Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 6: Master of Illusion

"Morality is a private and costly luxury." -Henry Brooks Adams

The Education of Henry Adams

Al Larson sat in a tavern whose sign he had not read, in a town he had not bothered to identify, sipping a bitter liquid which tasted vaguely like beer. A dozen other patrons chatted and laughed over food and drinks, but in Larson's mind he was alone. Four days' travel through nameless woods had brought him and Gaelinar to a nameless bar in a nameless city, their only communication the Kensei's barked commands during brutal sword practices. But the grief which haunted Larson was not nameless.

Silme. Larson took another long pull at his mug. They say every beer kills a hundred brain cells. If I could only hit the right ones. He downed the remaining beer and gestured at the waitress for a fourth. There's not enough liquor in Scandinavia to make me forget I killed Silme again; I destroyed her in the name of her own cause. The good must die to make the world safe for the simple. God bless America. He amended. Gods bless Norway.

A skinny, young woman in a tattered dress refilled Larson's mug from a dented, bronze tankard. She rushed away to fill another order.

"Allerum?" Gaelinar's voice stirred lazily through Larson's thoughts. "Allerum, there's a blacksmith just a few cottages from here. Remember Fenrir." You'll need a sword."

Protectively, Larson looped a hand around his drink. "Maybe later."

Gaelinar's voice grated with the ire which seemed to taint all of his words and actions since the incident at the Dragonrank school. "The tavern will not run out of beer in your absence."

Larson downed half the contents of his mug without pausing for breath. "Get it yourself." Immediately, guilt gnawed at his conscience. "Please," he added, attempting to soften the demand to a request. When that proved unsuccessful, he explained. "I'm sorry, Gaelinar. I didn't mean that. I just need some time alone. I wouldn't know what to look for in a sword, anyway."

Gaelinar made no reply, but the hand he clamped on Larson's forearm felt sympathetic. He turned in a swirl of goklen robes and walked from the bar.

Larson stared into the amber depths of his beer, not bothering to watch his companion leave.

When Gaelinar returned, Larson was nursing his eleventh drink. He watched his mentor through a pleasant mental haze as the Kensei shuffled between tables and sprawled into the chair across from Larson. "I got your weapon." He slid a sheathed long sword across the ta-bletop. "It may interest you to know the blacksmith's girth was large, his breath reeked of wine, and his workmanship was only fair."

Larson smiled crookedly but made no move to examine Gaelinar's purchase. "You're saying it was beaten on a rock by a fat drunkard." Larson's words emerged unexpectedly slurred. I'm smaller now. And who knows how well elves metabolize alcohol.

Gaelinar frowned his displeasure at Larson's condition. "This sword will have to do until we can get somewhere civilized where men respect their weapons and artisans take pride in their craft."

Larson traced the rim of his mug with a finger. Japan perhaps? Why not. Where else do we have to go now? He took another gulp of beer, not at all certain he could stand to return to a world of Oriental faces or even bear Gaelinar's sullen company much longer.

Gaelinar placed a heavy palm over the hand Larson kept wrapped around his drink. Though the gesture was obviously intended as a plea for moderation, the Kensei spoke with quiet understanding. "Allerum, we need to talk. I…"He broke off with a strangled gasp. His eyes focused on something beyond Larson.

Giddy with alcohol, Larson did not ponder Gaelinar's strange behavior. He twisted in his chair, seeking the target of his mentor's attention. A lone man occupied the table behind Larson. He appeared small; the hand which gripped his wine glass was no bigger than a child's. Despite this, the patron was so well-proportioned, Larson could not guess his height and breadth through beer blurred vision. Jet-black hair fringed finely-sculpted features. A single curl seemed determined to slip into eyes the color of Silme's rankstone. The stranger chewed thoughtfully and returned Larson's stare with friendly interest.

Larson turned back to Gaelinar. "Who's that?"

The Kensei locked his gaze on the stranger, as silent and still as the cahn before a storm. "It's him. The climber at the school."

