Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 10: Mastering War

"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike at him as hard as you can and as often as you can, and keep moving on."

– Ulysses S. Grant

Gradually, the elation inspired by Larson's successful negotiation with Hel faded into the cold, dark infinity of her realm. As promised, Larson and Gaelinar escaped through the entryway to Midgard without interference from the released Modgudr or the Hel hound. But even the magnificence of the waterfall, streaked through with silver sunlight, brought no joy to Larson. Air scoured clean by recent snows might as well have been the putrid aura of Hel's corpses for all the interest he paid it.

Taziar met Larson and Gaelinar on the cliffs above the falls. Two weeks had passed since the Cullinsbergen had set off to amend the mistake he had made by freeing the Fenris Wolf. Yet Larson managed only a weak smile of welcome. Something he could not name lay like lead upon his soul.

The days passed in wooden silence. Though mostly through evergreen forests devoid of underbrush, the route seemed vaguely familiar. Each of Larson's daily sword lessons began with distracted incompetence until Gaelinar's reprimands spurred his student to angered sweeps and counter thrusts. Taziar made sincere attempts at conversation. But after Larson's third inappropriately harsh rebuke, Gaelinar and Taziar left their companion to his own sullen company.

Late afternoon of their third day in Midgard, they reached the town where Larson had consulted Vidarr at the open shrine. Taziar glanced longingly down the main pathway. "Anyone object to a night on the tavern floor? I've slept on enough pine needles to satisfy me for a lifetime."

Gaelinar shrugged. "Fenrir's less likely to attack with the extra swords of the villagers against him."

Larson raised no objections. He hoped a couple of tankards of beer might soothe the evil mood he seemed unable to shake. "Lead on."

They shuffled down the narrow, snow-covered roadway in silence. For the first time, Larson noticed just how little there was to the village. Crooked, spindly roads wound between thatch-roofed cottages. The clang of the blacksmith's hammer reverberated through the threadlike lanes. Only a few sets of footprints marred the crust of ice which glazed the roads; the recent snows appeared to have inhibited some of the trade which kept the town alive.

Larson, Gaelinar, and Taziar headed directly for the sod-chinked structure of the tavern at the center of the village. As they passed, a middle-aged woman pointed from the doorway of her cottage, her form a plump shadow backlit by candles in the room beyond. Three children peered at the travelers from around their mother's skirt. Otherwise, the village seemed deserted.

Gaelinar caught the brass ring of the tavern door and wrenched it open. Wind gusted into the stale, windowless interior. Fed by fresh air, the hearth fire blazed, drafting smoke up the stone chimney. Its flare revealed nine square tables with wooden chairs and benches worn to polished smoothness by use. A portly man sprawled across three stools on the business side of the bar. Sleepy-eyed, he glanced over three greasy-haired Norsemen seated near the doorway and waved the newcomers inside.

Larson followed his companions to a table near the fireplace, allowing the door to slam closed behind him. The flames shriveled to their previous height. Wood-sweetened smoke leaked back into the common room. As Larson slid his chair to the table, two teen-age girls descended upon them. One seized the remaining seat and positioned herself at the table. The other paused at Gaelinar's elbow. "What can we get you?"

Larson folded his arms and let his head sink to the hollow between them, not bothering with a response.

"Food," Gaelinar said. "Whatever you have."

"And plenty of beer," Larson added, his voice muffled by the sleeve of his cloak.

The serving girl trotted off toward the bar. The remaining woman threw back hip-length blonde hair and regarded Taziar, her blue eyes wide and interested. "From which direction did you come?"

"North," Taziar replied.

"What news do you bring from the North?"

Larson watched Taziar with one eye.

The Shadow Climber shrugged apologetically. "None, I'm afraid. Our business has kept us in the forests and away from farmers and towns."

The girl lowered her head in genuine disappointment, and the fire struck bronze highlights through her hair. "Very well." She spoke naturally, but betrayal sifted through her tone. Apparently, the tavern served as a place to exchange information as well as to provide food and shelter and direct trade.

The woman lost interest. Her eyes strayed beyond the table to the patrons near the door, and a gesture caught her attention. Gracefully, she rose and walked toward the other customers, just as her sister returned with three full mugs of beer and set them before Larson, Gaelinar, and Taziar. "Another moment for the food."

Larson raised his head long enough to guzzle down his drink without even tasting it. He waited while his companions nodded acknowledgement of the service, then shoved his mug into the woman's hand. "More." He added as an afterthought, "Please."

Ignoring Taziar's curious stare, Larson lowered his head back to his arms. His companions' conversation about a magical rope and a wolf-god flowed past him, mostly unheard. The words seemed distant, another place, another era, some other man's concern.

Larson accepted his fourth mug of beer while his companions still nursed their second. The alcohol shifted his mood from somber to heated. He felt restless. No longer content to sit with his head on the table, he fidgeted, eyes probing the half-lighted, smoky haze of the common room. The conversations of the filthy, war-stained men near the door wafted to him in crude snatches intermingled with boisterous laughter which prodded at the edges of Larson's temper. He watched the waitress, tankard in hand, approach a large patron with a wild snarl of red hair and beard.

The woman leaned forward and poured ale from the tankard into the mug. The Norseman ran his tongue over his grimy teeth and stared into the cleavage of her patched and faded bodice. He waited only until she finished filling his drink, then caught her around the waist and pulled her to his lap. He thrust his other hand down the front of her dress.

The woman squealed in surprise and fear. She twisted away. Linen tore, leaving a scrap of fabric in the man's fingers. She struggled free as the Norsemen laughed, and the red-haired patron dragged her back onto his knee.

Larson's control snapped, driving him into a rage beyond any he had known before. He leaped to his feet and charged to the other table. Not until he arrived did he realize he still clutched his drink. Slamming the mug to a nearby table, he glared at the Norseman over the girl's ragged shoulder. "Let her go."

