Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Tae waited, attentive to sound from the other room. Assisting Lador would accomplish little. Tae did not have the strength to hoist the locksmith the necessary six to seven stories, nor to lower him when the time came to slither through the window. It occurred to Tae only now that he had lost track of Mior in his need to study the layout, but he knew the cat could look out for herself. He only hoped she would do nothing to awaken the bed’s occupant. So far, she had remained quiet except when drawing his attention to some matter he should attend. She had an eerie intelligence about her he could not explain, though he had noticed it long ago. Her comings and goings in the forest, when he traveled otherwise alone, had seemed uncatlike as well.

  The tugs on the rope intensified, then Lador’s grimy head poked through the hole. He immediately glanced around the room. Seeing only Tae, he relaxed. Tae drew the rope to the edge of the hole, and Lador slid free without difficulty.

  Tae made a gesture for silence, then pointed through the doorway. Carefully, Lador headed in the indicated direction and peered through the door, assessing the situation as Tae had already done. Tae hauled the secured boot back to the surface. He wound the makeshift rope around the boot, following its course into the bedroom with every sense alert. He found Mior perched on the window sill while Lador studied the outside, just as Tae had done moments before. Tae untied the breeks from the furniture, then looked at the books again. Lador would need a few moments to decide strategy.

  Tae quickly found the book he wanted. The title read, The Deathseeker, Colbey Calistinsson: His Time as Pudar’s General. Little more than a dozen pages, it could be easily concealed. Tae hefted it, just as Lador turned.

  “Take it,” the locksmith whispered.

  Caught, Tae flushed and returned the volume. He glanced at the figure on the bed, but he had not stirred. “That’d be stealing,” he returned carefully.

  Lador snorted. “So they’ll cut off your hand after they hang you. Take the damned thing and let’s go. You can always put it back later.”

  The argument held no more logic than the suggestion that he could come back at another time and steal it. Still, it convinced Tae. Snatching up the book, he headed toward the window. While they examined the arrangement and movements of the watch, Tae pocketed the wild, blond figure on horseback that represented Colbey in the battle scene and tucked it into his pocket. If he lost the first, he would still have the other.

  Lador took no notice of the second theft. After close scrutiny of the courtyard, he made a silent gesture toward the room into which they had first emerged. There, they could plot without so much concern about noise.

  Tae did not delude himself as he followed Lador toward the smaller room. Climbing down six stories, even with their knotted chain of britches, would not prove easy. That task barely compared with their need to slip from Pudar’s courtyard and between the sentries undetected. Still, the first rush of joy touched Tae’s senses. Whatever the hardships, he convinced himself they would make it.

  Chapter 29

  Rantire’s Advice

  No matter the methods of our enemy, the Renshai will live or die with their honor intact.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Dh’arlo’mé negotiated the crafted hallways of the imprisonment building with none of the distracting sensations of discomfort and claustrophobia that used to assail him inside manlike artificial constructs. Centuries of sleeping and playing beneath the bulbous trees of Alfheim had ill-prepared elves for the enclosed life humans chose. It never ceased to amaze him that a species so fixated on packing itself into buildings would use lock-up as a form of punishment.

  As he walked, Dh’arlo’mé smiled. At the meeting a few moments ago, his scouts had returned only good news. In Béarn, the political structure tottered on the brink of collapse. The elves had withdrawn long ago, spectators without need for active intervention. They had learned much about human nature. Given the slightest of reasons, mankind would annihilate itself with only a few well-placed maneuvers on the part of the elves. Soon, Béarn would fall at the hands of its own citizenry.

  Using Béarn as an example, the elves had already stirred political unrest in the other large kingdoms. A handful of thefts and murders had spurred the various Northern tribes into wars they had, apparently, fought off and on for centuries. According to Xyxthris, border skirmishes had kept the reclusive Northern warriors honed for as far back as history recorded. The elves had had little difficulty inciting all of the tribes simultaneously. In the East, the elves chipped at the ruling structure in the largest of its nearly endless parade of cities, especially the high kingdom of Stalmize. Recently, a breakthrough into the criminal element had uncovered a broad, branching hierarchy of men like Xyxthris who would help weaken the Eastlands’ infrastructure . . . for a price.