Larson did not ponder a situation which, if sober, he would have found a nearly impossible coincidence. He swiveled his head back toward the stranger just in time to see the little man rise, brush crumbs from his linen britches, and swagger toward them. Concern whittled at the edges of Larson's alcohol-inspired peace of mind.

The climber marched directly to Larson's and Gaelinar''s table. Selecting a chair between them, he spun it until the backrest faced Gaelinar. The black-haired man straddled the seat. He leaned across the wooden rail and regarded Gaelinar with sharp accusation. "I believe you owe me an explanation."

Gaelinar's jaw clenched. "I believe not."

The climber rested his fingers on the chair back, his voice unexpectedly calm. "I harmed no one at the school, least of all you. But you tried to kill me for no reason. I deserve an explanation."

Larson watched an angry line of crimson spread from Gaelinar's head to his neck. Certain that violence would follow, Larson fought the mind-dimming curtain of the beer. He felt flushed.

"Go away or I'll slay you where you sit! Leave and you'll gain the time it takes me to hunt you down like the animal you are." Gaelinar's answer carried a hostility which went beyond logic. No doubt, he would happily, even eagerly, vent the frustrations of the last few days on this stranger.

"Kensei Gaelinar." The climber's words carried the reprimanding tone of a sergeant, and his German accent reminded Larson of a cheap World War II movie. "We're in a crowded tavern. Barbaric as the tiny Northern towns may seem to foreigners like us, they still follow rules. We all know if you kill me in a public place, you'll have the law to deal with. Your friend there stopped you from doing something stupid once. I think he's smart enough to do so again. Besides…"He smiled arrogantly. "You have both knees beneath the table. To draw a sword, you would have to shift your chair. By that time, I'd be halfway to Cullinsberg."

The next thing Larson knew, Gaelinar had a death grip on the stranger's hand with his thumb on the smallest knuckle. The Kensei drew the other man partway up from his chair.

Surprise flashed in the climber's blue eyes, replaced by a mixture of pain, fear, and an emotion Larson could not identify.

Gaelinar lowered his head until his face nearly touched the stranger's. "I could break your arm with a movement so subtle, no one in the tavern would hold me responsible. We'll meet again, I promise. And I will kill you. But you'll see me coming. Unlike you, I have honor. I wouldn't cut a man in the back." He shoved the smaller man away with an angry violence.

The chair toppled to the floor, but the climber caught his balance with a simple grace. He sidestepped beyond Gaelinar's reach. "I've never stabbed anyone in the back, and I don't plan to start now. My name's Taziar, but I'm called Shadow. We need to talk, desperately. When you decide to start acting civilized, we'll finish this." Taziar whirled. He acknowledged Larson with a stiff nod, then returned to his table.

To Larson, the tavern seemed to be spinning. The incident had occurred so quickly and quietly, only the nearest handful of patrons watched Gaelinar curiously. With an odd detachment, Larson realized Taziar stood no more than an inch above five feet, but he found himself unable to process the information.

Gaelinar leaped up and stormed toward the barkeep. "We're leaving. Now!" he called to Larson over his shoulder.

Larson straggled awkwardly after the Kensei. He watched without comprehension while his mentor rummaged through his pockets for his pouch of coins to pay Larson's beer tab.

On the opposite side of the counter, the barkeep waited with his hand outstretched. As Gaelinar's search became frantic, annoyance chased patience from the barkeep's features. He tapped his fingers on the polished wood, regarding the Kensei with unconcealed suspicion.

When Larson strode up, Gaelinar nudged him with an elbow. "Do you have money?"

Larson seized the countertop unsteadily. "No. Why would I…"

"I'll take care of it." Taziar's sudden appearance beside Gaelinar made even the Kensei stiffen with surprise.

Taziar scattered coins to the countertop.

The barkeep gathered them with a glare at Gaelinar. Briskly, he trotted off to tend his other customers.

