Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “I do know that,” Matrinka admitted, though her voice conveyed nothing more positive. “But it depends on the cause. Some of the cures for one could be disastrous for others.”

  “Oh,” Ra-khir said, uncertain where to take the conversation. He suspected details would only confuse him, and he could now see where inexactness could take far more study than distinct facts. If every malady had a simple answer, becoming a healer would not require so much schooling. “So what do we do now?”

  “All I can do is support her and hope.”

  “And her chances?”

  Matrinka shrugged, the moisture suddenly blurring her dark eyes all the answer he needed.

  Ra-khir remained in place, listening to the rising and falling trill of insects and desperately trying not to imagine the world continuing without Kevral. He felt as if sorrow was carving a hole in his chest. Soon, it would leave nothing but a dark emptiness and pain where his heart had once beat. “What if I gathered some details about the poison?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Tae said he thought he’d seen those berries in some of the clearings we passed recently. If it’s common in these parts, someone might know how to treat it.”

  Matrinka looked up, her expression momentarily hopeful. Then she shook her head. “We don’t know where to find people here. And even if we did, we’d have to deal with killers on the road. And then, what would be the likelihood that you’d find a healer?”

  “I’ll find one.” Ra-khir steeled himself, determined to locate a healer or die in the attempt. He could not stand by helplessly while Kevral died. Neither love nor honor would allow it, and the guilt would haunt him to the end of his own life. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  Matrinka’s grip tightened on his hand. “No, Ra-khir. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m leaving in the morning,” Ra-khir affirmed, surrendering no opening for argument. “Thank you for—”

  “Don’t thank me!” Matrinka interrupted. “I won’t take responsibility for a bad decision.” Her attitude changed from assertive to pleading. “Please don’t go. Kevral may recover on her own. I don’t want to lose you both to a bleak quest without much chance for success.”

  “I’m going,” Ra-khir finished emphatically. “It’s for the best.”

  Matrinka clearly did not agree, but she did not voice her opposition again. “We could all go.”

  “No.” The idea rankled. “First, we don’t have the time to spare. Second, I can move faster by myself. And third, one man alone is far less likely to draw the hostility or interest of highwaymen.”

  “And far less likely to survive an attack,” Matrinka reasoned.

  “I can avoid them.”

  “Not as well as Tae can.”

  The words sent a stab of irritation through Ra-khir. Unwilling to consider the matter carefully enough to decide whether his discomfort stemmed from jealousy over Kevral or annoyance at the intimation that Tae could perform the job better, Ra-khir shoved his feelings aside. Either emotion was negative, and a Knight of Erythane did not allow such things to interfere with thought or action. “Tae could get there easier, but he looks too much like the people who ambushed us. Western townsfolk won’t talk to an Easterner, especially if he comes demanding information about a local poison. An Erythanian knight-in-training, they’ll trust.”

  Matrinka nodded, the words undeniably true. The valor of the Knights of Erythane had long been legend throughout the West.

  “You keep moving south. I’ll catch up.”

  “If I can’t talk you out of it, I can only wish you good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please,” Matrinka said, finally letting go of Ra-khir’s hand. “Don’t thank me.”

  * * *

  The day dawned bright, sunlight warm and blinding through the branches. Ra-khir waited only long enough to ascertain that Kevral still had not urinated before heading for the horses. Matrinka could explain his mission after he left. He did not want the others to interfere.

  When Ra-khir reached the horses, however, he immediately noticed a new one among them. A familiar white charger grazed placidly beside Kevral’s gelding. Frost Reaver? Ra-khir glanced around quickly, seeing no sign of the old Renshai who had spoken with Kevral such a short time ago. The stallion looked up as Ra-khir approached, whinnying a greeting. He trotted to Ra-khir’s side, nuzzling his arm.

  “Hello, handsome.” Ra-khir greeted the animal with gentle strokes across the muzzle and down to the velvety nose. He glanced over the graceful arch of its neck, seeking his own mount, which seemed to have disappeared. Ra-khir’s brow furrowed as he glanced from Tae’s dark brown to Darris’ nervous bay to Kevral’s bay and Matrinka’s chestnut. Ra-khir’s horse was not among them.