  As Dh’arlo’mé traveled deeper into the dank darkness, he passed a few other elves in the corridors. He nodded at each as he passed, pretending not to notice the stares and whispers that followed his passage. He took mental note of all of the ones he passed, however. Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor’s silly band of fools. Dh’arlo’mé paid the elves’ oldest and his followers little heed. They had no momentum or authority, and the power structure of the elves, as well as their own chosen methods, would never allow them to gain it. For now, they were nothing more than nuisance. Should they become more than that, he would find a means to deal with them that did not compromise the elves’ population. Imprisonment or banishment until natural death would have to take precedence over the instinctive urge to execute traitors. Their recycled souls would prove invaluable.

  Dh’arlo’mé continued through the hallways between cells, his red-blond hair streaming in a wild mane behind him. Only two developments concerned him now. First, he had not yet heard back from the group sent to dispatch Béarn’s last heir in Dunwoods. He attributed the delay to elfin difficulty judging time, although he no longer suffered from that malady. Still, their absence worried him, bringing him to the second of his concerns.

  At first, they had considered Xyxthris the godsend he appeared to be. Yet, eventually, Dh’arlo’mé began to wonder how far to trust the Béarnian prince. Admittedly, he had brought invaluable information, without which the elves might have progressed no further in the next three hundred years than in the past. But one who chose to stand against his people could not be trusted to stand with their enemies either. Even should his intentions remain pure, he might have flaws in judgment.

  The concept of loyalty had little practical application to elves, and Dh’arlo’mé credited his time on man’s world as a sorceress’ apprentice for the understanding. Wisdom, however, they understood. Though clearly not stupid, Xyxthris might have lapses in common sense. No one could possibly prove correct all of the time, and Dh’arlo’mé dared not plan the future of elfinkind solely on the advice of a single, human traitor. He needed the opinion of another human. He had only Rantire to consult. She had not proved a cooperative source in the past, but times had changed. They had ceased torturing her, and she had befriended many of the elves. He doubted she would give away anything that might harm mankind, but her suggestions to the contrary might prove equally useful. Especially when coupled with Xyxthris’ own.

  Dh’arlo’mé rounded the final corner and started toward the captive’s cell. He had another reason for consulting Rantire about Béarn’s last possible heir. Although the elves had killed others of the high king’s line without compunction, something felt wrong about the outright murder of this one. It was not the killing of an innocent that bothered him; there was no such thing as an innocent human. Something inexplicable niggled at his consciousness, a concept he once knew but could now no longer pin down. And Xyxthris seemed so adamant about seeing to the last heir’s death as soon as possible. His rage seemed almost a separate, living entity. No one acting with so much malice could do so with good judgment.

  As Dh’arlo’mé approached, Rantire glanced up. She studied him as he came, eventually recognizing him. Her gaze
turned suspicious. She crouched, backing deeper into her cell.

  Dh’arlo’mé continued forward, making neither threatening nor peaceful gestures. Either would inflame her understandable mistrust. He stopped in front of her cell.

  Rantire watched him, unspeaking.

  Dh’arlo’mé cleared his throat, then chose the common trading tongue. “Hello,” he said carefully, trying to sound matter-of-fact rather than gloating.

  “Hello,” Rantire returned without warmth. Her time with elves of kinder persuasion had apparently made her more open to talk. Captain’s followers had done something in the elves’ favor. “Are you going to hurt me again?”

  Dh’arlo’mé felt no remorse but thought it better to act as if he did. He lowered his head, wincing slightly, a perfect copy of human discomfort. “I’m sorry about that,” he lied. “I truly am. We still haven’t figured out the best way to handle humans, I’m afraid.”

  Rantire grew bolder as the threat of punishment disappeared. “Well, I can tell you pain doesn’t work.”

