The cultural aspects of the elves seemed most astounding to Rantire. Though individuals, they operated as a group, much in the way of ants and bees, though they did not specialize so simplistically as insects. They followed their leaders with a slavish devotion that simulated nothing so closely as religion, yet the group mentality went far beyond faith. It seemed as natural as breathing for all two hundred thirty-seven elves to concur on every action and subject.
Oa’si had supplied the number, and Rantire accepted it since she had no way to ascertain the truth. The relatively small size of elfin society only mildly reassured her. She estimated humans, as a whole, numbered hundreds of thousands but drew little solace from the majority. Humans tended to splinter into tinier groups within groups, in the end driven invariably by self-interest. They rarely agreed on even the most obvious matters, and the elves’ magic might prove a weapon more potent than all human swords together. Without her to warn the humans, the elves would certainly catch them off guard, and that alone might seal their fate.
Frequently, an elf was dispatched to cure the worst of Rantire’s injuries or provide enough pain relief to allow sleep. Thus far, Rantire had managed to refrain from her natural urge to slaughter the one who tended her. Despite their single-minded association, she considered elves individuals and would not kill the doctor for the wounds inflicted by a torturer. It would gain her nothing anyway but a temporary and incomplete satisfaction. They would butcher her for the crime or, at least, grow too cautious to give her another opportunity to escape or kill. Biding her time seemed the best strategy.
One quiet night, the elder elf returned. Rantire had not seen him since his cryptic message, though she had thought much about him in the interval. He moved with the same grace as the rest of the elves. She still had not reconciled their gawky adolescent appearance with their agility. His hair seemed more brittle than the others, and he wore it in a knot at the nape of his neck. His yellow eyes remained as unreadable as any elf’s, but he had adopted some of the facial expressions of humans. Now, she read sympathetic pain in his countenance and saw a determined set to his jaw.
Though battered and aching, she managed a nod of recognition. Seated on the floor of the cell, she did not bother to move.
The elder approached without escort or the usual nervous caution the elves displayed in her presence; neither did he stride with a confidence to suggest he found her a danger unworthy of notice. Rather, he seemed convinced she would not harm him. “May I take away some of your pain?” He used the Northern tongue, the first elf to ask before attending her.
Rantire hoped he did not expect her to beg for his ministrations. She would rather suffer in silence. Instead she found a polite compromise. “You may,” she said, then added words she would not have spoken to any other of her captors. “And thank you.”
The elder elf cringed. “Please don’t thank me for such a small token. I can’t atone for the things my people have inflicted on you, but I hope you’ll accept my apology for them.”
Rantire thought about it while the elder muttered his magical phrases and brought relief to bruises and strains. “I don’t hold you accountable for them, and I cannot forgive them.”
“Though you condemn me with them, I don’t blame you.” The elder paused in his work to speak. “You may call me Captain, as the Golden Prince of Demons did before you.”
“Captain,” Rantire repeated, the human word sounding ridiculous as an elf’s appellage. “Surely that’s not your name.” As soon as she spoke, Rantire wished she had not. Brenna was not her name either.
Captain took the remark in stride, apparently expecting it. “It’s the only thing anyone called me for millennia. Whatever name I held before, I have forgotten.” He forestalled the obvious skepticism before she voiced it. “Yes, I forgot my name. Even a millennium is a long time to hold on to something without significance. Suffice it to say that a name living on after death is a type of immortality for humans, and we elves live too long to require such devices.”
The explanation made enough sense to Rantire that she would not have questioned further. Among Renshai, children were named after heroes who died and found Valhalla; and they believed the hallowed soul guided the hand of the namesake. “I wasn’t going to challenge you.”
Captain went back to healing. “Colbey did, and I only expected the same from one of his people.”
Rantire dismissed the need with a toss of her head. “Colbey did not spend the kind of time I have among elves. At least, stories don’t suggest he did.” She furrowed her brow, considering further. “In fact, the legends don’t mention contact with any elf at all.”
