Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  They obeyed, with reluctance on their features but no matching hesitation in their actions. Only three led Ravn through the rough-hewn corridors, past a series of locked gates, and to the cell where Griff lay sleeping. A woman occupied the cage next to his, but Ravn had eyes only for his friend. The Béarnide’s chest rose and fell normally, and Ravn detected none of the obvious signs of pain. He entered willingly, let the door clang closed behind him, and sacrificed his freedom to hover at the side of his companion.

  Griff slept blissfully through the entire transfer.

  Chapter 36

  Weile Kahn

  I’ve been plunging into every war I could find since I was born. Death has eluded me.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Ravn crouched at Griff’s side while elves gathered to watch him in silent curiosity. Refusing to give them a show, he remained in place, unmoving. Their patience proved remarkably godlike. Some remained for hours, waiting for him to do something, anything, to explain his insistence on becoming a prisoner. Ravn outwaited them, his own immortality granting him the same interminable endurance. He could stay in place as long as they deigned to watch him do so. And Griff slept through it all, occasionally rolling to a new position or emitting a dense snore.

  The woman in the next cell demonstrated none of the forbearance of the new captive and the elves. She watched for a while, studying Ravn at first with sidelong glances then, as time went on, with unabashed staring. After a while, she must have memorized every detail of him, for she ignored him to practice weaponless combat techniques. She followed those with katas intended for sword, though she could only pretend she held the weapon. Now Ravn gave her the same scrutiny she had accorded him. Half-grown, unkempt hair flopped into her eyes, and her constant shaking of it suggested she had not yet grown accustomed to its length. Her gray eyes remained keen but unfocused, concentrated on enemies he could not see. He recognized too many of the maneuvers of her svergelse. Though her hair seemed too dark and her Northern features lost to other breeding, she was clearly Renshai.

  Despite this realization, Ravn did not address the woman. He enjoyed watching her. The perfection of his father’s lethal practices had become too familiar, too flawless to draw his eye any longer. But he could not resist watching this human Renshai and falling in love again with his own heritage of blood and glory. Day-to-day life among the gods diluted the stories Colbey told of wild warriors wedded to their swords and to the honor of dying in a blaze of savage battle glory. With each practice, Colbey honed his skill one notch closer to the ultimate; but the minuscule gains he could make at his level of ability seemed too small for notice. This woman, however, still had the best of her years ahead. He read the excitement of knowledge gained burning through her eyes. The understanding of a concept that had previously evaded her, the grasp of a movement that had, only the day before, seemed unattainable: her future still held these delights. And so, Ravn thought with a smile, does mine.

  The woman’s practice drew to an end nearly the same time the elves finally lost interest and disappeared from sight. The twists of the prison corridor still might hold a few, peeping or listening. Ravn kept that in mind as he addressed the woman in soft tones, using the Renshai tongue. “Hello, my friend. Thank you for the honor of watching your svergelse.”

  The woman crouched, mouth set and eyes narrowed. She examined him again, though surely she had missed nothing on her previous lengthy inspection.

  The hostility surprised Ravn. He had expected a warmer reaction from a fellow Renshai. Colbey had described the intense loyalty trained into every member of the tribe from birth. He studied her again. Movement no longer distracted him from the crisscrossing scars and burns that marred the flesh visible around a war tunic darkened by dirt and sweat and tattered from constant wearing. He saw no fresh injuries, but most appeared less than a few months old. The elves had not treated her well. A warm flush of anger passed through Ravn. He had not given the elves the satisfaction of inspecting Griff for injuries, but he hoped his self-control would prove strong enough to rein his need to kill should he discover Griff as cruelly treated.

  Realization accompanied Ravn’s rage. The imprisoned Renshai had every reason to doubt his intentions and believe the elves had planted him there to trap her into trusting him.

  After several moments, she finally spoke, using Renshai. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Raska Colbeysson of the tribe of Renshai.” Ravn answered as appropriate for a Northern human, then added, “But I’m called Ravn.”

