Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 12: Geirmagnus

'Our fathers and ourselves sowed dragon's teeth. Our children know and suffer the armed men.'

– Stephen Vincent Benet Litany for Dictatorships

The next week of travel passed in unaccustomed peace. Bramin trailed closely, making no attempt to hide his presence. Whenever Larson or Gaelinar or Taziar wandered into the woods alone, to wash up or relieve himself, the dark elf would hurl insults and threats. Still, Bramin kept his vow not to harm them; his taunts and invasions of privacy soon became familiar. Larson suspected the half man was as interested in the result of the quest for Geirmagnus' rod as he was in his coming battle with Larson.

Life seemed simpler without the Fenris Wolf. Sleep came easily to Larson, no longer interrupted by divine or magical intruders. Only Silme's continued absence and the oaths exchanged with Bramin remained to haunt him. Now, in the quiet serenity of the pine forest, Larson's agreement to fight the dark elf to the death seemed foolish bravado. Bramin was one of the most skilled warriors in the realm, while Larson had never seen a sword outside a museum until less than three months ago. Gaelinar's intensive training would help even the odds, and Larson hoped death might have weakened Bramin. Even so, Larson harbored little hope he could win a fair fight. But what choice did I have? At least this way, Bramin

won't interfere with our efforts to rescue Baldur and Silme.

Gradually, the towering evergreens gave way to spindly aspens and alders and stocky dwarf pines which admitted the glow of the sun. Larson and his companions pressed through thinning forest toward the timber edge. Gaelinar stopped. He pointed through a gap between the trunks. "There it is."

Eagerly, Larson pushed forward and stared over Gaelinar's shoulder. A blanket of snow lay over the dead and dying perennials which defined a short line of clearing. Beyond it, a wall of molded concrete rose above the younger trees to twice Larson's height. Vines with curled brown leaves swarmed over its surface. Coiled wire perched atop, its steel glinting in the sunlight despite centuries of exposure to the elements. Stainless? How? Stunned by the enormity of this anachronism, Larson stared in silent wonderment. This can't be Old Norway. My God, what kind of game are they playing with me? He searched his memories of his time in Midgard. Ever since his arrival, he had noticed differences between this world and his scanty knowledge of Norway's history, geography, and weather, inconsistencies which went beyond the simple reality of mythical and fabled creatures. The uncertainty shocked him. "What the hell is this thing? How did it get here? Where are we?"

Gaelinar met Larson's verbal volley with a quizzical look. "It's Geirmagnus' estate. He built it, and we walked here." The Kensei's tone went patronizingly gentle. "Are you well, hero?"

The familiarity of Gaelinar's voice made Larson reconsider. I have to be in Old Norway. Too much has happened for this to be a joke. "I'm fine, just surprised. The estate looks like something out of my own world." Imagine the power this Geirmagnus must have commanded to build a steel and concrete fortress without factories or supplies. Fascinated, Larson approached the wall and scraped a finger along its surface. Dirt lined pits and cracks, but the recent snows had scoured the main surface clear. It felt cold and coarse beneath his touch, like twentieth century cement.

Gaelinar and Taziar joined Larson. Together, they circled the clearing. The inspection took nearly an hour; each wall spanned a quarter mile. Scattered at the bases, a few bleached bones poked from beneath the snow. A gate interrupted the southeastern wall, a tombstone-shaped entryway of stainless steel bars reinforced with metal triangles and set flush with the concrete. Nicks and dents in the surface indicated failed attempts to hack through it with weapons of iron, copper, or wood.

Taziar assessed his findings. "It would be difficult, but I could climb it."

The casual claim horrified Larson. He caught Taziar's arm to prevent the Cullinsbergen from carrying out his plan. "You see that shiny stuff at the top?" He pointed. "That's razor wire. It'll saw off your fingers as fast as you can touch it. I'm willing to bet the bones lying about are from people who tried to break in."

Taziar gazed at the corkscrew of steel, his expression appropriately impressed. "How do you know?"

This time, it was Larson's turn to respond with, "Trust me."

Gaelinar chipped ice and dirt from an inscription on a square of wall several feet from the gate. "What's this? It's not in any language I know."

Bramin's answer wafted from the forest edge, his tone flat as a remembered chant. "My rod holds the key to unlimited power. Once freed, the future will be changed and nothing will be impossible." He stepped into the clearing, twisting the bottom rim of his dragonstaff into the snow. "And it's signed 'Geirmagnus, Dragonrank Master.' "

Gaelinar and Taziar whirled to face the half man.

Larson came up behind Gaelinar and studied the message. Someone had carved it into the concrete using an impact drill, a power chisel, or some other instrument well beyond the technology of the Vikings. Larson blinked, unable to believe his eyes. The message was inscribed in English. Aside from the substitution of the name 'Gary Mannix' for 'Geirmagnus,' it read exactly as Bramin had translated. This doesn't make any sense. It can't be. Larson tapped the resilience of spirit which had seen him through months of combat in Vietnam. I can't afford these distractions. I'm in a situation where I have to fight for my life. If I live, I'll have time to figure this out later. If not, it doesn't matter. Too surprised by Bra-min's knowledge to concern himself with rivalry, Larson questioned. "How did you know what it said?"

Bramin wore an expression of haughty amusement. "Every glass-rank Dragonmage has learned the words since the second master broke Geirmagnus' code with magic. The gods believe the final sentence refers to bringing Baldur back from the dead."

