Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Captain cringed, recalling in painful, vivid detail the agony that had tormented him when Alfheim exploded. Through magically attuned senses, he had heard his people’s screams, felt the fiery anguish that stole body and soul alike, and witnessed the colorful cascade of magic as the world of Alfheim crumbled into oblivion. Believing himself the only survivor, he had wandered the oceans, as he always did, but without the Cardinal Wizards to break the monotony. They, too, had fallen. It had taken a century of lonely wandering to discover that some of the elves had escaped to Midgard, to an uninhabited island humans had no cause to suspect or discover.

  Dh’arlo’mé and his followers held Midgard’s inhabitants responsible for their suffering. Humankind’s decay into Chaos had sparked the Ragnarok: yet, remarkably, they had been spared the holocaust that all but annihilated the elves. Somehow, Dh’arlo’mé and the others surmised, the humans had diverted the gods’ punishment intended for them. Three hundred years of studying humans with magic had failed to reveal understanding of them as a race. One thing seemed certain. The humans carried no remorse for their transgression, and that enraged the elves most of all.

  Only Captain knew the truth, but the little he had spoken of it met with scorn. If the elves would not believe him outright, he had no choice but to bide his time and cautiously guide the younger elves. The bitterness of those burned in The Fires could not be quenched, and they refused to listen to one who dismissed their vengeance when he had not endured their agony. Long ago, the elves had considered Captain outcast for his solemnity; now they belittled him for leniency, little realizing that they were daily becoming more like the men they despised.

  The remainder of the council spoke his or her piece, most opting for heavier-handed torture of their prisoner with attention to the more fragile constitution of humans. At last, only Captain remained silent, and all attention drifted to him for the words they knew by heart: “Hatred fosters hatred, and violence is what violence begets. Peace reigns so long as humans remain ignorant of our presence. We can accomplish more by making friends than enemies.” The speech rang hollow, not only for its repetition. Although “Brenna” had greatly exaggerated it, humans had a propensity toward violence; and peaceful contact by the elves would not necessarily bring amiable resolution. Nevertheless, Captain felt certain that aggression would assure a war resulting in the end of elves or humans, possibly both. It would finish what the Ragnarok had left undone.

  Captain added, “When making decisions about our captive, we might do well to remember that humans make a distinction between murder and killing; and only the former is considered a crime. Brenna would consider herself a killer, not a murderer. She did not kill from spite or prejudice but to rescue herself from imprisonment, death, or some other fate she felt we might inflict on her.”

  “Doddering old fool,” Dh’arlo’mé muttered, borrowing words from the human Northern tongue where elfin fell short. Their native language held no insults for elders, only terms of respect. Although elves had grown nastier and more resentful with each passing year, Dh’arlo’mé’s curse still was met with surprise. Several of the Nine recoiled at the viciousness, though no one made a comment against it. “What the human believes about her own guilt matters not at all. It only proves what we already know. Humans murder without remorse, rationalizing their deeds with terminology or selfish personal justification.” The stern green eyes met each gaze in turn, though he held Captain’s for only an instant. “The vast majority of the council wishes to apply significant torture, and we will follow those wishes, making every attempt not to lose our victim to human frailty. None of us wants to have to confront another human directly to replace our prisoner. But if she is accidentally killed, we will use that information to increase our understanding of how to slaughter humans. After all, that is the knowledge we’re seeking.”

  Again, nods passed around the circle, sparing only Captain. Their one-dimensional blindness floored him. He could not fathom how Dh’arlo’mé could so viciously denounce the Renshai killing in self-defense then justify slaughtering her, and every other human, in retaliation. Prejudice, alone, could explain the contradiction. An elfin death defined murder. Human life held less significance to Dh’arlo’mé than animals on the dinner table did to mankind. No one but Captain seemed to notice the disparity, and he could not help wondering if he had become as senile as a human drunkard, though such frailties and diseases did not normally affect his kind.

  Not that any of it mattered. The council had made its decision, and it would never occur to any elf to act contrary to their leaders’ decision.

