Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 8: Masters of the Mind

"What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough: for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams."

– Pedro Calderon de la Barca Life is a Dream

Larson rolled over in his sleep. Immediately, darkness enfolded his consciousness. He found himself in blackness as thick, heavy, and tangible as pitch. All memory escaped him. He stood, blind and disoriented, heart pounding with apprehension. He tensed to a crouch, felt the searing presence of enemy eyes watching, unseen, from the impenetrable night. Somehow they could see him, he had no doubt.

Suddenly, a wolf howled behind him, a wordless, exultant song of evil. Larson whirled. Pain hammered his body; his chest spasmed, making every breath painful. A second howl sounded, louder, contemptuous, and directly across from the first. He spun again. Before he could react to the dull chorus of aches, another howl rent the air to his right, closer now. Larson twisted toward it. He backstepped, clawing the air behind him for a barrier against which to press his back. His fingers met empty space, and another howl shattered the silence directly behind him.

Larson leaped in surprise. His foot came down on a root. His ankle rocked sideways, and he tumbled to the ground. He floundered through darkness to his hands and knees, tensed to rise, and found himself gazing into blazing crimson eyes. He screamed, staggered back, and again tripped over the root, now behind him. He fell, hard, on his spine and stared up at a row of saliva-slicked, yellowed teeth, each as long and sharp as a saber.

Larson threw back his head and bellowed with fright. He lurched away from the creature, sparking a fresh wave of agony through his chest and hip. Foul breath struck his face, and he saw that the beast, and all its teeth, had swerved with him. Pain. Larson panted. Damn this pain. If this is a dream, why do I feel so much goddamned pain? The thought electrified him. All fear drained away. His sense of self returned, hot and strong within him, and he recognized the pain as the bruises from his battle with Fenrir. He clambered to his feet, oblivious to the wolf which threatened him with jaws widely-hinged. "You've lost, Fenrir! This time, you're not real. You're nothing but an intruder in my dreams tonight, and I know you cannot hurt me." Larson's words echoed through the vast cavern of his mind.

The darkness fell away, revealing the heavily-muscled form of the Fenris wolf. Clotted blood darkened one shoulder, but its red eyes glowed with life. It growled, deep in its throat. "Allerum. Even in your own thoughts, I am stronger than you!" As it spoke the last syllable, it sprang toward Larson's dream-form, lashing at the twisted coils of thought.

Despite his bold words, Larson dodged aside instinctively. The wolf struck a glancing blow which knocked him to the ground. The fall stole his breath and his courage. Realization of dream slipped from his grasp. Fear and confusion regained their hold, leaving Larson with a bad taste in his mouth and the knowledge that something seemed out of place. He struggled for the lost concept. Great peals of mocking laughter rocked the wolf as it slid the recognition of dream further from Larson's conscious understanding.

Abruptly, another being appeared in Larson's mind. The wolf dropped its attack; a spark of insight roused Larson. Dream. It's a… Then both intruders' emotions crashed against him, knocking his consciousness askew.

He felt suffocated by wolf-inspired panic followed by Fenrir's own shock and surprise, alien but powerful as the tide. The other presence radiated determination.

Larson groped for some semblance of sanity on which to anchor his shattered reason. The world exploded, hurling him into nothingness. He fell, spinning and tumbling through leagues of empty air, shot through with terror and the certainty of death. Desperately, his fingers cleaved the darkness. Another clash rocked his being, tossing him as carelessly as flotsam. His foot touched something solid. Arching, he flung his body sideways and clung to the only reality he could find.

A rocket screeched. Directly overhead, it splintered with a roar, splattering multihued pinpoints across the summer sky. Larson clapped, surrounded by gasps of awe and childish squeals of appreciation. He scooted back against the windshield of his father's Dart and glanced at his brother. Suddenly, the scene dissolved around him, and he realized he was alone. Fear struck like madness. Larson groped through the moonless darkness which ensued between one barrage and the next. The car was gone. The crowd had disappeared, replaced by muffled sounds of movement. Larson froze.

Mortars slashed red trails through the heavens; thickening clouds kept their light alive long after the explosion of sound. Man-shadows and distantly familiar faces replaced the cheering mob. And Larson seized a tenuous grasp on reality. Incoming. Incoming! And I'm sitting here impressed, like I'm watching some stupid Fourth of July fireworks. He leaped to his feet. Whirling, he ran toward the bunker.