"And does it?" Taziar asked.

Bramin arched narrow shoulders. "How would I know?"

Larson turned his attention to the gate, leaving Gaeli-nar to keep watch over Bramin. The straight, central edges of the metal doors matched perfectly, leaving no crack between them. Larson found no keyholes nor even a chain for a padlock. Tentatively, he laid a hand against the bars and pushed. The panels did not yield.

Gaelinar spoke. "They say no one has ever penetrated Geirmagnus' estate. The sharpened wire explains why no man's gone over the walls, but what's to stop people from digging under it? Why haven't gods or sorcerers flown over?"

Larson turned his attention to the space of wall beside the gates as Taziar addressed Gaelinar's questions. "Invisible, lethal spells protect the Dragonrank school. According to-" Taziar caught himself, apparently not wishing to reveal his source in Bramin's presence. -"someone, they're harmful only to sorcerers and magically-created creatures. I'd guess the original Dragonrank Master might have similar defenses. Either that, or no sorcerer's been brave enough to try."

Larson realized Taziar had addressed his last statement to Bramin, because the half man responded. "I have no interest in freeing Baldur."

Taziar continued. "As for digging under, there must be some barrier. It's possible no one's succeeded for the same reason no trees have yet grown close enough to provide branches to climb safely over the wire. I've never seen soil so sandy."

"Sandy?" Larson lowered his head. But before Taziar could scoop aside enough snow to demonstrate, Larson caught sight of a battered and twisted clasp jutting from the wall near the gates. He reached for it. The metal fell free in his hands; it had not weathered the elements and trespassers as well as the rest of the fortress. Closer, Larson recognized a panel set into the concrete. He pushed. The steel resisted. He caught his fingernails under the irregularity left by the broken clasp and pulled. The metal did not budge. Larson exerted sideways pressure, and the panel slid haltingly into runner slits in the concrete, uncovering a recess.

Buttons of black plastic confronted Larson in four rows of three. Arabic numerals from one through nine were engraved on the keys of the first three rows, one digit on each. The last row contained a zero on the central button while the ones on either side read "close." Beneath the configuration, an etched plaque held the English instructions: "To open, dial information."

Dial? How? Larson stared in confusion. The setup appeared unlike any telephone he could recall from his last days in America in the late 1960s. He tapped his fingers on the concrete. And who the hell am I supposed to call? The idea seemed so ludicrous, he could not suppress the mental scenario. Hello, police? This is Al Larson. I'm calling from eleventh century Norway. You see, officer, I'm standing here with a German pickpocket, a samurai, and a demon sorcerer. Pause. That's right, sir, a demon sorcerer. And did I happen to mention I'm an elf? Click. Hello? Hello?

Larson redirected his thoughts to appropriately serious matters. Bramin had not moved from the timberline; the dark elf was returning Gaelinar's unflinching scrutiny with icy detachment. Larson saw no immediate threat. Dial information. Press it, perhaps? Feeling foolish, he raised a finger and tapped out 555-1212 on the keys. He heard a muffled, metallic snap followed by a hydraulic whine. The gates inched open, plowing snow into drifts.

Larson thought he should try to talk to whomever this odd telephone might have connected him with, but realization made the words stick in his throat. Suddenly, an idea which had seemed crazed became a stroke of genius. Geirmagnus, or rather, Gary Mannix apparently wanted to be sure that only someone with knowledge of twentieth century American technology could enter his estate. But why? Again he shook the thought aside, but there was no longer any doubt. Vidarr claimed I was the only person the gods ever transported in time, and my transfer cost too much for them to attempt it again. But to gain the knowledge to build a fortress like this and with a name like Gary Mannix, the first Dragonrank sorcerer had to be a time traveler! The theme from Twilight Zone flashed through Larson's mind and could not be fully banished.

Taziar stared incredulously at the opened entry way. "How did you do that?"

"Magic," Larson replied offhandedly. A full explanation would have taken too much time, and he had not yet decided how much he wanted Bramin to know. "Let's go." He walked through the portal.

Two buildings rose from a snow-covered courtyard, the smaller and closer an unadorned square of concrete, the other a homey, two-story with windows. A metal panel lay inset into the wall by the gateway, a duplicate of the one on the outside which housed the buttons, except with the clasp unmolested. Larson opened the box as Taziar and Gaelinar filed through the entry behind him.

Bramin trailed after them.

Gaelinar whirled to face the half man, hand light on his sword hilt. "You're not coming in."

Bramin slammed down the base of his staff, kicking up a spray of snow which settled across the hem of his cloak. "You can't deny me, Kensei. My presence causes you no harm."

Larson hated to agree with Bramin, but he knew the dark elf could read his mind. The instant Bramin explored Larson's thoughts, the button code could no longer remain secret. Bramin could come and go as he pleased, sharing the method of entry with anyone he chose. Larson addressed Gaelinar, phrasing his words so as not to encourage Bramin to probe. "Recall what that wise man said about the vicinity of enemies."

Gaelinar hesitated while the deeper meaning of Larson's words became clear. He made no reply, but he did step aside and allow Bramin to enter.

