Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Baltraine sighed, anticipating forthcoming events. Surely, pages would visit as the ministers fell ill, and frequent progress reports would follow. Likely, the healers would insist on plying him with cures despite his insistence that he felt fine and had eaten very little of his share of the council’s feast. Many details would come between him and his charge, including the necessities of Béarn’s daily routine. At least, the murders of the key officials would disrupt audiences and court proceedings. Nonessentials could wait. No one would expect the prime minister to conduct usual business while those of import died around him and he, too, had been a target of unknown assassins.

  Dh’arlo’mé slid to the floor, then straightened fully, his angular face strangely animal within the darkness cast by the hood. “It would prove best, I believe, to feign my arrival tonight or tomorrow. Even a mysterious healer rumored to possess magical powers should not arrive from Pudar without evidence of travel.”

  “True,” Baltraine chimed in quickly. Peasants and nobles would accept Dh’arlo’mé’s ability to heal a dying king; their desire for King Kohleran would surely allow them to discard the impossibility of his recovering from his illness. But it seemed prudent to have Dh’arlo’mé seem to arrive from the great trading city in the usual fashion. “I’ll make those arrangements now.” He considered a moment longer. “It might prove best to arrange for it to happen under cover of darkness. Fewer witnesses if we make a mistake.”

  Dh’arlo’mé accepted the explanation without comment. “Is there anything else you believe we should do?”

  Something niggled at Baltraine’s mind, a spark he had not quite stamped out, one that had already twice caught him off guard and stirred guilt he had not believed he harbored. “One thing more. The castle temple serves as a rallying place for humans. Nothing could crush the human spirit more than destroying the very symbol of their faith.”

  Dh’arlo’mé did not question. For his knowledge of humans, he relied wholly on those few he paid. “Very well, then. Tomorrow, we destroy the temple.”

  Chapter 34

  The Balance Wavers

  The first rule of fighting: You always attack! The best defense is to have your opponent bleeding on the ground.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Harval sliced spirals through Asgard’s pleasant air, Colbey guiding the blade with such speed that only the occasional glimmer of sun off steel betrayed its presence. As always, he dedicated his practice to his goddess, Sif, though she found the unwavering faith of a colleague ludicrous. Colbey did not care. To allow familiarity to dilute his faith might mean losing the absolute devotion to sword and goddess that had driven him to become his best. Every day, his skills improved; anything less meant failure. Becoming the best swordsman in the world, now all the worlds, never mattered. He would not compare himself to others. Only the betterment of self held significance; and, aside from family, it would remain the only important focus of his universe.

  Colbey’s mind disappeared into a familiar part of himself as he battled thousands of imaginary enemies at once. Though each thrust would surely have brought down any mortal, he took care to pretend as many of his strokes missed their mark. Since the Ragnarok, Colbey had no opponents to battle other than those in his mind. Therefore, he created ones worthy of his greatest efforts. After all, he gave them nothing less. Yet, this time, something felt wrong. The perfect timing of his strokes remained, yet the blade did not land with its usual immediacy. Though subtle, the change disturbed Colbey, prickling at the contentment that had accompanied his practices since his tiny, infant hand could first close around a sword. The sword was only a tool; he was the wielder. Though magic kept its edge eternally sharp and it contained the essences of Law and Chaos, it had never changed or influenced his skill. He had ascertained that prior to agreeing to wield it. No Renshai would allow a lifeless piece of steel to control him or influence his defense or ability. Only a Renshai’s own skill would determine death or victory. He would rather die in withering agony than allow armor or helmet to fend a single blow for him.

  Immersed in his practice, Colbey no longer felt the eternal sunshine beaming down on his face or the gentle breeze that wound through perfect trees to caress him and dry the sweat nearly as quickly as it formed. The brilliant, uninterrupted blue of Asgard’s sky was lost on this swordsman who had eyes for nothing but his own created enemies and his sword. But the presence of another in his practice clearing drew his attention instantly. Nothing, not even a sword practice, could blind Colbey to a potential threat.

