Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 13: Master of Time

"My rod holds the key to unlimited power. Once freed, the future will be changed And nothing will be impossible."

– Gary Mannix, Dragonrank Master

Taziar's verbal attack swept raw fury through Larson. Shadow and Gaelinar decided to come. I was never given a choice! He charged after Taziar, boots crunching in the shallow layer of snow. Bounding up the concrete steps, he dashed through the open doorway just in time to hear Taziar's footfalls on the lower landing of the stairs.

Once inside Gary Mannix's laboratory, Larson's anger dissipated, replaced by a feeling of imminent danger. His acid retort died, forgotten. Silme is my problem. I'm not going to let Shadow face the chaos-force alone. As he stood debating in the entry way, Bramin and Gaelinar drew up beside him. But what the hell is Gary Mannix's rod?

Evening cast a gray haze over piled centuries of dust and the dark line of office furniture. From habit, Larson flipped a set of four plastic switches by the door. The first three had no visible effect. As the fourth snapped upward, pale light sputtered, dimmed, then brightened at the bottom of the stairs accompanied by Taziar's startled cry. Fluorescent. Thank God for modern technology. Shouting a reassurance, Larson plunged down the stairwell, a film of dirt coating his snow-wet boots. Gaelinar and Bramin clattered down the steps behind him.

The diffuse glow from an elongated, overhead bulb chased darkness from the quarter of the room at the base of the staircase. Beyond it, the light faded, revealing kitchen appliances as hulking shapes lining the western and northern walls. Air from the propped door had not circulated well; the lower level still felt stifling. A portal in the eastern wall opened into a bathroom. A rectangular table of plastic, constructed to appear woodlike, occupied the center of the room. It rested against a brick and mortar pole which supported the plumbing, a fuse box, and a conduit cable to supply power to the upstairs and basement.

Taziar had followed the right, southern wall, groping through grime-filled mist which had once been nearly total blackness. Not at all certain what to look for, Larson circled in the opposite direction, examining the western wall. He came first upon a wooden storage cabinet. Flicking open its hinged doors, he discovered its contents had fallen to dust. Atop it, a boxlike, glass and metal appliance sported buttons not unlike the ones which coded the gate. A list of temperatures and cooking instructions beneath the keys revealed it as some sort of oven, unlike any Larson had ever seen. Above it, the sand-covered, warped casement windows he had noticed from the outside admitted meager stripes of sunlight.

Next in line, Larson discovered a dishwasher and an electric stove with a conventional oven beneath it. He watched Bramin fiddle with the temperature controls. Burner coils glowed to red life, inspiring spiteful thoughts in Larson's mind. It'd serve the bastard right if he burned his hands off. After the stove/oven unit, the room came to a corner. Against the northern wall, closed cabinets of oak hung over a porcelain sink with a steel spigot and handles and an attached countertop of speckled, dingy formica. Beside it, a refrigerator towered nearly to the ceiling.

Taziar blurred into the shadows beyond the light, moving toward the southeastern corner. Gaelinar chose not to aid their search. Instead, he leaned against the table, gaze locked on Bramin with fanatical interest. The dark elf turned his attention to the sink, and Larson spun the stove dial to its off position to protect his friends. The burner dulled to orange, then faded to neutral black. Watching a process which seemed trivial and routine turned Larson's thoughts to the ridiculousness of an exploration for an undescribed item. Mannix's journals had given him no clue, and he wondered if his companions might have more knowledge they had not revealed to him. "Does anyone have the foggiest notion what we're looking for?"

Larson half expected someone to reply stupidly, "Geirmagnus' rod." But no one did. Taziar and Gaelinar remained silent. Bramin made a wordless sound, but offered no further explanation.

Larson pressed. "Bramin? You know what the rod looks like?"

Bramin did not bother to face Larson as he replied, regal as a king. "I have an idea."

"And?"

"And I'm not here at your convenience, to share my thoughts with a fool who has condemned himself and his friends to death. I never promised to help you, only that I wouldn't interfere."

