Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 7: Swordmaster

"The business of the Samurai consists in reflecting on his own station in life, in discharging loyal service to his master if he has one, in deepening his fidelity in associations with friends and, with due consideration of his own position, in devoting himself to duty above all."

– Yamaga Soko

The Way of the Samurai

The autumn sun hovered, a diffuse halo of light just above the eastern horizon; its meager glow sifted through the forest of evergreens. Beside Gaelinar, Al Larson watched Taziar weave a trail between the shadow-splotched boughs and trunks, a full ten paces before them. The needled branches slid easily from the tough, black linen of the climber's clothing. Jabbed and scraped through his thinner tunic and cloak, Larson felt a pang of envy.

"Why would Vidarr suggest we drag along a foul, filthy bandit?" Gaelinar spoke loudly, oblivious or indifferent to the fact that Taziar could not help but overhear him.

Larson sighed. Only fifteen minutes from town and already Gaelinar's trying to goad Shadow to attack him. "I don't know." Annoyed with the prospect of having to deal with feuding companions and still bitter about Vidarr's secrecy and intrusion, Larson did not care if Taziar or Gaelinar found his tone insulting. "That's only one of a zillion questions I wish I'd asked Vidarr while I had the chance. Maybe this rod thing's hidden in a place too small for us to reach. Maybe we have to steal it." He dismissed the subject with a flick of his hand. "You're the one who knows about the rod. You promised you'd tell me what you could. So what is it we have to do?"

Gaelinar stared after Taziar, ignoring Larson's query. "There's a saying where I come from: 'Meet a man once, it's a chance. Meet twice and it's coincidence. The third time, you must embrace him or slay him.' To happen upon Shadow in the tavern seems unlikely enough. But to discover him snooping around our camp just when we're planning our journey? The dishonorable rodent owes us an explanation."

Taziar froze in his tracks. "The 'dishonorable rodent' would appreciate it if you would stop speaking to him in the third person." He turned to Gaelinar. "And I wasn't snooping. I was taking a walk."

"In the dark?" Gaelinar snorted. "And you just stumbled upon our camp by accident?"

Taziar shrugged. "However it happened, you and Allerum invited me along. If you want me to leave, say so. I'll gladly trail you unseen."

Larson kicked a dead branch at his feet, wishing his companions would stop bickering and continue walking. Time is of the essence. The delay turned his mood cruel. Maybe I should just have let Gaelinar kill Shadow at the Dragonrank school.

Gaelinar's tone carried a hint of threat. "You may find tracking us more difficult than you think."

Taziar met Gaelinar's glare with a triumphant grin. "I didn't have any trouble following you from the school. Shall I stay or leave? I'll abide by your decision."

Gaelinar's nostrils flared. Otherwise, his bland features betrayed no surprise or anger. "Stay. An enemy within sword range is safer than one concealed. But I warn you. If you try to kill Allerum or me, you will find us stronger than you can handle. If you take anything belonging to us, if you betray us at any time, you will die in the most horrible fashion I can design."

Taziar's blue eyes narrowed in offense. "In my life, I have killed only twice. Both times, my hand was forced; and never, before or since, have I had to do anything so vile." His fingers curled at his sides. "I'm not an enemy. What is in your best interests is in mine as well. And if I wanted something you carried, I would have it already." He spun on the balls of his feet and returned to his path, shoving branches aside with a new violence.

Relieved to continue their quest, Larson trotted after Taziar. He suppressed the urge to question the thief's motives for tailing them, not wanting to incite another argument. Instead, he attempted to distract Gaelinar. "It's time, now. Tell me about Geirmagnus' rod."

Gaelinar walked beside Larson, his attention still fixed on Taziar. "Geirmagnus was the first and most powerful Dragonrank Master. His estate still stands, a day's travel south of the city of Rajarkmar. Some say removing his rod from its resting place will restore life to the dead god, Baldur."

Larson creased his forehead. "That's common knowledge? ''

"For almost a century."

Confusion rode Larson. "But if Baldur is as well loved as Vidarr tells me, why hasn't anyone retrieved the rod yet?"