The Norseman rose, dumping the girl from his lap. She landed in a heap at his feet, rolled to her hands and knees, and skittered toward the bar. Larson found himself glaring up into steely eyes and a face ugly with anger. "By what right do you pretend to command me?" the Norseman demanded.

Larson dropped his gaze to the Norseman's hands which rested on the hilt of a broadsword. Each finger seemed thick as Larson's wrist. Blood and dirt framed the edges of the nails. "By the same right that men have always commanded swine," Larson returned. Rage pushed him far beyond fear.

The Norseman followed Larson's stare. He leaned forward, his arm extended. "It's good you've noticed these hands." The muscles bunched into a fist. "In a moment, they'll crush your head like a leaf."

Larson remained unmoving. "I'm not worried about those hands. Size and competence are two different things. Otherwise, you'd be able to get women by other means than force."

The Norseman gathered breath.

Before he could speak, the bartender shouted to the Norseman's blond companions. "You'd best hobble your friend or the three of you will no longer be welcome here."

One of the other Norsemen responded instantly. "Sit down, Alsvithr. You've been thrown out of enough taverns. We won't be able to get a drink between here and Forste-Mar.''

Oblivious, Alsvithr lunged.

Larson tensed to meet the attack.

But before Alsvithr could reach the elf, his companions caught him by either arm and dragged him back to the table. Howling, Alsvithr struggled against his friends. "Cowards, let me go. What's one bar?"

The bartender tossed aside a cleaning rag and stepped around the counter. "One bar's important when it's the only one that'll take your business." He fixed his gaze on Larson. "And you, stranger. Sit down, or I'll let Alsvithr kill you. The girls expect this sort of thing. It comes with the job." He turned back to his work, muttering, "All women are whores."

The bartender's words stung Larson. Silme's no whore! The Norsemen ceased to bother him. He took a menacing step toward the bartender.

The bartender whirled to face him.

Gaelinar's voice cut over the hiss of the fire. "Allerum. Sit down right now!"

For a rebellious moment, Larson refused to move. His attention jumped from the bartender, whose fingers crept toward some weapon behind the counter, to the red-faced Norseman, to the Kensei. The look on Gaelinar's features warned that he would brook no disobedience. Larson retrieved his drink and spun back toward his companions.

Alsvithr's mumbled threat barely penetrated the silence. "His mother must have been a whore for him to take this so seriously. I'd have smashed the bony bastard."

Larson's self-restraint shattered. He whirled. A snap of his wrist splashed beer over Alsvithr.

Surprise crossed Alsvithr's sodden features, immediately replaced by an anger which echoed Larson's own. He ripped free of his companions' hold.

The bartender raised a club and rushed down on Larson. Before he had taken two steps, a shuriken embedded into the wood a finger's breadth from his hand. Gaelinar's warning followed. "Get back!" Shocked, the man obeyed.

Fists clenched, Alsvithr charged Larson. His blond companions advanced behind him.

Larson fought back the red curtain of anger which clouded his mind. Mug still in his hand, he threw a punch which caught Alsvithr across the jaw. Metal folded in Larson's fingers. The larger man staggered. Larson pressed his advantage. He tensed for another blow just as Gaelinar's fingers tightened around his shoulder. The Kensei lodged a foot behind Larson's heel and spun the elf into the table behind him.

Larson's chest struck the edge with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He blundered into a chair and crashed, with it, to the ground. Rising to a crouch, he watched Gaelinar face off with Alsvithr. The Kensei spoke softly, but his tone carried the confidence of a man used to mastery. "This fight is over."

Blood trickled from Alsvithr's nose. "Step aside, old man!" he screamed. "Your stupid friend dumped beer on me. He hit me in the face. No one does that to Alsvithr and lives!"

Gaelinar held his ground, his manner deadly calm. "This fight is over. Sit down."

Alsvithr aimed a wide punch for Gaelinar. The Kensei's expression never changed. He caught the Norse-man's meaty wrist and effortlessly spun him into his companions. One's back struck the table, lifting the side several inches. Half full mugs tipped and rolled; they hit the floor with a ringing clangor, splattering beer across the planks. Alsvithr regained his balance quickly. His sword leaped from its sheath, and he rushed down on Gaelinar.

Larson surged to his feet, hand clamped to his hilt. He had barely begun to draw the blade when Gaelinar's ka-tana whisked silently through the air. It sliced through Alsvithr's sword as if through a twig. Two feet of worked iron fell to the ground at Alsvithr's boots while he stared, incredulous, at the stump of his mangled sword.

Gaelinar resheathed his katana in the same motion. "This fight is over. Sit down, or next time I take your wrists."

"Sit down," repeated one of Alsvithr's companions urgently. He gathered up the dented mugs.

Alsvithr grumbled something unintelligible, but took his seat. He slammed the broken haft to the tabletop so hard a crack wound along the wood grain.

Gaelinar turned and threw Larson a look of outrage more severe than any reprimand. "Move." He caught Larson's arm, spun him, and herded him toward the table where Taziar sat, watching. Larson knew he would pay for the incident with strained muscles and bruises at his next sword lesson. But, oddly, he did not care. He marched toward the table in quiet resentment and dropped into the chair across from Taziar.

Gaelinar glanced over at the bartender, washing the damaged mugs with unexpectedly calm detachment. "I imagine we'll have to leave?"

Taziar took a gulp of his drink. "We're staying the night. Where I come from, an incident like that would have earned you all a few nights in the dungeons. But here I've noticed people get forgiving when you give them enough money."

Larson slouched, arms folded across his chest and eyes locked on a spidery beer stain on the table before him. He knew he had earned every bit of derision his companions could voice. But the same unreasoning anger which had compelled him to incite the fight also made him unwilling to listen.

Gaelinar spoke without emotion, but Larson sensed the subtle threat beneath the Kensei's outward serenity. "You've shamed your honor, and mine as well. This is not the way you use the skills I've taught you."

Larson remained sullenly silent. The fire danced as the Norsemen opened the door and made their exit from the tavern.

Gaelinar's hands twitched, like the warning rattle of a snake. Before he could speak, Taziar interrupted. "What in darkest hell is the matter with you, Allerum? You respect life. It's not like you to start a fight which could get people killed."

