Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 11: Master Plan

"I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits."

– John Webster Duchess of Malfi

Al Larson, Kensei Gaelinar, and Taziar Medakan shared a breakfast of rolls and stew left over from dinner the previous evening. Larson's gaze traced the beamed ceiling of the tavern. Lack of sleep made his mind feel hazy and distant; even simple thoughts taxed him. While Taziar described the conflict with Bramin at the town border, Larson ate in methodical silence, glad his small friend omitted details which would reveal Larson's initial angry incompetence.

The food tasted like ash in Larson's mouth, and fatigue gave it the consistency of rubber. He shook his head to clear it, but his perceptions still felt thick and sluggish. "I fought another battle last night."

Gaelinar dipped a piece of roll into his stew. "We know."

Taziar added, "You kicked and twitched and cried out enough to keep everyone from sleep. I tried, but I couldn't wake you. What happened?"

Larson shook his head again with the same unsatisfactory results. He harbored no wish to spend hours explaining Vietnam to his otherworld companions; instead, he replied simply. "I trapped Vidarr and Bramin in my mind. I asked each about Silme. Bramin pleaded ignorance. Vidarr claimed Silme's destiny is tied in with this Law and Chaos balancing act. He says we have to get Geirmagnus' rod to free her. And…" Larson trailed off in frustration.

'' And?'' Gaelinar prompted.

Larson struggled for clarity of thought, and the effort made him irritable. "And I don't fully believe either of them. Hel must have kept her end of the bargain. Bramin's free. She had to compensate his release with someone else. Who but Silme would be recently dead and have anywhere near Bramin's power? So, right now, Hel is the only one I trust." He appended hastily, "And the two of you, of course." He paused as memory stumbled through the mists of his sleeplessness. Just last night, Taziar said something about trusting only him and Gaelinar. He glanced at Taziar who hid a smile behind a mouthful of stew. "How did you know…?"

"Lucky guess." The irony in Taziar's voice was unmistakable.

Larson suspected Taziar had learned some revealing piece of information on his journey to the Bifrost Bridge. But before he could question further, Gaelinar interrupted. "So we're back to the same task. And our bargaining with Hel only gained us another powerful enemy."

Larson fidgeted in his chair, the food forgotten. "Uh, not exactly."

His companions waited for an explanation.

Choosing his words with care, Larson detailed the promises exchanged with Bramin in Vietnam.

In response, Gaelinar chewed thoughtfully. "Very honorable, hero. But I suggest you pay as much heed to Bramin's words as to his intentions. I doubt he would directly break a vow, but he might find ways around it."

Larson nodded. That had already occurred to him, and he had tried to phrase his requests to Bramin appropriately. "What do we do now? Do we go after the rod? Or do we try to find some oracle or sorcerer to locate Silme?"

Gaelinar and Taziar exchanged knowing glances. "May I?" the Cullinsbergen asked.

Gaelinar lowered his head in assent.

Taziar pushed aside his empty bowl. "Do you have cause to trust Bramin?"

Larson picked at his roll. "Well, no, but…"

Taziar continued. "Has Vidarr ever lied to you before?"

"I don't think so, but…"

Taziar broke in again. "Will you agree most people find being called a liar offensive?''

Unable to get a word in, Larson stuffed the remainder of his bread into his mouth and nodded acceptance.

"You already have a deal with Bramin; you can offend him with impunity. But insulting a god might have… um… certain consequences."

Larson recalled the words of a war buddy in Vietnam: Sure I believe in God. If He doesn't exist, it don't make no difference, and if He does, I'm covered. Taziar's statement held the same inarguable logic. Whether or not Vidarr is lying now, I want him on my side when I go after Silme. She's out of Hel; we don't have to worry about time anymore. Once we've retrieved Geirmagnus' rod, Vidarr will owe us a favor. Even if he doesn't feel obligated to help us save Silme, Baldur certainly will.

"Besides…" Gaelinar said.

Larson was startled. It took him a moment to realize Gaelinar was addressing the question about consulting an oracle rather than Larson's thoughts.

"… you told Bramin you would fight him after you attempted to retrieve Geirmagnus' rod. It would dishonor you to make such a vow, then go wandering off to do other things."

