Godslayer

Chapter 1

Dragonslayer

"For those whom God to ruin has designed, he fits for fate, and first destroys their mind."

– Dryden, The Hind and the Panther

Death hung like an omnipresent shadow over the fire base at Aku Nanh, Vietnam. A wave of heat rustled a circle of thirty grass huts and drummed against the quonset of messhall and infirmary. It carried the reek of burning excrement but no relief from the broiling sun.

Inside a shelter of wood frame and bamboo, a corporal slammed his cards on the table, and Al Larson looked up from his book.

"Four jacks." A grin split the corporal's owlish face as he raked in a tidy sum of cash.

"Shit," said Jamie Fisher, a streetwise black from south Philadelphia. "Big Man knows rank, eh, blood?" He glanced teasingly at Tom Dragelin who had been kneeling on the floor for the last quarter hour. Larson awaited Dragelin's inevitable retort, but the boy only continued his prayer.

"Throw in a word for me." Gavin Smith gath-ered the cards with a gesture of annoyance. "I'm losing."

Dragelin loosed a purse-lipped grunt of disapproval. Larson swung his leg over the side of his bunk. "Won't help. You really want to win, learn to deal off the bottom of the deck like Steve." He gestured at the corporal.

The room fell silent. The corporal's dark eyes went cold as he glared at Larson.

"What you readin ', Al? How to Win Friends?" Fisher picked his teeth with the corner of a card.

Gavin rose. He looked at the book in Larson's hand and laughed. "It's a text book. We're stuck in hell, and he's readin ' a goddamn text book."

"Hey, this is major theology." Larson set the book aside. "Christianity's mixed up. It's fine for people at home, but what good does it do us? What good did it do Danny?"

"Stop!" The corporal's single word was a threat.

Larson's eyes burned as he fought tears. Though only twenty, he was the oldest of the group except for the corporal.

Dragelin turned toward the wall.

Gavin dealt the cards. "We're dodgin ' bullets while Danny's in heaven havin ' tea with God. Come on, let's finish the game."

"Wait. Hear me out." Larson ran a hand through the tangled growth of his blond hair. "What's the fundamental teaching of Christianity?"

Fisher lit a cigarette. "Do unto others."

"Peace, brotherhood, and the word of God," called Dragelin from the corner.

"Exactly." Larson smiled as Dragelin stepped into his well-prepared trap. "How much of that do you see here?"

Gavin picked up his cards, swore, and slapped them to the table. "I got a piece just yesterday."

"We got ourself a brotherhood right here," added Fisher.

Gavin finished. "And Tom'll pass God's word, won't you, buddy?" He laughed.

Larson spoke over the snickers. "We're worshiping a peace god during war. Doesn't work. The Vikings had some real war gods. Get a load of this." He raised the book and read aloud. " 'Stir war!' cried Odin. 'Set men at each other's throats. Whether they wish it or not, have men rip one another to pieces. And when they lay steeped in their blood, have them rise to fight again.' "

Dragelin crossed himself.

The corporal scowled, hand over his cards.

" Fuckin '-A, man," said Fisher. "You're crazy."

"What's your point?" asked Gavin, obviously unimpressed.

For effect, Larson stood to deliver his philosophy. "Odin signified wisdom in Norse mythology. He wasn't even their war god. The real war gods helped their side in battle. That's what we need. Not some pansy who lets people smack both cheeks."

The corporal gathered the cards with a frown. "Ten o'clock, time for patrol. Draw. Lowest two on point."

The five men grew grave as each slipped a card from the deck. Larson, frowned at his three. The others displayed their draws. Gavin flipped his six. "Your war gods didn't help us much. You and me play target."

Larson forced humor around the lump growing in his throat. "On the contrary. What could please a war god more than placing his follower in the most dangerous position. " He donned his helmet and gripped his M-16. "Sorry about what I said, Steve."

The corporal waved a hand. Everything was forgiven before a patrol.

Al Larson and Gavin Smith left the hut first and stepped into the withering heat of afternoon. A football hit the ground before them with a thud, and Larson started. Immediately, he cursed himself. Wariness was an asset on a sniper hunt, but hyperarousal could prove worse than none at all. Larson took several deep breaths, hefted the ball, and tossed it to a grinning, sandy-haired corpsman.

Gavin sidled several paces ahead while Larson watched the corpsman's retreating figure. It seemed ludicrous. Here was this troop of trained soldiers playing games like they were in some kind of sandlot, while he and his buddies prepared for fire action in the jungle. As instinct rose like ire, he could almost forget the card game in the hut. Everybody took a turn on patrol. It just felt better when it was the other guy's turn.

