Godslayer

Chapter 3

Kinslayer

"Every man's sword shall be against his brother."

– Ezekiel 38:21

Brendor whined fretfully as he followed Silme, Gaelinar, and Larson along the road to Forste -Mar. "You promised I could stay till you taught me to do my shave spell right."

"You can't come with us." Silme rubbed at her eyes with an annoyance which made it obvious she had answered his challenge more than once, and she was weakening. "Gaelinar's right. Our task is too dangerous for a child." In a sudden flash of inspiration she added, "You can stay with my mother. She raised two children to Dragonrank."

Larson moved to the roadside as a rickety wagon rolled past, drawn by a gaunt workhorse. Steam issued from the beast's wide nostrils, and the creak of wheels drowned out Brendor's reply. The driver raised his whip in salute. " Heyo, Silme! What brings you home?"

Silme returned the greeting, but the cart lurched past before she could answer the farmer's query.

As the wagon jounced toward the forest, its wheels left no mark on the frozen soil. At the border of Forste -Mar's town square, Larson and his companions left the wheat fields behind for sagging paddocks of lean-fleshed goats.

"You promised." Brendor's face reflected a pleading, childish innocence which Larson could never resist. It reminded him of the doe-eyed entreaties of Ti Sun, a Vietnamese boy who had always managed to relieve him of his rare chocolate bar until: Larson's body snapped taut as he tried to force the thought from memory. Imagined gunfire deafened him momentarily, but Silme's soft reply to the child checked Larson's wandering consciousness.

"I only said I'd try. Not everyone can learn magic. You're fortunate to possess even the ability to cast a shave spell wrong. Only a handful of people in the entire realm control as much spell energy as you can now." Silme paused, obviously trying to twist her explanation to her favor. "If you are destined for power the dragonmark will appear. Until then, you'll be happier in town. The wandering life is insecure and often unpleasant. A child-"

Irritated by his mind's erratic lapses into memory, Larson interrupted with a tongue thick and furred as that of a man awakening from a drinking binge. "He knows more about traveling than we do for chrissakes! His uncle was a goddamn snake oil salesman." Suddenly Brendor found an ally.

Until that moment, neither Gaelinar, Silme, nor Brendor had paid Larson much heed. Now they whirled to face him simultaneously. The Kensei cleared his throat. "His uncle was a what?"

"A healer." Larson adopted the native term. "A traveling healer." He put a protective arm about Brendor's shoulders, and the boy's mouth twitched into a contented smile. "I'll bet he's never had a home."

"Just Crullian's wagon," Brendor answered on cue.

Silme tossed her head and continued walking into the town proper. "Come on."

Though the argument remained unsettled, Larson knew it had turned in Brendor's favor. He and the boy exchanged furtive smiles as they followed the sorceress in silence. Brendor's round face and partially concealed grin reminded Larson of his younger brother, Timmy, when they had once conspired to dye theif sister's underwear green. This familiarity in a world of dragons and berserk wizards soothed, and Larson clung to the normalcy Brendor added to their party.

As they walked, Gaelinar gave Larson a few "we will talk later" looks, then drew up beside the elf. "Silme has business in town, and I think it best I accompany her. You can handle buying mounts and rations." No doubt entered Gaelinar's steady voice despite Larson's numerous previous displays of incompetence.

Grateful for the Kensei's confidence, Larson determined at least to purchase supplies without error. He accepted the pouch of coins Silme offered and listened attentively as she described the lay of the town. " Kortr the horse trader lives on the south side of the main track. You can get a decent horse for five silver, four if you bargain well."

Larson examined the sod-chinked log dwellings ahead which were criss -crossed by hard-packed thoroughfares. Five golden-haired girls passed in

Mickey Zucker Relchert a giggling huddle. When they noticed Larson, their laughter ceased abruptly. Quickening their pace, they marked Larson's progress with nervous glances. Puzzled, he watched the retreating figures and considered their strange reactions.

Silme stopped on a large throughway, and her companions surrounded her as she continued. " Hlathum the food seller lives in the cottage beside Kortr. Tell him you want two weeks' traveling rations for three-" She corrected herself. "-four and mention my name. He won't cheat you. As for the innkeeper, Ura always acts like someone pissed in his ale. Don't let him charge you more than a silver for our suite. And:"

"Silme!" Gaelinar interrupted in a tone sharp as his katana. "The elf and the boy are perfectly capable of walking, talking, and breathing without your expert advice. Let's go."

As Silme and Gaelinar started down a side street, the sorceress added over her shoulder, "Get some dinner at the inn. We'll meet you there tonight."

Recalling the fear he'd inspired in the passing girls, Larson failed to acknowledge Silme's farewell. Without his more experienced companions for the first time in days, doubts rushed down upon him. The girls' reaction reminded him that he inhabited an elfs body, and Gaelinar's explanation when they were still in the distant woods seemed acutely important now: Mostly, the sidelong glances and whispered comments which follow any stranger viewed as different will accompany you throughout the world of Midgard. Larson wondered how he would fare in the town where Bramin was raised.

Unaccustomed to the horse-and-cart traffic of Forste -Mar, Larson found road crossings almost

GbDSLAYER unbearable. Invariably, he waited long minutes while slower vehicles dawdled down the byways or earned vicious epithets when he tried to dodge before more swiftly moving carts. Twice, Brendor pulled him away from the steel-shod hooves of galloping mares. After that, Larson let the boy set their pace and wondered idly whether he could readjust to cars and trucks if he ever returned to the States.