Remorse poked through Larson's fury long enough to make him realize he had inappropriately translated frustration into violence. His anger had nothing to do with Alsvithr or his companions or the tavern. "She lied to me, damn it!" His vision glazed, and he fought away tears with an effort which reawakened hostility.

"Who lied to you?" Taziar pressed.

"Hel." Larson raised his voice and met Gaelinar's stare for the first time in days. "It's been more than a week since she promised to free Silme. Where is she? Damn it, where is she?" His fist crashed to the tabletop, scaring away the serving girl who had arrived with the food.

"Calm yourself." Gaelinar's words were a command. "Have patience. Give Silme time to find us."

"Time? Time!" Larson screamed. He raked dirt-streaked fingers through his hair, and a twig fell into his palm. "I've got her rankstone, remember? She knows where we are. She would be with us if she could. For God's sake, Gaelinar. She's Dragonrank. She travels instantly."

Taziar added helpfully, "I've never known anyone to return from the dead before. Maybe it takes time. Maybe she has to regain strength or reorient herself."

Larson shook his head. He could not say why his companions were mistaken, he just knew something had gone wrong. "I've killed. I've shared thoughts I can hardly bear myself. I've gone to Hel twice. I've defied and fought and threatened gods for her. I'm not giving up Silme now. Promise or not, I'm going back to Hel. If she doesn't deliver Silme right into my hands, I'm going to rip Hel apart fragment by rotting fragment." He shredded the stick in example.

Timidly, the serving girl sidled to the table and placed steaming rolls and bowls of stew in front of them. She refilled the mugs, spilling little despite her shaking hands, and left as quickly as courtesy allowed.

Gaelinar's voice held an edge as sharp as his katana. "I want Silme back every bit as much as you do. But I won't tolerate your going against the tenets of my teaching. I'll kill you before I let you unleash underserved anger against me, Shadow, or innocents again."

Pressed beneath a tangle of conflicting emotions, Larson accepted Gaelinar's rebuke. "Punish as you will. I have it coming." As the burning ardor of his ire died, Larson understood his motivations more clearly. "I can't remember wanting anything as much as Silme. I was willing to…"He paused in consideration.

"… spend your life and others for her cause." Gae-linar finished neatly.

Larson stared at his mentor, open-mouthed but unable to speak. Gaelinar had finished the sentence far differently than Larson intended. Yet there was a truth to the Kensei's words which jolted Larson to the depths of his conscience.

A log collapsed in the hearth. Sparks sprayed. As the flames chewed into pockets of sap, there followed a series of pops like distant gunfire.

Larson tensed at the sound then relaxed back into his chair. "My own life, maybe, but no one else's. I won't give up my morals for any cause."

Gaelinar skillfully guided Larson away from the source of his anger. "Apparently, these morals don't preclude your instigating fights."

Larson shrugged. "I'm sorry. I made a mistake." He formed a mischievous grin. "You're the one who tells me heroes have flaws."

Taziar tore a piece from his roll. "Heroes have heroic flaws. Flaws which earn us more enemies, we don't need. Control your temper, please, Allerum. Crazed challenges against large Vikings get little bystanders like me killed." Larson suspected the street-raised city thief had seen enough fist fights to know how to avoid the consequences. He winked, holding a hand to the level of Ta-ziar's head. "How hard can it be to duck when you're only this tall?"

Blankets of wool and furs softened the floor before the tavern hearth, but quilts and pillows of satin would not have brought sleep to Larson's troubled soul. The recognition of the cause of his anger forced him to channel it more appropriately. It freed him to treat Gaelinar with the respect he deserved and to exchange gibes with Ta-ziar. But Larson's hatred for the decaying queen of the underworld heightened and spread like a cancer. He lay, staring at the wall, resisting the urge to roll from side to side. He knew the movement would bring him no comfort; it would only deny Taziar and Gaelinar the sleep they had earned.

The fire burned low, chasing flickering shadows across the beamed ceiling. Larson gathered his legs beneath him, with slow, fluent movements so as not to awaken his companions. The shifting curtain of light revealed Gaelinar's chiseled features beneath white hair hacked functionally short. A fold of blanket hid Taziar's face, but his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Larson retrieved his sword belt from the floor and buckled it about his rumpled cloak. He rose and crept to the door. Not a single plank creaked beneath his footfalls. The portal opened on silent, well-oiled hinges. The breeze from the doorway did not affect the dying flames other than to slightly shift the speckled pattern of their light. Carefully, Larson pulled the panel closed behind him.

Ice-grained air bit down from the north, whipping snowflakes up from the ground into a whirling dance. Larson paused in the roadway. He was uncertain what force had driven him to abandon his companions and the tavern's comforting warmth, but he suspected it was the same irrational anger which had defined his mood over the past week. One thing seemed unquestionable. Hel had cheated him, and she would pay a heavy price for her deceit. There was no time to waste. Already, Silme's identity might have withered to bits of memory. Despite Gaelinar's insistence on patience, Larson knew delay would doom Silme. If Gaelinar and Shadow can't realize it, I have no choice but to go alone.

Larson knew his footprints left an easily followed trail in the snow, and he secretly hoped his companions would track him once they noticed his absence. He had no wish to be wholly free of their company nor to face the Fenris Wolf without their aid. He just wanted a way to turn their route back toward Hel before either of his friends could convince him otherwise.

Larson rounded a crook in the roadway. Ahead, a depression the size of a horse and ringed by boot tracks disrupted the blanket of snow. Larson approached and stared in curiosity. Furrows gouged to the stoney roadway and ridges of higher snow gave the impression of a struggle. A red-brown puddle near its center and similar smaller, stains splashed around it completed the picture. A blood trail and deeper human prints led off toward the border. It appeared to Larson as if some hunter had shot an animal here, perhaps a deer, then hefted and carried it from the town. But why would a deer leave the forest to enter a village? And why would a hunter carry his dinner back into the woods?