Larson had taken only three steps when he crashed into an unyielding mass of fur and muscle. Pain descended on him. He staggered sideways. The darkness fled and the firebase faded into memory, replaced by a stretch of frozen ground as barren as a tank-cleared plain. Fenrir spun with a startled curse. Old blood still matted its shoulder. No other marks marred its dark hide, but it panted as if from great exertion. Beyond the wolf, Vidarr crouched, sword angled defensively before him. Sweat sheened on his pale limbs. Flaps of clothing dangled, woven through with silver threads. Anger darkened his fair features.

Fenrir advanced toward Larson, ears laid flat to its head, crimson eyes gleaming. Larson dove aside. Gaeli-nar's words hissed in his ear, foreign and uninterpretable, their inflection wholly alien. Some force outside Larson's mind racked his body, reawakening the ache of his injuries. Fenrir sprang. Larson ducked. The beast sailed over Larson's head and vanished through a yawning gap into the infinity of world beyond his mind. The wolf's voice echoed in threat. "Next time, Allerum, I come for real. No god can save you then."

Larson staggered, feeling weak and spent. Anchored in his own mind, he heard Gaelinar only as distant noise. He glanced at the gold and silver figure of Vidarr. Where? How?

Larson did not expect an answer, so Vidarr's reply startled him. Fenrir invaded your mind. I came to aid you.

Larson studied his surroundings in bleary detachment. Vidarr stood among loops of mental circuitry, a chaotic array of wires which Larson knew must represent his own brain. Light flickered and slashed along the pathways as the scene registered and he contemplated its significance. Fenrir, he repeated, dazed. In my dream. Larson's voice seemed to issue from a tangled coil a short distance before the exit; he held no material form in his own mind. With that discovery, he felt himself drawing back into his physical body. He resisted, strengthened by the early stirrings of resentment. Vidarr, I was fighting Fenrir off until you came.

Derisive laughter rang through Larson's thoughts. Until I came, Fenrir was playing you like a mouse.

No!

Vidarr radiated an aura of contempt. Yes, Allerum. I've told you before, you lack the natural mental barriers people of this era possess. Your mind is like a book. Any force with enough knowledge and power can penetrate and manipulate it, writing and rewriting as it pleases.

Wrong, Vidarr! Growing rage lent power to Larson's rebuttal. Fenrir can wake old memories. It can inspire

thoughts and torture me with images. But, while inside my mind, Fenrir can cause me no physical harm.

Vidarr's anger echoed Larson's. Of what consequence is physical harm! Your strongest enemies can control your beliefs. They can turn you away from your important goals.

Ah ha!

Vidarr hesitated. Ah ha?

This is what it all comes down to, isn't it, Vidarr? You're scared Fenrir might convince me not to fetch Geirmagnus' rod.

Vidarr was accustomed to communicating with emotions; his self-righteousness came through every bit as clearly as his words. Whatever happened to gratitude, Allerum? I just faced the strongest chaos force in existence for you. Fenrir may not be able to hurt you in your mind, but it could have killed me. And you seem to have forgotten that Freyr rescued you from death to bring you here, at no small risk to his own life.

Larson snorted. The sound filled every crevice of his mind. Freyr brought me here because he needed someone from my age. He needed a person without mind barriers to communicate with you by wielding the sword in which Loki had trapped you. He summoned me to slay a god. I accomplished that. In doing so, I destroyed my own world. My debt is paid. I'm free now. I don't owe you or Freyr any favors. I didn't ask him to bring me here, and I didn't ask you for help against Fenrir. In fact, I politely requested you to STAY OUT OF MY PERSONAL MEMORIES!

Vidarr dismissed Larson's tirade, his annoyance hot and tangible through the cramped corners of Larson's mind. Listen, Allerum. I'm tired of your disrespect. I don't know what gods are like in your world, but here, we seldom deign to speak with humble mortals. When we do, it's considered the greatest honor.

Spare me the speech… and the honor, Vidarr. Freyr chose me because I yelled his name in my last moment of life. Freyr doesn't exist in my world. Calling on him was a sacrilege. If I don't respect the God I was taught

to worship since childhood, how can you expect me to respect you?

Vidarr's eyes followed the shifting lights which betrayed Larson's current abstraction.

Larson seized the god's silence to continue. I'm sick of everyone expecting me to kowtow and cast aside my own ideals for theirs. Protected or not, my mind is my own. Your presence is as much a violation of my privacy as Fenrir's. Recalling Vidarr was an ally, Larson tried to soften his words. Damn it, Vidarr. I feel like I'm being raped. I have to learn to handle this handicap on my own. Don't worry about my thoughts. I know myself well enough to recognize and ignore a concept which goes against my nature.

