Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Northern,” Rantire corrected absently, then protected her revelation. “Some.” She redirected back to the important question. “Did they die in battle?”

  Another elf stepped into view, also male. “Who?”

  Three more swiftly followed, all huddled at the front of her cage. Eyes that ranged from almost clear to deep violet scrutinized her. Now that a few had dared the contact, others surged closer until a press of elves filled the corridor or peeped through the bars of cells from cross pathways. Before Rantire could respond to the question, another elf said, “Do you speak ‘first-speech?’”

  Another asked, “What’s it like being human?”

  Another: “Do they hurt you?”

  And another: “How come you didn’t talk until now?”

  The queries came strangely fast and furious for elves, who normally seemed unhurried to the edge of human endurance. Even their beatings proceeded in a leisurely fashion, one of the few things Rantire appreciated. Finally, Rantire raised a hand. “My questions first. Then I’ll answer some of yours.” She placed the emphasis on the some, having no intention of blurting publicly those responses she had withheld under threat and torture. Their interest in her speech, however, she could and would address. Something had to change soon. She could not endure the suffering much longer.

  Other elves began talking even before Rantire finished, their voices loud and their language elfin. She did not understand all of what was said, but she featured prominently in their complaints, along with admonishments about making friends of foes. Dh’arlo’mé’s long name got mentioned several times. Gradually, the elves withdrew from Rantire’s cell, the first to arrive waiting till last and moving with obvious reluctance.

  “Please,” Rantire said as they dispersed, desperately needing the information she had sought. “Please, just tell me. I have to know.”

  But the elves disbanded without another word to her, only whispered exchanges amongst themselves. Then, they disappeared; and Rantire could no longer hear even their quiet movements or exchanges.

  Rantire slumped to the floor, hiding her face and its telltale tears. The urge to pound the wall or floor overtook her, but she battered the impulse away. She would not display her frustration, or it might return to haunt her as emotional torture. Now, she suspected, they would hold the knowledge over her head, bait for the answers they sought. And, she realized glumly, the technique might finally work where all else failed. She would not doom the human race, including the Renshai, to spare herself suffering; but she might try lying for the possibility of rescuing warrior souls. Yet even having a decision made failed to soothe. The Renshai death ritual, performed without the bodies, might already be doomed.

  Even this burden could not overcome the exhaustion that hammered her after another grueling session of abuse. Mercifully, sleep came to wrest desperate concerns from her. Yet before it fully took hold, the amber-eyed elf returned to her cell, accompanied by some of the others who had plied her with questions. There was a nervousness to their movements that little resembled anything elfin, but the one with the white-yellow stare spoke with a solid sureness that belied the mood. “My name is Haleeyan Sh’borith Nimriel T’mori Na-Kira.” He introduced the others, with names equally long and musical, but Rantire’s blunted consciousness could not follow.

  Rantire waited until he finished, using the time to sharpen her senses, reminding herself that her dealings with them now could become a turning point. Obviously they had chosen to come late at night, at a time they usually stayed away; and their nervousness suggested others would not approve of their visit. This potential split in the elves’ usual unanimous behavior boded well. It could be a trick, Rantire knew, yet she had little choice but take a chance sometime. Otherwise, she would die in vain, Valhalla unattainable and mankind left to the whims of fate. “I’m Brenna,” she returned.

  Several of the elves smiled. She counted close to a dozen of them shifting amid the shadows and knew from experience many more could hide in the dark corridors beyond her sight. The one who had spoken, Hal to Rantire’s mind, replied. “We know. It’s easy to remember. You’re the only human here.”

  Rantire managed a smile also at the subtle humor. It came naturally, even after so long. Still not fully focused, her mind pursued a tangent, surprised at how humor and its grin could look so similar between creatures so different. She wondered how the gods had determined the details that would separate and link them.

  Hal continued, “Oa’si tells me you can’t track our names.” He did not await confirmation, a good sign to Rantire’s mind. “You can call me Halee.”