  Ra-khir attempted to walk around Frost Reaver, but the stallion followed his movement, looping back into his path. He called for his mount, a long, high-pitched whistle that used to bring his gray running. The heads of all four brown horses rose, but the fifth did not appear. Concern arose, beaten back by a force in Ra-khir’s mind that he could not name. Somehow, he knew his horse was well and would not come to any call. He studied Frost Reaver. The wide nostrils and the broad depth of chest promised stamina, while the muscular legs and rump guaranteed speed. The arching neck and delicate head added a beauty that seemed too much to expect from an animal with so many practical virtues. Sunlight slanted through the treetops, and all the rays seemed to converge in rainbow patterns around the great stallion. Though he knew it a trick of the light, Ra-khir caught his breath. The knowledge that he would someday own a horse like this one sparked joy and a little pride. He suppressed the latter, still believing himself one of the luckiest men in the world.

  Hoping he read Colbey’s intentions correctly, Ra-khir slipped his bridle over the white’s head. Reaver stood still, accepting leather and bit without complaint. Encouraged, Ra-khir added his saddle. The stallion remained in place through all the adjustments and tugging. Finally, Ra-khir prepared to mount. Here, he hesitated. It seemed sacrilege to clamber onto the back of a god’s horse without his express permission; yet, clearly, the god had intended him to do exactly that. Ra-khir took the stallion’s presence as a sign Colbey had sanctioned a mission that Matrinka believed madness. Whether the god actually supported his idea or had simply found a way to make him faster, Ra-khir did not speculate. Riding up on a white charger, he would have no difficulty convincing any Westerner that he was, already, a Knight of Erythane.

  Ra-khir considered the deceit inherent in such an action. Guilt trickled through him at the thought of misleading others into believing him a full-fledged knight before his testing, yet he saw the need for such an innocent and subtle ruse. He would never consider calling himself anything more than a knight apprentice, but townsfolk would likely not know or be interested in such details. He would not be tricking them, merely allowing them their expectations.

  Having convinced himself, Ra-khir placed a foot in the stirrup. Before he could swing aboard, a hand clasped his shoulder.

  Surprised by the sudden contact, Ra-khir tensed and hurriedly returned his foot to the ground. He spun, expecting to confront an enraged Renshai. Instead, he met all too familiar features.

  “Head southeast,” Tae suggested. “There’re farms that way and maybe a small village or two. That’ll keep you partially on the same course as us, so you’ll only have to make a triangle instead of covering the same ground. You’re more likely to catch up sooner that way. And we’re likely to need you.” Tae raised his brows slightly to emphasize the dependence he would not have admitted scant weeks ago. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  Ra-khir started a “no” that he stifled. A swift and negative response would offend a man with whom he had spent far too long developing a friendship both had initially resisted. “Someone has to keep the others out of trouble.”

  “Right.” Tae glanced back to the camp. “I’ll be watching for your return, you know, so don’
t go killing everything that startles you.”

  Ra-khir smiled. “I’m not Kevral.”

  Tae chuckled, though it sounded strained. “Good luck, Red. I mean that.”

  “I know you do.” Ra-khir pitched his words to reassure. Tae had as much resting on his success as he did, though he could scarcely have blamed the young Easterner for hoping Ra-khir died and Kevral survived the poison without him.

  Frost Reaver took off at a ground-eating lope so smooth it scarcely felt like movement. Tae had mentioned nothing about the horse, but Ra-khir was certain the wily Easterner had noticed. Though he rarely revealed his knowledge, those quick, brown eyes missed nothing.

  Soon, all thoughts of Tae left Ra-khir’s mind as he concentrated on the sights around him. The trees whipped past. Any lesser horse would have balked at racing through virgin territory, but Frost Reaver continued his rapid, quick-footed movement without protest. It seemed more as if he chose their way, though he responded instantly to Ra-khir’s commands and shifts in direction. Uncertain whether the animal had some divine means of avoiding bad terrain or just total trust in his rider, Ra-khir paid close attention to the footing. He would not let any animal come to harm under his care, especially not one belonging to a god and that also represented every facet on which he based his honor and his life. So he steered, with or without need, protecting the pink hooves from jutting roots, holes, and irregularities. When he dared to take his eyes from their path, he scanned the horizon for any sight of habitation. In the East, he could never have ridden a few horse lengths without running into a crowded city or a farmer’s field. In the more sparsely populated West, however, he knew he could ride for a day without seeing land belonging to anyone. Once they crossed the divide onto the barren salt flats called the Western Plains, he knew he could never find help.