Despite the overlong and often hostile gazes the populace accorded Larson, his marketing went smoothly. After he mentioned Silme's name, his session with Hlathum became brief and painless. The foodstuffs lay wrapped in portions in a large sack which Larson slung across his back. As if to conclude business as swiftly as possible, the horse merchant requested only seventeen silver for the four mounts Larson later stabled at the inn. Self-content and hungry, the elf ushered Brendor into the dimly-lit interior of Ura's Inn and selected a table in the farthest corner.

The round-topped table was pine, beer-stained and pushed tight against the chamber wall. Larson caught an outer edge and inched it forward. He maneuvered a chair into the vacant corner and sat. Back pressed to the wall, he surveyed the barroom and its patrons sitting at tables arranged in three neat rows of three. Each table bore a single candle which chased darkness in a broad semicircle, enhancing shadows on the ceiling. Raw-boned, blond-haired humans conversed in couples or groups of four or five. A man proportioned like a middle linebacker stood alone at the bar. A pewter mug rested near his elbow, but the huge stranger seemed more interested in Larson than in his drink. While Larson met the man's stare with forced nonchalance, Brendor took a seat at his left.

A boy scarcely older than the healer's nephew strode around the tables and positioned himself between Larson and Brendor. He shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. "Can I get you something?"

Larson replied without thought. " Bami -bam, boy-san."

Brendor started. The sudden movement drew Larson's attention from the man at the bar. "Excuse me, sir?" asked the serving boy nervously.

"Um:" stammered Larson. Lulled by the familiar surroundings of a tavern, he suddenly realized he had ordered in Vietnamese. "W-what do you suggest?"

The boy knotted his hands on the tabletop, obviously unsettled by his customer. "Special today is lamb breast, fresh bread, and cheese with ale."

"Fine." Larson slanted a friendly glance at Brendor. "Sound good?"

Coins clicked as Brendor closed a hand over the pouch of silver Gaelinar had rescued from the bandits. "I'll have the same."

The boy nodded and trotted behind the bar to relay the order. Larson returned his attention to the tavern's interior. Struck by the smokeless clarity of the candle light, he would have paid all the money remaining in Silme's pouch for a pack of cigarettes or a single joint. A gesture in Larson's direction swung his gaze to the exit where a man in ragged homespun downed his drink in a single gulp, abandoned his two companions, and ducked out the door. The man's two friends avoided Larson's stare.

Though troubled by the surreptitious exchange, Larson persuaded himself his mistrust stemmed from war-inspired paranoia. Why should peasants in a town at peace wish to harm a stranger, even if he is an outsider? The self-questioning revived recent memory. When Larson had first arrived in this unusual world, Bramin had attacked furiously without provocation. Torn between common sense and experience, Larson considered running from the inn. The serving boy approached with a plateful of food. Ultimately, its mouthwatering aroma convinced Larson to stay.

The boy set the wooden dishes before his patrons and scuttled back to the bar. Larson's first few mouthfuls took the edge from his hunger and with it his appreciation for the meal. He reached for a nonexistent salt shaker, caught himself, and leaned back with a sigh. "Everything in this world tastes the same. Isn't there any salt?"

Brendor dropped a lamb rib from fingers slick with grease. "Salt? I can do that!" Before Larson thought to protest, the boy performed a graceless gesture and spoke in a high-pitched whisper. "Salt!"

Nothing obvious happened, although Brendor panted with exertion. Relieved, Larson stroked the crusted scabs on his cheeks, a memento of Brendor's last magical endeavor. Painfully aware of his own inadequacies, Larson flashed the boy an understanding smile. Dwelling on the matter might embarrass Brendor, and so the elf passed it off with casual indulgence. "Tough luck, kid." He took a bite of cheese. A flavor bitter as poison spread through his mouth and pinched his face until he gagged. Between coughs which expelled half-chewed morsels, Larson managed to speak. "I asked for: salt: not soap!" He washed the taste from his mouth with a gulp of ale, left with watering eyes, a sore throat, and a memory that made his nose wrinkle with disgust.

Appetite ruined, Larson avoided Brendor's shamefully lowered face. He pushed his chair from the table and walked to the bar where a fat innkeeper flicked at the warped pine counter with a damp rag. Ura seemed to take no notice of the approaching elf, but the huge man at the bar squared his shoulders and edged closer. The movement put Larson on the defensive, but he forced aside discomfort as he prepared to bargain with the barkeep. "I'd like to rent a suite," he said in a businesslike voice which revealed none of his trepidations. Familiar with streetside markets, Larson prepared to snap back half the quoted price.

Ura raised his head. "Fourteen silver."

"S-what?" Composure lost, Larson stared. Ura's rate was too far beyond expectation to be other than a mistake.

"Fourteen silver," repeated Ura. He regarded Larson with scornful disinterest.

"That's outrageous!"

Ura shrugged. "Fourteen silver," he said with indisputable finality. "Take it or get out of my inn."

Larson opened his mouth to protest, but another man spoke from the tavern doorway. "You heard him. This place smells bad enough without your kind, elf!"

