Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 3: Hel's Hound

"It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake." -Geoffrey Chaucer Troilus and Criseyde

Another three days passed in Hel's black void, its silence broken only by the ceaseless babble of the river Gjoll, which guided Larson and Gaelinar toward Midgard. Larson saw nothing more of Loki's son; the wolf penetrated neither his life nor his dreams again. Several restful nights restored his flagging spirits. He no longer imagined monsters, ghosts, and snipers huddled in Hel's concealing darkness. Time diluted the ferocity of its mistress' vague warnings and blurred the wolf's threat to ephemeral nightmare.

Oddly, as Larson's anxiety diminished, Gaelinar's caution heightened. He avoided conversation, answering Larson's questions with monosyllables or not at all. He checked points and edges on his knives, swords, and shu-rikens, though he had used none since his last inspection. He kept his fist on the sheath of his katana with his thumb looped over the crossguard.

Not wishing to become embroiled in another wave of paranoia, Larson ignored Gaelinar's unusual vigilance for several hours. Then the Kensei began repeatedly flicking his hilt a few inches free from its scabbard and sliding it back into place until the gesture became an annoyance. Abruptly, Larson stopped and faced his mentor. "Do you have a problem?"

"Yes." There was unexpected anger in Gaelinar's re-ply. "Stupid questions." He stepped around Larson and continued walking.

Larson trotted after his mentor, incensed by Gaelinar's chastisement. "What did I do?"

Gaelinar's voice was restrained. "We're half a hundred paces from the single place Hel has most likely stationed her minions. Our one advantage might have been surprise, and you're flapping your tongue like a cock heralding the dawn."

Larson's cheeks felt warm. He knew he would fare best remaining quiet, but Gaelinar's words seemed too important to dismiss without probing further. "Where do you mean?"

"Look to your right, hero."

Larson turned his head. The darkness felt bunched and tangible around him. On more careful inspection, he recognized a diffuse, sallow glow, like the moon on a cloudy night. Thinking back, it had been visible for at least the last two days, but Larson had passed it off as normal. Now, drawn by Gaelinar's concern, Larson recalled the gold-roofed bridge over the Gjoll. Apprehension quickened his pulse. "You think Hel rigged the crossing?"

Gaelinar hesitated. "If you mean she might have made it difficult to pass, yes. Few men and no corpse would have the strength to swim Gjoll's torrent. Anyone attempting escape would need to cross her bridge. Can you think of a better place to stop us? Now, hush. We're almost there."

Larson went silent, head low with shame. I'm a trained soldier, for Chrissakes. I should have figured this out without Gaelinar's help. Another worry surfaced with chilling abruptness. We're about to fightsomething, and I haven't got a weapon. Though now only a few yards from the Hel bridge, he dared a whisper. "Gaelinar."

Kensei Gaelinar did not answer.

Shit. Larson groped blindly for his mentor. The air felt cold and empty. "No sword."

Gaelinar seized Larson's arm and jerked.

Larson spun to face his mentor. He could distinguish only the Kensei's outline through the gloom.

"I know," Gaelinar said softly. "That couldn't be helped. We'll have to do the best we can without it."

Larson glanced into the hovering yellow fog. With effort, he could just discern the frame of the crossing, as crudely constructed as a Vietnamese footbridge but thatched with metallic gold. "Do you have a plan?"

Gaelinar released Larson's arm. "A plan?" The Ken-sei's voice held a tinge of annoyance. "A warrior makes his plans in the instant between sword strokes. You want a plan? Fine, this is my plan. Move toward the bridge. When I signal, you run across as fast as possible. Don't stop until you reach the other side."

"But, I…"

Gaelinar cut Larson short. "In this darkness, without a weapon, you can only become an obstacle or a casualty. Do as I say."

Larson scowled, unsatisfied. "What will you do?"

"I don't know yet."

"The signal?" Larson whispered.

Gaelinar's reply sounded distant. "It won't be subtle. Approach, quietly now."