"Many have tried. None have succeeded."

Larson brushed dried needles from his hair, concerned by the multitude of potential barriers to completing Vidarr's task and obtaining the knowledge he needed to rescue Silme. "Why has no one succeeded?"

Gaelinar turned his gaze to Larson. "To tell you would doom you to failure, too."

Curiosity piqued, Larson pressed further. "How could that be?"

Larson's insistence strained Gaelinar's patience. "To answer your second question, Allerum, I would obviously need to address the first. As I said, that would assure your failure."

It makes no sense. How can knowledge doom me to failure? I would think ignorance would prove far more dangerous. Larson kept the comment to himself, not wishing to further antagonize Gaelinar. "But exactly what is…" He adopted the melodramatic tone of a bad Shakespearean actor. "… the rod of Geirmagnus?''

"No one knows." Gaelinar spoke with casual indifference as they traced Taziar's path through the densely-clustered branches. "No one has gotten into Geirmagnus' estate."

"And I suppose you can't tell me why."

An impatient frown formed on Gaelinar's lips. "I could. For Silme's sake, though, I've chosen not to."

Wonderful. Larson folded his arms across his chest. "You know, Gaelinar. If there's some sort of monster guarding this place, I believe I have a right to know."

The crow's feet at the corners of Gaelinar's eyes deepened with cynical amusement. "Trust me, Allerum."

Larson pictured the Hel hound howling and slavering at the entrance to Midgard and found the Kensei's reassurance less than comforting.

Ignoring Larson's worry, Gaelinar cleared his throat and returned the conversation to the matter which concerned him. "Now tell me, Allerum. Why would Vidarr suggest we drag along an arrogant, little thief?"

Gaelinar's question was still unresolved when evening descended upon the pine forest. The world dulled to silver haze, broken by the towering, skeletal forms of the trees. Aggravated by Gaelinar's and Taziar's exchanged slurs and plagued by events beyond his control, Larson felt restless. "I'll take first watch."

To Larson's relief, neither of his companions argued. After a supper of jerked meat and tasteless bread, each chose a piece of cleared ground, some distance apart, and dropped into sleep.

Surrounded by the soft rhythms of his companions' breathing, Larson brooded. I'm a goddamned pawn. As far as the gods are concerned, they saved my life and now they own it. He leaped to his feet.

Gaelinar and Taziar stirred briefly at the movement, then returned to their dreams.

Carefully, Larson paced between them. What's going to happen if I do retrieve Geirmagnus' rod? I'll get Silme back… maybe. Then Vidarr or Freyr or Odin will find some new form of blackmail. He slammed his fist into his palm. Well, forget it. I've paid my dues. From now on, if Vidarr wants a favor, he can ask like anyone else.

Larson retook his seat on the needle-blanketed woodland floor. Frustration settled over him, suffocatingly heavy in the silence. I've got to stop thinking like this. The gods can read my every treasonous thought as if I shouted it from the highest mountaintop. The realization further fueled his ire. And that, too, makes damn little sense. Vidarr claimed Freyr chose me for the initial quest because I have no "mind barriers. " Silme believed this defect was very rare, perhaps unique. Whatever these ' 'mind barriers'' are, having none seems to mean certain beings-dream-readers, sorcerers, gods, and giant wolves-have access to my thoughts and memories. AND I DON'T LIKE IT!

Larson scowled, allowing his mind to run freely with the topic until fatigue grew strong enough to overpower anger. By the position of the moon and the color of the night sky, he could tell several hours had passed. Yawning, he scrutinized his companions and chose Taziar as the least comfortable of the pair. Larson approached the climber, caught a thin forearm, and shook.

Taziar opened his eyes.

"Your turn on watch." Feeling spiteful, Larson added, "Though I can't say I'll sleep all that well with a thief guarding me."

Taziar sat up, suddenly fully alert. "I'd appreciate it if the two of you would stop calling me a thief.''

Larson stretched out on his side and leaned on one elbow, prepared to vent this irritation on his newest companion. "Why?" he asked gruffly.