Larson's self-questioning raised doubts and concerns. He considered turning back, but a fresh wave of anger against Hel caused him to discard the idea. Gaelinar will only try to talk me into giving Hel more time. He pushed onward, following the red droplets with newly aroused caution.

The trail took him to the boundary of the village and the edge of the evergreen forest. Snow sagged the needled branches, enhancing the reflected light of the half-moon. A round, dark shape perched upon the weather-beaten sign which identified the village. Unable to read it, Larson crept closer and wished he had thought to bring a lantern from the tavern.

Larson hunched before the sign and focused on the letters. Winding paths of red marred the neatly painted name. Something warm dripped on Larson's head. He froze in position. His eyes went wide with apprehension. By inches, he straightened. His gaze roved up the battered wood to the undefined thing perched atop it, and he found himself staring into Alsvithr's severed head.

Larson recoiled with a sharp intake of breath. He had seen a similar sign before; his troop had once passed through a village to find the V.C. had left every citizen's head speared on a pole. But the horror etched on Alsvithr's dead features went beyond any natural human expression.

"Consider it a gift." The sibilant voice made Larson's skin prickle.

Larson edged away from the sign and dropped into a crouch, seeking the location of the voice. He thought he heard the sound of leather whisking across snow and spun toward the town.

But a moment later, the same voice hissed from behind Larson. "He would have waylaid you when you left the tavern. But I wanted you for myself. You're a one-man job, Allerum."

The voice was unmistakably Bramin's. Larson whirled back to the forest as the dark elf/man emerged from the tree line. Moonlight traced features black as the night. Red eyes glowed like embers. Larson felt helpless and exposed before evil more primitive than murder. Hatred burned like acid, and realization swept nausea through him. Bramin played me. Some magic or mind game enhanced my anger, driving me to start a bar fight and abandon my companions. And he did it with such subtle mastery, I never noticed his meddling. Larson's hand dropped to his sword hilt as his rage shifted from Hel and channeled against the creature before him.

Bramin advanced, his stance loose and casual. His left arm held a plain wooden shield without adornment or metal bracing. His right hand dangled well away from the broadsword at his hip. "No sorceress. No magic weapon. No swordmaster. Can you fight so badly crippled? Or will you fall to your knees and beg mercy?"

Larson retreated, tensed for violence. Bramin's taunts fueled his already excessive anger. His fist tightened around his haft, but he made no reply.

Bramin went still. "You want my sister, Futurespawn? You want to bed her? Well, perhaps I'll have her first!"

Larson's self-control shattered, plunging him into a darkness deeper than Hel. He drew his sword and charged.

Bramin met the attack with a lunge. His shield crashed into Larson's chest and face. Pain exploded in ribs scarcely healed from Larson's battle with Fenrir, and Bramin's superior weight and strength sprawled Larson. He struck the ground with a force which jarred the breath from his lungs. It took him desperate seconds to regain enough balance to move. He cringed as he rolled, certain Bramin's sword would take him. But as Larson gained his feet, he realized Bramin had not pressed his advantage. The dark elf had taken only enough time to draw his broadsword and then waited for Larson to recover.

Bramin's laughter rang between the pines, mocking and filled with ancient evil. "Trained by the most capable swordmaster in existence, and you have learned nothing."

Inflamed, Larson sprang. He feigned a straight cut, then spun backward and delivered a strike to Bramin's opposite side. His sword thunked against the shield. He back-stepped as Bramin's riposte slashed a line through his cloak.

Larson bore in, blood lust hot within him. Repeatedly, he hammered his long sword at Bramin's head. Each time, his strokes slammed against the shield. On the fourth attempt, Bramin tipped his shield. Larson's sword bit into the wooden edge and stuck fast. Bramin flung his shield arm outward drawing Larson's sword and arm with it and opening Larson's defense. Realizing his mistake, Larson ducked as he leaped backward. His sword wrenched free. Bramin's blade whistled inches above his head.

Larson retreated, fighting off the fury which had made him careless. He forced himself to concentrate on Gae-linar's words. Anyone who attacks an equal opponent in

anger is doomed to failure. You must willingly commit everything to your goal. When you can calmly accept your own death as a means to your end, you become unbeatable. The familiarity of a sword lesson settled over him, and he raised his sword with a new and deadly peace.

"You bore me," Bramin baited. "I'm tired of playing with such a child. This time, I think Til kill you."

Larson adopted a defensive pose, allowing Bramin's words to flow past, unheard. He let the dark elf make the first move.

Bramin approached, taut as a stalking cat. They attacked simultaneously. Larson's sword rattled from the shield. He spun off the wood as Bramin's sword stabbed through the air where he had stood. Larson jabbed his heel behind Bramin's leg and rammed his shoulder into the shield. The dark elf tumbled to the ground and rolled. Larson pursued. Bramin rose to a crouch as Larson's sword slashed down upon him. Bramin met the strike with his shield and gained just enough time to shift his weight before he was forced to block Larson's side cut. Again, Bramin sacrificed his opportunity to strike to improve his footing.

Larson undercut. A quick descent of the shield saved Bramin's abdomen but opened his upper defenses. Larson drove his hand into the dark elf's face. Bramin fell again, then rolled. Larson chopped for Bramin's head in silent fury. Bramin twisted. He raised a hand, as if to block the killing stroke with his bare fingers.

Larson howled, drawing all his strength into the final cut. Inches from Bramin, his sword struck something solid. Light flared and splintered with the sound of breaking glass. Orange sparks streaked Larson's vision. Power surged through him, hurling him into a tangled copse of brambles. Branches jabbed painfully into his back, and his own scream rang in his ears. He ripped himself free, tearing his hands on thorns, and pulled his sword from the brush with a force which scattered sticks across the battleground.

