Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Pree-han paused, the gap immediately filled with cheering by the Béarnides below him. Their love for their king remained as strong as at his coronation, though few old enough to remember that day still lived. Baltraine branded them all fools. Even when he forced himself to believe the illusion would beguile him had he not known the truth, he remained farsighted enough to recognize the king’s apparent return to health as only a temporary solution. Kohleran could only live so long; when he died, he would still have no heir.

  This train of thought jolted Baltraine to a sudden realization. The answer to the problem did lie with the king’s return. Soon, the populace might demand that King Kohleran marry again and create another heir. Aged men had sired children before, and it only made sense to procreate in the additional years the gods, and Dh’arlo’mé posing as a Pudarian healer, had granted him. That posed a problem the elves might not recognize, let alone have the wisdom to solve. Baltraine wanted more than just a hand in that solution. A woman kept so near Pree-han would soon see through the illusion. Nor could an elf create a human heir; and, surely, no elfin baby could pass for human. That meant they would need a human sire to handle whichever young noblewoman he chose as queen. In a dark room, in the throes of passion, Baltraine believed he could pass himself off as the king; and that was a project he would relish more than any he could imagine. His line would take over the throne, and ecstasy with a beautiful woman would only sweeten the situation.

  Baltraine caught himself smiling and stopped. No one would think anything of his lapse. It was only natural for a caring prime minister to feel joy at the unexpected return to health of his beloved king. Pree-han told Béarn’s peasants of his long ascent back from illness. He spoke in reverent tones of the strange-looking healer who had performed miracles using the herbs of his people, reclusive barbarians, called alfen, who lived in the southern woodlands. He spoke with sorrow of his ministers, slaughtered by factions who tortured his heart with their betrayal and treachery. He discussed the need to replace these valuable nobles, at least temporarily, with people more neutral in their views. With Baltraine’s careful logic, he told a convincing story about the vast knowledge, wisdom, and goodness of the alfen who would give of themselves to the council as Dh’arlo’mé had done for their king.

  Pree-han’s voice sounded melodic amid the swelling, happy chant of the peasants beneath the balcony. Knights of Erythane stood ceremonially at attention, leaving Béarnian guardsmen to keep order among the masses. The former remained under Kedrin’s command, loyal to regent Baltraine and, of course, to their recovering king. Imprisonment, Baltraine now justified to himself, had done the knight-captain a service. Freed, he would have had to die with the cabinet, his desire to closely serve his king too dangerous to the deception. The current arrangement worked well, allowing Baltraine to relay information to Kedrin with any bias necessary so that the orders given to the Knights of Erythane assisted his cause. Baltraine understood that the elves would eventually see most of the peasants dead. He knew they had designs against much of the royalty as well; but they had assured him that he and his offspring would live out their natural lives. Nothing else mattered. His line would sit upon the throne forever. He felt certain he could convince the elves of that. Unless Xyxthris tries to weasel himself into the queen’s bedroom first.

  Baltraine’s hands clenched into fists, and his demeanor became a facade hiding desperation and anger. He calmed himself with the reminder that Xyxthris was an idiot with few ties to family, easily bought with a permanent supply of drugs. There was no doubt in Baltraine’s mind that the elves needed him as much as he needed them. And his line would take over the throne of Béarn.

  * * *

  Weile Kahn sat in his favorite chair, a firm pillow nestled between stretched leather and a wooden frame. Though unadorned, its comfort alone bespoke wealth, stark contrast to the dirt-poor childhood he had escaped so long ago. His two burly bodyguards remained attentive at either hand, constant companions he easily ignored. Once castle guards, they had learned their sword skill at the expense of a king whose control and power rapidly crumbled around him, mostly thanks to Weile.