Larson swallowed, gazing from Gaelinar to Taziar and back. "Neither of you has a stake in this rod thing. Why are you both suddenly eager to complete the quest?"

Again, Larson's companions exchanged glances. Taziar replied. "The Kensei and I had a talk while you thrashed last night. Baldur has other relatives. Most are not as patient or nice as Vidarr. If we delay too long, we may earn the wrath of gods. I enjoy a good challenge, but being crushed by Odin doesn't sound like fun to me." He changed the subject abruptly, as if he had received some nonverbal signal, perhaps a kick or poke from Gae-linar beneath the table. "We decided one other thing, too."

Taziar paused for so long, Larson felt obligated to ask. "And that is?"

Taziar stared at his hands. "I'm not going with you."

Larson looked sharply at Gaelinar who shrugged his innocence.

Taziar noted the exchange. "Allerum, it was my decision. You already agreed to convince Silme to take As-tryd on as apprentice. There's no reason for all of us to die on your quest."

Larson fought down rising aggravation. After all, I told him the same thing yesterday. He's twice saved my life. I think that makes up for loosing Fenrir. "How will we find you and Astryd?"

Taziar rose from the table. "I'll meet you here. When you get back, I'll buy you a drink. You'll need it." He trotted to the hearth fire and shouldered the gray linen pack which held his supplies. "I'll head back to the Dragonrank school and see if I can find out anything about Silme while you're gone. When I last left Astryd, I told her I would return the following day. She probably thinks I'm dead, a misconception I would eagerly correct." He trotted for the door.

"Shadow, wait!" Larson stood.

Hand on the pull ring of the door, Taziar turned.

Larson crossed the room. He retrieved Baldur's stone from his pocket and pressed it into Taziar's hand. "Take this. It's worth a small fortune and ought to keep you out of trouble for a while."

Taziar studied the gem in his palm, then turned a smile on Larson. "I learned something years ago. No man or woman and no amount of money could keep me out of trouble." He flipped the stone back to Larson, opened the door, and slipped out into the morning light.

Larson caught the trinket and kneaded it between his fingers while he watched Taziar go. "I'll miss the little jerk," he mumbled in English.

A few hours' journey through the pine forest brought Gaelinar and Larson to the base of a mountain range.

Beyond the trees, gray peaks stretched skyward. Choosing a different route toward Geirmagnus' estate, Gaelinar trudged up the hillside until he passed the timberline. Larson followed without comment. Snow capped the summits, whitened the scrub at the edge of the forest, and coated the meadows and ridges beyond it.

They followed the tree line. It seemed odd to Larson that Gaelinar chose to lead him along thickets, boulder covered fields, and gorges when a few steps would take them into the forest. Perhaps Gaelinar has grown as tired of the endless trees and underbrush as Shadow, and he thinks the mountainous terrain might provide a welcome change. It also placed them in the open, but Fenrir had already shown he could locate his quarry easily even in the cover of forest.

Snow-slicked rocks among the crushed, brown foliage of the meadows kept Larson's attention on his footing. By midday, he had found his second wind. Then, too, a vague, unnameable discomfort settled over him. His steps grew more cautious. The sudden rattle of falling stones from behind startled him. Larson jumped, nearly sliding from a precariously situated ledge. "Gaelinar, are we being followed?"

"Yes," Gaelinar replied in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Fenrir?"

"Bramin."

"Oh." Larson mulled over this bit of news. "Why would Bramin follow us?"

"I don't know." Gaelinar stepped around a large, ungrounded rock. "Whatever his reason, he wants us to know he's there. He can move silently as wind if he chooses. I'd guess he's trying to unnerve you. Of course, we could turn around and ask him."

"Never mind." Larson pushed onward, reminded of Gaelinar's words when Taziar had joined them. "A wise man once said 'An enemy within sword range is safer than one concealed.' "

Gaelinar smiled. "And it might do you well to listen to that wise man now and again."

They continued on into the day, always traveling parallel to the dwarf pines, aspens, and poplars which de-fined the timberline. Well before dark, Gaelinar began taking an inordinate interest in the many caves which dotted the hillside.

After a time, Larson tired of waiting alone while Gaelinar explored crevices and caverns. A day of travel after a sleepless night made him curt. "Are you looking for something?''

"Yes," Gaelinar said. "When I'm ready, I'll explain what."

