Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 2: Hel's Gate

"It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air-there's the rub, the task"

– Virgil Aeneid

Hel's threat hovered in the stagnant air of her citadel long after she disappeared from Larson's sight, but the savagery of her promise withered beneath a more oppressive realization. I will have to sacrifice an innocent life in exchange for Silme's. Larson knew the sorceress' death had strengthened his passion for her; his most recent confrontation with mortality reaffirmed the brevity of human life and the value of each minute. Yet Larson felt troubled by an ancient morality instilled by his parents long before a hellish war warped virtue in the name of survival. Everyone is loved by someone. How can I justify my happiness at the expense of others? Larson lowered his head.

Even Gaelinar seemed repulsed by their task. Wrinkles etched his sagging cheeks, and his stride lacked its usual confidence. He stepped around Baldur's throne and started back down the long corridor, waving for Larson to follow.

During Gaelinar's and Larson's talk with Hel, her dead minions had assembled, respectfully, at the edge of the conversation. Now they shuffled forward, surrounding man and elf in a hovering, silent mass of decay.

Larson took a few, tentative paces toward his mentor. He knew the ghosts had meant him no harm before, but the memory of their touches and Hel's threat made him shiver. We can't hope to battle a legion of corpses. He tried to ignore them, not allowing himself to study them closely enough to glean details of age or sex. They wore an array of costumes, from the faded purple silk of royalty to torn and dirty rags. Some lacked limbs, rotted or hacked away. Others bore slumped and fragile frames; huge, cancerous growths; or bellies swollen with fluid. Larson hurried through the dead as fast as they scampered from his path. In his haste, he brushed against a young female. Coldness spread from her touch, suffused Larson's flesh from shoulder to fingers until his arm felt numb and heavy. Afterward, he moved through the crowd with a respectful caution. They haven't attacked us yet. Maybe they're not under Hel's command or they lack the strength to intentionally harm the living. Or maybe they just don't care.

Farther along the grayed corridor, the dead god, Baldur, glided through the masses and stopped before Larson. He stood with legs widely-braced in the center of the hallway, his features white as fresh-fallen snow, a beacon in a grim world of death. Unlike the other cadavers, he did not move aside as Larson came upon him. His sunken, blue eyes glittered with a mixture of sorrow and hope. His lips parted, but no words emerged.

Baldur wore an expression of pure innocence, like a victimized child. Deep sympathy welled up in Larson. Attentively, he waited, but Baldur remained silent, his visage pleading.

Gaelinar's voice shattered the enveloping hush. "Talk to him, hero. By Hel's law, he cannot speak first."

There was an aura about Baldur which unsettled Larson. He had faced gods before. But while Loki had simply seemed an unusually handsome and evil man, Hel a hideously deformed lady, and Vidarr a mere presence in a sword, Baldur conjured images of stained glass windows, cushioned pews, and hymnals. Larson felt intimidated, and his voice revealed his trepidation. "Hello." he said uncomfortably. "Did you want to say something?"

Baldur flashed a candid smile. "Please," he said, his voice high and musical. He extended an arm and opened his fist. A brooch balanced on his palm, an opaque blue pern on which some artist had painted a miniature scene in gold ink. "Take this to my father. Remind him I am still here, and that I have riot forgotten him."

Larson stared at the jewel in Baldur's hand, but he made no move to retrieve it. "Your father," Larson repeated. He met Baldur's imploring gaze with puzzlement. "Is he some sort of god?"

Baldur's grin widened, and his face went pink with amusement.

Larson backstepped. "I'm sorry. I have no way to contact gods." He realized how ludicrous he must sound after Gaelinar had announced their slaying of Loki while engaged in conversation with Hel. But he also knew he had spoken honestly.

Baldur inched toward Larson, still offering the gem. His tone became insistent. "Anyone can communicate with gods. They need only pray in the proper temple, consult an oracle, make an appropriate sacrifice." He prodded Larson's forearm with the brooch. "Please, try. I will understand if you cannot deliver my message."