Larson hurried to catch Gavin, and they strode side by side to the perimeter gate. One of the sentries yawned as he tripped the latch, and the other raised his gun in mock salute. The men made no sound as they crossed three hundred yards of tank-cleared ground and entered the steamy murk of the jungle. The ghostly cry of a macaw drowned the noise of their boots in the soft, red mud. Gavin stiffened. Larson knew his companion believed macaw calls foreshadowed death. With so many of the birds in the Vietnamese jungles, it seemed unlikely. Yet death was nearly as common. Alert, Larson moved away.

Humidity converged on them with a stench of sewage and blood. Larson crept through brush like a shadow, tensed for a sniper's volley. For half an hour he moved, muscles knotted. Biting insects and heat weakened him, but he found nothing except jungle fauna. Larson wondered whether he should feel relieved that no snipers waited or terrified of one concealed in the trees.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the forest behind Larson. He plunged into the mud, heart racing. An ugly scream numbed his mind till it allowed no thought. But his body reacted. He wriggled forward cautiously.

"Al." Gavin's frantic whisper came from his right. Though tinged with panic, the familiar voice soothed.

"What happened?"

"Trap," said Gavin.

Larson shuddered. The dying scream of his companion would haunt him to the end of his life. He did not want to see what remained of the others, but he could not continue until he knew their fates with certainty. Reluctantly, Larson followed Gavin.

Bellies to the ground, they crawled between the trees. Gavin stopped abruptly and loosed an oath. His body spasmed regularly as he retched. Steeling himself, Larson looked beyond at the torn bodies. His mind exploded in terror. The corporal still lived. Nothing protruded below his waist, but he breathed in a regular, shallow pattern. Larson pushed past Gavin who caught his arm.

"No, Al." Gavin's face turned the color of fatigues.

"He's alive."

"Not long," Gavin said weakly. "He won't make it to camp. If we carry him, neither will we."

"Let go." Larson tried to twist free of Gavin's grip, not certain why he had to rescue the corporal. He could imagine his own body hemorrhag-ing on the jungle floor, living food for rats.

A macaw shrieked four consecutive notes. Gavin shivered, and Larson pulled away.

"Wait, listen." Gavin seized the back of Larson's shirt.

Above the continuous hum of insects, they heard the faint rustle of approaching men. "Stay." Larson licked dried lips and flitted between the trunks. Ahead he saw a dozen black-clothed figures moving stealthily toward them. Larson stood, paralyzed.

Gradually, he gathered his wits and headed back to where he'd left Gavin. "Charlie. Too many for us. Hide."

Gavin nodded. "This way."

Gavin slithered to the right. The thick foliage let too little sunlight through for underbrush to grow. Trapped in the open with only trees for cover, Larson saw no means of escape. But Gavin grabbed his arm and led him to a dry river bed. Larson grew giddy with hope. They might hide between the banks while the Vietnamese passed. Gavin gestured Larson to stillness and crept farther along the stream bed. Kneeling in mud, Larson watched his companion merge into the green infinity of jungle. The rustlings grew louder, and Larson heard a gruff vocal exchange.

Gavin's pained cry broke the hush. A volley of gunfire followed. Larson's heart beat at least as loud. He could only imagine what happened, perhaps a snake bite caused Gavin's indiscretion. It no longer mattered. Larson flattened against the bank, clutching his M-16 like a teddy bear.

Limbs frozen with fear, Larson forced himself to think rationally. The enemy knew as well as he that soldiers did not travel alone by choice. They would come looking for him. Even as he watched, a man in black circled and entered the river bed north of his position. Larson lined his sights but did not fire, unwilling to reveal his own position. The moment he did, he died.

Larson knew without seeing that another man stalked him from the south. Cornered, he needed a miracle. God help me, he thought. Despite his situation, the irony of his prayer struck him. Not quite ready to accept death, he hugged the bank and waited.

Death prowled closer. He let understanding settle over him. He would die, but not alone. Deliberately, Larson switched the gun setting from semi to full auto. Freyr. You're a war god. You ought to love this. "For my buddies, Freyr!"

Larson burst from the river bed, shooting. He embraced death.

Al Larson stared at bleak stone walls. Alive, he thought. Impossible. Those guns should have cut me in half. He ran anxious hands along his body and felt nothing abnormal but the slick sweat which coated his palms. He sat up and realized he lay on a hard stone floor, alone. He ran his fingers through the fine, soft hair on his head and his hand stopped on the edge of a pointed ear.

Startled, Larson leaped to his feet. He did not recognize his clothing: tight doeskin pants, a blue linen shirt, and a matching cape. " Wha?" he said stupidly. His hands clamped over both ears. Each came to a delicate point. "I'm a goddamn Vulcan!"

"Elf," said a voice. Larson whirled but saw no one. Except for a belt and sword in the far corner, the room appeared empty.

Larson stared at his hands which looked smaller than he remembered. "Who are you?" he shouted. "Where are you?" If this was a Vietnamese torture, he found it extremely successful. He knew he had gone completely insane.

