Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 9: Master of Fate

"Yet they, believe me, who await No gifts from Chance, have conquered Fate."

– Matthew Arnold Resignation

After the evening sword lesson, the first night of Larson's and Gaelinar's journey progressed in tense silence. Never one to speak unless he had something important to say, Gaelinar left Larson alone with his thoughts. And, as they retraced their earlier route through the pine forest, Larson found his own contemplations disquieting. He considered his mental struggle with Fenrir, the battle between the wolf and Vidarr which had ignited random memories, and his own careful and taxing trap which walled Vidarr into a corner of his mind. None of it seemed possible, yet the gods' manipulations had become too familiar to deny or condemn with simple logic.

The world faded to an endless blur of shadows as Larson continued to look inside himself. Apparently, he lacked the natural, anatomical barriers which protected people of this era from gods and sorcerers who would manipulate their thoughts. Until the previous morning, he had believed that defect left him helpless against such attacks. Now he had discovered a weapon, albeit weak and untrained. He could not help but wonder whether practice might strengthen his skills. If so, his mind and memories could become his own again.

As he walked, Larson rehearsed imagining walls. He pictured brick, stone, wire, and mortar without difficulty, but they had no relation or corresponding location in his mind. Each was just a barrier floating in his thoughts like any other conjured fantasy. They lacked the reality of time and place Larson had imparted to the wall he'd used against Vidarr while the god and he were standing within his mind. Larson considered. Perhaps that's it. I need to be inside myself to erect a solid barrier. The proposition intrigued him. He tried to place himself into his thoughts. But although he could picture himself among the circuitry which represented his brain, he could not actually work himself into his own mind. Apparently, that procedure required an outside force or being to trip his memories.

Larson relaxed, trying to view the puzzle from the other side. Maybe I can build the walls while outside my mind, but I have to be inside to set them in place. It seemed as likely as any other conclusion; anything seemed possible when dealing with a situation as absurd as treating thoughts and memories as physical entities. If so, practice might hone my abilities. He returned to mentally drawing walls. He imagined barbed wire fences, prison barricades, and great castle bastions. He tried to consider each invented partition as a step toward mental freedom, but he only managed to make himself feel foolish. I'm probably wasting my time. Even if I'm on the right track, I can't be certain I'm crafting the walls correctly. And, as Gaelinar has often said, "Practicing a maneuver incompetently is worse than not practicing at all. ''

Larson abandoned his psychic enterprise, and turned his attention elsewhere. Tree branches and dark wisps of cloud striped the full moon, dappling the forest with shadows. Gaelinar slipped quietly between the needled branches, his posture alert, prepared for Fenrir's next attack. The realization turned Larson's thoughts to the wolf. Fenrir claimed no one could kill it, yet it refused Gaelinar's challenge in our last fight. Larson recalled Fenrir clutching Gaelinar by the back of his robes, the wolf bunched and angered by the swords at its throat. If Fenrir truly could not be slain, why didn't it shake Gaelinar? Why did it run from us when Shadow's powder blinded it? Why bide time between attacks?

Larson closed the widening gap between himself and Gaelinar, intending to bring his questions to his mentor. But the Kensei's solemn expression convinced him otherwise. Why do I expect Gaelinar to know the answers any more than I do? Apparently, part of being unslayable is knowing when to retreat. Or, more likely, Fenrir lied. The certainty of defeat could damage our morale, making us easier to conquer. Besides, even the will of the Fates can be overthrown. According to Vidarr, it was Loki's destiny to survive and lead an assault against the gods of Law. No Norse mythology book I ever read mentioned a dead American soldier from 'Nam.

The night dragged on. Heavy cloud cover obscured the gradual lightening of the sky toward dawn. Freezing drizzle pattered against the tight umbrella of overhanging branches, and very little penetrated to the travelers beneath it. A hearty dinner whittled their supplies dangerously low but brought sleep easily to exhausted men with full bellies.

Early in the cycle of slumber, Larson felt a pressure in his mind. Doubts prickled through his thoughts, strangely alien. He lay in half repose, dimly aware of the intrusion. It seemed to him like the moments before sleep, when reality fades to dream and the implausible mingles with the concerns of the previous day. This odd sense of uncertainty winked out with unnatural suddenness, as if suppressed. A wavering image filled Larson's awareness. Gradually, it solidified, forming into the contours of a face, its skin and hair dark as the depths of Hel. It was not a racial, human blackness but rather the solid, gun-metal hue of a panther. High, arched cheekbones formed hollows for eyes the color of fresh blood. A sharp chin and gaunt, cadaverous features gave an impression of points and angles.

Bramin! Larson struggled to awaken. Foreign frustration rattled through his mind, choked off with the same abruptness as the uncertainty. Larson jarred awake. He stared into a chaotic jumble of branches and a broken array of muted sunlight. The clicking of insects formed a strange duet with the ceaseless rattle of the rain. Carefully, Larson reoriented. He held sleep at bay long enough to convince himself of the reality of the forest and to recognize Bramin's image as fleeting fantasy. Then he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off again.

Sleep returned almost immediately, and with it the same entity which had conjured Bramin's features. Some portion of Larson's unconscious acknowledged the being and mistakenly dismissed it. This time, the dream weaver made certain not to reveal its own emotions as it fashioned Larson's thoughts. The picture of Bramin again sharpened into existence. The half man's eyes seemed to flay Larson. Thin lips twisted into a malicious sneer, and Bramin's voice wound through Larson's consciousness. "… To save you from my sorceries, Silme linked her life aura to mine… Her fate and mine have become one… If you kill me, you kill Silme, too!"