  His choice sounded too feminine to Rantire. “How about Hal?”

  The elf chuckled. “You humans really do like your names short.”

  “There’s more to it than length,” Rantire had no trouble admitting, though she did not explain that her real name had three syllables and Northern peoples rarely shortened. “There’s a sound, too. Hal sounds better to humans than Halee. Stronger.”

  The elves continued to stare.

  “Trust me,” Rantire finished. “It’s true.” She glanced at the others, their manners as light as Oa’si’s. Though more subtle with expression, the elves seemed to have less control over it. Rantire found this difference interesting as well as useful. Initially, they had seemed blank, devoid of feelings. Now that she had learned their delicate repertoire, however, they would have difficulty hiding their moods from her. She guessed their team approach to everything probably made the need to hide feelings unnecessary. This became particularly understandable in light of the information Oa’si had revealed about sex, pregnancy, and child-rearing. Though astoundingly free with their sexuality, the elves rarely bore babies; and the group raised children with little or no regard to biology.

  Now, the elves wore expressions of open-minded interest, and Rantire hoped to seize on their attention. She prayed desperately to Sif that she had made no mistake, no error in judgment that would seal her fate, and that of mankind, to helpless destruction. “We can talk about short forms of other names when I get to know some of you.” She noticed now that all the elves in front of her looked male. Apparently elves had gender divisions when it came to jobs, as did every human group Rantire knew of except the Renshai.

  “How about mine?” asked a blue-eyed elf with black hair that held a glimmer of red. He repeated his name for the sake of Rantire’s human-trained memory. “Dhyano Falkurian L’marithal Gasharyil Domm. Would it be Dhee?” He pronounced it “Jee,” with a lingering over the first sound that gave it a strange “zj” sound that did not exist in human languages. Dh’arlo’mé’s name started similarly.

  “Dhyano. Or maybe Dhyan.” Rantire could not easily duplicate the pronunciation, choosing a lazy-sounding but more familiar “Jon” to replace “Dhyan.”

  “Jon,” the elf repeated, laboring as much with the sound as Rantire had, slurring the two together.

  Hal interrupted before every other elf in the vicinity insisted on playing the game. “What is this ‘die in battle’ thing you wanted to know about?”

  It never ceased to amaze Rantire how the elves could keep distant conversations going without any apparent notice of the time between sentences. She imagined a dinner conversation during which elves ate entire courses between words. Nevertheless, she appreciated the restoration of the conversation to the problem plaguing her since earlier that evening. “It’s important for me to know if the humans died fighting.”

  “Fighting us?” one chimed in.

  Realizing the sensitivity of the situation, Rantire flushed. “Well, yes, I guess so.”

  “It was us against them,” Hal supplied. “Yes. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  The answer seemed self-evident to Rantire. “No. I really don’t care who they fought, just that they were fighting when they died.”

  The elves glanced around at one another, and the perplexment they shared was inconceivable to Rantire. “Fighting meaning what?” one finall
y asked.

  “Fighting!” Frustration made Rantire a bit curt, and she struggled to keep the whole in perspective. “You know. Swinging swords. Hitting. Trying to kill whoever killed them.”

  “Oh,” the one who had just spoken said, green eyes as pensive and childlike as Oa’si’s. “Violently?”

  “Exactly.”

  Attempting to soothe, Hal said exactly the wrong thing. “Oh, no. No. They died peacefully.” His lips pursed into an embarrassed line. “All but one.”

  One? Rantire felt tears sting her eyes and could not help praying. Oh, please let it be the Renshai. Let it be the only Renshai. She did not feel guilty for the thought. Most others did not seek Valhalla as their goal, believing only warriors who followed certain philosophies went either to Valhalla or Hel. Béarnides, and the vast majority of the West, felt that those who preferred went to a glorious plain called the Yonderworld after death claimed them. Renshai felt strongly that others deluded themselves; even those Renshai who gave the Yonderworld theory credence would never lower themselves to seek anything but the warrior’s afterlife. She clung to the only source of information she had. “Only one died in combat?”