"Silence." The powerful voice echoed. "I am Freyr. You called me before you died."

"I did?" Yes, I guess I did. Larson caught a handful of the pale hair which fell to his shoulders. "Who am I?"

"I haven't time for foolishness," said the voice impatiently. "Neither have you. You've a purpose to fulfill."

Larson felt small and confused. "What purpose? Where am I? Help me please." He felt ridiculous pleading with a disembodied voice.

"Take up Valvitnir, your sword, and guard it well. Pass northward. You will find an old man and a young woman who are more than they seem. Trust them. They'll aid your task."

Larson's head whirled. "What task?"

No reply.

"Oh, hell." Larson walked to the corner. He hefted the swordbelt, a gaudily-tooled work of leather. He fastened it about his waist, and it dragged like dead weight at his side. Larson gazed at the ceiling. " Freyr? Freyr!"

Silence.

Larson patted the jewel-encrusted sword hilt. "I don't know how to use a sword!"

Nothing.

Larson shrugged. He pulled the worked steel from its sheath. The sleek blade glowed faintly blue. His unfamiliar hand fit the grip exactly. "Why me?"

He had not anticipated a reply. "I found it necessary to bridge time. We'ye few worshipers after the coming of the White Christ. Now, please go. Your companions will explain further."

Larson resheathed the sword and walked to the door. He took hold of its ring and pulled. It opened with a complaining creak to reveal a green meadow surrounded by hills. After months of artillery and jungle, the scene shocked Larson. Jaw gaping, he walked as if in a trance, and the door swung shut behind him.

The sun beamed down on Larson like a golden eye, striping the high grasses with light. In the distance, a tall patch of weeds rose like a tiny forest. Beyond, a real forest of evergreens waved like a chorus in the breeze. Anxiety balled in Larson's gut, and sweat beaded his neck. Fearful of the open terrain, he back-stepped and caught for the door handle. His fingers clawed through air. Startled anew, he whirled, staggered, and fell to the grass. Where the building had stood he saw nothing but fields, not even a shadow or a square of crushed foliage to indicate it had ever existed.

Larson rose to a crouch. This cannot be real. But the screams of his buddies echoed eerily through his memory, vividly clear. // this is not a dream, then I am dead. And dead men cannot dream. Without explanation for the bizarre series of events, Larson could do nothing but believe. He stood and stumbled forward, broad-based like a child learning to walk. Brownish grasses crunched beneath his boots. The sun formed an orange ball in the pale sky, but Larson could not guess whether morning aged or evening began.

His stride grew more confident as he headed for the stand of trees in the distance. He quelled an instinct to run. For now, the field seemed safe enough. He saw no need to incite enemies by crashing blindly through the meadow. The last few minutes seemed ridiculous to the point of impossibility. Yet, never having died before, Larson supposed he had no right to judge. And if I am dead, he surmised, is this heaven or hell? It seemed pretty enough. Lonely perhaps, but he had just begun exploring.

More curious than afraid, he trotted toward the higher grasses which he now recognized as cattails. The reeds bowed around a small pond which reflected the sky like an uncut sapphire. Without rations and slightly thirsty, he veered toward the water. Though he knew he could never have survived the guns in the jungle, he peered about him with caution. Until something came about to convince him more completely of his status as a corpse, or to prove there was no death after death, he saw no need to risk: whatever it was he had.

Larson frowned and abandoned his jumbled maze of thought. Despite his bold oratory in the jungle cabin, he'd never cared much for philosophy. And Vietnam taught even the most obsessive men to live moment by moment. He dropped to his stomach, gritted his teeth in anticipation, and wriggled among the cattails.

The surface of the pond spread before him, broken only by the ripples of wind and the wakes of water striders. For several seconds, Larson watched the insects glide like skaters, legs stretching like wires from their bulbous bodies. He touched the water, and it felt oddly chill after the enveloping heat of the jungles. Widening rings spread from his finger, lengthening his reflection. His gaze riveted on a face which seemed to stare from the bottom of the pond.

Larson recoiled with a cry. The face mimicked him with a perfection only nature could achieve. It was his reflection, yet the features were not at all as Larson remembered. His forehead was shorter, covered with bangs of fine, white hair. Larson had always felt self-conscious about the roundness of his "baby face." Now, it looked oval and angular, with high, sharp cheekbones and a narrow chin. His eyes seemed broadly-set, though he could not distinguish their color through the pond's distortion. He caught a lock of hair between his fingers. It was not actually white, but such a pale gold as to seem almost white. It reminded him of the color some women dyed their hair back in the States. He had never liked the unnatural, washed-out look, and had always been partial to brunettes.

