Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The colossal castle of Pudar dwarfed the cottages like a guardian. Towers and guard stations lay black against the glaze, and the holes between seemed lighter for their absence. He heard the distant clomp of footfalls on stone and the clink of mail as the guards paced their watches. Nearer, heavy feet stomped through one of Pudar’s streets, intermingled with voices in the delicate, Western tongue. The words blended into an indecipherable rumble, occasionally interspersed with laughter. Tae stopped, recognizing that combination. He had heard it twice before. The first time, he had quietly eavesdropped to find the source, a young noble surrounded by an entourage of guardsmen. Discreet questions had yielded an answer: Prince Severin, heir to Pudar’s throne, enjoyed surveying his inheritance beneath the stars. Alight with young dreams and plans, he’d promised to end crime in the market city, and part of that vow required him to examine Pudar at dark time and observe the guards at work.

  Tae’s curiosity dispersed with understanding, and he had found no more reason to study the elder prince of Pudar. The second time, he had quietly avoided the group; and he did so now as well. The detour took him into a strange alleyway, and Tae slowed his pace. All consideration of Kevral disappeared as he set to the intense concentration necessary to accustom himself to this new location. The pattern of the shadows would not help him here, since he had no baseline memory. He had to create one as he already had for so many of Pudar’s streets, though still fewer than a third. Though hardly difficult or onerous, he took the task seriously. Given enough time, he would make himself comfortable here.

  Tae entered the alley with a slow caution that kept him near the left wall in the shade of a decorative overhang. Buildings of mortared stone hemmed him on both sides, and he glanced nervously toward the exit. For reasons he could not explain, discomfort settled over him. He felt as if unseen eyes probed him in the darkness. His hand slid to the knife in his pocket, instinctively, before he realized he had moved. The sixth sense trained into him from childhood prickled to life, its source vague and uncentered.

  Tae went still, gaze cutting through the darkness and ears attuned for movement. The distant clank of pacing guardsmen, the jumble of voices on the wind, and the cyclic swelling and ebbing of the insects’ song made discernment of softer sounds impossible. Herein, Tae guessed, lay the cause for his concern. He believed it came more of the inability to remain fully watchful than because of any specific danger. He continued into the alley.

  Inspection revealed two old boards, three rain barrels, and several tufts of weeds growing between the cobbles. Though competent, Tae had never done much climbing. His mind registered that the blocked stone would prove easier to ascend than the sage’s tower in Béarn, though difficult enough he would prefer other ways to escape from enemies, should such become necessary. As he studied old stone secured with mortar and slicked by moss, he caught sight of movement at the corner of his eye. Way up on the roof of a two-story dwelling, someone crouched in the shadows.

  Tae’s heart rate quickened. He continued his slow inspection, battling the urge to tense and crouch for defense. So long as the stranger believed himself unobserved, he might not bother Tae. More likely, the man or woman on the rooftop had more important business, and Tae had simply blundered into his way.

  Cued, Tae pretended to study the walls of the building, using peripheral vision to scan the rooftops. The maneuver made his eyes ache, but he discovered another figure on the rooftop. Then another. Within a moment, he had identified five, all small and delicate. Women, he guessed. Or youngsters. His heart pounded; he could hear the blood hammering in his ears. The need to flee became all-consuming, but he did not. Nothing drew predators faster than terror. Gingerly, without revealing his knowledge or fear, he headed toward the far end of the alley.

  Tae managed five steps before a sound at the alley’s entrance sent him spinning despite all attempts to remain casual. Three men blocked the way, every one swarthy and bearded. Easterners. Tae took a careful back-step. Then, the scrape of fabric against stone sheeted through the alleyway behind him. He turned halfway, reluctantly taking his eyes from the danger to assess more at the opposite end. There, two more large men stood between him and escape.