Larson hesitated, his mind filled with the rickety footbridges over Vietnam's chessboard of rivers and swamps. More than once, he had heard the sudden roar of explosives. He had watched flames wash wooden planks while supports shattered, heaving splinters like darts, leaving men, blood-splashed and moaning on the bridges' charred and jutting frames. But this world has no C-4, no grenades, no M-16s. Larson's realization brought only scant comfort. He inched uncertainly toward the hovering golden fog, no longer able to discern Gaelinar in the mist.

No sound came from Hel's bridge. Nothing swished, snapped or banged in the windless air. It's not what you hear, it's what you don't hear that kills you. Larson chased the thought from his mind, not wishing to cross the fine line between caution and paranoia. He took another careful forward step. His boot touched down on ground slick as glass. His foot shot out from under him. He scrabbled for balance, lost it, and crashed to his buttocks. His toe struck the wooden lip of the bridge with a muffled thunk. Pain shot up his spine, and he fought the urge to curse aloud.

A deep female voice challenged Larson from the bridge. "You cannot cross."

Larson dove to his left and hunkered into Hel's shadows, his mind scrambling for strategy. He understood what had happened. Impervious to cold in his elven form, he had forgotten Hel's chill and slipped on a frozen puddle of river water in the depression before the bridge. He tried to locate the woman who had addressed him, but his vision fought a losing battle with the darkness.

Gaelinar's voice hissed into Larson's ear. "Keep her talking." Then the Kensei disappeared.

Larson cleared his throat and rose to a crouch. "Excuse me?" he said, tensed to roll aside at the twang of a bowstring.

The same voice repeated its warning. "You cannot cross."

Larson asked the obvious questions. "Who are you? And why would you want to keep me from crossing?" He chose the singular pronoun, hoping to keep Gaelinar's presence secret.

The woman replied immediately. "I am Modgudr, guardian of the bridge. It is my job to keep the dead in Hel."

"A noble task." Larson heard nothing to indicate Modgudr had companions. He grew more daring. "But I'm not dead. I'm alive."

Modgudr's voice deepened with contempt. "Undoubtedly. You make more noise than a legion of corpses. But my orders stand. I am to allow no one to pass without Hel's prior command. You cannot cross."

Larson chewed his lip, uncertain where to take the conversation. It appeared no one planned to shoot him down where he stood, and Modgudr seemed reasonably polite. He phrased his next question to glean as much information about Hel's guardian as he could without goading her to attack. "Please forgive my boldness, but you're one woman against a heavily armed man. How do you plan to prevent me from crossing?"

Modgudr's snort echoed beneath the gold-thatched roof of her bridge. "Do you think me blind? You've no arms but those you were born with. And I believe one Dra-gonrank sorceress a match for any warrior. Do you still wish to challenge me?"

Modgudr's pronouncement struck Larson dumb. According to Silme, the nine worlds harbored only a handful of Dragonrank, so few the vast majority of men lived a lifetime without having seen or heard of one. In less than a month in Old Scandinavia, Larson had already encountered two: the diamond-rank master, Bramin, and his half sister, Silme. The odds of happening upon another seemed not unlike those of winning the Irish sweepstakes. Yet, Larson realized, a man's chances of entering Hel alive can't be much greater.

Uncertain whether Modgudr was bluffing, yet not eager to invoke a sorceress' wrath, Larson chose his words with care. "You see pretty well in the dark."

Modgudr's answer was a garbled shriek of syllables. Suddenly, magical light pulsed across the bridge, shattering darkness into streaked shadows. Larson dropped to the ground, shielding aching eyes with his hand. He caught a quick glimpse of a pale female form, arm raised in arched threat, and the golden profile of Gaelinar and his swords. Then the sorceries died, and the air filled with shouted warnings.

Larson hesitated, blinded and weaponless. More than anything, he wanted to aid Gaelinar, but he knew better than to defy his mentor's orders. The signal? Crouched, head low and protected beneath his arms, he raced onto the bridge.

Gaelinar and Modgudr yowled like fighting cats. Before Larson, metal rang against metal. He dodged aside. A spear of light slashed Hel's blackness, revealing the two combatants in hazy, red outline. Something wet splashed Larson's cheek, but he was uncertain whether it was water or blood. "Gaelinar!" He paused, fearing for the Kensei's life.