Recalling his earlier discovery, Larson held the hair away from his head. He cocked his face sideways, and strained his eyes. The oddly-shaped ear remained just beyond his vision. He tried snapping his head about quickly, but found this even less successful. With a sigh, he resigned himself to a tactile impression of the ears. He rose to his full height and examined the clothing which had surprised him earlier. The cape flapped in the wind behind Larson, reminding him of a gripping scene from a Superman cartoon. The most striking feature of his garb was the sword at his left hip. Even sheathed in leather, it seemed to glow ever so slightly, like a television screen only recently shut off.

Larson turned his attention to his own stature.

He seemed as tall as ever, about six feet, but he had no way of knowing for certain. He looked thinner, too, and that bothered him. For a moment, he forgot he was lucky to have any body at all and cursed. Many painful hours had toned and shaped his muscles, now all gone to waste. He flexed an arm, and leaned closer to examine it. The sky darkened till only the sword remained clearly visible on the surface of the pond.

With a frown, Larson dropped to his haunches and waited for the cloud to pass. It did not. Slowly, the shadow encompassed the surface of the water and hovered there. Wary tension returned in a rush. Larson jerked his head upward. Swaying in the air above him was some enormous creature. Screaming, Larson leaped aside. A column of fire struck the water with a hiss.

Larson rolled to his feet as the creature banked for a second pass. He clawed at the cattails. Two bat- like wings carried a long, sleek body covered with scales the color of bark. Plates jutted from back and tail like a stegosaurus. It came around, and the sight of its triangular head mobilized Lar: son. He sprinted for the woods.

The beast caught him effortlessly, spraying the ground behind with flame. Panicked, Larson did not stop to wonder why the creature had such poor aim. The forest loomed closer, but still too far. His legs ached. Cold air rasped his lungs painfully and brought the taste of blood. Rationality returned only one thought to his numbed mind. Among the trees, I can maneuver. It cannot.

Heat seared the back of Larson's neck. Frantically, he ripped the cape from his shoulders and let the flaming linen drop to the ground. The beast rose over his head with a noise between a bark and a human laugh. Larson ran on. He could not control his thoughts, so he let them ramble as they would. Dragon. Goddamned fire-breathing dragon like every legend and fairy tale I've ever read. Yet there was a major difference. This one was real.

A wall of trees rose before him. With a joyous sob, Larson ran between them. Another man appeared suddenly before him, and Larson braked with a sharp intake of breath. He stood, panting, before the stranger while sweat dried on his back. The other regarded him with scornful curiosity. His features looked enough like the ones Larson had seen in the pond to be those of a brother. Yet, his hair and skin were as black as Larson's were white. His eyes glowed a feral red.

"Dr- dr -dragon!" stuttered Larson, glad of the stranger's company. "Run!"

The dark elf remained in Larson's path, un-moving, like a carving in black onyx. He spoke in a sibilant voice with an accent Larson recognized but could not place. "Give me the sword."

Hope flared. The sword. "Certainly, if you can use it." Larson's fingers trembled as he unsheathed the sword and thrust it toward the stranger.

The dark elf withdrew with a high-pitched expletive. "On the ground, fool! Put it on the ground."

The words puzzled Larson. He balanced the glowing blade on his hands and offered the hilt. The sword vibrated slightly, and the light grew brighter.

"On the ground, idiot!" The stranger retreated farther. His voice lost some of its power.

The reaction raised Larson's suspicions. His mind cleared, and he noticed the other elf as if for the first time. At the Dark One's hip swung a black wooden sheath from which jutted a hilt wrapped with black split leather and garnished by red gem-stones as wild as the stranger's eyes. So why does he want my sword?

The dark elfs lips twisted to a scowl. He took one bold step forward and gestured angrily toward the ground. Larson hesitated. They stood face to face, dark to light, like chess queens before the final battle. Larson caught the hilt of Valvitnir in his callused palm. The stranger stiffened, and sweat oozed above his drawn lips.

Larson knew he had the advantage with his sword already freed. He would keep that upper edge, at least until the dark elf realized he did not know how to wield the blade. "Call me idiot, will you?" said Larson, not at all certain it was not an accurate assessment. Suddenly, six grueling weeks of combat training seemed woefully inadequate. He executed an awkward fencing lunge. The sword whined like a hungry dog. The dark elf cursed and vanished as completely as the building in the fields.

Larson basked in his triumph for scant seconds. Flame gouted through the trees with a heat that made him scream. Despite the forest, the dragon's aim seemed to have improved miraculously. Still clutching the sword, Larson ran, dodging trees with a speed born of desperation. Behind he heard a beastly roar of frustration, followed by the whisk of giant wings as the creature rose above the forest.

Branches rustled overhead, too loud for wind. Fire lanced before him in a column, but the tree-tops obscured the dragon's vision. Sparks bounced outward from the impact and died among the greenery. Larson ran in random circles, doubling back like a fox. But the creature followed his ruses, apparently by sound. Soon, the maneuvers wore on the elf, and his run slowed dangerously. The stabbing fires came closer, threatening to set the entire forest ablaze.

