Wanderers: Ragnarök

by Richard A Bamberg

  Her smile indicated that there was quite a bit more she would like to do for me.

  “Really, Marian, I couldn’t let you spend money on me. You hardly know me. I might be some kind of con man trying to bilk money out of unsuspecting beautiful women like you.”

  She laughed loud enough to draw several sets of eyes, including Cynthia’s. “That’s the best line I’ve heard in months. Dear, if you could put something like that over on Abigail you’d deserve anything you can get.”

  “Thank you very much, but if jeans are appropriate, I’ll manage.”

  “Suit yourself, dearie, but make sure you show up. We always gossip about anyone who isn’t there,” Marian said.

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She turned away from me, finally removing her hand as she did and struck up a conversation with the man on her left.

  CHAPTER 4

  The party broke up a half hour or so later. The wine had been finished and one by one, the others departed, leaving Abigail, Cynthia, and me to bus the room.

  Abigail and I chatted pleasantly, but Cynthia’s mood continued to literally chill the air around her while we stacked the glasses in the dishwasher and turned it on.

  “Cynthia, dear, I’m tired tonight. Will you show Raphael how to lock up?”

  “Certainly, Abigail. May I give you a ride home?”

  “That’s not necessary, dear; the walk will do me good.”

  They cheek-kissed and then Abigail turned to me with a smile. “You performed well tonight, Raphael. You’ll do just fine.”

  Performed? I inclined my head toward her, a small bow of respect. “Thank you, Abigail. I appreciate the confidence.”

  “Oh, you have enough of that for both of us, my boy.” She grabbed a shawl off the coat rack and chuckled to herself as she walked toward the stairs.

  I watched her leave and then turned toward Cynthia, a smile still on my face.

  Cynthia’s glare wiped the smile away. Her face flushed with sudden anger.

  “What?” I asked.

  “How could you come on to that woman after we…” her voice trailed off.

  I cocked my head to one side. “After we what, Cynthia? Cast a spell together? Did I imply something more?”

  Her flush deepened, flowing down and fading out in the space between her breasts. “I thought. I mean, the feelings you gave off were...”

  “Were what? Lustful?”

  “Yes, damn it. They were lustful.”

  I consciously avoided smiling. “Of course, they were lustful. You’re very attractive, Cynthia, and we worked a joint spell that melded more than just auras. I couldn’t help being lustful toward you any more than I could stop the sun from rising tomorrow.”

  She stepped closer. Her face still glowed and I could feel her using the spell I’d taught her. I wasn’t sure if she was consciously evoking the spell any more than when I’d made the mistake of flattering Marian. This time the air around us warmed.

  “And what about—”

  I don’t know why (I’d guess it was the natural reaction of a young male’s hormones to an attractive female), but I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to me. Our lips met. For a moment she froze, her aura turned a deep icy blue-green and then her emotions flared. Her aura flowed from blue-green into blue, then orange, and finally crimson as she returned the kiss with passion that had adrenalin coursing through me. I let the passion flow over me and gave her back every ounce and more. I released her shoulders and encircled her waist, pulling her body to me. Her arms came up around my neck, pulling my mouth against hers as though she were going to devour me.

  We flared with mingled passion.

  My hands slipped beneath her sweater. The skin of her back was hot against my palms.

  I caught myself wanting to give into what we both desired, but this was too soon. No matter how old I get or how long I remain in the prime of life, I can’t escape my upbringing. I’d met her less than a day ago and -while she was a fully mature woman- she was still barely a third of my age. She was almost as young as I had been the first time I died.

  * * *

  The jungles of Vietnam were wild and verdant. You never knew when a tiger, leopard, bear, or an occasional elephant would be startled by a patrol in the thick jungle. Down in the delta I worried more about the salt-water crocs, but that week we were patrolling along the Cambodian border on another of our platoon Lieutenant’s “opportunity to excel” missions. The large predators were usually smart enough to avoid men in the jungle, at least men who were making enough noise to let the local denizens know they were coming. Unfortunately, that much noise also informed little brown brother that you were coming. Given that little brown brother had killed far more of my buddies than any of the local fauna, I was being as stealthy as I could manage while carrying a forty-pound radio, supplies, ammo, M-16, and a hand-crank generator for when the radio’s batteries eventually failed. There were two drawbacks to being the platoon radio operator. One was that the long flexible antenna stuck four feet above your head and made a lovely sighting mark for any sniper trying to pick off the radio operator, always a primary target. No radio operator, no unwanted guests showing up and interrupting the ambush. The second was that I had to remain close to the platoon lieutenant so he could use the radio. The platoon Lieutenant is the second choice of any good sniper and little brown brother usually followed the shot to the radio operator with another to the lieutenant followed by a grenade, if he had one, just to make sure those two were down and gone.