Gaelinar's voice rose above the din. Larson could decipher only one of the Kensei's words, "… run!" Obediently, he quickened his pace. Suddenly, a body slammed into him, driving him into a low, wooden rail.

Impact knocked the breath from his lungs and spun him to the ground. He lurched to his feet, cursing the darkness, trying to regain his sense of direction. Again, a bright flare of sorcery clove the darkness and sparked against the rail to Larson's right. The wooden strut sizzled and caught fire. Larson whirled and sprinted for the farther end of the bridge.

Larson's footfalls crashed on the thick lumber of the bridge. Darkness closed over him again. He continued, uncomfortably aware of the tearing clash of magic and metal growing more distant behind him. Then he blundered into the semi-solid magics of an unseen ward. Light flashed. Impact bounced him to the ground, and he rolled to the softer soil beyond the bridge's planks. Sound blared across the Hel lands, shrill and persistent as a fire alarm.

Larson stumbled to his feet. He ached everywhere, as if he had finished a grueling workout in the gym, but he had nothing to blame but the sorceress' ward. Sick and dizzied, he swiveled his head toward the battle on the bridge. The fire had turned the handrail into a spreading inferno which revealed Gaelinar and Modgudr in horrific detail. The Kensei's frenzied strokes kept falling inches from their mark. Though grimacing with fatigue and effort, Modgudr was somehow driving Gaelinar backward, step by step, toward the blaze.

Gaelinar! Hold on. Larson reeled toward Modgudr, the sounds of his progress drowned by the shrieks of her ward. As the flames licked the edges of Gaelinar's robes, the Kensei sheathed his blade and sprang toward Modgudr. He crashed into the same invisible barrier which had impeded his sword. The collision jolted him to one knee, and Modgudr pressed her advantage with desperate glee. Gaelinar slid toward the fire and the rushing river below it.

Larson dove. He caught Modgudr in a flying tackle. His momentum sprawled her to the ground. Woman and elf skidded across the wooden planks, wood slivering through the sorceress' robes. Modgudr howled in pain and anger. Her ward went suddenly quiet. Apparently she had also lost her magical shield because, when Larson glanced up, Gaelinar held his blade pressed to Modgudr's throat. "Don't move."

Larson knew Gaelinar addressed Modgudr, but the malice in the Kensei's voice held him still as well.

"If you make a sound I don't recognize or a single gesture, I'll kill you."

The odor of singed cloth reminded Larson how narrowly his mentor had eluded death. Beneath him, Modgudr was panting. She made no attempt to struggle but loosed a weak snort of disgust. "You cannot slay me. If you did, Hel's dead would escape to Midgard and wreak havoc on mankind."

There followed a moment of careful silence as Gaelinar considered. "That is not my concern, Modgudr. I pledged myself to Silme, not her world. If she remains in Hel, I no longer have cause to live except to train my student to reasonable competence. I am a foreigner. When I die, my soul becomes one with our universe, not caged in a world like Hel. The fate of Midgard's citizens would not interest me any more."

Gaelinar's loyalty touched Larson, but the Kensei's coldness discomforted him. Surely, he's acting. I once saw him rush down, single-handed, on three bandits raping a young boy. That kind of crazed loyalty to a stranger can only come from the heart, not from dedication to someone else's principles. But Larson also knew the ancient Japanese culture was one of honor, brutality, and single-minded devotion to lords and their causes. Larson released Modgudr, rising to a cautious crouch. To his left, the flaming rail had dissolved into a charred skeleton. The fire dulled and winked out, plunging them back into Hel's darkness.

Modgudr's tense hiss answered Gaelinar's words.

Gaelinar's reply was patient. "Hel said we could exchange the life of another Dragonrank for Silme. Perhaps you'll do."

Larson could not read Modgudr's expression through the pitch, but she sounded more confused than frightened by Gaelinar's threat. "But I'm not dead."

Gaelinar spoke again. "I can change that."

"Perhaps." Modgudr's voice had withered to a frac-tion of its former resonance. "But it will do you no good. I don't know what my mistress told you." Though feeble, her tone carried a note of calculation which convinced Larson she knew more than she would tell. "But Silme served Vidarr, a god of Law. Hel is of Chaos. Killing me can only disrupt the balance farther toward Order and make Silme unnecessary."

