Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “In my room.”

  “Can you call this?” Rantire held out the last piece of her share of the candy, then clamped her fist closed around it.

  Oa’si dismissed the possibility with a snort that hinted of derision. “It’s not mine anymore. I gave it to you, so I can’t call it.”

  Rantire made the natural connection, that elves, or at least this elf, could only “call” his own possessions. She pressed for more details. “Can all elves call things?”

  Oa’si jerked his head in a gesture Rantire already knew to mean a negative response. “Different ones can do different things.”

  “So some could, maybe, make candy.”

  “Yeah.” Oa’si giggled at the idea. “But not from magic. Magic doesn’t have any form. It’s like air. You can’t make air have shape.”

  Rantire injected reality and observation into the discussion. “But you could give life to something that already had form but wasn’t alive.” She saw Oa’si’s eyes narrow as he tried to follow the flow of words, and she attempted to make it simpler with an example. “Like a statue.”

  Oa’si considered much longer than Rantire thought he should have needed. “Someone could do that, I guess, but not by himself. He’d need a . . .” Once more, he had no translatable word or phrase. “. . . jovinay arythanik.”

  Experience gave Rantire the words to attempt the translation Oa’si could not manage. “A joining of magic. A group of elves working together to cast a spell.”

  “Yes!” Oa’si confirmed triumphantly. “You’re not stupid.” He obviously intended the last as a compliment, though the implication that he had previously believed her feebleminded transformed it to faint and damning praise. His triangular tongue flicked out, and he polished off the last smear of sugar from his palm with obvious sadness. “Now you have to give me something.”

  Rantire smiled. This seemed more like normal child behavior to her. “I have nothing to give. I’m trapped here with only my clothes and blankets. I need those for warmth.”

  Oa’si’s lower lip jutted forward.

  Rantire marveled at how much it resembled a human child’s pout. She considered other possible presents, finding an easy precedent among Renshai where teaching was the most prized treasure of all. “I could tell you a story.”

  Oa’si brightened.

  Rantire clung to caution and strategy that would further convince the elves of mankind’s strength and, hopefully, dissuade them from violence. She searched for a topic that would not reveal weaknesses, and the Renshai’s favorite hero came instantly to mind. No story about Colbey could show humans in any way but strong and competent. A tale from Colbey’s childhood seemed best for a youngling, though she had not yet established Oa’si’s age. “You’re a child, aren’t you?”

  Oa’si nodded, speaking the facts without pride or shame. “I’m the very newest.”

  That proclamation surprised Rantire. Though obviously immature, Oa’si could walk, run, and communicate in two languages with a skill that assured he had at least eight years behind him. Rantire could not imagine more than two years passing without the birth of a baby among Renshai or Béarnides. “How old are you?”

  “A child,” Oa’si reconfirmed.

  “Yes, I know.” Rantire waved away the simple answer. “How many years old?”

  “Years?” Oa’si cocked his head and regarded Rantire with his steady, golden eyes.

  Rantire believed the concept too common for explanation. His command of the Northern tongue, thus far, had proceeded too smoothly to account for his ignorance. More likely, the long-lived elves saw little need for close reckoning of time. Experience told her they did know how to account in days. “You know how days get longer for a while, then shorter, then longer again?”

  Oa’si nodded.

  “How many times since you were born have days been short?”

  “I don’t know,” Oa’si’s tone suggested the question held no significance for him. “About thirty.”

  “Goodness.” Rantire could not contain the mild expletive.

  “Less than you expected?” Oa’si said hopefully.

  “More,” Rantire admitted. “You’re a little older than me.” She could not help asking. “How old do elves get?”

  Oa’si mulled the question, clearly without a scale to measure such a thing. “In short-day times?”

  “Years. Right.”

  “A few thousand, maybe,” Oa’si ventured, though Rantire could not begin to guess the accuracy of such a statement. Most children had small grasp of estimation. If he had come close, it validated the elder’s claim that he knew Colbey in his mortal years. “How old do humans get?”

