Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Kevral sighed. Colbey had bluntly stated on their first day that anyone who wished details of the gods and their world would have to divine them or find a way to visit. This time, he simply ignored Darris’ query. He stood with a booted foot on a large rock. His eyes sought something far into the ocean. The sea breezes tore down his hood, spilling golden hair; and his cloak peeled back from a warrior-sinewy body. Though he lacked Ra-khir’s massive musculature, Kevral stole the moment when his attention was fixed elsewhere to caress every part of him with her gaze. And envy Freya.

  At length, he stepped down, shaking his head without explaining the cause of his discomfort. He turned to Darris, as if to answer his hovering question. “Play something loud and magnificent.”

  “Me?” Darris seemed taken aback by the sudden command.

  Kevral smiled but managed to keep from laughing. She glanced at Matrinka who studied Darris with the same intensity Kevral had focused on the object of her lifelong crush. Mior sprang from her shoulders, stalking the receding water of the latest wave. Ra-khir looked out over the water, expression unreadable. Tae clutched the gemstone, thoughtful.

  “Of course, me,” Darris leaped in before anyone else could make a sarcastic comment. He went to his horse, opened his pack of instruments, and drew out his favorite lute. Closing the pack, he sat cross-legged on the sand. “Why am I playing?”

  Colbey turned an annoyed gaze to the bard.

  “I know a million songs, and I can create anything my repertoire is missing. How can I know what to choose unless you give me some idea of why I’m choosing?”

  Colbey smiled at an argument he could not counter. “Sing a poignant song for nostalgic sailors. Sing a stirring melody of the sea. And play loudly. Your sound must carry.”

  Kevral could not help wondering about Colbey’s purpose as well. According to Tae, the gem still pulled intermittently toward Béarn or directly southward. Whoever they followed must spend time on the sea, apparently on a ship. Her hands slid naturally to the hilts of her swords. If Colbey intended to draw enemies to them, but not to assist in the fight, she had best prepare herself for combat.

  Mellow notes sprang from the strings of Darris’ lute, blending into rushing chords that emulated the roar and slap of the sea near the shore. Then the music gentled, though the volume remained the same. The slam of waves striking sand softened to the swish of a hull through water, and notes spiraled from the lute like foam from a ship’s bow. Kevral believed she heard the gentle patter of droplets trickling from oars and the whistle of wind through canvas. Darris added his voice and words, the whole blending into a magnificent tapestry that added four more senses to the sound.

  Individual words slipped by Kevral, unheard. Need kept her tensed and watchful, fighting the sweetness of sound that beckoned her to escape beyond the confines of her world. She felt the icy sting of spray on her face, and months in sun that glared from sky and sea tanned her skin to leather and faded her hair. She tasted salt on her lips, felt ropes grind through her callused hands, and heard the hiss of their movement against her flesh. Nautical terms she had never heard made sense within the context of Darris’ song. Unlike the others, she had some scant experience with sailing. Renshai shipped boats from mountain crags the way their ancestors once did from fjords and islands.

  Kevral had never cared much for the ocean-faring aspects of her people. Yet, suddenly, the rocking deck became an old and welcome friend. The rattle of sheet clamps and the flutter of sail in heavy winds grew into a lullaby. The feel of the ship lurching into a run beneath her, with its sails outspread and its lines taut, became a pleasure that precluded any other. The camaraderie of fellow sailors, sharing songs, promised an irresistible bond of brotherhood.

  Then the whole died back to the ripple of waves, and the song wound to a sweet conclusion that left her aching for more of Darris’ talent. Only then did she realize the morning had glided into midday without her knowledge. She had stood attentively throughout a song that had lasted far longer than she would have otherwise believed.

  “More,” Colbey said as the gurgle of the ocean sucking back its waters replaced the sweet perfection of Darris’ music.