Larson sighed. He knew better than to provoke Gaelinar with questions. Exhaustion had settled over him again, and it seemed like too much effort to press his luck.

At length, Gaelinar found a cave which seemed to satisfy him. Its huge, misshapen mouth seemed particularly unwelcoming. A boulder field covered the ground before it, the loose, piled stone riddled with holes and clefts which seemed to drop off into nowhere.

Gaelinar tossed his pack to a flat stone wedged between the cliff face and several boulders. "Camp."

Larson studied the gray infinity of rock in the dim light of evening. The anchoring lichens surely lay dead beneath the blanket of snow, but the bulk of the boulders would hold them in place. The hard, jagged surfaces of rock looked uninviting. If Larson rolled in his sleep, he might fall through the chinks between boulders, quite possibly to his death. "Here? On the rocks?"

"Yes. You set up camp, and I'll be back shortly." Gaelinar wandered into the forest. Grumbling epithets against the Kensei's sanity, Larson brushed snow from the smoothest rocks, laid blankets, and selected cheese and bread from the sack of rations.

Within minutes, Gaelinar returned with a stout, green branch. Perched atop a stacked throne of boulders, he whittled one end of his stick to a point. He poked at the barb with a fingertip, rose, and trotted into the cave. Shortly, he joined Larson again.

Larson watched Gaelinar's antics without comment. Curiosity gnawed at him, but he knew his mentor would appreciate patience. He may even be testing me. Larson dismissed the thought; when Gaelinar was ready, he would discuss his plans.

Gaelinar's secretiveness extended through a sword practice tempered by fatigue and through a meal eaten nearly in silence. It was not until they lay between thick blankets, nestled around the craggy protrusions of the rocks, that Gaelinar chose to reveal his scheme. "I couched the spear at the level of Fenrir's chest. If at any time the wolf chases you, run into the cave. Be careful of the point. It sits about here." Using his finger, the Kensei traced a depiction of the cave on Larson's arm. He emphasized a location which corresponded to three-quarters of the distance from entrance to end. "Run straight. Ignore any branches. I picked a cavern with an exit in the back, so we have an escape if the trap fails." He added in a reluctant tone which discouraged inquiries, "Any questions?"

Larson yawned. Already, he could feel sleep huddled at the edge of his consciousness. "What if Fenrir doesn't attack tonight?"

Gaelinar removed his hand from Larson's arm. "No matter. There are plenty of caves in these mountains. We'll set the same trap every night until we reach Geir-magnus' estate."

A sudden gust showered snow down upon Larson and Gaelinar. Larson huddled deeper beneath the blankets, more from habit than need. He had long ago learned cold did not faze him in the elf form Freyr had given him.

Wind and gathering darkness swallowed Gaelinar's words. They came to Larson muffled. "I think the wolf will attack tonight. We haven't seen it for weeks. It's biding its time, studying us, waiting until we're most vulnerable. Tonight, we're far from civilization and short a companion. I don't know how that mental combat of yours works, but a drunken beggar can see how lack of sleep has impaired your coordination and your judgment. And I'm not at my best either."

Gaelinar trailed off, and Larson turned his head to see whether his mentor had paused or simply dropped his voice too low to hear over the hiss of wind through crevices.

Gaelinar's features appeared twisted in thought. "Speaking of your faulty mind barriers, I suggest you do whatever you can to keep our plan hidden from the wolf. If it's delayed this long, it'll surely read what thoughts of yours it can. Given its preparation and ours, one way or the other, this will be our last fight. Right now, the wolf has all the advantages, except one. If you reveal our plan, we lose surprise, too."

Larson clenched his jaws. He knew Gaelinar was aware he would not divulge the trap on purpose, but Larson could not evade a feeling of resentment. What was it Vidarr said about probes? He racked his memory of the night when Fenrir invaded his dreams and Vidarr came to his rescue. Vidarr said he needed to actually enter my mind to manipulate it, but to communicate or read ' 'surface" thoughts, he used a mental probe. I'm always aware of intruders in my mind. The probes seem to pass unnoticed. Larson followed his thoughts to the natural conclusion. Gaelinar's right. Fenrir has access to anything I'm concentrating on. Therefore, I'll have to stop thinking about the trap.