Larson waited until everyone had cleared the area around the gate before punching the "close" key. The high-pitched sound recurred as the gates wound shut. Larson secured the panel and hooked the clasp. He turned, staring over the expanse of snow. Excitement swept him. The thrill of his discovery went far beyond the chance to find a rod or even to raise a god who might become the chosen of his own people. Whatever his original time or place, Gary Mannix had known and emulated twentieth century America. Larson considered further. The gate mechanism was unlike anything I've ever seen. Maybe it's twenty-first or twenty-second century knowledge. Maybe it's not even American. The possibilities seemed endless, but Larson knew the answers lay beyond the walls of the buildings. He approached the nearer structure.

It seemed odd to Larson that Taziar, Gaelinar, and Bramin accepted Geirmagnus' estate and its protections without question. Larson imagined their nonchalance came as a result of viewing constructions so far beyond their understanding that they attributed it all to magic. And they're probably right. Every bit of technology for the next eight hundred years won't allow men to build a place like this.

The steel door of the smaller building opened easily to Larson's touch, revealing a single room packed with metal gadgets. A water tank the size of a family car filled one comer. Thick, steel tubing came out of one side, passed through a pump, and disappeared into the earth of the floor. A short distance away, the pipe resurfaced into a cylinder, humming like an insect and connected by another pipe to a turbine. A pair of naked wires passed out of holes into a cable of heavy plastic which plunged into the sand. A generator of some kind. And by the sound, it's functioning. Larson backstepped, pulling the door closed. "We won't find what we're looking for here."

Though not at all certain of his statement, Larson wanted the chance to explore the main house. It was far more likely to furnish answers to the many questions which plagued him.

To Larson's relief, neither of his companions challenged him. Apparently, they realized he had more knowledge of the first Dragonrank Master's estate than seemed reasonably possible. In silence, they followed him to the house. Larson circled the building, trampling a lane of snow to the pale sands beneath it. Two casement windows set in the lower level were half buried in a drift. Time and wind-borne sand had worn the glass to polished convexity. The upper story held three windows, all intact and similarly timeworn. Concrete steps led up to a gray door into the second level. Larson climbed to the portal. The paint was apparently some sort of bonded epoxy; aside from some chipped flakes in the corners, it had weathered the centuries well.

Larson grasped the aluminum doorknob. For several seconds, he stood without moving. Something seemed fundamentally wrong with dragging his companions into the world beyond the door; he had no idea what the collision of past and future might yield. And Gary Mannix might have set magical or technological traps to protect his estate. Larson suspected a device in this dwelling converted the electricity harnessed from the smaller building into usable household current. The possibilities were endless and more than possibly lethal. Still, Larson reasoned, if Mannix didn't want people in his estate, he wouldn't have revealed the gate opening sequence. Even a person familiar with such a device would have required years of trial to crack a seven digit code. Comforted by this thought, Larson twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

A blast of hot, stale air struck Larson. The panel swung a full ninety degrees. Sunlight flooded in, revealing a rectangular room which ended in a window. Office furniture lined the longer walls, choked with dust. Directly to the left of the entry way, a set of stairs led to the lower level. A short distance farther, on the same side, a doorway opened into another room.

Larson took in the scene at a glance. The furnishings consisted of three filing cabinets, a laboratory desk with a scattering of journals, bookshelves built into the wall and crammed full of texts, and an unidentifiable assembly of gauges and dials in the far corner. A human skeleton was draped awkwardly across a chair of wood and vinyl before the desk. Larson took a shuffling step into the room. The movement dislodged a pile of dirt which whirled madly through the air, sparkling in the sun's rays. Grit stung Larson's eyes and clung to the moist membranes of his mouth. Blinking and spitting, he motioned his companions back and waited for the debris to settle. The interior felt stifling compared with the late autumn coolness outside, and he doubted the warped windows could be opened.

Walking with more caution, Larson made a rapid circuit of the room. The desk supported the skeleton's arm and skull across a blank page of an open journal. Scraps of leathery skin still clung to the yellowed bones; the walls had protected it from insects and the elements. Too accustomed to death to concern himself with the remains, Larson removed a bound journal from the top of the stack and flipped to the title page. It read, "The Acceleration of Anti-muons to Super-relativistic Velocities and Its Applications to Time Travel by Galin R…" The last name was smeared beyond further recognition. "… and Gary Mannix." Though not discarding the potential significance of his discovery, Larson closed the journal and moved on to the shelves.

The books on the mantles fell into categories, many of their titles obscured by mold. The upper levels held psychology texts and guides to hypnotism, witchcraft, and other paranormal phenomena. Beneath it, a row of physics and history tomes stood in stately contrast. The historical references held a definite bias toward the Middle Eastern cultures. The last shelf consisted of a mixed batch of hardbound science fiction novels, a bible, and assorted medical and literary references. Many of the volumes held the same Library of Congress classification tags Larson had thought he recognized on the books of the current Dragonrank Master. A glance down the stairwell re-vealed a well-equipped kitchen and a bathroom. The remaining room appeared to be a bedroom.

The tour took only a few minutes, but the trapped, ancient air felt suffocating and centuries of grime burned Larson's lungs. Until he had a chance to identify the strange gadgets in the laboratory and kitchen, he knew that allowing his companions to explore might prove too dangerous.

Gaelinar stood in the doorway, blocking Bramin's entry. Only Taziar had followed Larson inside. Snatching up the half dozen journals on the lab bench, including the one wedged beneath the skeleton, Larson caught Taziar's arm and herded the climber to the exit. "I'm not sure what we have here, but I'd rather examine them where I can breathe and see." His brief inspection had also revealed overhead lighting. But even if Mannix had created a working system for electricity, Larson doubted the bulbs could have survived.

