Godslayer

Chapter 2

Manslayer

"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness."

– -Joseph Conrad,

Under Western Eyes

A yellow edge of sun tipped over the horizon, chasing darkness in bands of blue and pink. As if it were a signal, the sleepers within the sorceress' wards stirred. Silme was first to open her eyes and greet the dawn, but her movements wakened Gaelinar and Larson. Her enchantments had dwindled through the night, yet when Larson tried to leave the protected circle to relieve himself, he discovered they still held the potency of an electric fence.

Silme snickered and dispelled her magics with a word. Gaelinar bowed politely. "Lord Allerum, we've enjoyed your company, but we must move along and you as well."

"Wait." Silme rummaged through a weathered pack, pulled out a bag of woven cloth, and handed it to the elf. "Rations," she explained. "I noticed you carried none and couldn't leave you starving." She clipped her words short as if to register her disapproval. "You must have left someplace in an awful hurry." Her tone demanded explanation.

Larson declined to answer. The few times he had tried to enlighten his new friends had put his sanity in question. He preferred an aura of mystery to one of lunacy. "I thank you both." He extended a hand, hoping Silme might accept it like a royal maiden in the movies. He would gladly submit to the ridicule of an entire platoon if it meant a chance to kiss her fingers. But Silme showed no more understanding of the gesture than Gaelinar had of his attempted handshake.

After a breakfast of dried meat and fruit, Larson took his leave. He skirted the tangled clearing, reminded of Vietnam 's towering elephant grasses which forced the point man to waddle as he cleared a path for his followers. He traveled northward, beneath interlocking branches which muted the sun. Pines flowed endlessly past, lower branches withered in the shadow of their younger brothers. Songbirds flitted above Larson's head, their sweet trills a welcome relief from the too-well remembered screams of macaws.

Near midday, his mood reversed. He began to question Silme's and Gaelinar's sidelong glances in the clearing and the sorceress' mistrustful queries. The birds became less apparent, their song more shrill. A squirrel, startled from its food hunt, scolded, while Larson was still some distance away. A shiver traversed him from buttocks to neck, warning of imminent peril. Repeatedly, Larson reminded himself this forest hid no snipers. But his fear remained and intensified nearly to panic until he would have bet all the water in his pouch that unseen eyes watched from the branches.

Larson stopped, hoping the sudden cessation of his own passage would amplify any noises around him. The harsh call of a crow ruined the silence. Suddenly, light sparked before him, flaring to blinding brilliance. He dropped to a crouch, now capable enough to recognize a sorcerer's craft. Desire dared him to hope the power originated from the slim- waisted beauty he had left that morning.

But the figure which sprang to clarity was cloaked in a blackness which was echoed in his features. Red eyes met Larson's for the second time, filled with cruelty and misplaced hatred. This time, the dark elf clutched a staff like Silme's, but the gem gripped between carven claws was a flawless diamond. And he raised it threateningly.

Shaken, Larson stumbled two steps backward. His mind reverberated with memory of his last encounter with the demon elf. His trembling fingers found the hilt of his sword and drew it with a rasp of steel.

"Fool!" Bramin's voice mocked him. "Do you think your toy will save you from my wrath?" He suffixed his threat with a single coarse syllable.

Pain lanced through Larson's fist, flaming to an agony which swept his entire arm. The sword fell from his weakened grip and crashed against stone with a shower of ice blue sparks. Bramin's assault continued ruthlessly. Waves of torture racked mind and body, twitched Larson's limbs like those of a stringless marionette. Scream after scream ripped from his raw lungs in ghastly duet with Bramin's laughter.

Pain stabbed through Larson's body like daggers, worse than any agony described as hell. Could he have uttered a coherent sentence, he would have pleaded for death. But Bramin knew no mercy. His spell stole strength of body and reserves of mind, seared like flame, and convulsed its hapless victim with anguish.

Suddenly, the pain stopped. Larson flopped to the ground like a beached fish. His mind jumped erratically. His breaths came thankfully easier from his aching lungs. Through vision clouded by his ordeal, he saw movement, and watched the blue blur of the sword slide toward Bramin's gesturing hand. He understood what was happening, but it meant nothing to him. Let the dark elf have the sword. I have no use for it.