Taziar tossed a battered, leather pouch tied with a cord of red and blue to the counter in front of Gaelinar. Immediately, Larson identified the offering as Gaelinar's missing purse. As the Kensei stared in disbelief, Taziar tossed a shuriken to the bar, followed by a second, third and fourth. Each struck the bar with a tinny ring.

Unconsciously, Gaelinar's fingers massaged his empty arm sheath.

Larson watched in slack-mouthed awe as the last shuriken hit the countertop. My god! The little thief must have stolen them while Gaelinar was twisting his arm. Light-headedness transformed the tavern to a blur. But

who the hell could rob Gaelinar blind that fast and without his knowledge?

The same realization must have stunned Gaelinar. For Taziar found the time to sprint for the door before the Kensei's vengeful howl chased him from the tavern.

Al Larson trotted through the twilit streets of the town, seeking respite from the thoughts and emotions which plagued him. He had left Gaelinar, still blustering, at a camp at the perimeter. The pleasurable fuzziness from the beer had faded, leaving Larson battling a residual, frustratingly lingering mental fog. Church. I need a church. Larson had never seriously practiced a religion. But he found himself longing for the warmth of a New York City spring raked by cool, Easter breezes. He missed the surreptitious pinches and finger flicks exchanged with his sister, Pam, and his little brother's whispered prattle about the jelly beans and other goodies that awaited them at home. He had spent his last Easter in a foxhole with seven men who reeked of sweat and fear, pinned beneath the crossfire of the enemy and his own troops. Now, hammered by guilt and uncertainty, he sought familiarity in a world of strangeness. I need to talk with Vidarr. Perhaps he can help me find Baldur's father.

Larson fumbled through his pocket for the stone Baldur had so insistently given him in Hel. Nearly forgotten for other concerns, the gem lay nestled deep in the folds of Larson's tunic. He pulled it free and studied it in the waning light. Gold ink striped the indigo surface. Larson identified the painted scene as a man astride a muscular horse. But the craftsman seemed to have erred; he had doubled each of the beast's legs and the rider had a single eye. A one-eyed Viking on an eight-legged horse. Memory groped through Larson's beer-muddled senses. He recalled his readings of Norse mythology. Odin. The leader of the pantheon. A god whose idea of fun was to stir up war among mortals and watch them die, whose desired sacrifices were enemies hung or butchered in his name. Odin the AllFather. All father? Larson frowned. Guess that explains his relationship to Baldur. He flipped the stone back into his pocket and considered turning back. Odin's cruel enough to have incited wars like the one in Vietnam. Do I really want to have dealings with him? Larson hesitated, suddenly faced with the truths inspired by his contemplation. But it wasn't Odin who started Vietnam, was it? It was my own ever-merciful, turn-the-other-cheek, Christian God. Larson shook aside his current train of thought. I need to speak with Vidarr.

A man hurried past Larson, huddled in a coat worn thin with use.

Larson called after the stranger. "Excuse me, sir."

The man turned. He studied Larson's pointed ears and the wind-whipped, white-blond hair which danced around his angular features. The peasant hunched deeper into his coat.

"Please." Larson approached, and the man took a wary step back. "Where can I find a church?"

The stranger shook his head and risked a glance over his shoulder.

Larson pursed his lips. Nobody seemed to notice my strangeness at the tavern. I guess an odd-looking, beer-drinking traveler seems less of a threat than a "demon" on a dark, deserted street. "A temple," he clarified. "A place to worship gods."

"The shrine." The man pointed down a side street. "A few steps and to your right. You'll see a cleared area and a big stone." He pivoted and trotted off down the roadway without waiting for Larson's thanks.

With a shrug of resignation, Larson hummed "What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor" as he followed the peasant's directions. Soon he came upon a rock the size of a coffin off to the side of the road… Ear-lye in the morning… Leaning against the lump of granite, he tangled with a new problem. Now, how do I contact Vidarr? Idly, he ran his hand along the rough surface of stone. His touch met something sticky, and he jerked away reflexively. The substance colored his fingers red-brown.