  It was the natural question. “Not nearly as old,” Rantire admitted. “We’re old at sixty.”

  “Years?” Oa’si repeated, incredulous.

  “Years,” Rantire confirmed.

  “Oh.” Oa’si sounded sympathetic, though he lost interest quickly. “Where’s my story?”

  “Right here.” Rantire tapped her skull, then smiled. “I’m going to tell you one of a million tales about a human hero named Colbey Calistinsson.”

  Although Oa’si had pressed for Rantire to begin, he interrupted after only this one sentence. “What’s a hero?”

  “That’s someone we admire for bravery. Someone we all wish we could be like.”

  “Why?”

  The question had no simple answer. The roots of admiration went deeper than any individual could understand or explain. “Do you want me to tell the story or not?”

  Oa’si sat back, arms folded across his narrow chest and lips pouting. “Yes.”

  “All right. This story happened when Colbey was very young, not even two years old yet. That’d be almost half an elfin lifetime ago.”

  Oa’si opened his mouth. Silenced by a warning glance from Rantire, he closed it again.

  “Now it happened Colbey’s mother came together with a mother who had borne a child at approximately the same time, also a boy. This mother took to bragging about her son and his brilliance. Already, he could speak half a hundred words, while Colbey, and most boys his age, used only about a dozen. Despite this tendency of the other to boast, the mothers struck up a fast friendship.” Rantire glanced at Oa’si to ascertain that he followed the story and had not gotten bored.

  Oa’si sat with his hand clamped over his mouth, rocking slightly in place, attention fixed on Rantire.

  Encouraged, Rantire continued. “On one occasion, Colbey’s mother left her son in this other woman’s care for part of a day. Colbey toddled about while the other boy placed and replaced alphabet sticks in sequence.”

  Oa’si could not contain himself. “Alphabet sticks?” he asked cautiously.

  Rantire weathered the interruption without comment. The story would have little meaning if the elf-child did not understand the events. “A set of sticks, about the length of my forearm . . .” She demonstrated the size by holding her hands apart, then dropped them to her sides. “. . . each with a letter of the alphabet on it. You see, the boy could name them and place them in proper order already, a feat most children years older could not accomplish.”

  Oa’si nodded his understanding, and Rantire continued the tale.

  “Colbey watched for some time, but could not yet understand the concept. He would pick up a stick or two and either swing them around or hand them politely to the other boy to put in place. Proud of her son’s skill, the mother made many disparaging comments about Colbey’s simplicity, calling him dull to her child’s genius.”

  “Why?” Oa’si asked.

  Again, Rantire allowed the interference without chastising. The story had much to teach to a child capable of grasping the inherent morality and poetic justice. She wondered if elfin principles gibed closely enough with Western humanity to allow such a thing. Even between different cultures of humans they varied so much. “Why did she insult Colbey?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Meanness.” Rantire gave the
simple answer first. “Insecurity.”

  Clearly, the explanation did not satisfy the query. “But why did she insult Colbey?”

  “Because for some really insecure people, the only way to prove they have something better is to belittle others.”

  Oa’si spouted back what he understood of Rantire’s description. “So she wanted to make Colbey look stupider because it would make her son seem even smarter?”

  The youngster’s insight impressed Rantire. “Right.” Inwardly, she realized that, just because elves lived longer did not mean a direct correlation existed between an elfin thirty-year-old and a human nine-year-old. The extra years have to gain them experience, even if physical maturity occurs more slowly. No matter the reason, she enjoyed the interaction. Any adult would appreciate an interested, young audience; and she proved no exception.

  “Elves don’t do that,” Oa’si said emphatically.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Elves don’t do that,” Oa’si repeated.

  Rantire did not have the knowledge to confirm or contradict. “Good. It’s not a nice thing.”

  “Finish the story.”

  Rantire complied. “While the other boy’s mother had the children, a pack of wild dogs came upon them.”