Careful not to slip between cracks, Larson shifted to his side. Immediately, he pictured the cave in the mountainside. He smothered the image, turning his thoughts toward his uncle's farm in Kansas. His mind followed tight miles of corn rows, tassels swaying in the breezes of early summer. Landscape as flat as the Coney Island beaches filled his mind's eye. Sleep replaced the memory, flooding Larson's dreams with caves, carved spears, and giant wolves. A lighter phase in the cycle of sleep brought him close enough to awareness to attempt to redirect his thoughts. He began to roll again, and Gaelinar's warning touch drew him fully awake.

Larson went still. His ears sifted out the harmony of wind, owls, and foxes which had lulled him to sleep. Beneath these familiar noises, he heard the click of tumbling pebbles. Now, the wisdom of Gaelinar's decision to sleep in a boulder field seemed clear. Something was moving toward the Kensei, slowly and stealthily. Head turned the wrong way to see the creature, Larson inched his hand to his sword hilt and loosened the blade in its scabbard.

Gaelinar's ringers locked on Larson's wrist, restraining him. The patter of dislodged rocks disappeared.

Larson held his breath, seeking a misstep which would reveal the stalker. He hoped Gaelinar was following the intruder's progress by something other than sound.

Gaelinar released Larson with an urgent snap. In the same motion, the Kensei leaped to his feet, drew his ka-tana, and slashed. Larson followed, but a pebble rocked beneath his foot. He stumbled and caught his balance at a crouch, barely managing to keep hold of his sword. Fenrir jumped backward to avoid Gaelinar's strike, its dark form blocking Larson's view of the woods. Moonlight silvered bristled fur.

Fenrir circled, keeping Gaelinar between itself and Larson. Abruptly, it sprang for the Kensei. The boulder from which it launched toppled down the mountainside, crushing young alders and dwarf pines. The unexpected shift of Fenrir's foundation threw off its sense of distance. Its attack fell short. Gaelinar's blade plunged toward the wolfs neck. Fenrir swerved but not quite far enough. The katana drew a long cut in its side before Fenrir grounded its footing.

Giant boulders which seemed immobile to Larson pitched beneath Fenrir's tremendous bulk. The wolf went on the defensive. It crouched, taunting with arrogant challenges, its breath pale smoke in the autumn air. "Come on, murderers! You know I cannot be killed. If you insist on trying, I will joyfully tear you both apart." Dark blood parted a trail through the fur over Fenrir's ribs, but it seemed unaffected by the wound.

Gaelinar worked his way around the wolf, leaving Larson at the front. Larson took a halfhearted thrust at Fenrir in an attempt to buy time for the Kensei to position himself. Fenrir dodged easily, then spun and lunged for Gaelinar. The Kensei sidled. His sword darted up to meet the wolf. The beast twisted in midair. Gaelinar's blade carved harmlessly across fur, and Fenrir's shoulder jarred the Kensei's forearm. Unable to keep up with Fenrir's tremendous leaps, Larson rushed to his mentor's aid.

Gaelinar backstepped for stability. A rock turned beneath his foot and he lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly to the boulder field. Fenrir snapped for Gaelinar's head. The Kensei scrambled desperately aside. In his blind haste, he misplaced a knee and toppled through one of the crevices between the boulders. A shower of pebbles followed Gaelinar through the crack. A single pained cry echoed up from below, mournful and final as a rabbit's death squeal. The sound froze Larson in mid-charge.

Fenrir swung its head up, as surprised as Larson. Slit-ted, red eyes measured the hundred feet of treacherous ground between them. Its jaws hinged open to a gaping smile, revealing teeth yellowed as old bone. Shaken by Gaelinar's certain death, Larson whirled and ran toward the cave. Howling in triumph, the wolf pursued.

A patch of marble-sized stones rolled beneath Larson's foot. He fell headlong. His nose struck rock, drawing blood, and he clambered to his feet without looking back. Another sprint for the cave mouth brought him crashing to the stone, gravel abrading his open hand and the fist which clutched his sword. As he rose, he risked a glance over one shoulder. Fenrir's paws were also slipping on the rocky ground, but it was narrowing the gap at a slow, steady trot.