The shadows flickered, suffused with blue as the sword flared with an anger all its own. The hilt knocked against a stone in its path toward Bramin, splattering enchantments like the rays of a star. A soft breaking of brush from behind startled Larson where he lay helpless and still, recalling stories of injured soldiers left for dead. Silver flashed over his head, casting a slight breeze which cooled his tortured limbs.

Bramin recoiled with a pained hiss. As he clamped his hands to his chest, his red eyes blazed purple with rage. His link with the sword broke, and it halted with a lurch. Blood trickled between his fingers, and his slim hand raised in an ominous gesture. Larson recognized a shaped piece of steel jutting from Bramin's wound. The dark elf's gaze locked on the gold-robed Kensei behind Larson who had hurled the shuriken.

Sorceries crackled, bounced between Bramin's outstretched hands as though they were opposing mirrors, and intensified to blinding white. Bramin moved. His magic leaped like a beast and screamed toward the man behind Larson. Larson heard a curse. Then, a second jagged ray sprang from the brush. Magics met with a sound like thunder, and both spells broke to glittering traces. Silme! Larson shielded his eyes against the backlash.

Bramin's malevolent voice broke the ensuing silence. "Hel take all your souls!" The diamond in his staff winked black, and the dark elf vanished.

Gaelinar's callused hand gripped Larson's upper arm and hoisted the elf to his feet. Movement dizzied Larson. He staggered, but regained his balance with the Kensei's aid. His stomach heaved. Unable to avoid the inevitable, Larson ripped free, dropped to his knees, and vomited with an intensity unknown since more experienced soldiers had forced him to wallow through rotting bodies to prepare him for death. Embarrassment brought tears to his eyes. He knew the most beautiful woman in existence watched, surely with disgust.

But Silme waited until Larson's sickness passed and squeezed his hand with a reassurance which almost made the ordeal worthwhile. "My humblest apologies, Lord Allerum," she said. "Had I known we shared such an enemy, I would never have let you travel alone."

Larson bowed though his legs felt weak and rubbery. He chose his words with delicate care. "Lady, I could never hold any offense against you." He beamed at his own efforts.

Gaelinar continued. "We dared not trust you. Light elves act as capricious as Bramin's kind do evil." He gestured, toward the place where the dark elf had stood. "But faery creatures of any sort are rare in the manworld of Midgard. We assumed you were outcast, that Alfheim's lord,

Freyr, had exiled you. Bramin's attack and your sword tell us otherwise."

Larson tried to recall his readings on the subject of elves. He had concentrated his interest on gods and war, and all he could dredge from memory was the respective good and evil tendencies of light and dark elves. He had read somewhere that tales of the latter were so rare many authorities believed dark elves and dwarves to be interchangeable. He regarded Silme and Gaelinar. / have to trust someone. With enemies as unassailable as Bramin and his dragons, I have no chance of survival without capable, knowledgeable companions. And these two people have already rescued me twice. "This may sound strange or impossible:" He spoke slowly, studying Silme's face for any clue he might have overstepped the boundaries of credibility. " Freyr called me from a place beyond the scope of your nine worlds. Aside from a few legends, I'm ignorant of even the simplest matters of Midgard."

Silme's face twisted in doubt, but her eyes widened and her lips pursed in consideration. Her gaze dropped to the faintly-glowing sword on the ground, and her expression changed suddenly to one of surprise. Ignoring Larson's revelation, she knelt before Valvitnir.

Larson cleared his throat. "Why are elves so uncommon here?"

Gaelinar seemed to accept Larson's explanation easily. "Travel between the nine worlds requires great effort and power. Even the gods cannot wholly disregard the energy such travel demands. Elves of any sort were never common. In time, men grew to despise the dark elves for their cruelty and vile sense of humor. Where men still remember dark elves, they slay them on sight.