  Without pausing for an instant, Colbey identified and dismissed the newcomer as Frey’s servant, Byggvir. He traveled unarmed, and he meant Colbey no harm. Colbey continued his svergelse without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to the other. The gods understood better than anyone the intensity of a Renshai’s practice, and their servants should know not to interrupt.

  But Byggvir dared a feat no mortal would. He waited in polite silence for what seemed only a few moments to Colbey, though far more had actually passed. Then he called to Colbey. “Lord? Lord Kyndig!”

  Still Colbey continued, refusing to allow the voice to upset his concentration. Ordinarily, he could have ignored the servant entirely, but the sudden strangeness of the sword he had wielded for longer than three hundred years made him distractible. By the third call of his name, Colbey lowered his sword, reined his temper, and glared at the young blond who studied him with nervous blue eyes.

  “I’m very sorry to bother you, Lord.” Byggvir met Colbey’s blue-gray stare briefly, then looked away quickly. “Very, very sorry.”

  Colbey sheathed his sword, saying nothing. He refused to speculate, only hoped, for Byggvir’s sake, that the need justified the transgression.

  Byggvir bowed politely. “Lord Vidar called a meeting in the Great Hall. He requests your presence.”

  “Thank you,” Colbey said, not bothering to soften his gaze. His hands balled to fists at his sides, needing a practice now more than before. He needed to work off the aggression that rose naturally at the interruption of a Renshai’s svergelse. Without awaiting further details, he returned his attention to his sword work, still troubled by the tiny imperfections where none should exist. Something about Harval had changed.

  Byggvir remained in place, obviously uncertain about Colbey’s plans yet reluctant to disturb him again. For a long moment he stayed, wrestling with the decision. Then, apparently deciding he had performed his duty, he left further action in Colbey’s hands and headed from the clearing.

  Colbey did not bother to watch Byggvir go. His concentration returned to the world only warriors understood. Too committed to his sword work to let anything disrupt it, he did not contemplate Byggvir’s words but let them disappear into memory until such time as he needed them. After his practice.

  The blade circled and flew around Colbey, never in one position long enough for the eye to register. The deadly devil dance continued, more graceful than any acrobat and more lethal than fire. But still, the balance felt slightly wrong. The blade always became a steel extension of his arm, but now it seemed as if that limb had sustained an injury.

  Colbey wanted to work until the sword felt proper again and the practice lived up to the necessary improvement of the day. But Byggvir’s message wormed its way deeper into the conscious portion of his thoughts, displacing concentration at intervals that grew shorter with time. With a sigh of resignation, Colbey sheathed the blade again, straightened his garments, and headed from the clearing. He did not bother to go home to change or to gather his family. His delay would surely make him the latest even of gods whose patience he had learned to tolerate, if not appreciate, over the centuries. Freya and Ravn would already be there, the former making excuses for his tardiness and the latter overwhelmed by his first meeting.

  Colbey’s long strides took him swiftly across the area between his practice clearing and the Great Hall, though they seemed infantile in the wake of gods more than half again his height. The scener
y scarcely changed, Asgard’s balmy weather and symmetrical trees flawless but also difficult to differentiate. Colbey paid no attention to his surroundings. His mind sped ahead to the reason for Vidar’s concern, and only two possibilities came to mind. Either a situation Colbey knew nothing about had come to light, or Vidar had become worried over the events on Midgard. Either way, it seemed unnecessary to speculate further. Colbey would know the truth soon enough.

  Colbey’s walk brought him to the squat, massive structure that served as the gods’ meeting hall. Walls of silver rose to a ceiling of gold, inlaid with jewels of every hue. These sparkled and glittered in the sunlight. Every movement of Colbey’s brought different ones into his view, and they seemed to wink like the thousand eyes of a shimmering monster. Constructed from the wealth given by their followers, it represented every metal, stone, and object valuable on Midgard. Colbey drew open the heavy teak door, and a border of diamonds split light into wild spirals of color. He eased the panel closed behind him, then looked out over the room.