Larson forced himself to slacken his own gait, timing each step to a heartbeat. He gained the entrance to the cave, and quickened his pace on the smoother surface of its floor. Moonlight slanted into the shaft, defining the outcroppings of wall and shallow puddles in the uneven surface of ground. He saw no stalagmites or holes, and the discovery encouraged him to break into a run. If the trap has any chance of success, Fenrir will have to be moving fast when he hits it. Sword clasped in his right hand, his left scraping the wall for orientation, Larson sprinted beyond the spear of moonlight into the darkness deeper in the cave.

Behind Larson, Fenrir's huge paws splashed through the stagnant water, revealing its ever-changing location like an alarm. The stable floor of the cave allowed Fenrir the traction it required. Each of its leaps covered the same distance as five of Larson's running steps.

Larson's fingers brushed empty air as he passed a cross corridor then met stone wall again. Moonlight glimmered ahead. Directly beside Larson, the rodlike shadow of the spear became visible in the center of the cave, then disappeared behind him. Larson darted for the back exit. He had just emerged into the pooled light of the opening, when he heard the crash of impact behind him. Wood clattered across stone. Fenrir loosed a shrill whimper, then all went still.

The exit was little more than a crack. Larson hunched to pass through, straining his hearing for some sound from Fenrir. He had seen men endure too much to believe a single spear could kill Fenrir instantly. Yet the quiet seemed to indicate otherwise. Maybe it caught the wolf just right, in the spinal cord or the heart. Curious, he turned and crept back into the black depths of the cave.

Larson was met by silence. He edged deeper into the cavern, groping for wall with his free hand. The broken end of the spear rolled beneath his foot. Larson stumbled, the sudden movement all that saved him from death. Fen-rir's jaws, aimed to gouge open Larson's abdomen, glanced instead from his hip. The force thrust Larson completely off balance. Tossed sideways, he crashed to the cave floor. The back of his head and one shoulder blade struck the wall. His sword jarred from his grip and fell, ringing, to the stone.

Larson's awareness blurred and spun. The wolf's hot breath stirred his collar. He made a frantic effort to rise, and a lion-sized paw clamped on his abdomen.

"Dare to move, elf, and I'll tear out your throat!" Fenrir's challenge echoed through the confines of the cave.

Larson sank back to the ground. The darkness seemed crushing, and his wits floundered through a haze as dense as water.

"Did you really believe I would fall for an ill-conceived toy of a trap designed for mortal wolves?''

"I'd hoped so." Larson talked to keep Fenrir occupied while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. His sword lay beyond his reach, its hilt submerged in a puddle. Gradually, sense seeped back into his numbed mind, and he berated himself with profanity. Fenrir set me up, and I walked into its trap like an ignorant ' 'fucking new guy. ''

Fenrir's eyes appeared flat and black beneath fur-hooded sockets. Its lowered muzzle hovered at Larson's neck. He could smell the foul odor of exhaled air as it spoke. "Then you're as stupid as your scheme. Did you forget I can read your thoughts? You might just as well have included me in its planning."

Larson said nothing. He slid his hand to a pocket of his britches, counting on the darkness to hide the movement from Fenrir. Keep talking, you hairy moron. This isn't over yet.

"The Kensei's dead. Compared to you, he's lucky."

Larson's fingers inched toward Silme's rankstone, and he did not allow himself to dwell too long on Fenrir's words. The wolf's been wrong before. I won't believe in Gaelinar's death until I see the corpse.

Fenrir's toenails jabbed the skin over Larson's stomach. "You'll pay for my father's murder. I'm going to eat you, piece by bloody piece, and let you watch yourself bleed to death."

Larson's hand closed over the sapphire. Despite his predicament, he found himself considering Fenrir's threat. Bleeding is not the worst way to die; I've heard it's relatively painless. Though I doubt the same applies to being eaten alive.

"I think I'll start with a leg." Fenrir tensed to strike.

Deprived of the precious minutes he needed for strategy, Larson wrenched the sapphire. Cloth tore, and the linen of the pocket flapped open, spilling Baldur's trinket to the ground. The sudden violent movement caused Fenrir to pause for the moment it took Larson to slam the rankstone into its face.