  “Dogs?” Indulged twice, Oa’si seemed to have forgotten that he was not supposed to interject.

  “They’re a type of animal that’s about a third to half the size of an adult human. They eat meat.”

  “Meat?”

  “The flesh of other animals.”

  Oa’si screwed his features into a grimace of revulsion and made a noise that Rantire took to indicate disgust.

  Understanding dawned. Rantire had noticed that the elves served her no meat, but she attached little significance to it. Many of the foods they served tasted like nothing she had ever eaten and could have come from anywhere. The elves’ vegetable diet did not surprise her; the idea that this child had never seen or heard of a carnivore did. “Most wild animals are too afraid of humans to hunt them, but dogs are tamed. We keep them as pets. The ones that become feral, however, are dangerous. They’re hungry meat-eaters who don’t fear humans.” The illustration awoke alarms only after she spoke. Revealing a creature who posed a threat to humans might assist the elves. Rantire returned to her story abruptly and irritably. To abandon it now would only draw attention to her error. “A pack of ravenous dogs charged the mother and the boys, teeth bared and mouths slavering.

  “A weakling and a coward, the mother screamed, frozen in place. Neither of the boys had seen any dog but friendly ones, but the mother’s terror cued them to danger. Her son hid behind her. But not Colbey. He snatched up two of the alphabet sticks. Wielding them like swords, he charged the dogs. One attacked first, hungering for the tender meat of a child. Colbey proved a far more difficult target than the animal expected. A few mighty whacks, and the beast fell dead. The others turned tail, seeking a dinner that would not fight back.”

  Oa’si went right for the heart of the story. “So Colbey had a skill, too. Just a different one.”

  “Exactly!” Rantire wished all human children could grasp morals so quickly. “Without Colbey’s physical skill and courage, the other mother would no longer have had a son to brag about.”

  “So what happened to them?” Oa’si asked.

  “The boys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Colbey became a great warrior hero, so skilled that the gods eventually claimed him as one of their own.”

  Oa’si’s mouth framed an awed circle. “The gods?”

  “That’s how spectacular he was.”

  “And the other boy?”

  Rantire replied with the answer her mother had told her, though history contradicted the time line. “He became a Cardinal Wizard, one of the very last.”

  “Oh,” Oa’si said, though his voice revealed continued puzzlement.

  Apparently, all elves had some magical ability, so it seemed likely that Oa’si would struggle with the concept of Wizards, especially the idea that they would seem special. Yet, he did not question the meaning of the word.

  “I have to get home, now,” Oa’si said. “My mother will wonder about me.” He turned to leave, then glanced over his shoulder. “Can I come by again?”

  Rantire shrugged and smiled. “As far as I know, I’m not going anywhere.”

  Oa’si headed off into the corridor, and was soon lost to Rantire’s sight.

  Rantire rose and moved deeper into the darkness of her cell. She had known the elf-child less than an hour, yet she missed his soft, musical voice and gentle presence. She considered the situation for a long time, knowing she would need to make many decisions and set some limits before Oa’si returned to her cell. It would be easy to tell him things about humans that she should not. And dangerous as well.

  Chapter 14

  Ravn

  Me? Start the Ragnarok?

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Midgard’s trees still looked lanky and emaciated to the eldest of the elves, bearing little resemblance to the bubble-fruited yarmshinyin and the broad-leafed kathkral that existed only in memories of home. Afternoon sunlight painted shadows through the forest clearing. A breeze stirred the branches, showering the Nine of the elfin council with wing-shaped seeds and collected moisture. The eldest glanced about at the somber faces, their expressions so unlike the eternal smiles that had defined elves throughout his youth and middle years. Only the green seed pods speckling their hair and the runnels of water dribbling along their cheeks took the edge from a solemnity that would once have seemed impossible and had now become the norm.