"Why?" Taziar's voice rose with incredulity, then went gruff with annoyance. From a larger man, his tone might have sounded menacing. "First, it's insulting. Second, it makes me and anyone who hears you uneasy. And third, it's not true."

Larson blinked twice in succession. "But you steal. You take other people's things. Where I come from, that makes you a thief.''

"Allerum. Have you ever killed?"

"Yes," Larson confessed.

Taziar hugged his knees to his chest. "Then you won't mind if I call you 'murderer.' "

Taziar's words infuriated Larson. Guilt slammed against his conscience, and the old, Vietnamese woman near the fire base filled his memory. "Don't you dare! There's a difference between killing and murder, you know."

Taziar quirked one eyebrow. "Taking things and stealing aren't the same either."

"Taking things against a person's will after he earned them is stealing."

"Oh." Taziar rocked from his heels to his buttocks. "You mean like taxes."

"No!" Larson heaved an exasperated sigh. "You're playing games with me, and I don't like it."

"I'm just defending myself from undeserved abuse. Mardain knows, I've taken my share today."

Larson rolled to his stomach and propped his chin in his hands. "Give it up, Shadow. I may learn to tolerate you, but I'm not going to approve of pickpocketing. I don't think much of people who steal from working men because they're too lazy to get jobs of their own."

Taziar scooted toward Larson and thrust a palm near the elf's face. The fingers appeared badly scarred and yellow-gray with calluses. "Does this look the hand of an idle man?"

"No," Larson admitted.

"Then quit judging me on a single incident and Gae-linar's prejudice."

"Look." Larson swept to a sitting position, legs crossed before him. "I wish Gaelinar would ease up on you, too. But he does have a point. I don't like traveling with men I don't trust any more than he does. Dishonesty is not an admirable trait in a companion."

Taziar laid a hand on the sheathed sword by his knee, but his maneuver seemed more of a gesture than a threat. "Dishonesty? You had best be speaking of Gaelinar. I assure you, my integrity is genuine and intact."

"A man who would steal wouldn't hesitate to lie."

Taziar leaned forward. "That's nonsense, Allerum. The one has nothing to do with the other. And when have I ever taken anything from you?"

"Never." Larson yawned. "At least, I don't believe you have. But you stole from Gaelinar."

"Aga'arin's fat, metallic ass, Allerum. I gave everything back to him. Does that sound like stealing to you?"

"No. But you robbed Gaelinar too easily for me to believe you haven't had practice. A lot of practice."

"Sure, I've taken things before."

"Ah ha!" Larson crowed his triumph. "So you do lie. And you are a thief.''

"No." Taziar clamped a hand to his face in disgust. "I never said I didn't take things. I said I wasn't a thief."

It seemed to Larson the conversation had returned to its original premise without moving an inch nearer to resolution. "What's the difference between taking and stealing?"

"The same as that between killing and murder. Intent. Have you ever lived in a big city, Allerum?"

Larson smiled. "You could say that."

"How large?"

"When I left it, New York City had a population of about eight million people."

Taziar snorted. "That's not funny. I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Eight million of the two million people in the world live in this city 'New York'. And I've never even heard of it?" Taziar hesitated. "Is this an elven city?"

Larson sighed, wishing he had not answered Taziar's population question truthfully. "Not exactly. It's too hard to explain. Just go on with your point."

"Fine." Taziar rose to his knees, raked his sword to his hand, and fastened it to his belt. "Then you must have noticed beggars and street orphans and lunatics living in the roadways."

"Sure."

"How do you think they eat?"

Larson smiled. "Food stamps?"

Taziar crinkled his face, perplexed. "I've only recently learned your language. I've never heard those words used that way. Explain."

Larson shrugged off Taziar's confusion. "It's an inside joke and not a very good one. I imagine they beg or find jobs."