The dead remained still and expectant. Baldur's gleaming presence blocked Larson's retreat from the corridor. Toward the outer doorway, beyond the god, Larson spotted a female figure drifting toward Gaelinar. She moved with the lithe grace of a dancer and the confidence of the living. Golden hair fell in waves to the middle of her back. Larson knew Silme at once; her every detail lay fixed in his memory. Death seemed not to have changed her at all. She carried none of Hel's mold. She remained free of any disfiguring wound or condition. She appeared exactly as Larson had last seen her: slim, pale, everything about her so perfectly formed, he could think of no feature even the gods could improve upon. His desire for her returned in an exhilarating rush. All thought of morality fled him. I must win back her life… and her love. Suddenly, no task done for her could be too great, no sacrifice too large. He moved toward her and nearly collided with Baldur who still stood in his path.

Frustration tightened Larson's chest. He seized the painted gem from Baldur's hand and jammed it into a pocket of his cloak. "I'll try," he muttered harshly. "Now step aside."

The instant Baldur relaxed his guard, Larson slipped past. Carefully, he threaded through the gathered corpses, avoiding their icy touches. He reached Silme in three running strides and hurled himself into her arms.

Silme shrank away, avoiding his embrace.

Silme's dodge off-balanced Larson. He careened into Gaelinar, then whirled, and stared at her, incredulous. Her rejection seared him like a hot knife. "W-Why?" he stammered.

"Don't," Silme whispered. "It'll only hurt you. My life aura is gone. I have only the blank chill of the dead to offer you now." Her voice quivered with sorrow. "Allerum, you should never have come."

Grief and outrage warred within Larson. Closer, he noticed Silme's fair skin had grown sallow, her fiercely gray eyes hollowed and dull. "But I love you." He fought the urge to cradle her in his arms. "I need you, Silme. We came to bring you back."

Silme rolled her eyes with resignation. She ran a pallid hand through her hair, and a brief smile graced her features. "And I appreciate your effort. If anyone could accomplish such a thing, it would be you." She addressed Larson, but her gaze played over Gaelinar. "But I'm afraid such a thing is impossible. And I'd rather you remembered me as I was than as I am now." She traced her body with her fingertips.

Larson followed Silme's gesture, still certain he faced the most beautiful woman in existence. "We'll free you," he insisted, though not at all certain he could keep his promise. "Hel told us what we need to do." Sudden doubt rushed down upon him, and he paused to consider. "Do you think Hel might have lied to us?"

Silme shook her head. "Probably not. The gods are intolerant of falsehoods, even among themselves. But she would try to mislead you. Consider her words carefully. What did she tell you to do?"

Larson knew Silme would never allow the slaying of an innocent person in exchange for her life. Quickly, he waved Gaelinar silent. "Never mind." Larson changed the subject with an awkward abruptness. "How long did you know we were here?"

Silme hesitated, shrugged, and followed Larson's tack. "From the time you arrived. But I avoided you. I didn't want you to see me until you had spoken with Hel and grown accustomed to the appearances of the dead."

Larson gnawed his lip, gravely aware of the unspoken concern beneath her explanation. The flashbacks had made him unpredictable, emotionally volatile, and, at times, violent. He knew the control he had gained over his memories would please her and hoped she had seen how well he'd handled himself among the walking corpses after his conversation with Hel.

Silme placed her hand into the folds of her baggy, gray cloak and retrieved a fist-sized, rectangular sapphire, cut and shaped like a diamond. She offered it to Larson.

Larson recognized the stone as the one which had nested between the carven claws of Silme's dragonstaff. He accepted the gem, running his fingers across its smoothed facets. "What should I do with this?"

"Keep it safe," came Silme's soft reply. "It's my rankstone. It symbolized my level of Dragonrank training. But, more importantly, it can store life aura as power." She met Larson's stare with pointed intensity, as if to instill in him the knowledge it had taken her years to master. "Because I had placed energy into the gem before my death, a tiny piece of me remains alive within it. Carry it, and remember me. If, by some miracle, I should be brought to life again, I can track you by it."

Gaelinar, Silme, and Larson exchanged glances as the gawking ring of corpses closed more tightly around them. Gaelinar cleared his throat. "We'd best be on our way. If Hel's threats are any indication, our journey is best undertaken well-rested." He examined the dead. "And I don't want to sleep here."

