Godslayer

Prologue

"I! I who fashioned myself a sorcerer or an angel, who dispensed with all morality, I have come back to the earth."

– Arthur Rimbaud, Adieu

The three mailed guards who ushered Bramin into the king's court regarded him with cautious curiosity. No one dared touch him. Nor did they question the cloth parcel which swung from his belt. Offending any wizard could spell instant death, and the jade stone clamped in the black-nailed claw which tipped Bramin's staff identified him as a sorcerer of high rank.

As they passed through the double set of oak doors, Bramin fought to keep his head high. The battle he had just survived and the enchantments of transport weakened him both mentally and physically. His aura had dulled to a flicker of gold and, though he had nothing to fear in Ashemir's throne room, he hoped the king's magician would not recognize his fatigue. It was simply a matter of pride.

The carpeted path to the king's throne seemed to stretch for miles. The court watched the procession in a vast silence which jagged Bramin's already taut nerves. A comma of black hair slipped into his eye, and he flicked it back with an anger that sapped much of his remaining strength. Weakness of any sort enraged Bramin, and it reminded him of his reckless squandering of power. Over-confidence had cost many of his colleagues their lives.

"Step forward and name yourself." King Ashemir's command broke the silence, and tense whispers followed it. Ire rose momentarily at this ritual formality. The king knew Bramin well. The magician had been born and raised in the royal city, the product of a rape. His father was one of the dark elves, the last faery creature seen in this part of the world. As a child, Bramin paid for his willowy figure and dark complexion with jeerings and ridicule.

Bramin came forward, unhurried. He nodded briefly at the advisor beside the king, glared at the court sorcerer, who regarded him with both envy and amusement, and bowed pleasantly to the king. "I am Bramin, Dragonrank of the Jade Claw." He thumped the base of his staff on the floor for emphasis. "I have performed your quest. The giant, Redselr, lies dead at my hands." He thumbed the sack at his belt. Enervation and anxiety caused him to misjudge position and strength, and the tie snapped. The bag fell to the floor, and the giant's head rolled free to the king's feet.

King Ashemir recoiled with a gasp. The court sorcerer turned an unbecoming shade of green. Behind Bramin, strained whispers broke to cries of fear and amazement. Guards scrambled to maintain order, others ran for the abomination which seemed to stare at their king with glazed eyes.

With a word and a gesture, Bramin caused the head to slide back into its bag. The effort slammed against him like a wall, stealing his breath. His life aura flickered dangerously. A high-pitched ringing filled his head, making the voices around him seem distant. Yet Bramin retained control over his languishing muscles. Gradually his mind cleared, and he cursed himself brutally. He could have let the guards clear his mistake away or physically done so himself. Pride alone goaded him to recklessness, and he had nearly paid its price.

The king cleared his throat. His look of fear dissolved, masked by a pleasant smile. "You've earned your reward, Bramin Halfman. Five chests of gold, a parcel of land, or the hand of my daughter, Halfrija. The choice is yours."

The pronouncement of Halfrija's name made Bramin smile despite his exhaustion and indignation. "I need neither money nor power, for I have both already. But for Halfrija's hand, I would stop the sun from setting and the moon from rising. I would still the tides or steal the hammer of Thor."

The court passed opinion in a gentle hum of conversation. The king bit his lip against an ecstatic grin, but his blue eyes gleamed with excitement as they met Bramin's glowing red glare. The court sorcerer looked stricken. All three men knew Bramin would need to abandon the School of Dragonrank, since one of its primary requirements was eleven months per year of training on the school's grounds. For the king, it meant a new court magician with power beyond any of his predecessors. Only those blessed with the claw symbol could join the Dragonranks. Its devotees were the most capable users of the art, and the most able among them became omnipotent lords or directly served gods. "Summon Halfrija," Ashemir commanded his guards. They rushed to obey.

