Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Kevral doubted lying would gain anything. No matter her answer, the king had already recognized the truth. “Yes. I am.”

  The king of Pudar looked doubtfully at Matrinka hunkered down behind Kevral, then back at the Renshai. Kevral held her breath, hoping he would not make the connection. She did not know how widespread details of Renshai had become, in particular their ties to Béarn’s royalty.

  “You’re a skilled warrior,” the king said, his own thick musculature revealing experience with warfare, or at least with training for it.

  Kevral accepted the king’s words without comment or relaxation of her stance. She took no compliment from them; he simply voiced the obvious. “I’m Renshai,” she affirmed.

  “So you are.” The king glanced away from Kevral and to the first of his disarmed soldiers. The man looked away, cheeks flaming. “You could have killed some of my men, but you spared them. For that, you and your friend may leave my courtroom in peace.”

  Guards shifted, stiffened, and went wide-eyed at the king’s mercy. Kevral lowered the swords.

  “I ask only that you answer my original question honestly and that you not leave Pudar until after the execution of the assassin’s sentence.”

  Kevral drew to her full height, meager in the midst of Pudarian guardsmen and a Béarnide woman. Although her swords remained in an inoffensive position, she could defend herself, if need be, more quickly than any of these guards could attack. “To the best of my knowledge, Tae is an orphan. As to the second, that all depends on how quickly the sentence is executed.”

  A smile crawled onto the king’s features, never fully developed. “I won’t delay punishment to keep you here, if that’s what you fear. Two days hence, Tae Kahn no father’s son will be publicly drawn and quartered for the crime of murdering the crown prince of Pudar.” He gestured the guards aside as the implication of the words seeped into Kevral’s mind. “Is that soon enough?”

  “Soon enough,” Kevral repeated, discomfort making her voice rasp.

  The guardsmen opened a pathway to the door.

  “Dismissed,” the king said.

  Kevral herded a crying Matrinka toward the exit, alert to trickery from the guards. No one tried to block their escape.

  Chapter 28

  Uniting Predators

  Renshai do not kill the helpless, no matter who they are. Unless your battle skill took him down, it’s not your right to kill him.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Without the twice daily feedings, Tae Kahn could not have kept track of time. The first week had dragged like thirty, and the stench of the prison and its occupants grew familiar. His ceaseless patter became routine to them as well. From the morning after his conversation with Lador, he struggled to draw those accustomed to trusting no one into a scraggly, suspicious brotherhood, rallying them around the cause of freedom. The street punk, Peter, joined them immediately, the certainty of his death if he remained alone and his experience with gangs allowing him to take a chance where others dared not. Three to four, they stood against those too paranoid to form alliances with strangers. Three to four they remained well into the following day when Danamelio fell sway to Tae’s promises, dragging the aptly named Flea into their ranks. The nondescript thief, Tadda, joined soon after. Stick remained the only holdout, his pale eyes cold and dangerous and his silence adding to the aura of violence he radiated. Tae smiled. His plan could work with or without the towering murderer.

  Tae explained the details of his idea, working with the men individually. The more he stressed their specific tasks, the more comfortable each seemed to feel with the idea of becoming part of a group. Though the prospect of escape linked them, the association remained loose and awkward. Tae would have liked the time to unite them fully, but his own fate seemed too tenuous. His life, he knew, was measured in days or hours. Each day brought him one step nearer to an agonizing death whose details he tried not to fathom. But although he could keep his mind busy during the day, sleep brought nightmares that kept all rest at bay. Dull knives and cramping poisons that tore away at his insides filled his dreams. Amputations and gutting possessed his mind’s eye, and red streaks at the corners of his vision became a symbol of his own blood. Any moment his mind stole from directed thought became a desperate punishment he fought to escape. Undirected pain twitched sharply through him at intervals. Whenever he stiffened in avoidance, he reawakened the throbbing bruises of his beating.