  Tae’s thoughts raced, but not quickly enough. The men marched toward him from both directions. Shadows draped their faces, hiding expression; but their stances conveyed the gloating triumph they now had a right to feel. They had him trapped, and Tae saw no way out. Desperately, he measured the alley, vision hawk-acute and heightened by danger. Scaling walls, even could he do so fast enough, would throw him directly into the hands of those stationed above. More likely, they would knock him down as he climbed, and he would plummet to a painful death. The idea of dying in that fashion squeezed at his chest until his breaths became labored. He would rather take a chance on dodging between those who closed around him on the ground.

  As his father’s enemies drew nearer, Tae found one more hope. The elements had battered a semicircular crack at the base of one of the buildings. Darkness hampered exploration, and his need to not broadcast his next move forced him to study it indirectly. He could not tell how far it extended, but wedging himself inside might gain him a temporary reprieve. With any luck, it would tunnel into the building, and he could escape from inside. If one who lived on the street used it as a sleeping hideout or bolt-hole, it likely led to another exit of some kind.

  The men drew nearer. Moonlight revealed identical smirks of pleasure. They would revel in his slaughter, and he would not die quickly.

  Tae gauged location and distance, keeping his gaze apparently focused on the walls. He had not revealed his knowledge of those stationed above. Therefore, the Easterners might expect him to climb. He could not stop his mind from pondering where and how they had gotten others to assist them. The beings he had glimpsed on the building roofs did not carry the bulk of grown men.

  “What do you want from me?” Tae shouted, hoping to alert the prince and his entourage. If Severin really wished to eliminate crime in Pudar’s streets, a distress call should draw him. Tae cursed himself for not thinking of the tactic sooner. In Stalmize, the city watch would as soon victimize him as assist, and calling for help displayed a weakness that would draw predators. He glided to the hole without looking at it, scrutinizing the wall as if seeking handholds.

  One of the men growled softly. “We want your life, Tae Kahn Weile’s son. And we will have it.” The circle tightened, all movement deliberate and unhurried. Many sounds touched Tae’s ears, amplified by fear. Beneath the normal night music, he heard a faint chant in dozens of voices in an airy, unfamiliar language. The clomp and click of the guards grew louder, approaching, he believed.

  Tae gritted his teeth, bathed in a sweat so cold his skin turned to gooseflesh. He pressed his back against the wall, feeling the jagged edges of the bolt-hole through his britches. Doubt gripped him; it might prove too small. He suppressed the urge to check. He had committed himself to using it. Warning enemies of his intentions would only doom the attempt to failure.

  The Easterners hemmed Tae against the wall, never taking their eyes from him. They had, apparently, orchestrated every detail. Their thoroughness shocked him. He had not believed them competent enough to delegate or coordinate so competently. The chanting continued, a distraction and a bother. His head throbbed in rhythm with the sound, and thought became difficult at a time he most needed it clear. One of the men made a sudden grab for Tae. Tae swiveled and dove for the opening.

  Laughter chased Tae, muffled to a mocking rumble. Already adjusted to near darkness, Tae’s vision showed him a long, straight route trickling into blackness. He could not surmise how far it would go; but it would, at least, take him beyond reach. For now, that was all he could hope for. He scrambled forward, and slammed his head into a clear partition. Glass? No other thought followed, as his mind shattered into pain and agony lanced down his neck. Momentarily stunned, he collapsed.

  Fingers closed over Tae’s ankle. Rough hands dragged hi
m from his hiding place and back into the alley. Stone abraded his face and tore his clothing. Dizzily, he raised his hands to protect his eyes, and a boot toe slammed against his ear. Pain flashed through his head in a white explosion. He scrambled desperately for grounding, but his vision disappeared and his mind worked sluggishly. More boots crashed into his sides and abdomen. His ears rang, the sound a deafening agony that formed a horrible harmony to chanting and laughter.

  Tae rolled, whipping his dagger from his pocket. He struck out in blind desperation. A foot hammered his now exposed face. His knife met resistance then came free, and warm blood splashed his hand. Someone cursed. A heel impacted Tae’s back, bowling him over. More from instinct than intent, Tae drew his feet under him and tried to stand. A dribble of vision returned, widening to encompass a blurry view of the alley. Shouts cut above the other sounds, in more than one language. Dazed, Tae could not find the necessary concentration to separate and interpret voices. Only escape mattered. He swung his dagger in desperate arcs, meeting flesh at least one more time. Then, a boot pounded his nose. He heard a crack and felt warm blood cascade down his face. The sensation of falling backward scarcely reached his senses before his head slammed the cobbles with an agony so intense it paralyzed him.