Fierce blue light blazed at the impact. Fenrir reared backward in astonishment, and Larson claimed the seconds surprise gained him. Clutching the sapphire in a bloodless fist, he lurched free of Fenrir's loosened paw and ran for the exit. The aftereffects of the flash superimposed stars and streaks of color across the darkness. He made a grab for his sword as he passed. His fingertips jammed against rock, stabbing pain into his knuckles.

His palm curled through water. The wet leather of the hilt touched calluses. Ignoring the throb of his injured hand, he delayed to grip the sword before continuing his mad rush for the patch of moonlight ahead.

Fenrir's teeth seized the back of Larson's cloak. A quick jerk nearly pulled him off his feet. Larson reeled backward, regained equilibrium, and dove for the opening. For an instant, he hovered in air. Then the cloak tore, and Larson jolted forward. He sailed through the crack, skidding across the surface of rock, arms clamped protectively over his head, hands tightened to death grips about the sword and sapphire. Stones caught on his tunic, jerking him to a halt.

For a long moment, he lay there, staring at the cliffs before him and listening to Fenrir snuffling at the exit. The crack was too small for the wolf-god to slip through, a provision Larson suspected Gaelinar had purposefully arranged when he chose the cave. Gaelinar! He may be alive and in need of my help. The thought mobilized Larson. He leaped to his feet. The Kensei's scream had sounded convincingly terminal, almost animal. But, before he could abandon his companion, Larson had to be sure. Tucking the sapphire into another pocket, he ran toward the boulder field.

Larson had passed only halfway around the outer side of the ledge which held the cave when Taziar's familiar voice sounded from up ahead. "Stupid as your murdered father, you overfed cur. Forgot about me, didn't you?"

Shadow? Larson broke into a gallop, soaked with sweat despite the cold. The many mad dashes had grown taxing; his chest heaved with each labored breath. He rounded the corner just in time to see Taziar hopping across precariously grounded stones with the agile grace of an acrobat. A moment later, Fenrir burst through the ill-shaped mouth of the cave. Its chest struck rope thin as a thread, and its momentum dislodged the meticulously placed notched sticks which held the snare in place. A coil of magical cord encircled Fenrir's neck like a hangman's noose. The wolfs charge snapped the line taut; the abrupt impact knocked it, choking, from its feet. Larson followed the glint of moonlight off the string to a peak above the cave. Under ordinary circumstances, he suspected Fenrir could shatter the restraining formation to pebbles. Now, the slightest motion would only serve to cinch the snare deeper into the wolf's throat.

Larson stared, unable to make sense of what he saw. Fenrir writhed, pawing madly at a string which seemed too slight to hold anything larger than a house cat. Taziar perched on Larson's sleeping blanket, watching the wolf with unbridled amusement. Larson prepared to question the Shadow Climber, but the sight of Gaelinar emerging, grimy and tattered, from the scrub struck Larson mute with astonishment.

Fenrir howled crude oaths, but the pressure of the magical rope kept its words too hoarse to decipher. Understanding came to Larson in a rush. He pointed an accusing finger at Taziar. "You lied to me." Sheathing his sword, he jabbed another digit at Gaelinar. "You set me up with Fenrir. You bastards used me for wolf bait."

Gaelinar shrugged. "We had no choice."

Larson would not let his mentor off that easily. "I almost got killed in that cave. What the hell were you thinking?"

Taziar accepted the burden of an explanation. "After Fenrir told us it couldn't be killed, it occurred to me there are other ways to be rid of enemies. I fetched the only rope I knew was capable of holding it, the magical cord the gods used for centuries. Then, while you played mind wars with Bramin, we plotted."

Fenrir ceased thrashing, listening with the same intent curiosity as Larson.

Taziar rose. "We couldn't tell you the plan. We might just as well have stood on the city walls of Cullinsberg and shouted it to Fenrir. I pretended to go in the other direction which gave me the chance to trail you unseen and set up the snare while you and Gaelinar slept." He trotted to Larson's side. "I was a little disappointed you accepted my leaving so easily."

Larson smiled, breathing without difficulty now. Drying sweat prickled his skin to gooseflesh. "I was tired. And that line about Astryd was a good touch." He turned to Gaelinar. "So it was Shadow following, not Bramin."