  “We see that.”

  “Cooperation works much better.”

  “Aah.” Dh’arlo’mé tried to sound interested and change the subject at the same time. “We both know it’s more complicated than that.”

  Rantire shrugged. “What do you want, Dh’arlo’mé?”

  “Believe it or not, I came for advice.”

  Rantire looked skeptical.

  “Here’s what we have. . . .” Dh’arlo’mé detailed the situation of the Béarnian heirs and their staff-test, gauging Rantire’s reaction. He could tell she tried to mask her emotions, with some success. But the immensity of human expression, compared to elfin subtlety, allowed him to read her alarm. He did not know whether her concern stemmed from the story he told or from worry that the elves had acquired such knowledge. Whichever its source, her beetled brows, crinkled forehead, and restlessness gave her away.

  Dh’arlo’mé’s long explanation faded into a silence admirably lengthy for a human. Finally, Rantire spoke. “You can’t harm the heir to Béarn’s throne.”

  Dh’arlo’mé had planned to ask exactly that, and the direct answer, prior to the question, startled him. He could only guess whether she anticipated his need or simply addressed the issue she found most crucial. “I believe you are mistaken. We can harm the heir to Béarn’s throne.” He said it mostly to test her, drawing out superstition or religious belief that might state the contrary.

  Rantire rose and took a step toward him. She no longer attempted to hide her concern. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of it. I’m saying you don’t dare do it.”

  Still anticipating human myth, Dh’arlo’mé allowed a tiny smile. “Why not?”

  “Because it would mean the end of all life, including the elves.”

  The grin wilted. Dh’arlo’mé had not expected anything like this response. “How so?”

  “The king of Béarn is the central focus of the universe’s balance.” Rantire spoke with an elegance she usually lacked. This point, it seemed, had been deeply ingrained and long taught. “The staff-test is a creation of Odin that keeps all of our worlds from collapsing to ruin. Without the proper heir, Béarn would die, it’s true. But so would our world and every being on it. The destruction would spiral outward, gaining power as well as size. Eventually, everything on every world would plunge into utter annihilation.”

  “You seem convinced.”

  “It’s the truth,” Rantire asserted.

  Dh’arlo’mé had little experience judging sincerity, but Rantire certainly seemed earnest about her pleas. She believed she did not lie, but she was still limited by her own understanding. “Can you prove it?”

  Rantire sighed, gaze still intense. “No more than I can prove the sun will rise. I can’t prove a pregnant cow will give birth to a calf, but I know these to be true. You can test whether what I said comes to pass, but only after you’ve set irreversible destruction in motion. If you kill the heir to Béarn, it will happen.”

  Bluff, truth, or superstition. Dh’arlo’mé could only speculate. “What do you suggest we do?”

  Rantire returned to her defensive position. “I suggest you work with mankind, but I know you won’t. Surely, even you see the need to help humans return the rightful center of balance. Even if you won’t do that, I beg you not to harm Béarn’s heir. Though it pains me to even suggest such a thing, he’s worth more to you alive than dead. Even if I’m wrong . . .” She could not help adding, “. . . and I’m not. But even if I were wrong, humans believe what I’ve told you.” She winced and bit her lip, lapsing into another long silence. Obviously, she hated what she was about to say, yet saw it as the lesser of evils. “If you capture the heir alive, you can barter with him. He’d be priceless. Dead, he’s worth nothing, and mark my words. Such a murder would herald another Great Destruction that would spare neither elves nor mankind.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation.” Dh’arlo’mé executed a graceful half bow. “I’ll heed your words with the seriousness they deserve, and you may well share this prison with Béarn’s heir.” He did not add that he would need to reach his followers with his decision prior to the murder they had already been charged to commit. “You speak well, and I hope I can count on your advice in the future.”

  Rantire nodded warily, and a mild spark kindled in her gray eyes.

  Dh’arlo’mé headed away, strides typically unhurried. She had proven as useful as he had hoped. And, though she did not know it, she had bought herself a few more months of life.