Larson agreed. Hel's citadel does not seem the safest

or most welcome bedroom. "Fine. But I need to know one thing more." He inclined his head toward Silme and scarcely refrained from catching her hands. "We came to Hel for another reason. Have you seen Brendor?" An image of Silme's bumbling, young apprentice formed in Larson's mind. Time had warped the picture. The simple features of the boy he had planned to accept as his son intermingled inseparably with his recollections of his own baby brother, Timmy. "We came to rescue him, too. Where is the little guy?"

Silme winced, shifting uncomfortably. "Allerum, I'm sorry."

Concern made Larson curt. "What do you mean you're sorry? Where's Brendor?"

"Remember Bramin's spell? The one which allowed Brendor to attack you?"

Larson's chest felt pinched. He recalled the madness which had possessed Brendor's lifeless body; the image remained strong within him. He envisioned Brendor's small form punching, gouging, and wrestling with an inhuman power he had never known in life. In vivid detail, he saw the child's glazed features on a frame bloodied and shattered by Silme's magic. "What about Bramin's spell?" he asked in a strangled whisper.

Silme's tone remained reverent and soothing, despite the unpleasantness of her words. "To gain that control, Bramin would have had to destroy Brendor's soul. He's gone, Allerum. There's no means for us to see him again."

Silme's explanation struck Larson dumb. He stood in silence, ensconced in memories of the inept, halfbred child who had proved an aggravating but invaluable companion. He pictured Brendor staring abashedly at his feet while Gaelinar scraped away the beard stubble which had resulted from Brendor's incompetent attempt at a shaving spell. The image made him smile until the pain of realization swept aside his fantasies. Fury bucked against his control; he felt giddy with hatred. Yet Bramin was already dead, and Larson knew his dreams of vengeance could only remain unfulfilled.

Gaelinar stared through the entry way to Hel's barren fields and the towering gate around them. "We must go now."

Larson remained still, burdened with unresolved sadness. "Wait." He met Silme's gaze, attempting to convey with a wordless glance the support and affection he could only truly express with an embrace. "We may never see Silme again. I need some more time."

"We must go now. " Gaelinar's tone left no room for compromise. He strode through the portal.

Gaelinar's tactlessness fueled Larson's anger. He turned his back to the Hel grounds, obstinately willing to sacrifice Gaelinar's company for a few extra minutes with the woman he cherished. "Silme, I love you…"

Silme's gaze followed Gaelinar. "I know that, Allerum. I love you, too. But when Gaelinar becomes this insistent about something, he usually has good cause. There's nothing you can do for me here."

Larson plucked idly at his tunic. "Can't you just follow us back?"

Silme's lips framed a slight smile. "I'm dead, Allerum. I exist only in Hel. Even if I could pass the barriers which confine the dead, on Midgard I would still be dead. Go. Quickly now. Good-bye and good luck, hero."

Larson turned, his emotions heavy within him. After we fulfill the deed which will bring Silme back, not even my mother would call me hero. He phrased his reply carefully as he walked through the doorway of Hel's citadel into the continuous darkness of her lands. "Farewell, Silme. Until we meet again." He spun toward her one last time, but she had disappeared among the milling corpses in the red gloom of Hel's hall.

"Allerum!" Gaelinar's voice went crisp with impatience.

Larson glimpsed the Kensei near the spidery, silver outline of the gate which surrounded Hel's citadel. He trotted toward it, muttering his annoyance. "Damn gook's always right, and he knows it, too." He shouted, "I'm coming, I'm coming. Keep your…" The expression did not translate well. "… robes on," he ended lamely.

Gaelinar waited only until Larson reached the base of the wrought iron gates, then caught the bars and began to climb. As he changed handholds, rust pattered to the dirt beneath him.