Modgudr's argument made sense to Larson. I doubt she would qualify as having a similar ' 'means and bent'' to Silme. He felt uncomfortable leaving a powerful enemy alive at his back; but if Modgudr was the only deterrent to the dead escaping Hel, he could see no other option. Though the corpses had not tried to harm him, they had shown curiosity and an ability to inflict inadvertent pain. Just the sight of mutilated, rotting relatives returning from caskets and graves would surely cause panicked chaos on Midgard. He imagined zombies wandering the New York streets, consuming the strength and warmth of the living, impervious to the weapons of the national guard. Most basic horror movie plot in existence. And I wouldn't inflict it on America, Norway, or anywhere else.

Still blinded by Hel's incessant darkness, Larson heard a creak of movement. Modgudr fell silent. Then Gaelinar caught Larson's arm and drew him across the bridge.

Larson waited only until they had withdrawn beyond earshot of Modgudr. "What did you do about her?"

Gaelinar's hand fell away from Larson's sleeve. "I knocked her to sleep."

Larson grumbled, bothered by the thought of an angered and unpredictable sorceress on his heels. "I hope you hit her hard enough to keep her out for a day. If I recall, that's about how long it's going to take us to get out of Hel."

"She'll sleep only a short time. But that's all right. We'll be beyond the range of her spells when she awakens."

"How can you be sure?"

Gaelinar curved toward the left, still following the song of the river. "I can't. But remember, hero. Modgudr is Dragonrank. She draws her power from her own vitality.

Our fight left her weak and winded. Whenever Silme strained her sorcery, a long time would pass before she felt well enough to create magic again. By then, we will have traveled far enough that Modgudr would need to come to us to do battle. That would require her to leave her post on the bridge. In her absence, how many of Hel's corpses might cross? I doubt she would find us worth the risk. Surely pursuing a man and elf with the strength and amorality to kill her, who don't belong in Hel anyway, cannot justify allowing the dead, whom she's pledged to confine, to escape to Midgard."

Gaelinar and Larson continued in thoughtful silence. As they followed the Gjoll, toward the path from Hel, the darkness grew less overwhelming and gradually faded. Larson's spirits soared as his mentor's golden form and the vast spread of Hel's barren lands became more visible. Idly, Larson plucked Silme's gem from his pocket. It gave off a faint glow which seemed cheerful in the thick gray haze which now replaced Hel's blackness. Comforted by its presence, Larson continued to hold it, allowing memories of Silme to replace the oppressive burden of his task. But before he could form a mental image of the woman he loved, a distressing thought filled his mind. "Gaelinar. If this gem holds part of Silme's life aura," he raised the sapphire, "she must have placed it there before she died."

"Correct."

Larson stared at the glimmering facets of the sapphire. "Why would she do that?"

Gaelinar shrugged, looking bored by Larson's questioning. "It was fairly standard. A difficult situation might tax Silme down to her last spell. She always kept enough energy stored in the gem for a transport escape if things became desperate." A light dawned in Gaelinar's eyes. "You're thinking of Modgudr, aren't you?"

Larson nodded. "Did you notice a staff?"

"Amethyst."

"So, Modgudr could have stored power in her rank-stone?"

"Certainly."

Larson's fingers tightened around Silme's sapphire.

"Which means she may still have some energy when she awakens. She may claim it immediately, while we're still within spell range. And she may have reserved more than just enough for an escape."

Gaelinar turned, his gaze probing the darkness behind them.

Larson could discern a dull, flapping sound over the rush of the river. Birds? He whirled toward Gaelinar as the noise intensified. "What the…?"

"Wyrm!" Gaelinar screamed. Without warning, he dove onto Larson, sprawling him, then rolled free. Hel's hard earth jarred pain through Larson's side. He glanced up as yellow-orange flame gouted before him, hot against his face. Sparks bounced, enmired with smoke. He straggled to his feet, frighteningly aware he would have been burned if Gaelinar had not thrown him. The fumes roiled upward. Larson followed them with his gaze to a lizard-shaped mass, large as a tractor trailer.

"Separate." Gaelinar's voice came from behind Larson. "We can't let it get us both."