Taziar climbed to his feet. He seemed intent and agitated, as if the conversation had become too familiar. "Find jobs? Allerum, these people are children, elderly, ill, crippled, blind, or crazy. They steal, Allerum. They steal whatever they can from whoever they can. They steal, or they starve. Believe me, I know. I was orphaned at twelve. And, yes, I stole, too. When I got good enough at it to feed myself and my friends, I chose my victims more carefully. I targeted men and institutions who could afford to nourish the hungry. And it didn't stop there. You see, Allerum, the more I took, the more empty bellies I could fill."

Now Larson snorted. "Right. Sure. Sort of a… miniature, German Robin Hood. I always pictured Errol Flynn taller.''

Taziar cocked his head. His eyes widened with confusion. "What language are you speaking?"

"Never mind." Larson cajoled Taziar, his voice heavy with mockery. "Go on. Tell me more about your…" He chose his words with care, "… astounding altruism."

Taziar's shoulders rose and fell; apparently Larson's sarcasm went unrecognized. "There's not much left to tell. For years, my father loyally led the baron's troops through a senseless war. When my father died, the baron's politics condemned me to the streets. The baron owed a chance at life to the orphans and cripples his stupid battles created, and I simply took it for them. I'd be there still if I hadn't been betrayed and nearly executed. Perhaps, in a few years, I'll go back."

Larson smiled, amused. Though he doubted every word of Taziar's story, the simple, amiable exchange of conversation had dispelled his aggravation. "That was a pretty good yarn. I'm impressed." He tipped his head to meet Taziar's face which wore a look of solemn innocence. "I'm still going to keep my wallet in my jock strap, but I am impressed." He considered. Taziar reminded him of a certain high school senior who was a great asset at a fight or any athletic event but who could never be trusted near a sister or girlfriend. The climber had a smooth, friendly confidence which made him likable though not reliable. "And you know something, Shadow? Even though you just spent half an hour spouting bald-faced lies…"

Taziar opened his mouth to protest, but Larson waved him silent.

"Even though you just wasted half an hour of my sleeping time with fiction," Larson nodded repeatedly to emphasize his point, "I think you're all right."

Taziar chewed his lip in contemplation. " 'All right,' huh?" He knelt, imitating Larson's head bobbing. "That, my friend, is what I've been trying to tell you."

"Wolf!"

Larson was asleep only a few minutes when Taziar's shout jarred him awake. Instinctively, he leaped to his feet, clawing at his belt for a weapon. The instant he rose, Fenrir slammed into him with express train force. Impact sprawled him. Something gashed his scalp, and he heard the snap of teeth as the wolf's bite fell short.

Fenrir! Larson struggled for breath. The pain which plowed through his body lost meaning in the battle for air. Through vision blurred by darkness and anguish, he glimpsed the giant form of the wolf towering over him. Jaws wide, Fenrir loosed a harsh bellow of contempt. Its neck went taut, and it lunged again.

Larson tensed; his sinews shrieked in complaint. Chest heaving with effort, he forced himself to roll. Fenrir's canines slashed his collar like a razor. The cloth tore away, revealing a grim line of scarlet. He tried to scream for help, but his air-starved lungs resisted.

Gaelinar! God, Gaelinar, where are you? Larson's breaths came in tortured moans he could not suppress. He threw up his arms to guard his throat. It was a feeble gesture at best; he knew the wolf's next attack would claim his life.

Again, Fenrir's gaping mouth plunged toward Larson. He winced, gathering his failing strength to twist away. Rows of sword-sharp teeth the color of old ivory filled his vision. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure dive at the wolf's face. Fenrir yowled and staggered back, Taziar clinging to the beast's great neck. Moonlight glinted from the dagger in his fist, and it struck through Fenrir's fur again and again.

The Fenris wolf bellowed in rage. It reared, forelegs pawing for Taziar, tossing its head in chaotic circles. Blood splashed Larson. The knife tore from Taziar's fist and flew between the huddled pines. The thief clung, ashen-faced, arms wrapped around the wolf's neck until a final buck dislodged him. Taziar soared in an ungainly arc, struck a tree trunk, and crumpled in an awkward, motionless heap.

Larson cringed in sympathy, breathing more easily now. He wallowed through agony to his sword hilt. The blade rattled free with maddening slowness.