Despair rushed down on Larson. No! He struggled against the memory and momentarily caught another glimpse of waking reality. The intruder's emotions pulsed against him, a mixture of guilt and sudden desperation, then it pummeled Larson with a collage of memory: Bramin demanding the sword which held Vidarr prisoner; Bramin sweeping his blade with dazzling speed; Bramin pounding his fist repeatedly into Larson's face, his knuckles striped red with blood. The images relentlessly howled through Larson's mind bringing with them remembered tortures, guilt, grief, and violent pain. Each new angle struck Larson like a physical blow. He spun, ran, blundered into another memory carefully placed by the intruder. Bramin's laughter pulsed through Larson's mind, heavy with hatred. Sparks splashed across Larson's vision, then the dark elf stood before him again, hand raised in threat.

Larson cringed away as Bramin's spell ripped into him. Agony stabbed and spiraled, stealing strength from body and soul. Larson heard his own screams as distant echoes. Then, abruptly, the assault stopped. The visions of Bramin disappeared. The pain subsided. Larson found himself standing in a clearing in the pine forest, panting from mental exertion. He was gripping his drawn sword as if fighting some unseen enemy. When he sheathed it, he discovered the knurling on the hilt had left a ring of diamond-shaped impressions across his palm.

Gaelinar knelt at the edge of the clearing, watching Larson curiously. "Dream?"

Larson considered. He could vaguely recall a presence in his mind before the sequence had started, and it lacked the cold courage of Bramin, Loki, or the Fenris Wolf. Those three had sparked painful memories with malicious pleasure while the entity who conjured the facets of Bramin seemed almost apologetic. '.'No," he replied carefully. "Not a dream. Excuse me for a moment, please. I need to discuss this with someone."

Gaelinar shrugged, too accustomed to Larson's oddities to comment further.

Larson sat on a dry circle of fallen needles. He gathered as much accusation and resentment as he could, then focused all his concentration on a single word. Vidarr!

There followed a lengthy silence.

Anger and impatience joined Larson's chosen sentiments. VIDARR!

No emotion accompanied Vidarr's reply. You bellowed for me, Allerum?

I did. Though I can't imagine why it took you so long to respond. I know you were already here.

Perfect confusion radiated from Vidarr. I don't understand.

I don't understand, Larson mimicked, his rage magnified by Vidarr's denial. Vidarr, I'm not stupid. Quit playing dumb or I'll consider your cruelty an intentional attack rather than an ignorant gesture.

Vidarr did not answer; he held his feelings thoroughly masked.

Well? Larson demanded.

Vidarr's voice emerged as a barely perceptible mumble. All right. I did it.

Larson snorted, hoping his thoughts made it obvious he harbored no doubts about Vidarr's guilt. That was never in question. He supposed'the god had searched his thoughts. Otherwise, Larson suspected Vidarr would not have confessed so quickly. Now tell me why. What's the matter? Fenrir hasn't destroyed my sleep to your satisfaction? Did you feel I hadn't suffered enough?

I wasn't trying to hurt you.

Liar! You had to know reviving memories of Bramin would cause pain.

Vidarr persisted. I just wanted to remind you how dangerous Bramin is. Before you plead with Hel to raise Bramin from the dead, I needed you to remember his evil.

Larson stared at his hands in frantic disbelief. Did you think I could forget?

Regardless…

Don't regardless me! Furious, Larson interrupted. I saved your life. I thought we were friends. But in the last few days you've done worse to me than any enemy I ever had. You demand favors. You intrude on my private thoughts. Now, you've attacked me.

Annoyance sifted through Vidarr's defenses. I saved your life, too. I neutralized Loki's magic, turning your conflict into a battle of swords. And, without my assistance with parries and strikes, you would have lost that contest. Vidarr hesitated. Then, apparently afraid Larson would break in, he continued quickly. And I didn't "attack '' you. You just don't understand, do you?

I understand you assaulted my mind with memories which caused me emotional anguish and physical pain.

Baldur is my brother.

Larson remained unmoved. Loki's final words before his death at Hvergelmir's falls returned, unbidden: "If you slay me, no one will contest Odin. The Norse pantheon will endure, supreme through eternity. Christianity can never reign. Al Larson, if you kill me, your world, your family, and the people you loved will never exist!" Larson spat. I had a brother, too, Vidarr. Rescuing you doomed him for eternity.

Vidarr paused. He made no attempt to hide his surprise. Are you still bitter about that?

Did you think I'd just forget I destroyed my world and everyone in it?

No, Vidarr admitted. But I did think you'd realize you had no choice. Loki determined that the day he trapped my soul in the piece of steel the other gods shaped into your sword. Without me, the gods of Chaos would surely have won the final battle, the ' 'Ragnarok.'' Loki would have destroyed all humanity; your world and ours would

no longer have existed. Killing Loki was the only way to free me, and that, as you know, also prevented the arrival of the White Christ and the coming of your people.

Larson pondered Vidarr's words, words that appeased some of the guilt he had felt since the day Bramin, Silme, and Loki had died near the entrance to Hel. But something still seemed amiss… Thereby defying the Fates who determined Ragnarok WOULD occur, the White Christ WOULD come, and my era WOULD exist.

Apparently.

The Fates can be resisted. Destiny can be changed.

Apparently. Vidarr's presence seemed more relaxed as Larson's attention shifted from the assault upon his memory.

Larson licked his lips thoughtfully. Explain something to me, Vidarr. How long ago did Baldur die?

Vidarr became evasive. I don't remember exactly.

Vidarr's caution made Larson suspicious. Approximately.

A century.

Stunned, Larson found it temporarily impossible to form a coherent thought.

Maybe two or three.

Baldur's been dead longer than a hundred years? So why, all of a sudden, has his resurrection become my emergency?

Vidarr's presence squirmed. It was Baldur's destiny to rise from the dead after Ragnarok and to rule the era of peace which would follow our father's reign of war. We could tolerate Baldur's absence knowing he would, one day, live again. By preventing Ragnarok, you banished Baldur to Hel. We want him back, and retrieving Geir-magnus' rod is the only way we know to achieve his return.