Vidarr remained haughty and relentless. Bramin once convinced you I was an unholy being and your mission was to destroy me.

That was before either of us knew he could influence my dreams.

Regardless, Allerum. It's my job to keep you on task. Freyr pulled you from a hellish war…

… To place me into another hellish war. Into Hel itself even! I'm supposed to feel grateful that Freyr ripped me from a world of technological miracles and dumped me into the body of a ninety-eight pound weakling?

Vidarr persisted. Technological miracles or not. You were dead.

Dead or not, I was free. I'm no slave. You tell me "get Geirmagnus' rod,'' but you won't describe what guardians I'll have to face. You know how to raise Silme, but you won't tell me. Instead, you used the information to blackmail me. I say enough! If I am to serve gods, I shall do so willingly or not at all. Otherwise, you can kill me right now.

Allerum! Vidarr's presence shook with impatience. Stop this nonsense.

Driven nearly to violence, Larson pressed onward. These are the ground rules, Vidarr. From now on, if you need a favor, you ask. Second, any uninvited intrusion into my mind will be considered an act of war.

An act of what! Exasperation beat through Larson's mind. My battle with Fenrir has addled you.

Not addled! Larson screamed. Enlightened. It was you who triggered my memories, not Fenrir. The wolf merely came to threaten me.

Irritation sifted through Vidarr's reply. This is crazy. You've gone crazy. I'll return when you've recovered your senses. He took a step toward the gap through which Fenrir had exited Larson's mind.

No! If you return without settling this, I'll consider it an attack.

Vidarr paused. Good-bye, Allerum.

No! Larson realized he could not allow Vidarr to leave yet. It would take all meaning from future promises and threats. Desperate, he gathered every fiber of mental energy and channeled it into the image of a restraining wall, hard and high as the one which enclosed the Dragonrank school. To Larson's surprise, a broad shape shimmered to life before Vidarr, hazy and indistinct.

The god hesitated. Allerum? What are you doing, Allerum?

Larson said nothing. He gritted his teeth, tensing every muscle. Pain ground through him. He ignored it, mind and body drawn together in effort. Sweat rolled from his forehead. Unbeknownst to him, his physical body contorted to a knot of concentration. Gradually, the wall came into focus, neatly blocking Vidarr's escape.

Larson could barely perceive Vidarr's mix of shock and sudden fear. Allerum! What?

Larson replied carefully. Every syllable seemed to weaken him. Tell… how… to… rescue… Silme. The wall behind Vidarr collapsed. Larson fell silent. A fresh wave of frustrated anger gave him the strength to reconstruct it, brick by mental brick. He hoped the barricade would also keep Vidarr from seeing the self-doubt which rilled the remainder of his consciousness. He knew he had to get Vidarr's answer quickly. If the god stalled long enough, Larson would lose the strength to hold him.

Apparently, Vidarr did not recognize the tenuousness of Larson's trap. Discomfort shot through his reply, and he seemed on the edge of panic. Allerum. Calm down. We can discuss…

Spasms racked Larson's material form, and he feared he might be having a convulsion. The momentary redirection of his thoughts blurred the mental walls. Rage warred with the threat of defeat.

Allerum?

Quickly, Larson refocused his mind. The walls wavered, then grew more visible. Anger speared through him. Now! He shouted with such directed fury, fire splattered the ground at Vidarr's feet.

Vidarr lurched backward with a startled cry. All right. Stop! I'll tell you.

Now. Larson managed to insist. The effort of that single word nearly drove him to unconsciousness.

Vidarr hesitated only a second, but it dragged like hours. Now, the god agreed reluctantly. But you're making a mistake.

Larson's concentration snapped. The wall dissolved. Pain crushed down on him, well beyond the bruises Fen-rir had inflicted, and it sapped his remaining strength. Voices wafted to him, drowned by a harsh ringing in his ears. He opened his eyes. His bleary gaze registered little. He lay on the ground. Gaelinar knelt at his side, speaking softly and incomprehensibly. "A minute," he forced himself to say. His tongue felt twisted and heavy.

Gaelinar fell silent.

Larson concentrated on a thought. Vidarr?

I'm still here. The god amended, Actually, I'm no longer inside your mind. I'm communicating through a probe.

Larson was careful not to reveal any information about his mental trap; it would not do to reveal the difficulty of its construction nor the frailty of his barrier. Explain.

Explain what?

Larson felt weak as a rag. What the hell is a "probe?" And how do I free Silme? Even as he asked, Larson wished he had reversed the order.

