Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  With this in mind, Ra-khir hauled back on the reins. Obediently, the horse stopped, the knight-in-training leaping from the saddle before the hooves came fully still. Tearing a young locust the width of his wrist from the soil by the roots, he carved off branches and roots with brisk flicks of his knife blade. Remounting, he carved a point on his crude spear while Frost Reaver continued his smooth, rolling gait. Once finished, Ra-khir redirected the white charger toward the road.

  The horse complied without hesitation, whisking in an arc toward the means of open travel. Once on the packed earth, he stretched his long legs into a level run that seemed more like flight. The pace lanced a shock of fear through Ra-khir, emptying his mind of other purpose; and he did nothing but cling to saddle and spear for several moments. The white mane whipped into his face, stinging; and air thundered through his ears. Then, gradually, he shed his apprehension. Excitement torrented in to fill the gap. As a child, he had wondered how a bird might feel, arrowing through the clouds at a speed he could only imagine. Now, he felt certain he knew. Wind funneled through mail and lashed his cloak into a wild dance. The feeling seemed to define a freedom he never realized existed.

  Then reality intruded in the form of three Easterners who stepped into the path in front of him. Determination hardened Ra-khir’s thoughts. He did not have to hear them speak threats to know they meant him harm. He lowered his spear until it jutted ahead of Frost Reaver’s nose. The charger jerked slightly as the pole appeared suddenly in his right-side vision, the discrepancy a barely discernible bump in the stallion’s movement. Reaver lowered his head, his pace quickening to a rocketing gallop that shocked Ra-khir who believed the horse had already been racing at its topmost speed. He crouched, low and tight to Reaver’s neck.

  The Easterners scurried aside, and the horse charged harmlessly through the opening. Ra-khir dared not revel in this minor victory. More would surely come, but he would not let them slow him. His mission was too vital to interrupt, and anyone who deliberately stepped into his way deserved the suicide they chose. This time, he would let no one stop him.

  The next attempt came sooner than Ra-khir expected. Within a dozen strides, he came upon another ambush. Bowmen lined one side of the road, so as not to risk companions on the opposite side, and swordsmen formed a line directly across the path. Frost Reaver did not slow. Ra-khir took a deep breath, expecting death to come in the form of bolts and arrows, yet he refused to falter. If he paused to fight, he had no chance at all. “Go! Go! Go!” Ra-khir shouted to his mount unnecessarily. He jerked on the right rein, veering the white charger to the edge of the woods and the waiting archers. Suddenly menaced, the bowmen scrambled out of the way. A few loosed shafts, their aim foiled by the abrupt movement as well as the unexpected need for defense. A bolt rattled off Ra-khir’s mail. Another skimmed Reaver’s flank, leaving a bloody furrow that marred the sleek hide but did not slow his charge.

  Then horse and rider sprang into the ambush line. Ra-khir’s spear slammed home, the impact sickening. Having never actually struck a human target with a spear before, Ra-khir was caught unprepared. Impact tore the weapon from his hands. Frost Reaver rocked, hooves trampling a body. Ra-khir fumbled for his sword, drawing it just as the enemy’s line shattered. Men scurried from their path, and Frost Reaver sprinted ahead.

  Ra-khir knew only relief. Battle grunts and bellows of triumph had no place in a knight’s repertoire, and a lusty shout of honor seemed out of place after such a brutal maneuver. Desperation, determination, and luck had won the moment, not skill, but Ra-khir did not care. Soon he would reach Kevral and his companions. Anyone else who stood in his way would pay.

  Frost Reaver galloped onward.

  Chapter 41

  The Southern Weathered Range

  Warriors make their decisions on the battlefield, faster than an eye blink; and they rarely get a second chance to be wrong.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  The road disappeared beneath Frost Reaver’s ground-eating strides, and the trees lining either side seemed to funnel Ra-khir through the forest. The sun drew higher, then sank toward gray evening. Ra-khir never slowed until a dark horse and rider appeared suddenly in his path. Weary rage built within Ra-khir again, and he lowered his newest spear for another charge. The strangeness of finding a lone Easterner after massed ambushes raised his suspicions. He reined in Frost Reaver for a cautious and better look.