Larson's jaw sagged, and all anger drained from him. He recalled the odd feeling of divinity Baldur had radiated. It all came together now, a coincidence too strong to deny. Resurrection. A god of peace who is the son of a god of war. Divinity. His thoughts swirled. Not everything fit, but the parallel was frightening. And if Baldur is, in fact, Jesus, will raising him restore the future?

Larson suppressed the idea, wishing to evaluate the possibilities at a time when Vidarr could not read his thoughts. It would not do to set the entire Norse pantheon against him. Certainly, my meddling will have changed the later ages. Perhaps this altered future won't have a Vietnam War. Already, my presence appears to have changed history. I don't recall sorcerers or elves in any textbook.

Vidarr seemed confused by Larson's jagged leaps of logic. What are you thinking about? he demanded.

Larson kept his reply friendly, hoping to discourage Vidarr from penetrating the deeper portions of his mind for answers. I'm thinking I certainly will retrieve Geir-magnus' rod.

Joy suffused Larson's mind.

Larson added, After I rescue Silme.

Loki's children, Vidarr swore. I thought you were com' ing to your senses.

I am. And, Vidarr, if you keep interrupting my sleep, it'll take twice as long to finish my bargaining with Hel. It'll take twice as long to retrieve the rod, and it'll give Fenrir twice as long to eat me before I free Baldur. This is my last warning. If you penetrate my mind again, other than to talk, I'll shoot first and ask questions later.

Vidarr seemed unsure. Allerum?

Please, Vidarr. We're supposed to be allies. The last thing I need is more enemies.

Vidarr said nothing. Larson could feel the heated stirrings of the god's rising anger.

Good day, Vidarr. Larson finished firmly.

Good day. Vidarr responded curtly. His presence disappeared from Larson's mind.

Yawning, Larson stretched out on the ground. Thoughts of gods and churches filled his last waking moments then seeped softly into dream.

Taziar Medakan straddled a pine seedling at the edge of the clearing outside the northern town of Kiarrmar. A fresh carpet of snow covered the straight stretch of open plain, though no clouds marred the sky. The autumn sun shimmered from the distant arch of the Bifrost Bridge, scattering highlights of red, yellow, and blue across the ice. To the southeast, smoke from the town curled into the heavens. In every other direction Taziar saw nothing but trees.

Now, four days after his last encounter with Fenrir's snapping jaws and howled threats, Taziar's errand seemed madness. It would require him to slip past Heimdallr a second time, a feat he did not relish despite its challenge. He doubted the same ploy would work twice or that Heimdallr would show any mercy if he caught Taziar defying his orders again.

Taziar sidestepped around the seedling and dropped to a crouch. He did have another option, though it seemed equally foolish. He could summon Heimdallr, and, if the god did not kill him on the spot, convince him of the importance of his cause. Either course of action would sabotage the other. Once caught attempting to gain access to the realm of the gods, Taziar doubted Heimdallr would be interested in his reasons. And, if talking to Heimdallr failed, the god would be watching for Taziar to try to climb the Bifrost.

Talking to Heimdallr will waste less time. Having come to a decision, Taziar marched openly across the snow. His feet crunched through the frozen crust into a thin layer of powder. His toes felt chilled despite the leather of his boots. A wind gust hurled icy particles against his cheeks, reddening the skin. And this is only autumn. I don't think I want to experience a winter in Norway. He hunched deeper into his cloak.

Suddenly, light exploded before Taziar. Half-blinded, he staggered backward with a startled cry. He blinked through an etched web of shadow and found himself facing another man. The stranger was tall; Taziar's head scarcely reached his waist. A tunic and breeks of the most expensive leather hugged a heavily-muscled frame. Silver thread shimmered through his cloak. His left foot sported a crafted sandal, the right a boot cobbled from mismatched scraps. The entire effect inspired awe. Taziar stared, struck speechless.

The giant glared down at Taziar. Blond braids swung around grimly handsome features. "Come here, Shadow."

Taziar recovered quickly. He inched a half step closer. He knows my name…ormy alias, at least. "You seem to have me at a disadvantage." He added carefully, "Sir."

"That is as it should be." Apparently, the giant misunderstood Taziar's intention, for his next words answered Taziar's question thereby spoiling the effect of his own arrogance. "I am Vidarr. You must perform a task for me."

Vidarr? Allerum's god? Taziar studied Vidarr and found the god's disposition suspiciously easy to read. Anger and confidence seemed to radiate from him. Taziar doubted he could be the cause of Vidarr's rage, though he knew the wrong words might earn him the brunt of it. He considered his reply carefully. "Lord Vidarr. I am honored." He lowered his head and worked humility into his voice, hoping it would not sound feigned. "What service can this humble mortal perform?"

To Taziar's relief, Vidarr's anger faded slightly. "You will return to Allerum."

Taziar played along. Vidarr's request matched his plans. "I shall."

"And you will see to it he never discovers that the recovery of Geirmagnus' rod is impossible."

"What?" Taziar's question was startled from him. For the first time, "impossible" conjured bewilderment rather than interest. "You sent Allerum on an impossible quest? Why?" Fighting to keep accusation from his tone, Taziar dropped his pretense of modesty.

Vidarr's huge brows beetled. "Because, Little One, I have waited centuries to find a capable mortal ignorant enough of the impossible to achieve it."

Taziar regained his composure. "Forgive my questioning, lord. I'm not certain I understand."

Vidarr kneaded his fists with the casual power of a war machine. "Many have tried, men and gods, all with the knowledge their goal was impossible. None even made it past the entrance."

"Because of some guardian?"

"Geirmagnus' estate has no guardian," Vidarr roared. "I believe their own doubts defeated them."