When we communicate telepathically or I just need to read some surface thought or a memory you've highlighted for me, I use a magical, mental link to do it.

Vidarr paused, as if waiting for some indication Larson understood the concept. When he got none, he continued. In order to manipulate your thoughts, spark old memories, or fight Fenrir, I have to actually enter your mind. That's why I could have taken physical damage from the wolf. Do you understand?

Yes. Larson lied. His mind felt fuzzy, and he needed to consider Vidarr's descriptions at a more opportune time. And Silme?

Vidarr hesitated.

Larson could raise no more than a faint spark of anger. The truth, Vidarr, or I swear Baldur will rot in Hel.

In his weakness, Larson could not read Vidarr's intentions. Allerum, you promised.

So did you, Vidarr.

Only under duress.

Oh! Larson tried to work sarcasm into his reply. And my vow was obtained in good faith? Quit stalling and tell me how to free Silme.

Very well. Vidarr's mental words grew so soft, Larson had to strain to discern them. To bring Silme back to Midgard, you need to open a place for her. You must keep Chaos and Law in balance.

Larson struggled against unconsciousness. He felt drained, body and soul. Tell me something I don't know.

Allerum, think. Annoyance increased Vidarr's volume. The Fates will allow you to kill a man only if his time has come to die. You can't ' 'open a place for Silme'' by slaying a servant of Law. You have to balance her resurrection with the resurrection of a tool of Chaos…

… of similar strength to Silme. The revelation lent Larson a second wind. So, I have to find a Chaos-serving, sapphire-rank Dragonmage who died some time in the past.

Again Vidarr hesitated, apparently grappling with a decision. Allerum, for some reason, you're not thinking clearly. Eventually, you're going to figure this out, so I might as well take credit for telling you. Do you recall the dead in Hel?

Larson nodded, not wasting the effort of retrieving the memory.

Vidarr continued. Then you know that the longer they remain in Hel, the less human they become. Gradually, they lose all sense of self. The sorcerer you raise with Silme cannot have died too long before her.

Despair filled Larson. I have to find a sapphire-rank mage who died about the same time as Silme? Is there one?

Vidarr radiated exasperation with such intensity, Larson acknowledged it even through his failing perceptions. Your slaying of the god, Loki, tipped the world's balance toward Law. Hel is of Chaos. Therefore, she must be willing to compensate Silme's freedom with a Chaos-serving sorcerer somewhat more powerful than Silme.

Suddenly, everything came together. Bramin! God, Vidarr! You're talking about Bramin. An image came, unbidden. Again, Larson saw Bramin's features, sharply defined and slender with a deadly, sinuous grace. He stared into eyes as red as Fenrir's but flashing with an evil which defied the ages. Bramin's dark elf father had stolen the virginity from Silme's mother by rape. The cruelty of townsfolk and Bramin's demon breeding had trained him to hate, and the Dragonrank teachings gave him the power to turn his bitterness into violence. Worse, in addition to having mastered Dragonrank sorcery to its highest level, Bramin was also a swordsman of superior talent.

Vidarr's manner became soothing. So you understand now why I couldn't tell you how to free Silme earlier. Bramin would stand against your quest. He might prove powerful enough to prevent you from retrieving Geir-magnus' rod. Surely, you understand why you must revive Baldurfirst, while you're still unopposed. Then you can raise Silme and Bramin. Vidarr's words came faster, and Larson thought he detected a note of nervousness. Do it in that order, the only logical way, and I'll aid you against Bramin as much as the laws which govern gods allow. He waited.

A red curtain of fatigue blinded Larson. His thoughts stumbled through mist, and it took every last vestige of energy to form a coherent answer. Vidarr, I'm going to

Hel. Darkness descended on Larson, and a long time passed before he knew anything more.

Larson awoke to the gray haze of evening. He rolled to his back, braced for a barrage of pain. But he felt only the dull ache of his injured ribs and hip. Sleep had healed the fog of his mental battle, and, though it taxed him in mind and sinew, it seemed to have left no physical aftereffects.

Gaelinar took a seat next to Larson and set a handkerchief full of berries in the elf's lap. "Are you well now, hero?"

Larson stretched, though the maneuver sent berries tumbling onto his breeches. "I feel great." He considered his conversation with Vidarr. Was it all a dream? "Gaelinar, I think I know how to get Silme back."

Gaelinar studied Larson curiously. "Are you certain?"

Larson popped a handful of berries into his mouth, their taste an equal mixture of sweet and sour. "I believe so. We have to return to Hel and ask its queen to release Silme and Bramin together.''