Larson caught at one pointed ear, suddenly feeling like an American in a North Vietnamese prison camp. He turned to his antagonist with feigned unconcern and adopted a false smile. The man at the door stood several inches taller than him, and Larson did not care to discover how much of the bulk beneath his chain shirt was padding. Likely the stranger was a member of Forste -Mar's guard force, summoned by the man who had left the bar earlier and now stood near the guardsman.

Brendor came to Larson's side. Afraid for the child's life, Larson stepped before him protectively. To his relief, a stranger at one of the tables came to their defense. "He's not going to hurt anyone, Anrad. He's a light elf."

Larson bit his lip with understanding. Again Gaelinar's description returned to him, and nervous energy revived the most distressing sentence of his explanation: At times, dark elves are welcomed because of the legends of light elves, and light elves are slain for the ancient crimes of their dark cousins. Bramin had turned the town of Forste -Mar against faery folk, but a Dragonrank mage was too powerful for peasants' vengeance. Over years, unvented hatred had intensified, seeking a victim. Unless Larson acted with heroic discretion, he might pay with his and Brendor's lives for Bramin's evil. He faced the barkeep again. "I just want:"

"Fourteen silver and not one copper less," said Ura with pointed hostility.

Goaded by Ura's patrons, Anrad stepped boldly into the barroom's center. "Let him sleep in the stables for two silver."

Steeling himself, Larson turned. His fingers plucked nervously at his tunic, but his words were carefully selected and innocuously spoken. "It only cost a copper for the horses."

Anrad folded his arms across his broad chest. "But you'll want to bed every beast in the stable." His gaze dropped to Brendor, and his lips twisted in a sneer. "Oh, but I see you've brought your own entertainment."

Brendor pushed in front of Larson. Red-faced with the perfect rage only a child can experience, he struggled to speak without screaming. "Your mother's safe, there are no asses in the stable!"

Anrad's face flushed. He raised a hand threateningly. "You little bastard."

Anger flared in Larson. Suddenly beyond thought of the consequences, he cocked his fist and leaped for the guardsman. A callused palm caught Larson's wrist. He was wrenched forcefully about to face the huge man at the bar whose bear-sized hand locked on his arm. "You two want to kill each other, do it outside!"

"Fine!" Anrad marched out the door, chuckling, and the crowd of patrons funneled into the street.

No stranger to bar fights, Larson tore free of the bouncer's grip and strode toward the door. Memory of his reflection in the pond bred doubts. This elf-form robbed him of the bulk won from years of wrestling and weight training. He could only hope he had retained some of his strength, and he would have to remember to throw full effort into every punch. Intent on strategy, Larson strode blindly from the inn and nearly impaled himself on Anrad's naked sword.

Larson recoiled with a yell. His fist closed on Valvitnir's hilt, and the blade sprang from its sheath so quickly he was unsure whether he or the sword initiated the movement. Anrad swept for Larson's chest. Larson ducked behind Valvitnir. Sword crashed against sword, and Anrad's blade shattered to faintly glowing shards.

Anrad retreated, eyes wild. More familiar with fist fighting, Larson handed his sword to Brendor. "I can take him without a weapon." Hands for-ward, he closed, prepared to pummel the guardsman before he could recover from surprise. Anrad dropped his useless hilt and dodged under Larson's swing. His return punch crashed against the elf's jaw, hurling him backward. Larson tried to block, but the guard's other fist thudded into his gut, stealing breath.

Larson staggered. The cries of the crowd blended to undecipherable noise. Anrad's pale fist rushed toward his face. Larson blocked with his left arm, then cut downward and caught the guardsman's wrist. He seized Anrad's elbow in his right hand and whipped his opponent around in a wrestling drag. Larson's arm closed about Anrad's neck. The guard struggled momentarily then dropped to the ground, breathless.

Pain-maddened, Larson kicked Anrad's mailed side. Impact with the heavy chain links shot agony along Larson's foot. Anrad winced with a gasp. Larson smashed his heel into Anrad's face. Bones cracked, and blood poured from the guardsman's nose. Anrad lay with closed eyes, emitting small panting sobs.

Only then did Larson consider the battle won. In the same situation, James Bond or Errol Flynn would have delivered some witty line and strode off into the sunset. But Larson felt too disgusted for endearing dramatization. His jaw ached with every heartbeat, and he could taste blood. Without a word, he wheeled away.

Dust billowed around the scene of the fight. Larson waited until it settled and searched for Brendor. The boy was gone. Larson's wits scattered as panic replaced ire. He cast about frantically. " Brendor . Where's my sword? Brendor?"

Larson received no reply from anywhere in the crowd. He spun awkwardly, like a drunken dancer, without sighting the boy. Brendor and Valvitnir had disappeared completely. Larson seized an old man by the collar and jacked him against the tavern wall. "Which way did he go?"

The man pointed a shaking finger toward a narrow throughway between buildings. Dropping his informant, Larson charged through the gaping onlookers. He hurtled down the alleyway, well aware there could be only one enemy. Bramin's use of a child seemed a ruse so obvious he wondered how he had come to overlook it. Booby-trapping children was a favorite trick of the Viet Cong; he should have expected no less from Bramin. Brendor was certainly Bramin's accomplice, placed in a piteous position where Larson and his companions would happen upon him. Once Brendor gained Larson's trust, he waited for an opening to steal the sword. And Larson had fallen for the plan like an idiot, his only comfort the fact that Silme and Gaelinar had been duped as easily as himself.