Seconds later, Larson seized the crossbars and shinnied after the Kensei, as glad for his childhood antics at the local YMCA as for basic training. The metal seemed no better tended than Hel's minions. Corroded chips and jagged edges bit into his fingers. The closely-spaced posts and cross posts made for adequate hand- and boot-holds, but Hel's threat echoed through Larson's thoughts. His palms went slick with sweat, colored by the abundant rust, and he frequently paused to wipe red-orange streaks across his tunic. His head felt heavy with learned paranoia. His army training made him anxious about his elevated position, easy target for whichever of Hel's horrors might menace them. He climbed faster, catching the pitted metal only long enough to support a grip for his other hand before reaching for the next bar.

Larson's harried ascent brought him past Gaelinar to the top of Hel's gate. There, the bars swept backward over Larson's head, a further reminder of Hel's intention to prevent escapes from her citadel. He slowed and forced himself to think. Seizing a curved pole in each fist, he allowed his body to dangle, and inched his grip backward.

Gaelinar waited, carefully braced, while Larson positioned himself.

At length, Larson felt the down-curled edges beneath his fingers. He tensed, recalling that the elf body in which Freyr had placed him stood slighter and frailer than the strength-trained, human physique he had accepted as his own for the latter part of his twenty years. Gently, testing the power of his elf form, he worked his chest over the curvature, supporting his frame with his arms. He paused, weight evenly distributed across the bars. For an instant, his mind betrayed him. Imagined bullets made his skin prickle, then his thoughts transformed the illusion to a volley of black-fletched arrows. Cursing his overactive imagination he flipped his legs over the grate. Twisting, he caught toeholds, and began his descent. This world has enough ghosts without me creating my own. The self-chastisement did nothing to soothe his discomfort. Without waiting for Gaelinar, he continued down the gate. Clambering to within five feet of the ground, he loosed his hold. He struck the ground with bent knees, dropped to a crouch, and remained coiled there until Gaelinar alighted.

Gaelinar studied Larson through the mist. "Well, hero. Is it safe?"

"Very funny." Larson rose, still tensed and troubled. Enemies could come from anywhere in the darkness. The realization made him as edgy as a private on his first sniper hunt. He knew from their journey into Hel that the reddish murk would deepen to pitch within a day's travel, and complete blackness would engulf them until they had nearly reached Midgard. "And why were you in such a goddamned hurry that I couldn't spend a little more time with Silme?"

Gaelinar picked rust specks from the brocade of his swords. "Did you notice something different about Silme as compared to the other corpses?''

Equating Silme with the walking mob of death irritated Larson. He crinkled his nose. "Of course. She wasn't… disgusting. She was Silme."

"Exactly." Gaelinar continued into the darkness, still speaking. "And what caused the others to decay?"

Larson paced after Gaelinar, wondering if the Kensei wanted a biology lesson on bacteria. "What do you mean 'caused'? Death, I suppose."

"Time," Gaelinar corrected. "The longer Silme remains there, the more she will become like the others. She'll grow rancid, start to forget her life on Midgard, and her mind and body will no longer be worth salvaging."

A sharp chill of foreboding spread through Larson, and he found himself without a reply. Of course, Gaelinar is right, as always. The faster we act, the better for Silme. The discovery turned his mood bleak, and the pervasive uneasiness inspired by Hel's threat persisted.

Gaelinar and Larson had no means to judge day and night in Hel's eternal blackness. A few hours from the gate, the Kensei knelt on a flat piece of dusty ground near the banks of the river Gjoll, whose burble would become their guide through the Hel lands and into the cavernous entry way to Midgard. Gaelinar divided a ration of hard bread.

Still anxious, Larson toyed with his food. He broke his share into smaller pieces until nothing remained but crumbs which he dusted into his mouth and washed down with water.

Gaelinar sprawled across the ground.

Larson remained seated, too alert to sleep. "I'll keep watch."

The unremitting night hid Gaelinar's expression. "No need, hero. Our time has grown short, and we both need rest. No living creature could come close enough to harm us without awakening me."

"The corpses," Larson reminded.

"They're trapped within Hel's gate, without the strength or wherewithal to climb it. Those newly dead who might pass us on their way to Hel's inner chambers will be too involved with their own fates to concern themselves with ours."

