Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  *It’s Tae. He went above.*

  Matrinka sighed, dizzy from fatigue and craving more sleep. *Dearest Mior, he probably went to relieve himself.*

  *He was fully dressed. I saw him studying knives as the hatch closed. I think he’s going to try something dangerous and heroic.*

  Matrinka rose, for Mior’s sake. *Dangerous and heroic? This is Tae we’re talking about.*

  *Let me out,* Mior demanded with an urgency Matrinka could not ignore. *Let me just make sure.*

  Matrinka padded quietly to the hatch, despising every sound she made. Kevral slept lightly. Tae might be able to dress and leave without her knowledge, but Matrinka did not share that skill. Balancing speed against silence, she pushed at the hatch. It had barely opened a crack when Mior slipped out and galloped onto the deck. Moonlight spilled through the hole, and Matrinka soon lost Mior to the darkness beyond it.

  Matrinka waited until Mior returned. *I knew it! He’s swimming for the island.*

  Alarm swept Matrinka, and she cursed herself for not responding more swiftly. Apparently, her mood slipped through to Mior.

  *Don’t blame yourself. He was out before I even knew it, and no human sleeps lighter than me.* Mior added determinedly, *I’m going after him.* She headed back out into the night, her white patches visible long after the other parts of her disappeared.

  *No, wait! Mior, cats can’t swim.*

  *Yes, we can.* The contact faded as Mior drew beyond range. Matrinka felt the calico’s anticipation as her own, heard the almost inaudible splash of her landing. *We just don’t like to.* Then, the last shred of the mind-link pulled away.

  “Wait!” Matrinka shouted, not caring who she awakened. “Mior!” She clattered out onto the deck, racing for the rail. The ocean stretched in front of her, the water like ink except where the moonlight touched droplets rebounding from the hull.

  Captain and Kevral reached her simultaneously, the Renshai instinctively skidding between elf and princess. “What happened?” the Renshai demanded.

  “Tae, it’s Tae.” Matrinka sobbed. “He swam for the island. And Mior followed him.”

  Kevral swore with the violence of a warrior. “We’ll go after them.”

  “No,” Ra-khir said softly from the hatchway. “Let him go.”

  Kevral whirled on the knight-in-training. “Are you crazy? You’d let him face two hundred enemies alone?”

  Ra-khir threw up his hands. “If it was you, I’d worry about such a thing. Tae won’t face them, he’ll evade them. I wish he’d told us he was going, but I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

  Matrinka held her breath, frantically trying to catch a glimpse of Mior through the darkness. What if Mior drowns? What if she drowns? Tears raced down Matrinka’s cheeks, and she hated herself for worrying more for a cat than a human companion. She could not imagine her life without the greatest gift King Kohleran had ever given her. The sleek calico that had grown from the grimy little furball had become a symbol of Matrinka’s love for a grandfather she would never see again.

  Kevral drew a breath, but Ra-khir did not let her speak. “If you accuse me of wanting Tae to die, we’ll duel right here on this ship. No woman is worth killing a friend for. Not even you.”

  Kevral choked, obviously taken aback by the vehemence of Ra-khir’s words. “Calm yourself, Ra-khir. I was just going to volunteer to go after him.”

  “Bad idea.” Darris’ voice preceded him up the ladder, though obviously he had heard the gist of the conversation. “Tae’s faster, and he has a head start. Anything we try to do to help will only draw attention. And foil what he just risked his life to do.”

  “I think,” Ra-khir said carefully, the anger leaving his voice, “Tae needs this to feel good about himself. More importantly, I think he has a chance to succeed. Right now, that might be more than we have, with or without him.”

  The urge seized Matrinka to plunge overboard and search for a cat she could never hope to locate in the vastness of the Southern Sea. No lack of courage stopped her, but rather the knowledge that her friends would follow and she would risk other lives on a hopeless mission. Instead, Matrinka slid to the deck and wept.