Larson led his companions back outside, leaving the door propped to air out the building. Scraping aside snow to uncover the sand beneath, they sat in their manufactured clearing. To Larson's relief, Bramin came, too; apparently the dark elf wanted to keep track of his quarry or else he assumed the journals in Larson's arms held more interesting information than the house itself. And he's probably right. If these are, as I believe, Gary Man-nix's private notes, they may hold a wealth of magical and technological data. He shook his head, picking the first volume up in a hand which had begun to tremble. The mind boggles.

Taziar and Gaelinar seized later volumes as Larson flipped through page after page of formulas and calculations. The paper was watermarked, stout and sturdy enough to have survived the centuries. Tiny letters and numbers swarmed across each leaf in tight bunches, the mathematics punctuated by paragraphs of information, most of which made little sense to Larson: "The long-held theory that acceleration to light speed creates infinite mass is incorrect. No actual data has been previously available for particles traveling at or beyond light speed, only the extrapolation of Einstein's equations. We have shown that energy translates to mass up to a point. Beyond this threshold, energy will increase a particle to super-relativistic speed. Once the barrier of light speed is breached, a particle of insignificant mass liberates infinite energy. We have already determined time travel must be easier for energy than matter. Once the antipar-ticle mu was accelerated to super-relativistic speed, we might be able to store the massive energy this process would create in some alternate part of the Earth's orbit. If we can find the date of Nova, perhaps directly on our own sun." The text lapsed back into numerical incomprehensibility.

Larson looked up. Gaelinar and Taziar had lain aside their volumes in disgust, unable to interpret the English writings. Bramin stood behind Larson. Intent on his findings, Larson had not noticed the dark sorcerer reading over his shoulder. Apparently, however, Gaelinar had. The Kensei studied Bramin through narrowed eyes, his hand on his sword hilt.

Bramin broke the hush. "Some sort of magical runes."

Larson scooted around to face Bramin, annoyed by the abstraction which had kept him from perceiving an enemy at his back. "English, actually."

Taziar and Gaelinar exchanged glances. Larson's explanation held no meaning for them.

"I can read it," Larson clarified. "It's written in a language I understand." He added belatedly, "Elven, sort of." He hated to deceive his companions, but it seemed far less time consuming. He wanted as much of the daylight hours as possible to decipher the writings.

"Please, read, then," Gaelinar insisted.

"Aloud," Taziar specified.

Larson hesitated. His single semester of college physics had scarcely gotten him past the law of gravity and Newtonian mechanics. "It's mostly numbers. They wouldn't have any meaning for you. If you give me a little time, I may find something useful." He opened to the first page again, taking note of details. The entry was dated 12/07/1988. Larson gawked until the numbers blurred beyond his ability to read them. 1988? Almost twenty years after I went to Vietnam. He tried to picture his sister, Pam, more than forty years old, telling her children about their uncle killed in the war. But the image defied him. Absently, he fluttered the pages as he considered. I destroyed the future, didn't I? Or changed it, at least. Then again, since Mannix apparently came back before I did… His thoughts became incomprehensibly jumbled; time lost all relative meaning.

As pages flicked past him, Larson noticed a change in the quality of the penmanship. Toward the end of the journal, a darker handwriting replaced the chicken scratch of numbers. The discrepancy caught Larson's attention. He found the first entry of the newer author, a long treatise of words in letter form. "I think I have something here." Tucking his legs beneath his buttocks, he began to read.

"Galin R.," Larson glanced up to find Gaelinar watching him, a perplexed look on his wizened features. "Galin R.," Larson started again, and this time the incongruity clicked. "Galin R., Gaelinar." The names sounded too alike to attribute to coincidence. Despite the unfinished quest, an enemy close at hand, and multiple unsolved mysteries, Larson broke into laughter. Unable to read on, he lowered the book and roared.

Gaelinar and Taziar looked alarmed, which only made Larson laugh harder. He gasped between bouts, "Now… we know… where Silme… got your name." The Dragonrank mages must have passed it on for centuries. Several more minutes passed before Larson gained enough control to continue.

"Galin R.," Larson snickered, but managed to go on. "Well, I did it, at last. I channeled the stored energy and set off for…" Larson paused. The diary read "Egypt, 700 B.C.," but he saw no way to translate the place and era. He settled for a vague description of the location and indicated centuries back in time.

Taziar interrupted. "You must have misread. How could someone live for more than 1700 years?"

Larson held his place in the journal with a finger. "Shadow, I have a feeling it'll get even more confusing." He returned to reading.

"The explosion must have looked magnificent. I'm sure you'll read about it in the papers long before you see this letter-if you ever see this letter. Certainly, there will be those who try to link my disappearance to the…" Larson skipped over the word "nuclear" which had no Old Norse equivalent. "… testing which went on here for the last fifteen years, but you and I and three dozen lab assistants know better. I thought we would never get past moving peach pits, books, apples, and cats short distances into the past and future. Now we've done it. I'm gone, and everything went with me: my research, yours, the…" Larson avoided the term "particle accelerator" which held no more meaning for him than for his companions. "… the equipment, the walls. Everything went exactly according to plan except one thing, dear Galin. The instant I arrived, I lost power. The lights went out, the…" Larson substituted "tools" for "machines" and continued "… went down, the…"He interposed "box for keeping food cold" for "refrigerator-"

"… stopped running."