Taziar hesitated, intrigued. "And realizing that, could you retrieve the rod? Apparently, you believe the task possible. Otherwise, you would not have sent Allerum after it."

Sadness entered Vidarr's aura. "I cannot. For all my self-convincing, deep within myself, I do believe the task cannot be done. I harbor enough doubts to prevent success."

Taziar considered. "Lord Vidarr, I will do my best to keep the knowledge from Allerum. By the conversations I have overheard, I believe Gaelinar is already aware of the impossibility of the quest and is protecting Allerum from the information." He tried to hold judgment from his next comment. "I'm afraid, Lord Vidarr, your revelation may have served only to doom me from completing the task if Allerum fails."

Fresh anger flared. "What do you mean?"

Taziar bowed respectfully, wishing he could erase his last statement. "My lord, I am a foreigner. I had no idea the task could not be done. Should Allerum die or surrender midway through it, I might have been able to complete it for him." He glanced up into a face gone pink with annoyance. "I thought, perhaps, that was the reason you told Allerum to bring me along."

The god snapped, "I suggested he take you because he seemed so awed by your sleight of hand, no other reason. Your act pulled him from depression. I had hoped you might keep his spirits up."

Taziar licked his lips several times. "And have I?"

Vidarr shrugged. "Adequately." He waved Taziar off with an exaggerated gesture. "I've become bored by you. Begone." He spun on his booted heel.

"My lord, wait."

Vidarr froze. He turned slowly, regarding Taziar as if he were a bothersome insect. "This had better be important."

Taziar had tired of mincing words and feeding Vidarr's ego. He stood his ground. "It is, sir. I need the magical rope which used to bind Fenrir, and I don't think Heim-dallr would allow me across the Bifrost. Would you be willing to get it for me?''

Vidarr's sharp blue eyes passed over Taziar from head to foot before meeting his gaze directly. The silver threads in his cloak glimmered and sparked as he drew breath. "No. Men serve gods, not the other way. Be glad I didn't kill you for asking."

Taziar bit off an expletive. "Please, lord, I'm not requesting you serve us but rather your own cause. I doubt Allerum could survive another of Fenrir's attacks. The elf is of no use to you dead."

Vidarr's visage turned from red to purple, and Taziar felt certain he had struck the cause of the god's fury. Vidarr's tangible emotion blazed from anger to murderous fury. Abruptly, he lunged. Taziar dodged aside, but the god instantly corrected for the movement. Hands the size of boulders clamped onto Taziar's neck, lifting him effortlessly from the ground.

Taziar caught wrists wider than his fingers could circle. Bracing against them, he struggled to free himself from a grip as unyielding as a vice. Vidarr brought Taziar's face to the level of his own. He continued speaking; Taziar's weight and exertion seemed no more troubling to him than the dying breeze. "Allerum is the chosen of the gods. He's going to die on this quest, but he's going to die for my brother. I don't like his insolence, but I can accept it in exchange for his life and service. You, I can crush like a weed." His fingers twined deeper into Taziar's throat.

Taziar gathered words to bargain. "V-" he sputtered. He could manage nothing further; each labored breath rattled. He turned incredulous eyes toward Vidarr, realizing he was about to die for something Larson had said.

Gradually, Vidarr's anger withered. His grip loosened, and he lowered Taziar to the ground.

The moment his feet met the snow, Taziar scuttled beyond the god's reach. He took great gulps of breath. The cold air stung his lungs but soothed his aching throat.

Vidarr masked his intentions, but his face betrayed remorse. His voice, though soft, commanded obedience.

"Stay here, Shadow. Don't move." With that warning, Vidarr disappeared.

Taziar rubbed at his neck while his vision blurred and spun. He stared at the snow until dizziness passed, then glanced up to the towering arch of the Bifrost Bridge. A distant figure stood on the rainbow strands. Heimdallr, probably. Hope he enjoyed the show. Taziar considered running but thought better of it. Vidarr did seem genuinely sorry, and the last thing I need to do is anger him again.

Taziar's wait did not last long. Within moments, a faint light shimmered before him. He threw up an arm to shield his eyes as the glow shattered and Vidarr returned, clutching the filthy, delicate cord which Taziar had slipped from the leg of the Fenris Wolf.

Taziar said nothing. He met Vidarr's blue stare expectantly.

Vidarr set the rope across his palms. It dangled limply to the ground. "This is Gleipnir, a prize of unequaled value. It was forged by one of the dark elves back in the times when they held all the most powerful magics of the world. Many of the things you and I believe not to exist were simply in the dark elves' keeping, among them Gleipnir's six ingredients: the noise of a cat's footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the nerves of a bear, a fish's breath, and the spittle of a bird." He tossed the string at Taziar's feet.

Taziar retrieved Gleipnir, rolled it into a ball, and tucked it into his pocket. It felt flimsy and unlike any of its claimed components. But Taziar had already seen it hold the Fenris Wolf in place.

Vidarr continued. "We had Gleipnir fashioned after Fenrir snapped fetters of iron and adamantine, and a god lost his hand so that we might fasten Gleipnir. Fenrir will not willingly allow himself to be tied again."

Taziar nodded. He did not expect capturing the Fenris Wolf to become an easy task just because he now possessed the rope. But if we can't slay him, at least we might bind him.

"If you lose Gleipnir, we will hunt you down and kill you." Vidarr used a matter-of-fact tone, as if it were the most natural statement in the world.

If I lose Gleipnir, it'll be because Fenrir killed me. You won't need to hunt me down. Taziar kept this thought to himself. He tensed to turn, but concern for Larson gave him the courage to question further. "I mean no disrespect, Lord Vidarr. Please forgive my gall. As one of Allerum's companions, am I not doomed to death as well? If the task is impossible and we're all attempting it together, Gaelinar, Allerum, and I are all going to die for Baldur."

