Godslayer

Chapter 6

Mageslayer

"The haft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagle's own plumes. We often give our enemies the means of our own destruction."

– Aesop, The Eagle and the Arrow

The temple to Odin appeared far more benign in reality than it had in Larson's dream. The ivy which covered its walls was shaped and tended, though cruel northern winds battered the vines flatter on one side than the other. Age claimed its toll in cracks, discolorations, and grime. Yet someone had taken the time to nurture bluebells at its foundation, despite soil so solidly frozen it scarcely supported the scraggly vegetables which were the sustenance of oracle and acolytes.

Larson paced fretfully between Gaelinar and Silme. The shock of Brendor's death had faded, replaced by memories of the demon in his nightmare. Repeatedly, he replayed the scene in his mind. Each time, the shapeless shadowform sprang from the oracle's swirling mass of flame, shredding Silme's body with talons sharp as steel. And always Larson's defense came too late to save his beloved.

Silme knocked on the temple door. The heavy, wooden panel muffled sound nearly to silence. It was opened almost instantly by a young man who ushered Larson and his companions inside. He wore a clean gray cloak. Lines of hardship marred his features, but his lips curled in an amiable smile. He flicked away his hood, and hair the color of goldenrod fell to his shoulders. "Have you come to pay homage?"

Silme tapped the base of her dragonstaff against the earthen floor. "We wish to see the oracle."

The acolyte's expression grew grave. He led his new charges past groups of priests engaged in ritual. Light spilled through numerous windows, muted to gray haze by crudely thickset glass. Other acolytes nodded pleasantly as they passed, and Larson found nothing inherently threatening about the temple to Odin. Still, the memory of his nightmare wracked his spine with shivers, and anxiety closed him in an icy grip.

The acolyte led Larson and his companions past a row of three stone altars. The elf paused by the last, attracted by a stain dark as spilled wine. Closer inspection revealed the faint odor of death. Larson flinched back with a small cry and crashed against Gaelinar.

The Kensei turned swiftly and followed Larson's horrified gaze. He answered the unspoken question in a whisper. "War casualties, Allerum . Calm down. You've seen blood before." He caught the elf by a cloak sleeve and hauled him through a silver-threaded curtain identical to the one in the dream inspired by Bramin.

In the adjoining room, the oracle sat before her marble table. As Larson, Silme, and Gaelinar stepped through the curtain, she raised her red- maned head. One blue eye examined her visitors with withering disdain. Beside it, a scarred socket gave mute testimony to the traumatic loss of her other eye. Leery of the oracle's disfigured and condemning features, Larson stared at the viewing stone before her. In the dream, he had thought the gemstone a diamond. Closer, he recognized it as a nearly transparent, oval-shaped block of quartz. Yet some work of nature or magic gave it the strange, eye-like configuration of green- irised black.

The oracle laced her long fingers on the table. Red hair streaked her knuckles like blood. "Welcome, Lady Silme, Sapphirerank." Her eye met Larson and Gaelinar in turn, but she extended them no greeting. "You have a question for my divination? Come forward."

Larson drew his sword and stepped forward with Silme. He poised a half stride before and to the right of the sorceress. His hand shook against Valvitnir's hilt. His tongue went dry as cotton. Hyperalert, Larson recognized Silme's drooping eyelids and shoulders and knew the enchantments she had channeled against Brendor had heavily tapped her physical energy.

The oracle's face went pale with a strange combination of anger and fear. "I'll not be threatened," she said softly. "There shall be no bare steel in my chamber."

Gaelinar gripped Larson's sword arm. "What's the matter with you?" he asked in a chastening whisper. "You've been acting strangely since we entered the temple."

Larson sheathed Valvitnir reluctantly. His reply was an anxious plea. "Just watch Silme. Please?"

Kensei Gaelinar scowled in offense, but he held his tongue with the subtlety of a master. "I always do," he answered after a moment. To Larson's relief, his instructor paced to Silme's other side.

The oracle waited until the men completed their exchange, then continued as if the disturbance had never occurred. "Your query, Dragonmage?"

Silme's words slurred slightly, as if the mere effort of gathering breath taxed her remaining strength. "Please, lady. My question concerns Allerum's sword, a quest, and the tranquillity of Midgard. Will hurling Valvitnir in the Helspring of Hvergelmir bring rescue or ruin to the gods of law and men?"

The oracle bent her head over the crystal, and her endless sea of hair covered the scrying stone like a curtain. Larson watched in horror as her wrinkled hand passed twice above the gemstone. He tried to loosen muscles coiled to pain by tension.

Silme yawned and rubbed fatigue from her eyes. Larson voiced a staccato grunt and edged closer to the sorceress. The oracle sat as still as death. Minutes dragged like hours. By the time the oracle looked up from her device, Larson had nervously worked his way directly in front of Silme.