Bramin knew marriage would force him to sacrifice a future of ultimate power for domesticity and the banality of court proceedings. He lowered his head, staring at the claw-shaped scar which puckered the black skin on the back of his right hand. The symbol had appeared at the age of ten along with the first traces of the life aura which glimmered about him, visible only to those versed in magic. His mother and human half siblings sent Bramin away that year. So he traded the gibes of the citizens of Forste -Mar for their respect and the grueling discipline of the Dragonrank.

A person marked with the claw was a rare enough occurrence in any town, and Forste -Mar received its second surprise three years later. Bramin's eldest half sister, Silme, was similarly stamped by destiny. She joined the Dragonrank, which pleased Bramin. It gave him a familiar companion on his infrequent breaks from studying enchantments or practicing swordsmanship. And he had always liked Silme best. Many times she had dried his tears or soothed his deadly rages when children grew cruel with their taunts or citizens wounded his pride with derision.

The doors swung open, interrupting his memories, and the court again fell silent as the guards ushered Halfrija before them. A dress of blue silk with interlacing patterns of silver tastefully outlined her delicate frame. Her face was fair with artistically high cheek bones. Her wide-set eyes were the pale blue of cornflowers. At the sight of the lady he loved, all other thought fled Bramin.

His heart pounded, pumping warmth and desire through his body. He stared without speaking, love-blinded to her taut-lipped pall of fear.

The king rose from his throne. "Bramin Jade-claw, you see my daughter, the Lady Halfrija. On Midsummer's Day, I sanction the marriage between you. May you live long together and prosper!"

Halfrija opened her mouth to speak, but her words were lost beneath the cheers of the crowd. As Bramin turned his back to the king and trod the walkway toward Halfrija, she shrank back. Her hands clenched to bloodless fists, and her soprano pierced the dying shouts of the court. "Wait!"

Bramin stopped before her trembling form.

"I would test your love," she announced shrilly. "It is my right."

Breath broke from Bramin in an angry hiss. He had risked his life for her once and would gladly do so again. But her entreaty was an affront. While it was indeed her privilege, no princess had invoked the law since its enactment three centuries past.

Halfrija continued. "You must fight a champion of my choosing to the death in the arena at midmorn. Should you survive, my hand is yours." She shivered, and her voice acquired a strange, droning quality. "You may select your weapon, but use of sorceries or enchanted swords will free me from my promise."

Struck to the heart by the maliciousness of her challenge, Bramin dropped all pretense of dignity. He knelt before Halfrija with the true respect he had denied the king. "As you wish, my lady. May the court hear my vow to kill or be killed by your champion without use of magic. "

Halfrija's mouth twitched to a cruel smile which swiftly disappeared.

Stiffly, Bramin turned. Fatigue and hopelessness wove a black curtain across his vision. As he retreated along the carpeted walkway he stumbled, and the glares of courtiers sapped him of all remaining grace. It seemed an eternity before he reached the far end of the hall. A guard swung open the carved oak doors, and Bramin passed through them. The portals clanged closed behind him, silencing the whispered condemnations of Ashemir's court as completely as death.

Outside, wind flung strands of matted hair into Bramin's face as if to mock him. Despair rose to self-pity, then flared to righteous anger. His journey through the familiar streets of his childhood seemed as one through a tunnel. The dirt roads blurred to the dark obscurity of disinterest. Peasants stared or scuttled from his path, unnoticed. A horse cart driver hurled epithets at the dark sorcerer who paced the cobbles at the center of the alley. But at a flick of Bramin's hand, the driver stemmed his tide of oaths and swerved to a roadside ditch. They fear me. For the first time since he had left to kill the giant, Bramin smiled with cruel satisfaction. My life aura has dwindled to nearly nothing, yet those who once scorned me now shy from a gesture. Still, for Halfrija's love, he would weather the gibes of peasants gladly.

The setting sun lanced red light through the guttering remnant of Bramin's aura. Utterly alone in his fury despite the dispersing throng of Forste -Mar's citizenry, he plodded to his mother's home. He opened the simple plank door, stepped across its threshold, and slammed it closed behind him. Despite his effort, the portal slid shut with an impotent click which betrayed his weakness. Rage flared anew.