  “Finally,” the rider said, the voice unmistakably Tae’s.

  Still careful, Ra-khir couched his makeshift weapon and sent Frost Reaver forward at a walk. Within a few steps, he recognized Tae definitively. Froth bubbled from his mount’s lips, and foam streaked its dark hide. Head sagging, it waited with an uncharacteristic stillness, not wasting a single movement.

  Tae made an unreadable gesture then glided his horse into the brush on the right side of the pathway. Ra-khir followed wordlessly. They wound through the trunks, vines clutching at Reaver’s muddy hooves. Only after he had led them two man lengths from the road did Tae turn his head to speak. The horse remained in place, neck low and head wilting. It cropped lazily at the overgrowth, as if the effort of eating cost too much energy. “You overran us, you know.”

  “Oh,” Ra-khir returned sheepishly. “I didn’t know.”

  Tae turned his mount so that they now traveled in the exact opposite direction, at a parallel. “Didn’t think I’d ever catch you. Fast horse you got there.”

  Ra-khir read the unasked question beneath Tae’s observation. “It’s Colbey’s.”

  “Colbey’s?” Tae repeated, not demanding explanation, though Ra-khir felt obliged to give it.

  “He substituted it for mine. Apparently, he had a stake in getting Kevral better.”

  Tae mumbled something scarcely intelligible. Ra-khir considered the garbled words for several seconds before interpreting them as, “Don’t we all.” Then Tae spoke more clearly, “Or else he has a stake in our mission.”

  “That does seem a little more likely,” Ra-khir admitted. The timing of Colbey’s return for Frost Reaver would set that question to rest. If he took the horse back that night, he would clearly have lent it for Kevral. Ra-khir never doubted Colbey would come for the stallion; the bond between knight and charger was like a kinship.

  “Did you find a cure?” Tae asked hopefully, the obvious question.

  “Not exactly,” Ra-khir admitted. “But I learned some treatment ideas that might make more sense to Matrinka.”

  Tae went silent, and Ra-khir followed suit, trusting the Easterner’s judgment when it came to avoiding enemies. He wanted to tell Tae everything would turn out all right, to soothe the fires of fear and doubt that raged within them both. But Ra-khir did not have the antidote that could restore sure faith, and he refused to lie. It occurred to him that Tae had worked himself and his horse into a lather to see to it Ra-khir did not become lost. Tae could have let Ra-khir ride past without repercussions; eventually, enemies would have overpowered a lone knight-in-training on the cold, unfamiliar roadways through these Western woods. That Tae had gone to so much effort to keep a rival alive impressed Ra-khir. He would never have given the street urchin that much credit. Apparently, they both intended to fight an honest war for Kevral’s hand. Either that, or Tae trusted him to have found an antidote.

  Brush rattled, crackled, and snapped beneath the horses’ feet. Birds twittered and trilled in the upper branches. Otherwise, Ra-khir heard no sounds until garbled speech sifted to his hearing. He recognized Matrinka’s gentle voice. Almost the moment he did, she went quiet, and she and Darris peered toward him and Tae as they crashed nearer. Darris’ horse whinnied a greeting.

  Ra-khir winced at the loud sound that might draw enemies and noticed several of his companions did the same. He and Tae joined the others, fitting smoothly into the pattern. Tae headed directly for a position near Kevral. Though Ra-khir would have liked to do the same, he drew up beside Matrinka instead, to discuss the information he had gleaned about the poison.
She listened intently as he described the conversation with the woman on the farmstead. Darris, too, listened raptly. He had long ago grown accustomed to the accursed bard-curiosity that forced him to learn from every word, movement, sound, and nuance. The details that appeared in Darris’ songs attested to the thoroughness of his observation skills.

  Matrinka remained silent for a long time after Ra-khir finished. Curled on the rump of her horse, Mior did not move except for the gentle stirring of her fur by the wind.

  Ra-khir waited anxiously for what seemed like far longer than politeness or propriety demanded. “Has she been drinking?”