  The meeting had begun at sunup, but Ysh’andra and Vrin’thal’ros had been arguing a point of order until it became tedious even for the most patient among them. Finally, Dh’arlo’mé took command, as he should have done hours ago in the elder’s opinion. “Enough. We will do it as Vrin’thal’ros Obtrinéos Pruthrandius Tel’Amorak described and have no further argument. We have matters of import to discuss.”

  Ysh’andra opened her mouth to protest, caught Dh’arlo’mé’s green glare, and, reading the anger there, she said nothing further.

  Dh’arlo’mé shook his head, sending seeds and droplets flying from red-blond hair. “And enough of modest persuasion as well. I say we torture the human with vigor. Answers will come only then.”

  “Or death,” Ysh’andra added, and nods circumnavigated the group.

  “Or death,” Dh’arlo’mé confirmed without remorse. “Then there’s one less human. A boon unto itself. We’ll get another.”

  After months of mild and tiresome speculation, the sudden switch to immediate action caught the council off guard. Nothing in elfin society happened quickly, and few knew how to counter such direct decision and strategy.

  Only the elder knew humans well enough to take Dh’arlo’mé’s abruptness in stride. He had served the Northern Wizard for millennia, transporting all four of the Cardinal Wizards between Midgard and their Meeting Isle on a tiny ship he called the Sea Seraph. Thousands of years on the sea had baked his skin and accentuated the wrinkles a constant smile had etched onto his features. Gold highlights wound through mahogany hair crusted with salt and sand. He had used the title “Captain” for so many centuries, it had become his name. Disdaining anything human, the elves now called him Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor: “Oldest among us who has forgotten his name.”

  “Get another?” One of the younger elves repeated Dh’arlo’mé’s claim thoughtfully, lax cheeks revealing he had survived the tragedy that claimed the lives of most of their ilk. Without scarring, magic had healed the hideous agony of scarlet burns and blisters that marred the elves after the Ragnarok, but an observant eye could still distinguish those who suffered it from those few born after. Only Captain, who dwelt upon Midgard prior to and during the Gods’ War, had avoided the fires completely. “Get another? At what price? The human we have claims to be a gentle example of her species. We cannot afford to lose any more e
lves.”

  General gestures of accord swept through the Nine. About this, none would disagree. In the millennia since the world began and Frey created elves, they had lived in harmony and died peacefully after happy lives spanning hundreds or thousands of years. Plucked from its decaying shell, elfin souls were stripped of memory and placed into the body of a newborn. But the elves had discovered a tragedy no one could foresee: Those prematurely lost to The Fires were not reborn. From the time the race established themselves on their island home, the only babies since Ragnarok came after the loss of elders to age. Nor had any pregnancy followed the slaughter of an elf by Rantire during her capture. Apparently, the reincarnation they had always taken for granted extended only to elves who died naturally. Diseases, malformations, and infections did not plague elves, so the new could only spring from the old.

  “We’ll find safer ways to capture humans,” Dh’arlo’mé bellowed, his rage superficial and raw. His hands clamped to bloodless fists, and his green eyes flashed. “She murdered one of us. Murdered an immortal soul. A murderer of elves deserves no mercy.”

  Hri’shan’taé Y’varos Filtanith Adh’taran spoke with the calm, emotionless tone that had become her trademark. Rumor claimed it took her fifty years to shift from one feeling, or opinion, to another. “We have a human. Exchanging it for another seems pointless, though I do agree we need to try different tactics to make her talk.”

  As usual, the One of Slow Emotions made a strong if obvious argument, and Captain did not point out the fundamental error in her logic. Unlike elves, one human did not represent all humans. Their diversity went beyond current elfin understanding, especially at a time when the elves were only beginning to recognize individuality in themselves. But, unlike the other elves, Captain held no interest in causing the downfall of men and did not fault them with the Ragnarok. He had kept his opinion to himself, except for his public disapproval of violence. The vicious bitterness eating at the happy innocence that once characterized elves spared Captain, presumably because he knew so much about humans.