Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Kevral found the gates open and unguarded. She could see movement in the streets: people finishing their daily business and heading toward their homes, animals seeking shelter or water, and chickens finding their roosts for the night. A middle-aged man lounged on a stone just outside the city gates. He wore an old tunic and breeks that looked homespun, his blond locks tangled and unkempt. He carried no weapons that she could see. Otherwise, Kevral noticed no one who might oppose her entrance to the city. She drew up her horse beside the stranger. “Excuse me,” she said.

  The man rose politely and nodded a greeting.

  “Are you a guard?” Kevral asked, feeling foolish even as the question left her mouth. In stance, dress, and manner, he seemed anything but official.

  “No,” the man replied. “Wynix is an open city. Anyone may enter as they please.”

  “Oh.” Kevral tried to fathom why such a policy surprised her. Except for the castle, Béarn had no walls and little need for city sentries. The Renshai’s Fields of Wrath required no formal defenses; each citizen could protect him or herself. She attributed her expectations to the time spent in Pudar. The trading city had such a diverse and changing population and so many merchants to support, it required more cautious attention. “Well, then. Do you happen to know where I could find the best warrior in Wynix?”

  The man shrugged, pale eyes meeting Kevral’s questioningly. He glanced then at Ra-khir, hovering behind her, but the knight-in-training said nothing. The stranger returned his attention to Kevral. “I suppose I do. What need do you have of him?”

  Kevral did not believe her interest any of the man’s concern, but she saw no reason for rudeness either. He could direct her, so it made sense to indulge him a bit to get the answers she needed. Usually, when she asked that question, people rushed to brag about a beloved officer or a hero they believed the most skilled in the world. “I want to challenge him.”

  “Do you?” The man nodded sagely. “For what purpose?”

  The last question proved one too many. Kevral glared at the stranger, her tense grip on the reins drawing her horse a step backward. It snorted, blasting spit onto the man. “That’s my business.”

  The man seemed to take no notice of the spray. “Of course. That’s why I thought you’d know the answer. But I see you don’t, so why don’t you go on your way?”

  Kevral dismissed the stranger with a wave of annoyance. “I have a reason. I just don’t think you need to know it. Now either direct me to this warrior or don’t. Stop wasting my time with idle curiosity.”

  To Kevral’s surprise, the man smiled, taking no offense. He studied her with eyes that seemed remarkably old in contrast to unlined features and hair with only a hint of gray. “You think you’re good, do you?”

  “I’m the best.” Kevral stated a simple fact.

  “You believe you could triumph over our most capable?”

  “I know I could.”

  “You think highly of yourself.”

  “I have a right to.”

  The man placed a hand on Kevral’s bridle, a gesture of war in some countries, though she saw nothing hostile about his manner and so forgave the trespass. “Lady, you could not even best me.”

  Ra-khir drew closer, clearly bothered by the touch as Kevral had not been.

  Kevral rolled her eyes, tired of bantering words with an aging townsman. “You’re a fool, old man, and you have no intention of telling me what I ask. Get out of my way.”

  “And you are a coward,” the stranger closed his fingers around the leather near the horse’s eye, holding the gelding in place. “You call me old and a fool, yet you haven’t the courage to fight me.”

  Kevral’s cheeks felt on fire. Any dirty or angry word the stranger might have spoken would not have riled her, except the one he chose. Nothing insulted a Renshai worse than “coward.”

  “I’m sorry I called you a fool.” Kevral leaped from her gelding, tossing the reins to Ra-khir. “I should have called you a witless fool. You wish to fight me, and that’s what you’ll get. Name your end point, and we’ll do battle right here.”

  Ra-khir caught the reins and covered his mouth with a hand. His eyes betrayed the smile manners forced him to hide. Anger did not allow her to recognize the similarity between this encounter and his first run-in with her.

  “Death,” said the man.