The roadway forked suddenly. Larson chose his direction at random. Wind blew a discarded rag under his feet, and Larson skirted it instinctively. The pathway narrowed between cottages and ended at a staunch wooden gate. Beyond lay a plowed field. Across acres of sprouting grain stood a cottage. As Larson watched, a small figure darted toward it.

Larson sprang for the gate. A poorly-timed memory slammed his consciousness with a force akin to Anrad's blows. He flinched back as the scene in his head exploded in red light. "They've wired the gate!" screamed Gavin. Even as Larson surrend-ered to flashback, he pitched himself over the barrier.

The illusion mushroomed to a cloud of fire, and impact with the ground jarred Larson back to the wheat field. Sweat stung his eyes. Field dirt clung to his limbs. He ripped his tunic as he struggled to his feet and sprinted toward the cottage. The child grew more visible as he approached, dark-haired, dressed in tan and blue, and pressed to the mud-chinked stone wall. It was unmistakably Brendor. The boy turned as Larson closed, and his face went pale.

"You conniving little bastard," Larson panted as he seized Brendor's forearm. "I ought to break your goddamned neck."

Brendor's face screwed into a harried mass of wrinkles. "Stop, shhh:" He pulled against Larson's grip.

Larson tightened his fist as Brendor fought against him. "Don't ' shhh ' me, you little brat. I'll:"

Brendor took a sharp intake of breath. His gaze suddenly focused beyond Larson. Menaced from behind, the elf loosed the child. Brendor fell against the wall with a pained whimper. Larson whirled to face two men with drawn swords. A third stood between them, unarmed but no less formidable. A heavy cloth bandage enclosed his right hand. "If you were trying to be subtle," said one, "you failed miserably."

The second man stepped forward. "If you've come for your sword, I may decide to give it to you." Spit sprayed from his mouth as he pronounced each word with gloating force. "Jammed through your ugly, elven heart."

"What do we do with them?" asked the unarmed man.

"Take them inside," replied the first. "I think Bramin would be grateful if we accidentally killed them." He gestured. " Gilbyr, you lead. Then the boy, followed by the elf." His eyes met Larson's. "Do anything we don't like and you earn two swords between your ribs. "

The name Gilbyr blazed in Larson's awareness from the previous night when Bramin's bandits tried to break through Silme's wards. He stared at Gilbyr's bandaged hand, recalling the power of the sorceress' white-hot magics. / can't face Bramin without Silme. Rising fear blurred memory into purpose. Still uncertain of Brendor's role in the swordnapping, Larson glanced at the boy.

The fear and betrayal stamped across Brendor's features hurt Larson worse than the bandits' gibes and death threats. "They grabbed the sword from me and ran. I tried:"

"Silence!" Gilbyr raised his injured hand to strike Brendor and immediately realized his mistake. The thief bit back a scream. Fresh blood colored his bandage. "Another thing you'll pay for. Come along."

Hesitantly, Brendor went to Gilbyr, rubbing elbows skinned from Larson's unceremonious push against the cottage. Bereft of alternatives, Larson followed. He wished he had a means to judge the sword skill of the man behind him.

In a line, captors and victims passed around the cottage. Gilbyr paused before the front door and tripped the latch. Larson fretted, the thought of dying indoors no more palatable than that of dying outside. Now or never. The oaken door swung open. As Gilbyr started through the portal, Larson pretended to stumble. The swordsmen lurched with him. Larson shoved Brendor into Gilbyr with all the strength he could muster. Man and boy tumbled into the cottage, a twisting wheel of arms and legs. A blade licked Larson's back as he sprang through the opening and pulled the door shut behind him.

Swords thumped against the wood, mingled with muffled curses. While Gilbyr and Brendor untangled themselves, Larson shot the bolt home, aware the swordsmen could not quickly break through solid oak. Fists clenched, Larson turned to engage Gilbyr. As Brendor freed himself, he stomped on Gilbyr's wounded hand. Howling curses, Gilbyr backed toward an open doorway several feet away. Brendor ran to Larson's side.

Larson advanced. Behind him, the door rattled beneath the swordsmen's blows. A plan took form, and he repressed an amused smile which might ruin its effect. He let his fists go lax and trained his eyes on Gilbyr. "Stop, fool!" Larson borrowed the voice of a summoned god from a cheap horror flick.

Gilbyr hesitated.

Larson loosed a rumbling laugh and wished he sounded less nervous and more evil. "You chose the wrong victims for your childish prank." He snapped a hand in Brendor's direction. "This is no boy, but a master Dragonrank in child form."

Brendor looked as startled as the thief. The door shuddered and groaned warningly.

Larson sacrificed a dramatic pause for brevity. "You've already sampled his power. Look at your hand. He could slay you with a single word, but your transgressions have gone beyond merciful death. Now he shall twist your very soul." He raised his arms for effect and took a threatening forward step. "Your person will transform to a wolf-being which feasts upon blood and howls at the full moon. Men will hunt you downV

Wood splintered as a sword tip cracked the door and retreated. Larson kicked Brendor's shin. "Shave, kid," he whispered.

"Shave!" hollered Brendor.

Hair sprang from Gilbyr's face. The thief loosed a blood-curdling shriek and bolted through the crumbling door. The oak panel broke open. Gilbyr spitted himself on his companions' swords, and his screams transformed from panicked to agonized.