The oracle's lips framed a smug smile which disappeared as she addressed Silme. "Have no fear, sorceress. Your quest is sanctioned. But quickly now; time runs short."

Silme looked around Larson with newfound energy, as if suddenly freed of some grave responsibility. "Thank you, lady. Your efforts may have saved our world from Chaos. May Odin continue to grace you with his favor. "

"And Vidarr, you." The oracle returned the compliment in kind.

Irony made Silme wince. She turned, strode across the chamber, and passed through the shimmering curtain with Gaelinar at her heels. Larson retreated with more caution, gaze locked mistrustfully on the oracle whose lips pursed in antagonizing confidence. Wired, and eager to desert the red-haired seer who had become so abruptly lethal in his nightmare, Larson scrambled through the cloth slit. He jostled against Gaelinar in his haste.

The Kensei rolled his eyes with fading indulgence, and followed Silme around the milling acolytes. His glares grew less tolerant when Larson twice trod on his heels in his rush to vacate the temple to Odin. Once they stepped from the grayed interior of the building to the pleasure of afternoon, Larson loosed a shuddering sigh of relief. Even the biting winds seemed preferable to another moment of emotional agitation, especially to an elf impervious to winter's chill.

Larson and his companions mounted their horses. Ten minutes into their journey back toward the river Sylg, Larson shed the last of his apprehension and muttered to himself in triumph, "The half-breed ain't as all powerful as he thought."

Silme caught his arm. "Did you say something?"

Larson shook his head in denial. Then, seeing no reason to hide the truth from Silme any longer, he explained. "Bramin came to me in a dream and promised violence if we contacted the oracle. Idle threats, I'm certain, but just scary enough that I:" He broke off as Silme reined with an abruptness which sent her horse into a startled half rear.

"I thought I sensed his presence." Silme shaped her words with a self-accusatory anger. "But I blamed it on paranoia and weakness. Quickly now.

The oracle may be endangered." She turned her steed and kicked it to a gallop back toward Odin's temple.

Gaelinar whipped his horse about and reined after Silme. More accustomed to cars than horses, Larson clung to saddle and mane as his mount wheeled and followed its fellows at a run. They covered lost ground in minutes. Stopping only to tether the horses, Silme rushed to the dooryard, her companions close behind. Without troubling to knock, she pushed open the temple door. Priests looked up in alarm, but the sorceress paid them no heed. At a trot, she led Gaelinar and Larson through the slit in the silver-threaded curtain.

The oracle's chamber was as Larson remembered it from both dream and reality. Its dim, dank interior supported a marble block on which the eye-like crystal lay balanced on an edge. Gray cloth drapes covered the room's three walls. Conspicuously absent was the oracle of Hargatyr.

Larson waited by the slitted entrance, prepared for violence. Gaelinar stood in the center of the chamber, and his eyes followed Silme's anxious path. The sorceress peered behind the marble, paused a moment in confusion, then trotted to a far corner. She peeled aside a corner of the curtain which hid the back wall. Matched, gold-tasseled cords fell into her hand. When she pulled one, the cloth parted. Beyond, Larson and his companions saw a smaller chamber.

Gaelinar strode around Silme and entered the room first. Larson crossed the scrying chamber in time to step around the curtain with Silme. Behind a writing desk and before a simple cot, a pallid body sprawled, face downward, on the floor.

Red hair spread about the narrow shoulders and waist in a mass of tangles.

"No," said Silme softly.

Gaelinar eased the corpse to its back. The oracle's single eye was closed tight beside the massively scarred empty socket. Her breasts, thighs, and torso were violet with pooled blood. Though more familiar with rapid decomposition in the heat of Vietnam, Larson knew the oracle had been dead for several hours at least. The thought left him with a head-pounding certainty. The woman who had answered Silme's question and sanctioned their quest was not the oracle of Hargatyr.

Gaelinar ushered his grieving companions back into the scrying room and pulled the curtain closed, leaving the oracle what little decency remained in death. Silme pressed her back to the marble table, laid her staff at her feet, and buried her face in her palms. Exhaustion from wasted enchantments and frustration preyed heavily on her remaining strength. She looked as vulnerable as a child.

Larson lowered himself beside Silme and rested his arm across her sagging shoulders. "What now?"

Silme sighed. "All I dare believe of the false oracle's prophecy is the value of time. We still don't know how to free Vidarr. I'm certain only that we mustn't surrender him to the Helspring." She fell silent and still. Just as Larson convinced himself she had fallen asleep, she rallied internal energy and leaped to her feet.