Gaelinar went still. For a full minute, he did not move so much as a finger or an eyelid.

Larson fidgeted. He had expected almost any reaction but none at all, and Gaelinar's silence unnerved him. "I said…"

"I heard you."

"And?" Larson prompted.

Gaelinar leaped to his feet. "Let's go."

Larson crammed berries into his cheeks, dumped the remainder to the ground as he stood, and returned Gaelinar's handkerchief. He hoped it was his own imagination which made the Kensei's movements seem less fluid than usual. Then another concern usurped his attention. "Where's Shadow?" In his moments of lucidity, Larson had noticed only Gaelinar. When I last saw Shadow, we didn't know if he'd make it till evening.

"He's washing up." Gaelinar jerked a thumb toward the ring of pine which surrounded the grove. Wrinkling his nose, he added, "You might do well to join him."

Larson smiled, too glad at the news to take offense. "He's all right, then?"

Gaelinar nodded. "A lot better than you looked today. What happened? Nightmares again?"

"Sort of." Larson knelt, scooped up a few stray berries, and ate them. He ignored the dirt which grated beneath his teeth. "Vidarr and I had a disagreement."

Gaelinar met Larson's gaze. His eyes gained a glint of satisfaction, and his lips gradually bent into a smile. "Just another god, after all."

"Just another god," Larson agreed, though without Gaelinar's wry pleasure. "Now, where'd you say that water is?"

Gaelinar pointed.

Larson turned in the direction of the Kensei's gesture. He twisted his head back toward his mentor. "Is it frozen over?"

"It's a hot spring," Gaelinar explained.

"Oh." Larson brushed through the needled branches. He paced a straight course in the indicated direction and, shortly, came upon a natural, oblong pool. Wisps of steam curled from its surface, merging into the shadowing branches of the pine. A stream exited the northern bank. In the center of the spring, Taziar floated on his back, scrubbing his abdomen with a handful of grit. He acknowledged Larson with a brief nod. His linens lay, neatly folded, at the American's feet.

Larson stripped down and dropped his clothes into a pile beside Taziar's black climbing outfit. Measuring the distance with a careful glance, he took a shallow dive. The water parted before him, then closed around him. It felt near body temperature, warm, wet, and comfortable in the autumn chill. From experience, Larson knew cold would not bother him in his elf form, but he imagined Taziar would wish to dawdle in the tepid waters as long as possible.

Larson came up for air within five feet of Taziar who was now washing his crotch. Larson chuckled and called conversationally. "Don't you hate jock itch?"

Taziar spent some time in deep contemplation, as if Larson had said something particularly profound. At length, he asked carefully, "What's 'jock itch?' "

"That." Larson pointed. "What you've got."

Taziar traced Larson's gesture to its logical conclusion. "Hmmm. Well, Allerum. You may call yours Jock, but I call mine… Thor."

Larson laughed, the humor tempered by the fact that Taziar had chosen the name of one of the few gods who might actually hear and take offense. "You're all right."

Taziar nodded agreement and turned his attention to his legs.

Larson flipped and dove. He scooped up a handful of pebbles and, treading water, scoured his own anatomy. "I'm glad. You're all right, I mean. You looked pretty hurt."

Taziar raked plastered hair from his eyes. "You, too. Gaelinar'll probably get mad I told you, but he worried about you."

"Really?" Larson smiled. He found it hard to imagine Gaelinar concerned about anything.

"Yes." Taziar bathed his other leg. "I think he feared he'd have to travel with me alone."

"Horrors!" Larson mocked. "A fate worse than death."

Taziar considered Larson's word choice. Even literally, it would be difficult to take the expression as anything but an insult. "Very nice. Thank you."

"Just a little joke."

Taziar splashed a wave of spring water over Larson, his tone colored with feigned offense. "So now you're belittling my size."

Larson grinned broadly. "An accident. But it was small of me," he quipped.

"Watch it. I'll start telling elf jokes." Taziar rolled and swam back to the shore, deliberately kicking water onto Larson.

Larson finished washing quickly and followed the Cul-linsbergen to the banks. He enjoyed the exchange. Locker room gibes had been one of the few pleasures which made Vietnam tolerable, though fast friendships had a way of becoming fast deaths and faster grief. Since coming to Old Scandinavia, Larson's only companion near his own age was Silme. But trading digs and caustic cracks with the woman of his dreams did not appeal to him.

Larson and Taziar dressed in silence. Larson was fastening his sword belt when Taziar questioned. "Did Gae-linar tell you about our new wolf weapon?"

"No." Larson patted the buckle in place. "I hope it's a tank."