"Light elves view men as narrow-minded beings so concerned with death they refuse to enjoy their short lives. Man's somber nature made light elves extremely uncomfortable, so they gradually curtailed all commerce with the world of men. Now, the tales and memories of elves have been confused or, at best, forgotten. At times, dark elves are welcomed because of the legends of light elves, and light elves are slain for the ancient crimes of their dark cousins. Mostly, the sidelong glances and whispered comments which follow any stranger viewed as different will accompany you throughout the world of Midgard ."

Silme's voice seemed distant as she returned the blade to its sheath at Larson's side. "That sword is the work of a pure and powerful god. I don't know its abilities or purpose, but assuredly they will shape the destiny of our world." Her features assumed the intensity of her words. "Magic saps the life force of the one who calls it forth. Understand this, Allerum, a god paid dearly for your quest."

Guilt preyed on Larson's conscience. Does Silme know how easily I gave up the struggle to Bramin, that I would have tossed him the sword to avoid his wrath? But the situation had changed. Quest or no, Bramin's cruelty charged Larson to seek revenge.

The three continued north and east through forest which seemed endless. Pine passed to more pine, like the recurrent background of a cartoon until Larson began to believe they had gained no ground since the confrontation. But the walk gave him the chance to ask many questions. Their answers gave the world a logical order, magic aside. There were villages and governments, monarchies, and temples to the Northern gods. Wizards were a rarity, despite Larson's run-in with two of Midgard's most powerful on his first day.

"Most men," Silme told him, "become farmers or artisans. Those with interest in sword or bow join armies or sell their services as bodyguards, soldiers, and assassins. To become a sorcerer requires an innate ability and a lifetime dedicated to magic. Even then, only those few stamped with 'the mark' can attain the power of Dragonrank." She displayed her right hand, and Larson stared at the claw-shaped scar which marred her skin.

As they walked, Silme and Gaelinar schooled Larson concerning travel foods and horse trading. They introduced him to the most common monetary system of the Northern kingdoms. But it was Bramin's name which opened a veritable flood of explanation, and Silme talked of the half-elf throughout the evening and on through a dinner of smoked venison.

"A warped creature," Silme described her half brother. ": twisted by a legacy base as demon shadow and intent on inappropriate retribution since I scarce passed from glass level to semiprecious." She indicated the sapphire which glimmered at the tip of her staff. "Bramin leagued with Loki the Evil One." Her voice grated with dissent, as if mere mention of the name caused her pain. "So, I joined with Vidarr the Silent, a god whose strength is exceeded only by that of the thunderlord, Thor. Even then, I knew someone must stop Bramin before his vengeance harmed innocents."

She took a bite of meat, eyes distant. Larson longed to put his arms around her and offer comfort, but Gaelinar sat between them. Her voice grew stronger. "Bramin held three years of ad-vantage over me. He swept through the Dragon-ranks like wildfire in a shipyard. I knew I could never equal his training, but I fought to follow. Nearly every spell I chose to learn could be used as a defense against one of his. I forsook many of my own offenses for wards against him, a vast repertoire of counterspells as protection for Bra-min's victims."

Silme's eyes remained fierce points of blue, but her body sagged as if with fatigue. "He left the school at the rank of Master. Though three grades behind, I followed, hoping to withhold his evils from the world. Kensei Gaelinar nearly equals the odds between us."

Larson could think of nothing to say in the awesome wake of her story. He let his mind absorb the oddities of Midgard as the meal continued in silence and night plunged the forest into darkness.

At the base of the deepest root of the World Tree lay the Spring of Hvergelmir which fed the rivers of the world and was in turn filled by them. Its waters frothed like the boiling brew in a witch's cauldron. On its bank stood two figures, one light with a rotted core, the other wholly dark.

Bramin's life aura spread about him like flame. His voice was gritty with accusation. "You never warned me the sword was warded. I shudder to imagine the damage had I taken it in hand. Retrieve your own blade."

Hvergelmir belched putrid gas. Loki regarded his prodigy with wry amusement. "Relax, Hates-pawn. I didn't know. It wasn't warded when it was still in my hands." He smiled at some private joke. "But your efforts will not go for naught. This task is so important, I offer reward without equal. Should you retrieve Valvitnir, you shall have the hand of my daughter, Hel, and rulership of her realm."