Bramin stood, still and straight, awaiting Larson's next attack. Darkness hid the half man's features, but Larson knew the angular face held a smile of cruel triumph. He also knew his only chance to survive was to engage Bra-min in swordplay so rapid the dark elf would not have the chance or energy to work his magic. Dizziness wrapped Larson in a fog of whirling spots, and the moon transformed the forest into a blur of trunks. His legs felt as unsteady as rubber. He stumbled forward. Gathering strength and determination, he raised his sword and rushed down upon Bramin.

Bramin held a stance of casual indifference. He let the edge of his shield rest on the ground, leaning the remainder against his leg. He gripped his sword in a lax hand, its point scraping the dirt. When Larson narrowed the distance between them, Bramin raised his arm to reveal a sunbright ball of sorceries blazing beneath his dark fingers.

Too late to rework his strike, Larson made an urgent dive for Bramin. Magics sheeted through the air. White light burned Larson's eyes, and a shimmering web entangled him. He crashed to the ground. His limbs felt detached, as if they belonged to someone else. He could not gather enough strength to lift his head. Through aching eyes, he watched Bramin's booted feet shuffle toward him.

Larson struggled against the spell which held him immobile and helpless. He managed only to roll his gaze to Bramin's face, as cold and evil as death. Red eyes flashed through the gloom, alive with blood sickness and savage joy. Sudden fear swept a chill through Larson, but he felt only the numbing power of the magics which held him. If Bramin delays his killing stroke until his spell wears off enough for me to notice pain, I may yet have a chance.

Bramin granted Larson no quarter. He stood and raised his sword above Larson's neck.

Larson fought to flinch away. He attempted speech, but the spell did not allow even these simple movements. He caught a glimpse of motion beyond Bramin, a shadow moving silently through darkness. He blinked uncertainly.

All malice left Bramin's voice. "It is over. This time, the better man won." His hand tightened on his sword hilt.

Larson resisted the urge to close his eyes against the coming blow. He watched in fascination as a small, pink hand snaked around Bramin's shoulder and closed on the dark elf's chin. Moonlight flashed off the steel of a drawn sword.

From the woods, light flickered at the corner of Larson's vision. The tree line seemed to dance with the white flame of Bramin's hidden staff and rankstone. Abruptly, Bramin disappeared.

Taziar staggered out of the darkness, stamping on Larson's hand before regaining his equilibrium. "Sorry," the Cullinsbergen mumbled.

I can't feel it. Larson discovered he still could not speak. And don't apologize for saving my life.

Taziar sat beside Larson and rested a reassuring hand on the elf's shoulder. "Too bad Gaelinar wasn't the one who followed you from the tavern. A better swordsman than me might have killed that creature before he could escape. Bramin, I assume?"

Larson nodded habitually and noted his head moved slightly. Pain fuzzed through his body, like the pins and needles sensation of blood flow returning to a limb. If Bramin had caught even a glimpse of Shadow, he would have killed him and me before departing.

Taziar studied Larson. "Feeling better?"

Larson nodded again, more successfully this time. Grass prickled his arms and legs. His ribs and fingers throbbed. Taziar's grip felt warm through his cloak. As slowly as Hel's queen, Larson worked to a sitting position.

Taziar watched Larson's clumsiness without comment. "You shouldn't have left the tavern alone. Many lives depend on you, and your enemies are too strong to face alone."

Larson met Taziar's gaze but did not attempt speech.

"You have many more enemies than you know. You have to trust someone. Despite his unusual ethics, Gaelinar has your best interests in mind." Taziar's face held a solemnity which suggested a deeper awareness.

But Larson felt too ill to question further. The fiery anger which had driven him for the last several hours had died, and he felt as spent as a used match.

Taziar would not let his point rest. He rose and helped Larson to shaky legs. Still clutching the elf's arms, Taziar met his gaze. "My full name is Taziar Medakan. I'm from a city across the Kattegat Sea called Cullinsberg. Under the alias 'Shadow Climber,' I have a price on my head which could make you rich for the rest of your life. I tell you this because I trust you not to turn me in. And I need you to trust me." Taziar's eyes probed Larson's with sincere urgency. "I can't explain why, but your life depends on trusting Gaelinar and me and no one else.''

Larson pulled free of Taziar's grip. He tried to reassure. "Of course I trust you, you little idiot. You just saved my life. What choice do I have?"

Taziar smiled, but he still looked tense.

Larson continued. "I don't believe leaving you and Gaelinar was my own decision. I think Bramin influenced me with magic. Thanks for your help. We'd better get back to Gaelinar before Bramin returns." Larson started slowly toward town. "I don't feel much like killing Hel anymore."

Taziar walked at Larson's side. "If Bramin's loose, so is Silme. You say she can find us. We may as well continue Vidarr's quest and let her come to us."

Fatigued by lack of sleep and his battle with Bramin, Larson yawned. He patted his pocket, reassured by the faceted presence of Silme's rankstone. "Shadow, you've done enough to convince me to talk Silme into taking on Astryd as her apprentice. You have no interest in Geir-magnus' rod, and my enemies want nothing from you. Why are you still helping us?"

"Allerum," Taziar replied carefully, "trust me."

Bramin's laughter haunted Larson's weary trip back to the tavern and pierced his dreams as if from habit. A rumble as mournful as surf echoed through his mind. With fatalistic acceptance, Larson's unconscious acknowledged Bramin's domination of his nightmare. The intrusions had become too familiar to resist, and Larson had learned never to trust his dreams. Too tired to fight, he accepted the scenes Bramin wound through his mind with indifference.

Again, Larson faced Bramin. But this time, Bramin's assault was a wild blur of attack. His sword thrust and parried like a live thing. Larson defended with harried slashes. Repeatedly, steel rang against steel, and Bramin's superior size and skill drove Larson backward.

Suddenly, Larson's foot fell on empty air. He stumbled forward to avoid the new danger behind him, impaling himself on Bramin's sword. The blade sank deep. Pain tore through his chest, and blood ran like spilled wine. Jarred backward, he fell through leagues of blackness, his body tumbling and wind-slashed. Bramin's challenge chased him down the chasm. "Allerum, you are only the first. I have a debt to pay against mankind. They will suffer as I did, and the gods will die with them!"