Brendor grabbed Larson's arm. "Come on!"

Larson needed no urging. Elf and boy sprang through the rearward portal and found themselves in a small storage room. Behind, Gilbyr's sharp screams rose over the exchanges of the thieves. Brendor clawed at a square of fur which covered the window, but a faintly-glowing sack in the storeroom corner arrested Larson's escape. "The sword!" He crossed the room in two leaping strides and ripped the cloth bag, spilling woolen garments to the bare stone floor.

Dropping to a crouch, Larson buried his hands in the cloth and was rewarded by a touch of metal. His wild gesture flung tunics through the storeroom and uncovered Valvitnir's jeweled hilt. With a relieved sigh, Larson caught the grip as Gilbyr's shrieks subsided to anguished moans in the other room.

Valvitnir quivered in greeting. Its presence inspired a strange joy, lulling Larson's mind to an inner peace instantly shattered by a string of curses from the adjoining room. No sign remained of Brendor but a rumpled pile of furs beneath the window. Larson flung the sword. It flew, straight as an archer's arrow, through the window into the gathering grayness of evening. He scuttled after it.

The rough-hewn stone of the window scraped Larson's skin despite his clothing. He caught the outer ledge, swung his legs between his hands, and hit the ground prepared to run. A short distance ahead, Brendor's slight form darted toward the town square. Closer, Valvitnir flared blue as a beacon.

Instinctively, Larson dropped to the ground, held himself flat and silent in the gloom. Then, remembering that the thieves in this world carried no guns or grenades, he caught the sword hilt and sprinted after the retreating child. Though encumbered by the weapon's weight, Larson overtook Brendor halfway across the plowed field, and matched the child's pace. Like hunted deer, elf and boy bounded across the tract. By the time they reached the gate, Larson's legs ached from the effort, and he had twisted his ankles countless times.

Only when they reached the alley did they dare to look behind. The cottage stood shrouded in haze, but it seemed no thieves dared pursue the elven swordsman and his "master Dragonrank." Larson tried not to imagine who would have suffered Gilbyr's wrath had the thief realized the magic-using adept could be better called inept.

As he regained his breath, Larson looked at Brendor, and the boy returned his stare. "You spoiled my ambush," Brendor accused.

"It's only fair," Larson snapped back. "You ruined my dinner."

Brendor smothered a giggle. "Ruined Gilbyr's face, too."

Struck by the absurdity of the comment after their harrowing series of experiences, Larson laughed so hard he needed to catch the gate to keep his balance. Brendor lapsed into convulsive titterings. Their chortles melded to a gleeful duet as tension broke in a rush of camaraderie. Elf and boy regained composure simultaneously. Then Brendor hiccuped, and they burst into wild laughter again.

Less than a yard deeper in the alley, someone spoke. "Where have you two been?"

Startled, Larson inhaled a mouthful of saliva. No longer laughing, he wheeled to face a thin man in black-trimmed gold robes. The adrenalin rush inspired by Gaelinar's swift, silent appearance strained Larson's cry of welcome.

Gaelinar took no notice. "I thought you'd meet us in the tavern."

"We went exploring." Larson lied, not wishing to explain to the swordmaster how he had disarmed himself in battle and was forced to retrieve his sword from bandits.

Gaelinar fondled the brocade at his sword hilt. "Looking for trouble would better describe it if I'm to believe Ura. He told me you challenged the guard captain."

"Well:" started Larson, with no idea how he would finish the sentence.

Gaelinar did not need explanations. He scrutinized Larson in the waning light. "Did you at least win?"

"Of course," Larson said with a false confidence. Impossible as it seemed, his reply was true.

"Good." The Kensei turned in a swirl of gold robes and started down the alley. "Then you should do well with your first sword lesson tonight."

Brendor and Larson trotted behind Gaelinar. "Tonight?" repeated Larson incredulously, feeling very tired.

"Tonight," Gaelinar confirmed with a toss of his gray locks. "But just until dark. I would have started sooner had I known you made a habit of antagonizing guards."

Larson wanted to protest but could think of nothing convincing to say. The alleyway broadened and met the road before Ura's Inn, conspicuously devoid of the afternoon crowd. Forste -Mar had literally closed for the evening.

Gaelinar continued. "Silme settled your tab at the tavern. I've never traveled on Alfheim, Allerum, but here we pay for our meals before we leave the table." He nodded toward the hulking shape of the inn. " Brendor, get some sleep. Silme rented a suite for an infinitely reasonable price, and Ura gave her the sack of rations you left in the barroom. She can get very convincing." The slight smile which played across Gaelinar's lips as he thumbed his sword guard caused Larson to wonder about the Kensei's role in Ura's persuasion.

Brendor headed for the inn, and Gaelinar called after him. "And don't bother Silme until morning!" Swiftly, the Kensei turned and strode along the hard-packed road. "How much do you know about swordplay?"

Larson jogged to keep up with his companion. "Nothing. Believe it or not, men in my world haven't used swords for centuries."

Gaelinar made a disgruntled noise. "I commend the peacefulness of your people. But just because you've put an end to warfare doesn't mean you should forget weapons skills."