Silme knocked Larson aside and paced with the steady tred of a caged tiger. "If Fates or gods know the method of breaking Loki's spell, the answer lies in the stone of Hargatyr." She indicated the crystal. "Anyone who understands its enchantments can tap its knowledge."

"And you?" asked Larson hopefully.

Silme paused, hands against the marble. She shook her head. "Dragonrank magic taps its caster's life energy. That's what makes it so powerful and desirable, and also dangerous. Devices like the gemstone are of no more use to me than crossbow bolts to a longbowman . I have the basic knowledge, but too many gaps exist to correctly glean information."

"Try, at least." Larson rose.

Silme caught his hands. Her palms left sweaty prints on the edge of the marble table. "I can do better than try. Another in this room may have some of the knowledge I need. Allerum, did Vidarr tell you why he can communicate only with you?"

Larson tried to recall. "He said people from my world lack mind barriers."

Silme dropped his hands, eyes widening incredulously. "None?"

Larson shrugged. "I suppose. I don't even know what it means."

"For now, it means a way to link myself with Vidarr." Silme's gaze dropped to the sword at Larson's hip. "Together, we may fathom the workings of the oracle's stone." Her cheeks colored slightly, but she continued eagerly. " Allerum, can you hold your mind blank?"

"My mind? Blank? No!" He flinched back as the sorceress' request became clear. The thought that Silme might access his memories of murder made him light-headed. "My mind runs and lapses without my control. From moment to moment, I don't know if I'll find myself here or home, whether I'm experiencing reality, memory, or the inspired illusions of trapped gods and vicious warlocks. For me, Silme, blank is not a state of mind."

Larson had quite forgotten Gaelinar stood behind him. The Kensei's husky voice made him jump. "It is now, hero. Would you have us damn the world for your reluctance?"

Silme finished the appeal more gently. "I require only that you keep people and places from your consciousness. Concentrate on naming foods or counting twigs, anything repetitive which requires channeling thought. Will you try it?"

"I've no choice." Larson swallowed around a lump which grew in his throat. "What do I have to do?"

"Sit." Silme waved him to the floor.

Larson sat, knees pressed to his chest. His hands trembled as he watched Silme reach for the crystal of Hargatyr. "Wait!"

Silme paused.

"How do you know Bramin hasn't tampered with the stone or replaced it with something evil?"

Silme seized the eye-like gem with an impatient toss of her head. "This is Odin's temple. The oracle's scrying stone must be warded by Law. A simple touch would maim or even kill Bramin. It would reflect his destructive magics. Any other attempt to remove it from the temple would require him to work it past a room full of priests." Silme lowered herself to the floor before Larson and placed the stone between them. "Lay the sword across your legs."

Larson complied reluctantly. Valvitnir buzzed slightly against him, glowing with blue light. "Silme. Shouldn't we wait until you've had some rest. "

Silme locked her fingers between Larson's. Her voice became a low drone. "No time. Bramin can trace us through the gaps in your mind. We don't want him to know we discovered his treachery."

Silme let her eyes fall shut. Her head lolled forward.

"Silme?"

"What!" Impatience made her curt.

"What if I can't control my thoughts?"

Her voice assumed a hiss of dry warning. "Let's just hope you can."

Her reply did nothing to reassure Larson. Near panic, he chose to conjugate verbs from his high school French lessons. Je suis, tu es, il est: Twin presences pressed against his mind with the banding grip of a headache. Vidarr and Silme scuttled without direction, silent as mice in the jarring loops of Larson's flawed thought pattern. God and sorceress probed blindly for one another, and Larson felt all too aware of their locations.

Nous sommes, vous etes, ils: ils sont: Gradually, Silme and Vidarr closed the distance between their mental presences. Their union broke to a dazzling explosion of light, sparking one of Larson's frayed memories like a dried piece of kindling. Hurled into flashback, Larson stared at a mine crater the size of his bedroom back in the States. Then a barrier snapped into place with a force which broke the illusion. Threat carved into focus. Hold your thoughts! I've no power to rescue you again.

J'ai, tu as, il a, nous avons: Larson plunged into his studies with desperate passion. The combined essence of Vidarr and Silme wove drunkenly through his brain. A flurry of enchantments battered through consciousness unsteady as fever.

VOUS AVEZ Will hurling Valvitnir in the Hel spring of Hvergelmir bring rescue or ruin to the gods of law and men? Silme's question echoed through

Larson's mind, pulling him from his furious attempts at conjugations.

Smoke eddied like car exhaust. The fused presence gasped in triumph, then hissed in fury as the haze peeled away, like scalded wax, without answer. Je vais, tu: Frustration settled in Larson's mind, dimmed to resolution. Silme/Vidarr gathered energy, unwittingly tapping him in the process.