In the distance, Larson saw a more benign fire, the flickering orange of a camp. Desperate, he ran toward it. As he neared, he observed a single figure hunched before it with back turned. From the short gray hair, Larson supposed it was an elderly man and instantly regretted steering the dragon toward the stranger. Too tired to swerve, he ran on.

The man rose and turned suddenly, confirming Larson's impression. Though clean-shaven, the man's lined face revealed his age and gave him an air of power. He wore a loose-fitting yellow garment, trimmed with black and belted at the waist. Two swords girded his waist, a matched set slightly curved like an old Japanese katana and shoto. Gold brocade enhanced both hilts. But the feature which drew Larson's attention was a wooden staff at the old man's feet. Its tip was carved like a claw, and the four black-nailed toes cradled a sapphire.

Flame shot through the spruce, and a wall of heat knocked Larson to one knee at the edge of camp. "Dragon!" He screamed his warning though his lungs felt raw. "Fire: breathing: dragon!"

The older man seemed unperturbed. "As far as I know they all spit fire." He smiled encouragingly.

From the ground, Larson stared at the stranger's baggy yellow pants. He raised his head to a sagging face. The old man's eyes were brown, slightly slanted, and with prominent epicanthic folds. New danger lent Larson a second wind. He lurched to his feet and reached instinctively for the gun which no longer lay slung across his shoulder.

The stranger watched his antics with obvious amusement. "Beast won't come to ground and fight fair? We'll see what we can do about it." He winked.

Larson fought for breath, quelling panic. He was no longer in Nam . An Oriental face was nothing to fear in and of itself, though he wondered why he should find such a face in Old Scandinavia, or dragons for that matter.

The stranger seemed to notice none of Larson's consternation. He strode past the campfire where the trees thinned and undergrowth grew lush in the sunlight. Larson felt more comfortable despite the open terrain and the dragon shadow which darkened the weeds. The forest seemed much more like those of the New Hampshire camp he had known in his youth than the Vietnamese tangles of stench and death. He followed.

" Wyrm!" screamed the old man.

Larson cringed back as the dragon descended. Its breath reeked of ozone, and scales rattled together like shingles. The beast's jaws gaped. Its black fangs were like giant stalactites, and Larson dodged the globs of spittle which struck the ground with a smoky hiss. With a whoop of wild joy, the old man pulled a piece of metal from his belt and hurled it toward the bus-sized target. His hand was a blur as he pitched three more missiles at the dragon. The first glanced from the hoary chest plates. The second struck, and an explosion rocked the trees. Flame gouted and spread across the dragon, engulfing it. The huge body plummeted with an unearthly wail.

Instinct flattened Larson to the ground; his heart pounded like gunshot. Smoke burned his eyes, and fumes choked him. As he watched through a veil of mist, the smoldering corpse faded to memory. Two of the metallic missiles thumped to earth, and the old man gathered them with a curse. Larson wanted to speak. His lips parted, but no words came forth. He rose, gathered scattered wits, and tried to understand how Freyr expected him to survive with only a sword in a world with both dragons and grenades. All courage fled his overtaxed mind. No amount of field drills could have prepared him for such a madman's reality. He stood utterly still, hoping to escape his fever dreams, yet equally afraid he might again awaken in the jungles.

The old man approached and bowed courteously. "I've not had such fun in days. I, Kensei Gaelinar, thank you, hero." He bowed again.

"Kensei Gaelinar?" Larson's Bronx accent mangled the name. He extended his hand in greeting, but quickly withdrew it when the old man showed no recognition of the gesture. Muddled, he continued. "Um: I'm Al." His name seemed pitiably inadequate, so he added inanely ": er: um:"

" Allerum." Gaelinar's brows knitted together in thought. "Odd name. Elven, I suppose. I haven't seen many of your kind in Midgard ." He gestured toward the fire. "You look hungry, Allerum. Would you join us?"

More intrigued by the old man's use of the plural pronoun than the misinterpretation of his name, Larson quickly scanned the brush. He saw no one. The odor of roasting meat rose from the campfire and made his stomach rumble. Glad for human company, Larson followed his host to the fire where four steaks hung from a spit. Forgotten in the excitement, their lower sides were vastly overcooked.

"Lola's children!" swore the Kensei. He dismantled the spit and slid the blackened carcasses onto a piece of leather on the dirt. He speared a hunk of meat with a sharpened stick and passed it to Larson apologetically. "I'm not the best cook."

As adrenalin ebbed, Larson found himself ravenously hungry. Saliva poured into his mouth like the rich juices which sizzled on the lesser cooked areas of the steak. He did not know what sort of meat he had accepted from his Oriental-looking companion, but the aching void of his gut would have been pleasured even by manflesh were it the staple of this strange world.

