Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Right.”

  Kevral sighed, preparing a speech about typical men whose minds always leaped to sex no matter the situation. But when she met his gaze, she read desperation in dark eyes that reflected the flickering red of the fire. Nothing lascivious tainted his expression. This was no ploy or game, just a reckless, hopeless plea for one chance at happiness with the woman he loved enough to trade his life for. No bond or vow tied him to Béarn or the kingdom’s politics. He was going to fight, probably to die, for Kevral. Once, she would have slapped him, denying the possibility with a vehemence that would not even have brooked the suggestion. But Colbey had coupled with many women outside of marriage. She could do so once with one she loved. And if she chose Tae, as she now believed she would, she would not even violate common morality. “Don’t go making decisions for me about whom I’ll spend the rest of my life with. If you don’t want to wait, I’ll understand. I have no right to expect it. But if you do, I’m as likely to run off with you as with him.”

  “I’ll wait,” Tae said, “and suffer the anticipation gladly if you choose in my favor.” He did not allow this to distract him from his request, “And my promise?”

  Kevral squeezed his hand, loving him all the more. “Consider it made.”

  Chapter 39

  Ambush

  If I die, I’ll find Valhalla never having fought a coward. When I lead men, I measure their skills. I would command no one to do the things I do.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Colbey Calistinsson pounded on the door to Frey’s hall, chest painfully constricted. Over the past week, he had wrestled with Midgard’s layout, toying with the leading players like chessmen in a desperate game of strategy. In Béarn, the kingdom fell under the rule of elves who planned to systematically execute all the humans under their command. The tribes in the North battled with a ferocity far beyond the border skirmishes which had been routine even back in Colbey’s mortal years. In the East, brothers bickered over property and rulership while the kingdom and the major cities fell into ruin around them. Criminals swarmed to the roads and passes, whipped into a spree of murder that slowed trade and communication toward oblivion. Even the mighty market city, Pudar, had not escaped the chaos wrought by Frey’s creation. As the first caravans beset by bandits and assassins failed to arrive, the city prepared for war and the king frantically trained his younger son for the throne. Colbey hammered on the door again, the sound stretching into a deep, metallic echo.

  Byggvir, Frey’s manservant, opened the door, then started to speak, “Good—”

  Colbey did not pause for amenities. He slipped past Byggvir and trotted down the hallway to a sitting room surrounded by book-filled shelves and comfortably furnished with six padded chairs. Five doors radiated from the hexagonal room. Colbey hesitated, uncertain which route to take.

  Byggvir chased after his master’s guest, forced to a sudden, skidding stop at Colbey’s heels. The carpet bunched beneath the servant’s feet, stealing his balance. Rather than slam into Colbey, Byggvir jerked backward, falling gracelessly to his buttocks.

  Colbey whirled, not meeting the gaze he expected. His eyes tracked downward until he found Byggvir on the floor. “Where’s your master?”

  Byggvir scrambled to his feet and bowed. “Through there, my lord.” He indicated the rightmost door. “With your son, lord.”

  “Ravn?”

  “Do you have another son, lord?”

  Colbey smiled, enjoying the human invective the gods rarely exchanged. He liked Byggvir and his wife, Beyla, the only other mortals in Asgard. “Thank you.”

  “Let me announce you, lord.” Byggvir galloped ahead, Colbey only half a step behind him. He opened the door to another room much like the first, except that it had windows overlooking a courtyard filled with multihued flowers. Frey sat in an overstuffed chair, and Ravn had settled into another across from the god of fortune, rain/sunshine, and elves. It looked as if the conversation had not yet begun.

  “Colbeytoseeyou,m’lord.” Byggvir slurred his words together to get them all out before Colbey crossed the threshold.

  Frey smiled. “Thanks for the warning,” he said with uncharacteristic humor. He turned his attention immediately to Colbey. “Have a seat, if you like.”

  Colbey obliged, choosing the chair beside Ravn as Frey dismissed his servant. “After all you went through? Why aren’t you guarding Griff?”

  “I found someone else who wanted the job even more than me.”

  “Someone who wanted it more than one who challenged me for the honor?”