  * * *

  Despite the hampering bandage, Tae made good time, dragging himself to an empty part of the shore beneath the cover of night. He had found the gathered elves simple to avoid, their locations brilliantly lit with a steady glow that seemed unlike any campfire. Night breezes cut through Tae’s sodden clothing, chilling him to the bone. His shoulder throbbed a relentless cadence, and the agony of his hand wound resisted the nagging familiarity that could allow him to ignore its presence. Tae lay still for several moments, trusting the tight black breeks and tunic to conceal him. He kept his breathing to a shallow pant, afraid larger movements might reveal him. As soon as he caught his breath, he rose to a crouch, then skittered into a grove of narrow-leafed trees.

  Again Tae waited, ears filled with the natural scrape of leaves in the wind and the high-pitched shrilling of night insects. He appreciated their music which would obscure the rustle of his movements. He trusted his ability to move in silence, but not without sacrificing the speed required to finish before he lost the sheltering darkness. So he moved swiftly through the brush, cursing every misplaced footfall, though it brought him one step closer to Griff.

  Then, suddenly, the fence Captain had described appeared in front of Tae. Composed of a mesh he did not recognize, it appeared more like a pen to hem in animals than a means to guard a fortress from invaders. He peered through the closely spaced triangles, locating the central structure with ease. Its rough walls made a stark contrast to obvious attempts at decoration. Fancy columns interrupted its surface at intervals, yet moss cluttered the rooftop. Accustomed to Eastern cities, placed so close they had all nearly merged into one, Tae could not fathom why builders would take such care to construct artistic touches yet leave one of the most important parts to corrode. He found the answer in Captain’s explanation of elfin architecture, then drove it from his mind. All that mattered now was the success or failure of his mission.

  Tae seized the meshwork in his left hand and wedged his toes into the tiny spaces the triangles allowed. Though it appeared delicate, its sturdiness surprised him. Where it touched flesh, it seemed to vibrate. Concerned for the magic imbued into the lattice, Tae climbed swiftly and jumped from the top. He rolled into the compound, the jar of the fall aching through his shoulder. His left hand tingled from the contact but seemed uninjured. Suddenly, light caught the corner of his vision, and he took another look at the fence. It glowed. The mesh etched vivid, crisscrossing lines against the night.

  Alarm! Tae raced for the prison, desperate to complete his job before the light drew every elf on the island. Magical alarm! Time became too precious to waste on caution. He darted across the open ground, surveying as he went. He would not have expected a prison to have windows, yet he searched frantically for any opening but the door. Elfin construction might allow for such a thing.

  Tae’s split-second exploration revealed nothing useful. He ran for the front, drawing his daggers, hoping the door would shield his mistake from guards inside and taking some solace from the alarm’s soundlessness. A noise crunched through his hearing, movement near the outer gate. Too late. Tae faded into the building’s shadow, praying for a miracle.

  The gate clanged open. Tae held his breath, just as a volley of unspoken conversation burst into his head.

  *Do you see anything?* he understood in at least three different mind-voices.

  *No. Not me. Nothing here.* More than a dozen answers followed.

  *Something triggered the defenses. Keep looking.*

  Several manlike figures appeared in the compound, many carrying light sources that glowed with a strange steadiness. It seemed to Tae as if they repelled the darkness in patches rather than actively disrupting it like torches or lanterns. He flattened to the ground at the base of the prison, choosing concealment over preparedness.

  The el
ves continued their search, their footsteps a delicate shuffle over grass and sand. Their conversation disappeared. The lights floated in chaotic patterns. Tae remained still and silent in the darkness.

  Suddenly, a howl rent the hush. Tae stiffened, glancing up, afraid it was an elfin cry of detection. An animal skittered through the darkness, white patches tracing its movement. Gradually, his mind registered the familiarity of the sound, so much like Mior’s protest when he had stomped on her tail. A cat?

  The elves clustered toward the noise. *What is it?*

  *An animal of some kind.*

  A jumble of speculation followed. None could identify the animal, but most blamed it for sparking the alarm. A few demanded a more thorough search. Others had already abandoned their hunt for the more interesting task of befriending and studying the creature they found.