Gaelinar answered his unspoken question. "It's the last of the fresh venison. We smoked the rest for the journey ahead."

Gaelinar used "we" again, Larson noted. Does the old man simply refer to himself in this odd manner? Larson had not seen any living creature to dispute his conclusion, except the dark elf he had encountered at the edge of the woods. The thought made him shiver, and so he discarded it. The meat did taste a lot like the deer he used to shoot in the upstate forests, though, perhaps because of his hunger, he found the flavor richer despite the ash.

"Where do you come from, elf?" Kensei Gaelinar asked around a mouthful.

Reluctantly, Larson lowered the food to answer. "I come from far, far away." He winced. His words were not only trite, but grossly understated.

Gaelinar raised his eyebrows encouragingly, but Larson lapsed into silence. His teeth ripped muscle and gristle indiscriminately from the preboned feast. But when the growls of his stomach settled to a satisfied purr, Larson grew more curious about his new companion. "Those: um: missiles of yours saved my life. How do they work?"

Gaelinar's elbow fell to his knee; his sharpened stick still supported a ring of meat. His slanted eyes slitted, and his features twisted to a scowl of withering disdain. "Your sword didn't help much either."

Larson settled back gingerly, and his chest flinched taut beneath his tunic. He tried to remember what he'd said which might have angered the Kensei. "P-please, I: I meant no disrespect," he stuttered.

Gaelinar met Larson's eyes, and his expression went from affronted to puzzled. As suddenly, he smiled. "Oh! You think:" He laughed. "No, no, hero. Magic, not my shuriken, flamed that dragon."

Magic. The explanation seemed embarrassingly obvious and oddly comforting. For reasons Larson could not understand, sorceries seemed far more benign than grenades. Unexpectedly, visions from Vietnam flared, horrific as nightmares. He remembered sitting in darkness complete save for the narrow slit of moon over the rows of grass huts. A dank wind rustled the barracks, blended chorus with the shriek of insects and the gentle whisper of sentries at the fire base gate. Peaceful. For a moment he could almost forget the ubiquitous threat of the V.C. who owned the jungle nights.

Back pressed to the door jamb of his hut, Larson lifted a joint to his lips; its tip was a singular bobbing light in the pitch darkness. He inhaled. Smoke rolled across his tongue leaving a sweet taste, then funneled into his lungs. He squeezed his mouth shut and held it, swallowing gently. Nothing could spoil the sanctity of this night.

A flash of red-orange light colored the sky and outlined the bamboo of huts on either side. Even as Larson's mind responded to the sight, an explosion rocked his foundation, filling his head with sound. Something unseen thudded against his cheek, spinning his face with the force of a slap.

With a warning cry, Larson crashed through the door of his hut. Static blattered and a muffled voice screamed. "Incoming fire! Incoming:" A second mortar blast rendered the words incomprehensible. Larson collided with a man in the entranceway with a force which wrenched his ankle. Pain lanced through his abdomen, and Fisher's baritone cursed him with steamy epithets only a street kid could design. As Larson dived for his bunk and the M-16 on the quilt, two more men pushed past and out the door.

The explosion had torn a hole in the hut, and the harried exits of Larson's companions through the door seemed as ludicrous as the gunshot at the fire base perimeter. Not content to lie low while mortars shattered the camp to chaos, soldiers wasted round after round shooting blindly into the jungle. With a sigh, Larson seized his gun to help, but a roaring mortar lit a scene which froze him in place. Danny lay face down on the floor, unresponsive to Tom Dragelin's frantic proddings.

Larson leaped forward, pulled Dragelin's arm with a force that sent the other man reeling against his bunk. Dragelin protested furiously, but Larson flipped Danny over. The body rolled like a rag doll. Blood slicked Larson's fingers, and he recoiled with a choked sob. A chunk of wood from the cottage foundation was embedded in Danny's chest like a stake. His glazed eyes glared accusingly in the scarlet glow of the mortars. The continuous stream of gunshot, screamed orders, man-shouts, and the louder, broken reports of mortars blended to a numbing, unrecognizable ring.

Dragelin's quavering voice was the only thing Larson heard. "Is he :?" They had seen death before, too many times in this sordid movie without beginning or end. But this was Danny, and this was different.

Larson dared not feel for a pulse. "Help me carry him."

He caught Danny behind the shoulders, waited until Dragelin seized the legs, and they lifted together. Danny sagged between them, dead weight, yet they struggled through milling soldiers toward the infirmary.