Larson restrained an obscenity, glad Gaelinar had chosen to guard the dark elf. If the rod has some sort of magical powers, I would as soon it not fall into Bramin's hands.

Vidarr replied. I believe it is a product of sorcery, Allerum. The description I've heard is "a rod of wood and iron, a weapon of unfathomable power. "

Anything more? Larson urged.

Vidarr lapsed into an aura of regret without attempting a verbal reply.

Bramin seemed preoccupied with the miniature waterfall created by twirling the faucet knobs. Larson ducked into the lane between the half man and the table. Nearly at the northeastern corner, he stopped before the refrigerator, his back to the brick pole which held the pipes. Scattered light from the fluorescent bulb dragged pale shadows across magnets in the form of metal hooks and plastic fruit. It appeared much like the refrigerator Larson remembered from his parents' apartment in New York City, except that his mother had trapped memos, school menus and scrawled children's drawings beneath the magnets. Recalling the odor of week-old leftovers green with mold, Larson wondered what effect a century or two might have had on stored refreshments. Only he and Bra-min stood close enough to suffer the consequences of his curiosity. Holding his breath, Larson caught the metal handle and pulled.

The door swung open easily, but the bulb inside did not go on. Weak light from the farther corner filtered in, defining shapes into recognizable figures. Plastic containers lined the upper shelf. All were sealed, Larson noted in relief. A receptacle which had once held milk lay on its side, half-filled with a clear substance he guessed was water. On the lower level, a single can of Pepsi stood, pushed to the back. Its red, white, and blue emblem seemed different than he recalled; but so much time had passed since his last soda, the details escaped him. The flip top appeared more square and flat, laid into a depression. He grabbed the can. It felt flimsier than he expected, aluminum instead of steel.

Taziar's voice wafted to Larson from beyond the pole. "What's this?"

"The rod!" Bramin screamed.

Larson jerked his head out of the refrigerator. Bramin's sword crashed into its door, slamming it shut. Magnets showered to the floor, and a spray of broken chips rattled across the concrete.

Gaelinar sprang for Bramin, halted by the dark elf's snarl. " Fair fight, Kensei.''

Reluctantly, Gaelinar retreated as Bramin thrust for Larson.

It seemed less than fair to Larson, who had neither time nor space to draw a sword. He dodged into the lane between the pole and the eastern wall, still clutching the Pepsi. Bramin's blade swept for Larson's head. Larson ducked. The sword struck the fuse box with a thin chime of steel. In the seconds it took Bramin to recover from his stroke, Larson slapped the bottom of the can against the conduit and pulled the tab. Soda geysered, splashing over the combatants and forming a foaming, brown puddle across the floor. Caught by surprise, Bramin hesitated. Larson used the opening to draw his sword and cut for Bramin's throat.

Bramin parried and riposted. Larson sidled, slipping in the spilled cola. Bramin's blade slit open the sleeve of ¦ Larson's cloak. Though too close for another sword I stroke, the half man pressed his advantage. He caught I Larson's chin in a sticky hand, and slammed the elf i against the pole. Larson's head hit a pipe. A bolt of white; slashed his vision, and his limbs went suddenly flaccid. I The world swirled in sickening circles. He felt his back: sliding down the bricks, and fought desperately for con-; sciousness.

Bramin spun Larson and hurled him to the floor, creating the distance needed for a sword stroke. Impact snapped Larson to full awareness. As Bramin's sword plunged toward him, he rolled. The blade scraped concrete. Larson's back whacked against the solid stone of the southern wall. Dizzily, he noticed an empty gun rack nailed to the wall above his head, but its significance escaped him. Gathering his feet beneath him, he raised his sword and rushed Bramin.

Bramin scrambled back to avoid the bold commitment of Larson's attack. He caught Larson's blade on his crossguard, parrying the stroke aside. Bramin's riposte sliced the air before Larson's chest and bit squarely into the conduit cable.