  Hands seized him again. Tae cared no longer. The battering lost meaning as the pain passed bearing. More heaped on too much; his body no longer registered any of it. He felt as if he floated through a dark, empty void. Only survival instinct kept him thrusting and sweeping wildly with the dagger. All sound became meaningless noise. At one point, he was aware of the dagger getting jerked from his hand. Then, mercifully, all awareness left him.

  * * *

  As Griff ducked and dodged the branches obscuring the pathway to the Grove, he remembered for the thousandth time this day how much he loved the summer. The leaves gliding past his nose smelled clean, and the damp scent of the creek drew him like his mother’s warm berry pie. Sunlight slanted through the trees, highlighting every twig. The foliage seemed alive with missy beetles, their tiny, black carapaces gleaming with every color of the rainbow. As the vibrations of Griff’s passage shook her web, a spotted spider raced to the edge.

  “Sorry,” Griff murmured cheerfully to the spider, gazing around his sanctuary the way a monarch surveys his kingdom. His voice startled a rabbit, and it scampered into the underbrush and was soon lost to sight. Ignoring his usual deadfall seat, Griff headed for the creek.

  Singing filled his ears, a gentle melody that rose and fell in steady cadence. The pattern confused him. It seemed too rigid and lengthy for birdsong, and he thought he could discern several different voices, flawlessly merged. He stood for several moments, head cocked, enjoying the distant music, whatever its source. Aristiri? Griff had heard of the breed of hawk that sang more beautifully than any songbird, yet he had never seen or heard one of the shy birds of prey. He made a mental note to ask Ravn about the sound as he continued his walk to the creek.

  Sunlight flashed from the water like jewels, and rocks on the bottom chopped its surface into wavelets. Scarcely wider than Griff’s arm, the creek twisted through the Grove, burbling its happy song. With a quick glance for Ravn, whom Griff did not see, the heir to Béarn’s throne plopped his bulk on the ground. He removed his work boots, then socks darned in several places. Barefoot, he approached the creek, eager to feel the cold water against his ankles and silt squishing between his massive toes. First, however, he knelt and drank from the crystal water. Though tasteless, the cold comfort soothed his throat and palate. He cupped his hands for another sip.

  Suddenly, a hand clamped over the back of his head, fingers digging into his scalp. Griff stiffened and tried to pull away, but a second hand joined the first. The intruder drove Griff’s face toward the water. “Stop!” Griff shouted, struggling to twist free as his nose breached the surface. Water filled his nostrils, its cold searing. He held his breath, managing to eel his body halfway around. But the hands still gripped his head, their weight more than he could bear. Lines of fire seemed to flow through his neck as his muscles strained to rescue his face.

  The intruder’s strength shocked Griff. He kicked and writhed as the water numbed his cheeks and eyes. He splashed, hands buried in silt, scrabbling for the purchase he needed to push back harder. Dislodged sand swam before his eyes.

  The hands shoved harder, body braced against his back. The thunk and roar of water beat against Griff’s ears, the sounds of his own fingers churning. Darkness hovered, threatening consciousness. His chest started to heave and ache, bucking against his control. Logically, he knew he could not breathe water, yet the desperate need to suck something, anything, into his lungs nearly overwhelmed him.

  Something cut the air over Griff’s head, the breeze of its passage a cold swish over one damp shoulder. The grip on his head went limp, and the body slid awkwardly sideways from his back. No longer opposed, Griff surged free of the creek, throat gasping open too early. He sucked a combination of water and air into his lungs, collapsing to the shore in a desperate fit of choking. Warm liquid splattered his back.