Despite the death of Bramin's stepfather several months earlier, the cottage had changed little since his childhood. The sod-chinked walls enclosed a simply-furnished room separated from his mother's bedchamber by a patched, blue curtain. Silme sat before a blazing hearth fire, a tomcat nestled in the folds of her robe, while a brother and sister begged stories of distant lands and Dragonrank training. As Bramin entered, his mother rose from a chipped wooden bench, her youngest child cradled to her breast. "Bramin?"

Bramin gave no explanation. He spared neither glance nor words for the mother and half siblings who followed his march to the loft ladder with questioning stares. Anger lent the sorcerer strength. He caught the lowest rungs in callused palms and climbed to his sleeping quarters with a deliberate-ness designed to override fatigue-inspired clumsiness. Once in the loft, he pitched onto a pallet, oblivious to the bells and balls left by the child who occupied this bed since Bramin's departure to pursue the skills of Dragonrank. Tears burned his eyes. Repeatedly, his fist pounded the pillow, scattering straw among the toys.

Behind Bramin, the ladder groaned. Silme's sweet voice wound through the loft. "Brother, are you well?"

Bramin whirled like a cornered beast. Inappropriately, his malice channeled against the half sister who had comforted him in youth, the one woman he knew would not condemn him. "Nothing's changed, Silme! The citizens of Forste -Mar still hate me. Halfrija spurns my love." He struck the pallet again.

"Stop!" Silme's voice grew uncharacteristically harsh. "Before you embed your soul in self-pity and accuse me of lying, tell me what happened in Ashemir's court."

Bramin sucked air through pursed lips, then exhaled in a long sigh. He recounted the scenario in the king's presence, his overwhelming exhaustion, Ashemir's eager determination, and Halfrija's cruelty. As he concluded the tale, he surrendered to the cold grip of hopelessness. His words emerged in a thin whine. "While vestiges of dignity remain, I must leave Forste -Mar and never return. I cannot bear the sight of Halfrija's beauty, knowing her love will never belong to me."

Silme lowered herself to the pallet beside her half brother. She squeezed his knee reassuringly. "Don't talk that way, Bramin. Your loves are intense. Your hatreds fester. In youth, you would damn all children for a single taunt and despise every man of Forste -Mar for a glare. Now, Bramin, would you condemn yourself to exile to avoid a challenge?"

"A challenge!" Bramin shook free from Silme's grip. "Halfrija degraded me by calling upon a privilege rejected for centuries. Even Queen Ag- nete, who wrote the law, never invoked it for herself or her daughters."

Silme's reply came soft as a cat's purr. "But Halfrija knew you could fulfill it."

"What?"

Silme framed a smile of triumph. "Halfrija doesn't hate you. For the last decade you have trained in a distant land eleven months of the year. Yet Halfrija never married in your absence."

Bramin scowled, unconvinced.

Silme rose from the pallet and knelt before

Bramin. She caught his hands. "Here a woman is judged by the worth of her man. She must make certain her husband can protect her from bandits and raiders."

Silme's blue-tinged aura dwarfed Bramin's, so dimmed was it with exhaustion. The jade rank sorcerer grunted. "You know I can."

Silme concurred. "I know. But magic seems more alien to Halfrija than the sharp, dark features and red-hued eyes she has learned to accept. She understands swordplay."

Bramin wavered.

Silme pressed. "Who is the best warrior in this town?"

"Me?"

Silme stood. "We both know none of Ashemir's knights can defeat you. Halfrija knows it, too."

As anger dispersed, fatigue crowded Bramin. Though Silme's explanation seemed implausible, his desire for the princess allowed him to believe. "Then why:?"

Silme interrupted. "Because she's insecure. She needs to justify your appearance by displaying your talents in public. Do you find Halfrija's hand more valuable than the life of a soldier?"

Realization drove Bramin's voice to a whisper. "Far more." He sprawled across the pallet, drained of all emotion except the early, fine stirrings of hope. As Silme crept back to the ladder, sleep overtook him. Yet, despite his half sister's reassurances, the memory of Halfrija's fleeting sneer haunted Bramin's dreams.