  Kevral had never heard the word so calmly spoken. Ra-khir’s mirth disappeared instantly, and he cleared his throat to speak. Kevral silenced her companion with a crisp, warning gesture and addressed the man instead. “Are you sure you want to—”

  “Yes,” the stranger interrupted.

  Kevral shrugged. “It’s your pyre. Any last affairs you want us to handle for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The man released the horse and stepped away but otherwise made no preparations for battle.

  Again noting that the man carried no weapons, Kevral reluctantly reached for hers. The idea of letting another touch one of her swords, perhaps mishandling it, was disturbing, but fairness dictated she not fight an unarmed man. She would reclaim it soon enough. “You may use one of my swords.”

  “That won’t be necessary either.”

  Doubt eroded the edges of Kevral’s confidence. This man’s unshakable composure had become irritating to the point of distraction. Surely no one without some trick could remain so utterly unruffled moments before a battle to the death. She judged him in the twilight, seeing nothing she had missed on first inspection. He carried none of the bulk she had come to expect from warriors outside the Fields of Wrath. Though taller than her by a head, his size was unimpressive. Scars on his cheek and hand suggested that he had survived battles in the past, and she believed she noticed a hint of callus on the hand that snagged her bridle. She had seen too little of his movements to guess at style or speed, but his refusal of a weapon suggested he planned to use his limbs alone. Many of the Renshai maneuvers did not require weapons, and much of their proficiency came from using their bodies as well as their swords in combat. “I could put aside my swords, too.”

  “Unnecessary,” he said.

  “But I’m not used to—”

  The man crouched. “Come on! Use or don’t use what you want. Just stop yammering and have at me already!”

  “Kevral, I don’t think—” Ra-khir started.

  Kevral lost the rest of his words beneath her own wild battle cry. She charged the stranger with a looping cut of a single sword, fast as a striking snake. But the man disappeared beneath her cut. She saw only a blur whipping beneath her attack, then the man reappeared behind her, her other blade in his fist.

  Kevral gasped, retreating awkwardly as the sword chopped the space where she had stood, twice in an instant. She riposted boldly. Steel rang against steel. Then the other slipped free of the block and cut low. She dodged, but the tip of his sword sliced a painful gash across her thigh. “Modi!” Kevral shouted, the cry slamming her with battle madness. The injury lost meaning as she sprang for her opponent in a furious, weaving assault. He parried three strokes with leisurely ease, then returned another that licked beneath her hand. His blade slapped her guard. Kevral jerked back to protect her hand, but the man bore in. He caught her hilt a blow that ached through her arm, then another that tore away her grip. A moment later, he held both of her swords.

  Kevral went still, shocked by the man’s agility. Disarmed or not, she would fight to her last breath and face death bravely. She did not even flinch as she settled into a defensive stance.

  The man did not attack again. “Here.” He tossed her a sword.

  Kevral caught it by the hilt, confused. Ra-khir, Tae, and Matrinka had accustomed her to odd forms of honor. Nevertheless, it seemed unlikely this man would allow her to attack him two swords to none but would find it inappropriate to finish the battle when the situation had become reversed by skill alone.

  “And here.” He tossed Kevral the other sword, which she also caught. She sheathed them both, seeing no re
ason to continue the battle.

  The stranger remained in place, his expression disdainful. “No matter how competent you become, there is always someone better.”

  Now that Kevral realized he would not kill her, admiration rushed to the fore. A moment ago, he had been her enemy, the personification of every image she created during practice. An instant later, he had become the epitome of her fantasies, the warrior she would struggle for all eternity to become. “Who are you?” she whispered, but she did not need an answer. Only one being could play an accomplished Renshai like a child. The man she had dismissed as an aging Wynixan peasant was Colbey Calistinsson. She tried to kneel, but awe held her rooted in place. All of the emotions she had boxed into a corner flooded through her. The love she had withheld from Ra-khir and Tae filled her like a tidal wave. From infancy, she had dreamed of meeting Colbey face-to-face and sword-to-sword. The moment had passed too swiftly, and she had handled it badly. Her heart pounded, loud and relentless. She felt as if her body might melt, like wax in a flame. Need became a ceaseless ache. Had he asked for her life, she would have given it willingly, though not without a fight. A Renshai who died without glory could never earn his respect.