  When the trio of guards brought dinner that night, the prisoners obediently moved to the back of the cell, away from the threat of crossbow and halberd. All except Tadda. The sandy-haired thief lay near the bars, hands clamped to his abdomen and his expression suffering. He fluttered as the guards approached, a feeble attempt to retreat with the others that met with little success.

  The crossbowman made an insincere noise of sympathy. “Thieving bastard’s finally snottered.”

  “Never thought he’d make it this long,” the halberdier muttered.

  The last of the guards dumped foodstuffs through the feeding door, much of which landed on Tadda where he lay. Again, he made a valiant effort to rise before sinking back down to the floor. The guard ignored him, shoving the water trough through its slot with a foot. That finished, the Pudarians marched from the prison room.

  The prisoners tensed, accustomed to the desperate, scrambling chaos that always followed feeding yet needing to know how Tadda had fared first. The thief rose, scraps of food tumbling from his clothes, then shook his head mournfully. “No keys.”

  Danamelio growled. Peter made a sharp noise of frustration. The prisoners dove for the food, clawing for scraps in a frenzy. Excitement usurped Tae’s hunger, and he did not participate, though he had eaten little since his imprisonment. Instead, he stole the first drink from the trough while the others tussled over rations scarcely fit for the king’s dogs. Observation had taught him much, and the differences between this struggle and the ones before did not escape him. They fought less and forgave more. Even scrawny Peter managed to hoard some pieces without incurring the wrath of Danamelio. Tae concealed a smile. His leadership had created the first vague stirrings of loyalty and friendship, but he would not delude himself. These animals in human shape had a long way to go toward learning trust.

  Worries descended upon Tae that night, as always. This time a new concern came to the fore. Without gaining the keys to at least the upper two locks, his plan would flop before it got started. He calmed himself with the realization that he had nothing to fear. If his failure upset his cell mates, they would kill him; but they did not have access to the torture devices of a kingdom. Nothing they did to him could prove any worse than the punishment to which the king would sentence him. He had only one thing to fear: that the prisoners would give up on him too soon and a working strategy might crumble because of lack of faith rather than of skill.

  Night crawled into morning and breakfast. Again the guards found Tadda near the bars, still moving but, apparently, even weaker than the night before. They paid him little attention, dumping scraps and recovering the water trough with routine efficiency. When they left, Tae could feel every prisoner holding his breath. Even the Stick was affected, blue eyes glancing at Tadda even while he feigned disinterest.

  The thief shook his head sadly. “No keys on that one either.”

  As if it were a signal, the riot of feeding followed amid grumbling and half-whispered comments about Tae’s madness. Tae did not eat, instead collapsing into his space, back pressed to the bars and the stone wall seeping cold through the back of his tattered shirt. They might give his tactics one more chance but two seemed unlikely. His life hinged on an event that had now failed twice. Every bruise hammered and gnawed at him, a chorus of pain that shattered his thoughts into a desperate swirl of uncertainty. He scarcely noticed when Lador sat beside him, bolting food with a hastiness that didn’t allow speech for several moments.

  At last, the locksmith swallowed the last bite. He leaned against the bars, hands
clasped behind his head and his position too close to Tae to be accidentally chosen. “When I’m out of here, the first thing I’m going to do is buy, beg, steal, or borrow enough food to make my stomach explode. That one meal would be worth dying for.”

  Tae sighed deeply, the point moot.

  “What are you going to do?” Lador fixed his green-gray gaze on Tae.

  Tae dodged the locksmith’s stare. He spoke softly, hoping no one but Lador could hear him beneath the crunch and slurp of eating. “We may not get the keys.”

  Lador shrugged, undaunted. “So.”

  The conclusion seemed so obvious, Tae saw no reason to voice it. He did anyway, hoping for the very solace he had interrupted for all of the others. “We may not get out.”

  “We’ll get out,” Lador said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You brought together the nastiest loners in the kingdom. Your idea of combining skills was nothing less than brilliant. Who would ever have thought of doing such a thing?”