Fenrir whirled back to Larson. Blood speckled the dark fur between its ears. It wore a broad grimace of triumph; malice darkened its eyes.

"My turn, wolf." Beyond Fenrir, Gaelinar adopted a perfect fighting stance. Still and coiled, he appeared like a statue carved in gold. His swords remained in their sheaths.

Fenrir spun toward Gaelinar. A ridge of hair rose along its spine. Its plumed tail went low with threat. "Your turn, Kensei? Your turn to die! "It charged Gaelinar with the same wild rush which had toppled Larson.

Larson straggled to a sitting position, ignoring the warning ache of his hip.

In a single motion, Gaelinar dodged, drew, and cut. The wolf swerved with him; its movement dulled the impact of their clash. Gaelinar bounced to the ground, but his strike opened Fenrir's shoulder. With a snarl of pain, the wolf overran Gaelinar, then whirled to face the Kensei again.

Fenrir staggered slightly. Its bloodied head swung from Taziar's broken form; to Larson, clumsily attempting to stand; to Gaelinar braced for another attack. The wolf's tongue lolled. "One dead. Two left. Next time, you won't hear me coming." With that warning, Fenrir turned and bounded into the forest.

With some satisfaction, Larson noted Fenrir was limp-ing. At least we hurt it, too. He accepted Gaelinar's extended hand and stood. Trying to hide his own lameness, he tottered unsteadily to a nearby pine and leaned against its trunk. The pain localized to his left arm and hip. His vision swirled.

Gently, Gaelinar knelt over Taziar and pressed two fingers to the smaller man's throat.

"Is he?" Larson asked, fairly certain Fenrir's assessment was correct. Taziar seemed too still to be breathing, and dark blood trickled from one ear.

"He's alive, but he needs our help." Gaelinar twisted to face Larson as he sat beside the fallen man. "I suppose he's earned it." He looked pensive. "Allerum, I'm not often wrong, but this time I may have judged too quickly. He's…"

"All right," Larson finished hoarsely. "I know." Dizzy and aching, he fought a wave of nausea. "That's what he kept trying to tell us."

A careful assessment revealed Larson's wounds less severe than they might have been. From the sharp pains he suffered with every breath, he knew he had strained the cartilage between his ribs and sternum. Irregular, tender patches of red on his hip, chest, and forearm warned of coming bruises. Though the gash from Fenrir's teeth ached, he doubted it would cause a problem as long as it did not become infected.

Larson found Taziar's injuries more difficult to evaluate. A brief inspection confirmed all the damage Taziar had taken was internal. And Larson knew from experience there was nothing less predictable or more dangerous than a blow to the head.

Gaelinar hefted Taziar's limp form. "Let's find some other place to finish our sleep. I don't think Fenrir will return tonight. But if it does, I'd rather it had to hunt for us."

Larson nodded, feeling battered and exhausted. "Let's go" Gaelinar and Larson wandered to a sheltered grove a short distance farther into the woods. The Kensei placed Taziar on a soft pile of shed needles, and the two conscious men cleared ground for their own beds. Provisions and weapons within easy reach, Larson listened to the purr of insects and strained his hearing for the crackle of wolf paws through brush.

Before Larson or Gaelinar found sleep, Taziar sat up. His gaze swept the clearing in confusion then focused on Gaelinar. He spoke as if awakening from a simple nap. "Kensei…" His voice went tremulous and faint. "You still owe me an explanation."

Larson crouched, glad Taziar had awakened but afraid the climber believed they were still in the tavern. "What did you say?''

Taziar's pale eyes remained fixed on Gaelinar. "Allerum, your friend still has not told me why he attacked me at the Dragonrank school. I think I earned the right to know."

Larson bit his lip to keep from smiling.

Gaelinar laughed aloud. "Agreed. But does it have to be now? We're all hurt and tired."

Taziar's face tensed into a solemn mask. "It can't wait. I'm not stupid. We all know I may not survive the night."

Larson thought he could discern a note of sadness beneath Taziar's matter-of-fact tone. He winced. Taziar was no older than his war companions in Vietnam. And, for some reason he could not fathom, this bothered Larson.