Sparks blazed from the contact. White light flared like fire around the sword. The fluorescent bulb winked out, plunging them into darkness. Larson dove aside. Bramin's shout of triumph split into a scream, and his face went pale as bleached wool. The force hurled him, limp, to the ground; the sword stuck, embedded in the circuits. The ozone reek of electrical fire permeated the room, twined through with smoke.

Larson scarcely had time to register the scene before an explosion rocked the courtyard. Outside, chips of concrete rattled like hail from the walls and roof. One piece slammed through the window, hurling glass shards across the stove, Gaelinar, and the table beyond him with a soprano sprinkle of noise. Nearer to the stairwell, Gaelinar and Taziar responded first. They led a frantic charge up the steps with Larson close behind. As they burst into the fading light of evening, Larson's mind registered a number of realities at once.

Jagged blocks of concrete littered the courtyard around a hole the size of a mine crater. A section of the outer wall had collapsed. Snapped free at one end, its razor wire coiled to the ground. In the center of the carnage, a dragon thrashed in a spiraled wreath of copper wire with clinging slivers of cement. Scales of solid steel-gray made the evening look pale in comparison. Twice the size of the creature in Hel, its flailing jaws seemed to rake the clouds into the blood-colored streaks of dusk. Only its head and neck had emerged from the shattered ring of the particle accelerator, the remainder was still caught in wire now devoid of current.

Gaelinar covered the distance from door to monster in three running strides. His sword bit into the muscle of a tremendous foreleg, splitting wire like paper. With a roar, the chaos-force wrenched a claw partially free. It snapped for Gaelinar. The Kensei scrambled backward as Taziar came up on the dragon from the opposite side.

Larson scurried to the attack. He had covered only half the distance when Gaelinar bore in for a second strike. Again, his blade sliced flesh and wire. Black blood seeped from the wound, thick as syrup. The chaos-force bit for Gaelinar. Taziar dodged in. The Climber swung his weapon like a club, and Larson got his first glimpse of Geirmagnus' rod. My god, I should have known. It's a fucking rifle! The butt crashed against the monstrous head, and wood split with a crack. The dragon turned its jaws on Taziar. The Climber dodged, and knifelike fangs closed on empty air.

"Pull the trigger!" Larson screamed as he ran to help. "Pull the goddamned trigger!"

Larson's command fell on deaf ears. His words could have no more meaning to Taziar than the workings of a weapon not yet invented. And, with Taziar clutching the barrel, obedience would only have resulted in the Climber shooting his own foot.

Again, Gaelinar slashed. His sword plowed through flesh, opening another row of copper wire. As the dragon bit at Gaelinar, Taziar swept forward, gun poised for another blow. Larson dove. He seized the rifle butt, attempting to wrench it from his companion's hand. Mannix's last words pounded through his mind like a cadence. I believe only my rod can kill the monster. Taziar gripped tighter, stumbling in surprise.

"Give it to me, damn it!" Larson howled. "I know how to use it."

The chaos-force made a tremendous lurch which tore half its body free of the encumbering wire. The ground bucked and trembled. Taziar lost his footing, staggering backward. Larson fell to his knees. The gun twisted from their grips skidding forward to land beneath the darker scales of the creature's underbelly. Razor-sharp teeth gashed Larson's arm. He rolled aside as the beast whirled to answer Gaelinar's next attack.

Larson knew despair. The Fates were right. Getting the rod did release the chaos-force; it caused the battle in which Bramin broke the electric current containing the beast. We've lost the gun ' 'Geirmagnus'' planned to be used to defeat it, so the only weapon of its kind will not be used against it.''

The rasp of Taziar's drawn sword punctuated Larson's thought. The Shadow Climber seemed to read his mind. "The Fates were right, but Geirmagnus was wrong. Look at the damage from Gaelinar's sword!" Without awaiting a reply, Taziar charged the chaos-force again. His blade rattled on scales like iron, drawing a superficial line across the flesh beneath them. The dragon swung its head around. Its bite fell short, but its muzzle smacked Taziar, toppling him to concrete-riddled ground. Before it could finish its attack, Gaelinar stabbed from its other side. The beast's neck arched back to the Kensei.