Larson continued reading, interpreting where possible, substituting descriptions for words when necessary, and paraphrasing as much as he could. "The air conditioner also quit working, but, oddly, it didn't bother me. It couldn't have been more than forty degrees outside, and the only desert sand was the stuff I brought with me from Nevada. Thank God for your paranoid insistence on contingencies-and your addiction to Pepsi. I lived off warm soda and canned fruit cocktail while the steaks spoiled in the nonfunctioning freezer during the two weeks it took me to establish a geothermal energy source. Boy, could I use a physicist. If you ever find yourself in ninth or tenth century Scandinavia, feel free to drop in for a visit, okay?

"By now, Galin, I'm certain you figured out what happened. Some miscalculation dropped me in the wrong place and time, not a tragedy in and of itself, except I'm apparently no longer in contact with our line of stored energy. I 'm trapped, unable to tap the power and unable to move through time, stuck in a world of Vikings until you find me. Of course, I could start the process over again. I have the cyclotron and your notes. But without your knowledge or the patience to go over the long, complicated mathematics you did for me, I'd probably end up in the Pacific Ocean somewhere during World War II. Besides, I'm short a few pounds of plutonium and a handful of lab technicians. So, if you happen to come across any extra, please send them to Gary Mannix care of General Delivery, Old Scandinavia. I don't know the zip, but I can tell you I'm about six inches shy of hysteria.

"Galin, please tell Marsha and Jimmy I love them very much. I doubt my life insurance policy covers such a contingency. I trust you and your team. I know you'll come for me if you can. If you time it right, perhaps you'll arrive before I write this note. For the record, my watch says it's October 16, 1989 at 9:17 pm. According to the guarantee, it's not supposed to lose more than a minute a year. Think I can get my money back?" The signature at the bottom read simply "Gary." Larson lowered the journal.

An expectant hush followed, broken finally by Taziar. "Did that make any sense to anyone?"

"Not much," Gaelinar admitted.

Even Bramin looked perplexed.

The sun hovered directly overhead, creating short shadows beneath the buildings and the wall. Recalling the skeleton hunched over the lab chair, Larson reached for the final volume, labeled number six. If someone spent his last moments of life writing, he must have had something urgent to say. The binding was cracked, as if the book had remained in one position for quite some time. Larson separated the covers, and it fell open naturally to a blank page stained black with old blood. Larson backtracked to the final entry and read aloud in the same manner as before.

"Dear reader,

"Much of what I write may seem primitive to you. Unless the manufacturer greatly underestimated the life span of this paper, you must be a time traveler. Therefore, you come from a future I never had the opportunity to see. As far as I know, I am the first time traveler. Even if the technology I used has become outdated, my story may prove interesting to anyone who comes after me, if only to learn from my mistakes. I have no choice but write my story quickly. Today, almost certainly, I am going to die.

"My name is Gary Mannix. I am a parapsychologist, originally from Cherry Hill, New Jersey. More than once, a sneering skeptic has called my profession an oxymoron, but I don't find that comment any funnier now than when I became trapped in ninth or tenth century Scandinavia twenty-two years ago. Apparently, neither did the United States government. In their infinite wisdom, they gave me and my associates a grant to study ways to affect enemy alpha brain waves with oscillating magnetic fields, but they wouldn't give a penny to my friend, physicist Galin R., for his research on time travel.

"I have always had a special interest in the differences between the ancient mind and our own. Despite tremendous gains in technology, information and its processing, there has also been knowledge lost: the secrets of the great pyramids and Stonehenge, for example. I felt certain I could glean useful information from Egypt in 1000-500 B.C., an age when brain surgery was not only being performed, but the patients survived. Galin convinced me his project was worthwhile. By careful manipulation, I managed to work his research onto my grant. It worked out well for both of us. Galin got his money and a laboratory in the basement. I got a promise that I would be the first man to travel through time.

"Galin's research is detailed in previous volumes of his journal. To protect him, I've blotted out his last name, and those of our numerous assistants, everywhere they appear in his notes. I have no idea what impact my disappearance may have on him. Whatever happens, I want to give him the option of disclaiming his role in my mistakes. I take no credit for the brilliance of his project, but I deserve all the blame for the consequences my subsequent actions unleashed upon the world."

Larson paused. He knew Mannix's revelation lay beyond the comprehension of his companions, especially with the huge and myriad gaps lost to translation. But the word "Dragonrank" farther down the page seized Larson's attention. He continued reading.

"Our laboratory was understandably nonstandard. We needed modern living facilities to take with us on our hops through time and solid barriers to defend us from warrior cultures. The time travel required a huge cyclotron buried beneath the sand. Its ends pass through Gal-in's workroom in the basement. He used it to accelerate antiparticles to relativistic speeds, continuously feeding the generated energy back into the system. A single, contained nuclear fusion blast liberated enough additional energy to drive larger particles beyond light speed. Once the threshold was breached, the process became exothermic. By channeling the massive amounts of power thus created, Galin made an essentially infinite energy line which we tapped in small amounts to move through time and run the standard electricity in the laboratory. A series of complicated equations and experiments with inanimate objects determined the amount of energy needed to travel instantaneously to various times and places. That's how I understand it, but I'm no physicist. I have to rely on the simplified information of Galin's verbal explanations. I'm certain, friend reader, you could learn more from Galin's notes."