Reference folded in nightmare as magics enwrapped him in drugged awareness. Fog thick as earth warped vision. Another alien presence winked to life in Larson's already overcrowded mind. Destroying the sword heralds Vidarr's death. Beware! Such an action will doom the world to Chaos.

Sanity flickered. Tu vas, il va, nous allons, vous allez, ils allont! Emotion pervaded him in a perfect mixture of outrage and concern. Silme/Vidarr coiled like a cat prepared to spring. Magic formed a tense ball in Larson's mind, crushing aside fragile circuits of memory. Pain blurred thought to blackness. Jefais, tufais, ilfait : Rationality exploded to madness.

A painted forest replaced the emptiness of Larson's eye-closed world. He walked between Silme and Vidarr beneath a mercilessly hot sun. Blue haze ringed the sorceress, and the god shone with a golden glory. Where the hell? thought Larson. Oh: a: nous faisons. The syllables warped to nonsense. Suddenly, a woman tall as a watchtower stepped from the brush, directly in his path.

Larson recoiled. The life auras of god and sorceress fused to glaring green. "Who are you?" demanded Silme boldly.

"I am Skuld, Future." The giantess' voice rattled trees. "In what cause have you summoned me, Silme Sapphirerank?"

"The cause of men and gods." Silme replied nearly as loud. "Should Chaos claim this world, there shall be no Law nor time nor knowledge. You and your sister Fates would perish." Her entreaty rolled like thunder through the silence of the forest. "How must we free Vidarr from imprisonment?"

A breeze rose and fell, rose and fell again. Several seconds passed before Larson recognized the wind as the breath of the giantess Skuld. "Your fears are founded, Lady Silme. Your quest is honorable, though it brings doom upon others, men and women of my domain, those ruled by one of your companions and beloved by the other. It is not my place to judge your task nor prevent it. The answer to your question lies with my sisters." Skuld marched back into the forest, trampling trees like matchsticks.

The giantess' prophecy sounded strange to Larson's numbed mind. How could rescuing men from Chaos doom them for the future? Before he found time to ponder the question, another woman shouldered between the trees. She looked sufficiently like Skuld to be her sister, yet not similar enough to be a twin.

"I am Verdandi," the giantess said, though no one asked her name. "I hold title to the present. Your query has gone beyond my realm to the past. I can tell you only that your quest stands contested by a god and a half-breed with the power to destroy you." Swiftly, she returned to the forest.

Cold sweat ran down Larson's back, and he shook with chills despite the heat. The third sister of Fate glided from the tangled brush. Vertigo transformed her to a blur which sharpened slowly to detail. She was obviously the eldest of the giantesses, smaller, withered, face puckered with burdens transferred from her sisters by time.

"I am Urdr, keeper of the past and the understanding of Odin. It was I who added the final provision to Loki's spell, and I who shall reveal that knowledge to you. To free my lord, Vidarr, the elf must claim Loki's life with the blade Valvitnir."

Shock battered Larson, obscured Urdr in glare. Silme's scream pierced his mind like a spear, jarring loose a wild memory. The sound transformed to the shrill whine of jets. Even as Larson located the blood-red afterburners of the paired phantoms, he recognized his surroundings. He traveled a familiar road in the Mekong Delta. Some distance ahead, a dozen buddies in cammie paused in horror as they discovered the jets' target was the same village which had, moments before, been their destination.

The lead jet passed over the village. A raging column of flame consumed grass huts and villagers without mercy. Panicked screams made Larson cringe. Even as the gasoline fumes pinched his nose, he realized he was neither in flashback nor alone. The dry crackle of gathering magics made him whirl toward Silme and Vidarr. "Oh my god! Silme, no!"

His warning came too late. Sorceries howled past his ear with all the inhuman speed of the phantoms. Bluish magics impacted the trailing jet and broke to a savage explosion of emerald. Shards of twisted steel rained to earth. Larson's sinews went taut with shock. He could only suppose Silme saw the jets as dragons swooping upon an innocent town. Ahead on the road, the camouflaged men dropped, as one, to the ground. Suddenly,

Larson knew he and his otherworld companions had become the enemy.

"Down!" hollered Larson. He dove into the roadside ditch. Gunfire popped and sputtered around him, sounding oddly impotent after the scourge of napalm and the thunderclap of Silme's spell. With no means or desire to return fire on his buddies, Larson flattened to the dirt without recourse. What have I done? Worried over the ignorance of his alien companions, he forced his gaze toward the road. Vidarr and Silme stood behind a shimmering curtain which reflected bullets like a wall.

The oddity of their magical defense was not lost on the Americans. One yelled. "Holy fucking god!" Silme began a new incantation. Dark mists broiled from her fingertips. A graying glow flickered around the enchantress and winked out like a spent candle. As Silme drained her life energy, she fell in a soundless faint.