Gaelinar shook his head. "No, I told the truth about Bramin. In fact, I spoke to him in the woods. Not a pleasant conversation. He'll stalk us all the way to Geir-magnus' estate, awaiting his first opportunity to kill you. Your arrangement means we can't do anything about him." Gaelinar's stance went suddenly angry. "In the future, Allerum, I don't want you making any vows for me. He verbally abused me in a fashion which would have earned any other man the thrill of having his head detached from his body."

Taziar confirmed Gaelinar's assessment. "I figured you knew Bramin was there. He seized every chance to make you aware of his presence. It made my job that much simpler."

Larson needed to know one thing more from Gaelinar. "And your fall through the crevice?"

"Real." Gaelinar rubbed an abraded elbow with a hand which was no longer swollen. "But I faked the death scream and then lay still. With you at Fenrir's back, I didn't think the wolf would have time to make certain. I needed him to chase you into the cave, but I doubted he would do so if he knew I was alive and waiting for him outside. Of course, the spear was a ploy to give you reason to lead Fenrir into that particular cave. I wanted the wolf to know the same plan I fed you. That way, it entered the cave believing it held the advantage." He grinned wickedly. "There's no surer way to get a man Slinking about something than to tell him not to."

"Very clever." Despite the success, Larson felt irritated that his companions had used his handicap to their advantage. "But tell me this. Now that we've leashed the puppy-dog, what do we do with it? If we leave it, someone will let it go. Most probably Bramin. I doubt Fenrir will have the decency to heel." He considered. "I guess we can always keep our distance and stone it. We'll know for sure whether or not it can die."

Gaelinar tossed his head. Wind caught white hair, fanning it like a horse's mane. "Possible or not, killing Fenrir can only further disrupt Midgard's balance."

Taziar added, "If we can drag Fenrir to the Bifrost Bridge, I'll bet the gods would help us."

Larson pulled his frayed cloak across his shoulders. "Fenrir's an evil, ugly monster. What makes you think the gods will take it back?"

The gods will take it back.

"The gods will take it back," Taziar echoed.

It took Larson several seconds to realize someone other than his companions spoke the initial statement. Vidarr? Larson tried hopefully.

A friendly aura filled Larson's mind. It's me, Allerum. Fenrir was never intended to become a burden to mankind, only to the gods.

Taziar gave a simultaneous explanation which Larson never heard. He held up a finger to silence his companion, then returned to the conversation in his mind. So why wouldn't any of the gods help us catch the brute? We all could have gotten killed.

There are laws which govern hostilities between gods. Fenrir isn't actually a god, but it is the son of one. Quite frankly, the fact that we never killed Fenrir before is the only reason the balance hasn't become skewed beyond salvaging. Fenrir has taken Loki's place as a strong Chaos-force.

Larson studied the great form of the wolf. Sort of a god substitute, eh? So we need to get it to the Bifrost Bridge?

By Thor's beard, no. Vidarr seemed taken aback by Larson's suggestion. The gods will take care of Fenris-wulf I wouldn't allow your quest to be delayed another several days.

Afraid to lose Fenrir after the tremendous effort and pain of catching it, Larson warned Vidarr. Bramin's here, somewhere. He may try to free Fenrir before you can lead it away.

Amusement colored Vidarr's reply. Believe me, Allerum. If Bramin interferes, we will consider it a direct affront to the gods. Nothing would please me more than to have Bramin break his vow so I could pound him back to Hel. Anything more you wish to know?

Curiosity goaded Larson. One thing. How did you manage to show up just when I wanted to speak with you?

A strained pause followed. Larson sensed reluctance before Vidarr answered warily. You have twice abandoned your quest. Yesterday, you transported me to a fiery forest with trees which looked like a child's drawing. There, some puny, mortal archer without a bow shot an unshafted, unfletched arrowhead through my arm. Vidarr grumbled as if to himself, Still damn well hurts, too. He continued in his normal pattern. I promise I'll avoid your memories. But until you retrieve the rod, I have no choice but to keep a close watch over you. Can you live with that?

Larson yawned, stretching muscles bruised from his battle with Fenrir. The excitement finished, the fatigue of two sleepless nights settled over him. I can live with that, but I can't live without rest. If it's all right with you and all the gods in the heavens, I'm going to lie here for a week. Larson picked his way to the rumpled pile of blankets. Offering no explanation to his companions, he collapsed upon the padded rock and fell instantly asleep.