  Though once the site of the gods’ greatest feasts and merriment, the Great Hall on Asgard now seemed sterile and unwelcoming. Three hundred years had failed to ease the stiffness of every meeting since the Ragnarok. In the immediate wake of the Destruction of the Gods, they had gathered frequently, repairing damage, re-creating, and mourning the loss of relatives and friends. The gods and goddesses had taken their accustomed seats, deliberately avoiding those that once belonged to the dead. The arrangement went beyond silly to inconvenient as it forced them, at times, to shout over half a dozen empty chairs.

  Now, Colbey noticed, the gods and goddesses had chosen their seats more from convenience than habit. They clustered at one end of the table, sitting on either side, the only remaining sign of deference the head seat that remained unoccupied. They had never dared cross Odin when he lived, and the gods’ fear of the Terrible One had, apparently, extended even three centuries beyond his death. Colbey smiled. He had no similar compunction. Although he would have preferred Vidar to take the high seat, the new leader of the gods had chosen not to do so.

  Every eye shifted to Colbey as he entered, and the dull rumble of conversation died to silence. As he suspected, he had arrived last. Colbey studied the others as he entered. Vidar and Vali sat together. Though half brothers, sons of Odin, they little resembled one another. Vali, Colbey guessed, favored his giantess mother since Vidar looked much like Odin. However, he lacked the aura of cruel danger and mysterious wisdom that seemed to radiate from Odin like a mantle. Whether one so gentle could prove as strong still remained to be seen.

  Opposite Vidar and Vali sat the once-dead god, Balder and blind Hod, the brother tricked into killing him. In his first life, Balder had been the most beautiful of the gods. Time and experience had stolen youth, innocence, and some of his handsomeness. Now, Frey’s straight eyes, sculpted jaw, and high cheekbones gave competition where they once could not. That Frey had chosen to sit so close, with only Balder’s wife Nanna between them, brought appearances more clearly to light. Colbey did not bother to contrast. The attractiveness of other men meant nothing to him, and no one could compare to the radiance of his own wife, Freya, who sat beside her brother. Colbey could not help grinning. Even after a marriage longer than human comprehension, he still felt like the luckiest man alive.

  Freya returned Colbey’s smile. Her shapely lips, softly-contoured face, and ivory complexion, that somehow avoided looking sallow, defined loveliness, not only for Colbey, but for all of Midgard. Their very religion designated ultimate beauty by using the name of this goddess. He had seen renditions of her by the finest artists, yet none came close to matching her perfection. The hair that tumbled to her back outshone the roof, and even the pure gold that had come to replace Sif’s tresses could not compete. The gods had chosen the impeccable blue of their sky to match the ideal shade of Freya’s eyes.

  Ravn sat beside Freya and next to Thor’s son, Modi. His brother, Magni, had claimed the opposite seat, so that they sat at either hand of the head seat. Idunn and Sigyn, Bragi’s widow and Loki’s, completed the symmetry.

  No chairs remained near his family, so Colbey chose to sit between his half brothers. That this placed him in Odin’s seat did not cause so much as a twinge of discomfort—at least not for him. As he settled into Odin’s chair, the hush among the other deities grew even more intense, colored by a general restlessness that seemed to seep down the lines of gods and goddesses. Colbey glanced at the others expectantly. He would have looked directly at Vidar, but too many occupied the space between them and every one had placed his or her head in his way. The few whispers he heard remained too distant and garbled to decipher, but his mind powers told him many believed him arrogant or impertinent and in need of discipline. He did not care, seeing himself as a necessary divergence from the oppressive laws and habits that tended to cripple them into inaction. Once, Loki had compared Colbey to himself. The Renshai found it nearly impossible to believe himself akin to the champion of chaos, the gods’ enemy, the villain of every story he had heard since birth. Now, however, he saw the comparison. This new age did not require extremes, like those Loki and Odin had personified, not since dishonor, lies, and betrayal had become a regular part of the human repertoire. But Colbey had become the catalyst for change that otherwise might occur way too slowly to benefit anyone.