Brow furrowed, Taziar took a step toward Larson. "A what?"

"Never mind." Larson waved Taziar off. "Just one of those stupid things I like to say to amuse myself. What's the new toy?"

"This." Taziar pulled a folded square of linen from his pocket. He rummaged through his clothing for some time, then raised his hand to flick hair from his face before producing a handkerchief. "Gaelinar put together a powder. He says it burns if thrown in the eyes." Taziar knelt, unwrapped the parcel to reveal a pile of gray-white dust, and spread the second scrap of cloth beside it. Using a stick, he divided its contents in half and prepared to scrape powder from one to the other.

Noticing the difficulty Taziar had had producing the second handkerchief, Larson dug through his pocket for one of his own. "Here. Use mine."

Taziar did not look up from his work. "This is yours."

Larson's fingers groped an empty pocket. "What?"

"Sorry. Habit." Taziar stood, a neatly tied bundle in each hand. He passed one to Larson and turned the elf a wicked smile.

"You…" Before Larson could think of a suitably vile insult, a cry of pained rage rent the woodland peace followed by an animal growl of determination. Gaelinar! Larson sprinted toward the grove, Taziar on his heels.

The pines parted easily before Larson. Following the direction of the sound, he clawed through jumbles of needled branches, leaped over a deadfall, and emerged in a star-shaped clearing near the grove. At the farther edge stood Fenrir, its bristled fur brushing the higher branches. Fresh blood trickled from a gash in its flank. Gaelinar dangled from its jaws; the wolf's teeth closed over a thick crease on the back of the Kensei's robes. Gaelinar's swords formed a perfect cross, locking the wolf's neck between them.

"Come on, wolf! Shake me!" Gaelinar's voice rang with challenge. "You may kill me, but you'll slash your own throat as well. I'm ready. Do you fear death, puppy?"

Fenrir growled.

Larson froze, taking a moment to assess the situation. There was truth to Gaelinar's words, but it seemed a perfect stalemate. For the Kensei to strike, he would need to draw back for momentum, removing any deterrent to Fenrir shaking the life from him. But Fenrir could not bite unless it loosed the hold it already had, granting Gaelinar a chance at escape.

In his moment of hesitation, Larson heard Taziar's sword rasp free. He drew his own and charged the wolf.

Fenrir raised its eyes. Suddenly, it dropped Gaelinar. The Kensei tumbled to the ground with a gasp of jarred breath and tensed to rise. But, before he could move, Fenrir planted a lion-sized paw squarely on his chest.

Larson quickened his pace.

Using Gaelinar as its launching site, Fenrir sprang to meet Larson. The elf sidled. The wolf's shoulder struck a glancing blow which staggered Larson. He caught a brief glimpse of Gaelinar, limp and still, before his own defense absorbed his full attention. He twisted, catching his balance, and found himself staring into Fenrir's lowered face. The wolfs lips curled into a cruel parody of a human smile, revealing a sharp row of canines. "Let's see how well you fare without your swordmaster."

Larson raised his sword. Fenrir back-stepped and circled clockwise, ears flat back, tail low and full. Larson rotated, keeping his sword arm toward Fenrir. From the periphery of his vision, he watched Taziar follow the wolf. Fenrir slowed, just beyond Larson's reach, allowing Taziar to close the gap between them.

Larson lunged. Fenrir sprang aside, then dove for Larson. Its teeth slashed his tunic, missing flesh. Taziar rushed Fenrir, sword high. The wolf spun, redirecting its attack for Taziar's unprotected side. The Cullinsbergen recoiled midstrike, and Fenrir reversed his stalk, keeping to Taziar's left.

Larson wove around behind Taziar, trying to approach from Fenrir's opposite side. But the wolf spun, herding Taziar so that, once again, it had both enemies before it.

Larson howled in frustration. "You want to fight or dance?''

Fenrir plunged toward Larson. Larson raised his sword to meet the attack. At the last moment, Fenrir pulled his feint and leaped for Taziar. The Cullinsbergen dodged hard left, but the wolfs canines closed on his arm. The force of the bite drove the sword from his fingers, and it spun into the darkness at the edge of the clearing. Larson thrust for Fenrir's throat, his free hand groping for bundled powder. His fingers closed over the cloth as he completed the strike.

With a toss of his head, Fenrir flung Taziar at Larson. Taziar stumbled toward the blade. With sudden terror, Larson realized his own sword would impale his companion. He dropped the hilt; there was time for nothing else. The sword toppled as man and elf crashed to the dirt. Larson's handkerchief tore open, scattering powder harmlessly across the clearing.