  When he had organized the East’s petty thugs three decades earlier, Weile had had few concrete ideas of what to do with the loyalty he bought. His intentions were initially altruistic: to bind them in the cause of survival. He had grown up never knowing from where his next meal might come, if he managed to find one. A pickpocket, proud of his abilities, Weile’s father had kept them reasonably well fed and clothed until the guards caught up with him and he spent years in prison. The times that followed led to his mother’s death and nearly to his own. He learned to despise the pinched agony hunger brought to his gut, the bone-numbing cold of a winter’s night in the streets, and the complete inability to plan or control even the tiniest aspects of the future. The street gangs he had joined saved his life on more than one occasion, both by sharing talents and protecting him from others who would take his tiny share of the universe. Weile had always wondered why adults did not have similar organizations to tide them through the leanest times.

  Weile ran a muscled hand through his thick, black curls. Every time he had seen a skeletal figure huddled in a corner or a nameless corpse sprawled in the streets, he had vowed to change the plight of others. The filthiest, the meanest, the poorest became his clients. One by one, he took them in, finding use for their unique talents. One by one, he fed them, finding strengths, physical and mental, that their suffering hid. One by one, he bound them into a loyal band, teaching trust to those who otherwise believed in no one, including themselves. And he had formed an organized band of devoted followers who owed their livelihoods, their very lives, and their souls to him. They operated around and under the law, but those who would have died survived and those who would have survived learned how to live.

  The others had come later, hoodlums marginally successful on their own who saw organization as a means to riches. The band swelled, requiring hierarchies and records. Weile sighed at the memory. He saw that time as his brightest and darkest. The group multiplied at an astounding rate, but his own hand in its creation and control grew more distant. And weaker. The fierce personal loyalty to him became dispersed. Members weighed their talents against others and ranked themselves, not always accordingly. Some left the group for philosophical differences, and other bands of organized criminals became rivals, much like other gangs of children, but with an important difference. The adults had lost all shreds of decency and innocence. They solved their differences with butchery and mental cruelty, and Weile Kahn had not escaped unscathed.

  Weile fingered the scar that ran the length of his left arm, but his thoughts ignited a more painful memory. He had returned to his wife and son in the dark of night, after attending to business he would rather have left undone. The scene at the door remained glaringly, mercilessly vivid even after eight years. The only woman he had ever loved lay naked on the floor, covered with bruises and sprawled in a scarlet puddle. Though glazed in death, the eyes remained wildly staring, and their appearance defined terror ever after. His blameless son, his only child, Tae, lay in a crumpled heap, clothing smeared so red he could not have guessed its original color. Knife wounds tore the fabric in myriad places.

  The grief returned in a rush, dulled by time, though it still brought an animal moan to his lips. Then he had screamed until his lungs emptied, at first in desperate sorrow then in violent rage. Only after he had howled himself hoarse had he heard the tiny groan from Tae that told him his son still lived. The rest became a blur that remembrance could never wholly piece together. He knew only that heartache disappeared in the need to save his child. And he had done so, though not without leaving permanent scars, both physical and mental.

  Weile put the thought from his mind, though speculation about his son was not so easily banished. He had no way of knowing whether Tae had lived or died in the West. So far, no enemies had come to gloat and sneer about slaughtering his son. He trusted Tae
to survive whatever he encountered in any city. It seemed likely the boy still lived, but Weile braced himself daily for a scene as ugly as the one to which his mind had clung all these years.

  A knock on the door dispelled Weile’s contemplation. Aside from his chair, the one-room dwelling contained three plain wooden seats and a table, nothing more. He used it only as his current private meeting place, and the instant rivals or guards discovered it, he would have to abandon it. Currently, however, he had little to fear from the law. The kingdom had fallen into petty bickering, and the crime lords had grown stronger thanks to the elves. Not only had the disintegration of power aided them, but the elves had hired them to worsen the situation and paid them enough to see it done to the exclusion of all else. Well-paid workers had no reason to steal. “Come in,” Weile said.