  That couldn’t be Mior. Tae dared not believe the calico had followed him here. Impossible as it seemed, no other explanation fit. He had never heard of wild cats, and the elves’ curiosity suggested they had not found others on their island. He had caught only a brief glimpse of the creature, but its hopping run, feline shape, and mewling complaint suited no other animal. The elves had shown no malice toward the creature, despite their belief that it set off their alarm. Mior or another, Tae had little choice but to use the distraction to his advantage.

  Tae took another glance at the closed stone door, then turned his attention to the moss-covered roof. He could never have scaled Béarn-smoothed walls with one hand, but he believed the rough-hewn elfin work might prove easier. Without further consideration, trusting the cat to keep the elves occupied, he sprang for the wall. It offered no ledges, but its irregular surface provided enough friction to cling. He floundered gracelessly, his progress unsteady. At length, in twice the time it should have taken, he flung himself over the edge and onto a low-pitched rooftop.

  The moss gave spongily beneath him, sticky and moist against his cheek. It reeked of damp and mildew, a thick odor that all but choked him. He maintained control with difficulty, holding his breath and remaining in position for several moments. No shout, mental or verbal, wafted from below. Tae loosed a pent-up breath, shifted to the side of the building furthest from the door, and dug through the moss with the tip of a dagger.

  Dirt and greenery peeled from the rooftop, revealing rotted timbers below. Tae chose a board that appeared particularly eroded, slivering away at the wood. Hammering strokes would enlarge the hole more rapidly, but it would also make more noise. Tae contented himself with slow, steady progress. The board thinned rapidly, the moist layer of decay making his job easier. Soon, a scattering of dark brown wood chips surrounded Tae, and the aroma of oak replaced the musky, moldy stench.

  At length, Tae carved a small hole that opened on an area darker than the rooftop. He cursed the lack of inside light that made the moon glow at his back a handicap. Nevertheless, he continued, widening the hole in tiny increments. At length, he risked a peek, poking his head through the opening to examine the support system below. The trussed rafters he expected were missing. The elves had taken advantage of the low slope of the roof to eliminate half the support system usually found on a peaked roof.

  Tae jerked backward, his sudden movement more than the tenuous construction could bear. Beneath him, beams folded toward the opening. He made a wild dive as his footing disappeared beneath him, but the impact of his landing proved too much for his new location. The boards crumbled beneath his weight, and he plummeted through the hole amid a shower of shattered wood. The roar of snapping braces and the thunk of wood against the ground hammered in his ears.

  Tae landed on his feet, bent his knees, and rolled. Hunks of wood imprinted bruises across his back and shoulder, and he tumbled down a loose pile of broken boards. He staggered to his feet, ears ringing, vision fighting the gloom. Rhythmical music filled the air, a single voice piercing its beat. His consciousness wavered, lost beneath a steady whirring and a wheeling shield of black and white spots. He took another forward step, teetered, and crashed to the floor. Not again, he managed to think before oblivion overtook him.

  Chapter 45

  Division

  Soon, there will be another battle. One or more of us will almost certainly die. But, no matter the methods of our enemy, the Renshai will live or die with their honor intact.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  The dramatic arrival, capture, and torture of the Easterner drew Rantire’s attention from her pinched and aching gut. For more than a week, she and her charge had survived on nothing but the condensation licked from prison walls and handfuls of leaf mold and moss that had once formed their patterned carpets. Rantire’s cell had precious little of the vegetation; she had torn it aside months ago, seeking a place to dig free of her prison. Beneath it, she had discovered a layer of stone that had resisted her best efforts. The elves had made no formal mention of their decision to starve their prisoners to death. The food had simply stopped coming, along with the visitors who once came in the night to hear her stories.