  * * *

  Summer sunlight glinted from plow, wagon, and windows; and wind riffled the wheat stalks into a green-gold dance. Finished with his morning chores, Griff trotted toward the tiny patch of woodland sheltering the Grove. At seventeen, he had already attained his adult height; at least, he hoped he had. He towered over his stepfather and the few farmers and merchants who called at their farm, and it made him feel awkward and gangly. Despite his height, and the fuzzy growth of beard that required daily shaving, he never considered himself large. He thought of himself as a child, carefree and protected by the love and constant scrutiny of his mother. The adults handled the necessary business that accompanied growing and selling crops. Griff performed his chores without complaint and spent the remainder of the day reading or playing quietly under the watchful eye of his mother. He helped her in the kitchen when she found his assistance useful, and he could not imagine any life happier than his own.

  At the edge of the forest, Griff stepped onto the familiar path, its brush matted and smashed from previous passages. The sun warmed the coarse, black hair that fell to his shoulders; and he scanned the surrounding trees with dark eyes sparkling with guileless joy. He had visited this private place since early childhood, yet it never lost its allure. Each trunk seemed a familiar friend, scarcely changed by time. Only the leaves and animals came and went in cycles; the trees held a timeless beauty that comforted Griff at every visit. Here, he passed his special alone-time in thought, the only place beyond sight of the house that his mother allowed him to go. She always watched him disappear into the trees and was always there when he emerged. Her voice wafted easily to him there; she would call if she needed him. But she never physically violated the sanctity of his personal place, intuitively understanding it held special significance to him that her presence might spoil.

  Griff’s mother granted him that one reprieve where she gave no other. And he understood. She had lost a husband and a son to accident, and that justified her desperate need to protect the last of her blood. Ten years with Griff’s stepfather had not resulted in pregnancy, and the midwife had informed her that bearing children before coming of age had permanently harmed her womb. Griff was all she had left of her life with her first love, and logic dictated she shield her son fiercely.

  Griff pressed through the tree line into the Grove and a solitude he hoped would prove short-lived. There, in the sanctuary he knew so well, he eagerly anticipated a visit from the only friend his sheltered lifestyle allowed. He sat on his favorite seat, a deadfall near the pathway, and studied the Grove. Grass formed a stubbly carpet, sheltered and nourished by the surrounding trees. Wildflowers burst through at intervals, purple trithray and scarlet perfrans a welcome change from the emerald stretch of spear-grass. A rabbit munched at a stand of clover, facing Griff and watching his every movement with suspicion. A shallow creek wound across the landscape, either end obscured by trees, the same that fed the watermill and watered the sheep.

  Griff dug out a stone from the ground near his foot and flicked it toward the stream. Though a safe distance away, the rabbit leaped and dodged into a copse of thistle, white tail a bobbing beacon against its otherwise mousy gray body. The stone sailed along the creek, skipped twice across the water, then skidded to the opposite bank.

  As if from nowhere, a pale hand appeared, snagging the rock before it settled. Griff’s gaze traced the extremity f
rom fingers to forearm, partially protected by a supple tunic flapping in the breeze. He took in the rest of his friend, Ravn: slender sinewy limbs, a well-proportioned torso bearing none of the extra weight that plagued Griff even in rigorous times, handsome features haloed by golden hair, and quick blue eyes that missed nothing. He always wore at least one sword at his hip, but the type and position varied. This time, a light scimitar dangled near his right hip, suitable for a left-handed draw. As often, he carried the sword on the left side. Griff had never seen Ravn free any of his weapons, but when he played, he used either hand with equal alacrity.

  “Ahh,” Ravn said in his pleasantly musical voice, “Only Griff would greet an old friend by stoning him.”

  Griff laughed, mood buoyed, as always, by Ravn’s presence. “Did you think you deserved better?”

  “A hello, at least.” Ravn sprang gracefully over the creek and toward Griff with a careless agility the farm boy had always admired.

  “All right. Hello, then.” Griff complied, then playfully tossed a pebble that Ravn caught without changing pace.

  “That’s better.” Ravn stood in front of Griff, one foot balanced on the log. “What’s new?”