Vidarr's manner softened. "Likely, you'll all die. But even Allerum's fate is uncertain. Although I believe he'll be killed, the outcome is not mine to decide."

Taziar considered, emboldened by Vidarr's cooperation. "I can't let Allerum take this risk without knowing. I have no choice but to tell him." He inched beyond Vidarr's reach.

Vidarr's expression went somber. He made no move toward Taziar. "Telling Allerum can only doom him to failure or convince him not to retrieve Geirmagnus' rod. Refusal to perform the quest would be the only certain death he would face. His fate if he seeks to perform the task is still a question. If he angers Odin, his fate and mine become certain. We'll die at my father's hand. Allerum might be able to thwart the Fates, but even the gods know there's no way to best Odin."

Taziar lowered his head. Without a word, he turned.

A weight dropped to Taziar's shoulder. He whirled back in surprise to face Vidarr again, the god's hand gentle on his arm. This time, the emotion Vidarr shared was comradely, his voice soothing. "Good luck."

Taziar fingered his collar and the bruises beneath it, feeling awkward and confused. "Thank you," he replied.

Al Larson peered through the rocky crevice which formed the entrance to Hel. Behind him, eleven rivers, braided into one, raged down from the cliffs of Midgard to batter the ground before Hel's entry way. The torrent flung icy droplets which bounced from his skin and stung like tiny wasps. The lake surrounding the waterfall occupied most of the circular valley which enclosed it, leaving a shelf of packed and cold-hardened silt through which the combined rivers flowed into Hel.

Gaelinar descended from the narrow pathway which threaded into the valley. "Go on." He gestured at the tunnel.

Larson stared. He could see nothing but the black infinity of Hel. "The Hel hound." Recalling how he had blundered blindly into the beast and nearly paid with his leg, Larson felt unwilling to make the same mistake twice. "We'll have to get past it."

"No difficulty to that." Gaelinar walked to Larson's side. "As Hel said, her realm was never designed to keep men out. The hound is trained to prevent escapes, not entrances. If Fenrir didn't kill the Hel hound, you won't even see it."

Larson edged forward. He had known the answer before he spoke the question; he had asked more to stall and to reassure himself than from actual concern. Despite the thrill of freeing Silme, he was still not eager to enter Hel's lightless, lifeless realm nor to encounter its guardians again. And Vidarr's cruel awakening of memory had forced Larson to realize he would also raise an enemy as cunning and powerful as a god and far more dangerous than Fenrir.

Larson stepped into Hel's entry way. A putrid, animal smell hung in the air around him. He crinkled his nose against the odor of the Hel hound and its droppings until time accustomed him to it and, later, distance obscured it. Once beyond the remembered length of the Hel hounds' chain, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Several hours deeper into the Hel lands, Larson and Gaelinar made camp. A visit to the village in which Gaelinar had purchased Larson's sword had given them the chance to buy provisions and fresh clothing, and they ate well that night. Exhaustion invited sleep, despite the discomfort of Hel. Larson awakened, refreshed. He shouldered his share of the food and drink, refastened his weapons, and prepared to travel.

Gaelinar's voice sounded startlingly loud in the loom-ing silence. "From here on, not a single word or sound. If you have any stupid questions, ask now."

Larson lowered his pack to the ground. How does Gae-linar always make his simplest statements seem insulting? "Why this sudden need for quiet? I thought nothing in Hel would oppose us."

"Nothing in Hel will oppose us, but we can oppose them."

Larson shook his head in bewilderment.

Gaelinar said nothing further.

Realizing Gaelinar had not seen his gesture in the dark, Larson voiced his confusion. "Could you run that by me again?''

A brief pause followed. "You want me to explain it?"

"Please."

"Quite simply, if we want Silme back, we're going to need a bargaining tool."

Larson placed a foot on his pack to keep track of it. "We have a bargaining tool. Bramin holds more power than Silme. Raising them both will give advantage to Chaos."

Gaelinar dissented with maddening certainty. "Hel will not agree to the exchange."

Annoyed by Gaelinar's bold assurance, Larson insisted. "Vidarr said she would."

"Vidarr is mistaken."

"Vidarr is a god," Larson reminded his haughty companion.

"The two are not exclusive, Allerum. Loki would still live if he hadn't underestimated you. The fact is, we need a bargaining tool against Hel. If she wanted us to raise Silme and Bramin together, she would have told us the first time we came here. She wouldn't have sent us off with misconceptions to kill powerful servants of Law."

Larson considered. "Why not? Our killing powerful servants of Law is in her interests, after all. And she must of figured we would eventually realize the right way to raise Silme. This way she gets the best of both worlds."

"Perhaps." Gaelinar seemed unconvinced. "But as angry as she was with us last time, I doubt she'll cooperate. A bargaining tool won't hurt."

Larson found Gaelinar's logic inarguable. "And that tool is…?"

"Modgudr."

Understanding chilled Larson to his core. "The sorceress who sent a dragon at us? How can she become a bargaining tool?"

"That," Gaelinar said in the wickedly wry voice he reserved for insulting gods and describing reckless feats, "is why we must continue in silence." His tone returned to normal. "Come on."

Larson hefted his pack. "Wait. One thing more, Gaelinar. When I crossed the bridge last time, I ran into some magical wall-type thing."

"Modgudr would have no cause to set wards to prevent people from entering Hel. Hero, I traveled with Silme for years. I know how to avoid Dragonrank wards. Don't worry about me. As for you, I want you out of my way. When I signal, stay still and don't move until I tell you. Now, come on. Our delays only weaken Silme."