The scene shattered to evening light. Still in directed dream, Larson watched a village on the eastern coast of Norway. Fishermen in patched homespun carried split cod on poles, their stocky boats angled on the shore. From out of the darkness beyond the town, Bramin rushed down upon the populace. His face was a mask of menace, his skin black as ink. He howled with the pure joy of slaughter as his sword slashed and rent through the crowd. The fishermen grabbed up axes and staves, but their weapons did nothing to slow the half man. Bramin moved with the speed and grace of a whirlwind, leaving piles of red corpses in his wake.

"Stop!" Larson charged Bramin, grimly aware of his own blood, brown and sticky, on his hands. The world upended. The village vanished in a roaring ball of fire. A wave of heat buffeted Larson, and he dove from the path of the inferno. Flames ate men and women, huts and single-sailed boats indiscriminately, then danced like red demons into the forest. Cries of anguish rose above the sour note of the wind. Bramin's savage laughter formed melody to the background of human despair.

Larson gathered his spirit to defend himself from Bramin's threat. He plucked a picture of reality from the exploited wreckage of his thoughts: a village tavern, faithful companions, and a hearth. Bramin's fire withered, trailing smoke. Blackened, uprooted stumps softened to brown, and the green needles of pine replaced skeletal branches. Then the image of the common room filled his mind's eye. Even as Larson basked in his success, Bramin lashed out against Larson's conjured image. Gaelinar's sleeping form turned corpse-pale; blood welled from the mangled ruin of his throat. Taziar's scalp lay flayed open to the bone, and splintered, white skull poked from beneath the wound.

No! Larson wrenched against Bramin's hold on his mind. The vision strengthened, wavered. Abruptly, another entity crashed into Larson's mind. Bramin's scene dissolved with unnatural suddenness. The half man loosed a startled cry followed by an angry hiss.

Larson clung to consciousness with the desperation of a wounded soldier on enemy ground. The effort flung him into the tangled tapestry of his own mind. The figures of Vidarr and Bramin circled, more vivid than his grasp on reality. Bramin lunged, slicing white-hot agony through Larson's mind. Vidarr dodged, inadvertently tripping a memory of the New York skyline. Larson's anger flared against the dark elf who filled his life and mind with terror and the god who had, again, violated his thoughts. Though dizzied by Bramin's and Vidarr's battle, Larson gathered resolve and struck back.

A wall took shape, a solid bastion of brick and mortar, neatly trapping Vidarr and Bramin in a corner of Larson's mind. Surprise broke the battle. The combatants stood in shocked silence, their contest forgotten in the face of this new menace. Larson channeled his spirit against them, clinging to the image of the wall. It was easier the second time, but he did not trust himself to explore the intruders' emotions or allow his thoughts to wander from his invented vision.

Although Vidarr was more familiar with Larson's trap, Bramin recovered his senses first. He smirked, his voice echoing in the confines created by the wall. "Very pretty, Allerum. Sturdy, too. Perhaps the king might hire you as mason."

Larson gritted his teeth, mentally following Bramin's pacing. The outer edges of wall crumbled. Quickly, he turned his attention back to the structure, allowing the dark elf to wander as he would.

Vidarr remained silent, but Larson suspected the aura of hatred which tainted his thoughts came as much from the god as from the half man.

Bramin seemed more amused than thwarted. "You made a fatal mistake, Futurespawn. You trapped me here with lots of playthings."

Larson resisted the urge to track Bramin's path. He knew he had enclosed coils of recollection with Vidarr and Bramin, and the realization chilled him.

"Hmmm." Bramin spoke with exaggerated attentive-ness. "Where shall I start. Which memory will make you suffer most?"

Larson ignored the threat. He kept hold of his creation, not daring to speak or consider anything else. He needed time to think, but the concentration his trap required would not spare him.

Vidarr's voice boomed in warning. "Touch at your own peril, Bramin, and earn the wrath of a god."

Larson felt someone lurch within the realm of his trap. The scent of rain-washed evergreens filled his nostrils, summer sun glinting from droplets perched between the needles. Fifteen years old, Larson pressed his back to the trunk, his rifle clutched to his chest. Wind ruffled the treetops, showering him with stored water. The memory of a deer hunt in New Hampshire threw Larson off-balance. The bricks of his mental wall toppled to dust, and Bramin sprang for the opening.

Larson hovered on the brink of sanity. He clawed for the remnants of his previous control, just as Vidarr dove for Bramin's retreating form. The collision scattered Larson's reason. Bramin and Vidarr skidded through his mind, crashed, and tangled with Larson's memories.

Larson walked through a steamy murk of underbrush in a jungle of palm, teak, and rubber trees so dense he could not guess the time of day. Ahead, he could hear the hushed whispers of the point men. The six soldiers around him reeked of sweat and mud. Beside him, the staff sergeant, Buck Curto, seemed uncharacteristically nervous. It was Larson's second sniper hunt, Curto's twenty-fifth. Curto was a Texas farm boy, a muscled giant who had grown up branding cattle and had spent some time on the rodeo circuit. Larson knew Curto as a hero, afraid of nothing, seven times decorated in the first six months of his shift. This time, though, Curto had a premonition. "I don't know what," he confided to Larson, his drawl apparent even at a mumble. "Something ain't right."

Nothing felt right to Larson, not the suffocating sauna of brush, not his own quiet lack of response, not even the reality of his presence in Vietnam. The scene was a blur not wholly attributable to the crushing darkness of the jungle or the fuzz of rising heat. Pressed by a feeling of alienation and fear he dared not express, he shifted a half step closer to Curto.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire from the trees ripped open one of the point men from neck to belly. Larson found himself sprawled on the dirt, not certain how he had gotten there. An answering round sounded from one of his buddies, then AK-47s opened up on them from both sides. "Cross fire," Curto yelled. "Run!" The soldier directly in front of Larson fell, the top of his head torn away. Another started to bolt, and bullets in his back dropped him to the brush.