" Wha -huh?" Larson's incoherent reply was star-tied from him. Throughout the last few days, nightmare visions of Vietnam had haunted his waking moments as well as his dreams. Though he would have preferred to erase the war from memory, its actuality was too vivid to deny, even to a friend from a happier world. "I'm afraid my people abandoned swords for more lethal weapons. So long as a world contains men and issues, war will result."

"True enough." Gaelinar ducked beneath an age-blackened rope which enclosed a square of freshly-raked sand. "But disagreement needn't end in death. Many worthy opponents have become allies. And there is a glory to dying in a battle you and an able enemy chose to fight. Men here believe death in valorous combat earns a place in Odin's Valhalla for oneself or a noble foe. There souls battle through the day; those slain rise again each evening in preparation for the final war against Loki and his minions. The infirm and cowardly join Loki's Hel hordes, forced to side against mankind for the cause of utter Chaos."

Larson supposed the roped off area was a practice ground for guards. He followed Gaelinar, convinced the most important phrase in the Kensei's rhetoric was "chose to fight." Vietnam seemed nothing better than a lame excuse to satisfy the cruel fantasies of men and goad eighteen-year-old children to murder and misguided vengeance.

"Philosophy will not save you from my lesson." Gaelinar's katana sprang silently from its sheath. Its tip pointed toward Valvitnir's scabbard. "You will now begin the way."

Larson waited for an explanation which never came. He watched in silence as Gaelinar walked to the center of the field. Faster than Larson could follow, the Kensei drew his shoto and executed a strike with its handle. The katana followed with an upward cut. Gaelinar recovered, both swords close to his body.

Awed, Larson rested his hand on Valvitnir's pommel as he watched Gaelinar's swords flow around the Kensei, scattering reflections of the rising moon. Then a subtle change in timing gave his strokes the cruel snap of flames leaping through kindling. Abruptly, the Kensei stopped. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve and beckoned Larson forward. Expectantly, Larson approached his teacher.

"You must learn much in a short time," said Gaelinar. "I will teach you a lot, but you will teach yourself more. Draw your sword."

Larson found Valvitnir's hilt and unsheathed the sword. The leather molded to his hand, but the grip shifted like a living thing against his palm until his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger rested only lightly on it while his remaining two fingers held the sword firmly. With a surprised gasp, Larson let the weapon drop from his hand. The blade struck the sand with a thump and lay still.

At Gaelinar's curious look, Larson reclaimed the sword sheepishly, certain fatigue accounted for his strange perception. The hilt settled in his grip. With the patience of wind whittling a mountain range, Valvitnir again adjusted to the proper position in Larson's hand.

"Good." The Kensei nodded his approval. "I see you've had some training. You do hold the sword properly. Now you'll learn your first form. Watch." Gaelinar sheathed his companion sword and gripped his katana in his right hand. Larson watched intently as his teacher positioned himself, left foot ahead and sword low. Gaelinar stepped forward and arched his sword over his head, then drove downward and slightly past his leg.

Larson chuckled inwardly as Gaelinar repeated the maneuver half a dozen times to either side of his body. This will be easy, he told himself. Strange laughter accompanied his assessment. Larson spun and saw no one. He and the Kensei were alone, and his teacher was not amused. Confused, Larson dismissed the incident as hallucination, attributing his odd perceptions to fatigue.

Gaelinar returned, grim-faced, and sheathed his katana. "If you know this form within three weeks, I will be pleased."

Shocked, Larson stared. "Three weeks? I can walk and chew gum at the same time."

"Gum?" repeated Gaelinar. He shrugged the strange word off as unimportant.

Evening breezes cut through Larson's ragged tunic, and he shivered. Gaelinar freed his katana and rested its tip on the sand. "Hero, you are a fledgling. At first, an eagle flaps its wings awkwardly and achieves nothing. Eventually, it understands. You are an eaglet without the luxury of time. You must soar and hunt before learning to fly. You will know this kata as nothing you have known before. Guide your sword with your spirit as well as your arm. When you find the way, it will become a part of you. Begin."

Larson shifted from foot to foot, seeking a comfortable stance. He lowered the sword, mimicking Gaelinar, and made a cut toward and past his right leg. Valvitnir jerked back, as if of its own volition. Larson froze. Slowly, he turned an accusatory glance toward Gaelinar who stood patiently waiting for Larson to finish. Puzzled, the elf repeated the attempt, and again the sword pulled to the same position. He gripped the hilt tighter and tried again. Though he struggled against it, the sword still adjusted.

" Allerum!" the Kensei instructed. "You needn't crush your sword. It is not your enemy. Relax. You must control your strokes. Don't swing past and return your blade. Stop the cut nearer your leg. Now, continue."

Valvitnir gleamed red-blue in the last dying rays of the sun. Larson recommenced. Apparently, whatever the sword did was correct. There are too many odd things in this world to question. Is a sentient sword less likely than dragons or magic? Its abilities and motives could be determined later. Now, he must practice.

Whatever had controlled the sword released it. Larson executed the same strokes repeatedly, and all Gaelinar ever said was, "Again." The heat inspired by movement felt pleasant against the chill breeze, but it was night and time to join Silme and Brendor at the inn.

The practice went on until Larson's exertion no longer kept him warm from frigid winds. Silme and Brendor have probably already gone to sleep, Larson told himself. And I'm stuck freezing my ass off with some maniac who thinks I'm still in boot camp." Larson's patience wore thin as his tunic as the lesson dragged interminably onward.