  Darris looked stricken. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, their heavy calluses striped with indentations from the stings. Surely, his hands had begun to ache, but he obeyed without question. Again, the pure tones rang from his instrument, dragging Kevral back to a world where wave and weather formed the central focus upon which all decisions rested. Though wholly different in form and melody, Darris’ new song conjured many of the same images. The hull of a ship sliced the water into frothy spirals, spume coloring its sides and wake. Seagulls wheeled and shrilled overhead, occasionally daring to perch in the riggings. The odors of salt and fish became overpowering, and the sweet, fresh aroma of the sea breeze scarcely trickled through it. The ship tossed, a toy in waves that started calm and built to a crescendo so gradually that Kevral could not distinguish the stepwise changes in tempo and volume. The whole reached a stormy discord that sent the ship into a rollicking dance. The bow reared like an unbroken stallion, slamming back down onto the dark water, swirled into a vortex of windy fury. Rain lashed the deck, and the gale shredded sails like old parchment.

  The sailors clung in wet misery, repairing as the storm allowed, praying to every deity with any relation to the ocean. Most pleaded with Aegir, Northern god of the sea. Others begged the mercy of Weese, the Western god of wind. As the storm raged on, kicking salt spume in sheets over the gunwales, lesser gods found their moment amid the hopes and promises of sailors facing death. They called on Sheriva, the Eastlands’ one god; on Ciacera, the goddess of sea life who took the form of an octopus; on Mahaj the dolphin god; and on Morista, the god of swimming creatures. Kevral had heard of none of these except Aegir, yet the desperation of their prayers raised wonder. At least for the duration of the song, they all existed.

  A dark spot sneaked into Kevral’s vision, far out in the Southern Sea. She found herself staring at it through squinted lids, protecting her eyes from the gale that raged only in song yet seemed so real.

  The discord unwound from Darris’ music, replaced by the smooth harmonics that gave his work its unsurpassable beauty. The storm huffed its last against the tattered sails and thrashed timbers. The boat groaned, bruised and battered but whole; the sailors rushed to the task of repair. For hours they patched and replaced the ruined sails, rewound and retied lines, bailed, and caulked. The waves lightened, in power and color. Sunlight struggled through thinning clouds that gradually faded from black to pale gray. Warmth touched the deck, and rays glimmered from cleats and clamps. The sailors rested, singing ditties of their love for the sea, the storm shoved into the inner depths of memory.

  As Darris sang, Kevral watched the dot on the horizon glide closer. Soon, it became discernible as a boat, its single sail heeling leftward and its prow parting water at a swift pace. As it drew nearer to the shore, she nudged Ra-khir and inclined her head toward it. Glancing out to sea, Ra-khir nodded; and Kevral turned her attention to her other companions. Tae had already noticed the boat, his eyes intermittently fixed on it and measuring the terrain around them. Darris, too, saw the boat. His fingers twined across the lute, and his voice never missed cue or note, but his gaze revealed the object of his attention. Colbey sat watching the boat’s approach with a contented half-smile. Only Matrinka seemed completely oblivious. She sat in front of Darris with her eyes closed, allowing the song to fully enfold her. Mior lay beside her, ears and tail damp from sea air.

  The last notes of Darris’ song hovered, becoming a part of the ocean’s rumble and hiss. He set the instrument lovingly aside, sheltering it from blowing sand beneath the rock he had used as a seat. Climbing atop the boulder, he watched the approaching ship. Kevral shifted position so that she now waited between Matrinka and the ocean. The boat wound nearer, too small for her to consider a ship. Kevral’s sharp eyes found only a single sailor on the deck. She saw no cabin nor
hatch, and it did not look thick enough to have a below deck area.

  “My lord, were you expecting company?” Ra-khir put forth the question on every mind.

  This time, Colbey deigned to answer directly. “It was my intention to call out Captain, yes. Whether he proves friend, foe, or neither remains to be seen; but no violence will be necessary.” He headed toward the ocean, ignoring the water sloshing over the toes of his boots. “By the way, he’s an elf.”

  Kevral glanced at Tae, who returned a wary nod. The sea breeze whipped his black hair into tangles, and he had gone one more day without shaving than his youth allowed. The dark stubble added a danger to his already wild appearance. “He’s not the one.” He opened his hand to reveal the green gem, then returned it to his pocket. “It still wants south.”