  Being a radio operator by draft rather than choice, I kept my antenna tied down out of sight and tried to keep away from the lieutenant. He wasn’t a bad guy and was the second oldest man in the platoon after our career platoon sergeant, who was as old as my dad. Lieutenant Fitzroy was all of twenty-one, two years older than me. He’d graduated from some military school in the south with an associate’s degree and a commission in the army we all knew and loved. The thing was Fitzroy was the latest descendent of a long line of career men, going back to the Continental Army. No one in his family tree had ever made general and our lieutenant thought it was up to him to break that barrier. This led to the “opportunity to excel” missions. It basically meant that he’d volunteer his platoon for the most dangerous missions being assigned. I said he wasn’t bad. I didn’t say he wasn’t stupid.

  We were on the second day of a three-day patrol that was supposed to draw out VC infiltrators along the lowest ends of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Most of our time was spent standing behind trees or crouching in the thick brush that grew under the jungle canopy while we listened for some sign of our enemy. Around noon, we forded a small river which fed the Mekong. I knelt next to the Lieutenant, waiting for the order to cross when the first round impacted my radio and drove me to my knees. The second round followed immediately, but the Lieutenant had already thrown himself into the tall grass growing along the bank.

  With the second round came hundreds. The distinctive snap of Charlie’s AK-47s was broken by the crack of our M-16s and the stutter of the two M-60s our platoon carried. I pulled myself into the water, trying not to part the reeds and give away my position. The massive radio forced me down. I shrugged out of the radio’s straps and let the defunct piece of American technology sink into the muck. It gurgled once as air bubbled out of the hole in the back. Radio operators, such as me, had long since learned the trick of mounting a metal plate between the radio and the back of our uniforms. The plate added five pounds to the damn radio’s weight, but this was the second time the plate had saved my life.

  I pulled my rifle into the water with me, keeping its action high and dry and began to return fire. We were in what the Army referred to as a “target-rich” environment and the sounds of death and dying invaded the quiet of the jungle with a ruthlessness that would drive its lesser predators into the next province. I don’t remember most of the battle; it was like so many others. I do remember the grenade exploding near me in the water, cracking my ribs, pepper
ing my torso with bits of shrapnel, and deafening me. My ribs hurt the most of my wounds. The bits of shrapnel had been slowed by the water, just as the concussion had been amplified. The water, already turning red from our dead and wounded, darkened a little more. I remember realizing that the numbers were against us. And I remember running out of ammunition for my rifle and scrounging more off the dead and wounded.

  We’d started across the river that morning with forty men having lost a few the previous week before who hadn’t been replaced yet. By late afternoon, we had a dozen or so men returning fire. There still seemed to be twice that many shooting back at us, but who can tell? They may have just had more ammunition and could afford to waste it.

  It was nearly dark when the firing stopped. I had crawled over to the last of our men who was still firing and got to him in time to see his rifle click on empty and a single shot take off his helmet and most of the top of his head. I lay still in the gloom, letting my face sink into the water and let it wash the blood and gore from my eyes. I let my rifle fall from my fingers and slipped the K-Bar from my right boot.

  If Charlie held off coming in to kill the wounded until full dark, I might be able to slip away downriver. In the dark, one floating body looks pretty much like another.

  They did wait. As darkness seized the field of battle the moans of the dying near me and farther away in the jungle slowly faded out, one by one, until I was alone with the dead.

  Then footsteps splashed in the river at my side. The sound of them was close. I tried to count them, but couldn’t be sure, more than two, three? Maybe four? I thought there must have been more of them left. They could have left more men in the trees on the other side of the river to cover these. They were already too close for me to attempt to float downriver. All that would get me would be a bullet in the back. I pulled myself forward soundlessly until I had all the splashing to my left. All the while my heart pounded against my battered ribs with enough noise that I was sure one of them would hear it.

  I heard no gunshots, but every so often, I recognized the meaty thump of a bayonet being stabbed into flesh. They were either finally conserving their ammunition or they were trying to not give away their position in case there were more Americans nearby.

  I rose into a crouch and could finally make out four shapes moving along the river. The nearest was no more than five feet away, the farthest no more than thirty.

  When the closest man raised his rifle to bayonet another body, I rose slowly and took two steps toward him. As his rifle descended, my knife rose. I covered his mouth with my left hand and stabbed him three times in the right kidney. He only struggled for a few seconds. His friends were busy bayoneting my fallen buddies and didn’t notice our brief encounter. I lowered the man’s body to the water, grabbing his hat and rifle as I did. I pulled the hat over my bare head and returned the K-Bar to its sheath.

  Crouching so my silhouette would be more like the hat’s recent owner, I made my way toward the next VC.

  This man turned toward me as I neared and whispered something. My Vietnamese wasn’t good, but I gathered he thought I should be farther up river from him. At least he was pointing that way when the AK-47’s bayonet caught him under the ribcage. He screamed as the blade slid upwards into his heart.

  I jerked the bayonet free, knocked off the rifle’s safety, and fired from the hip.

  The firing pin made a soft ping. I worked the action expecting a bad shell to be ejected, but the chamber was empty.

  Shit! No bullets.

  The remaining two VC rushed me. I blocked the first one’s thrust with the rifle, clubbed him in the face, and followed with the bayonet before he could recover. His comrade wasn’t honorable and didn’t wait his turn. He stabbed me low in the right side with his own bayonet while I was still trying to free mine from where it had jammed between ribs.