Larson drew his sword as Taziar clambered to shaky legs. Shadow's right. It wasn't the Fates who surmised only one weapon could kill the chaos-force. Twentieth-century American parapsychologists can make mistakes. He joined the battle with renewed vigor. Whipping forward, he plunged his blade into the dragon's side. It loosed a high-pitched scream. Its efforts jerked it fully free of the copper wire. Leathery wings large as tents flashed upward. One slapped Larson's chest and face as he dodged. The force hurled him backward. He hit the ground, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. It suddenly occurred to him that this dragon seemed to lack the fire-breathing ability of its smaller, more focused and agile cousins. For that, he was grateful.

Larson rose as the dragon attempted flight. It spun in an awkward semicircle. Apparently, Gaelinar's katana had taken its toll on the muscles of its opposite wing. Sword high, Larson rushed the beast. Before his blow landed, Taziar's blade gashed the scaled side, drawing blood the color of ink. The chaos-force whirled, moving its bulk with astonishing speed. It whisked toward Ta-ziar.

Larson and Taziar broke and ran. A single step closed the gap between the beast and its prey. Hot saliva dripped over Larson. He stopped suddenly, hoping the change in momentum would throw off the creature's timing. Steel flashed behind the lumbering giant, and Gaelinar's swords stabbed into its flank.

The chaos-force spun, bellowing its rage. It turned on Gaelinar who ran, the creature on his heels. Larson and Taziar turned, hoping to gain the beast's attention long enough for Gaelinar to escape. But it outmaneuvered them, quickly widening the ground between them.

Larson sprinted after it. Losing one of his companions meant losing the battle. Without forces on each side of the dragon, there was no way to distract it from killing. So far, all the wounds inflicted on the chaos-force looked superficial. And, Larson thought with alarm, once it finishes with us, it'll destroy the rest of the world. Terror quickened his pace.

Gaelinar raced for the downed section of wall and the dangling corkscrew of razor wire. Too late, his plan became clear. Inches from the coil, he dodged aside. A dragon claw dug through the back of his cloak. Momentum carried the chaos-force into the wire, dragging the Kensei with it. Honed steel sliced scaled skin to bone. Animal screams of pain rent the air. The chaos-force floundered, reeling with an agony which only worked it deeper into the wire. Tarlike blood cascaded from hundreds of wounds, coating the snow and sand beneath it.

Larson drew up beside the thrashing dragon in horror. "Gaelinar!" His cry emerged as distressed as the dying beast's. Carefully avoiding the wire, he plunged his blade through the reptilian head. The chaos-force went still. The world went silent except for the ceaseless drip of blood.

A soft voice broke the hush. "Allerum."

Larson followed the sound to the opposite side of the razor wire and the great beast's corpse. Several feet from the carnage, Gaelinar lay in a red puddle, still clutching his sword in his right fist. Blood spurted from a gaping tear through his left armpit.

"Gaelinar!" Larson rushed to his mentor's side. He caught the wound between his hands, attempting to apply pressure. But the blood ran freely through the gaps between his fingers. Desperately, he readjusted his grip.

Clumsily, Gaelinar thrust the hilt of his katana toward Larson. His wrist struck Larson's neck so weakly, the elf scarcely felt the blow. The sword fell across Gaelinar's thighs. He fumbled for it with blinded, glazing eyes, apparently unaware he had caught the blade. Again, he jabbed the hilt for Larson's hand. "Hero," he said, his voice like the dry rasp of a drawing sword. "It begins again. Carry on."