Larson sprinted for heavy cover, M-16 raised for a parting shot. Curto followed, pausing just long enough to pull the pin from a grenade. His arm struck Larson's gun on the backsweep, knocking Larson's aim wild. The grenade bounced from the foliage. Before Curto could react, it shattered, taking his hand and most of his abdomen. Blood splashed Larson. A fragment of shrapnel ricocheted from his M-16, driving the gun into his stomach. Screams cut in over the gunshots. Larson caught a brief glimpse of flesh chewed to hamburger and a seeping puddle of blood before panic descended upon him and he raced into a deeper part of the jungle.

Larson ran until he stumbled, panting, to the ground. He sat for several moments, listening to the spattering of birdsong and the dull croak of lizards. The world seemed unreal, as if someone had replaced the trees with plastic imitations. He felt out of place and time, marked by a heavy sense of not belonging which went beyond parrying death in a foreign country. His fear seemed as watered down as his last beer. He pulled the M-16 into his lap. Grenade fragments had dented the mechanism. He pressed the button to remove the magazine, then pulled the bolt with two fingers. It resisted him, refusing to eject the round.

The gun was dead weight. Larson tossed it to the ground, fighting the swirling chaos of emotion which battered against his reason. This was no time to think, only to survive. He waited until his heart settled to its normal rate, then slipped back through the jungle, alone.

Larson chose his direction at random, moving always downhill, seeking an opening in the double-canopy where a helicopter pilot might spot him. As he walked, his identity strayed. The trees muted to the hickory, birch, and ferns of the New Hampshire autumns then gradually shifted to the mixed evergreens of a distant world and era. The ambush seemed both minutes and centuries past; dead friends and strangers mingled inseparably. His thoughts were not wholly his own.

Larson pressed through a knotted copse of brush. A lull in the buzz of flies and shrills of monkeys brought hissed words to his ears. A branch snapped with frightening clarity. He peeked through a hole in the undergrowth to see three Oriental men in loose-fitting clothing carrying battered, bolt action rifles. V.C. Larson felt his pulse quicken. Quietly, he fell back into the brush, prepared to slip away. Then, madness descended upon him.

The scene blasted to orange-red light than faded to darkness the moon could not graze. Nightmare visions rose to smother Larson's will. Before he could focus on his new surroundings, they shifted again to a tavern in an unknown city. Faces flashed through memory, too fast and blurred to identify. Recollections flurried like sparks from a campfire: people, places, things splashed across his consciousness in an endless array of color and movement. Dizzied and disoriented, Larson clung to the rough bark of a palm tree. A momentary lapse in the unseen battle in his mind allowed the reality of the Viet Cong to slip back into awareness. He saw the V.C. coming toward him through an echoing tunnel of darkness. Recognizing the need to have all his wits about him, he grasped the tree trunk so tightly its bark dug furrows into his palms. His thoughts stumbled through a fog of memory and emotion as he used the tree to ground his reason with desperate ferocity.

The sudden jolt of thought brought the jungle to vivid detail. Ripped from the battle in Larson's mind which had triggered his erratic jumps of memory, Vidarr and Bramin crouched with swords poised, inches apart. Faced by a new and inexplicable menace, they disengaged. Bramin stared at the broad-boned, muscular human form which had replaced the slight elf he knew as Allerum. Before the half man could react, the Viet Cong crashed through the brush and trained their guns on Vidarr's eight-foot figure.

For one freeze-framed moment, nothing happened. The Viet Cong seemed as shocked at coming upon a giant and an elf wielding broadswords as Vidarr and Bramin were at finding themselves hurled into a future war. More familiar with the situation, Larson responded first. "Run!" He lunged for Vidarr. His hands struck flesh immobile as rock. The force jarred Larson to the ground. Vidarr staggered a step forward as three rifles roared at point-blank range. A bullet tore through Vidarr's arm, one whined over Larson's head, and the third was lost in the undergrowth.

Bolt actions snapped as the Viet Cong prepared for another round. Pain seemed to enrage Vidarr. As the enemy finished reloading, he sprang. He caught one man by the throat. A flick of his wrist snapped the man's neck. The gun spun away into a circle of ferns and orchids, and Larson dove after it. He rolled to his feet, gun in hand, as Vidarr tossed the corpse into a companion. The soldier collapsed beneath the weight of his dead ally. Larson trained his rifle on the third.

The scene registered dimly in Larson's mind. He saw the remaining V.C, finger tensed on the trigger of a rifle aimed at Bramin's chest. Ignorant of its firepower, Bra-min was rushing the soldier with his sword. Larson acted without thinking. He shot first. A tiny hole appeared in the soldier's chest, and his answering bullet flew wild. He tottered, hand fumbling over the mechanism. Bramin hesitated. Larson slammed his own bolt home and fired again. The slug split the Viet Cong's nose, driving his head backward. He crumpled to the ground.

Mechanically, Larson chambered another round. Vidarr had killed the last of the V.C. There's only one enemy left. He turned the sights on Bramin. Immediately, a presence brushed the edge of Larson's mind. He fought against it, slapping a concrete wall across the remembered location of the entrance to his thoughts.

Bramin recoiled with a hiss. Seconds later, Vidarr's mental probe met the same barrier. The god exclaimed in surprise. "Allerum, what are you doing?"

Larson held the rifle in place, aware that every moment of delay would give Bramin a chance to weave his sorceries. "No one leaves until I get some answers." His own words sparked understanding. I need Bramin alive to tell me what happened to Silme. Reluctantly, he lowered the gun.

Bramin's confidence returned. He baited Larson. "Fine, Allerum. Leave me here. Your people have no mind defenses. I'll rule them as I please. I've read your thoughts and seen your family. The tortures I'll bring down upon them go beyond your imagination."