Rest restored the vitality drained by Bramin's battle with the giant. As he dressed in a simple tunic and breeks, many thoughts plagued him. As skilled with a sword as with magic, Bramin knew from his one month a year at home that no warrior of Forste -Mar could best him. Unless some strange and highly capable swordsman had joined them in the past year, he could not be defeated.

Bramin fastened his sword belt and drew the blade from its leather hip scabbard. He smiled as the radiance of his restored life aura bounced blue highlights from the steel. He felt strong, mentally and physically. Striding from his mother's cottage, he let the door swing shut behind him and trotted through the streets to the cleared patch of castle grounds. Guards passed cautiously about him, attentive to their duties. With magically enhanced hearing, Bramin invaded their conversations, but the sentries seemed as curious about the princess' champion as he himself.

Bramin executed an elegant series of sword feints. The hilt felt comfortable in his grip, metal wrapped with rough leather which would not slip from his sweat-slicked palm. He stopped, not wishing to tire himself before the match. His love for Princess Halfrija had begun as a childhood crush. He sent flowers and trinkets. Though she acknowledged none of them and regarded him with the same scorn as the other citizens of Forste -Mar, her reluctance only strengthened his passion. During his vacations from the School of Dragonrank, he wooed her. Soon, his love became an all-encompassing desire.

The sun shouldered over the horizon. Citizens drifted toward the southern side of the castle grounds where the arena towered over the quarters of guards and servants. Finely-dressed courtiers strode in regal pairs. Peasants in worn homespun crowded toward the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the combatants. Armored guards tried to maintain some order in the milling chaos with little success.

From habit, Bramin checked his own excitement. As he walked toward the arena, he took his staff in hand. It would help him through the throng, for men rightly shied from its touch. He used it like a walking stick, though none would question his youth or vigor; even those too foolish to fear the power of his magic could not fail to notice the unearthly aura of evil inherited from his father.

The citizens of Forste -Mar shrank from the slim, dark wizard who strode purposefully to the door of the stadium. Despite the demoralizing inevitability of combat, Bramin gleaned some amusement from their awe. Years ago, these same men and women would have spit on him.

The guards gestured Bramin inside, and the crowd closed in behind him, hoping for a glimpse of the combat. Noblemen lined the balconies and applauded politely at his entrance. Bramin leaned his staff against the lowest stands, walked to center ring, and examined his audience. He raised a hand in greeting to the king and queen. Ashemir waved, then shrugged in apology. Halfrija's seat was unoccupied, and Bramin supposed she was coaching her champion. The thought formed a painful ball in his throat. He felt utterly alone. Now, before Forste -Mar's masses, Silme's reassurances rang as hollow as in youth when she swore her playmates did not hate him even as they hurled rocks and challenges. Anxiety allowed Bramin to forget the times she had stroked his hair until he ceased to tremble. He knew nothing of how she had confronted his tormentors with their inhumanity and made them blush with humility.

Thus reminded of the townspeople's hostility, Bramin's will faltered. The noise of the peasants changed pitch. The door swung open, and Halfrija entered. She wore a suit of leather far too large for her tiny frame. She grasped a long sword in both fists, and it leaned awkwardly.

The audience erupted in riot. The queen fainted. All color drained from the king, and he sat, rigid, like an ivory statue. Bramin met Halfrija halfway into the ring. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Her eyes blazed with madness. "I am my champion. Kill or be killed," she chanted like a priest before a sacrifice. She thrust the sword clumsily.

Bramin's mouth went painfully dry. He sidestepped and caught both of Halfrija's wrists, drawing her too close for combat. If anyone in the audience spoke or moved, Bramin did not notice. His blood-colored eyes probed the princess for answers, but true to his word he avoided magic. "Halfrija:"

She spat in his face. "Beast! I would rather die than marry you."

Halfrija's words pained like blows. Bramin's grip tightened on her flesh till she winced. His voice was rambling and plaintive as a lost child. "Why? Oh, why, Halfrija? I've the power to grant your every desire. A thousand kings have offered great treasures for me to come serve them. Yet I refused them all for you. I love you, Halfrija."