"Silme!" screamed Larson. The sorceress lay still within her magical shield, but her final spell was cast, Wizardry rolled along the road like a living ball of fire. The men in cammie dodged from the path of the sorceries with startled cries. And, from over the burning village, Larson caught sight of the returning phantom. Faster than its own report, the jet glided toward them in vengeful silence.

"No!" Larson hollered. Smoke from the smoldering village swirled like ghosts into the phantom's twin intakes. Larson lay frozen in terror. A rocket dropped from beneath the jet, plummeted, then shot forward with a speed which outdistanced the plane. Before Larson could scream, the missile crashed to ground with a blast of red-orange. Its explosion seemed to shatter earth. Though the magical shield contained most of its impact, force crashed against Larson's head and knocked him to oblivion.

Larson awakened to utter darkness. Screams of terror ripped from his lungs and reverberated like distant answers. Throat raw, he fell to silence and recognized the slosh of running water. The rasp of a sword scraping from its sheath restored his rationality. Larson struggled to legs stiff with disuse. His hand closed about Valvitnir's hilt. "Gaelinar?" he whispered hopefully.

Gaelinar's gruff reply had never seemed so welcome. "I should have known it was you, hero. How do you feel?"

"Shaky," Larson admitted. "And blind." A scene threaded through his mind, the memory of Silme lying still as death on a road in the Mekong Delta. "Where's Silme?"

The sorceress called over the bubbling of the river Sylg. "Here. The real question, Allerum, is where was Silme."

Larson groped toward Silme's voice. "My world. I'm sorry. I tried to control my memories, I swear I did, but:" Silme caught his arm. It occurred to Larson with frightening abruptness that the surrounding darkness was too complete for night. He finished with an anxious whine. " Dammit, why can't I see?"

Gaelinar replied. "We're in the Valley of Darkness."

"H-how?"

"We carried you," Silme explained. "Bramin can only track us through your mind. With you unconscious, we traveled as quickly as we could."

Larson pulled Silme closer. "Why are we still headed toward Hvergelmir?"

Gaelinar sounded nearer. "Because Loki expects us there. He wants your sword destroyed in the Helspring, and for all he knows we plan to complete that quest. He'll be there to make certain it gets done."

"Please, Allerum " Silme spoke with concern. "Talk with Vidarr. Make certain he's all right after: what happened."

Reluctantly, Larson released Silme and drew Valvitnir. The sword quivered mournfully in his grip. Vidarr's mental presence wound cautiously through the fragile tangles of his mind. / pity your people. The men of your world removed all the glory from war and left only killing.

Larson jammed the sword into its sheath and broke his link with Vidarr. "He's fine," Larson grumbled. But the god's assessment echoed through his mind, awakening a terrifying thought. When we complete this quest and the gods of Asgard no longer need me, what becomes of me? Will Freyr return me to the skill-less death machine of the Vietnam war?

With a strength born of imagined injustice, he jerked the sword free again. Vidarr:?

The god answered defensively before Larson finished the question. / don't know what Freyr plans! My own fate is tenuous enough. Since my imprisonment, I know only what I see through your eyes.

Damn! Larson dashed the sword to the ground. Its blue flare faded darkness in a circle of purple. Larson crushed Silme to his chest in frustration, and her dragonstaff cracked painfully against his shoulder. His lips brushed her face, found her mouth, and pressed into a passionate kiss. Desire burned him like fire, but he loosened his grip and fought bitterness. "Silme, the success of this quest may doom us to separate worlds." Grief caught the words in his throat. "There is a link between our worlds, even if it's only in my mind. We passed through it once. I swear, if Freyr sends me back to Nam, I'll find a way to return to you."

Larson heard the scrape of metal against sand as Silme hefted Valvitnir and returned the sword to its sheath. "Or if necessary, I'll find you," she told him gently. "It's not often I meet a hero like you."

Gaelinar shuffled his feet, and sand showered against Larson's ankles. "Forgive me. If we don't move along soon, we forfeit whatever advantage we gained. Allerum?"

Larson felt a slight breeze of movement. A ration sack thumped into his side. He accepted the pouch and slung it across his shoulder. "Where are the horses?"

"They refused to enter the valley." Gaelinar's voice came from some distance ahead. "Animals can sense evil."

Larson caught Silme's hand and trotted after the Kensei. Two days had passed since his last meal, but Larson felt no hunger. His stomach balled in an aching knot of tension. Soon he would face the greatest challenge of any life. He would become a godslayer or damn his soul and Silme's to an eternity of torture.

A victim of his own doubts, Larson did not notice as darkness diffused to gray. But another in the party was more wary. Gaelinar stopped, silent in the mist, and caught his companions as they passed. "Caution," he warned. "We're approaching the Helspring. I hear the falling waters."