Blood. Larson sprang away from the stone and wiped his hand on the surrounding weeds. Human offerings to Odin? A more logical explanation sifted through the beer haze. Animals. Damn this paranoia, even my God used to take goats and sheep in sacrifice. He approached the stone again. But this time, he thought it wiser not to slouch against the shrine. "Vidarr?" he called tentatively.

No answer.

"Vidarr."

Still nothing.

Larson considered. What was it Baldur said? Anyone can communicate with gods. They need only pray in the proper temple… make the appropriate sacrifice. Larson brushed hair from his face. "Oh, no. I'm not going to steal and kill some farmer's pig just to talk to a dead god's father." He slid both hands into his pockets and rubbed the smoothed facets of Silme's sapphire and the rounded curves of Baldur's gem. He pictured the collection plate in the church in New York. Maybe they'll take money. He pulled free the painted stone and pitched it to the shrine. It clicked against the granite, bounced once, and skidded to a stop. "Yo, Vidarr!"

Larson felt a pressure in his mind. Attributing it to the beer, he shook his head to clear it. But the sensation sharpened and grew more persistent. Larson froze. "Vidarr?"

The presence in Larson's mind became stronger, then waned again.

"Vidarr?" Larson tried again.

Once more, the pressure heightened and dulled.

"Vidarr! Cut the crap. We need to talk."

Sullenness trickled through Larson's thoughts. It felt as if his entire mind was pouting.

Familiar with Vidarr's designation as the silent god and the deity's use of emotion and imagery as a form of communication, Larson sighed. "Look. I'm half-drunk, frustrated, and tired. I saved your life once. You owe me the courtesy of speaking in words."

There was a long pause. Resignation flowed through Larson's thoughts. Very well, Allerum. A reasonable request. But first, tell me where you got that gem.

"From a dead god in Hel. Baldur said to remember him to his father.''

Remorse washed across Larson, as heavy as his grief for Silme. Use your mind, Allerum.

Annoyed by what seemed like an undeserved reprimand, Larson countered. "What did I say that was so stupid?''

No, the god amended. I meant you don't have to speak aloud. Just think what you want to say. Remember?

Right. Sorry. It seemed like an eternity since Larson had carried on a conversation in this manner. Now it felt as uncomfortable as the first time Vidarr had contacted him.

Vidarr radiated pensiveness. Allerum, wait here. I'm going to leave you for a moment. I have to discuss this with someone. I'll be right back. Before Larson could protest, Vidarr was gone.

I don't believe this. Larson fumed. A thousand years before the invention of the telephone, and Vidarr just put me on "hold!" He paced an anxious circle around the stone.

Allerum!

Vidarr's sudden reappearance in Larson's mind caused him to jump in fright. Don't do that.

Now it was Vidarr's turn to apologize. Sorry. I've got a task you need to do for me.

Vidarr's casual assumption that Larson would perform the deed roused the American's ire. In annoyance, he spoke aloud. "I need to do a task for you? First, the least you could do is ask me. I've been out of the army too long to take commands. Second, the last favor I did for you resulted in Silme's death, not to mention pitting me against a god and a dark elf sorcerer/swordsman who tortured me, like a cat does a mouse, before I killed him." He paused for breath. "And third, I called you. Where I come from, that means I get to tell you my demands first."

Very well. Vidarr seemed appropriately repentant. What do you desire?

Silme.

Impatience weaved through Larson's mind. I already told you at the falls. I have no power to raise her.

I know. But I do. His claim to have more influence than a god offered a smug satisfaction which Larson tried to keep back from his readable thoughts. Hel told us a way to bring Silme back. So far, we've failed. But I'm not quite ready to give up yet.

Vidarr's reply came in a rush of incredulity. Show me, Allerum. Concentrate on what has happened since I saw you. That'll highlight those instances so I can move to the appropriate portion of your thoughts.