  “Yes.” Ravn smiled gleefully. “Someone who challenged the only one who ever bested you.”

  Colbey nodded good-naturedly, not bothering to mention the unbalancing sword that had allowed the victory. Let the boy have his fame. Yet thoughts of Harval brought him painfully back to the matter at hand. By the moment, his control over the blade had continued to lessen, so that it now sat in his hands like a bar of unworked lead.

  Frey waited patiently for a break in their conversation before asking, “So what can I do for the two of you?”

  Colbey let Ravn speak first. It seemed only right as he had arrived earlier.

  Ravn shifted restlessly in his chair. “Actually, Father, I’m glad you’re here. I planned to come to you with this if Uncle Frey agreed.”

  Colbey nodded understandingly, sorry to break in on his son’s initiative. “Would you like me to go until you’re done?” It was an idle gesture. Colbey lacked the patience to leave and return.

  Luckily, Ravn obviated the need. “No, stay.” He cleared his throat, not quite sure how to start. “The heir to Béarn is in the elves’ custody. I’d like permission to break him free and his guardian Renshai, Rantire, too.”

  Colbey had already guessed who Ravn must have found to take his place, but all the pleasure he knew at watching his son realize that he did not belong in human affairs vanished with the request.

  Frey shrugged. “That’s not something I can grant.”

  Ravn opened his mouth to explain Frey’s role in the affair.

  Already guessing that Ravn wanted permission to kill elves in the process, Colbey cut in. The question would only infuriate Frey and make it that much harder for Colbey to make a similar request. “No, Ravn. That’s too much interference.”

  Ravn closed his mouth sullenly. “But I only wanted . . .”

  “No.” Colbey closed the matter, forcefully enough to send a warning.

  “Just let me talk,” Ravn insisted. “If Griff doesn’t make it to Béarn, there’s no way to restore the balance.”

  “Don’t you think I know that!” The urgency of the situation made Colbey curt. “But you can’t be the one who gets him free, nor can I. The humans have to do that. I thought you’d realized that when you turned your charge over to one.”

  “But Rantire can’t escape. She’s tried.”

  “I’ve got good humans on the way to assist.” Colbey’s argument died there, leading him into his business with Frey. “To get through, they’ll need to kill elves.”

  “No!” shouted Frey.

  “No, yourself,” Colbey sent back calmly. “You and I can’t interfere with what humans and elves do to one another. You know that.”

  Frey clenched his hands so tightly his nails bit semicircles into his palms. “I can if you assist them. If you give those humans weapons to use against elves, I have a right to get involved.”

  “Foolishly.”

  “Calling me names won’t change that.” Frey shifted his hands to the arms of the chair, gouging fabric instead of flesh.

  Colbey gathered a deep breath, then loosed it in a hiss between his teeth. “Help me, here. We’re all part of this. I’m just trying to save Asgard from oblivion.”

  “Find another way. A way that doesn’t require murdering elves. Why don’t you kill all the humans instead?”

  Colbey shook his head, frustrated. Their every disagreement came back to the day he’d forced Frey’s magic so
that Midgard survived and Alfheim died. “That won’t work, and I think you know it.”

  Frey refused to accept Colbey’s assessment. “I believe it would.”

  Colbey could not argue that point. He did not know for certain, but he refused to allow mankind to die. He had not rescued them for such a sacrifice. “All I’m asking for is a crack in the elves’ defenses. Just one tiny opening that might give these humans a chance at an otherwise hopeless mission.”

  “What about Captain?” Ravn supplied.

  Colbey had nearly forgotten his son’s presence. Now he gave the boy his full attention. “Captain?” Hope surged. “The old elf, Captain? He’s still alive?” He shook his head, dismissing the possibility. “He was thousands of years old when I knew him.”

  “I’m sure it’s the same one,” Ravn said. “An exiled old elf on the shore. He told me all about you.”

  What’s a few centuries after millennia? “Good work, Ravn.” Colbey did not give praise freely, and he could feel pride emanating from a son more accustomed to his father’s criticism. He glanced at Frey. “And thank you for absolutely nothing.” With that, he rose to leave, not waiting for Byggvir to assist. His doubts felt nearly as ponderous as the sword he could no longer wield. Even if he still trusts me after all this time, will he help? Colbey had no choice but to hope. He had only one tool to bargain with, his speaking ability, and he placed little faith in that. He had dedicated his life to combat. His mouth failed him repeatedly the way his sword never did. Never, at least, until his match with Ravn. Too many things had changed, and he had to change with them.