  My father. Tae did not speak aloud, hating the need to credit Weile Kahn with saving the life that, until now, he seemed bent on destroying. Tae grudgingly admitted that the crime lord’s tactics seemed to have worked, at least on this occasion, but he could not escape believing that he could have learned more from gentle example than repeated trials by fire. If I ever have a son or daughter of my own . . . The idea seemed impossible and raised a smile where Lador’s attempts to comfort had failed. . . . he or she will never suffer so long as I can prevent it. “Anyone could have come up with such a plan.”

  Lador snorted. “Clearly not. Else none of us would have been here for years. If you can plot in such incredible detail, if you can bond these worthless bastards in a cause, you’re a leader without equal. Given the right bloodline, you could have made a powerful king.”

  Or a criminal lord. Tae bit his lip in anger, the idea of following in his father’s footsteps abhorrent. Since birth, Weile Kahn had manipulated his son, and it seemed no amount of trying would sway him from his birthright. Tae loved his father . . . and hated him, knew awe and respect for his accomplishments even as he reviled them. What have you turned me into?

  Lador tossed back snarled blond curls. “Lack of keys won’t stop us, you know. Given some time and the help of the others, I can file my creation into shape for each lock.”

  Tae frowned, considering. It might work, but it all hinged on the amount of time necessary for Lador to work. All three locks would have to open in a space of time between guard visits. If they found one, or even two, sprung, they would not wait for Lador to handle the third. The cooperation necessary to achieve such a goal would likely strain the tenuous alliance past the point of breaking. In any case, it seemed unlikely that any of this would happen before Tae’s execution. That he had made it eight days surprised him. The pang that struck Tae at the thought went beyond the sorrow of his own death. To his surprise, he wanted the plan to succeed whether or not he remained to see it do so. He took pride in a leadership skill he had never sought or wanted, and the accomplishments of this ragtag group of would-be fugitives would become his immortality. “If I’m taken away before you work your craft, would you help see it happens?”

  “The escape?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course.” Lador shook his head as if Tae had asked the stupidest question in the world. “Do you think we’ll no longer want to escape if you’re not with us? I mean you’re pleasant enough company, but freedom’s a pretty big draw.”

  Despair retreated, and Tae managed a smile at last.

  * * *

  The evening meal lay on the floor, sickly hunks of gristle, partially chewed meat, and vegetable peels littering the cell. Tae closed his eyes, whispering his first prayer in years to Sheriva, the Eastlands’ only god. The guards’ footsteps clicked against stone, then gradually faded into obscurity. Tae opened his eyes. Tadda stood, shaking offal from the last scraps of his clothing, his expression hard and unrevealing.

  Without sparkle or flicker, the thief’s brown eyes gazed into Tae’s darker ones. They seemed dead, a stark contrast to the first hint of a smile twitching the corners of his lips upward. The grin grew into an openmouthed smirk. His hand rose. The guard’s ring, holding six keys, dangled from his fingers.

  Every prisoner remained rooted in place, staring, the daily struggle for the food that spelled survival forgotten in an instant of triumph. No one made a sound. They would not risk whoops or hollers that might bring the guards back to investigate. Much remained of Tae Kahn’s plan, and they had only the time it took the guardsman to notice his missing keys.

  “Go,” Tae said, giving Tadda an encouraging shove. The thief waited while Danamelio moved into position against the bars. Tadda scrambled up the huge man’s back, using folds of skin as toeholds, his bare feet no burden to the massive molester. Once perched on Danamelio’s neck, Tadda waited for the large man to move into position.

  Danamelio drew as close to the bars as he could, and Tadda reached for the highest lock. Everyone, except the Stick, scrambled to a watching position. Tae’s heart beat a wild cadence as he watched Tadda’s hand fall short. The thief stretched, moving into a precarious standing position on Danamelio’s shoulders and maintaining balance with a hand winched around the bars. His fingers touched the lock. He fumbled with the keys, unable to maneuver any of them into the hole. “A little to the left,” Tadda instructed Danamelio, trying to gain precious space. When that failed, he tried other directions. “Forward as far as you go.”