  Matrinka nodded sadly. “As the day went on, I started limiting her more and more. I’ve given her a few herbs to try to slow the damage, and they seem to be helping. At least, she seems to be doing all right so far.”

  Matrinka’s words told only half the story. Ra-khir fished for the rest. “Is she getting better?”

  “No,” Matrinka admitted.

  Ra-khir glanced over to make certain Kevral could not overhear them. Tae had her deep in conversation, a situation Ra-khir found both merciful and painful. “What happens if she doesn’t start . . .” Embarrassed about discussing a function usually kept private, he stumbled over the words. “. . . doesn’t start—”

  Matrinka obviated his need to finish. “Then things stay in the body that are supposed to come out.”

  “Water,” Ra-khir suggested, returning his attention to Matrinka. “If we just don’t give her any, won’t she be all right?”

  “It’s not that simple.” Matrinka sighed, again placed into the position of trying to explain months of training in a few sentences. “Urine isn’t the same as water. And there’re other ways the body loses water besides urine.”

  “Like sweat.”

  “Right. And spit. So you can’t just take a person completely off water. It would kill them. Just because someone isn’t putting out urine doesn’t mean they have too much water. More often, they have too little.”

  “I see,” Ra-khir said graciously, though he did not. He withdrew from the conversation, certain he could never understand and glad Matrinka did. He had always believed himself intelligent. The strategic and historical parts of his knight training had come easily to him. Healing, however, seemed like a foreign language. “So what do we do?”

  “I’m still deciding that.” Now, Matrinka glanced at her other companions. “If the woman says stopping the water works, I don’t think we have much choice but to try it. If it gains us a day, that’s a long time.”

  Ra-khir froze, horror overtaking him again, though the farm woman’s description had prepared him for this. “A day is a long time?”

  Matrinka met his gaze, her eyes soft as a puppy’s. “There’s a reason why we pass urine every day, Ra-khir. It needs to go out.”

  Ra-khir glanced at Kevral again. The round features and huge eyes that had once belonged to an irritating child he had mistaken for a boy now defined the emotion love. The wispy white brows and short blonde locks drew him like a beacon. He wanted to enfold her in an embrace that bound not just their souls but their bodies as well. If he held her tightly enough, they could entwine into one and then, perhaps, he could take over the functions her body no longer performed. Logically, he knew it was impossible, yet he held the image of hope as long as his mind allowed the illusion. It carried him into the evening and another night camped in the woods.

  As usual, Kevral practiced while the others built the camp. Ra-khir performed his share of the work as swiftly as possible, ministering to the horses while Matrinka and Darris spread blankets and divided rations for the evening meal and Tae attended to the tack. Ra-khir fussed over Frost Reaver with the same dedication as he would his gray, and he treated every horse as if it were his own. He tried to focus on his work, but his thoughts always slipped back to Kevral and the fate awaiting her in days. At the time, the farm woman’s suggestions had seemed vital. Now they became little more than a waste of the last precious moments he could have shared with the woman he loved.

  Ra-khir finished his work and hurried to the heavily wooded site Kevral had chosen for her practice. She swung and capered amid the trunks, her confident slashes missing the trees by no margin Ra-khir could see or fathom. Yet, though he could not match her skill, he noticed the differences in her technique. Her movements seemed slower than he recalled, though still quicker than his own. Her strikes lacked the agility so familiar it remained vividly etched upon his memory. And Kevral’s pinched expression revealed a frustration that validated Ra-khir’s observations. For several moments, he watched her from between the branches, reveling in radiance magnified a hundredfold by action. Yet, as wondrous as the sight seemed to him, Kevral’s obvious tension riddled his joy with painful holes. At length, aching from empathy and knowing his observation of both her Renshai practice and her weakness would wound her, he withdrew.

  At Matrinka’s suggestion, Kevral drank no water, even to replace the sweat that streamed down her forehead after a grueling practice that had lasted far longer than usual. Enraged by her new limitations, Kevral spoke only in monosyllables through dinner and retired early, mumbling something about a mouth so dry the blacksmith could use it to forge his swords.