  “Colbeysson?” the woman repeated, hope momentarily softening her features before they lapsed into suspicion again.

  The woman had defied politeness by not returning her own name and title. Saddened by her ordeal, Ravn concerned himself with making her understand rather than forcing manners. “What can I do to make you believe me?”

  The woman shrugged.

  Ravn settled to his haunches, suspecting she had placed the burden on him as part of his test. He tried to think like a human, a feat confounded by his limited contact with them and assisted by knowledge of his father. The use of the Renshai language, taught only by Renshai to others of their tribe, had not proved enough. Why? Ravn struggled for an answer to his own question and found part of one in his own experience. If some stranger approached claiming to be a god, Ravn would never trust him. The Renshai tribe had remained small enough to allow them all to know one another, at least superficially. She had never seen Ravn before, leading to the natural conclusion he could not be a Renshai. Ravn speculated further. Humans did not use or understand magic. Perhaps she believed elves could learn languages with their spells. Perhaps they could! The randomness of magic eluded Ravn at times; even with his superior experiences, he knew little about elves.

  Ravn rose, memorized Griff’s location, then sprang into a furious kata replete with maneuvers only a Renshai could know. His swords parceled the air into breathable segments, the speed of his cuts funneling dust in a sparkling wake. The prison confined him but it could not cheapen techniques taught by the best of all Renshai swordsmen. He became a twirling tendril of fire, and his blades sliced silver glimmers through the dungeon’s dankness, catching the light that glazed through gaps in the elfin construction. At length, he finished, reluctantly stopping far sooner than he wished, mind and body clamoring for more. Ravn had always believed that, if nonmartial humans could only once feel the euphoria that accompanied a well-performed practice, they would burn their drinks and drugs as too inferior.

  Ravn glanced at the woman for a reaction and found her kneeling on the floor of her cell, head lowered in deference.

  Ravn blinked, uncertain where to go from here. Humans had worshiped the gods in Asgard long before his birth, but no one knew about him so he had never had to deal with such attention. He had always believed it would feel natural, but the actual experience flustered him.

  The woman remained in position.

  As Ravn realized the onus lay on him, he cleared his throat to gain a few more seconds. “Please, get up.” He had to bite his tongue to keep from adding, “You’re making me nervous.” It would weaken the identity he had finally managed to prove. Instead, as she rose, he returned to his previous question. “Who are you?”

  “I am Rantire Ulfinsdatter.” She did not bother to add the details of her tribe, since Ravn clearly already knew. “The elves call me Brenna.”

  “You’ve been here a long time?”

  Rantire shrugged politely. “Even a moment of captivity is too long for a Renshai.” Anticipating his question, she explained. “I wasn’t expecting magic. I killed some of them,” she announced, keeping pride from her tone, “but they got me with some sort of sleeping magic. The most miserable failing of my existence.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Ravn flipped the fine blond locks from his shoulder.

  Rantire sighed. “A Renshai may make a dignified retreat if circumstances allow it; if not, he must fight to his last breath.”

&nb
sp; “You could hardly be expected to fight unconscious.” Ravn did not judge. Rantire needed to handle the humiliation in her own way. He could only keep from intensifying her embarrassment. Dwelling on the incident seemed cruel, and he had more important matters to discuss.

  Rantire changed the subject awkwardly. “So, um, Lord, um . . . pardon me. I’ve never met a god before. What should I call you?”

  Ravn smiled, forgiving what would pass for rudeness in a king’s court. He knew Renshai lived without hierarchy. When a leader became necessary, they selected the best one for the job: the most competent rallier for battle, the brightest for strategy, or a skilled arbiter for meetings. Therefore, Renshai grew up with sparse knowledge of rank or title. Only their connection to the kingdom of Béarn forced them to learn “sires” and “majesties.” Clearly, Rantire had spent little or no time around royalty. Ravn understood his power and ancestry; and, unlike human gentry, needed no reminders. “Ravn will do just fine.”