  The bodyguards tensed alertly. The door swung open, and a follower of medium build, with few talents, led a pair of elves into the room. The male was tall and typically elf-willowy with thin red hair and sapphirine eyes that appeared almost faceted. The female sported hair nearly as black as Weile’s, though with ruddy highlights where his held a bluish cast. She studied Weile through yellow eyes that discomforted him for their steadiness. Experience told him that eyes should shade and twinkle. Their steady color, though beautiful, seemed inanimate to him, reminding him of stone and also of death. Weile rose and nodded a greeting. He retook his seat, gesturing at the others to do so as well.

  Taking the hint, the elves sat. Their strange eyes followed Weile’s every movement, and he forced himself to look back. To avoid contact would show weakness that years of dealing with criminals had taught him to hide. Like carnivores, men of their ilk judged frailty as a signal to attack and devour. A leader who did not win every stare down and confrontation did not survive long here.

  “What can I do for you?” Weile asked before either of the elves could speak. Long ago, he had struck a delicate balance. To talk too soon demonstrated impulsiveness and lack of composure, but to let another have the first word meant turning the floor and the power over to him.

  “We have another job for you,” the male elf said. A human voice so musical and high would have made him the butt of every joke.

  Weile nodded, indicating the elf should continue.

  “We want all travel between kingdoms halted.”

  Weile caught himself before surprise sent his brows shooting up; instead, he let them arch slowly in question. His flaring nostrils, however, would have revealed his startlement had the elves had any clue how to interpret human emotions. “All travel?”

  “All travel,” the elf confirmed.

  Weile’s brows knitted now as he considered. “Visitors? Messengers? Trade?”

  “All of those things,” the elf confirmed. “You may stop them any way you wish and keep anything you find. Naturally, we will triple your pay as well.”

  “That won’t be easy.” Weile mapped out the routes in his head. Already, his men occasionally plundered merchants moving from one town to another. In the past, they had kept their thefts to a minimum, afraid to queer their own futures. Boldness would force the merchants to up security to the point where robbery would necessitate violence. The vast majority of thieves, Weile knew, were not killers or good swordsmen. Weile saw possibilities where none existed before. As the kingdoms collapsed, their ability to protect merchants and travelers decreased. Perhaps the time had come for his people to take control of the streets.

  “We pay as we do because of the difficulty.” This time, the female addressed Weile. “Are you capable of such a thing, or should we take our money elsewhere?”

  Weile visualized the pile of Béarnian silver, gold, and gemstones that would come to his organization if he agreed to the deal. So far the elves had kept their side of every bargain with fanatical detail. Every count had been exact, every payment on time. “We can do it. I just need a clear idea of exactly what you need.”

  “We need all traffic stopped.” The male elf’s blue eyes swept Weile’s face. “Did I not make that clear enough?”

  “I understand that.” Weile’s mind had already raced well beyond that initial request. “And you’re under no obligation to tell me more. However, it would help me to know which result of travel you’re trying to stop. For example, if it’s trade, that would mean my men could still make money selling information. If it’s information, the black market would flourish.”

  “Are we not paying you enough that your workers still need other sources of income?”

  Weile laughed. “You could give my men the sun, and they’d look for ways to make money from the stars and the moon.”

  The elves did not even smile. Weile came to the conclusion that jokes did not exist in elfin culture. “Then you will need to retrain them. We want it all stopped. Everything. And we will watch. Anyone caught selling information will die. Horribly.”

  Weile pursed his lips, all humor lost. He considered refusing their offer, the idea of others taking control of his people arousing an ire he subdued from long practice. Yet, should his men get wind of what he gave up, and they surely would, the repercussions would go far beyond elfin threats. Weile glanced around the room, trusting the three of his men who witnessed the event to keep their silence. No one else would ever know about the elf’s menacing warning. However, if he let this opportunity go, a rival would grab it; and all of the underground would know of the riches he’d refused. For quite some time, he paused to consider, but the elves sat in calm silence, as if oblivious to the lengthy wait. The bodyguards shifted only to keep themselves limber and ready for action. The man who had escorted the elves fidgeted, stark contrast to the others in the room.