  When the last man tried to pull his bayonet free for another stab into my gut, I dropped my rifle. I gripped his AK-47 with my left hand and drew the K-Bar with my right.

  We struggled into waist deep water as he managed to pull his rifle free. He tried to stab me again. I stepped inside his reach and put the K-bar’s point through his throat. He forgot about his rifle and raised both hands to the wound that gushed blood across my face. I stepped back away from him and sat down in the water. He staggered and then dropped backward into the river. The current pulled him slowly away from me.

  In a minute, I was once more alone with the dead.

  I crawled out of the water and onto a rock as rain started to fall. I lay on my back staring up into a dark, starless sky. The pain in my side subsided and I realized the sky wasn’t black. I was passing out.

  I awoke to a bright sky, birds singing, flies buzzing around the dead, and the most beautiful woman I had even seen kneeling over me. I tried to rise, but she placed a hand on my chest and shook her head, wavy auburn tresses sent a breeze across my face. She wore chain mail and a metal helmet with palm-sized wings on either side. Nearby, a horse neighed. I cocked my head and saw a Pegasus standing in the river, drinking from the bloody water.

  Then the goddess’s eyes glowed.

  “I get it. I’m dead and you’re an angel, right?”

  “No, Raphael. I am Kára, one of the Valkyries. You cannot stay dead today. Rest now, for Fate has need of you.” Her English was good, too good for a strange woman in the middle of a Vietnamese jungle.

  I lay my head back against the rock and darkness claimed me again.

  The next time I opened my eyes, there was a corpsman leaning over me. Behind him was the gray interior ceiling of a Huey.

  * * *

  Cynthia moaned into my mouth.

  I had no mood controlling tattoo, but I had learned things other than what my mentor taught me. I subvocalized a calming spell and subtly eased down the emotion burning through us. I had some practice with this spell, but it was still difficult to do without making it obvious. If she realized what I was doing, she might accept it and then again, she might slap me and stomp out of the room.

  Which happened more often than not.

  The kiss went on for nearly a minute longer until our emotions had cooled enough for her to be the one to pull back. She didn’t withdraw from my embrace or drop her hands from my neck. Her desire for me was still there, just not flaming out of control like it had been a minute before. She stared into my eyes and smiled. “What was I saying?”

  I returned her smile. “I think you were asking why I was flirting with Marian.”

  “Oh yes.” Her smile faltered, but then returned. “Yes, that was it. Do you always flirt with older women?”

  “I’m always polite. Flirting is a way of complimenting a woman.”

  Her smile broadened. She leaned closer and kissed me. This time it was sweet with only the slightest trace of the passion we’d felt. My hands were still against her bare skin and I pulled her into me. She gyrated her hips as she felt what had grown between us.

  Cynthia mumbled into my mouth, something pleasant that made me want to forget my control.

  Then she pulled her head back and our lips parted. “It is nice to flirt, but I think that’s enough for tonight. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m easy.”

  It was my time to lean forward and kiss her lightly, then I eased the pressure on her back so that she could draw away. For a moment, she kept her groin pressed to mine. Then she took a half step back and lowered her hands to my chest.

  “All right, Rafe. I see you want me and I’m sure you know I want you too, but not tonight.”

  “I’m free tomorrow night,” I said.

  She laughed lightly and kissed me again.

  She pushed against my chest; I let her go and watched her eyes. They were still hot with lust, but she was completely under control now.

  “Time to lock up,” Cynthia said.

  Always leave them wanting more.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next evening, we three drove east on Governor’s Drive, Cynthia drove and
I rode shotgun. Abigail had insisted on taking the back seat. We crossed the green mountain above Huntsville – although, in my native Colorado, this mountain would have been little more than a foothill. A few miles later Cynthia turned off the main road onto Vaughn Lane. The road curved, past new houses, and opened onto a large field bordered by a thick forest of pines and hardwoods. After a few miles, Cynthia turned onto a private drive between large brick columns that supported an enormous sign that said Vaughn Farm. The drive skirted the field, hugging every curve between the verdant forest and the waving alfalfa until we entered a yard as wide and as manicured as the White House lawn.

  “This is Marian’s little place?” I asked.

  Cynthia chuckled. “Is that what she told you? Of course, that wasn’t what she was trying to impress you with. It’s more than three thousand acres of pasture and another thousand of forest. It’s been in her family since the Creek and Cherokee were run out. At least while Marian controls the ranch, there won’t be any new development up here.”

  “And that would be bad?” I asked.

  The corners of Cynthia's lips curved downward, but she made no other reply.

  I’d expected a southern mansion, but the house hidden in the trees was a sprawling brick ranch. The sun had sunk behind the mountain, and the house glowed from internal and exterior lights. Low lights bordered the drive, overhead lights mounted on trees lit the parking area, and other lights gleamed from the sides and rear of the house.

  Cynthia parked at the end of a long line of cars, and we got out. The night air was redolent of fresh-mown hay.

  “Looks like we’re not exactly the first to arrive,” I said.