  Limited by his gut, Danamelio grunted. The bars pressed into the flesh of his face and abdomen. “That’s it. I don’t go no farther.”

  Tadda hissed in frustration. He twisted, wriggled, and maneuvered; but the key could not quite reach the lock.

  Finally, Danamelio had enough. “Get down. I’m not holding you any longer.”

  Tadda did not hesitate a second. He dropped back to a sitting position on the huge man’s shoulders then scrambled to the ground. He looked at Tae for direction.

  Slowly, Tae rolled his eyes to the only answer, dreading the need to rely on the one part of the plan that had, thus far, proved unattainable.

  The Stick grinned, turning Tae a look that seemed to suggest he never should have believed they could work an elaborate scheme without him. “I’ll do it,” he said, his voice thick and grating after years of self-imposed silence.

  Tae nodded, grinning back at the tall, narrow murderer as Danamelio moved aside. Tadda scurried into position on the Stick. Higher altitude and nearness to the bars gave him the leverage he needed. Three of the keys entered and left the lock. The fourth turned with a satisfying click. “Yes,” Tadda whispered, then jerked the key free. The Stick lowered him to the ground.

  The Flea toddled forward now, accepting the keys from Tadda with a gentle squeeze that came as close to conspiratorial congratulations as any of them seemed capable. The Flea sucked in a deep breath, then released it fully. Emptied of air, he winched between the bars. One leg and arm slipped through easily, followed by a narrow hip and his side. His head proved his undoing, too wide to fit through the opening. This surprised no one. Surely, the Flea had attempted escape in this manner before, and something had to have foiled him. He stretched as far as possible, arm wrapped around the bars and the keys clutched tightly in his grip. Blindly, he fumbled around the barriers that hid the middle lock from sight.

  Breath held, unable to see the Flea’s work, Tae waited for a time that seemed endless. His eyes burned, blurring the scene to a liquid plain. The Flea’s face reddened as he strained at his task, careful to maintain his grip on the ring. Should he drop the keys beyond his reach, no one could save them from the guards’ wrath. Their lives hung on the competence of the little man’s grip.

  A click echoed through the confines. Tuned for the sound of dropping keys, Tae jumped and felt the others stiffen around him. Then the Flea pulled back, sweat dripping from his delicate features and the keys mashed into a palm
that bore an impression of the ring. He smiled, a spark of light in his eyes. For a few moments seven lives had hinged upon him, and he had won them a third victory. Never again, Tae guessed, would men like Danamelio find this one an easy target.

  Lador took the keys in hand next, picking the correct one for the bottom lock in an instant’s glance. The last lock fell open. Danamelio slammed the door wide with his shoulder, bellowing victory at a volume that made them all cringe. “This way,” Peter shouted, trying to take the lead. But Danamelio had already crashed into the only corridor, charging like a mad thing down the single road to freedom. The others followed in a desperate scramble.

  Tae froze, forcing coherent thought through the jumble of excitement that drove him to become a part of the running pack. Words spoken by Kevral swirled through his mind: “Nothing done in panic is done right.” Exhilaration, not fear, spurred these prisoners caged too long, but the analogy remained. When he wasted a moment in thought, he realized what his focus on the breakout and freedom did not allow him to consider before. Even if Peter recalled the route out, they would have to negotiate whatever pitfalls Pudarian security placed in their way. At the least, that would consist of locked gates and armed guards. Danamelio’s bulk and power would help; but, weaponless, the armed sentries would surely overpower them. Tae shook his head.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, shouts wafted down the hallway, followed by the thud of steel against flesh. A pain cry in a deep voice echoed down the corridor. Tae cringed, awakened to action by the ghostly sound. More shouts followed, a haunting mingle of desperation and determination. Footsteps pattered back toward Tae.

  Tae’s gaze swung left and right, but the only corridor lay ahead. He flinched against the wall, attempting to hide in the dank darkness, irregularities biting into his back. Lador skidded back into the chamber. Blond hair fanned around his face, and fear glared out through his gray-green eyes. “Tae?” he hissed.