  Finally, Weile spoke. “I accept your offer, though I retain the right to reprimand my men in my own fashion. Give us time to set up, and we will halt all human travel except that required by ourselves.”

  “And elves,” the elf added.

  “And elves,” Weile repeated.

  The female elf removed a box from her pocket and set it on the table. At her first movement, the bodyguards shifted between Weile and the object. They all watched as the elf opened the box and dumped its contents. Coins bounced and rolled across the tabletop, some spinning on edge and a few making it over the edge to clang onto the floor. Gemstones of green, burgundy, saffron, and purple poured to the table in a multicolored spray. The meager light in the room sparked a rainbow array from the fortune the elves dumped with a casual and disinterested ease.

  And Weile Kahn sold humanity for a pile of wealth and the promise of more.

  Chapter 37

  The Best

  Vanity is the one sure path to self-destruction. One does not become the best by degrading others but by hard work and practice.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Practice finished, Kevral sat, watching the campfire dance and flicker in the evening breezes. Flames sputtered across sap that seeped from the wood; occasionally, a jarring pop rose over the more regular roar of the fire. The familiar shadows of her companions shifted amid the red-tinged dusk, their voices comforting as they discussed the evening meal and their plans for morning travel. Kevral noticed them only in a distracted sort of way, as always concentrating on her sword work and the means to improve it. Whenever her thoughts strayed beyond honing battle techniques or guarding her charge, she directed them back. At night she dreamed mostly of steel patterns against backgrounds of blue or black sky, forest, and rain. During sleep, however, her mind sometimes managed to drag her back to those considerations she had abandoned. Tae or Ra-khir spoke to her freely then, and she found herself unable to cut those dream conversations short.

  They had camped in the woods, parallel to the town of Wynix. Although they kept to the forest as much as possible, time constraints had driven them back to the open pathways and trails at intervals. Now an undisputed member of the group, Tae had become more communicative about their route. Kevral rarely participated in the discussions, but she did keep careful track of loc
ations. She had challenged the best swordsmen of every town and village to spar, winning with an ease that affirmed her confidence and ability. These matches obsessed her, keeping other thoughts mercifully at bay. Now she faced a greater challenge, or so she hoped. A city the size of Wynix would surely have a warrior who would prove more competent than those she’d faced so far.

  “I’ll be back,” Kevral said, mounting her horse without further explanation. Her forays had become routine. The others would not question.

  “Wait,” Ra-khir shot back. “I’m going with you.” Without awaiting a reply, he headed for his horse.

  “You need to stay and guard Matrinka.” Kevral did not bother to face him as she spoke but kicked her horse into a walk toward Wynix.

  “Tae can handle it.” Ra-khir gave the usual response. It had become a game with them. Against her wishes, he had followed her on several other occasions. Objecting would only result in argument and delay. He never interfered with her matches, so Kevral allowed him to follow. She doubted either Ra-khir or Tae could battle a serious threat without her, but she trusted Tae to safely spirit Matrinka away rather than fight. This would surely prove simpler without Ra-khir’s glaring presence.

  The hooves of Kevral’s gelding snapped branches and rattled brush, announcing her presence to any animal or human who cared to listen. She caught occasional glimpses of tiny white tails bobbing off into the distance. The musky odor of a passing fox wound past her nose, though the timid animal never came near enough to spot. A nighthawk shrieked, announcing its kill and warning away scavengers.

  At length, Kevral drew up to the portals of the walled city. Swaddled in granite, the city rose in increments, the tallest buildings at the center. Though it bore the same name as an ancient farm town near the Southern Weathered Mountains, it was relatively young, rebuilt long after Ragnarok’s fire that had gutted the West centuries earlier. Its modern construction spoke of great wealth, particularly toward the center of town. The poorer folks lived on the outskirts, some in tiny hovels outside the great walls, encroaching on the lush farm fields of the Fertile Oval.