Gaelinar tucked his legs beneath him and lowered his buttocks to his heels. "Very well. But the story begins long before we met. It may take some time."

Shakily, Taziar lay flat on the ground. "I'm not going anywhere soon."

Larson scooted backward and hunched against a pine tree. He suspected Gaelinar's tale would address some of the issues which plagued him as well. He listened with closed eyes, allowing Gaelinar's descriptions to fill his mind with imagery.

"My country is one of rugged peaks and low, silken valleys enclosed and protected by the clear blue waters of its ocean. Aside from the crafted stone castles of the emperors, we lived in wooden cottages with sliding doors and shutters. It is a land where every man must have a skill to sell. The farmers toil, raising rice to feed the lords and their own families. The artisans master tools and plans. The merchants live to profit from the others. But the samurai must sell his very soul, his way with weapons and strategy. He must adhere to a rigid code of honor, loyalty, courage, and the resolute acceptance of death at all times." Gaelinar's eyes held a distant look.

Larson and Taziar waited in respectful silence until Gaelinar continued. "My training as a warrior began almost before I could walk. The weapons skills and the use of my spirit in combat came as naturally as breathing. I was pledged to the emperor before I reached manhood, but my musha shugyo, my spiritual path to enlightenment through combat, did not begin until many years later, when Silme came to Edo."

Interest replaced Larson's fatigue. Gaelinar's relationship to Silme had always engrossed and, sometimes, troubled him.

Gaelinar leaned forward and braced his hands on his thighs. "Before Silme arrived, I had served my lord, and later his son, for more than forty years. I had never strayed from the code of bushido. Because of my skill and dedication…"

Larson smiled at Gaelinar's confidence which approached pomposity. It had become too familiar to bother him any longer.

"… I had risen in the emperor's service until I became his personal bodyguard. Then, one day, a young, yellow-haired woman named Silme arrived from the west. She asked to speak with my lord, in private, and he granted her request." Gaelinar closed his eyes. His chin sank to his chest.

For a moment, Larson thought the Kensei had drifted off to sleep.

But Gaelinar raised his head and continued. "While Silme and my lord conversed alone, illness claimed my master. Since it was my duty to protect him, and I was not present when he perished, I had failed. Honor bound me to die with him. In fact, I was preparing to commit seppuku, when Silme convinced me otherwise. She argued that death is a normal part of life. Since my master was not slain by an enemy, I would have shirked my duty had I saved his life and prevented him from fulfilling his destiny. Then Silme told me of the larger world beyond my experience. She described the powers I had not yet tested my skills against and the glory I could win by proving myself the greatest swordmaster, not of an isolated chain of islands, but of the entire world." Gaeli-nar's muddy eyes glimmered with elation and determination. A cruel smile twitched across his features.

Something uncharacteristically evil about Gaelinar's demeanor made Larson shiver.

Gaelinar continued, oblivious. "Despite this new challenge, I still felt the need of some personal sacrifice to sever the final bonds between me and my master. In order to face the challenges of the world, my body remained alive, but my birthname died. The moment I left the white sand beach of Honshu, Fujiwara Hida No Kami Shokan ceased to exist; and Silme renamed me Gaelinar."

Larson suppressed the urge to ask Gaelinar how he ever remembered his full title. "Why 'Gaelinar'? It doesn't sound Japanese or Norwegian."

Gaelinar shrugged. "I don't know. It took me a year to learn to pronounce it, and I still have no idea what it means. But Silme insisted, and one foreign name seemed the same as another to me."

Larson grinned, recalling how a spell of inept stuttering had earned him the strange sounding monicker of Allerum. And Shadow doesn't use his real name either. "But you still haven't explained why you tried to kill Shadow."

Taziar nodded in agreement, then winced in pain.

"Patience is a rare and wonderful thing." Gaelinar spoke soberly but ruined the effect by adding, "I wish I had some."

Larson laughed.

Taziar smiled weakly.