Larson plucked at Silme's rankstone through the folds of his cloak. He snaked his fingers into his pocket and fondled the smoothed surfaces of Baldur's gem, attempting to define the crafted scene by the raised strokes of gold ink. The figure remained elusive. He pulled the gemstone free and studied it. He could discern only the vague outline of a horse through Hel's crushing darkness. He tossed the stone, caught it, flipped it back into his pocket, and addressed Gaelinar. "Baldur."

Gaelinar's voice wafted sleepily through the gloom. "Mmm. What about him?"

Larson slid to his stomach, his chin propped in his hands. "How come he seems so much more…" He struggled for the word. "… well, divine than the other gods?"

There was a short silence while Gaelinar pondered Larson's question. "What do you mean by divine?"

Larson considered. "I don't exactly know. He didn't actually do anything, but he seemed so… pure… and good." He thought some more. "He brought back memories of Christmas masses and Sunday school." He laughed at his own words, aware Gaelinar could have no knowledge of the events he had just mentioned.

Gaelinar's reply was confident. "Hero, you plague yourself with illusions. Just because someone evokes memories of goodness does not mean he embodies them. You live in a different world now than the one you knew. Be careful. Baldur was the most beloved of the gods, but purity and charity are rare in a religion where the greatest ambition is to die in glorious combat while killing as many enemies as possible. Your thoughts have become clouded by what you would like to see. With age, after many years of looking inside yourself, you will gradually see through the delusions which hide reality."

Larson let his arms slide to the ground and cradled his head on his elbow. He read the wisdom in Gaelinar's words. It had always seemed easy to envision all women with the name Vicky as voluptuous, all Toms as sports heroes, and all Jeffreys as fat and whiny baseti on his experiences in high school. But Larson still felt it necessary to equate his past and present experiences in many circumstances. At least gravity and physics seemed to function in this world as they did at home, and he had already staked his life on his scant knowledge of both. How does Gaelinar come up with this stuff so fast? Larson sighed. "Do you have an answer for everything?"

Gaelinar replied without hesitation. "No."

"No?" Gaelinar's denial surprised Larson. "What don't you have an answer for?"

Kensei Gaelinar caught Larson's forearm without groping through the darkness. "Anything I don't care about, hero."

Several thoughts converged on Larson. Caught between his awe over Gaelinar's vast knowledge and contempt for the Kensei's smugness, he attempted a carefully considered and well-constructed retort. But, instead, he only managed to blurt, "You're pretty pompous sometimes."

Gaelinar loosed Larson's arm. "Perhaps." He rolled to his side, turning his back to Larson. "I told you I'm not a hero."

Not a hero. Larson made no response, and his world went silent as death. He pictured Gaelinar, swathed in cammie, hunched behind an M-79 launcher and flinging grenades like a madman. No way. Larson amended his own imaginings. Gaelinar wouldn't hide behind a gun. He'd be in the front of every combat. He'd volunteer for every special mission. And no one could touch him. In his spare time, he'd rescue children from burning slums and make the New York subway system safe for all humanity. Larson puckered his lips and caught himself about to whistle "God Bless America." He suppressed a laugh. And this man has the gall to call me hero!

Larson shook his head at the ridiculousness of his current train of thought. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But his exchange with Hel echoed through his mind. Silme died because it was time for a law-abiding creature of her strength to die. To bring her back to Midgard, you would need to open a place for her. Larson rolled to his side, but the memory followed him. He heard Gaelinar's explanation, more jarring for its emotionless tone. Hel has proposed we find someone, a person of Silme's means and bent, willing take her place in Hel. Larson tried to empty his mind enough to sleep. He forced himself to picture curly-coated sheep jumping a battered fence row. But their whiteness muted to Baldur's gleaming visage, soft and pure and pleading. And Hel's final words returned, unbidden. Hel was never designed to keep men out.

Larson twisted to his other side. Damn you, Larson. You've dozed through worse than this. But sleep remained elusive and distant. Rolling to his back, he opened his eyes. Hel had no stars to watch; Larson saw only an impenetrable blackness without end. Even the shrill of insects remained conspicuously absent.