  Within a few hours, the forest thinned to locusts, poplar, and spindly binyal trees. Frost Reaver dodged a copse of thistle and emerged abruptly into full daylight glistening from straight rows of wilting vines. The harvest had come and gone, and the vines still clung tenaciously to stakes and one another. The distant, mellow lowing of cows reached Ra-khir’s ears like music. He headed toward the sound, trusting Frost Reaver to remain on the paths between the crops, though nothing remained to salvage.

  The noise became more distinct with every step. The short, contented moos seemed out of place after the sudden and brutal violence that had torn their party. Soon, the animals became visible as brown and white mounds shifting amidst scanty trees in an otherwise open pasture. Beyond them, he saw a gray barn so faded it seemed to disappear against the horizon and, beside it, a small cottage.

  Ra-khir shifted direction to skirt the pasture. The cows ignored Frost Reaver as thoroughly as he did them; only four of the two dozen odd animals even raised their heads. Ra-khir kept his attention fixed on the little house. His heart pounded a loud, slow cadence that quickened the nearer he drew to the buildings. Shortly, he would discover the distance and difficulty of his course to the nearest healer.

  As Ra-khir rode past the barn, a clatter inside stopped him. Turning Frost Reaver, he headed back toward its broad opening. Massive hinges supported a heavy, open door probably closed only in the worst weather. The sweet odor of straw and the fresher, greener smell of hay wafted cleanly to his nose.

  Inside, beams supported a peaked roof, and wooden ledges around the walls held tools of myriad shapes and sizes. A plump, gray-haired woman hauled piles of empty buckets, shooing away four mewling cats with her free hand. The animals ignored her gestures, twining around her ankles. Despite the obvious weight of the buckets, she seemed to have no difficulty carrying them, aside from the presence of the cats hampering every step.

  “Hello, good lady,” Ra-khir called cheerfully.

  The woman glanced up, sun-wrinkled face peering through stray strands of hair that had escaped from her bun. “Well, hello.” She studied him. A polite smile grew gradually, as if she wanted to welcome him but wrestled suspicion.

  Ra-khir believed it best to ease her concerns as swiftly as possible. “I am Ra-khir of Erythane, son of Knight-Captain Kedrin and apprentice knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Kohleran.”

  “A knight?” The woman did not wait for confirmation. “Oh, dear. It’s worse than I thought.”

  “What’s worse?” Ra-khir asked with growing alarm.

  “I isn’t exactly sure.” The woman set down her buckets and wiped grimy hands on the hem of her shift. “First, there was them stories of people what disappeared or got chased away while travelin’. Then, people stopped comin’. Even the youngster what delivers my milk to the village isn’t been here in more’n a week.”

  Though relieved to find it a problem he already knew about, Ra-khir worried for the far-reaching consequences he had not yet considered. With a field of crops and a herd of cows, this farm family seemed unlikely to starve. But he grew alarmed for all the people cut off from necessities by the halt in trade. Although he hated to be blunt, Ra-khir did not have time for small talk. “I’m looking for a healer, good lady. Where can I find one?”

  “Pudar?” the woman suggested unhelpfully, then laughed. “When you live so far from your neighbors, there isn’t no time to haul folks around when they’s sick or hurt. You got to know some basic remedies at least.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, from thoughtful concern not suspicion. “One of yours get cut up by those hoodlums?”

  “Yes,” Ra-khir returned, seeing no need to supply details about the actual injury. “But we can handle that. It’s this we don’t know how to fix.” He removed the vial of berries from his pocket, dismounted, and headed toward the woman with his arm extended.