A roar rose wildly above the rest. The high-pitched scream of jets slammed against Larson's ear drums. He grimaced against the agony of sound, unable to clamp burdened hands to his ears. Then the noise dulled to a long thunder roll. He caught a glimpse of two red disks in the sky, like feral eyes. Abruptly, the jungle flamed in a wide circle. Mercifully, the mortar fire ceased. The answering call of guns died to the last panicked bursts, and the sour odor of napalm pinched his nose. Long after, the screams of the dying echoed through his dreams.

Larson's mind returned to the present with a start. His fists were clenched against sweat which ran like blood. His every nerve felt taut. Adrenalin coursed, warm, through his veins. The face which stared curiously into his own was Oriental, yet rounder than a Vietnamese visage. The eyes were the yellow-brown of ancient pages, and they held an odd power which reminded Larson of a picture in a book his mother had read to him as a child. The book was a juvenile rendition of the stories of King Arthur; the drawing was of Merlin the Magician.

"Are you all right, hero?" asked Gaelinar with concern.

"Yes," responded Larson without conviction. Realization struck a cruel blow. Back home, technology made men equals. Here power stemmed from skill with sword or sorcery, and he possessed neither. One thing he knew, he wanted to remain in the graces of a man who could flame dragons to ash. "Forgive my ignorance. I'm grateful for your magic which saved my life. As a:" He rummaged for a word. Warlock seemed derogatory, wizard too plain. Sorcerer conjured images of Mickey Mouse juggling buckets of water and an animated broom. Magician reminded him of staged card tricks. ": great and wonderful user of magics:" The term seemed vague enough for safety. ":you might understand my problem. I'm from another world."

To Larson, his explanation seemed anything but humorous, yet the Kensei's features cracked a smile. Between them, light flashed, bright as a search flare. Larson staggered back with a cry. His eyes snapped shut against the glare, and red spots winked on the backs of his eyelids. He opened them hurriedly, not certain what to expect and, so, prepared for nothing. What he saw shocked him dumb. A woman stood between him and Gaelinar, more starkly real than anything he had experienced since death. She was beautiful in a way Larson could not have understood before he glimpsed her.

Plagued by a passion that native whores could never satisfy, any white woman would have seemed more than human to Larson. Yet it was not simply heightened sexual tension which made this woman inhumanly desirable. She was slim beneath a baggy gray robe which in no way marred the perfect arcs of hips and breasts. Her skin looked snowy white. Her eyes echoed Gaelinar's power, bitter gray as gale-tossed surf. Her hair fell to midback in a gold-white cascade, a color Larson had always hated for its artificiality. Now it became his favorite hue. Dyed or real did not matter, it belonged to the woman whose smile, Larson felt, would satisfy him for weeks.

She did smile. Though tinged with sarcasm, her words plied Larson like song. "Oh, please, great mage Gaelinar. Enlighten us with more of your sorceries." The sapphire gleamed in the staff at the Kensei's feet.

The old man rose with a stiffly formal bow. "Lord Allerum, I think it best you meet the Lady Silme, Dragonrank of Sapphire Claw. I shall take neither credit nor blame for her magics."

"Uh: hi," said Larson, instantly cursing the bumbling stupidity which had characterized his every action since this day began. From the towel-cracking days of junior high to the raw jibes of boot camp, he had tried to appear competent. Death, it seemed, had shaken his confidence. He tried again. "Lady Silme." He mimicked Gaelinar's bow. "It is my very best pleasure to meet you." Not bad for my first attempt at courtly talk, Larson rewarded himself with nonverbal praise.

"You owe me a shuriken, witch," said Gaelinar with none of Larson's respect. "Your fireworks destroyed it. I could have taken the beast without you."

Amusement left Silme's features, replaced by a concern which lined her face beyond its years. "Silence, swordlord." For a brief moment she grinned again at the awkward sound of his title. "You speak as if dragons are commonplace. Someone of Dragonrank summoned the creature."

Gaelinar spoke with bitterness. "Bramin?"

"I recognized his power."

The Kensei paced around the campfire. Silme took the seat he had abandoned and speared a venison steak with a stick. Larson watched both, contemplating a means to correct their misunderstanding of his name without making himself, or Gaelinar, look foolish.

Gaelinar mumbled. "He's close then?"

Silme nodded as she gnawed the meat.

"And the elf?" Gaelinar indicated Larson with a subtle toss of his head.

Silme shrugged. She regarded Larson with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

Larson remained silent, not certain what she expected from him. A memory surfaced in his mind with the intensity of a new idea. You will find an old man and a young woman who are more than they seem: Your companions will explain further. "You two!" he called triumphantly. " Freyr said you'd tell me about my task."

Gaelinar stopped. Silme blinked in the waning light. " Freyr?"

Larson picked up the pacing where Gaelinar left off. "Yes, Freyr, or at least his voice. I:" He broke off, realizing he must sound as touched as the lieutenant who swore he had met Jesus Christ among other raving blasphemies and was duly shipped home. The strained glances between his new companions came not wholly unexpectedly. Further clarification would only place his sanity more completely in doubt. "So you don't know my task?"

