Matrinka’s concern for Ra-khir spared nothing for Darris. She knew his chest wound had fully healed. His difficulties came from a process the master healer had called “deconditioning,” too much time spent in a sickbed. The run might tax him, but it would not harm him; in fact, the exercise might do his underworked muscles some good.
*T.M. here,* Mior sent. The concepts of right and left confounded Mior, so they had created a code. “T.M.,” or “toward Mior,” told Matrinka to turn in the direction of the hand holding the cat. “A.M.” meant “away from Mior.”
Matrinka paused, nearly missing the thready alleyway. *Here?*
*Yes, here. Hurry.*
Darris drew up, panting. “Don’t you think we should grab a guard or two first?”
“Even if we could spare the time, they wouldn’t help us.” Matrinka gripped Darris’ arm and hauled him into the alley, her mind filled with a story she had once heard in Béarn’s courtroom. A Pudarian had come, promising to keep the streets safe for money. He had spoken of the scourge of gangs in Pudar, described the tiny transgressions such rabble punished with bloodshed. As a mob and spurred by the wrong leaders, their private bond of brotherhood allowed them to butcher innocents without conscience. Matrinka kept moving, forcing the memory from her mind. Surely, the Pudarian had exaggerated for the purpose of gaining her grandfather’s attention. Similar gangs had never taken root in Béarn. “We may already be too late.”
A wall appeared suddenly in front of Matrinka. She skidded to a stop, an abrupt side step all that saved her from a collision. *Now where?*
*Down and through. There’s an opening.* Mior added suddenly, *Be careful. Do you want me to go in first?*
*No, go get help.* Matrinka cast about for the entrance, finding nothing with her eyes. She ran her hands along the wall, only then identifying it as wood. *Where is it?*
*Here.* Mior squeezed from Matrinka’s grip and guided her hand to the opening. *Wouldn’t it be better if I stayed here and you got help? I can’t talk.*
*Ra-khir may need my ability to talk. A moment could spell the difference between life and death.* Without further discussion, Matrinka wriggled into the opening, not knowing whether Mior obeyed her instructions and doubting it mattered.
The fit proved tight, the opening designed for Pudarian youngsters. Matrinka did not hesitate. She had not reached her full growth as Ra-khir had. Anything the muscular Erythanian could fit through, she and Darris could also.
The short tunnel spilled into a room. Matrinka clambered to her feet assessing all she needed to know in an instant. Ra-khir lay still on the far side of the room, surrounded by strangers. Blood stained his familiar blue and tan linens, and bruises stamped the length of his limbs. She did not take the time to study him for evidence of breathing, charging to his aid before Darris could gain his feet to stop her.
“Matrinka, no!” Darris shouted where physical action failed him. Gang members shifted to intercept Matrinka, blocking her view of Ra-khir.
“Get out of my way!” Matrinka shrieked, slamming into a wall of bodies that barely shifted with the impact. She clawed frantically, shoving for a gap between them.
“To arms!” their leader shouted as Darris lunged to her defense.
Swords clattered to the ready at Matrinka’s back, and the line in front of her weakened as gang members turned their attention from her to the new threat. A scrawny blond cursed. His foot cracked against her shin, and he shoved her toward the wall. Equilibrium lost, she crashed against the stone. Her teeth slammed closed on her tongue. She staggered blindly, tasting blood.
“Ra-khir!” Disoriented, Matrinka cast about for her fallen companion. She caught a swirling glimpse of Darris embroiled in combat with too many opponents at once. Then a fist hammered the side of her head, and she collapsed, stars spinning through her vision. She went deliberately limp and hoped they would tire of battering a woman who did not fight back. The Pudarian’s description suggested otherwise, but she had no other strategy.
Shouts and the ring of metal told her Darris was still fighting, and she drew some solace from that. Guilt struck as hard as any physical blow. She had dragged them both into danger she knew they could not handle to rescue a friend who might already be dead. Panic had not allowed her to think clearly. Now, strangely, imminent, inescapable death did. Yet, though she regretted what would surely happen next, she could not have handled the situation any differently. As a healer, she would not allow Ra-khir to die. Now, he might still live. Any delay would have brought them too late. She wished Darris had not come, but she knew he would never have let her go alone, not under any circumstances. He had chosen his own fate.