"One of my lord's advisers had always been jealous of my favor with the emperor. In order to avenge himself on me, he claimed I had shamed my master by refusing to commit seppuku. For years afterward, assassins followed me. They always wore black. They hid in the shadows, attacking, unseen, from behind every corner and tree. Instead of learning the way of the sword, over-coming men for honor and glory, these would-be killers were students of treachery, deceit, and cowardice.

"Many times, they tried to catch me unaware and slay me in sleep." Gaelinar's bitterness returned. "And many times, they failed. Finally, the attempts ceased. Whether I was forgotten or had merely killed all the assassins who knew where to find me, I cannot know. But I have not seen one for three years." He looked directly at Taziar. "Until I found you clinging to the walls of the Dragon-rank school. After seven years during which my survival depended on striking first, when I saw you, I had no need to question. In my mind, it was my life or yours."

Gaelinar raised and lowered his head in an abbreviated gesture of respect. "In ten years, Shadow, you're the first one who escaped me."

Taziar lay in quiet contemplation. At length, he spoke, his voice subdued. "I find it difficult to consider my luck an honor. And I still don't understand. Surely you could tell me from an assassin of your people."

Gaelinar ran the edges of his hands along his face. "Ten years of habit are hard to break. And others besides the Japanese will kill for money."

Taziar's features crinkled with concern. "But now, I hope, you realize I'm not one of those 'others.' "

Gaelinar dropped his hands. "I don't know, Shadow. You've followed us, at least since the Dragonrank school. You've put a lot of effort into gaining my attention. And, by the way, you're lucky I didn't kill you for that incident in the tavern. You agreed to join us with little or no knowledge of our quest. And you haven't offered a plausible explanation for any of that."

Taziar's face bunched tighter. "So you still believe I've come to kill you?"

Gaelinar shrugged. "You've given me no reason to think otherwise."

The words surprised Larson. He nearly died for me and still may. That's enough proof for me. He opened his mouth to voice his thought, but Taziar's feeble voice broke the encroaching stillness first.

"Fair enough. My motives are honorable, if somewhat odd. You see Kensei… Allerum…" He rolled his eyes to each of his companions in turn. "… I am possessed by love."

Larson suppressed a laugh. That's the corniest line I've ever heard. It occurred to him suddenly that traveling to Hel, battling dragons, and beseeching gods and sorcerers to restore life to a dead lover might fall well within Taziar's description. Corny or not, I guess I can identify with that. Larson found a comfortable position, certain he would find Taziar's story intriguing if not particularly accurate.

Taziar let his lids drift closed. The overhanging boughs draped his sallow face in shadow. With careful yet flowery words, he detailed his love for Astryd, his visit to the Dragonrank school, and the information gained there. "It seemed to me the best way to make Silme receptive to taking Astryd on as apprentice would be for me to assist her return from death. You know the rest."

Gaelinar's voice sounded unusually loud after Taziar's soft-spoken defense. "Why did you not tell us this before?"

"You never gave me a chance."

Apparently satisfied, Gaelinar rolled to his side.

Larson hesitated, listening to the owlish, whirring barks of foxes. A distant wolf howl sent a chill along his spine. There's still something he's not telling us. His story doesn't explain why he was he so willing to die for me. Larson replayed Fenrir's attack in his mind. Taziar's dive for the great wolfs neck had been an act of fanatical and reckless courage. Why? No one could be that self-sacrificing. He recalled how Silme had dedicated her life to neutralizing her half brother's atrocities. Another scene filled his mind, a trench in Vietnam filled with American soldiers and a single, live grenade. Before anyone else could act, an eighteen-year-old private leaped upon it, shielding his buddies from the blast. It exploded, spraying the others with shrapnel and blood. Chest and abdomen torn open, the hero had suppressed his moans of pain until death claimed him.

Larson shuddered, chasing the memory from his thoughts. He studied Taziar in the dappled light of early morning. The climber lay, limp and silent, breaths deep but uneven. "Do you think he'll make it?"

Gaelinar said nothing as he pondered Larson's euphemism. When he did reply, it was with a fatalistic detachment. "We'll know by evening."