I doubt it. Larson's head was pounding already, and he made no attempt to translate the paragraph for the others. "Anyone for lunch?"

"I'll take care of it." Taziar opened his pack and set to the meal while Larson returned to Mannix's journal.

"A miscalculation brought me to ninth/tenth century Scandinavia rather than b.c. Egypt. I've reviewed Galin's calculations a thousand times without finding it. Over time, I've come to believe it's a mistake so small as to be within the natural error of the gauges. That would also explain why Galin was never able to rescue me. Regardless, I soon realized that if I was to ever see my wife and son, my friends, my home, my world again, I was going to have to find my own way back. In the meantime, I set out to meet the people of my new era.

"My Norwegian-English dictionary proved of little use in translating their ancient language, but desperation makes a damn good teacher. Eventually, I learned to communicate with them. They called me Geirmagnus. At first, I thought it was their accented pronunciation, but that didn't quite fit. Then I convinced myself it was a title of respect. Within a year, I met six other Geir-magnuses and realized it was simply a common name and the closest to my impossibly strange American one.

"No history text could describe just how filthy, foul-smelling, and diseased these people were." Larson looked up quickly, but his companions did not seem to take offense. "More than ever, I wanted to go home, but the same curiosity which pushed me into research drove me to gain their trust and experiment. It was then I discovered the fascinating truth. Not one of them could be hypnotized! I tried every technique I could think of, carefully adapting it to the culture of their time without success. Certainly, there are people from my own time who can't be hypnotized, and theories abound as to the reason. But, after due consideration, there was only one reason I could see for an entire primitive race, perhaps the entire era, evolving barriers to mental exploration. Protection. Apparently someone or something could meddle with minds, perhaps destroy them. And I was the only one defenseless against it!"

Larson ate the jerked meat Taziar handed him, feeling a sudden kinship with a parapsychologist named Gary Mannix. But how did a man without mind barriers become a Dragonrank Master? Understandably intrigued, Larson read on.

"Obviously, the people had little or no knowledge of their gifts. When questioned about mind-reading beings, most mentioned mythological gods. Nevertheless, my persistence won out. Eventually, I was told of a rare subculture of people known as "dream-readers." For a fee, a dream-reader would interpret dreams and thought obsessions, provided his client withdrew the mental barriers. As with all things not well understood, the dream-readers were looked upon with a mixture of fear, hatred, and respect.

"Scientist to the end, I couldn't let the discovery rest. I began a search which took me across Norway and parts of Sweden. I believe I interviewed and hired every dream-reader in existence. There were only eleven. More importantly, my efforts turned up Hosvir. He was a gawky youngster, not well suited to feats of strength or skill. After failing at multiple apprenticeships and on his father's farm, Hosvir was sent away from home. But Hosvir had the ability to perform tricks which I would have believed were simple sleight of hand were it not for the fact that he had the coordination and agility of an old plow horse. Because of his odd gift, he decided to try becoming a dream-reader.

"Hosvir did not fare well. He lacked the honey-tongued, used-car-salesmanlike sweetness which successful dream-readers use to relax clients enough to drop their mental barriers. Of course, I was no challenge. Hosvir read my thoughts. Then he read my memories. When I asked about his past, he didn't tell me. He showed me, with vivid images placed directly in my own mind. Hosvir was to other dream-readers what Harry Houdini's water tank was to my six-year-old son's card tricks. I thanked Hosvir for a unique experience. He thanked me for having flawed mind barriers. I took him back to the lab, and the first Dragonrank sorcerer was made."

Larson sighed, wishing his own experiences with Dragonrank mind powers had been equally benign.

"It didn't happen overnight. Through trial and error and good communication, I elicited the mechanism for Hosvir's ability. Some special difference in his internal makeup, I never discovered exactly what, allowed him to channel what I called 'psychic energy' and he referred to as 'Chaos.' In truth, his term was probably more accurate. He would summon this entropy as a scattered force and mold it into whatever he wanted or needed. It was the ultimate conversion of energy to matter, an alchemist's dream. Hosvir could turn lead to gold, but it was just as easy for him to create gold from nothing.

"It didn't end there. Strengthened by psychic exercises of my invention, Hosvir's powers seemed unlimited. He could create anything his mind could conceive, even life itself. He made Ingeborg, a large-boned, stout, and sturdy woman, beautiful by the standards of the era. Unfortu-nately, he couldn't conceive of antiparticles, nuclear fusion, or time travel. Even his exploration of my thoughts didn't help. Spanning epochs remained beyond Hosvir's abilities. And we soon discovered that we paid a great price for Hosvir's art.

"There is truth to the Chinese concept of yin and yang. Our world has two forces which must remain in relative balance: one, the natural entropy or randomness of the universe, the other, the ordered systems of matter. Hosvir's magic required him to summon large magnitudes of chaos-stuff from some source I never uncovered. The working of his spells would consume a certain amount of that energy, but there was always some left over. With time, the liberated chaos was becoming significant. Gradually, it took on a physical form. It looked to me rather like a small, European dragon. (Later, I learned this is the natural shape of huge volumes of banded entropy. Perhaps this opens a new area of research in Europe.) Unfortunately, the single purpose of the entropy-force was destruction.