Locating Ra-khir, Matrinka shifted toward him and pulled herself to her hands and knees. Before she could crawl, a foot raced toward her head. She flinched, and it caught her a glancing kick to the ear that sent her sprawling again. This time, she lay still, feigning unconsciousness, tears burning her eyes. Fear became all-consuming. The courage that worry had sparked disappeared in the realization of personal danger. She had made a fatal mistake. It would cost all three of them their lives. Matrinka prayed desperately for help.
The clatter of combat stopped suddenly, and a dull thud followed. Darris. Matrinka could not find the strength to look. It would end with Kevral executed for a friend’s crime, the three of them killed for trespass, and Tae the only one remaining to restore the high king. Please don’t let him be dead. Please, gods, please, don’t let him be dead.
Mior’s “voice” touched her then. *Look up.*
The cat’s contact galvanized Matrinka. She twisted to see, just as a body clothed in black plunged through a gap between overhanging rooftops. Silently, it fell. It landed on the leader, bearing him to the ground. Steel flashed in the moonlight. Then, the one who had slipped through a crack that seemed scarcely wide enough for rats rolled to his feet, leaving the leader bleeding from the throat on the earthen floor.
For a moment, no one moved. The newcomer slashed a broad arc through the air in front of him, a maneuver that looked suspiciously Renshai. Dark clothing, hair, and skin all but disappeared into the shadows. He spouted a string of Northern syllables in a voice that made even the musical singsong sound harsh. His eyes measured the group in front of him, and his stance suggested he found them lacking.
A howl sounded above him, an answering battle cry that Matrinka recognized as Mior’s.
The newcomer scowled. “Stay out there,” he shouted back, as if to an army at his heels. “There’re only nine of them. Barely worth my time. And I’m not sharing.” A hint of a harder accent slipped through beneath an adequate rendition of Northern.
If not for her time in Béarn’s court, Matrinka might have missed it. Now, it told her conclusively what her eyes refused to believe. Tae. That’s Tae!
The gang members looked nervously at their leader and the spreading pool of scarlet at his neck. With a healer’s detachment, Matrinka noted that it no longer spurted, only trickled. He was dead. The gang looked to the biggest of their members left alive. That one, a sandy-haired, lanky youth studied Tae with a critical eye.
Tae sheathed his sword, glancing fearlessly around the room. The action, the demeanor, the expression were a perfect imitation of Kevral. Tae said nothing, looking bored.
The stalemate continued for several moments as the gang waited for some command from their new leader who silently ogled Tae.
Matrinka moved cautiously toward Ra-khir. Darris sat on the floor, eyes open and alert. She saw no blood on him, and relief filled her. Their lives still hung on the success of Tae’s bluff. Previous experience told her that, while tremendously skilled at stalking and attacking unexpectedly, Tae would have difficulty holding his own against even one or two of the gang members. Many of them still held their swords, while Tae would have to draw his again.
Tae motioned to Matrinka, Ra-khir, and Darris in turn, using almost imperceptible head movements. “Those three are mine,” he said. “Do I take them now, or do
I kill you all and take them?”
The leader’s jaw set, and he considered the words. “Who are you?” he finally said.
“I am Tykayrin, the black Renshai.” Tae Northernized his name.
“You’re Renshai?” the teen interjected, his skepticism evident.
“Yes.” Tae’s gaze trained unwaveringly on the new leader. “And I’m getting restless. I haven’t had a chance to properly blood my sword in a week, not since I slaughtered the crown prince and his fifteen-guard entourage.”
Now all of the gang members studied Tae intently. Being the one accused of the crime, he fit the description almost exactly. The sandy-haired leader pointed out the discrepancy. “They said he were an Easterner.”
“And don’t I look it,” Tae replied in his best Northern accent. “That’s why they call me the black Renshai. Now, if you’ve finished your interrogation, I’ll take these three and go.” He flashed them one of Kevral’s toothy, cocksure grins. “Or would you rather attack me? I know I’d prefer that.” His hand fell to his hilt.