  Griff considered. “Cat had her kittens yesterday.”

  “Six?” Ravn protected his bet.

  “Six.” Griff nodded. “You were right.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  “Usually,” Griff admitted, without malice. For ten years, he and Ravn had played in this grove; and the blond was seldom wrong. Griff had long ago given up trying to discover his playmate’s sources of information. In truth, he had not dared to delve too deeply, just as he had avoided concentrated consideration of Ravn’s origins. The boy fit the description of no nearby farmer’s kin, the name had triggered no recognition from his mother or stepfather, and Ravn appeared only in the Grove. Direct questions about Ravn’s roots had met with vague answers and a change of topics. In the last few years, Griff had finally come to the belief that Ravn was a figment of his own imagination, but he banished that understanding to the farthest corner of his mind. If he concentrated on the thought too long, he feared he might lose his best friend forever. “Four males, two females. You thought it’d be even. You said two calico, and only one is. A female.”

  “Well, of course a female.”

  “Why, ‘of course’?” Griff pressed, more curious than offended by Ravn’s judgmental tone.

  “All calicoes are female. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  Since Ravn showed no inclination to sit, Griff rose. “I never thought about it.” He considered previous litters, and could not specifically recall any male calicoes. Of the current collection of mousers, the only two calicoes were female. “How come only females are calicoes?”

  Ravn shrugged. “You know how there’re diseases only men are born with that women don’t get?”

  Griff had heard stories about a neighbor who had five daughters and no sons. His wife had borne four boys, each of whom bled to death very young from minor injuries. “Like bleeding problems.”

  “Right.” Ravn scraped at the bark with his propped foot. “Well, women have something inside that protects them from certain things. Whatever it is, it also lets cats have an extra color. Only females can have three different colors on them. Rarely, I’ve seen a male cat that does. His sex organs aren’t normal, and he usually can’t make kittens.”

  Griff made a thoughtful noise, though he felt as if they had exhausted the topic. “Anyway, there’s just the one calico. You thought the black cat was the father, and I thought it was the gray striped one. There’re kittens of all different colors, including ones that look like both toms. So I guess we can’t tell who the father is.”

  “Let’s just call it both,” Ravn compromised.

  “Both, right.” Griff chuckled and started collecting flat stones for their usual skipping contest. “Two fathers.”

  “No, really. It’s possible, you know.”

  “Two fathers?”

  “Sure. Happens all the time in animals that have litters. I even once saw a brown cow have twins after being with a black bull and a brown and white one. Each looked exactly like one of the fathers.”

  “Hmmm.” Griff did not challenge the assertion, although he kept a reasonable doubt about everything Ravn taught him. If the knowledge came from his own mind, as he believed it did, it seemed best to maintain some skepticism. Eager to get the contest started, he flung a stone toward the water. It bounced four times from the surface, then sank, leaving five rings slowly widening into obscurity.

  Ravn collected a few rocks of his own, flicking one toward the creek. It swept lightly across water, tapping three times, then glided to the far bank.

  “Two points for me.” Griff flung another stone.

  The boys continued playing for several moments, silent except for Griff’s announcement of the score. Ravn seemed preoccupied. Usually, he won their contests with ease. This day, concentration proved a problem that left Griff five points ahead after seven tosses. Finally, Ravn paused, a stone clutched between thumb and index fingers. “Change is coming.” He tossed the stone, and it skipped four times to Griff’s six.

  Griff stepped forward but made no attempt to begin the next round. The somberness of Ravn’s tone swept a chill through him. Ravn chose to speak in that bizarre fashion only occasionally, but it never ceased to spook Griff when he did. Always, it meant Ravn would discuss serious issues, usually in words which mystified Griff.

  “Big changes. And soon.”

  “What kind of changes?” Griff asked, knowing he would receive no answer he could grasp but still feeling obligated to ask.

  “I don’t know exactly.” Ravn peered out over the creek, avoiding Griff’s intensive scrutiny. “But it may mean danger to you.”