  The boat rasped on sand, and the sailor leaped over the gunwale to the beach with impressive agility. Kevral studied him in the shadow cast by the sail. Wrinkled features and faded red-brown hair belied the long limbs that made him appear adolescent. Sockets slanted like a cat’s held amber eyes like round, unfaceted topaz. One glimpse told Kevral the origin of the gem Tae carried, and she whirled to whisper her discovery to him. As soon as her attention shifted to him, he bobbed his head to indicate he had already made the connection. Kevral returned to her scrutiny as Colbey caught the front of the boat and the two hauled it to shore together. High, arching cheekbones completed the face above a broad mouth and full lips. He wore his hair knotted at the nape of his neck.

  Only after they finished the task of grounding the boat did the elf bother to speak. “Colbey Calistinsson.” He executed a graceful gesture, a combination of bow and wave. His wrinkles deepened, etched by a simple smile. “So the stories are true.”

  “That all depends,” Colbey returned carefully, “on which stories you’re listening to.”

  “You’re living among the gods now.”

  “True.”

  “No doubt causing them as much trouble as every other whose life you’ve touched.”

  Colbey smiled good-naturedly. “No doubt.”

  “I met your son.”

  “A handsome lad, isn’t he?”

  “He looks like you.”

  Colbey laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, undeserved as it is. When one has a dolphin for a mother and an octopus for a father, it seems absurd to compare one’s beauty to the octopus.”

  “You only wish yourself an octopus.” The elf’s smile did not budge, even when he spoke. “Imagine eight arms to hold eight swords at once.”

  Kevral saw a thoughtful expression cross Colbey’s face and experienced a mild thrill of her own at the idea. The chance and challenge would prove irresistible to any Renshai.

  Colbey and the elf stopped in front of the party, and the old Renshai made the first introduction. “This is Captain. Trust his sailing; he’s the best. I’ve placed my life in his hands, and I would do so again.”

  Kevral accepted the ultimate praise with the seriousness it deserved. Renshai lived or died by their own skill, and the method of their dying wholly determined the value of their life.

  The captain executed another of his dancelike bows, then glanced at each of the humans in turn. His eyes lingered longest over Darris, and he addressed the bard’s heir first. “Mar Lon’s great-grandson, I presume.”

  Darris bowed respectfully in return. “Add another dozen or so ‘greats’ to your list, but, yes. I’m the bard’s heir. My name is Darris.”

  Colbey gently corrected him. “Actually, Darris, you are the bard.”

  “Bard’s heir,” Darris responded instinctively. “My mother—” He broke off, as if suddenly realizing who he addressed. His head whipped to Colbey. “My mother is . . .” He started again. “My mother?”

  “You’ve been gone a long time. There have been many changes in Béarn, few of them good.”

  “My mother?” Darris repeated. “My mother.” He seemed incapable of other speech. Matrinka took him in her arms and whispered comforts to him.

  Ra-khir fidgeted, awaiting his turn, caught between the need to console a friend and concerns about his own relations.

  Captain looked at Matrinka then. “A Béarnide. I only know of one by name, so I have little choice in this guess. A descendant of Sterrane?”

  Captain addressed Colbey, but he received no answer there. Matrinka’s biology was her own business, and only she had a right to share it. Matrinka, too, stayed silent on the matter. Either Darris’ distress engrossed her fully or she pretended such was the case to avoid the question. Kevral believed it better. No matter the faith Colbey held in Captain, the fewer who knew Matrinka a princess, the safer she remained.

  “Her name is Matrinka,” Kevral explained. “And I’m Kevral.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Renshai,” Captain said in fluent Northern. “If you are a descendant of Rache or Mitrian, then I knew your family, too.”

  “I’m neither,” Kevral returned in trading, quashing irritation for Colbey’s sake. She had to assume Captain had placed her in the lesser tribes because of his personal associations rather than because he believed her Renshai blood diluted.