Larson hesitated. In the past, he had found these mind intrusions extremely discomforting. The manipulation of his thoughts seemed dangerous and obscene. All right. But only for Silme. And don't you go wandering off anywhere else. Cautiously, he plucked the incidents in Hel from his memory. The eager crash of Vidarr through his consciousness made Larson cringe. He felt like a scaled fish, naked, deboned, his very being flayed open for the world to see. When he calculated that the god had spent enough time examining his conversation with Hel, he switched to the near slaying of Bengta at the Dragonrank School.

Vidarr scanned quietly for some time before he withdrew. It is good you didn't let Gaelinar kill the sorceress.

Good for my conscience. Not so good for Silme.

Not really, Allerum. Taking Bengta's life would not have restored Silme's.

No? Larson felt as if a great burden had lifted from his chest. But she was a sapphire-rank and a woman who served law. How much more like Silme could a person get? Does Hel expect us to find Silme an identical twin?

Hel expects you to fail. Vidarr cloaked his emotions with practiced thoroughness. She was deliberately vague, hoping you'd make the precise mistake you did make. You see, Allerum, our Fates control the balance of our world. You could have slain Bengta only if there was a gap. That is, only if it was time for a law-abiding creature of her strength to die…

Well, of course, but… Larson hesitated, wishing he had never drunk the first beer. This makes no sense, Vidarr. How else can I ' 'open a place'' for Silme? Larson clenched his hands until his knuckles blanched. Don't tell me. It's a "catch-22. "

Vidarr hesitated, enwrapped in an aura of confusion. Explain.

Hel had no intention of letting Silme go free. In order to kill Bengta, we needed to "open a place" in Hel by raising Silme. But to raise Silme, we need to "open a place'' on Midgard by killing Bengta. It can't be done.

On the contrary, Allerum. It can be done and in such a way neither you nor Silme would morally object to the method.

Excitement swept through Larson. He found himself unable to speak or even compose a coherent thought.

Vidarr waited patiently.

How? Larson managed at last.

I'm sorry, Allerum. I can't tell you.

What do you mean you can't tell me! With effort, he restrained his anger until Vidarr had a chance to elaborate.

I can't tell you until you complete my task.

Your task. Larson felt feverish. Your task! To hell with your task. You know how to save Silme. Tell me. Now!

Vidarr was mercilessly repetitive. I can't tell you until you complete my task.

Larson blustered in wordless rage. If Vidarr had stood before him, he would have attacked without thinking. As it was, his fist pounded the shrine stone with enough force to cause physical pain. Larson contented himself with a visual image of his own hands throttling Vidarr. He made no effort to shield the picture from his surface thoughts.

Very nice, Allerum. Bland indulgence colored Vidarr's reply. But I think it's a sacrilege. An impiety at the very least.

Larson dropped the concept. I don't care if you are a god. You're a bastard. Silme served you faithfully. She gave her life for your cause.

She gave her life for all mankind. Vidarr's tolerance waned. My father has several illegitimate children, not the least among them Thor. I, however, am not one. And neither was my brother, Baldur. His reprimand softened. I want Silme back as much as you do. Listen, Allerum…

Larson broke in. No, you listen. If you wanted her back

as much as me, no task in the world would come before her. For god's sake, Vidarr. Larson winced, wishing he could rephrase his argument. I rescued you from Loki's spell. You owe me.

Vidarr's anger echoed Larson's. And I repaid you.

How? Larson challenged.

Didn't you even notice? Allerum, I took away your madness.

Larson screamed in frustration. "Well, put it back!" The absurdity of his own suggestion jarred him to realization. Wait a minute. You're lying. I had a flashback at the Dragonrank school.

I fixed what was there. I cut the odd connections and loops of thought. But I didn't change who and what you are, Allerum. Apparently, you have a tendency to develop this particular madness in certain situations.

And you keep putting me into those situations.

Don't blame me. You went to Hel on your own.