The dark, restless night became a dark, restless day. Breakfast sat like a doughy lump in Larson's gut, and he refused lunch and dinner. A steady march brought Gae-linar and Larson deeper into Hel's pitch when they finally stopped to make camp.

Larson consoled himself with realization. At least we've come one day closer to Midgard. Surely tonight I'll feel tired enough to rest. But sleep remained just beyond Larson's reach. He tossed from one position to the next, hyperalert and plagued with memory.

Gaelinar tolerated Larson's grumbled curses for several hours. At length, he spoke. "Something troubling you, hero?"

Larson snorted. "I can't sleep."

"You're trying too hard. Let it come to you."

"Yeah, sure." Larson felt too irritable for glib advice or amenities. "Maybe I'll read a book or something."

Gaelinar took no notice of Larson's sarcasm. "As you wish."

"As I wish." Larson stared into the darkness. "You have a flashlight?"

"Close your eyes. Concentrate on something you know well."

Larson rolled to his side. He waited until his annoyance faded, then revived the image of a Bronx sunset. Colored bands of light wafted from behind the jagged row of building silhouettes. Car headlights sheened from the skyscrapers and disappeared, their horns blaring even throughout the night. The familiar scene relaxed Larson enough to fall into a deep and troubled sleep. Within half an hour he was dreaming.

Larson wandered through a graveyard obscured by haze. Moist wisps of fog wound across the weathered, gray tombstones like ghosts, rose and disappeared into the mist. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. Crickets trilled, unseen, between the crypts. Birdsong bounced along the oaks which lined the perimeter, and a dog howled in the distance. Dried and withered flowers sagged across the graves, and the earth lay wet with the spattered tears of a million mourners. In his dream, Larson stopped before a headstone. He cleared slime from the letters with his fingers, and read the words inscribed:

Here lies Al Larson,

Harbinger of Doom,

Slayer of the Human Race.

May he rest in peace, A luxury he did not afford his followers.

A chill breeze stabbed through Larson's tunic, sending him into a spasm of shivering. "Oh, God. I didn't…"

A resonating voice interrupted. "But you did, Allerum. And you killed my father.''

In his nightmare, Larson whirled to face a wolf tall as a horse, black above and white beneath. The fur of its spine and hackles bristled. Its eyes flashed red fire. Its presence seemed to fill Larson's mind; the graveyard vanished around them.

"W-what?" Larson stammered.

The wolf exposed a mouthful of sword-sharp, yellowed teeth. "Al Larson, then? So be it. Allerum Godslayer, you destroyed my father, but you can't slay the force he represented. Soon you will die beneath my paws. For tonight, you will know only chaos and terror."

"Wait!" Larson started.

The wolf raised a threatening paw. For a moment, Larson glimpsed the carefully woven web of nerves which composed his own thoughts. Then white hot pain crashed through his head. His vision exploded to crimson-black. He stood in frightened awe as a chunk of vine-streaked jungle dissolved into a scorched plain. Smoke slashed the heavens, twining like wraiths through a sky dark with violence. Blindly, the wolf paw jabbed into Larson's thoughts again, jarring the elf like a physical force. He stood before the blackened skeleton of a Huey Cobra. Charred bodies hung, like puppets, from its frame. Shadowy forms low-crawled across Larson's peripheral vision. Mentally, he chased them, and his pursuit flung him into a limitless spiral of illusion.

Desperate and dizzied, Larson cast for some landmark on which to ground his reason. The wolf's muzzle drew into tight focus, slick with slaver. It struck again. A machine gun blasted and howled until its barrel glowed red. Then sudden, sharp pain slammed Larson to conscious-ness. He sat up with a cry of alarm. The gunfire and the wolf dissolved into Hel's lightless world. Larson's face stung.

Gaelinar clapped a reassuring hand to Larson's shoulder. "Bad dream, hero?"

"Nightmare." Larson rubbed his smarting cheeks, wondering why he still felt physical pain. "Did you hit me?"

Gaelinar's voice went soft with discomfort. "Sorry. You didn't respond to shaking."