Bramin paused, momentarily speechless. His aura flickered and dulled to pink as anger faded. As Helmaster, he would be lord of the dead; the souls of men would become his to rack and rend through eternity.

Loki read his thoughts, and spoke over Hvergel-mir's gurglings. "Beyond eternity, Hatespawn. If we destroy that sword, the nine worlds shall become ours. All men and gods will topple, lost to a chaos only you and I control. Not even the Fates can stay our vengeance."

Loki's enthusiasm spread to the sorcerer. "I've a plan," called Bramin as he watched lines of bubbles rise from the boiling spring. "In the woods, I did a mind search. Freyr's champion is a human in elf guise, a man from the future and a poor choice. The true structure of Midgard makes such knowledge as he has obsolete, and he has none of the mental protections of our kind. In short, he understands nothing of the sword's power and will fall easy prey to illusion. Although," he added bitterly. "Silme's presence makes my task infinitely more difficult."

Loki paced, distressed. It seemed almost too easy.

Bramin's next revelation redirected his thoughts. "I can read the runes," he said softly. His sword scraped from its ebony sheath, and its writings gleamed to vivid relief: * Helblindi*

The Sword of Darkness

All who die on its edge

Add their souls to Hel's shadow hordes.

Their screams shall echo to Valhalla 's barred gate.

Loki smiled. "And now you know why brave men must fear it. By assuring them eternity in the hall of men who succumb to illness or cowardice, we strip all glory from death in battle." And add strength to my own army at the final battle, he gloated in silence.

Bramin's fist clenched with purpose. "The writings are clear," the dark elf reminded Loki of his promise. "My vengeance?"

The burbling waters seemed to join Loki's laughter. "When you bring the sword, you shall have them many times over. But if petty slayings amuse you in the meantime, enjoy them. Just don't let them interfere with your task."

Bramin's malignant smile was his only answer.

Larson dreamed. He saw his sword, Valvitnir, gleaming blue as muted porch light. It spun in his hands, flinging glimmers in wild arcs. Gradually, the scene faded to a vivid view of the pine forest. He wandered wonderingly through a world of green highlights as tree trunks shuddered around him and their branches fused to a common core.

The whole seemed not unlike an insect, a giant, hairy spider, amusingly awkward. The trees rose like legs, moved from the confines of the forest, and Larson followed curiously. Eleven trunks gave the creature mobility, each with a name that ran through his mind like the players on a team: Svol, Gunnthra, Fjorm, Fimbulthul, Slidr, Hrid , Sylgr, Ylgr, Vid, Leiptr, and Gjoll. Even as he repeated the strange-sounding names, they muted.

The forest became a valley whose darkness the moon could not graze. The spider's legs split the blackness as they transformed into streams which sparkled like diamonds. They no longer towered up from the ground. Their waters plunged downward to meet a swirling torrent, a glorious cascade of foam unmatched by any work of man. Mesmerized, the dream-Larson worked the sword from its sheath and watched the tumescent waters wink shadows through the glow of the sword's magic. He drew back his arm and hurled the blade. The sword tumbled end over end. It hit the burbling spring with a splash and sank instantly out of sight.

Even as relief rushed to replace the urgency of his quest, the illusion acquired the frightening quality of his unbidden memory of Danny's death. An unfamiliar obscenity crossed his thoughts briefly. The scene wavered. The spring flushed to the color of blood, and bloated, white bodies gorged the streams. An alien presence knocked his consciousness askew.

He awoke screaming. Gentle hands first caught his wrists and then drew his face to a chest which muffled his cries. Consciousness changed his screams to sobs, and his tears made the thin gray cloth cling to Silme's breasts. She rocked him, humming as if to a child, oblivious to the turmoil in Larson's soul. He ached, loosing tears held far too long, tears he had locked away as war forced him from the mischievous antics of adolescence to the atrocities of men. These were the tears he'd never shed for Danny.

"Are you all right? What happened?" Silme asked in a voice which could soothe a stampede.

"Just a dream," Larson heard himself say, though he made no effort to speak. "Just a bad nightmare." His own voice brought a new rush of sorrow. "Oh, Jesus, what's wrong with me?"