  “Danger?” Griff repeated. Tension squeezed his chest, and he felt more worried for his mother than himself. If something bad happened to him, neither of them could bear the pain it would inflict on her. “What kind of danger?”

  Ravn shook his head, still staring at something distant, while the wind tossed his yellow hair. “I don’t know exactly.” Suddenly, he whirled to Griff, blue eyes frighteningly intense. “Whatever happens, don’t let your faith in the world waver. Understand, don’t hate your enemies. No matter how dishonorable or ugly their evil, hatred only scars the one who hates.”

  Griff found no response possible, except a stiff nod. Nausea seethed in his gut, inspired by the obviously sincere concern of a friend who sprang from his own conception.

  Ravn seemed satisfied with the humble gesture. “Goodbye, Griff.” Turning, he headed into a copse of shrubbery, disappearing from sight long before Griff believed he should.

  Daunted by Ravn’s ambiguous warning, Griff let the collected stones slide through his fingers and fall quietly to the grass. Logic dictated that he ignore a threat conjured by an imaginary friend seen by no one else and only in his private clearing. But Ravn’s distress could not be banished, and his hasty departure unnerved Griff until he worried that his closest companion might never return.

  Nervously, full of wary doubts and worry, he headed back toward home.

  * * *

  By the time Béarn’s council sent a second envoy to Santagithi, summer had reached its peak. Kevral, Ra-khir, Matrinka, Darris, and Tae Kahn left the following evening under cover of darkness, in the hope that any enemy’s attention would focus on the larger, official party and that five adolescents would pass unnoticed.

  Tae ranged ahead on his dark brown gelding. No one asked where he had obtained his horse. If he had stolen it, as Kevral surmised, at least he had the intelligence to select one of neutral color. It would prove less easily missed and more difficult to identify. Matrinka rode in the middle on her small, chestnut mare, surrounded by her three companions. Silently, ahead of all but Tae, Ra-khir rode his gray gelding, his head high and his stance proud. Darris and Kevral rode on Matrinka’s either flank, the bard on a nervous bay
and Kevral riding a calmer bay with a reddish tint to its coat.

  Kevral had never left the Béarn/Erythane area before, and conversation with her companions revealed that Darris, Matrinka, and Ra-khir had never done so either. She did not bother asking Tae; his foreign features and accent rendered travel a foregone conclusion. It seemed dangerous to let the untrusted one choose their route, yet they had little choice in the matter. Though they had all studied maps, he alone knew anything about long journeys through forest, and his wary manner suggested he could guide them more safely and unobtrusively than even the most well-traveled merchant.

  Early on, they made small talk from horseback, discussing the weather, supplies, and the route. The excitement of trying something new and the danger they had not yet internalized filled them all with excitement. Only Tae seemed immune to it, though whether that came of experience or his hardened nature, Kevral could not guess. As the day dragged on, each became lost in his or her own concerns. Hours on horseback grew tedious, and the constant need to stay in one position irritated Kevral. Others fared worse. Ra-khir held his rigid stance even as the day wore on and exhaustion made posturing difficult, but it took its toll on his temper. Irritation showed clearly in the set of his features, and Kevral did not envy his need to demonstrate exemplary manners at all times. Her own restless annoyance would require venting, and she felt certain she could bring out the worst in the knight apprentice. He did not know it yet, but the explosion her badgering inspired would probably do him good.

  Matrinka’s cat shifted position from the horse’s flank to her mistress’ shoulders frequently, the only one with enough leeway to stretch her legs. On occasion, she would leap to the ground, following the horses at an easy lope. Whenever she paused to investigate, she would charge after the horses at an undignified, stiff-legged run. Repeatedly, Kevral believed they would lose Mior among the foliage, but always the cat returned to Matrinka. The princess never seemed concerned about Mior’s excursions, so Kevral did not worry for the cat. Matrinka knew her pet better than any of them. If she trusted Mior to return, Kevral could not do otherwise. Darris and Matrinka rode quietly, neither attempting to hide fatigue, though they did not complain of it either. Occasionally, they exchanged glances and smiles; as often, they looked embarrassedly away.