"Initially, it was weak. It killed cattle now and again, uprooted a few trees. I left it alone, making the fatal mistake of believing that since I understood it, I could find a way to control it. Ingeborg turned out to have Hosvir's chaos-channeling abilities, and a search by Hosvir gained me two more magicians besides her. They reveled in the newfound power my psychic exercises opened for them. And the entropy-force grew."

Larson paused for a drink of water. Gaelinar and Ta-ziar watched him expectantly. Bramin fidgeted with impatience. Larson gulped slowly, savoring a little power of his own before returning to Gary Mannix's narrative.

"Some ten years after I discovered Hosvir, a claw-shaped scar appeared on the hand of every sorcerer. Somehow, they knew it came from the entropy-force, but it was quite some time before we realized the creature was stamping its prey. We called the scars 'dragonmarks' after their source, and the sorcerers became known as my 'dragon ranks' or 'dragon troops.' The mark helped bring us all together. The first accidental channeling of chaos would cause the mark to appear on adults and chil-dren with the potential to become sorcerers. Frightened parents brought their marked sons and daughters to me. I took them all in, hoping one could learn the time travel 'magic' which would take me home.

"Luckily, the gift was rare. Over the next nine years, my dragon ranks swelled to eighteen. And the chaos force grew exponentially. It had begun to kill people, at first singly. Then it slaughtered entire towns. A few of the sorcerers attempted to destroy or contain it, but they were beaten before they started. The chaos they summoned to use for spells against it only added to its power. And the entropy-force grew.

"Eighteen years of training sorcerers gave me enough knowledge of their craft to finally realize how to reroute their energy and stop feeding the entropy-force. Rather than summoning an extrinsic chaos force, I taught the novice mages to tap only the psychic power within themselves. In good faith, the higher ranking sorcerers tried to do the same. But the change limited their powers to a tiny fraction, and old habits die hard. Hosvir and his earlier-trained companions frequently slipped back into previous patterns. Worse, the tapping of self-energy required keener judgment of the amount of summoned force needed for a spell. Bringing forth more life energy than necessary simply sapped their own strength, and depleting life force too far resulted in death. We lost six of my dragon ranks in the first week. Though more slowly now, the chaos force continued to grow, leaving a trail of death and destruction in its wake.

"Now in my twenty-second year in Old Norway, I have come to realize my dragon ranks will never learn to bridge time, especially with their power curtailed. Last week, desperation drove me to attempt something recklessly stupid. I gathered the remaining dozen sorcerers who still knew how to channel external psychic energy and brought them together in a cause. It occurred to me that, if the sorcerers were unable to control time, perhaps a god could. I had them create 'Thor,' describing him from my memory of the comics. Had I not been blinded by homesickness, I might have realized just how foolish this undertaking was. The Thor they created came directly from their own perceptions. With him, they brought the entire Norse pantheon. And the excess entropy was almost beyond comprehension."

Larson let the book slap closed over his finger. The implications seemed too far beyond reality to believe. If Gary Mannix wrote the truth, we have the answer to the age old question, "But who created God?" I can't believe the gods were invented by a twentieth century American parapsychologist. He reopened the journal and continued reading.

"The backlash was tremendous. Earthquakes swept Norway. Forests shattered to kindling, and death came in the form of a rampaging dragon. God only knows the ripple effect on the countries outside Scandinavia. The way Hosvir explained it to me, Law and Chaos are in a constant battle for control. There are advantages to being the stronger force, but too much power serves no one and destroys everyone. We were approaching that threshold. The world had become so skewed toward Chaos, it was rocketing toward oblivion.

"I'm convinced the entropy-force is nonintelligent, but somehow it knew it had grown too strong. The night we summoned the gods, Hosvir's dragonmark began to ache. By morning, the entropy-force had clawed him to death. It came for the sources of its excessive power. One by one, it hunted down and killed my dragon ranks, sparing only those who tapped exclusively internal energy sources. Then, tonight, the mark appeared on me. It hurts like an open wound, and I have no doubt the entropy-force will come for me soon. I've set a trap for it. I hope to contain it within the particle accelerator beneath this laboratory, thereby removing it and restoring the balance of the world. I have no choice but to use myself as bait. Likely, I'll die with it, perhaps deservedly. But I can't help wondering what will happen to this world that I've created. When time travel was only the realm of science fiction, people wondered if tiny changes in the past might multiply and radically alter the future. I've always been of the mind that, once time travel becomes possible, so many people will make so many changes, the mistakes of any one individual will go unnoticed. Let us hope, friend reader, my theory is correct. Judge as you will."

The signature read "Gary Mannix, 9th/10th century Norway on the equivalent of May 3, 2011."

Beneath the signature, a brown discoloration covered words scrawled across the bottom of the page in shaky, unfamiliar handwriting: "I believe only my rads will kill the monster. -GM."

"Rads," Larson repeated in English, puzzled. "I must have misread that. It has to be rods. Geirmagnus' rod." With this correction, he told the final sentence to his companions.

Taziar glanced at the page. "Geirmagnus must have trapped the chaos-force in that 'thing you can't translate.' Otherwise, it would have destroyed the world a long time ago."

The sun had slipped lower in the sky while Larson read, lengthening the shadows into slender caricatures. "Apparently, it killed Geirmagnus, too. The handwriting, the bloodstain, and the skeleton convince me. Mannix must have staggered up the stairs, fatally wounded, to write that last sentence. It must have been pretty important…"

Bramin interrupted, casually sidling beyond range of Gaelinar's swords. "More important than you know. What your so-called friends neglected to tell you…"

Gaelinar leaped to his feet.