  * * *

  A pounding on the door awakened Kevral with a jolt that sent her heart racing and her every muscle tensing for action. She sprang from her pallet, hands balled around the two swords she wore even when sleeping. Ra-khir skittered to his feet, tugging his britches and shirt into place. Matrinka struggled groggily to sit up; until recently, her life had never depended on sharp wits and quick responses. Even Darris rolled into a position to rise.

  The wild knocking rumbled through the room a second time. Kevral strode for the main chamber without bothering to straighten her hair or clothing. Ra-khir hurried after her. He did not pause to arm himself. Guests, no matter how rude and untimely, did not deserve such a greeting. Matrinka’s solid footfalls followed him, but Kevral did not turn to watch her charge. As the third attack on their door resumed, she wrenched it open suddenly.

  A guard in Pudar’s uniform stumbled, awkwardly dropping his hand as the wood he had been battering disappeared beneath his fist. Seven more hovered behind him. Moonlight funneled into the cottage, broken by the misshapen, black lumps of their shadows. The broad-faced guard with widely spaced eyes responsible for the banging stepped boldly into the cottage.

  Kevral did not budge, so his movement brought him uncomfortably close to her, a situation that clearly irritated them both. Ra-khir and Matrinka took positions beside and behind her.

  “Where is he?” the guard demanded, glowering down at Kevral. He attempted another forward step. When Kevral did not move, he tried a diagonal, only to find her in his way again. The other guards hung back. A muscular brunet near the front pursed his lips with obvious disapproval. Whether directed against his companion or Kevral, she could not yet tell.

  “Where is who?” Kevral shot back, noting how close his hands were to his sword hilt.

  “The assassin. The murderer of our beloved crown prince.”

  “Tae?” Ra-khir supplied. “We thought you had him in custody.”

  Darris bumped something in the bedroom, and it squeaked and thumped back into place.

  The guard pointed toward the noise. “He’s in there. Get out of my way.” He attempted to shove past Kevral, his superior strength and size creating an opening. Even as he pushed through, Kevral’s foot shot abruptly into his way. He tripped, sprawling to the cottage floor.

  The brunet in the doorway barely managed to choke back a laugh. The other guards waited uncertainly for a command.

  The guard on the fl
oor scrambled to his feet, features reddening and fist blanching on his hilt. “You stupid little bitch.” His hand moved suddenly upward.

  Even as his sword began to clear its sheath, Kevral drew and cut. The tip of her blade slammed against his crosspiece hard enough to break his grip. As he stared at his tingling hand, Kevral’s sword smacked his hilt again, this time returning the blade to its sheath. Completing the arc, she resheathed her own sword and looked at him coolly.

  The brunet finally intervened. “What my annoying companion meant to say was, ‘Good evening, good people. We’re sorry to disturb you. Can we talk?’”

  The other six guards said nothing, constant movement revealing restlessness. No one else attempted to draw a weapon. The homely guard inside the cottage turned his glare from Kevral to the brunet. “If you’d backed me as I asked—”

  “There’d have been bloodshed. Yours first.” The calmer guard turned to Ra-khir and asked, “Would it be all right if we talked?”

  “Certainly.” Ra-khir indicated the scattered, mismatched furniture. “As long as there’re no further threats in our home.”

  The first guard continued to scowl while the second flushed with genuine embarrassment. “Please accept my apologies. Captain Harltan’s promotion was recent, and his methods have always been unorthodox. He does love Pudar and means well. He just doesn’t always remember his manners.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Captain DeShane.”

  The one called Harltan grumbled something unintelligible. Kevral knew little about guards’ hierarchies. In Béarn, only one soldier held the title of captain, but the great trading city required a larger army. It only made sense to have more than one commander, and “captain” might have a different meaning here as well. Kevral guessed Harltan had insisted on leading this mission, and DeShane had allowed it rather than bothering to fight, at least until Harltan’s actions had forced the issue.