Silme pulled her fingers from Larson's hair with a crackle of static. She seized both of his hands, squatted before him, and met his gaze. "What was the dream?"

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the sorceress' gaze, Larson closed his eyes. Tears pooled on his lashes, and he spoke around his sobs with gritted teeth. "I'm sorry. Let me pull myself together first." For a brief moment, he hated this woman who was callous enough to stare at a broken man. But when he raised his lids, the sincerity of her pained expression moved him to pity. He let the tears fall where they might and began to relate his dream.

Larson told Silme and Gaelinar of the forest and its strange conformation. He described the eleven streams and their source and was surprised to find he remembered their names. His narrative slowed as he recalled tossing the sword into the burbling spring and the relief inspired by its sacrifice. Even as Larson detailed the final sequence, memory battered against his sanity. He held his gaze on Silme, aware a single glimpse of Gaelinar's slanted eyes would snap his control over the flashbacks.

"There's more." Silme would allow no denial. "Something frightened you."

The tears slackened to a trickle. Larson shook his head with an intensity that whipped his face with hair. "The dream ends there. The rest is:" he sneaked a look at Gaelinar, then closed his eyes tight against dizziness, ": just recollections of horrors I've seen."

Silme pounced on his words without mercy. "For some reason, your mind relates them to this dream. Tell me:"

"No!" The word came out more like a whine than a command. Larson sagged forward on his bedding. His tears discolored the furs in a pool. How can I tell Silme about a world where technology makes equals of the foolish and the skilled? How can I describe a place where there are no heroes or villains, where the lines between good and evil blur to interpretation, where men rape and torture innocents in the name of justice. Larson slumped to one elbow, unable to face his new companions. How can I expect her to understand the feelings of virility and power behind a loaded gun or the camaraderie which makes dismembering the dead seem noble?

Enshrouded in a self-erected tomb of guilt and shame, Larson lay utterly still. He curled into a fetal position as a stream of tears wound uncontrollable lines around his cheeks. The voices he heard sounded dulled by distance.

":close enough to Forste -Mar. We'll take him to the dream-reader."

"We'll talk later. Can you do something for him?"

Leaves crunched beside him as Silme approached and laid her palms gently on his shoulders. Larson raised his head. His tear-blurred vision distorted her beauty to shapelessness. She whispered seemingly meaningless syllables, and the scattered shards of Larson's rationality fused together as her spell blanketed him with peace. As he opened his mouth to speak, he fell into dreamless bliss.

Larson awoke to a dull mental ache, like an old scar in cold weather. Sunlight was already slanting through the branches. He had overslept. He leaped to his feet and bit off an expletive as Silme rose to meet him.

"Here." She pushed a fist-sized strip of jerked venison into his hands. "We'd best be off if we're to reach town by midday."

"Town?" Rubbing his swollen eyes, Larson glanced toward Gaelinar, who was examining the sharpened edge of his katana with approval.

The Kensei pocketed the whetstone and sheathed his sword. " Forste -Mar. It's Silme's hometown." He pointed vaguely northward.

Larson followed the gesture mechanically as he mulled over all the incredible things that had happened to him recently. More accustomed to his new surroundings, now he began to consider details which earlier had been blurred by the necessity for self-preservation. He became aware of the language he spoke as fluently as his companions, a melodious singsong which he supposed was Old Norse. He could not guess why the cold slap of wind did not chill him after the suffocating jungle heat, nor why he remained clean-shaven after two days without a razor.

Larson idly chewed mouthfuls of meat as their journey through the evergreen forest resumed. The clustered trees restricted undergrowth yet remained sparse enough for clear vision and passage. Yearning for a new identity, he paid little attention to their trail. Al Larson died in Vietnam. Let him keep his memories of atrocity and evil. I am Allerum, an elf without a past on a quest sanctioned by gods.

Despite the veracity of the sentiment, Larson's conscience resisted. Ugly recollections fought for control, bloody scenes witnessed by the man he had just denounced; but in the sanctity of the forest, Larson held such thoughts in check. His eyes followed Silme, and he surrendered to a thrill of desire. She moved soundlessly, like a woodland being. For all the effort it cost her, the forest might have adapted to suit her rather than she to it.