The leader’s fist on his own hilt went bloodless, and his face set with determination. Several of the gang members tensed, as did Matrinka. She tried to study Ra-khir long enough to establish his condition, but her attention kept straying back to the confrontation between Tae and the gang. What happened there decided all else. Better not to ever know whether or not she might have saved Ra-khir.
For several moments, the leader and Tae matched one another, stare for stare. Tears blurred Matrinka’s vision, and she trembled uncontrollably. A glance at Darris revealed him frozen in position, watching the proceedings. He looked as pale as he had when the infection nearly claimed him. Matrinka tried to will all of her strength to Tae. He was the one who mattered. If his composure broke for even a millionth of a second, it would doom them all.
But Tae did not falter. His hand on his sword remained relaxed, the other still at his side. His expression revealed only expectation, devoid of self-doubt or fear. For what felt like an hour, Tae flawlessly mimicked Kevral’s inhuman confidence and disarming habit of not bothering to draw a weapon until she needed to strike. Finally, the leader backed down. “Take them and go. Don’t come back.”
Even then, Tae did not concede. “I go where I please, and no man nor army can stop me.” He looked from Matrinka to Darris, arrogantly turning his back on the leader as if to show he’d never considered the other a threat. Knowing better, Matrinka watched the sandy-haired youth. Should he attack, she would signal Tae.
But the leader stood aside, not daring to call Tae’s bluff. Like Matrinka, he had more than his own life at stake, and Tae’s description of street orphans made it clear they saw one another as family.
“Get him, and let’s go,” Tae said.
Matrinka followed Tae’s gaze to Ra-khir, and it took her mind inordinately long to realize he wanted Darris and herself to heft the knight-in-training. Once she understood, she headed for Ra-khir. He felt warm to her touch, obviously alive. As Darris attempted to lift him, he groaned and opened his eyes. Relief flooded her, so intense it washed away the fear. She and Darris hustled Ra-khir toward the tiny exit, while Tae stood guard. As they emerged into the cool night air, Mior joined them. Darris and Matrinka supported Ra-khir, Darris trying to rush him down the alleyway.
Matrinka held back. “We have to wait for Tae.”
“He’ll catch up,” Darris hissed back. “Hurry.”
Matrinka assisted Darris. This time, Ra-khir slowed the escape by stopping dead in the roadway. “No. Can’t let Tae leave. Have to talk.”
“Come on!” Darris dragged at his friends. “He knows what he’s doing. If we delay, we may lose our chance.”
A moment later, Tae skittered through the opening. “Go. Go!” Tae took over Matrinka’s position, and Mior leaped to her shoulders. Together, they moved as quickly as Ra-khir’s injuries allowed, winding through Pudar’s moonlit streets until they found a quiet place between a cluster of tarp-covered stands.
Ra-khir shifted his weight from his companions. Tae stepped back, but before he could move farther, Ra-khir clutched Tae’s wrists in both hands. Earnest green eyes filled with pain pleaded with Tae.
Tae avoided the stare, focused on the fingers clamped around his wrists like shackles.
Ra-khir’s voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. “Kevral took your place in the king’s custody. If you don’t surrender, they’ll execute her.” He lowered his head, apparently assailed by dizziness. His grip loosened, and he staggered a step backward.
Tae jerked free, into a skittering retreat.
“No,” Ra-khir said softly. He scanned the darkness as if he planned to dive on Tae to stop him. But, whatever his intention, his battered body failed him. He sagged to the ground, Matrinka and Darris scarcely managing to grab hold in time to slow his descent.
Matrinka glanced up, seeking Tae in the darkness. At first, she believed he had gone. Then her eyes carved a gray shadow from the blackness. She knew she needed to say something to assist a situation far more complicated than Ra-khir’s honor allowed him to understand. Yet the words would not come. She stared helplessly, uncertain who to comfort or what to say. Her healer’s instincts drove her to tend Ra-khir, yet she would do him little good treating his body when his mind suffered as well. If she did not talk to Tae now, she might lose the opportunity forever. And still, she found nothing to say.
