained in stalemate. Five protected their king, four held the door, and the disarmed three stood in wary defense. The urge to battle her way through burned strongly in Kevral. She might even manage to slash a path out of the castle and the city of Pudar. Yet she had other lives than her own to consider. The moment she lost Matrinka, she lost the battle.

  The king studied the situation through squinted eyes and beetled brows. “Get bowmen,” he finally said.

  The tactic seemed an obvious choice. Once the guards had a long-range weapon, they could stand back and pepper Kevral with arrows. One of the guards reached for the knob, prepared to follow his king’s bidding.

  Kevral could not afford to let him go unchallenged. “Your bowmen will find a roomful of corpses. I won’t stand still and wait.” She flicked one sword into an offensive position with an agility and skill the king’s guards could not hope to match.

  “Wait,” Pudar’s king commanded his guard.

  The man obeyed, hand still on the latch.

  The king looked at Kevral. “What’s your name?”

  “Kevral,” she answered, without tacking on her lineage and tribal name.

  “You’re Renshai, aren’t you?”