  Ra-khir murmured a short prayer to Thor and Odin. Please, gods. Let her live. But if you must take her, let her last moments be filled with happiness and peace, not bitterness. Send me the necessary words to comfort her in her time of need. Please, gods, just let Kevral live. Despite the sorrow and need plaguing his every thought and action, exhaustion brought merciful sleep to Ra-khir.

  * * *

  The next morning brought no improvement in Kevral’s condition. The remainder of the party drank surreptitiously, making no mention of Kevral’s puffy face and swollen ankles. But Ra-khir found himself unable to take a sip of water. He rode Frost Reaver and tried not to feel too much pride at Kevral’s awe. For the first time, she truly seemed to respect his presence, a goal that had eluded Ra-khir since their first humiliating meeting. It appeared she had finally learned to approve of him, too late. It bothered Ra-khir that an action of Colbey’s, rather than his own, was the source of that appreciation.

  As the morning wore on, the forest thinned enough to reveal mountains on the horizon. The gray magnificence of the Southern Weathered Range was familiar; Béarn’s castle had been carved from its crags. Yet Ra-khir had gone so long without sight of the familiar rocky cliffs rising into cloudy obscurity. Surely, they could have seen the mountains weeks ago had the trees not intertwined so densely overhead. Even now, the close-packed trunks admitted only glimpses of dull rock, revealing little of the shimmering, breathtaking grandeur that delighted him throughout his childhood.

  Shortly, Tae redirected his companions to the road. “It’s clear to the pass, and there’s only one way through the mountains, at least only one nearby.”

  No one complained about the shift in course. One by one, they emerged from the dimness of the forest and onto a crude path, once rarely used and now speckled with boot tracks. Ra-khir needed no explanation. Passage through the mountains led to the Western Plains, a vast, sandy wasteland too harsh for habitation. The tracks came from Easterners who had crossed through the only fordable route through the Great Frenum Mountains to the plains and on into the Westlands.

  The transition from forest dankness to open sunlight dazzled Ra-khir’s eyes more than he expected after the previous day’s ride. The mountains loomed, filling the southern skyline like a craggy wall built to support the clouds and sun. To the East, more forest obscured near vision, but now Ra-khir could see mountains filling the spaces between treetops and horizon.

  “Careful,” Tae cautioned. “I’ve crossed the passes before. We should be able to get the horses through them, but there’re places where it gets too narrow to safely ride two abreast. There’re twists and switchbacks, so we can’t go fast. We need to take it slow and keep a constant eye for enemies. Better to make up the lost time on the plains
than take any chances on the rocks. We should make it through in a day or two, regardless.”

  Had the knight’s training not included a study of terrain, Ra-khir would not have known about switchbacks, trails through mountains that ascended or descended in a sawtooth fashion. It surprised him that no one asked for a description until he realized that the other three had spent at least a little time in Béarn’s castle. Reportedly, some of the tower staircases were once mountain switchbacks.

  “Let’s go,” Kevral took the lead suddenly, an uncharacteristic action. Usually, she let Darris or Tae lead, hanging back to protect Matrinka.

  Ra-khir could not help speculating about Kevral’s motivation. Though rarely used, the pass through the mountains would probably be well marked, if not with paint and flags, then because of the volume of recent traffic. Trouble now seemed more likely to come from ahead than behind, and Kevral likely wanted to face any enemies they encountered first. A natural instinct rose inside Ra-khir, to slip ahead and protect the woman he loved. Honor, too, drove him to take the burden of enemies onto himself. He struggled with both, battling them back into perspective. Had he journeyed with only Knights of Erythane, he would have automatically seen the wisdom in placing the strongest warrior in the front.

  Tae rode up beside Kevral, a logical location for the only party member who had previously traversed the route. Ra-khir suffered a pang of jealousy that made him feel weak and petty as he took the rear position, behind Matrinka and Darris. The party had evaded rather than defeated the enemies behind them, leaving a threat he would not allow the bard’s heir to face alone. In that formation, they headed toward the pass.