  Weakened by neglect, Rantire remained seated in the far corner of her cell, as near to Griff as possible. She had cautioned him to remain still and quiet. If the elves believed them nearly dead, they might grow incautious and create the opening Rantire had awaited since her imprisonment. But the elves paid them no heed. They stripped the magically sleeping Easterner of everything but his clothes, set him inside the cage beside Rantire’s, and left him in the torturer’s care. The partial collapse of the roof left a pile of rubble that had dented or smashed the cells beneath it and knocked one of the hallway gates from its hinges. The elves ignored the mess, leaving the building together, exchanging verbal and mental questions and concerns. The shared thoughts required no understanding of language and consisted mostly of speculation about the man’s arrival and methods. Rantire had learned enough of the elves’ language to also sift concern about an approaching threat from their conversation.

  The Easterner awakened, and a session of brutality followed. Every sound roused Rantire’s memories of her own torture, and she alternately suffered sympathy and outrage. She talked to Griff incessantly, directing his concentration so that he could not focus on the events taking place in the cell beyond her. She kept her body always between him and the scene, more a symbolic gesture than a necessity. The darkness hid the Easterner. Occasional screams punctuated the torturer’s melodic but distorted trading tongue as pain overwhelmed the stranger.

  Griff twitched, losing his train of thought with every gasp or shriek. Moisture filled the Béarnide’s dry eyes, and he pleaded with Rantire to let him beg the elf to stop the pain. Rantire found her own vision blurry, more from sympathy for Griff’s pain than the stranger’s. Once, she would have disdained the man as weak; she had survived the same torment without giving the elves the satisfaction of a whimper. Now she discarded that attitude as callous. She had no right to expect silent courage from a ganim, a non-Renshai.

  After the first two screams, no conversation could distract Béarn’s heir. He curled into a ball of misery, wasting his insufficient water on tears. Rantire kept a consoling hand on her charge, her attention freed to listen to the Easterner’s confession. Once he started speaking, voice breathy and gasping, the torturer stilled and the sounds of magic and pounding disappeared. He told a tale of humans who came in peace to discuss a compromise and how, if those people did not get their discussion, they would return with reinforcements and destroy the island. He warned that if he, or any other human prisoner, got harmed, the humans would retaliate with ten elves’ lives for every human life. If he gave more detail than that, Rantire missed it. The distraction of her sobbing charge and the dips in volume of the Easterner’s voice stole many of his words.

  At length, the Easterner sagged to the floor, apparently unconscious. The torturer left carefully, banging the cell door closed behind him. His sweeping steps carried through the prison.

  Griff uncurled as the elf departed, dark eyes probing Rantir
e’s earnestly. “Please. Make sure he’s all right.”

  Rantire nodded, skittering to the opposite side of her cage to check on the stranger. He lay curled on his stomach, eyes closed and limbs still. Blood seeped through a filthy bandage on his right hand, and red patches that would become blisters and bruises mottled his flesh. Shaggy tangles of hair hung around his face, hiding his features. His breathing, though regular, remained shallow and a little too rapid for sleep. “Are you awake?” she whispered.

  The Easterner made no reply or movement that Rantire noticed. She started to walk away, suddenly realizing his eyes had come open and he studied her in the darkness.

  Rantire kept her voice pitched low enough that hovering elves could not hear. “How much of what you said was true?”

  “Some,” the man admitted, moving nothing but his lips. “Are you Brenna?”

  The use of her alias raised alarm. Rantire had learned that some humans had joined the elves’ cause for money. “Where did you hear my name?”

  “The captain of the ship my friends are on mentioned you to Colbey.”

  “Colbey?” Rantire could not believe what she was hearing. “You met Colbey?” Her eyes narrowed as the story grew impossible. “Who are you? And what kind of game are you playing with me?”

  “Look, I’ll satisfy your curiosity in a bit. Right now, I’m in a lot of pain and I’m working on a tight schedule. I’ll ask the questions. You answer, all right?”

  Rantire’s defenses rose immediately. The demand sounded too much like her first conversation with Dh’arlo’mé. Paranoia, nothing more. Elfin strategy still confounded her, but she doubted anyone would stage a fall through a ceiling, especially for the benefit of prisoners starved half to death. You’ve got to trust someone sometime. “All right,” she agreed reluctantly.

  “Is Griff here?” the man whispered.

  “In the next cell.”