Dragon! Holy god, not again. Larson broke into a gallop, still following the river bank. He knew he could never outrun the creature; for all its size, it maneuvered like a hawk. And this time Larson had no cover and no Dragonrank sorceress to aid him.

The pulse of the dragon's wings rose in pitch as it banked for another pass. Larson lowered his head and quickened his pace, following the beast's progress by sound. It swooped, catching him effortlessly. Larson sprang aside. Flame fanned the ground where he had stood. Sparks splattered, sizzling into his tunic. Pinpoints of light rebounded like stars, revealing the grim, gray figure of the dragon. Weapon. I need a goddamned weapon. The instant the thought came to mind, he realized he was still clutching Silme's rankstone. He stopped so suddenly, the dragon swished over his head. I can't throw a stone which contains Silme's last vestiges of life. Can I? His only answer was the slap of batlike wings. But I have to try something. Otherwise, I'm dead, and Silme's rankstone will remain in Hel for eternity.

Before Larson could reposition, the dragon swooped, turned, and dove for him again. Steam twined from its nostrils, blue-white and visible in the darkness. Larson dodged, lost his footing, and forced himself to roll. This time, the dragon anticipated his movement. A tight bar of fire stabbed the ground an inch from Larson's forearm. Hot cinders splashed across his face and clothing. He gasped in pain, pitching across the ground to suffocate the early flames. The dragon circled for another attack.

Larson clambered to his feet. Smoke burned his lungs. His airways felt raw, and his breath rattled through his throat. It's only a matter of time before I miss a dodge or grow too fatigued to avoid its strikes. Cinders which had caught on his clothing fizzled to ash. The smell of burnt linen served as a constant reminder of his near escapes. Larson gripped Silme's rankstone and eased to a crouch, awaiting the dragon's next pass.

To Larson's left, Gaelinar's voice rose above the approaching slap of the dragon's wings. "Hie, beast! Here, you ugly monster. Your father was a toad!" He suffixed the insult with a series of wild howls.

Larson knew the dragon could not understand Gaeli-nar, but a hunter had once told him predators hated loud noises. Larson recalled a story of a bear attacking a camp because a barking dog drove it mad. Apparently, the dragon held a similar hatred for sound. For an instant, it hovered, listening. Then, roaring in anger, it whirled and whisked toward Gaelinar.

Larson chased the steady flap of the dragon's flight, clasping the gemstone so tightly its facets left squared impressions on his palm. Four running steps brought him within sight of Gaelinar's golden outline. He watched the dragon wheel and dip toward the Kensei, flame billowing from its mouth. Gaelinar danced aside. His arm arched toward the beast. Two shurikens, lit red by the plunging fire, rattled from its facial scales. A third embedded in one glaring, yellow eye.

The dragon loosed a bellow of fury and spiraled to the ground less than thirty yards from Larson. There, it pawed at its face with the frenzy of a dog with a painful burr. Through the fading fires of its attack, Larson watched Gaelinar rush the beast. The Kensei held a sword in one hand, his manrikigusari, a chain with end spikes, in the other. Even as he narrowed the gap, the shuriken dislodged. The dragon raised its head. Its eyes swiveled toward Gaelinar, its wings unfurled, and its jaws splayed open.

Larson shouted. He saw no place for Gaelinar to dodge. This close, there was not time for his mentor to avoid the dragon's flaming breath. "Gaelinar!" Larson cocked his arm and threw. The sapphire slapped the beast's cheek; fierce blue light exploded like a flare. With a snort of surprise, the dragon flinched and whirled to face Larson, crimson sparks spewing from its mouth in a scattered array. The sapphire thumped to the ground.

Desperately, Larson searched the broken gray ness with light-slashed vision. The dragon leaped skyward, the chain of Gaelinar's manrikigusari tangled on one of its ankles. The Kensei had wrapped the other end around his own hand, and the beast's abrupt movement jerked him into the air with a wrench which made Larson cringe. What the hell is that idiot doing? Larson blotted sweat from his brow with his sleeve, not daring to believe Gaelinar had tethered himself to a flying dragon. The nightmarish flap of wings sounded dangerously close.