Larson released Silme's hand and wiped slick palms on his cape. Beyond the gurglings of the river Sylg, Larson heard a sound like a roomful of serpents. The air felt suddenly chill. For the first time since his recovery, Larson discerned huddled cliffs which hemmed the Valley of Darkness. The river Sylg spanned nearly four times its earlier width, and ice blocks as large as a man's head bobbed in its current.

Gaelinar drew his katana and tested its edge with his thumbnail. "Ready?"

"Ready?" repeated Larson incredulously. "Ready! Loki's a god. Shouldn't we make a plan of some sort?" His own words struck with mind-jarring force. We're fighting a god. Like Christ or something. What chance do we have?

Gaelinar sheathed the katana, trading it for his companion sword. His hand slid along the blade, but Larson could not perceive the Kensei's expression in the semidarkness. "I cut him. Silme throws spells. And you:" Gaelinar paused thoughtfully, ": bested the guard captain of Forste -Mar before your first sword lesson. So, I guess you hit people, too."

Larson paced to hide his trembling hands. " Loki's not people. He's a: a god."

Gaelinar walked toward the palisades, and his figure was lost to the hovering shadows of the Valley of Darkness. "He can die just like we can."

Silme caught for Larson's arm, but her hand slipped free in the sweat which slicked his limbs like grease. " Loki's both a wizard and a swordsman, which gives him a large repertoire for attack. Plans become worthless against a god as unpredictable as his Chaos, especially when one of the parties privy to the strategy can't hide his knowledge from the enemy."

Larson nodded his understanding. Silme and Gaelinar might have plotted while he recovered from the phantom's rocket, but anything they told him could become accessible to Loki through the flaws in his mind. Doubt rushed down upon Larson, merciless as a volley of gunfire. "I'm not prepared to war with gods. I may never be." A private in one of the bloodiest wars in history, and I've never even killed a man with my own hands. The murders on my conscience were all the impersonal and distant victims of an M-16. Yet the gun he had wielded lay without guilt between the banks of a dried river in a body-littered jungle, while the screams of the dying haunted the memory of Al Larson. Larson stopped pacing and deliberately avoided touching Valvitnir.

" Allerum!" Threat colored Gaelinar's words. " Freyr brought you to complete this quest at a price a mere mortal cannot comprehend. You will fight gods, I promise. Need I remind you there are three gods of Chaos and fifteen of Law? Choose your enemies with care."

Larson fixed on the first numerical fact. " Three gods!" he screamed, nearly hysterical.

Silme clarified quickly. " Loki's daughter, Hel, can't cross the bridge from her citadel. As for Helblindi:"

"He's trapped in a sword, too," Larson interrupted as he recalled Vidarr's vision. " Loki's sword." His hand dropped unconsciously to Valvitnir.

Vidarr's mental presence filled his mind like storm wind. Bramin's sword, he corrected. And you should know something. Freyr brought you here with full knowledge that the choice to face Loki must remain your own. I want freedom, but it's your right to know the gods of Law are not vindictive. Slay Loki or not as your conscience sanctions. A moral decision will not be held against you. Vidarr ended contact with Larson, though not quickly enough to hide the grief which lapped Larson's mind like a tide.

"Ready," said Larson softly. Resolved, he filled his lungs with air and exhaled through clenched teeth. "Let's go."

Silme followed Larson through the lightening mists of the valley. The cliffs ended abruptly. The river washed across a plain of dying grasses, then plummeted through a pit as large as a mine crater. Larson strode from the valley; wind bitter as hoarfrost whipped hair into his eyes. Anyone but a native to the climate would have found it unbearably cold, but as a creature of faery, Larson was impervious. The rapid change from darkness to daylight made him blink, though clouds obscured the sun with gloom.

Larson's eyes adjusted quickly. He recognized ten similar valleys radiating from the central chasm like the spokes of a giant wheel. Curious, he trot-, ted forward; weeds crushed to powder beneath his feet. The rush of waters through the pit grew loud as a lion's roar, and then faded as Larson's ears adjusted to the noise. As he neared the edge of the cliff, he found a narrow path which threaded into the abyss. Poised at its lip, he saw a sight more breathtaking than the falls of Niagara.

Eleven rivers plunged as one through the rounded crater, their waters wound in a shimmering braid. The pittance of light which pierced the clouds drew glittering lines through the torrent crashing into the Helspring. Droplets bounced upward in a frozen mist and pelted Larson's face like hail. Entranced, he took a step forward. A stone broke loose beneath his foot. He went giddy as he imag-ined himself tumbling with it, weaving through the cascade, smashed to lifeless, soulless waste beneath Hvergelmir's current.