Gaelinar pushed past Larson and caught the hand in which Silme held her sapphire-tipped staff. The gesture drew Larson from his struggle with self-identity. Until that moment, he'd never considered there might be more to his companions' relationship than mere friendship. The idea drove him to a sadness which flared to fury. He glared as Silme answered Gaelinar's whispered words with a laugh, and the Kensei took the lead of the party.

He must be twice her age, Larson reminded himself in a rage. Yet jealousy did not blind him to an important fact. He had no way to judge Silme's years. Surely a powerful sorceress could warp time's ravishings with illusion. His stomach lurched at the notion. Beauty by magic seemed deceitful. Yet, Larson thought as reason dispersed anger, why should Silme not take advantage of her craft? Recognition of his own shallowness made Larson flush. There was more to Silme than comeliness. She demonstrated poise, empathy, generosity, pride, and a confidence he sorely missed in himself.

Ruffled by his ponderings, Larson turned his attention back to their surroundings. The terrain grew more hilly, swarming with foxgrape and low, twisted bushes. Passage grew easier as brush gave way to discernible trails beaten to mud by feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. The woods broke suddenly to fields of wind-bowed grain, and the weed-grown path became an obvious road with branches and byways.

Larson hesitated, accustomed to the waist-high, leech-infested swamps of the rice paddies. Gaelinar and Silme continued down the roadway between wheat fields without any apparent worry. But as they turned simultaneously to urge Larson forward, he recognized a solemnity which had escaped him during the journey. He trotted to Silme's side, stared into her eyes, and demanded stridently, "What's the matter?"

She lowered her head until billows of golden hair obscured her face. Her knuckles whitened about her dragonstaff, and she spoke in a dry, quavering whisper. "After your dream I sought Vidarr's guidance. He didn't respond." She raised water-glazed eyes to Larson's curious stare.

A reply seemed necessary, but Larson could think of none. He tried to keep a patronizing tone from his question.

"Does he usually answer you?"

"With images at least." Silme threw back her locks to reveal a face drawn with concern. "I'm his favored attendant. Something terrible has happened."

Unfamiliar with the dealings between gods and men, Larson could offer no real reassurance. He reached for Silme, but Kensei Gaelinar caught his forearm with a tortured cry. "Look there!"

Larson followed the old man's stare. White smoke funneled toward the sky from beyond the next rise. Gaelinar broke into a run, and his companions followed. Larson stubbed a toe in his haste, and his soft, doeskin moccasins did little to dull the impact. Cursing and limping, he caught up with Gaelinar at the hilltop, and the scene below made him forget his pain. Flames danced around an overturned wagon. Beside it, two men pinned a struggling figure to the ground while a third swayed, locked to the wild lurches of the prisoner.

High-pitched, panicked screams drowned Larson's own attempts at breath and cut him to the heart.

Every man draws his limit at an atrocity no amount of coercion could force him to commit. Larson's was rape. More than once, he had turned away while peers in uniform shamed and killed daughters before their helpless fathers. Too moral to join in, at the same time he was unable to risk provoking men on whom his life depended. So he had remained silent, seared by the guilt of a tacit condemnation which might have been approval for all it served the victim or his own conscience. All these thoughts condensed to a boil of emotion.

"Wait!" screamed Silme.

But Gaelinar sprinted down the roadway, howling, " Allerum, charge!" And, hearing his cry, the bandits scrambled for weapons.

After nearly a year of staking his life on strangers' orders, Larson obeyed Gaelinar without thought. He ran within thirty yards of the conflict before he remembered he could not wield his sword. He stopped abruptly as Gaelinar leaped at one of the rapists. Steel chimed as the bandit's sword crashed against the Kensei's shoto. Gaelinar's katana cut a silver arc and cleaved the bandit's neck.