Suddenly, the dragon loosed an almost human scream. A sticky liquid rained down on Larson, reeking with the thick, salt odor of fresh blood. The shadow of the dragon grew as it plummeted toward him. He dove free as the beast crashed to the ground, landing on its belly, crowing in rage. Larson watched, horrified, as it rolled from side to side, smashing Gaelinar beneath it.

A huge, red puddle seeped from beneath the dragon. God! Let it be the beast's blood. Larson raced toward it, wishing he held a weapon, any weapon. He seized Bal-dur's brooch from his pocket and balled it in his fist to add weight to his punch. The dragon's movements had become more agitated. It seemed to take no notice as Larson positioned himself at its side and raised his arms for a blow.

The dragon lurched heavily first right, then left. Its wings whipped suddenly upward. Larson dodged aside as the leathery limbs unfolded, then he ducked through the opening between a wing and the scaled neck. He cracked his fists down on the back of the beast's head.

The dragon roared. Its head bobbed only slightly. Its neck coiled, and it slashed at Larson, snakelike. He skipped aside; the dragon's uncharacteristic slowness was all that saved his hands. The curved fangs scraped Larson's knuckles as he retreated. The bite burned like fire. Larson swore as the dragon screeched again. It rocked across Gaelinar to its right side. Nursing his hand, Larson watched in horror as a gory hand, clutching a blood-soaked short sword, slid from beneath the dragon's softer underbelly. Gaelinar anchored the shoto's hilt against the dirt as the dragon rolled back. Larson sprang for the weapon too late. The creature swayed to the left, impaling itself on the protruding blade. It shuddered once and lay still.

Larson hesitated only an instant. He ran around the gigantic corpse. Gaelinar sat between the dragon's curled forelegs. Blood still poured from an artery positioned in the pit where the monster's shoulder met its chest, accounting for the scarlet gore which covered Gaelinar from head to toe. The Kensei still clutched the chain of the manrikigusari, wound tight around his hand. His katana lay by his side.

"You're alive." Shocked, Larson could think of nothing more intelligent to say. He replaced Baldur's gem in his pocket.

Gaelinar glanced up, appearing his age for the first time in Larson's memory. "And you have a strange habit of stating the obvious. Do all people where you come from do that?" Carefully, he freed his fingers from the chain. Without awaiting an answer, he continued. "Now come down here and help me get my arm back in place."

Larson stared. Apparently, the impact of the dragon's sudden flight had dislocated Gaelinar's shoulder. His left arm hung lower and farther forward than the right. Larson had seen a similar injury to a friend on his high school wrestling team. The coach had replaced the joint while his friend was still on the mat and all the athletes watched in fascination. "Lie down."

Gaelinar tossed his sword from the path of the dripping blood and moved away from the dragon. He settled to his back on the ground.

Larson seized Gaelinar's hand.

The Kensei loosed a grunt of pain. "Use the wrist."

Larson readjusted his grip carefully. "Sorry." Gaelinar's flesh had swollen around the indentations of the manrikigusari's chain. Chips and lumps grated beneath his skin. "Gaelinar," he said, alarmed. "I think you've crushed some bones."

"I just fought a creature which should have killed me, and I escaped with only an injured hand and shoulder. A warrior doesn't earn respect through what he learns but from what he survives."

Larson shook his head in disbelief. Battered, smashed, and hurting, and he still feels obligated to teach me. He planted his boot in Gaelinar's armpit, tightened his fingers on the Kensei's wrist, and gave a long, steady pull. When he released it, the arm snapped back into place.

Gaelinar accepted the pain without a sound. "Thank you, Lord Allerum."

Larson nodded his acknowledgment of Gaelinar's gratitude, glad the Kensei had not called him "hero." Unarmed and fifty years shy of his mentor's training, Larson's contribution to the dragon's demise seemed paltry.

Exercising his arm and fingers, Gaelinar approached the dark hulk of the dragon. "I need to get my other sword. Then I'm going to the river to clean off. When I get back, I suggest we keep moving. If we press on hard, we may reach Midgard before Modgudr regains her strength."

"And sends another dragon," Larson agreed, but even the battle and Gaelinar's wounds did not allow him to forget that he had thrown Silme's rankstone somewhere in the darkness. "I'll wait for you here. I need to find something." He dropped to his knees, straining his eyes as he pawed the dirt around him.