Larson forced himself to think. Of them all, he was the most eager to depart. But he knew he might never have the chance to trap Bramin and Vidarr again. "We have a magic called 'technology' which makes your sorceries look like a stage magician's tricks. You wouldn't survive a day here." From his memories of his original encounter with this sector of the jungle, Larson recalled a nearby V.C. encampment. The radio man from his own patrol had also escaped the ambush and, wandering in the same direction as Larson, had called a fire strike down upon the enemy. "In fact, none of us is going to survive the next few minutes if we don't move quickly. Those gunshots'll bring more V.C, and, this time, they'll bring automatic weapons instead of toys. Come on." Still clutching the rifle, he sprinted into the jungle.

Carefully, Bramin and Vidarr followed.

Larson chose his course with quiet deliberation. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the battle yet remain within sight of the napalm. There was no longer any reason to find a helicopter. The pilot would as likely shoot as save the monstrous trio, and Larson knew escape back to Norway lay only through his own mind. Unable to hold his mental barrier more than a few seconds at a time, he remained alert to Bramin's or Vi-darr's further attempts to enter a deeper layer of his thoughts.

At length, Larson stopped and dropped to a crouch, bracing the rifle against his knee. "Now, Bramin, talk."

Bramin kept a respectable distance between Vidarr, Larson, and himself. "I'll kill you."

"Go ahead," Larson challenged. "But brazen as you are, I believe you're wise enough to realize my death would trap you here forever."

Bramin shrugged, eyes blazing red hatred. "No matter. It's men I despise. I can take my vengeance against your people as easily as mine."

Larson sought words to convince the dark elf of the folly of his decision. Vidarr's hand kneaded the hilt of his sword, but Larson felt uncertain whether even a god could stand before Braffun's magic, or whether the sorcerer could stand against a gun. Before Larson could settle on a reply, he heard the distant roar of jets banking for an approach. A smile twitched across his features. "Suit yourself," he said softly.

The noise of the jets disappeared, then returned as a high-pitched whine. Bramin hesitated as the phantoms screamed overhead, visible only as paired red lights through the leaves. Five hundred yards away, a section of jungle burst into flame. Fire leaped toward the heavens, wound through with smoke and the gasoline reek of napalm. Even as the trailing rumble of the jets faded, a second round approached with the same earsplitting shrill of sound.

After weeks in a world without planes, the grandeur of the scene struck even Larson by surprise. Vidarr's and Bramin's bolt for his mind caught him off guard. It was all he could do to snap closed the entrance with a suddenness which caused Vidarr to cry out in physical pain. The blaze glared higher, encompassing another circle of jungle.

Dead silence followed. Gradually, the monkeys resumed their chatter. A macaw shrieked its mournful song of death, and the birds twittered in a more minor key. Bramin abandoned his attempt to enter Larson's mind, and the barrier melted away. Larson took advantage of the dark elf's confusion. "Where's Silme?"

"What?" Bramin seemed genuinely startled by the question.

Vidarr broke in. "Just before you brought us here, I consulted the Fates. Bramin threw some sort of spell over Silme. I don't understand the workings of sorcery, but he bound her destiny to the balance of Chaos. Allerum, Silme will not go free until Geirmagnus' rod has been retrieved. "

"He lies!" Bramin screamed. "I've not seen Silme since you killed her at the falls. And everyone knows the quest for Geirmagnus' rod is…"

Vidarr broke in with incongruous fury. His sword rattled free. "Stop now, Dark One, or I swear you'll never leave this world alive."

Larson swore. "Quiet, both of you, or none of us will leave this world alive. He turned his gaze to Bramin, uncertain of who to believe. Vidarr had always been honest with him, but the god's love for Baldur had driven him beyond honor. Binding Silme's fate to that of a doomed god seemed precisely the sort of scheme Bramin would use, but Larson could see no advantage to the Dra-gonrank sorcerer in using such a strategy. And, in the past, Bramin had always maliciously delighted in revealing his treacheries.

Now, the dark elf's face lay impassive. He said nothing in his defense, but a bright web of light glowed to life between his fingers.

Larson sprang to his feet and trained the rifle on Bramin. Instantly, a memory flashed through his thoughts.

Once before, Larson's flawed sanity had pulled Vidarr and Silme into the war in Vietnam. Then, Vidarr had assessed his visit with a single sentence: The men of your world removed all the glory from war and left only the killing. On the heels of the memory came Gaelinar's words: The goal of combat is spiritual enlightenment. This can only come through willingly pitting your life and skill against your enemies in fair combat. Anything less is merely murder, in which nothing is gained and courage is surrendered. "Hang honor," Larson mumbled, but his die was already cast. He let the gun sag in his arms. "No one's going to be killed here. We're all going back. But I need a promise from both of you."

Vidarr sheathed his weapon.

Bramin's spell died in his hands, and he seemed relieved. Larson suspected the battle at the town border and the run-in with Vidarr had taxed Bramin down to his last spell.

Larson confronted Vidarr. "From you, I need a vow that you will not harm Bramin unless he kills me or directly affronts the gods. Our rivalry is our own. If I can't handle it, I deserve to die."

Vidarr regarded Bramin with distaste, but nodded his agreement.

"And you." Larson turned on Bramin. "You will not hamper or hurt me or my companions, mentally or physically, until we eithef retrieve Geirmagnus' rod or fail in the attempt."

Bramin watched the flames wither into black wraiths of smoke. He glanced at Vidarr. "Agreed, if you and your companions will not attempt to harm me either. And afterward…" The sounds of the jungle filled Bramin's long-drawn pause. "… you and I will fight alone. To the death, Allerum."

Sweat beaded Larson's brow, and the rifle seemed unusually heavy in his hand. "By skill. Without magic," he added.

"Very well." Bramin glared viciously. Though a prisoner in Larson's war and era, there was no doubt he was in control. "Clever of you to bring a god to witness our oaths. Most would settle for reciting their vows at a shrine." He grinned at Vidarr. "Regardless of your bias, it is your obligation to see that both sides of this bargain are kept."

Vidarr nodded grudging acceptance. "Don't patronize me, elf, or I'll consider it a direct affront to the gods."

Larson caught the rifle bolt, pulled it free, and hurled it into the foliage. He dropped the useless rifle to the ground. "Let's go home."