  A thump shook the ground, and Griff twisted to look. A body sprawled near his feet, red-pink blood spilling from its throat. Another pinned him. He wriggled from beneath it, and it flopped lifelessly aside. Only then, he noticed the severed head that seemed to stare at him from the creek with glazed, yellow eyes. Griff tried to scream, but only hoarse, gagging noises emerged. Bile bubbled up in his stomach, and he vomited. Steel chimed against steel, shattering the sanctity of his clearing. Still retching, Griff turned his attention to this new sound. A blur of gold and silver fought a desperate battle against four.

  Ravn. Griff recognized his benefactor at once. Sick and dizzied, he lurched to his feet. Ravn? Mistrusting his own sanity, he charged the battle, scarcely daring to internalize the sight of his “imaginary” friend battling creatures out of nightmare. Even as he covered the distance between them, guts still pinched and heaving, Ravn took down two more with strokes impossibly agile. Griff’s eyes could not follow a sword so swift it became invisible, and the enemies, though delicate, seemed cloddish in comparison.

  Griff slammed into one of the strangers, his bulk sending the other staggering backward. Ravn pulled a stroke at the last desperate second, barking a profanity. He ran his opponent through before turning his attention to the one Griff had knocked sprawling.

  Fast as an animal, the stranger scrambled toward a copse.

  “Don’t let him get away!” Ravn screamed, the command in his voice too driving to ignore.

  Griff dove on the last of his enemies, squashing him beneath his tremendous weight. The stranger fought in a panicked frenzy, tiny fists slamming Griff’s side with surprising strength, feet kicking air wildly.

  Ravn drew up beside Griff. Despite the chaos of battle, his breaths came easily. Dark pink rivulets twined over sword and hand, dripping to the ground. The stranger stopped thrashing, eyes following the drip of his companions’ blood. “Let him up.”

  Griff complied, nausea transforming to dizziness. The water still grated in his airways, and he coughed repeatedly.

  Ravn placed his sword at the stranger’s throat, waiting for Griff to stand clear. Blood dribbled from the tip, straining pink-red lines across his neck. Smooth eyes, like gems, locked on Ravn’s face; and the strangeness of the features finally reached Griff’s awareness.

  Griff stepped back farther, throat on fire from inhaling gritty water as well as the acid from his vomit. He tasted blood, though he doubted it was his own. His soaked clothes clung to his skin, and strangers’ blood matted his hair into sticky clumps.

  “Griff, go clean up,” Ravn commanded without taking his eyes from his captive.

  Griff hesitated, surprised by Ravn’s tone as well as his request. “Do you . . . ?” he started, but Ravn waved him silent impatiently.

  “Do as I ask. Looking like that, you’ll scare your mother to death.”

  Griff knew Ravn spoke literal truth. Thr
eat against her only remaining child might shock his mother to her grave. Obediently, he headed for the creek. He had gotten only halfway, when a sound like the dying scream of a rabbit pierced his spine. He froze, whirling in time to see Ravn jerk his sword from the still body below him. No! Fear, sorrow, and confusion seized Griff at once, and he collapsed to the ground. The intensity of all that had happened battered at his conscience, crippling him into immobility. Ravn looked as ephemeral as always, and the not-quite-human forms and visages added to the illusion. Was all that had happened real, or a figment of a nasty corner of my imagination? The idea that such could exist inside his head seemed an insanity he dared not long consider. He forced a shaking hand to his head, feeling the globs of blood, smelling their rancid smell. Real, no doubt. And Ravn, too.

  Griff half-crawled and half-dragged himself to the creek to wash. The time for contemplation would come. For now, he needed to do as Ravn said, then leave the beloved Grove that could no longer serve as a sanctuary. Ravn, too, would never seem the same.

  Chapter 25

  The Lifers’ Cell

  There is no law, at least not one Odin enforces, that says a man always has to act by gods’ intentions.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Tae Kahn awakened to pain grinding and hammering through his head and body. He gathered his limbs, the movement inflaming the agony to a savage bonfire. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming and barely noticed the discomfort that seemed so puny in comparison. The metallic taste of old blood sent bile churning through his stomach. He managed to hold back the scream, but a tight moan escaped his lips.