Unable to see his companion, Larson followed the music of the river, Gjoll, knowing Gaelinar would do the same. Despite Hel's emptiness, its blackness was vibrant with a menace which set Larson's nerves tingling with the premonition of imminent peril. Apprehension kept Larson crouched and hyperalert. But finally the terrors of this world had come to overshadow those of Vietnam. His mind conjured images of gnashing teeth and magic long before he considered and easily discarded the possibility of snipers. He doubted Fenrir would follow them into Hel; Baldur's continued presence suggested that the same defenses which kept ghosts and men from escaping would also discourage a god. More likely, the wolf would bide its time, waiting for Larson and Gaelinar to emerge from the Hel lands, perhaps weakened by another fight.

As Larson walked, the glow of Modgudr's gold-thatched bridge appeared, brightened, and sharpened. Well before Larson's eyes could discern the distant outline of the crossing, Gaelinar pressed a hand to his chest. Larson gathered breath to whisper a question, but Gaelinar's fingers pinched his flesh in warning. Larson went obediently still, watching Gaelinar's yellow robes disappear into the darkness before him.

Several minutes passed. Larson fondled his sword hilt, prepared to rush down on Modgudr in defense of his mentor at the first flash of magic or cry of pain. Gaelinar's depression after Fenrir's last attack remained alarmingly vivid in Larson's memory. Although the Kensei's manner seemed no duferent after the incident than before it, Larson was concerned that, single-handed and without his normal boundless confidence, Gaelinar was taking on a powerful enemy.

Gaelinar's voice echoed from the confines of the bridge. "Come, hero."

Larson trotted forward obediently. "Modgudr?"

"Unconscious."

Larson climbed onto the wooden bridge, groping through the darkness so as not to collide with Gaelinar. "How?"

"I hit her."

Larson turned to his left, following the direction of Gaelinar's voice. "You sapped her?"

"No, I…" Gaelinar broke off, leaving the foreign term undefined. "I caught her off her guard, hit her with the flat of my sword, and knocked her unconscious. Now, hero. I'll wait here. You go talk with Hel."

Larson recoiled in dismay. He reached tentatively until his fingers brushed Gaelinar's head. The Kensei was kneeling. "Me? Alone? You're not coming with me."

"Someone has to stay with Modgudr. Otherwise, I just wasted my time and gave her a headache for nothing. When you discuss terms with Hel, mention my shoto at Modgudr's throat."

Larson let his hand swing free, as much appalled by the thought of leaving his sword master with a sorcerer as by the idea of wading through corpses and facing a god alone. At their last encounter with Modgudr, Gaelinar had underestimated the sorceress' remaining strength. That mistake had cost the Kensei the bones of his hand and nearly his life as well. "Do you think Hel will bargain? Maybe she'll let us kill Modgudr and just replace her with another guardian."

"Not likely. There are few enough Dragonrank mages to make it difficult to find one willing to spend his years alone in darkness herding corpses. Apparently, Modgudr found that to her liking."

"Apparently." Larson twisted Silme's sapphire through the cloth of his pocket. "Can't we take Modgudr with us? It would make a more graphic display for Hel."

"And let the corpses escape Hel? Someone has to stay and guard the bridge."

"Let the Hel hound take care of the ghosts."

"Believe me, hero. If the Hel hound could keep all the corpses off Midgard, Modgudr would not be here. Now on with you. The sooner you return, the sooner I finish babysitting."

Larson stared off into the seemingly endless sea of darkness beyond the bridge. Once again, it had fallen to him to bargain with Hel, to reverse the damage his sword stroke had inflicted on Silme. But, difficult as it had seemed with Gaelinar at his side, alone the task became like a lead weight upon him. He tried to remind himself that Gaelinar's intolerance of small talk and delay had also raised Hel's hatred against them; surely he could perform better without the Kensei. But Larson could not shake a feeling of betrayal as strong as that he still harbored against his father, who had died and left Larson's family penniless.

"Well?" Gaelinar's voice startled Larson from his thoughts.

"I'm going," Larson replied defensively. He trotted across the bridge planks and into the darkness beyond it.

The miles passed swiftly. In an attempt to keep his mind free of distressing concerns, Larson traveled until exhaustion overtook him, ate and drank from his pack of rations, slept, awoke, ate, and again marched until he collapsed. While he walked, he sang pop tunes remembered from the half semester he had managed at college before the financial burdens of his family forced him to enlist in the army. Many of the lyrics escaped him. He found himself longing for a radio to fill in the missing rhymes and verses, and was suddenly reminded of his mother's strange affliction. She knew the melody to every popular song ever written since well before her birth, but she only remembered a handful of the lyrics. She substituted the remainder of the words with whistles, humming, or la-la's.

By the third day, Larson's strategy failed. The constant, ominous threat of Hel's blackness pushed in, spurring the neatly hidden portion of his mind which held his apprehensions. He wondered about Taziar's plan and whether the little foreigner would reach the Bifrost Bridge to accomplish whatever purpose he had there. He worried about Gaelinar, keeping watch over a crafty, unpredictable enemy night after day. He considered Baldur and what relation, if any, this single peaceful god in a warrior pantheon had to his own Christ. And, already, Larson felt responsible for the cruelty and chaos Bramin would inflict upon Midgard.

Soon the fence which hemmed Hel's citadel became visible as the darkness thinned to the red mist which defined this corner of the land of the dead. Larson set to the task of climbing, shifting his concentration to his handholds and footholds. Through the gaps between the bars, he could see the squat, flat shadow of Hel's fortress. A few ghostly figures flitted through the courtyard, stained oily red by the haze.