  “As you’ve defined it, yes,” Hal admitted.

  “Can you describe the one?”

  The elves seemed taken aback by the question. “Human,” Dhyan finally said. “Humans look much the same to us.”

  “Yellow hair?” Rantire tried, pointing to her own to demonstrate, though hers was more sandy and many among the elves sported locks of either hue. Aside from a predominance of extreme colors: black, white, and blond to humans’ more common brown and a tendency for red to accompany all colors, the elves’ hair did not differ much from humans.

  Hal confirmed the feature with a nod.

  “Blue eyes?”

  Another nod.

  Rantire’s heart began to pound. Those two features alone excluded all Béarnides and most Erythanians. Not all Renshai fit the description, but the ones who did made identification easier. “Used a sword as a weapon? Maybe two?”

  “A sword,” another said. “Yes. And very fast for one sleeping.” He shuddered, and Rantire suspected he had seen that sword directly in action.

  Relief flooded Rantire at the observation. Almost certainly, the one who died in battle was Renshai. “Blessed Sif,” she whispered, unable to fully contain her elation at the news.

  The elves glanced between one another, obviously noticing the significance she placed on the information, enough to spur her to talk with enemies she had previously ignored in stoic silence. Yet her motivation confounded them. Hal finally broke the restless silence. “This is good? To die violently?”

  “In battle, yes.” Rantire smiled, vicariously basking in another’s glory, only briefly. Her own fate seemed too uncertain to contemplate, and the proper ceremony not yet undertaken for this one either. Summarizing her tribe’s entire existence into a single line did not dilute the goal she had sought since birth. Valhalla. No greater reward awaited any man, woman, or child. Valhalla. If these elves could not reach it, their immortality and magic became worthless to Rantire’s mind.

  The elves buzzed about her answer, their speculation shared in whispers, as if she could not hear. Only Hal spoke directly to her. “Two elves died in battle, too.”

  “That’s good,” Rantire said emphatically. “Honorable deaths.” She did not voice the second advantage, enemies dispatched who could kill allies no longer.

  “And one lost his eye,” Dhyan added. “Is that good, too?”

  Rantire shrugged. Once, all Northmen believed a warrior who lost a major body part was doomed to Hel no matter how else he lived his life. Half a millennia or longer ago, Renshai had mutilated dead enemies to demoralize their comrades. The other Northern tribes had despised Renshai for that reason, eventually using it as an excuse to exile and then slaughter all of them. The tribe had become reborn in the West, through Colbey’s diligence, though neither of its two survivors, one Colbey, had added his bloodline to the mix. If not for two men who had remained in the West when the Renshai returned North from their exile, and considered traitors by the rest of the tribe, none of the old blood would remain. Now, the Renshai had split on the matter of losing body parts. Most believed it carried no significance; as long as a warrior died valiantly in combat, he found Valhalla no matter how many of his pieces found his pyre. Others clung to the old doctrine, while some claimed to follow the new system but became despondent if they or loved ones became crippled in any fashion.

  Rantire redirected her thoughts to answering the question. It seemed best to cling to the newer belief system, if only because it would not reveal a human weakness to enemies. “Losing an eye isn’t necessarily good or bad. The important thing is the battle.” As she discussed those matters most important to her, her mind became almost painfully clear, despite aches and exhaustion. She would stay up all night, if necessary. If she fell asleep during torture, she would only look that much stronger.

  The elves crowded closer, eager for understanding. Hal voiced the question she suspected they all mulled. “Why?”

  That one word encompassed so much. Human ways and motivations baffled the elves at least as much as theirs did her. Apparently, Oa’si’s inability to understand honor, heroics, and individual glory had more to do with culture than immaturity. With her mind confused by weeks of torture and pain, it seemed the worst time to switch her strategy, but Rantire believed she had finally found one that might work. If she could get the regular elves to understand, even revere, the fine morality of mankind that their culture did not allow them to experience, she might discover invaluable allies among the common folk.