  One other possibility came to Colbey’s mind, a long shot but a prospect he could not simply discard. Aegir, the god of oceans and tides, might help him gather the remaining pieces of an ancient boat called the Sea Seraph.

  * * *

  Kevral anticipated difficulty convincing those companions who had not witnessed Colbey’s visit to veer southward so near the Granite Hills which divided Santagithi, and a few other villages, from the rest of the Westlands. But Matrinka seemed relieved that others finally gave credence to her theories about magical enemies, and Darris accepted the deviation without comment. In the last week, he had grown quiet to the point of invisibility. When he did talk, he nearly always did so in song, as if he had gradually forgotten any other way of speaking. He performed songs so beautiful they conjured images from quiet, windy nights to raging battles. At other times, he hastily threw together rhymes scarcely better than an amateur poet’s that seemed a mockery of his range and fluency.

  Kevral enjoyed Darris’ songs, especially the soft, poignant love ballads he crooned to Matrinka when he thought no one else could hear. The two had stopped trying to pretend nothing but friendship existed between them. Yet as far as Kevral could tell, their relationship went no further than moon-eyed stares and smiles. A law they respected too much to violate kept them apart. For now, however, their relationship mattered little more than Kevral’s pending decision. Rescuing Griff had to take precedence.

  As Colbey had warned, the direction the elf-eye sent them in switched intermittently from directly south to diagonally south and west, toward Béarn. Since Ra-khir and Kevral had described their meeting with Colbey, Darris insisted on riding beside the Renshai, periodically plying her with questions about the encounter, the only times he spoke normally. Then he would withdraw, mumbling rhyme schemes under his breath, experimenting with chords and tunes, then returning for more. At first, Kevral delighted in the opportunity to relive a meeting she had dreamed about nearly from birth, but never truly expected to have. Ra-khir filled in enough of the blanks to help her recall direct quotations, her only regret that she had not insisted the spar continue until her arms gave out from fatigue. She could have learned so much.

  After most of a day’s ride, Kevral believed she had recounted the episode fully, and the boundless interest of the bard’s heir became more like petty badgering. “Please,” he begged, in a heartrending tone she could not ignore. “When he spoke with you alone, what did you discuss?”

  Kevral shook her head, unwilling to admit her man problems to Darris. “It was private. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No!”

  “Please.” Darris wore at Kevral’s resistance until the urge to kill him became almost overwhelming.

  “Look, I don’t want my personal life immortalized in some song. First, it isn’t that interesting to anyone but me and a handful of others. Second, it would humiliate me. And, third, it’s not something I’m willing to share with everyone in this group yet, let alone the entire world.” Kevral could not help adding, “Now leave me alone.”

  Darris waited until the tirade finished, riding alongside Kevral for several moments of blissful silence. Then he added facetiously. “So you’re saying it was a private conversation?”

  Kevral growled, no longer tempering her reply with politeness. But before she could speak, Tae’s horse skidded back to them from the path ahead. His sudden appearance surprised Kevral. Usually, he remained hidden, scouting ahead, then quietly returning to guide them to the quickest route or the best camping site. Now he directed them off the road with crisp jerks of his hands. His horse pranced, expending the nervous energy of its rider.

  “Off. Over,” Tae commanded softly. “Ambush ahead. Go!”

  Kevral whirled her horse to obey. It took one plunging step toward the brush, then halted as two men appeared directly in front of her. One brandished a spear, the other an arrow nocked and drawn on his bow. “Be still,” the spearman commanded. Wicked, dark eyes glared at the party from a scarred face beneath a tangled mop of black hair. “Get off your horses, give us everything you have, then start walking back the way you came.”

  Kevral weighed options in the instant it took for the man’s words to register. Obedience was not a possibility she considered. Running away would invite weapons in their backs. Charging ahead not only equally opened their defenses, it would only plow them into the rest of the ambush. Kevral did not hesitate. “Go! Protect Matrinka!” she shouted as she slammed her heels into the horse’s flanks. The beast sprang directly for the two men at the woodside.