  “All right,” Rantire said hesitantly, clearly not as comfortable with this as Ravn. “Ravn, did you come to help me?” Her humble tone sapped the hubris from the question.

  “No,” Ravn admitted. “I came to protect him.” He pointed at the sleeping lump of Béarnide.

  “Him?” Rantire repeated doubtfully. “But he’s so . . .” She trailed off. If a god she admired took an interest in someone, she refused to utter a negative comment about him. Instead, she twisted her comment to a question. “Who is he that he deserves the ultimate honor?”

  Ravn glanced at Griff, who stirred, loosed an undignified snore, then lapsed back into unconsciousness, oblivious to the discussion about him. “He is Prince Griff Petrostan’s son Kohleran’s son, heir to Béarn’s throne.”

  “Ah.” Rantire’s eyes shifted to the massive Béarnide, even less impressive in sleep. Though not expecting to hear such a thing about one she had, apparently, dismissed as a simpleton, the words did not surprise her either. Any other explanation would make less sense. Her mouth set, and her eyes dodged Ravn’s momentarily. Then a hint of scarlet came to her cheeks. Purpose sparked in her eyes, and she met Ravn’s gaze directly. “I want to become his guardian.”

  Stunned, Ravn laughed. “Do you think I’m not guardian enough?”

  Rantire’s shoulders drifted upward, though she did not complete the shrug. “It does not matter. It’s the duty of Renshai to protect Béarn’s heirs, to see to it the proper lineage and neutrality are preserved.” Her stare grew even more intense, if possible. She glared at Ravn. “I want this, Ravn. I will fight you for it, if I must.”

  Ravn blinked several times, no reply forthcoming. Finally, he managed words. “You would fight me for the right to become Griff’s guardian?”

  “To the death.” Rantire’s sincerity shocked Ravn. He had never faced a certainty so resolute. Even Frey’s staunch defense of the elves seemed to pale in significance.

  “You would die, you know,” Ravn felt compelled to state this fact.

  “That remains to be seen. I would enjoy the challenge.”

  Any Renshai would. Yet Rantire’s fierce loyalty to one she had spurned moments before intrigued him. “This is important enough for you to die for?”

  “Yes,” Rantire admitted, smiling for the first time in his presence. “Isn’t it grand?”

  “Well . . .” Ravn started, then stopped. “Actually . . . it seems . . . well . . . sort of stupid.”

  Rantire’s grin disappeared instantly.

  Ravn realized he had chosen his words poorly. “I mean, you’re mortal, right?” That being self-evident, he did not await a reply. “So you don’t have that long to live anyway. I’d think every moment would be precious.”

  “It is,” Rantire confirmed. “That’s why I’m thrilled to have a cause this important. In their whole lifetimes, few discover a purpose so special they would waste their life for it. But no man or woman truly lives until he does.”

  Nothing Ravn had ever heard sounded so ridiculous. “So dying makes life worthwhile?”

  “Dying for the right reason.” Rantire’s eyes narrowed. “Like dying in glory and going to Valhalla. What kind of Renshai are you, anyway?”

  Ravn grinned, running a finger along the hilt of one sword. “A Renshai who could visit Valhalla anytime, if I wanted to. Without dying.” Only at that moment did it occur to Ravn that, to his knowledge, his father had never looked upon Valhalla. Yet he knew Colbey had sought this goal from infancy. For now, however, he tucked the information away.

  “Oh. I envy you.” But Rantire’s expression seemed more pitying than envious.

  “Because I can see Valhalla?”

  “No. That would only dilute the reward.” She gave him another visual once-over. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Years?”

  “No, days. Of course, years.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic with me, Ravn. I just didn’t know if gods measure their lives the way we do.”

  Rantire had a point. In fact, Ravn had never really considered it. Gods did not keep close track of age since it did not affect them. He had only chosen human conventions for time because he knew no others. “Sorry. I’m sixteen years old.”

  “That’s even younger than me.”

  “So you envy my youth? Or my immortality?”