Sharp flakes of rust embedded in Larson's palms as he pulled himself higher up the barrier. Shortly, he reached the top, maneuvered around the upper poles which arched toward the stronghold, and scrambled down the inner side. He dropped the last five feet to the ground, turned, and found himself staring into gaunt but familiar features. Gilbyr? Horrified, Larson remembered the bandit who had tried to steal his Vidarr-sword for Bramin. The corpse's face was locked in a permanent expression of terror. A stiff beard encased his chin, the effect of Silme's young apprentice incompetently casting his shaving spells. Larson had taken advantage of the child's ineptitude by convincing Gilbyr the boy would turn him into a wolfman. A bloody hole marred Gilbyr's chest where he had run, panicked, onto a companions' sword. Earlier, one of Silme's wards had burned Gilbyr's hand; it had rotted off leaving a blackened stump.

With a gasp, Larson flinched back against the fence. The corpse turned hollow eyes on him. A glimmer of recognition passed through them. Shock and anger twisted the masklike features. Gilbyr's remaining hand latched onto his sword hilt, and he took a menacing step forward.

Rammed against the fence in a startled wonder, Larson clasped his own haft. Corroded crossbars bored into his back. His gaze locked on Gilbyr's fist, awaiting the first aggressive move.

Gradually, Gilbyr's fingers fell away from his hilt. Larson looked up to find the corpse's eyes had gone as dead as their owner. Gilbyr peered at Larson with mild curiosity then stumbled off into the strange, red glow of Hel's courtyard.

Larson watched Gilbyr's huddled form disappear into the gloom. He released his own hilt and stepped away from the fence. The thwarted encounter filled him not with relief but with alarm. Gilbyr's already nearly forgotten me. And Silme died only about two weeks after him. The realization sparked urgency. If I want Silme back intact, I'm going to have to barter quickly. Larson ran to Hel's squat citadel.

A layer of mold coated the open door to Hel's fortress, its dead plant odor mingling with the rot of the corpses which filled the corridor. Larson paused in the portal, ill with the recollection of the searing cold touches of the ghosts. The smell of death raised memories of cadavers decaying in the heat more vividly than any visual image could. But purpose gave him the courage to pick his way among the corpses until the stench became lost in the now familiar background of Hel's brooding promises of pain and despair.

Larson dodged through the crowd, glad the effort kept him focused on his pathway rather than the milling cadavers which defined it. Soon he reached the paired thrones at the portal to Hel's meeting room; Baldur and his wife perched upon them in morose silence. The god raised a hand in greeting. Light from the lopsided chandelier in the chamber fell upon multihued jewels embedded in the stone of Baldur's chair. Their reflection formed halos of color which Larson had not seen since entering the limitless blacks and grays of Hel. Again, Larson felt the aura of divinity radiating from the dead god. More familiar images of slim white candles, stained glass windows, and temple arches replaced the looming tension inspired by Hel's imprisoned minions.

Larson studied Baldur in the blood-colored gloom of the hallway and the guttering candlelight which escaped from the room beyond them. He found little resemblance between this hardy, blond god of peace and the emaciated, dark-haired Jesus artists painted upon the cross. Yet I can't know how much the paradox of my own existence and the slaying of a god have changed the course of history. Larson glanced beyond Baldur and noticed Hel gliding toward the room at her snail's pace. A faint breeze from the doorway eddied candle smoke around her like a robe.

Larson turned his attention back to Baldur, aware it would take Hel some time to creep into the meeting room. Recalling that the dead could not speak first, Larson addressed Baldur in the softest voice he could manage. "You can have this back." He offered the painted stone Baldur had given him at their last encounter.

Baldur made no move to retrieve it, but his visage sank into sadness. "You could not find my father?"

"I gave your message to Vidarr."

A hopeful glimmer returned to Baldur's eyes, like sunlight fractured on a sea of darkest blue. "And?"

Larson glanced toward Hel. The goddess seemed to have moved no closer, though her toes inched toward the chamber. "And Vidarr made me give up my own task to work at rescuing you." Resentment flared. "If I had known your intention, I would never have accepted this." Larson tossed the gem in his hand, then dropped it into Baldur's lap. Despite his words, he felt all his anger channeled against Vidarr rather than Baldur.

The god looked stricken. His eyes glazed with moisture, and his fingers gripped the arms of his throne with desperate self-sacrifice. "Forgive me, please. You must believe I did not know. Vidarr is good, and he surely meant you no harm. Love for a woman, a sister, a brother can make even a god do things against his nature. And my mother's hope for retrieving her youngest child might have spurred my father to pressure Vidarr. Odin is the one even the gods do not dare to cross." He plucked the painted stone from his thigh. "I have no means to communicate with my family. Otherwise, I would insist they not demand from you. The kindness you performed for me was appreciated. Were it within my power, I would make them realize I would rather remain here for eternity than allow them to torture you."

Aware Vidarr could read his every thought, Larson smiled. "You don't realize it, but you may have just told them. I'm not mad at you. Once I've returned to Mid-gard, I will do everything in my power to free you from Hel." Larson was surprised by his own sincerity.

Repeatedly, Baldur turned the gemstone between his fingers. "Because of my brother?"

"No," Larson insisted. "Because I want to."

Baldur reached out, stone pinched between his thumb and first finger. "You keep this. My mother left it on my pyre. It's worth a rich man's share of gold, but it's scant payment for the favor you've done me."

Larson accepted the stone, realizing as he did that Hel had reached the center of her chamber. He eyed the sword at Baldur's hip. "One more thing. Can you keep the corpses from the room and the doorway while I talk with Hel?"

Baldur nodded. "They won't enter the chamber while Hel is in conference. I can't do much, but I'll help as I can."

Larson settled for the vague promise, then trotted into the room to meet with the half dead queen of Hel.

She watched Larson approach through narrowed eyes. Tangled blonde hair framed features sharp with angry accusation. "So… you have… returned… murderer. "

The statement required no reply, but Larson spoke before Hel could continue in her maddeningly halting style. "I am no murderer, lady. I killed your father in self-defense. I understand your grief, but it wasn't my fault." Hel's mouth quivered, but Larson continued before she could respond. "I have returned to ask you to free Silme with Bramin to balance the trade."