  The spearman braced his weapon, barb aimed for the horse’s chest. The bowman fired. Rallied by tales of Colbey cutting shafts from the air, she sliced for the speeding arrow. But the need to anticipate her next stroke ruined her timing. Her blade nicked the feathers. The tip plowed through the hole between hand and hilt, tearing a furrow of flesh from her palm. Diverted, the arrow plummeted. The horse rushed within a handbreadth of the spear before Kevral made her move. Her sword severed the tip from the spear, the pole bobbing harmlessly beneath her mount’s chest. A reverse stroke with the blade carved a fatal wound in the spearman’s side. He collapsed. The horse sidled to avoid him, hip crashing into the archer as he hastily dropped his bow in favor of a belt ax. This weapon, too, slipped from his grasp, and Kevral’s downcut ended his life as well.

  Only then, pain howled through Kevral’s wound. She passed the sword to her other hand, hilt slick with blood, both hers and theirs. The injury hurt worse than experience told her it should, as if someone had rubbed stinging nettles into it. A musty, mouselike odor rose above the more familiar tang of fresh blood.

  Kevral hauled a rag from her pocket to staunch the bleeding as she turned back to her companions. Nearly a dozen men stretched across the path ahead, brandishing a mismatched conglomerate of weapons, mostly belt axes and curved swords. Between the trees, she saw others, tossing aside bows, aim foiled by the shifting positions of their allies.

  Ra-khir did not hesitate. He rode low, his mount’s stride closing the distance between him and the enemy in a moment, red hair streaming like fire behind him. Darris hung back, horse turned sideways to guard Matrinka with its body and his own. Tae, as usual, was nowhere Kevral could see. An arrow arched through the trees, a desperate shot from an archer either con
fident of his skills or uncaring for his companions’ safety. It speared Ra-khir’s hood and struck his light mail shirt hard enough to jar him forward in his seat. Tangled in his cloak, it bounced with every movement of his horse.

  Without time to properly bandage, Kevral wadded the rag into her injured hand. Soon, they would all become engaged in combat, and she would trust Matrinka in no hands but her own. Sheathing her sword temporarily, Kevral hauled the princess up behind her, leaving a yowling cat and a sputtering bard guarding an empty saddle. “Hang on!” she shouted to Matrinka. Using her injured arm to help steady her charge, Kevral again drew her sword. She spurred her horse into a wild lunge toward the enemy line.

  Ra-khir’s horse bit and kicked. As it kept enemies at bay on one side, Ra-khir concentrated on the other, slashing at dark heads with the ferocity of a Renshai. Grasping the pommel, he leaned out over the air, keeping his seat with impressive dexterity and catching an Easterner a clouting blow that left him lying in a lifeless heap. Ra-khir’s horse overran the enemies’ line. He reined in abruptly, momentum spinning his mount into a frantic half circle. Ra-khir loosed a mild expletive as he realized he had charged alone, and the ambush now separated him from his friends.

  Then Kevral charged into the fray. No longer needed to tend Matrinka, Darris joined them. Swords seemed to fly for Kevral from every direction. She made a broad sweep, to separate enemies into a logical sequence, weaving defensive loops between Matrinka and danger while the Béarnide clung desperately to the saddle. Kevral cut down three, the last requiring a broad reach to her unweaponed side. In the same situation, she knew Colbey would either draw two swords to protect all sides or would launch into the flying maneuvers he had created especially for horseback combat. Wounded and burdened with a passenger, Kevral relied only on her own reflexes and skill, attentive to danger on all sides but especially at the back.

  Darris claimed a position just off Kevral’s right flank, his sword skill impressive now that he had chosen to join the battle. Ra-khir waded through enemies, guarding his off-side with his shield as well as his horse. Kevral struck down two more, hampered nearly as much by Darris’ presence as by Matrinka. At length, the Easterners around Kevral fell dead. One engaged Ra-khir, and Darris finished his last with a wide sweep. The last broke suddenly, fleeing a losing battle.