"Enough!" shouted Larson. "You said we would go till night, not morning! It's time for a hot meal and a warm bed. This practice is finished!" He jammed Valvitnir into its sheath and stormed toward the inn.

"Wait," said the Kensei quietly. "There are two minor mistakes I can correct if you perform the kata one more time. Then we will find you a warm bed."

Hesitantly, slightly embarrassed at his own outburst, Larson returned and unsheathed Valvitnir. Gaelinar stood an arm's length in front of Larson. "Go through the kata. I will retreat before you." When Larson's weight shifted to his leading foot, a sharp kick from Gaelinar sprawled him on the cold sand.

Larson clutched his knee, rolling from side to side. "What the hell! You god damned sonofabitch! I won't be able to walk for a week. Why:"

"If you listen, I will tell you why." The Kensei's face was a mask, but his eyes smiled broadly. And that annoyed Larson more than anything. "You have just learned two important lessons. First, do not put so much weight on your front foot. It's harder to defend, and if knocked away, you fall." He paused thoughtfully. "Also, never gainsay your teacher."

Gaelinar smiled and offered Larson his hand. With his assistance, Larson stood. "For the remainder of the evening, you are a friend, not a student. Let's see about your bed, hero."

Darkness had settled about swordmaster and pupil as they worked. The moon hung, little larger than her court of stars. Gaelinar crossed the sand and shouldered beneath the rope. "We'll talk on the way to the inn."

Larson limped after, only partially listening. For neither the first nor last time, he realized there was something unusual about his sword, Valvitnir. Like some sort of primitive life form, it seems able to comprehend its environment and communicate with me in a rudimentary way. I just hope it knows how to fight.

Gaelinar continued as Larson joined him on the roadway and they walked toward Ura's tavern. "I want to warn you about Silme."

Suddenly Gaelinar had Larson's full attention. Ideas swirled through Larson's brain, few plausible but all possible in this eldritch world which was not quite Old Scandinavia. Jaw set, he awaited the Kensei's words.

Gaelinar continued as the shapes along the roadside grew more familiar. "Silme and I:"

Larson squeezed his lids shut.

":visited her family today. I'm afraid Bramin reached them first."

Larson's eyes jerked open. They stood before Ura's Inn; the bar sign creaked as it swung in the breeze like a body from a hangman's noose. "What do you mean?" he asked, not daring to contemplate further.

"Killed, Allerum." Wind spread the tassels on Gaelinar's swords to a pair of golden flowers. "Faces twisted in pain. The bodies were dismembered and accorded none of the honor the dead deserved. Bramin left enough traces of sorcery for Silme to know without question." He added more softly. "As if we might mistake his evil for another's."

Larson shivered, chilled both by wind and the Kensei's words. He fought images of almond-skinned children screaming for fathers, fathers crying for daughters, women's last blood gushing rhythmically onto dirt floors. In Vietnam, the villains were not black-hearted half-breeds cursed with a demon inheritance, but true-blooded American boys who, hours later, would shed tears for an orphaned puppy or a fallen comrade. "Silme," Larson forced the question around his thoughts. "How is she?"

"Silme?" Gaelinar seemed puzzled by the query. "You mustn't forget, hero. She's not like most women. The Dragonrank training hardened her like the stone in her staff. And she's dedicated her life to neutralizing Bramin's atrocities. Come on." He caught Larson's hand and half dragged him toward the inn.

Trapped between two equally unsatisfying thoughts, Larson walled off his mind to a small square of consciousness. Like a man entranced, he let Gaelinar lead him to the inn, through a door behind the bar counter, up a narrow set of stairs to the door of their suite. The Kensei produced a brass key from the folds of his robe and inserted it in the lock. The door swung open to reveal a clean-walled room lit by a guttering lantern on a table surrounded by four matching chairs. Beside the lantern lay a bowl and pitcher. Cloth rags were spread neatly across the back of one of the chairs.

When the two men stepped into the room, details became more apparent between the spinning shadows cast by the lantern. The farthest wall was broken by four portals. Two were covered by drawn curtains. The others opened to smaller rooms furnished with beds of straw and cloth. Each held a night table with an unlit candle and a crude iron striker.

Gaelinar closed the door, crossed the room, and flicked his fingers through the water in the bowl. "Tomorrow, when we leave Forste -Mar, your real lessons begin."

Larson unlatched his sword belt and slung it across a chair. "Where are we going?" Frustrated by the elusiveness of the quest thrust upon him, Larson spoke his words as a challenge.

Gaelinar submerged both hands in the bowl and splashed water on his forearms. "Silme and I thought we should purchase a few more supplies in the morning." He examined Larson's torn and soiled garments with a disapproving frown. "Then," he continued in an apologetic tone which instantly turned Larson against the suggestion, "we thought we'd take you to the dream-reader."

"The what?" asked Larson suspiciously. His fingers massaged the pommel of Valvitnir where it rested on the chair before him.

Gaelinar scrubbed his face. "The dream-reader of Forste -Mar. She's an old witch with a few minor magics and a talent for mind search and thought interpretation. Silme thinks the lady might find some answers in that dream you had in the woods, something to explain your quest and send us in the right direction." He reached for a rag.