Stalemate. Larson worked the conversation to a different tack. What's so important about this task that you're willing to put it before rescuing Silme?

Vidarr's emotions slid through a spectrum from relief to discomfort. I can't tell you.

This is bullshit! You're not going to tell me why I'm risking my life, and Silme's? Forget it, Vidarr. I'm not doing it.

Wait. Vidarr went utterly still in Larson's mind. Just as Larson thought the god had abandoned him, Vidarr continued. This isn't easy for me. You know I'm not used to phrasing points. I usually communicate only with emotions.

Larson folded his arms across his chest unsympa-thetically. Go on.

I'm sending you to retrieve the rod of the first Dragon-rank mage, Geirmagnus. He hesitated in what felt to Larson like uncertainty. But when Larson showed no recognition, Vidarr's confidence returned. Your success would bring Baldur back from Hel.

Outrage scrambled Larson's thoughts.

Patiently, Vidarr waited while Larson formed a reply.

So, you want me to raise Baldur from death while Silme rots in Hell I'd rather die.

No. No. Vidarr waded through Larson's thoughts in agitation. I never said that. Baldur is my brother. I love him dearly. And yes, I want him back. But not in exchange for Silme, in addition to her. She won't become irretrievable in the few days it takes to obtain Geirmag-nus' rod.

Repeatedly, Larson clenched and opened his fists, wishing he had something to hit. Silme first. Baldur second. And hold still. You're making me dizzy.

Vidarr ceased pacing. I'm sorry, Allerum. Baldur must come first. I cannot compromise.

Why not?

Because the method you would need to use to raise Silme would mgke the quest for Geirmagnus' rod far more difficult, if not impossible. Vidarr winced. Allerum, stop pushing me. Don't make me lie to you. I could tell you retrieving the rod would bring Silme back. Then you'd run off and get it. Nothing could stand in your way. But I wouldn't do that to you.

Larson said nothing as he let Vidarr's revelations sink in.

Vidarr continued. Do you know who my father is, Allerum?

I can guess.

He is called by many names, including Smiter, Destroyer, and The Terrible One. He is Odin. And he made me swear I would do nothing else before raising Baldur, the most beloved of the gods, from Hel. For your sake and my own, Odin should never be crossed. Besides, I was telling the truth when I said the method of raising Silme would make the quest far more difficult.

Larson struggled to salvage his argument. Silme could help us get the rod. You know she'd do anything for you.

Larson's attempt to stir Vidarr's guilt and loyalty failed. Silme's abilities would not outweigh the dangers of raising her. Allerum, it would be best for us both if you saw the retrieval of Geirmagnus' rod as a means to restore Silme. Dedicate yourself to Baldur as you would to Silme. In truth, their fates are wholly entwined.

It's not fair! Larson blustered. Why don't you make someone else go after this sorcerer's rod? If you love your brother so damned much, why don't you get it yourself?

Deep sadness assaulted Larson's consciousness. I would do anything for Baldur. I would die for him, if necessary. But you are the only one I know who could successfully complete the task.

Me? Larson shook his head. How can that be? I'm a stranger here; an elf not by choice; and, at best, a mediocre swordsman.

Vidarr went uncharacteristically sullen. I don't have to explain everything to you. You'll have to take some things on faith. Good-bye, Allerum. Vidarr's presence faded.

Wait! Larson thought desperately. At least tell me where to find this rod.

Vidarr pressed back into position. Gaelinar will know. Enlist his aid if you still can. He added dryly, You'll need it. And you may want to bring the little foreigner with you too.

That Shadow fellow? He can help us? Larson's natural curiosity died before a gathering wave of anger. Hey, wait a minute, Vidarr. How did you know about Shadow?

Your thoughts…

My thoughts! Larson hissed in revulsion. "You immortal bastard! Is nothing sacred? I asked you to stay the hell out of my memories. It's bad enough you manipulate my mind at will. How dare you…" Larson raged on long after Vidarr had quietly withdrawn from his consciousness.