Accustomed to handling crises with music, Darris launched into a song. His sweet voice filled the roadway with an ancient melody that lacked the wild syncopation of modern ditties. He sang of Sterrane, Béarn’s ancient king. In a single, poetic stanza, Darris told the story of the royal slaughter that had left only Sterrane alive of his family and wrested the throne from him and his line. Though Matrinka had heard the story many times, usually with far more detail, the combination of perfect phrases and haunting tune brought tears to her eyes. She knelt at Ra-khir’s side, reveling in his living warmth and deep, slow breaths, hiding the sorrow she could not quell though it involved events long before her time.
Darris sang of Sterrane’s return as an adult, accompanied by loving friends determined to help restore the title stolen from him by violence. The group met resistance from Sterrane’s uncle and his armies, and the idea of a battle daunted Sterrane. Not for its effort; he had demonstrated himself able enough in the biggest of all wars. But peaceful Sterrane could not stomach the idea of innocent deaths for him. When a personal feud placed the outcome into the hands of one friend who agreed to single combat, Sterrane chose to give up his throne rather than allow that friend to risk death for him. Three words, sung in a tune that pierced Matrinka’s heart, expressed the bond between friends so strong it transcended a kingship.
The faint shadow that represented Tae shifted but did not disappear. Matrinka’s heart pounded, and uncertainty assailed her. The emotion raised by Darris’ song lingered. She tried to place herself in Tae’s situation, but before she could attempt the mental switch, Darris began another verse.
This time, the bard’s heir sang of a cluster of citizens hiding from rampaging Renshai, back in the days when the warrior tribe had devastated the West. Caught up in a stranger’s fear, Matrinka found herself incapable of action. She could only listen and pray. Darris sang of a woman and her frightened, hungry baby. The more the mother clutched, the more the infant screamed, threatening the lives of every citizen. Something had to be done, or all of them would perish for the noise of one.
Finally, with tear-filled eyes and a heart like lead, the mother handed the baby to a man among them, an elder she hoped could kill when her own conscience could not allow it. Matrinka’s tears quickened, sliding down her face beyond her control. She felt the mother’s agony as her own, a fiery pain that seemed to consume her insides. Yet, what good could come of saving this one when all, including the child, would die for its cries.
The elder did not kill. As the baby’s wailing turned to frantic shrieks, the elder cuddled it in his arms and ran. Th
ough he had little chance of getting far, he found the choice to try better than the obvious alternative. He left the mother with the hope that her baby survived. For him, that assurance was worth his life.
He did not make it.
Ra-khir moved restlessly beneath Matrinka’s fingers, but she could not see him through the blur of tears that followed Darris’ verse. The bard’s heir crafted another situation, this time a mother sentenced to eternity in the Eastern mines. Her grown son created a disturbance in the courtroom that allowed her escape, though it cost him his life. And the mother lived on, with a guilt that drove her nearly to insanity.
Finally, Darris quit, the last note floating over the sleeping city in judgment. Matrinka wiped the moisture from her eyes in time to watch the shape that represented Tae vanish into the darkness. Only then, Ra-khir sat up, his eyes hollow, though whether from the song, the situation, or both, Matrinka did not know.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Ra-khir managed.
Darris searched the night. “That seems to be the case, though you can never tell with Tae.”
Ra-khir stood before Matrinka thought to assist him. “Damn my weakness. I could have stopped him. I could have dragged him to the king.” He took a step down the roadway in the direction Tae had taken, as if to chase him. Then, recognizing the futility, he halted. “Damn.”
“No, you couldn’t have.” Darris spoke softly but with authority. “Your honor wouldn’t have allowed you to force him to his execution. Especially knowing that he’s probably innocent. Even if your honor allowed it, mine wouldn’t.”
Matrinka looked from Darris to Ra-khir to the place where Tae had stood moments earlier. She no longer saw any sign of the Easterner. She might never see him again; but in her mind, he would remain there until she saw him elsewhere. Mior pressed against her leg, reminding Matrinka of her silent presence. She sent a feeling of sympathy.
Ra-khir turned on Darris. “We can’t let Kevral die.”
“Well, we certainly can’t drag an unwilling man to execution.”
Beyond Ragnarok Page 59