  “Ahh.” Captain accepted his mistake easily. “What were the odds I would know the origin of more than one? And I’ll lose this one, too.” He turned to Tae. “I’ve never known any Easterners.”

  “Tae Kahn.” Tae offered nothing more than his name, in word or gesture.

  Finally, Ra-khir got his turn. He executed a grandiose flourish that rattled his mail. “Ra-khir of Erythane, son of Knight-Captain Kedrin and apprentice knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Kohleran.”

  “A Knight of Erythane, of course.” Captain glanced from Kevral to Ra-khir, then from Ra-khir to Tae. “A stranger association, I could not imagine.” He laughed. “But what more could I expect from Colbey?”

  Colbey made a broad sweep with his arm that included every member of the oddly matched party. “This was none of my doing. I don’t interfere with the affairs of mortals, and you know why.”

  Captain’s brows rose, and he nodded gravely. “But you’re here now.”

  “That’s how desperate matters have become.”

  “You brought them here,” Captain said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you called me here, too.”

  “I told Darris to do so. Yes.”

  Captain asked the obvious question. “Why?”

  It was an answer they all sought. Even Darris pulled away from Matrinka, dabbing at his eyes, so he could hear Colbey’s response.

  “Because these five have business with the elves. They’ve come to rescue the heir to Béarn’s throne, whom Dh’arlo’mé has taken prisoner.”

  Kevral recognized the name Randil had penned phonetically in the dirt. Apparently, Tae did also because he turned her a knowing glance.

  When Captain said nothing, Colbey continued. “And you have a boat that can get them there.”

  The elf studied the five, all of whom now returned the scrutiny. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “You mean you won’t.” A hard edge entered Colbey’s tone, and all amusement left him.

  “I mean I can’t.” Captain back-stepped cautiously toward his boat. “I’m an elf, Colbey. I can’t defy my own.”

  “Your loyalty is foolish,” Colbey returned, ice-blue eyes flashing.

  “My loyalty is what it is.” Captain gave physical ground, but no other. “Elves aren’t like humans. We have no individuality, no personal honor. We’re united into a single entity. No one elf can defy that.”

  “You can.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. And if you don’t, nothing will remain for you to stand by. The destruction of the universe will not spare elves. If you remain a single entity, you will die a single entity.”

  “So be it.”

  Kevral watched in fascination as the elf returned Colbey’s advice with defiance. As a devout
follower of Colbey, she could not imagine anyone wishing to discount him. Yet, as a Renshai, she could not help respecting the elf’s courage.

  Colbey took another tack. “Transporting humans may not please the other elves, but it won’t harm them either. Surely, you can take them to the island so long as you don’t work against your own.”

  Captain drew a lengthy breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. He gathered more air and opened his eyes. “It’s not as simple as it once was. When Ravn arrived, he met no resistance. My people learned a lesson from his coming. They will not be caught unprepared a second time.”

  “I trust these young warriors to handle the matter.”

  Captain’s canted lids narrowed, and his gemstone eyes found Kevral among the others. “I know how Renshai handle threats. I will not let her harm my people.”

  “Even if some of your people are wrong?”

  “Even though.” Captain shrugged with a resignation that suggested he doubted he would ever make his point clear. Nevertheless, he tried. “I know my people have abandoned everything elves once represented. I spoke against this stance more than once, and my disagreement with their current policies is how I became outcast. I know humans can’t understand the elfin racial union that once bound us all to common belief and policy and still holds us together in spirit while our thoughts begin to diverge. But that unbreakable trust is the very reason my views were tolerated and I was not executed even long after I ceased to agree with any of the council’s decisions.”

  Colbey accepted Captain’s explanation. “But you’re not alone in your struggles.”

  “No.” Captain lowered his head. “I know Brenna meant well. She taught them the qualities of mankind that allowed me to befriend the likes of you. Honor, morality, heroism. But along with those lessons must come the vices, if only as contrast. Treason is a concept unknown to elves. I’ve seen the effect of chaos on mankind. I will not bring down my own. I would rather the universe destruct.”