Silme returned her attention to the meal while Kensei Gaelinar shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid not."

"Shit." Larson sat, head cradled in his palms. "How many remarkable old men and young women can there be?" Yet he had no way of answering the question. If his experiences to date gave any indication, this world was crowded with extraordinary people.

Silme and Gaelinar offered no comfort. As the sky dimmed to gray, they turned to matters more relevant to themselves. Larson brooded in silence, thinking they had forgotten him. The setting sun colored the horizon with flame-colored arches, a doorway for the daring. Idly, he wondered if he could pass through it like a gate and find himself home or in Oz or back in the stinking hell of Vietnam.

After a time, Silme turned from her companion, retrieved her sapphire-tipped staff, and approached Larson. She moved with a dancer's confident grace, but her eyes shifted in the manner of a deer. Larson stared, surprised at how, despite death and the oddities of his new surroundings, her beauty excited him.

Silme stopped several yards from Larson. Her features remained soft, but she jabbed the tip of her staff toward him. Her words emerged as a calculated threat. "Are you who you claim?"

Her tone made Larson uneasy. He shifted to a crouch. "Y-yes, of course," he stammered defensively, immediately realizing his hasty reply robbed him of any opportunity to correct her misunderstanding of his name. Thrust into a new life and a strange world, he supposed he needed a new identity. Allerum was not the name he would have chosen, but it would do as well as any other. "At least as close as could be expected. You see, I:"

Silme interrupted. "And your purpose in the world of Midgard?"

Larson fidgeted. His gaze swept the tree line. She knows I'm from another world. How? But the answer came to him as swiftly as the question. He sifted his thoughts for the duller cosmology of his mythology text. The Vikings believed in nine worlds, each inhabited by its own race of creatures: giants, gods, elves, dwarves. Midgard, Larson recalled, was the land of men. To her, I'm an elf. The thought seemed foreign. In that respect, I am from another world.

"Your purpose?" Silme prompted.

Larson had forgotten her question. "I'm on a mission. My, um, commander informed me I would find an older man and a young woman who could explain things further. I'm afraid I've mixed you up with someone else."

Silme scowled, unsatisfied. "What connection do you have with Bramin?"

The word meant nothing to Larson. "What's a Bramin?"

Anger darkened Silme's eyes. "I won't stand for lies! Do you think me stupid enough to believe coincidence placed an elf in a wash of Bramin's magic, playing with a conjured dragon?"

"Playing!"

Soundlessly, Gaelinar cleared the distance to Silme and caught her arm. "It wouldn't be the first time an innocent stumbled into Bramin's designs against your life."

Silme never took her gaze from Larson. "An elf?"

Gaelinar shrugged. "We've come upon stranger occurrences." '*

Silme raised her brows and eyed her Oriental companion. "An elf?"

Gaelinar sighed. "In Lord Allerum's defense, the dragon seemed less than friendly toward him. You swore to protect mankind from Bramin's wrath. Would you deny wardings to a traveler without bedding or rations because he happens to be an elf? Shame on you, lady." He smiled at Larson. "Join us for the night?" He motioned to a pile of furs near the campfire.

Silme opened her mouth to protest, but Gaelinar waved her silent. "If the elf can slay us in our sleep, he deserves to wear our heads at his belt." Respectfully, he bowed toward Silme then turned and knelt in the furs. He tapped a space at his side invitingly.

Larson hesitated, sorting his fears. Gaelinar's camaraderie beckoned, despite his features. Silme's comeliness seemed added incentive; he found her aloofness a challenge. He felt certain from their display of power against the dragon, that either of his new acquaintances could already have killed him if they had wished. He turned a glance toward Silme.

Silme's eyes met Larson's stare. She smiled weakly. "Gaelinar's right, of course. You may join us for the night." She emphasized the last phrase as if to assure herself of the transience of his presence.

Larson rose and paced to the furs by the fire. He sprawled beside Gaelinar, more comfortable for soft bedding and warmth. Silme stood, watching the two men, arms spread. Her gaze seemed to pass through and beyond them. Her eyes blazed like gemstones.

"What's she doing?" Larson asked, concerned.

"Quiet," whispered Gaelinar. "You'll mar the spell."

Larson fell silent. He watched in fascination as the grim lines in Silme's face deepened. Light streamed from each hand, the dazzling white of phosphorus. Snakelike, the beams coiled around the camp and met halfway. Blue light welled to life on her fingers, wound about the white with an intensity that colored stars and moon. Silme stepped forward and examined her efforts briefly. At an approving nod, the enchantments faded, but Larson still felt the presence of their brooding power. Protected by the sorceress' wards, Larson pondered the coming day until fatigue overtook him and granted a dreamless sleep.