Bramin met the threat with a sneer. "I am protected by Allerum's vow."

"Not if you break that vow," Gaelinar threw back. "You swore not to hurt Allerum or hinder the quest for Geirmagnus' rod. If you say it, you will do both."

"Say what?" Larson pressed, annoyed at being talked around.

Bramin met Larson's gaze. Red eyes flashed in a face wearing an expression like iron. He addressed Gaelinar, but his reply was for Larson alone. "Do I hinder him with knowledge or do you fetter him with ignorance? Would you send him to his doom unaware?"

"Stop right now," Gaelinar warned. He laid a hand on each sword hilt.

Larson tried to gain some control of the situation. "Quit it, both of you," he screamed. All eyes turned to Larson as he continued. "Bramin and I made the vow. We can revise it if we both agree.''

Bramin remained still and silent. His features were placid, without triumph.

"Fool." Gaelinar spat. "Don't let him play you again. Do you really think Bramin would tell you something to help you?"

"No," Larson admitted. "But I do believe you would hide information to protect me; I know it for a fact. And right now, the more I understand, the better off we all are."

Taziar tugged at Larson's sleeve. "Trust us," he said softly.

Larson hesitated, recalling Taziar's pleas at the city border. I have every reason to trust my companions, to place my life in their hands. Perhaps my ignorance may prove the best way to complete this quest. As he came to the decision, a feeling of complacency settled over Larson. He had no doubt he had made the right choice. And yet, the certainty itself seemed tainted, foreign. Realization seeped around Larson's inner calm. Vidarrl You influenced my thoughts. How dare you! Anger exploded across Larson's mind. He lashed out in fury against Vidarr's presumed violation and the companions who would not trust him with the knowledge of his own life and death. "Damn it, I'm no child. I can handle the truth. I retract the vow, Bramin, only enough to allow you to speak."

Vidarr's voice wound through Larson's mind in startled accusation. Allerum, I didn V…

A smile curled across Bramin's features, grotesque as a stone gargoyle on a motel roof. Realization hammered Larson. It wasn't Vidarr. My god! Bramin influenced my thoughts to make me believe he was Vidarr. He made me betray my friends. And I can't claim foul because it was my misinterpretation, not an attack.

Bramin spoke quickly, before Larson could rescind his permission. "Allerum, your quest is impossible. "

"You idiot!" Taziar shouted, but Larson never knew whether the Shadow Climber addressed him or Bramin.

Gaelinar pointed a finger at the dark elf. "You know I have too much honor to interfere with your vows. But you had best hope the hero kills you. If he doesn't, I will."

If I don't get him first, Vidarr added.

"Take a number," Larson grumbled, surprised by his own calm acceptance. "But first, let Bramin finish. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Tell me why the quest is impossible."

Bramin's gaze passed over each of Larson's companions in turn. When no one protested, he continued. "My source is the Fates and therefore cannot be disputed. Centuries back, they released a trinity of fortunes concerning Geirmagnus' rod. All the gods know the prophecy, and every child born to Midgard hears the tale at his mother's knee. First, the retrieval of the rod will release a chaos-force of immeasurable power. Second, no matter the state of the balance, the release of the chaos-force will open a place for Baldur on Midgard. Third, and I quote, 'The weapon Geirmagnus planned to be used to defeat the chaos-force has not yet been made and may never be. The only weapon of its kind will not be used against it.' "

Gary Mannix's last scrawled words rang clearly through Larson's thoughts. I believe only my rod will kill the monster. Sweat rose on his temples. He fingered his own ear, bending it down until the point touched the lobe. So I have to find this rod/weapon, thereby freeing a creature which destroyed cities and killed a dozen Dragonrank sorcerers. And the only weapon which will work against it is destined never to be used. Frustration writhed through him, and Vidarr's echoing hatred in his mind served only to strengthen it. Larson stared down Gaelinar and Taziar in turn. "The quest is impossible. You led me into it, blindly, knowing we all would die. And you dare call yourselves friends?" Larson whirled.

Something slammed him in the back of the head. He staggered forward a step. On angry impulse, he drew his sword and spun to face Taziar. The comma of black hair had slipped into the Shadow Climber's eye, making his scarlet features seem almost comical. "You stupid, selfish bastard! When are you going to start thinking with your head instead of your sword? Sure, we knew the quest was impossible. But we chose to sacrifice our lives and come anyway. Gaelinar is here, prepared to die with a student who apparently doesn't deserve his loyalty. I came, ready to die to prove nothing is impossible. Silme's life hangs on your willingness not only to die, but to achieve the impossible."

Taziar tossed his head, freeing blue eyes cold as ice and deadly serious. "They said Loki couldn't be killed until Ragnarok, but he was. Not even the gods could find a way to raise the dead, but you've done that." He made a vague gesture at Bramin. "Sneaking into the Dragon-rank school is impossible, right? But a man half your size did just that. Impossible has no meaning; it's a term coined by the simple-minded to explain tasks they're too weak or lazy to accomplish. If you would rather bow to the whims of gods and Fates and sorcerers, lie down and die here. I'm getting Silme." Quick as a rabbit, Taziar dodged between Gaelinar and Bramin and was halfway to the door of Gary Mannix's lab before Larson could think to reply.