Though excited by the prospect of knowledge, uncertainty weakened Larson's grip on his sword. "What's the catch?"

Gaelinar tossed his towel aside and raised his eyebrows uncomprehendingly.

" What's this dream-reading process do to me? How does it work?"

"Do to you?" Gaelinar caught the sides of the bowl. "It doesn't do anything to you. And you might just as well bid me cast the protective circle. If you want to learn combat come to me." He patted his sword hilts. "For explanations of magic ask Silme."

Finding the answer unsatisfying, Larson scowled. Gaelinar lifted the bowl of water and carried it to a dented tin bucket on one of the chairs. As water splashed from basin to bucket, disturbing a thin film of oil which had settled on the surface, the Kensei softened. "Silme wouldn't suggest anything to hurt you. I think you know that."

Larson said nothing. So many times in Vietnam he placed his life in the hands of men whose morals he questioned. Now, he balked before the trust of the woman of his dreams and the man who gave his new being direction. "Yes," he admitted. "I know that."

"Good." Smiling, Gaelinar refilled the basin from the pitcher and left it on the tabletop. "Wash up and get some sleep. See you in the morning." He turned and strode through one of the portals, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

Gingerly, Larson removed his tunic, worn thin as a favored tee shirt though he'd owned it only three days. He moistened a rag and scrubbed his unfamiliar body, paying particular attention to his armpits, which were hairless, and his genitals which he had already determined looked normal by human standards.

Minor comparisons and benign memories of showers and flush toilets busied Larson's mind while he prepared for bed. But after he Finished his scrub bath, gathered his tunic and sword belt, and settled into bed, thoughts descended upon him. He pictured a kindly old woman and a man stooped and tanned from years in the field. Between them, he imagined a snub-nosed boy, like his baby brother Timmy, and a girl beautiful as Silme, but with a wide-eyed innocence only youth can grant.

Larson fought the idea like madness, but he imagined the four again, crushed like roses after a broken romance. Blood colored the cold, stone floor. Limbs bent like fragile stems. Memory awak- ened, triggered others in a spreading circuit. Bodies sprawled in limp piles, pinned to walls in death, shattered to red chaos. Faces lay locked in permanent accusation, lacking ears, prizes claimed for the gruesome pride of death collectors. And we were all death collectors.

Larson kept his eyes open, letting the scenes wash across the rain-warped ceiling, waiting for them to play out and leave him the tranquillity of sleep. But peace remained elusive. Remembrance of Bramin's sorceries surfaced in a searing rush, and past horrors washed to a waste of grayness. Agonies Larson dared not wish upon Satan condensed to a dully throbbing reminder that Silme's family had experienced it all and worse. Surely death was the kindest of Bramin's atrocities.

Larson forced his mind to cheerier topics. He remembered his father and their yearly New Hampshire trips to hunt deer and grouse. But even then, his thoughts betrayed him. Larson recalled the phone call which pulled him from college midterms. His father had been killed, the victim of a drunk driver. He left nothing. To relieve their mother's financial burden, his older sister married, and Al Larson quit school to join the army. / wonder if Mother knows I am dead.

A noise startled Larson from his nightmare of memory. Relieved, he lay alternately sweating and chilled while his trained senses identified sound and location. He heard it again, coming from his left over toward Silme and Brendor. It was the gentle creak of floorboards beneath weight shifting with deliberate stealth.

Larson hit the floor in a crouch. His groping hands found his sword belt in the darkness, and he worked Valvitnir from its sheath without a sound. The blade trembled questioningly as he pressed it to his naked chest, hoping to shield the steel from residual light which might reveal him. Taking care that the inseams of his doeskin pants did not rub together, he pressed to the wall and worked his way toward the portal of his bedroom.

Again, Larson heard movement. Carefully, he flicked back an edge of his curtain and examined the main room. The lantern had burned out, and the suite lay in blackness. A light in the corner bedroom discolored its drawn curtain in a central circle, marred by wrinkles in the fabric. Beyond, Larson heard a sandal scrape wood and a pained human sob.

Larson stalked the sound, acutely aware of each of his own motions. Well aware any person skilled enough to harm Silme could easily kill him, Larson still continued, relying on surprise to even the odds. Positioned to spring, he snaked the sword forward and tipped an edge of the curtain up. The linen folded aside to reveal a slight figure pacing before a candle on a bed table. It was Silme.

Larson dropped his sword and stepped into the bedroom. Silme whirled abruptly. Her hair, hung in a cascade of golden tangles, and her eyes looked red and swollen. A tear slid halfway down her cheek before she caught it with a finger and flipped it away. Though stripped of pretenses and pride, she seemed every bit as beautiful to Larson.

He caught her to his chest, and she, at first, resisted. Then grief broke in a flurry of tears. She wept for her family, for all the innocent victims of Bramin's hatred, and for the men of Midgard fated to die in Loki's Chaos. Her tears glided down Larson's chest. He pressed his arms around her, muttering senseless comforts. Her warmth raised him to a dizzying height of passion, and it took no small amount of will to suppress the urge to force his desires upon her.

Shamed by the lust incited by Silme's grief, Larson said nothing. Between sobs which shook the sorceress' body, he vowed vengeance on the red-eyed half-man responsible for her pain. For his own peace, he swore he would earn Silme's love and respect and one day bed the sorceress who was sapphire Dragonrank from Forste -Mar.