Larson accepted the hilt. Blood pulsed in a spray across his hands, then dropped to a methodical wash. Still Larson clung to the wound and the image of Gaelinar's immortality. Somehow, his mind could not accept the demise of a man who had survived being crushed by a dragon, who had killed a god with his bare hands, who feared nothing, not even a Dragonrank Master in his own school. Larson had seen death often enough to recognize it, but, this time, his mind deceived him. He raised a hand, but his own irrational certainty would not allow him to check for a pulse.

"Allerum." Taziar knelt beside Larson and reached for Gaelinar's neck. "He's…"

"No." Larson lashed out in misdirected fury. His blood-wet hand caught Taziar across one cheek. The force of the blow staggered the smaller man.

Immediately, Larson regretted his attack. He had hit Taziar to keep the Climber from stating something they both already knew. Gaelinar is dead. The revelation wrenched tears from Larson's eyes. The world blurred around him as he succumbed to the blanketing curtain of grief.

A sound pierced Larson's shrouded awareness, the metallic clack of a rifle bolt slammed into place. Bramin's sibilant voice followed. "Don't move, Allerum."

Cautiously, Larson raised his eyes. He blinked away tears to find himself staring down the barrel of Gary Man-nix's rifle, now in Bramin's hands.

The dark elf sneered. "Did you forget about our fight to the death? Or did you believe a little jolt would kill me?" He laughed with the dignified arrogance which comes with great power. "Thanks for showing me how to use the rod."

"Wait," Larson pleaded hoarsely, praying Mannix had stored his gun unloaded. "This is between you and me. Let Shadow go first."

"And let him stab me in the back?" Bramin started.

Instantly, Larson realized his mistake. Taziar had made a charge for Bramin just as Larson drew the dark elf's attention to his companion. The gun roared. Taziar toppled forward into the snow. Blood trickled from a hole in his thigh. He struggled to his knees as Bramin chambered another round.

"No!" Larson screamed. Brandishing Gaelinar's sword, he plunged toward Bramin. Hovering at the half man's hip, the gun swung around to Larson again.

Larson halted, lowering the katana in a gesture of surrender. Bramin remained just beyond sword range. "Go ahead," Larson challenged, more boldly than he felt. "Shoot him again. I'll kill you before you can chamber the third round.''

Taziar had slipped to his haunches, staring at the wound in his leg in startled awe. His features turned stark white, and Larson suspected pain was driving the Climber into shock.

Bramin simply smiled. "He's not going anywhere. I have time to shoot you first."

"Go ahead." Surprisingly, Larson knew no fear. "But you doom yourself as well."

Patient as a cat with a cornered bird, Bramin allowed Larson to elaborate.

Larson stalled, keeping his gaze locked on the gun. As long as Bramin held it low, he doubted the dark elf would pull the trigger. A hip shot from a beginner was unlikely to hit even a target at close range. "If you bring the great equalizer into Midgard, you sign your own death warrant. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Your magic and sword skill, gained through a lifetime of effort, make you more powerful than almost anyone, stronger even than some of the gods. Sure, you have the first gun. But you saw my world. They breed. They grow. Bramin, if you put guns into your world, you open the way for any weak coward to kill you before you see him coming!''

Bramin's head twitched.

Larson granted no mercy. If I can distract him just long enough to make my move… "Dragonrank magic is no match for bullets. Once you bring guns into your world," unintentionally, he parroted Vidarr, "there is no more glory in war."

Abruptly, the rifle arched toward Bramin's shoulder.

And Larson ran out of time. As soon as the barrel started moving, he charged. Bramin shot as he positioned. Larson's ears rang with the blast. The bullet ripped through his lower abdomen bringing white hot agony. He screamed. Oblivion crushed down on him, bringing with it Gaelinar's admonishments from a sword lesson which seemed centuries ago. "Excuse me, O most worthy opponent. I banged my arm. Please don Y decapitate me."

From a great distance, Larson heard the ragged clatter of the rifle bolt. He swept Gaelinar's katana in a desperate, half-blind dive. The razor-honed edge bit into Bra-min's shoulder and through his neck. The bullet bounced off the other wall, strewing chips of concrete. Larson rolled, tangled with Bramin's decapitated body, covered with blood of which very little was his own.