Halfrija's hands whitened as her face flushed with ugly rage. "I'll not be disdained by my own people because a dark creature loves me." She added cruelly, "If, indeed, your kind can know love."

Bramin caught his breath with a sob. "Now I know love and pain." Desperately, he spouted Silme's trite comforts as if they were truths. "The people of Forste -Mar don't hate me. They mistreated me as a child from ignorance. But many years have passed since:"

"You stupid animal!" Halfrija's voice rose in pitch and volume. "We hate you now more than ever. We would kick and spit, even slay you if we didn't fear your power. You're no man, you're a beast. Worse than a beast, for a rat is content with its lot and you have the audacity to pretend you're human!"

Slapped by Halfrija's cruelty, Bramin made a pained noise. His grip went lax. "Halfrija:"

Her sword struck. Though too near her target for an effective strike, her blade nicked Bramin's side. The razor edge opened his tunic. Blood beaded his skin. Bramin watched in fascination as a single drop slid down his breeks and splashed a tiny, scarlet circle in the sand.

He looked up as Halfrija raised her sword like a club and lashed at his face. Tears stung his eyes. He stood, hopeless and uncaring, as the blade cut above his head. Just before the blow fell, self-righteous fury warmed his blood. The will to live and claim vengeance on all who had ever wronged him replaced the anguish roused by Halfrija's scorn. He sprang aside. Her sword whisked through air where he had stood and hammered the packed sand with a crash.

Off-balance, Halfrija staggered. Bramin caught her by the throat. He drew her so close their faces nearly touched. Her cheeks and eyes paled with fear, which gave Bramin a morbid satisfaction. The legacy of his dark ancestors rose hot in his veins. "Too good for me, lady?" His voice transformed to an ancient croak of evil. "You're not too good for death." His hands knotted convul-sively, cartilage crumbled beneath his fingers, and Halfrija fell limp against him.

Blood trickled from the corner of her thin lips, staining Bramin's hand. He looked up quickly to a condemning horde. A great shout rose from the stands, and men descended upon him. "Stop!" screamed Bramin. His cry was lost in the rising din. Clutching Halfrija's body with one arm, he raised the other. Spell words rushed from his throat. His life aura flared to blinding white. Smoke broiled from his fingers and rolled like fog across the arena floor. It struck the first wave of courtiers and roared to flame.

Screams filled Bramin's ears like song. The courtiers' charge was transformed to chaotic flight. Enchantments rolled from the half- elfs tongue. Bramin's staff leapt to his hand. Its jade stone winked once, staining the roiling magics an eerie green-blue. And when the works of sorcery cleared, all that remained of Bramin and Halfrija were five drops of blood on the sands of the arena,

Stiffly, Halfrija let the last of her garments fall to the floor of Bramin's quarters at the School of Dragonrank. She stood before him, naked. He had imagined her unclothed so many times in his dreams and desires, yet now the sight only sickened him. Her slimness transformed to a cadaverous frailty. Her breasts sagged, violet with pooled blood. Her eyes were hollow and dead. All his magic could not restore life, only simulate it. This was not Halfrija, just a crude animation which would perform as Bramin wished, without will or knowledge of its lot.

Black rage engulfed Bramin. His life aura rose to off white as he channeled his energies. Magic lanced Halfrija's body as it fell, and the pale form crumbled to dust. Bitterness grew like a cancer. Bramin rose and paced. With each jagged pass, his fist crashed against the smoothed-stone walls. "Hate me, do they?" he screamed at the ceiling. "Hate spawns hate."

He stared at the charred pile which had once been the person of the princess of Forste -Mar. One kick scattered the ashes around his quarters. " Hatespawn I am, and so will I remain. But all mankind shall pay for their abhorrence." His thoughts shifted slightly. For a moment he pictured his half sister Silme, as beautiful as Halfrija and in many ways as cruel.