"Sorry." Larson felt stupid apologizing, but he could think of nothing better to say. His heart was racing. The visions still seemed vivid. He harbored no wish to return to sleep and more of his dream. He was disappointed in his self-control; it seemed the flashbacks had recurred. And there was still something frighteningly real about his tormentor. "Gaelinar, does Hel have a wolf of some sort?"

"A wolf?" Gaelinar's grip tightened. "Not one I know of."

Larson shook his head, plagued by half-forgotten recollections of the Norse mythology book he had read and quoted in his bunker in Vietnam. "Isn't there some sort of demon wolf or devil dog?" The memory evaded him. "Damn it. I remember reading about a dog with a name like Hel pooch… or Hel mutt… or something." He laughed at his unintentional pun, dampening the brooding tension inspired by his dream. "It's supposed to guard the entrance to Hel."

"Hel hound," Gaelinar corrected. "Garmr. You're correct. I had forgotten."

"Forgotten!" Larson was incensed. "You recall every mistake I've ever made. When I misplace my feet in a kata, you mention each individual time it happened before, never failing to include the time, the place, and anything else even vaguely related to the practice. You remember every block, stroke, and parry of every fight you've ever seen. But you forgot the Hel hound?"

Gaelinar released Larson's shoulder. "It didn't seem important."

Not for the first time, Gaelinar's logic was lost on Larson. "Not important! A man-eating beast bounding through the darkness to kill us in our sleep didn't seem worth mentioning? Not even casually? Like…" Larson simulated Gaelinar's voice in conversation. "So, Allerum. If a wolf the size of a Buick comes by tonight to eat us, you might want to wake me."

Gaelinar remained unruffled. "First, Allerum, Garmr is tied at the entrance to Hel, not running freely. Second, he is a dog, not a wolf. And third…" He left a thoughtful pause. "What is a 'Byu Wick'?"

Larson latched on to Gaelinar's second point. "Garmr's a dog?"

"I don't know why you seem so surprised. We passed him in Hel's entry way."

"We did?" Larson blinked, wishing he sounded less careless. "But I didn't see…"

"I did," Gaelinar interrupted. "But I could understand how an elf with busy thoughts might miss a mongrel of deepest black lying still in the darkness. Garmr had no interest in us. It is his job to keep the dead from escaping, not entering. He ignored us, so I ignored him."

That explains the animal smell at Hel's entrance. Larson shook his head as the creature from his dream returned to his mind easily. It wasn't all black. And it didn't look like a mongrel. "Gaelinar, does Hel also keep a wolf?"

Gaelinar passed Larson a handful of dry cheese. "If you're going to keep me awake, we might as well make this an early morning. As far as I know, Hel has no wolf. Why do you ask?"

"Without sounding stupid," Larson began, well aware he did, "a wolf played a major role in my dream. I think it said I killed its father." Larson bit into a chunk of cheese, awaiting Gaelinar's laughter.

Gaelinar's robes rustled as he rose. "Perhaps it was not a dream."

Food muffled Larson's voice "Don't kid around like that." He swallowed. "Don't be ridiculous. I've never shot a wolf in my life. I've never even hit one with a Byu Wick. I suppose I really went back to Vietnam, too?"

Gaelinar offered an arm and helped Larson to his feet.

"Silme used to talk about how you didn't have any mind…"

Larson found it unamusing that Gaelinar chose that particular moment to pause.

"… barriers, and how anyone with the power and knowledge can enter your thoughts. Loki sired other offspring than Hel, among them a wolf named Fenrir."

Larson choked on a piece of cheese. He coughed until tears rose in his eyes. He recalled how Bramin had plucked the most painful memories from Larson's mind, inciting them into riotous detail. Loki and Vidarr had battled among the coiled and tangled circuitry of his thoughts, and Silme had once used them as a portal. Larson no longer harbored any doubt. Fenrir's mental intrusion seemed every bit as real as Bramin's. "That wolf claimed it would kill me," he said hoarsely.

"Let it try." Gaelinar shrugged with a maddeningly cold courage. "It's too foolish to succeed. Its best weapon was surprise, and it's already given that away."

Larson patted his hip, now more acutely aware of his missing sword. Will the killing never end? Over the ceaseless bubbling of the river Gjoll, Larson thought he heard an answering howl.