  Colbey dodged her question to ask one of his own. “It remains to be answered: What reason do you have for jeopardizing your quest? What reason do you have for humiliating some of the best warriors of the West? What reason do you have for dashing the faith of young swordsmen as they watch their idols fall in defeat to a girl older, but certainly not wiser, than her appearance?”

  Kevral lowered her head. “I was just. . . I wanted to . . .” She gathered her courage and her words. “I want to be the best warrior in the world. I want to be—”

  Colbey did not let her finish. “Just because you talk like me and fight like me doesn’t mean you’re me.”

  Kevral swallowed the “—like you,” she had nearly expressed. “I know that,” she said defensively.

  “Becoming the best has nothing to do with others.”

  Kevral lowered her head, too overwhelmed at her hero’s presence to dare to argue.

  But Colbey read her intentions as if she had spoken them aloud. “If you measure success against yourself instead of others, you will find that you can only strive toward it. If you give your all, you can improve your technique with every stroke. Better becomes certainty, and best unattainable.”

  “You’re the best,” Kevral had to speak her mind. “You’ve always been the best.”

  “No.” Colbey glanced toward Ra-khir, who had not moved since the battle ended. “I’ve had centuries to improve my skills, and yet I still haven’t reached my potential. If I ever do, I’ll have no reason left to live.”

  Kevral conceded, but she wished to make a point of her own. “But I want to fight better than any other human.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to be the best,” Kevral amended, frustrated by the need to work around Colbey’s definition. “I mean I want to become a swordsman who has no equal.” She braced for Colbey’s next “why,” knowing he would eventually corner her beyond answer. No matter the significance of any conversation, a child could “why” it into oblivion.

  This time, however, Colbey changed his tack. “So become that.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  Colbey shook his head, his blond hair falling into the classic feathers she had seen in every artist’s rendition of him. She could scarcely believe she had not recognized him sooner. “No. You’re trying to prove that’s what you are to a bunch of strangers whose opinions mean nothing. Becoming a swordsman without equal only requires you to practice.”

  Kevral felt as if they had talked in circles. Colbey had returned to his original point. “But how would that show people I’m the b . . .” She caught herself. “I’m unequaled.”

  “Oh.” Colbey stretched out the word as if he had just made a brilliant discovery. “It’s not that you want to be the best. You just want everyone else to think you’re the best.”

  “No!” Kevral defended. Then, realizing Colbey’s point at last, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. “You’re right, of course. I’m acting like a fool. I’m sorry.”

  Colbey pursued relentlessly. “It’s worse than that. You’re running away from a problem. And that, young warrior, is cowardice.”

  Kevral stiffened, affronted. Ra-khir’s horse snorted, and she jumped. She had managed to forget about him waiting there, and now anger drove her to speak despite his presence. “I won’t take that from anyone. I’ve never refused a challenge. I’ve never run from a battle.”

  “From a battle, maybe not. Certainly not that I’ve witnessed. But you have run from a decision. You’re still running.”

  Kevral raked a hand through her short locks, unwittingly aligning them into feathers that closely matched Colbey’s own. “All right. I’ll make the decision.” The words emerged easily; for the moment, she did not consider the enormity of the task. Renshai managed adversity without complaint or timidity. “But what can I do to fix the damage I’ve done?” Guilt finally trickled through the zealous, burning passion. “Should I go back to those warriors and apologize? Should I tell them what I am? Should I claim I cheated or, maybe, challenge again and let them win?”

  Kevral caught a glimpse of Ra-khir shaking his head vigorously before Colbey said, “No. First, you don’t have the time. You’re on a god-sanctioned mission . . .”