Bramin paced again. "It was she who told me they meant no harm. She blinded me to their treacheries and laughed behind my back. She taught me the torture of love as though it were a pleasure and held me from my vengeance. She goaded me to destroy my love and shame myself before Forste -Mar's peasants. It's too late to sunder Halfrija's soul, but not Silme's. She will die in torment and the manworld of Midgard with her!"

Light flashed through his quarters, dimming his life aura to dirty yellow as another's power pulsed against him. Bramin turned with a hiss. Before him stood a man more beautiful than the woman he had loved. Fine gold locks fell to his shoulders. His dark blue eyes twinkled with cruel mischief. He wore a strangely-tailored costume interwoven with magics which shimmered as he moved. Arms folded across his chest, the stranger stared at Bramin with a grin of arrogant scorn.

"Die, human!" screamed the half-man. Power streamed from his fingers, slowed, and fizzled to sparks a foot before the handsome stranger.

The man laughed, sweet as rain. "Very pretty, Hatespawn. But you've much to learn."

Bramin glared. "Who are you?"

The stranger yawned, and his shirt sparkled so it nearly blinded Bramin. "I am called by many names." He chuckled. "Some even I am too polite to speak. I am Loki, first father of lies, thief of Brisingamen , evil companion of Odin, slanderer and cheat of the gods, and father of the Fenris Wolf."

Bramin's scowl wilted. His throat went dry, and he swallowed several times before attempting speech. "A god? But why:?"

"Did you mean your threats, Hatespawn?" Loki frowned accusingly. "Or were they the idle ram- blings of self-pity? Decide quickly. I don't waste time with fools."

Anger blazed anew. Bramin's fists clenched so tightly his fingernails bit red welts in the palms. Though sorely embittered, he chose his words with care. "I never speak idly. I will cause the downfall of man."

The corners of Loki's mouth twitched upward, and his voice lilted. "And the gods as well if you serve my cause."

Bramin started. "Gods have enlisted the aid of high claw Dragonrank. But I am only jade. Why me?"

"Because, Hatespawn." Loki's inflection almost made the title sound pleasant. "You will rise quickly through the ranks. Already the master prepares your staff for garnet. And:" The god leaned casually against the stone wall. "You take your swordplay as seriously as your magic. I've use of that."

Bramin focused on the shimmering patterns of Loki's shirt. "It will still take time," he said sullenly.

"I've plenty of it." Loki grinned wickedly. "And so have you. It would be wise for us both to learn patience."

Bramin scowled, saying nothing.

Loki continued. "Save your vengeance. I've something for you to remember our bargain in the meantime." The god bowed his head and his golden hair fell about his cheeks like waterfalls, obscuring his face. His hands crossed before him, fingers spread. Slowly, he drew his hands apart as he uttered sharp, harsh syllables of summoning.

Loki's fingers curled. Suddenly, his wrists flicked outward. A globe of blackness winked into place before him, marred only by the silver lines of sorcery from Loki's shirt and Bramin's aura. The ball stretched to a rod-like shape and dropped in to Loki's hands. It was a sword.

Loki raised his head. "Take it."

Bramin bit his lower lip. Hesitantly, he took a step forward and met Loki's eyes. They were chill blue, with the same contempt as the men of Forste -Mar. Anger made the half-breed more confident. He strode forward and seized the sword.

Its sheath was carved ebony. Its hilt was split leather-wrapped steel studded with fire opals, and it fit Bramin's hand comfortably. With a quick pull, he freed the blade, slim and silver, polished so fine its glow mocked enchantments. Near its hilt, runes flickered, effused with red light. For a moment, their meaning was clear to him. Then they muddled to obscurity and his memory of them as well. Bramin muttered a spell in frustration, but the writings remained just beyond com- prehension. "What does it say?" he demanded, hating his inability.

Loki smiled. "It's the sword's name, Helblindi. And its purpose. Your vengeance begins when the writings become clear to you. Know only that men will flee from your blade, and the braver the man, the more he must fear it."

" Helblindi." Bramin raised his brows in question. "Isn't that the name of another god?"

"Very perceptive, Hellspawn. Very perceptive." As suddenly as he had arrived, Loki was gone. All that remained was a rumbling of laughter which echoed between the walls.