Captain ignored the inherent, but unasked, question to continue healing in silence. After several moments, even the grinding aches of the oldest of Rantire’s injuries dulled to a tolerable level. Open cuts closed to scabs, and bruises turned from purple-black or blue-yellow to brown. When he finally spoke it was as if no time had passed. “I believe Colbey made his most momentous decision in my presence, the one to champion balance while gods and Wizards dedicated themselves to slaughtering him in the mistaken belief that he advocated chaos.” Captain sighed, a surprisingly human gesture. “He gave me more than enough clues to understand that he had no intention of destroying the world, and I believed him. But even my own Wizard would not listen to me.” Raw grief entered his voice, and the not-quite-human features screwed into a sorrowful mask that did not suit them.
The words excited Rantire, especially since she no longer felt the distraction of myriad pains. “You mean the Renshai version of religion is true?” She hastened to add for the benefit of any god listening, “Not that I ever doubted it, of course. But you can confirm it?”
Captain tipped his head, and the quizzical position softened the sadness that previously masked his features. “If you mean the Northern gods as the true gods, that is so. I’m not sure how you got that from what I said, however.”
“No, no.” Rantire brushed aside the suggestion with a broad wave. “Of course the Northern gods are the true gods. There’re only a few holdouts in the East and West who believe otherwise anymore.” Rantire rushed onward, desperate to confirm the very foundation of her faith since birth. “I mean the part about the Wizards trying to slaughter Colbey because they believed he was spreading chaos when, in fact, they were the ones doing it.”
“That’s true,” Captain affirmed.
“Then they had a big showdown during which Colbey survived and the Wizards died.”
“Also true,” Captain admitted. “At least according to Dh’arlo’mé, who was there.”
“He was there?” Rantire asked in amazement.
“True again,” Captain confirmed. “As the Northern Sorceress’ apprentice.”
“I thought all the Wizards died there.”
“Dh’arlo’mé was spared.”
Rantire made the obvious connection. “Is that why he hates us so much?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Captain hesitated, as if concerned he might violate some elfin confidence. For several moments, he weighed speaking and silence in the balance; then, apparently, he decided to tell her. “Because the Ragnarok destroyed most of the elves, but humans survived it.”
“That’s not our fault.”
“He believes it is.”
Rantire sputtered at the ridiculousness of such an accusation. “But none of us was even alive back then. It happened more than three hundred years ago.”
“Humans as an entity existed both then and now. Three hundred years doesn’t mean much to an elf.”
Warmth suffused Rantire at the realization she had just verified the one religious tenet separating Renshai from every other group, the contention people had argued over for centuries. The Ragnarok had, in fact, occurred; and the Great Destruction they now awaited would be the second, and final, destruction of the world. “But it was Colbey’s heroic sacrifice that saved mankind, not anything having to do with elves.”
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Captain’s expression opened, and he leaned forward, obviously intensely interested. “What do you mean? What was this sacrifice?”
Rantire hesitated, suspicions aroused in an instant. She had endured too much at the hands of elfin torturers to reveal weaknesses now, even to one she intuitively believed she could trust. Still, Captain had not pressed her for details about current human society. Surely sharing a hotly disputed point of religion could bring no harm upon mankind. “Renshai believe Colbey fought among the gods at the Ragnarok. Afterward, when Surtr’s fire came to destroy the world, Colbey killed the lord of fire giants then sacrificed his life battling the magical blaze. He spared the world from burning. Most of us also believe our prayers restored life to Colbey Calistinsson, and he lives on among the gods.”
“Aaaah.” Captain considered this long past the point of politeness.
“Is it true?” Rantire eventually prodded.
“I don’t know,” Captain admitted. “I would not doubt Colbey fought at the Ragnarok, nor that he overcame Surtr.” He tapped a long finger on his broad lips. “The return from death seems unlikely. If the gods could raise the dead, surely they would start with their own. We would still have Odin’s heavy hand upon us.”
Rantire nodded in thoughtful agreement. “I always believed Colbey’s resurrection more wishful thinking than truth, though I believe all the rest, of course.”