Pain quickened Larson's breathing to a pant. He forced himself to slow down, gathering enough strength to fling Bramin's limp arm away from his face. The effort drove dizziness down upon him. He lay still, not daring to move again. His vision narrowed to a tunnel which admitted only the clouds, and starred points of light threatened to blur what little of the world remained to him.

Allerum, Vidarr sent softly. Are you… He completed the query with an aura of sympathy and concern.

Unable to gather a coherent answer, Larson tried to force desperation from his thoughts. His gut burned like acid, but he believed he would survive the injury. At the moment, he did not feel fully certain he wanted to.

Vidarr kept his tone level, soothing. I thought it might cheer you to know Baldur is with me.

Shadows edged in on Larson. With effort, he questioned. How?

The chaos-force you loosed was more than powerful enough to repair the rift created when you destroyed Loki. The excess energy balanced Baldur's return from Hel.

But, Larson managed, we killed the chaos-force.

Not really. Distress leeched through Vidarr's aura of compassion. You killed a physical manifestation of a chaos-force, dispersing it. Chaos is not an object, it's an energy. So long as it's not destroyed utterly, it remains around us to be channeled by its servants.

Vidarr's reply seemed thinned as if by distance. Still, Larson could not help noticing the eerie resemblance between Vidarr's explanation and the Law of the Conservation of Matter and Energy. Pressed to the extreme edge of consciousness, he nearly forgot to force an issue far more important to him than Baldur's rescue. Silme?

Larson detected a trace of guilt beneath Vidarr's cavalier answer. She's safe with me, Allerum.

Larson's strength ebbed. Even breathing seemed too much work. Unable to gather mental words, he hoped Vidarr could detect his curiosity.

The hesitation in Vidarr's attitude was unequivocal. Allerum, I must tell you something unpleasant. I hate to

speak while you're hurt, but perhaps this is best. You have no choice but to listen. Afterward, I hope you won't judge me too harshly; and, first, I want you to realize Silme and I will get you through this… and Shadow, too. Rest easy.

Larson did not speculate, afraid even that small endeavor might drive away the last spark of his awareness.

We have all long believed the quest for Geirmagnus' rod was impossible. I believe our own doubts kept us from achieving it, so skepticism was the one luxury I couldn't allow you. I hid the truth from you. Apparently guessing my motives, Gaelinar did likewise. My recommendation, that you take Shadow with you, may have seemed casual. It was not. After you met Shadow in the tavern, I made a detailed check of his background and discovered useful qualities. Despite his dishonest profession, his loyalty to friends was unquestionable. And to him, the terms "impossible" and "interesting challenge '' were interchangeable.

I knew Bramin would tell you the task was impossible; I was only surprised it took him as long as it did. I tried everything to keep you from raising him. Failing that, you left me without option. I needed some way to force you to finish your quest. I had to find a cause so important to you as to preclude all doubt-to drive you beyond the impossible. That goal could only be the same which made you challenge me: Silme. When she left Hel, I met her; recall, she is pledged to my service. I brought her to my hall on Asgard. She asked to reunite with you, believe that, Allerum. I told her it could not be. I didn't explain the situation, but she chose to trust me. Then I cornered Shadow. By making him believe I was working against you in addition to your enemies, I fueled his allegiance to you. I knew his attitude could only help you succeed.

I always knew any or all of you might die, but I had no other choice. If you refused the quest, Odin would have slain you all, perhaps me, as well. I care for Baldur very deeply. I did not enjoy the deceptions any more than you, but I saw no other way. I plead the cause of brotherly love and hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. Vidarr stopped, obviously awaiting a reply. His anxiety felt tangible.

Larson trembled in the grip of pain. He tried to search his mind for an answer, but he felt only the crushing weight of darkness. Quietly, he slipped into oblivion.