At length, Gaelinar hacked his short sword free from the dragon's scales and wandered toward the river.

Larson turned. A haggard semicircle illuminated a piece of the bare, black ground. In its center lay Silme's gemstone, appearing expended and spiritless. Its glow sputtered like an old fuse, an eerie reminder of Silme's dwindling time. What have I done to her? Larson crawled to it, feeling as feeble as the sapphire appeared. Did I unleash its powers? Did I cost Silme some of her remaining life force? He raked the stone into his fist and placed it gingerly in his pocket as though it might break. But, as Larson clambered to his feet, understanding replaced his initial feelings of guilt. His meager knowledge of Dragonrank sorcery made him certain life energy could only be spent by its owner. I suspect the sapphire flashed because Silme's magic met Modgudr's, nothing more.

Gaelinar reappeared shortly, his golden robes torn and stained. Water trickled from his gray hair, running in rivulets down his wrinkled face. Early bruises splotched the skin visible through the rents and gaps in his clothing. Yet the sheaths, hilts, and brocade of both swords hung, neat and clean, at his waist. "Let's go."

As Larson and Gaelinar pushed onward, the thinning darkness dwindled to gray mist. Exhaustion hunted Larson, and Gaelinar's silence suggested he, too, was due for sleep. They dragged forward, too tired to speak.

It was well into the tenth hour from Modgudr's bridge when Gaelinar and Larson came upon the cliffs which separated Hel's realm from Midgard. Beyond this natural wall, Larson could hear the roar of Hvergelmir's waterfall, a twisted cascade of eleven rivers which poured ceaselessly into a mile deep hole of death before it once again split into the streams which wound through Hel. It was there, at the top of the falls, where Silme and Bramin had lost their lives. There, too, Larson had hurled Loki into the plunging waters, thereby destroying the god, body and soul, for eternity.

Home. Born and raised in New York City, it seemed odd to Larson to consider the crude world of Midgard his residence now. But light streamed through the gorge which served as Hel's doorway, inviting as a campfire on a cold night. Reflexively, Larson quickened his pace. As he came upon the crack in the mountains which served as Hel's boundary, excitement overtook him. With a wild whoop of joy, he sprang for the opening.

A sudden growl and a shadowed blur of movement cut Larson's leap short. Instinctively, he twisted. A heavy form crashed into his hip, bowling him to the ground. Angry teeth pinched through his breeks and tore flesh. Larson rolled away. He pulled free with a tear of cloth. Blood trickled down his shin, and he stared into the sooty muzzle of a huge dog. It yowled and snarled, straining toward Larson but held in place by a staunch chain.

Larson spun back from the beast, then carefully worked his way to his feet. His injured leg felt numb. He looked at Gaelinar. "H-Hel hound?" he managed at length.

Gaelinar glanced from the frothing, black mongrel to Larson. '' No doubt.''

Now comfortably beyond range of the Hel hound, Larson examined his wound. It was little more than a deep scratch. He held pressure against it until the bleeding stopped, glad for the quickness of his own reaction despite fatigue. Recalling a dog fight he had witnessed in an alley in Manhattan, he suspected the Hel hound would attack with the ferocity of a pit bull. Had it caught a good hold, it would never have released him.

Gaelinar studied the Hel hound, its iron-link leash, and the entry way to Midgard. "I would have warned you, but you knew it was there. I didn't expect you to feed yourself to the Hel hound."

"I was too damn tired to think." Larson scowled. If he gives me a lecture about keeping my guard up, there's not a god in this world who could keep me from killing him. He closed Gaelinar's opening quickly. "How are we going to get past it?"

Gaelinar thumbed the hilts of his shoto and katana, his left hand swollen to twice its normal size. "We have no choice."

Gaelinar's slight, but unmistakable, smile convinced Larson the Kensei would have chosen combat, even if he had another option. Larson watched his mentor tense, becoming annoyed at a teacher with two swords who would let his pupil remain unarmed. "Uh, Gaelinar. Forgive me stating the obvious again, but I don't have a weapon."

Gaelinar turned to Larson. "Not even a knife?"