Hel shifted from one rotted leg to the other. "No."

"No?" Larson allowed surprise to color his tone. Hel's refusal annoyed him every bit as much as learning that Gaelinar had been correct, as always. "You can't refuse. You promised on your oaths to Odin you would not oppose Silme's return to Midgard."

"And… I… will… keep… my… word." Hel stared at Larson directly and with dignity. "But… I… made… no similar… promise… for… Bramin. He… stays. Without him as… counterbalance… the Fates… will… prevent… Silme's escape."

Each tedious syllable further enraged Larson. "Why? Why would you do that? Bramin is more powerful than Silme. The trade can only strengthen your cause."

Hel's expression never changed. "My… legion… is… my strength. The… dead… are my… subjects. Releasing… even one… weakens… me. And… you… are… requesting… two of my… most mighty…"

Impatient, Larson interrupted. "Without life force, neither can cast spells. And, with time, they will lose all memory and become no more valuable than any other."

"Eventually. Until… then… they… strengthen… my power. Besides… if I… free… Bramin and… Silme… every man… on Midgard… would… come… seeking… his dead. To… give in… to even… one… would… take all… permanence and… all… glory from… death."

Hel's words spun through Larson's mind like fragments of dream. He saw truth in them and understood, but the cause of Silme's life still seemed more important than any rule of nature. "I had hoped to bargain peacefully, but you leave me no choice. My companion holds Modgudr prisoner. If I do not come back or I return unsuccessful, he will kill her."

Hel's face remained locked in its gloomy pall, but her eyes flashed in the candlelight. "I… don't… believe you."

"That is your prerogative."

Larson waited in a silence which jarred every nerve while Hel considered. He kept his face expressionless.

"Prove… it."

"How?"

Another long pause.

Larson bided his time with admirable patience. He recalled the uncertainty which characterized his previous actions. No doubt, Gaelinar's example and his own arguments with Vidarr had fueled his confidence. When Hel did not speak after a full minute, Larson took control of the conversation. "Surely you know we got past Modgudr, her dragon, and the Hel hound on our last visit. Do you doubt Gaelinar's ability to capture Modgudr?"

"Fool!" Hel shook her head, and a snarl of golden hair obscured her face. "If… you… moved Modgudr… from… her post… the dead… will… escape… Hel. The… havoc… they wreak… will seem… minor… compared with… the wrath… Odin… will… bring… down… upon me… you… and your… stupid… companion. Odin… has… no… room… in his heart… for mercy. Men… and… gods… live… only… to furnish… him… sport…"

The description sent a chill through Larson, but his love for Silme remained, reducing fear to an obscuring fog. Purpose drove him to speak with Gaelinar's reckless courage. "Lady, if Silme remains in Hel, there is nothing Odin can do to make my life more miserable. I do not fear him. It is your stubbornness which will bring his wrath upon us. If you agree to my demands, we will free Modgudr unharmed.''

The grim-eyed goddess quivered with anger. "You… would… let… your selfish… love… for a… woman result… in hordes… of the dead… running… free… to torture… the… living?"

"Yes," Larson said. He hid the lie behind his best poker face and hoped his eyes would not betray him. "You made it clear that if we killed you, it would only result in your staying here." He tossed a casual gesture over one shoulder. "Judging by Baldur, I would guess death would not change you. But, lady, there are worse things a man can do with a sword than kill. " The room echoed with the sudden sound of Larson's sword clearing its sheath.

Hel did not flinch. "You'll… never… leave… my hall… alive. I will… turn… my hordes… against… you!"

Larson hesitated. His Gaelinar-like maneuver had achieved much the same results as the Kensei's threats in the Dragonrank school, and Larson liked them even less now that he stood alone. Still, it was too late to change his approach. "Hmmm. You keep Silme and Bramin and kill me. I get the satisfaction of torturing you before Odin gets to you and of knowing Modgudr dies with me." He stood in mock contemplation, then shrugged. "Sounds fair." He took a menacing step toward Hel, trusting Bal-dur to hold the corpses at bay.

"Wait." Hel spoke with uncharacteristic speed. "We can… find… an agreeable… compromise."

Larson's fear was forgotten in a moment of fierce triumph. "No compromises. You free Silme and Bramin. Then you allow Gaelinar and me to leave your lands completely unmolested. In exchange, we won't harm you or Modgudr. We won't allow any ghosts to escape while Modgudr is captive, and we won't tell anyone who doesn't already know that we raised Silme from the dead."

Hel gathered her shattered composure. Ignoring Larson's naked sword, she leaned toward him conspiratori-ally. "Accepted. With… one… further condition." She stared beyond Larson.

Larson resisted the urge to follow her gaze and watched the goddess distrustfully. "Which is?"

"That… you… send… five… souls to… replace… each of… them. Their… identities… and… philosophies… do not concern me. They… can… be your… enemies… or strangers. Adults… or… children. But… they… must… come to me… not… Odin's… Valhalla. You… must… not kill… them in fair… combat."

Desperation forced Larson to consider Hel's offer, but his morality would not allow him to accept it. "The deal is as I said. I will not compromise."

"Neither… will…1."

Larson accepted Hel's decision with dour fatalism. He doubted he could fight his way past Hel's minions. Yet, he could condone his own death more easily than he could take the lives of more innocents. Trusting that Gaelinar would release Modgudr and not allow the corpses free run of Midgard, Larson sealed his own fate. "Then you leave me no choice." He raised his sword. Smoke from the candles swirled like ghosts around the blade.

"Wait."

Larson thought he detected fear in Hel's voice. He froze in position.

"All… right. I… accept… your bargain… as offered. But… you… must… swear… never to… return… here."

Larson lowered his sword and suddenly realized he was shaking. He bit his lip to keep from smiling. "I swear it," he said.