  “Neither,” Rantire returned. “And both, in a way. The way I see it, gods can’t really experience the ultimate glory, sacrificing their lives for a cause.”

  Ravn shook his head in disagreement. “We can die.”

  “All right.” Rantire accepted that. “But the only ones who have were thousands of years old.”

  Ravn failed to see the point. “So.”

  “So, that’s hardly a sacrifice. Like a ninety-year-old human dying so a grandchild can live. That’s nothing special. But let the grandchild die for the elder: true sacrifice.”

  Ravn grudgingly accepted the explanation. “I’m still missing the envy part.”

  “If you gave your life to a cause now, having only lived sixteen years and having many thousands to go . . .” Rantire closed her eyes, savoring the glory vicariously. “That’s a joy I could never have, being human.”

  Ravn froze, uncertain whether to laugh, shake sense into her, or dismiss her as an idiot. One thing seemed certain, the Renshai tribe was as insane as humans and gods had named them through the centuries. And as brave as Colbey described them. The reasons for their dying young in battle no longer eluded him; their honor hinged upon it. Once, his Uncle Modi stated that Colbey had hated the cycle his skill had created: he wished more than any Renshai to die in glorious combat, but the myriad wars he fought only honed his ability to the point where he could never lose. Ravn had always believed he understood his father’s teachings about his heritage, had always thought himself fully Renshai. But the words had never penetrated until this moment. Ironically, it had taken a mortal to allow him to understand the loftiest concepts of Colbey’s teachings.

  Ravn made a sacrifice of his own, one he would never have believed himself capable of prior to this conversation. “Griff is the only friend I have; yet he clearly matters more to you than to me. I give over my guardianship to you, Rantire, with my blessing. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Rantire’s smile seemed to light the dungeon. Every part of her being radiated joy, making a mockery of what the elves experienced as emotion. Her happiness inspired boldness as well. “Please, I’ve not held a sword for months. Please.” She extended a hand.

  Ravn looked at Rantire’s callused palm a long time, her brashness bordering on attack. A Renshai protected his sword like a part of his body. To loan one meant a sacrifice as large as the one he had just made. Yet he read her need and understood. She would cherish the weapon he had blithely dishonored during his spar with Colbey.

  “Here,” Ravn said, studying the mesh triangles that would not admit the weapon whole. Carefully, he removed the pommel, the hilt, then the guard. In four parts, he passed it through the bars
. “You may keep it.” He added to himself, You’ve shown yourself more worthy of it.

  Rantire reassembled the pieces, admiring the sword like a lover and handling it with even more respect. The smile widened, mingling awe with joy. She had received an honor that went far beyond the appearance of a god at her side. Rantire recognized the vastness of that tribute and appreciated it. No sword would ever enter a svergelse with more devotion. Had she died at that moment, Rantire would believe her life fulfilled.

  * * *

  The autumn wind carried the damp, green odor of harvest, twined through with acrid wood smoke and the sweet aroma of sap. On the balcony of King Kohleran’s room, Prime Minister Baltraine stood to the false king’s left, Dh’arlo’mé to his right. Baltraine listened to the gentle patter wafting from the elf he called Pree-han, so like King Kohleran in timbre, thanks to Baltraine’s training. The words he had written floated over an appreciative crowd that apparently did not notice the occasional pauses and tiny mispronunciations that blared in Baltraine’s ears at intervals. They had little reason to doubt what he knew as deception. Even the most critical skeptic could not explain a duplicate of their beloved king; a world without magic could not suspect its presence. But Baltraine knew; and, to him, Pree-han would always look like Pree-han. The thin cascade of white hair with its fiery highlights could never replace Kohleran’s thick, blue-black. The clean-shaven face would never sport the omnipresent Béarnian beard. He would always see static garnets in place of the shrewd, brown eyes that once belonged to King Kohleran. The voice, though close, the words, though well-chosen, could not fool Baltraine even when he closed his eyes and forced time to move backward into memory. It seemed almost as if Pree-han always was and Kohleran had never existed.