Larson shook his head. When Freyr had transported him from the Vietnam War to Old Scandinavia, the god had equipped him with only clothing and a sword. The tunic, breeks, and cape had long ago worn through and been exchanged for cleaner attire. He had lost the sword when Loki's death broke the spell which imprisoned the god, Vidarr, within its steel. Larson had misplaced the dagger Gaelinar had given him earlier in their travels, but he kept that information to himself. "Not even a child's slingshot."

The Hel hound crouched at the end of its chain, its growls deep and constant.

Gaelinar reached beneath his cloak and retrieved a pair of matched, ivory-hilted knives, still in their sheaths. "Here, then. Every man should carry a blade, even if he's not fighting dogs."

Though still bothered by Gaelinar's insistence on keeping both his swords, Larson took the daggers and attached them to his belt. His army training returned easily. He had been taught to fight off dogs, though he had never had the opportunity to put the knowledge to use before. Catch it up under the throat and knife it in the belly. Larson shook his head, doubting he would want to come so close to the beast while his mentor was flashing swords.

As Larson mentally prepared for battle, another dark shape filled the crevice, blotting out the light from Mid-gard. A beast twice as large as the Hel hound and thick with fur wound through the crevice and stood, still and proud, before the entry way.

Immediately, Larson recognized the wolf from his dream. "Fenrir," he whispered. Suddenly, the Hel hound no longer concerned him.

Fenrir returned Larson's gaze, its red eyes mocking. Water droplets sparkled at the tip of each hair, silvering the wolf's coat. Its stance was confident and detached, without a hint of fear. "Allerum… Kensei." It indicated each with a toss of its narrow muzzle. Its voice darkened, and its ears swept flat against its head. "You're both mine."

Gaelinar's swords whipped free, and the Kensei adopted a defensive pose. Larson hunched, a knife clenched in each fist. Even the warm rush of adrenaline did little to dispel fatigue. Larson's mind felt heavy and muddled. Gaelinar's stance was devoid of his usual bold confidence.

The Hel hound growled, a low rumble of menace. A ridge of spiked, black hair bristled along its back. It thrust its nose beneath Fenrir's abdomen.

Fenrir's triangular ears flicked forward suddenly. The glimmer of triumph died in its eyes. Its gaze never strayed from Gaelinar and Larson, but it addressed Hel's mongrel. "Get away from me, you stupid mutt."

The Hel hound's snarls deepened. It marched forward, stiff-legged, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Fen-ris Wolf. Both animals remained still, frozen like statues.

Gaelinar lowered his swords. His laughter rose over the Hel hound's threats. He assumed his normal posture.

Surprised by his mentor's lapse and finding no humor in the coming battle, Larson hesitated. "Why are you laughing?"

"Can't you see?" Gaelinar broke into another round of mirth. "The hound thinks Fenrir's another dog on his territory. If Fenrir takes a step toward or away, there's going to be a… a dog fight." Gaelinar sheathed his swords. Pausing to laugh once more at Fenrir's expense, he stepped around the wolf and into the fissure.

Quickly, Larson followed.

The rush of Hvergelmir's waterfall echoed through the gorge, drowning out the Hel hound's growls. Droplets bounced from Larson's face, a moist, clean change from Hel's stifling darkness. A frenzied howl slashed the air. Slipping through the crevice into Midgard's twilight, Larson caught a glimpse of the Hel hound hurling its solidly-muscled bulk for Fenrir's throat.

Larson turned to watch. The wolf sidestepped easily, then charged the mongrel in a frenzied blur of attack. Fenrir slashed and tore, never in one position longer than a second. Fascinated, Larson stared as each of the Hel hound's mighty lunges fell short.

Gaelinar prodded Larson's shoulder. "Quickly now.

The farther we get before they finish, the better off we are."

Larson needed no more urging. He whirled and scrambled along the narrow pathway which would take them up the incline from Hvergelmir's pit.

A grating voice rose above the bellowing current of white water. "I'll find you again. No mere dog will keep me from my vengeance!"

Larson shivered, though whether from the cold sting of water droplets or some deeper discomfort, he did not know. Some trick of the rising sun lit Hvergelmir's falls the color of blood.