Fangs bared, Fenrir leaped for Larson and Taziar. Both rolled aside. The wolf landed, claws chewing through frozen ground, the sword lying at its feet. Sweat blurred Larson's vision, turning the glint of moonlight on its steel into a dull glaze. He dove for the crossguard. His reach fell short; he felt the cool metal of its sharpened edge beneath his grip. Then Fenrir's paw slammed down on his knuckles, pinning his hand against the blade. Larson twisted his neck to find himself staring into Fenrir's wide, red jaws. "You can't win, insect! So long as the balance remains tipped toward Law, no one can slay me!" Its open mouth dipped toward Larson.

There was no time for grace. Larson wrenched backward with a force which strained every muscle in his forearm. The blade slashed his palm as he pulled free, and he tumbled into the center of the clearing. Fenrir tensed. Larson gathered breath, willing his spent muscles to draw him away from the beast's next attack.

Suddenly, Taziar leaped in front of Fenrir. Weaponless and dwarfed by the bulk of the great wolf, the Cullins-berg man had little chance of deterring Fenrir for more than a few seconds. Larson struggled to weak legs as the wolf raised a paw to dash Taziar aside. Then, Larson noticed the parcel in his companion's hand. Taziar ripped and threw. The bundle struck home, splashing powder across Fenrir's muzzle.

Fenrir reared backward with a bellow of pain. It bounded through the circle of pines which surrounded the clearing and disappeared between the huddled branches of the trees. Too tired to give chase, Larson listened to the sounds of its stumbling progress until they faded to silence.

Taziar handed Larson his sword and helped the elf to his feet. Blood showed through the shallow bite on Taziar's arm; apparently, Fenrir had gripped with only his foreteeth. Larson knew the wolfs molars would have crushed the climber's bones to splinters. The gash across Larson's fingers was also superficial.

Taziar trotted toward the border of the clearing. "I need to find my sword. You better tend Gaelinar." He inclined his head toward the swordmaster.

Larson cringed, bracing himself to face the newest victim of Fenrir's violence. It had become too familiar. Since Larson's arrival in Scandinavia, one battle had followed another. No longer could he crouch behind a gun and fire at distant shadows and enemies. He had moved beyond counting piles of dead soldiers to confronting gods face to face, sword to sword, sword to tooth. And after-every skirmish, there was more death and more wounds. He realized Fenrir was weakening them all, in increments.

Larson turned his gaze to Gaelinar. To his relief, the old man was sitting, methodically cleaning his swords with a torn scrap from his golden robe. There was a strange awkwardness to Gaelinar's movements which drew Larson's attention to the Kensei's hands. The right appeared supple and freckled, lacking the depressions between the tendons which marked the atrophy of aging skin and muscle. But the left had swollen to twice its normal size. A ring of purple-black marred the palm, and the protruding fingers appeared thin and yellowed by comparison.

Larson winced. It's from his run-in with the dragon in Hel. How could I have forgotten? Larson berated himself, though he felt certain Gaelinar had made an effort to hide the injury. He walked to the Kensei's side and flopped to the ground beside him. Peering into the wrinkled countenance, he noticed something even more alarming. Gaelinar's dark eyes had gone dull. His features sagged, blank with defeat. Larson caught his mentor's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Gaelinar went still. His voice emerged flat and toneless. "I'm fine. Just fine for an old man."

Gaelinar's docile manner struck terror through Larson. He felt as if he conversed with a stranger. "What do you mean 'fine'? You're beat to hell." He waved a hand over the tattered, filthy robes and the greenish-brown bruises revealed through the holes. "You look like you swallowed a porcupine. How can you feel fine after fighting a wolf the size of a Clydesdale? And what do you mean old?"

Gaelinar did not look up from his swords, but his tone became angry and color returned to his features. "If I was strong, no mere animal could best me. My spirit has grown old and tired."

"Are you stupid?" Larson tightened his grip. "The damn wolf's a god."

"Just another god." Gaelinar let his sword fall into his lap and looked directly at Larson. "I lost not because of Fenrir's strength but because of my weakness. If I was still strong, you would see a dead wolf here. I failed you. I failed Silme. And I failed myself." He shook free of Larson's hand. "I failed myself, Allerum. That, I can't tolerate."

Words did not come easily to Larson. He sputtered. "But you heard Fenrir. Right now, no one could kill him."

"There are no excuses."

Larson slapped his palms over his face, unable to understand the events which had suddenly turned his arro-gant swordmaster into this self-deprecating "old" man. Disgusted, he stood.