  God-sanctioned? Excitement supplanted guilt, quickly lost in the raging fires of emotion already overloaded by awe.

  “. . . and anything you tried to do by returning would only further humiliate those warriors. They know you didn’t cheat, and they’d recognize an intentional loss for what it was. Most probably believed themselves more competent than a Renshai, and those who didn’t already know what you are.” Colbey leaned on the rock where Kevral had first found him lounging, one leg propped on its surface. “Strong warriors will use defeat as a tool to spur their practice, and they are the only ones who matter. In time, they will regain the trust of followers. I worry more for those youths who would have emulated their heroes, and I hope they have the courage and strength to work toward your skill instead.”

  The rationalization did not absolve Kevral, but it did soften discomfort that would bother her more as the elation of meeting Colbey faded. She had so many things she wanted to ask him, details regarding her personal choices, his own, historical facts and myths, and the age-old wonders of the pious. For all her religious zeal, especially for all things Colbey, she had never imagined herself standing directly before a god prior to her own death. She would forever despise herself for missing the chance to ask him everything, yet she doubted he would remain with her long enough to barrage him. Out of a selfish mistake had come an opportunity that arose perhaps once in a million lifetimes. “About my decision,” she started. “My sword work comes before anything, like yours did.”

  “Does,” Colbey corrected.

  Kevral flushed. “Does. You never let . . .” She glanced at Ra-khir, who sat patiently upon his charger, listening but not interfering. “You never got . . . um . . . that,” she finished lamely. She hoped that if he knew about the decision, he could substitute the word “marriage” for her hedging.

  Colbey gave Ra-khir an apologetic glance, then placed an arm across Kevral’s shoulders and steered her just beyond Ra-khir’s hearing.

  The touch of her hero, though fatherly, sent desire coursing through Kevral. She shivered, desperate to curl into that embrace and remain there for eternity.

  Apparently sensing the effect he had on her, Colbey removed his hand. “For the record, I am married. I don’t want, and I certainly don’t need, any other women. And Freya would rather kill me than share me.”

  “Freya?” Kevral sputtered, knowing she could never compete with the most beautiful of all goddesses. “But she’s so—” Kevral clamped a hand over her mouth before she said something she would regret. She loved the gods too much to disparage any of them,
even one most believed a wanton whore. Kevral would far sooner trust that the stories men told about her for millennia were wrong than that Colbey had made a bad choice. “—beautiful,” she ended lamely.

  Though the switch was blatantly obvious, Colbey accepted Kevral’s verbal assessment rather than her original intention. “Though unmatched . . .” Colbey smiled at his word choice. “. . . her beauty is less than half her charm. She gives me a good fight, on and off the practice field.” By the latter, Kevral guessed he complimented her wit. “And I think you should know I married once before. I wasn’t much older than you.” His expression grew wistful, bittersweet. Apparently, even centuries had not swallowed the memory.

  Stunned silent, Kevral said nothing, hoping her quiet would encourage him to continue.

  Colbey obliged. “She was Renshai, but our marriage died because I couldn’t spawn a child.”

  “What a horrible reason!” Kevral could not contemplate leaving a man she loved.

  Colbey shrugged, neither in agreement nor defense. “Times were more violent. Only a rare Renshai reached his or her thirties. Even with our couples fertile, we nearly gloried ourselves into oblivion.” He shook his head, as if to erase his own words. “But I understood how she felt. I wanted a family as much as she did. Each month I hoped with a desperation that tore holes as painful as any weapon. Each month, I mourned the death of the baby that could have been but wasn’t. I don’t fault or begrudge her that decision. She found another, and she had her children.”

  Kevral lowered her head. Though too young to concern herself with offspring yet, she sympathized with Colbey’s anguish. She knew how it felt to pine for one thing above life itself and to know she would never have it. For several moments, she found herself unable to look at him, the object of her desire.