  Calling upon the Renshai techniques of honing mind and thought in battle, she sought the words to enthrall the hardest audience she might ever face. And hoped the words would come.

  * * *

  Xyxthris, the eldest living male heir to Béarn’s throne, dreamed he perched upon a dais in a room so enormous he lost track of walls and ceiling. Wind rushed through the confines, tugging at his curled, black locks, opening his face to the too-bright light. His dark eyes skittered nervously, painfully dry in the empty glare; and no amount of blinking eased their vigil. The dais seemed tiny beneath his Béarnian bulk, for he sported the robust musculature and the girth of most of his predecessors and cousins. Once, the Pudarian circus had traveled to Béarn to entertain the king’s grandchildren. Now, Xyxthris felt like the massive elephant balancing on a ball, its foretoes and back heels dangling in midair.

  Then, suddenly, the light intensified, like fire against his eyes. Though blinded, he never thought to shut his lids against the agony. It burned through his eyes, spreading wildly to encompass every shred of his being. His skin seemed to sear away, strangely leaving no organs, only the very core of his soul, the spark deep inside that made him himself. Everything he believed moral and right lived there, and it shone with a brilliance greater even than the blaze that burned him. For a moment, he reveled in his victory, the purity of his thought and vision a guiding beacon above reproach.

  The figures came, a million shadowy outlines of men and creatures he dared not name. Each brought its own aura of light, and every one turned his into a pale vestige without meaning. They drifted toward him, laughing and pointing, mouthing a single word that, at first, he could not decipher. The air warmed to their presences, stifling, and every breath became an effort. Xyxthris’ lungs worked like bellows, sucking furrows beneath and between his ribs. He wore his skin again, enwrapping the usual organs, but he did not notice the change. The dream-state pulled his focus elsewhere, to the beings closing tightly around him. He recognized them now, distantly familiar kings and queens, gods appearing exactly as they did in his picture books. His grandfather floated among them, his features twisted into a sneer of derision, like the others. And now, their chant became clear, so cleanly spoken Xyxthris wondered how he could have missed it before: “Unworthy!” they shouted. “Unworthy!” And each pronouncemen
t twisted through Xyxthris’ guts like a thousand knives at once.

  “No,” Xyxthris whispered.

  Those who condemned him circled, laughing horribly. The dais grew until it seemed to stretch into eternity, and Xyxthris became a tiny speck on its expanse. If it grew more, he would disappear entirely, lost in a vast sweep of time that no longer accepted his existence. The word stabbed agony through him repeatedly, until the pain fused into an endless plateau and nothing seemed real but his own self-hatred. He awakened screaming, his guardian Renshai and a healer at his bedside.

  Xyxthris sat up, drenched in cold sweat and rigid with remembered pain. Never before in his life had a dream seemed so vivid, and it chased him into his waking moments. He still felt tiny and worthless, tried and convicted of harboring false morality and condemned to nonexistence. Every feat he had ever accomplished became tarnished and ugly, his own four-year-old daughter a shameful testament to his wretchedness.

  “Are you ill?” The healer hovered anxiously, face filled with a concern Xyxthris did not deserve.

  Xyxthris fought to draw his consciousness fully back into reality. The dream lingered, stealing his last reserves, all that remained to fight the demons that assailed him since the staff-test had rejected him twice. “Just a dream,” he managed, not yet able to directly reassure. Then, he gathered the appropriate words for the lie, “I’m fine.” But he was not fine. He had reviewed his every action during the first staff-test a million times, certain he had located his mistakes and that his inherent bent toward right and neutrality would carry him through the second. But the gods had swept away his memories of the previous attempt, and the changes he wished to implement left his thoughts the instant the test began. The scenarios had changed only slightly, but his reactions to them remained the same. The personality and morality granted him by right of birth and shaped by environment was flawed, and it drove his actions in the test no matter how much he tried to suppress it. He was not worthy to rule Béarn.