  Vidar cleared his throat, which shifted the attention to him. “We’re all here. Now we can commence.” He paused, but no one moved or spoke. “I’m concerned about the events taking place on Midgard. The balance is in jeopardy.”

  “The balance?” Idunn repeated. Attention shifted back to Colbey. They all knew who Odin had designated to guard the delicate symmetry between law and chaos, good and evil.

  Colbey weathered the gods’ stares without discomfort or comment. Prior to the Ragnarok, the gods had seemed frightening and immense, a power that terrified as well as ruled. Odin’s single eye pierced games and guises; the shadowed face beneath his broad-brimmed hat had yielded nothing of himself in return. Thor’s wild rages could send them all cowering in fear. Though quieter, Heimdall and Tyr had seemed to radiate honor and courage. Loki’s sly malevolence came out in his every action; even his voice had conjured images of slimy rocks in putrid streams.

  The new order contained little of that directed power. Loki had said extremism would die with the Ragnarok, including himself. Colbey had not anticipated how human it would make these others seem in comparison. He tempered his thoughts with consideration, wondering how much of his assessment came of true failing and how much from the contempt familiarity can so swiftly create. Eventually, he guessed, Modi and Magni would demonstrate more of their father’s rage. The quest for wisdom and the price he might pay for it would turn Vidar more and more like his father. But if they truly followed in the wake of their parents, might that not cause the need for a second Ragnarok to purge the heavens of another wave of fanaticism. And will I join them? Will I become another Loki? Colbey spurned the thought. In his mortal years, he had clung to balance even when the greatest forces of the world condemned him for it. His belief in and dedication to balance would never waver, just as his faith in his sword arm would not wither.

  Oblivious to Colbey’s concerns, Vidar continued. “If Midgard continues on her current course, she will surely flounder. The other worlds will sink with her. Including our own.”

  Murmured discussions followed the pronouncement, but Colbey did not bother to listen to any of it. Predicted threats could not harm them, only actual ones. Odin had paid with his eye and his mercy for wisdom, including some knowledge of the future. Through him, the gods had gotten advance warning of many events; they had prepared for the inevitability of the Ragnarok for aeons. Yet, now that it had come and passed, no prophecies remained. Men and gods had no choice but to live each day as it came, in ignorance. Mankind had adapted quickly, as each succeeding generation had fewer, then no, personal memories of living any other way. The gods clearly found such
ignorance a burden.

  “You’re talking in generalities.” Vali did not hesitate to challenge his half brother. “Exactly what will happen if the balance skews too far?”

  Vidar gestured at Colbey, deferring to the Keeper of the Balance.

  Colbey obliged, his knowledge limited. What he did not know as certainty, he speculated. “It depends on the direction of the imbalance. Toward good, mankind would become too preoccupied with assisting others to attend their own needs. Only the weak would survive, and those not for long. Toward evil, total concern for personal desires would have a similar end, though bloodier, of course. I do not know how that would affect Asgard, but I won’t wait to find out.” Colbey made it clear he felt ties to mankind at least as strong. “Toward law, their world, then eventually all worlds, would stagnate into oblivion. Time would cease to pass, and everything would remain locked in position and place. Toward chaos, as now, total destruction of all remaining worlds would ensue.”

  A polite silence followed, and an array of emotions bombarded Colbey. He did not waste time sorting their sources. He nodded toward Vidar to return the floor.

  Modi spoke first. His pale eyes narrowed, and his orange beard seemed to bristle. He placed a hand on the stem of Thor’s hammer, Mjollnir, where it perched on the table between himself and his brother. “How would that destruction happen? We’ve defeated the forces of chaos.”

  Colbey shrugged, ignorant of the details. “I don’t know. I can only assume new chaos-creatures would arise. Given the volatility of chaos, one never knows. If any of us could predict chaos, I’d worry.” The question deserved serious consideration. The abbreviated version of Ragnarok that had occurred had had well-defined causes. Colbey did not have enough information to propose details this time.