A shiver traversed Larson. He shielded his eyes and shied away just as Silme bellowed. "Loki!" Her voice echoed about the many valleys. "We know you're here. If you want Valvitnir in Hver-gelmir, come get him."

Larson whirled and freed his sword, edging nervously from the Helspring. Gaelinar waited near the valley. Silme stood, ready, in the center of the plain. Her challenge went unanswered.

"Loki!" Silme started again.

Bramin glided from the waning fog of Sylg's valley, black as oblivion. The winds of the waterfalls swirled iron gray robes about his torso. His eyes flashed red threat from shadowed sockets. The diamond in his staff glowed bright as a street lamp. "Did you think Loki would waste energy on you?" As he spoke, a sunburst of sorceries blos-, somed in his hand. "You're scarcely worth my time."

Gaelinar moved first. Fast as thought, his fingers freed a shuriken. Even as he tensed his arm to throw, Bramin's enchantments sheeted through the air. A raw blaze of magic enwrapped the Kensei in a glimmering net which held him still as stone.

"No!" screamed Silme. Light pulsed across the plain as wizard and sorceress howled spell words forceful as explosions. Bramin's diamond blazed through a chaotic spectrum of color. His raging red eyes locked suddenly on Larson, and Silme loosed a short scream. Her tone changed abruptly. A beam of ruddy light leaped from Bramin's fingers. Silme's magical parry pinwheeled protectively before Larson.

Bramin cursed, then laughed as his spell shattered to colored highlights. Sunbright sorceries surrounded both Dragonrank mages in a wave which blinded Larson. Light blazed and died; magics fizzled. Silme dropped to her knees as Larson lunged at Bramin. Valvitnir arced over Larson's head and sliced toward the half-breed.

In a single motion, Bramin dropped his staff, drew his sword and blocked. Six inches of air separated the swords when they stopped abruptly. The motion jarred both wielders. The half-breed riposted. Larson jerked his blade upward in instinctive defense. Bramin's sword shied awkwardly from Valvitnir, as if of its own accord.

Larson and Bramin recovered together. In the brief respite, Vidarr's presence imparted a panicked message. Helblindi and I are prisoners of the same spell. A touch will destroy us both!

Conditioned, Larson repeated the first maneuver Gaelinar had taught him. Valvitnir whistled reluctantly around him and lanced toward Bramin. Bramin sprang forward as he blocked. The swords quivered, desperate inches apart. Too close for an adequate sweep, the half-breed retreated.

Drop me, damn you! Vidarr's command pierced Larson's mind with painful force.

Larson responded with a desperate thought. Drop you and die! I can't face Bramin weaponless!

Bramin thrust. Larson waved Valvitnir before his body, and Helblindi sprang aside. Bramin swung low. Larson withdrew his front foot, but the Helblade scraped skin from his calf.

Larson swore, deaf to Vidarr's pleas. Again, he sprang at Bramin and skipped back as the half-breed returned his strike. Apology rolled through his mind in waves. Vidarr gathered mental strength, dragged Larson's consciousness with him in a short conspiracy with Helblindi.

Larson's breath came in wild sobs. He reposi-tioned his sword, just in time to block a sweep for his neck. Vidarr tore free of his grip and tumbled through the air like a wounded bird. To Larson's relief, Helblindi also pitched from its wielder's hand.

Bramin paused a moment in shock, then retreated across the plain. Larson noticed the sharp sting of ice pellets on the back of his neck, and only just realized how close Bramin had maneuvered him to a fatal plunge into the Helspring. Cautiously, he came forward to face the sorcerer in the dying grasses. Over Bramin's wide, black shoulders, he saw Silme watching with wide-eyed helplessness. She mouthed a silent message: I love you. Beyond her, Gaelinar stood motionless as a painting.

Bramin lashed, backhanded, at Larson's face. The elf blocked with his left arm. Before he could return the strike, Bramin closed. The half-breed's foot kicked painfully against the back of Larson's knee, and his elbow crashed against Larson's chin. Larson staggered, recovered. As Bramin realigned, Larson sprang and punched. Bramin blocked effortlessly. His dark fist smashed Larson's nose.

Larson lurched as sparks danced before his eyes. Dizzied with nausea, he tried to think. Bramin's maneuvers came with practiced speed and ma- chinelike efficiency. Larson knew he could never avoid the blows. He could only hope to endure.

Resolved, he jabbed at Bramin's face. Again, the half-breed blocked and returned the strike. This time, Larson took the punch. Pain exploded across his jaw, but he bore in on his enemy. His knee crashed into Bramin's groin. The half-breed gasped. Silme screamed. Larson's elbow thrust toward Bramin's head. The half-elf ducked, using Larson's own momentum to hurl him to the ground. Bramin's foot lashed out, passing over Larson's head as the elf rolled to his feet.