“Of course,” Captain said, though without obvious comprehension, as if he found repetition an easy and polite means to avoid conversation. Then he added the last words Rantire expected to hear. “Though, knowing Colbey, I would not put it past him to accomplish all you said and survive the ordeal by stamina and wits alone.”
“Thank you,” Rantire returned, taking this extreme compliment to Colbey onto her entire tribe.
Captain cheapened his own commendation with faint praise. “No need for gratitude, it is simple truth.” He shook his head, as if clearing it, but Rantire doubted this elf elder ever became muddled. “I’ll need to go. I’ve already tarried too long for the job.”
“Wait!” Rantire had many questions, more important and immediate than the ancient basis for religion.
Captain headed for the exit, but he did turn around to face Rantire, his reluctance obvious.
“Can you get the others to stop hurting me?”
Captain shook his head, sorrow overtaking his face again. “Dh’arlo’mé is our leader, and I could no more convince him to drop his vendetta than I could the sun not to set.”
“Can’t you tell him what I told you? That we had nothing to do with the death of the elves.”
Captain pursed his wide mouth, searching for words he seemed unlikely to find. “In some ways, humans had everything to do with the Ragnarok, though not your generation, of course. Their fall into Chaos made conditions right for it. If left up to me, the elf-human feud would already have ended, if you can truly call hatred a feud when only one side knows of the existence of the other. But the elves are One. I’m in an awkward position. I cannot convince them, and I will not stand against them.”
Rantire studied Captain, uncertain whether to appreciate his honesty and presence or despise his unwillingness to halt a battle that might spark into genocide. She sought the phrases to spur him, could not find them in her own limited repertoire, and knew frustration. Then words escaped her lips, her own voice speaking ideas she never crafted: “There may well come a time, Captain, when you need to choose between what’s right for your people and your loyalty to them. When that time comes, the world may rest on your decision.”
Captain only stared, no reply seeming necessary or reasonable in the wake of such a warning. “That’s exactly what . . .” he started, then trailed off. Instead, he headed from the cell, the crash of the closing door echoing down the corridor until the sound of his retreating footsteps replaced it.
Rantire sat back, shivering, finishing Captain’s statement naturally. . . . exactly what Colbey would have said. She hoped it was true. Something had inspired her tongue, almost to the point of controlling it, and she could think of no spirit she would rather have guiding her.
* * *
The elves found the camped Béarnian envoy precisely where their magic assured them they would. Dh’arlo’mé gathered the three dozen elves under his current command, mentally detailing the strategy to all of them at once. Béarn had nearly tripled the size of its diplomatic group, with particular emphasis on armed guards; but Dh’arlo’mé’s plan did not depend on numbers. He kept his followers clustered and silent, awaiting the signal from his half dozen archers to indicate the death of the first of the human party’s two sentries.
The call came a moment later, a soft whistle that nearly duplicated the nighthawk’s cry. In response, the elves silently fanned out along the edge of the camp, just beyond sight, where the once alert human guard had stood. The archers slipped past, headed to the farther end to make short work of the remaining sentry.
Another human dead. Dh’arlo’mé smiled, though he had had no direct hand in the slaying. Centuries of observation and study had revealed Béarn as the high human kingdom, and he would see to it the ascension remained disrupted and the kingdom cut off from allies. The precise reason for the envoys had not yet come to light, and “Brenna” refused to talk. Eventually, Dh’arlo’mé felt certain, he would understand. In the meantime, he had no choice but to continue slaughtering heirs until no human remained to sit upon the throne and to cut off all communication between the high kingdom and other human lands. That, he believed, would throw mankind into a chaos from which they could not escape. And the elves would destroy them easily, en masse.