  The woman waited patiently for his approach, without a touch of fear. Ra-khir attributed her courage to his status as a knight and blessed the reputation for kindness and heroism they had gained over the centuries. It rescued him from the need to convince while Kevral slipped nearer to death. Frost Reaver remained quietly in place. Ra-khir trusted the horse not to stray.

  Eventually, Ra-khir drew near enough for the woman to take the vial from him. She reached out a hand, and Ra-khir dropped it into her palm. She studied the berries, first the warped image the glass allowed. Then she removed the cork and examined the contents through the top. She nodded sagely, then dumped two of the purple berries into her hand.

  Ra-khir stiffened, uncertain how the poison took effect. It seemed unlikely that simply touching a berry would harm her, yet he dared not allow her to take such a chance. “Careful,” he warned. “They’re poisonous.”

  The woman looked up from the berries to meet Ra-khir’s gaze. Soft, blue eyes danced with a surprising amount of life, and she giggled like an adolescent. “Did you think I was going to eat them?”

  “No. Of course not.” Ra-khir hoped he had not offended her. “I’m just not sure how poisonous they are. Our healer never saw anything like them.”

  “Pissweed.” She dumped the berries back into their container. “Least that’s what we call it. I’m sure it’s got a fancy name, too. Grows ’round here occasional. Least once a year, one of the cows gets a few mouthfuls.”

  Excitement flashed through Ra-khir. “What happens to them?” He winced, afraid to hear the reply.

  “Oh, their mouths swell up pretty bad, and it hurts them, too, by the way they act. If they get enough, their whole neck swells, and they strangulate.” She studied Ra-khir and the effect her words were having on him before continuing. “Most of the time, though, that don’t happen. Then, they stagger around, maybe fall down. Maybe die. If they lives through that then, about a day or so later . . .”

  Ra-khir hung on every word.

  “. . . one of a few things happens. Can be nothin’. Or they starts pissin’ constantly or not at all. Or they gets blood in their water. That’s why we calls it pissweed.”

  “What do you do for them?” Ra-khir asked through a mouth that had gone painfully dry. Though he fea
red the answer, he desperately needed it.

  “Depends. If they’s goin’ all the time, you gots to make sure they’s got water all the time. They goes through bucket after bucket, and you can’t let it get dry. Seems obvious now, but it tooked me a long time to figure that one out. If you don’t keep up, they dies. The ones what bleed, I isn’t figured out how to help them yet, ’cept they seems to do better with grass than grain, and if you salt the hay, you always lose them. They seems to do better with lots of water, too. Their piss either gets clearer till they gets better or bloodier till they dies.”

  Ra-khir refrained from rushing the woman, letting her come to the cows in Kevral’s situation in her own time. He nodded vigorously to indicate that he was listening.

  “The ones what stops pissin’, they’s the hardest.”

  Ra-khir choked back a groan.

  “Took me forever to get this figured out. Lost several good ones to not knowing.”

  Come on. Come on. Ra-khir resisted any words or gestures that would demonstrate the impatience that made every instant a torment.

  “Those ones you don’t let drink even though they wants to. Water’s like more poison to them. Grain hurts them, too. I either don’t feed them at all or sticks to grass.”

  “What usually happens to them?”

  “With that treatment? ’bout half live. I loses the others within a day or two.”

  A day or two? Desperation exploded through Ra-khir, and the realization that he had given Kevral a drink from his own supply only worsened the terror. “And there’s no antidote?”

  “None that I knows of,” the woman admitted. “But I isn’t a healer.”

  “Thank you, good lady,” Ra-khir said, scrambling back to Frost Reaver with a haste that grazed the edges of rudeness. He did not bother to waste time taking back the vial. “You’ve helped immensely.”

  The woman’s reply disappeared into the rustle of movement as Ra-khir swung Frost Reaver around and pounded back the way he had come. He believed he heard a “good luck” beneath the clamor. Luck may not prove enough this time. Frantic worry kept him low over Frost Reaver’s neck as they passed around the pasture, through the field, to the woods; and he resisted the urge to quicken the charger’s pace. The steady lope was already too fast for the terrain, but Ra-khir knew he needed to return before Kevral drank too much. Kevral’s life hinged on Frost Reaver’s speed.