Several yards away, Silme rolled in the grass as if in pain. Bramin's features twisted in a savage smile. His hands rested peacefully at his sides as he raised his face to Larson. "Go ahead, hero." He spat the last word in contempt. "Hit me."

Larson did not need prompting. Bramin made no attempt at defense. Larson's fist smashed into his face, and Silme shrieked in agony. Stunned, Larson did not press his advantage.

Blood trickled from Bramin's nose, but his mouth parted in silent laughter. "Hit me again, elf coward." Malice danced in his feral eyes. "Hurt Silme!"

With a cry of anger, Larson struck. Cartilage snapped beneath his knuckles, jarring Bramin to his knees. Silme howled in torment. Her body writhed in the dirt.

Alarmed, Larson started toward her. "Silme?" As Bramin rose and advanced, Larson turned back to the fight. "What have you done to her?" he demanded. Hysteria raised his voice an octave.

Blood colored Bramin's mouth scarlet. "I did nothing," he replied triumphantly. He flicked blood from his cheek. "But every time you mar this pretty face, you injure hers as well."

Larson retreated defensively, afraid to strike. Bramin swept forward. His left foot drove into Larson's gut with a force which doubled him over. As Bramin completed his spin, his right foot jolted against Larson's head. Larson rolled clumsily, awaiting a death stroke which never fell. Confidence made Bramin patient as a cat. He explained while Larson struggled dizzily to his feet. "To save you from my sorceries, Silme linked her life aura to mine. She holds our magic inoperative, but our souls are fused. Her fate and mine have become one."

Bramin faked a foot strike. As Larson dodged, Bramin delivered a brazenly high kick. His heel slammed against Larson's forehead. Impact snapped Larson's neck rearward. The back side of his skull struck the ground first. Darkness swam down on him. Larson shook his throbbing head, watching Bramin's retreating back through a veil of colored mist.

Fury gave Larson renewed strength. He charged Bramin's back, just as the sorcerer bent for his Helsword. Larson punched. Bramin wheeled. His elbow caught Larson in the gut. The half-breed seized Larson's outstretched arm and hurled the elf over his shoulder.

Accustomed to wrestling, Larson struck the ground, unhurt. Bramin knelt beside him, pinning his right wrist to the ground. Larson rocked toward the half-breed, wrapped his left arm about one dark leg, and rolled. Bramin flipped to the ground. Even as he landed, Larson reversed direction. The force pitched Bramin to his stomach, hands trapped beneath his chest. Larson pressed his full weight against the half-breed. His one hand clutched a swarthy wrist. His forearm thrust Bramin's face in the dirt.

Silme screamed between panting gasps. "Kill him, Allerum! Forget me. Kill him!"

Larson jolted his fist against the back of Bramin's skull, cursing himself for Silme's pained whimper. He released Bramin and seized Helblindi's hilt before the half-breed could do anything more than roll to his back. Larson spun and pressed the blade to Bramin's throat. The sorcerer went still. His face drained of color; his chest heaved. "If you kill me, you kill Silme, too." Bramin warned in a reedy whine.

Larson's hand shook. Sick with worry, he called over his shoulder. " Is it true} "

Silme made no reply.

Larson twisted toward the sorceress. "Damn you, is it true?"

"Yes," she whispered. "It's true, but.

Bramin clawed to his feet and ran. Gaelinar's training resurfaced mechanically. Larson struck. Helblindi's blade carved through Bramin's hamstring. The muscle curled into a ball. Bramin collapsed. Larson finished the strike from habit gained from hours of practice. He thrust the blade through Bramin's chest. The half-breed quivered, then fell limp, and Silme's dying scream reverberated in accusation.

Anguish tore denial from Larson's throat. "No! No!" He ripped Helblindi free and cast it aside in wild sorrow. Blood splashed as the blade tumbled awkwardly to the ground, and Larson fell with it. Grief-mad, he howled like a wounded animal and crawled to Silme's prone form. She lay like a marble carving beside the blade which imprisoned her god. Larson dropped to her side. She was cold as ice and every bit as still. Tears burned his eyes like poison, cleaning tracks through the blood which stained his chin. His gaze fell upon the motionless Kensei, and he howled anguished curses at the swordmaster who had drilled him until the sword figure which killed Silme became reflex.

Larson's sanity crumbled to a muddle of thought.

His fist struck the ground with a force which jarred his arm to the shoulder. His second blow landed against Valvitnir's blade; its sharpened edge slit the side of his hand. Oblivious to physical pain, Larson caught the sword by its hilt. Vidarr filled his mind with warning. Allerum, behind you!