A slow chant began as the elves joined minds and magic. Dh’arlo’mé lowered his head, waiting for the meshed talent to reach its peak before tapping power from it. Leadership alone did not grant him the status of caster; his repertoire was more limited than many of his compatriots. This time, however, he alone knew the spell. He had learned it from the last Cardinal Wizards, who had also needed to meld their magic to cast it, a unique occurrence. As champions of opposing forces, they had spurned cooperation of any type until their joint mission against Colbey and his Chaos had finally brought them together. The spell they had created, one of stasis, held everyone in its vicinity to his or her current level of consciousness, including the caster and his minions. Like most elfin magic, he could target it to an individual or an entire group. To affect all of the camped humans, the spell had to envelop the jovinay arythanik as well. This situation seemed perfect for stasis magic, while all of his people remained awake and the enemy asleep.
The archers’ birdcall cut above the dull roar of elfin chanting, and Dh’arlo’mé’s smile broadened. Two humans dead, and all of the others locked into unconsciousness. He had hoped to use a sleep spell since it would have handled the sentries as well as the main body of Béarn’s envoy, and a few centuries ago it would not have bothered elves. Now, most bore as many cares as humans and required equal amounts of sleep, and Dh’arlo’mé probably would have fallen first victim to his own casting.
The idea fueled Dh’arlo’mé’s rage. The disaster the humans had brought upon the elves had far-reaching consequences. Each month, it seemed, he found another he had not previously considered; and the need for vengeance had become all-consuming, an obsession that time and memory constantly stoked. The screaming agony he and the other survivors had endured, and the destruction of elfin souls otherwise eternal, weighed like lead on his spirit. No amount of human death and suffering could pay for that holocaust, but he would see to it they came as near as possible to reciprocation.
As the elves’ chant reached the proper crescendo, Dh’arlo’mé added his voice to the others. The power rose from deep within him, filling him with an aura of weightlessness and eternity. He floated from his shell into the shimmering web of chaos his followers created with their interwoven song. By itself, magic held no solid form, and its colors shifted endlessly and without pattern. But the e
lves shaped it into ordered strands that quivered, locked into helpless order, flickering through the spectrum to maintain a semblance of its identity. Structured yet formless, it awaited his shaping.
Dh’arlo’mé set to work with practiced skill, fashioning the framework to his will and adding the strokes between that would convert the whole to the stasis spell. Once cast, his followers would need to concentrate only on the skeleton, holding the spell in place while Dh’arlo’mé acted with a free hand and no remorse. Excitement beat through him as he directed the magic and withdrew from the casting. He had never killed a human before, and his blood warmed at the prospect. Alone save for the hidden archers, he headed for the camp.
Dh’arlo’mé first found the sentry, three arrow shafts cleanly through his chest. Blood crusted the wounds, and the blue eyes stared lifelessly at the moon. The sword blade entangled with blond hair and simple clothing. The elf paid the corpse no heed, heading toward the crowd of blankets and gear from which snoring issued. Drawing nearer, he counted seventeen humans huddled in sleep on the ground and three tents that surely held more. Dh’arlo’mé drew his knife as he approached the first, excitement twitching through his chest. He struck for the throat, determined to be the most vulnerable part of a human by examination of the one they had inadvertently killed during torture. He plunged the blade deep, tore as he withdrew, and scarlet spurted from the wound. Splashed, Dh’arlo’mé recoiled, salt stinging his lips. The human’s eyes whipped open, and the body bucked once. Then the lids sagged back over the glazing orbs, and the limbs went limp.
Savage joy suffused Dh’arlo’mé, and only the need to concentrate on magic and action at the same time kept him from laughing aloud. One less human. And soon enough, seventeen less. He moved to the next, aware his safety lasted only as long as he remained focused and his followers’ chant continued, unwavering. Mobilized by this concern, he slaughtered the second more swiftly, not bothering to bask in the triumph before rushing to the next. Sixteen died without a hitch. Dh’arlo’mé left the seventeenth, the smallest, alive and sleeping, a potential hostage to replace the silent one who resisted their torture. Making “Brenna” expendable brought a fierce rush of pleasure nearly as strong as the one that accompanied the easy destruction of an encampment of enemies. Her strong self-restraint irritated him beyond logic or reason.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 31