Before Larson could walk away, Gaelinar caught his hand. "I'm mad at myself, hero, not you. You and the small one bested Fenrir while I lay here like an old lady."

"Damn it, Gaelinar. I…"

The Kensei waved his student silent. The glimmer of determination returned to his eyes. "My life and everything I believed in has stood on a table supported by three legs. One leg is duty, one spirit, and the last strength. I've seen beauty and horror beyond most men's imaginings. I also saw my own mortality when Fenrir bested me the second time."

Larson felt duty-bound to interrupt. "Fenrir didn't best you the first time. He ran away."

Gaelinar shrugged. "He lived to come back this time. And his return made my life a table with only two legs. My body can no longer do what my spirit demands." He flexed the fingers of his injured hand. "As a two-legged table must fall, I cannot accept less than perfection. But I can accept my own death. And you, hero, must carry on my teachings."

"Carry on…" Suddenly, Gaelinar's meaning seemed all too clear. "Oh, no. You can't kill yourself. I haven't learned anything.''

Gaelinar smiled, and all his confident power seemed to return. "I can't kill myself now. I promised to bring Silme back, and I will see that through."

Larson dropped to a crouch. "But you have more reasons to live. You want me to carry on your way. I've only been with you a few weeks. Surely you have more to teach than that."

Gaelinar sheathed his short sword. "I've taught you all that one man can teach another. I've trained you to have a bold spirit, a sense of honor, and that death need not be feared. Anything beyond that, hero, you must teach yourself."

Frustration made Larson angry. "Gaelinar! Cut it out. There's no time for this nonsense. You've been old for a long time. There's a difference between being old and giving up. You talk about bold spirits, but you're afraid to face old age."

"It's the only time for this 'nonsense.' " Gaelinar rose, catlike. To Larson's relief, he seemed his familiar self again. "Every day, I have grown slower and weaker than the day before. My death may come soon or years from now. But it approaches. I'm not afraid of getting old. I'm not afraid of dying." He slid his katana into its scabbard. "Now, hero. Let's go kill a wolf."

Gaelinar's talk of death and defeat unnerved Larson. When Taziar approached, sword recovered and sheathed, Larson was glad to abandon his previous conversation. "Shadow. Found it, I see."

Taziar nodded, but his attention seemed fixed on Gaelinar. He stopped, well beyond sword range, within a step of the darkening periphery of the pine trees. His eyes darted from the bunched figure of the Kensei to the seemingly endless stretch of forest. "I have an idea which may stop the Fenris Wolf."

Larson's spirit soared. He passed a reassuring glance to Gaelinar.

"But," Taziar continued, "it would require a few day's journey to the Bifrost Bridge."

"Bifrost Bridge," Larson repeated. It sounded familiar from his readings of Norse mythology in the Vietnam bunker. He shrugged, wondering why Taziar seemed so nervous. "Why not? We know how to free Silme now. After we go to Hel, we can veer toward this bridge thing."

At the mention of Silme's rescue, Taziar shuffled a step forward. He pursed his lips in consideration then shook his head with resignation. "No, Allerum. I doubt that powder will deter Fenrir long. You two get Silme." He smiled. "Tell her the essential role I had in her resurrection, and convince her she needs a garnet-rank apprentice. I'll take care of Fenrir."

Larson was beginning to believe he was the only sane man left in existence. "You'll take care of Fenrir, huh? When you're traveling alone and the wolf attacks, I suppose you'll just grab it by the tail and swing it till it cries 'uncle.' "

Taziar gave Larson a curious look. "Don't worry about me. Once we've separated, Fenrir will go after you, not me." He spoke with a bold certainty which intrigued Larson but changed the subject before the elf could ask the obvious question. "One way or the other, my business won't take as long as yours. I'll meet you near the great falls outside Hel. If I'm not there, don't wait."

Gaelinar returned the conversation to its earlier tack. "How can you be so certain Fenrir will come after us?"

Taziar swallowed hard. He shifted from foot to foot, each movement inching him closer to the tree line. His face screwed into a mask of discomfort and guilt, but his tone sounded apologetic. "Forgive me, my friends. I can't hold this secret from you any longer. Two weeks ago, I freed Fenrir from centuries of bondage and allowed him to hunt down his father's slayers."

The news shocked Larson. He recalled Taziar's reckless courage against the wolf, and, suddenly, it all came together. Larson gathered breath to question further.

But in the instant it took Larson's mind to register the meaning of the words, Taziar had faded into the shadows of the woodlands and quietly disappeared.