Before Larson could react with even a gasp, one of the bandits closed the gap between them, brandishing a knife in his left hand and a short scimitar in his right. Forced to defend himself, Larson grasped Valvitnir's hilt and pulled. The sword came free with surprising ease and blazed blue as Larson made an awkward lunge. His opponent retreated before the longer weapon.

Larson thrust repeatedly. The bandit redirected the wild strokes with deft flicks of his scimitar. Sweat trickled down Larson's face in a cold stream.

Patience and skill would win this match, and he fell short on both. He hoped Gaelinar would finish his own battle before Larson lost the advantage of distance. Then, he caught sight of the mud-caked figure on the road. The victim of the bandits' cruel assault was a young boy.

Anger broke Larson's timing. His opponent dodged under his guard. Steel lanced toward his throat. Sacrificing balance, Larson caught the bandit's left wrist in his hand. The scimitar jarred around his crossguard, and the close range rendered Valvitnir useless. With his right hand locked to his enemy's wrist, Larson scarcely had time to react to the scimitar which flashed for his chest. He dropped his sword. Steel tumbled, and the hilt struck his stubbed toe. Pain shot to his knee. His freed fingers fended off the bandit's other wrist. The scimitar quivered inches from his cheek.

A gasp broke from the bandit with the odor of rotting teeth. He yanked free with a strength which wrenched every tendon in Larson's forearm. The elf responded sluggishly. The scimitar would cut him down before he could regain his grip. Resigned to a second death, he dodged as best he could. Suddenly, steel flashed from the shadows. A hunting blade in the grip of the ravaged child severed the bandit's hamstring, and he reeled backward. Larson's foot lashed into his opponent's groin. The bandit dropped, limp as a rag.

Sweat stung Larson's eyes and splintered the scene to bluish points of light. He dropped to his knees beside the writhing bandit. His hand closed on the hilt of the abandoned scimitar, and he thrust for his enemy's heaving chest. The bandit cringed flat with a strangled whimper, eyes wild with fear. Realization battered Larson like a blow.

He pulled the strike a finger's breadth from the bandit's heart, and the scimitar flopped from his hand like a wounded quail. The man is helpless. Have I become so callous I kill without thought?

The bandit's lips set, puzzled. A shadow fell across his drawn face, and light flashed overhead. Larson sprang aside as Gaelinar's katana whisked past him and carved a line of blood across the bandit's throat. The body spasmed in death, its face locked in surprise permanent as a mask.

Larson heard himself scream. His mind tore free from his body, plunging him into an older, more familiar world. Comprehension darkened, than broke in a flash to memory of boot-scuffed dust flickering in the midday heat. It was noon, time for him and Brent Hamill to replace Gavin and Fisher as perimeter guard. Hamill was a newcomer to Aku Nanh, a one week "fucking new guy" who had not yet seen his first fire fight. Though Hamill's inexperience endangered them, Larson liked him and felt obligated to help him through his initiation into Vietnam.

The past few weeks had been unusually quiet which pleased Larson but made many of his companions bored and impatient. Hamill's eyes jumped excitedly as he eyed the wall of sand bags which enclosed the fire base. Larson spared an encouraging smile. As they neared their station, a single shot rang above the general din of conversations. Fisher's good-natured curse was nearly lost beneath Gavin's laughter.

Larson dodged around a grass hut, Hamill close behind. At the perimeter, Gavin hunched over his gun while Fisher baited him like a catcher on a baseball field. Hamill's eyes widened with inno -cent interest as Larson called to his companions. "What are you doing?"

Gavin glanced over his shoulder and gestured Larson forward. When Hamill and Larson reached the sand bags, Gavin pointed across the tank-cleared plain. A stooped figure waddled along a winding road, barely discernible as an elderly woman. "So?" asked Larson.

"Five bucks to the guy what hits her," explained Fisher with a fiendish smile. "Try your hand?"

Hamill made a pained noise. Larson looked quickly from newcomer to friend, then transformed the shocked movement into a negative toss of his head.

Gavin shrugged and returned to his task. The M-16 spoke once, the woman continued undaunted, and Gavin crawled aside. Fisher moved into position. He spat on his hands, wiped them on his overlarge pants, and hunched over the gun.

Larson avoided Hamill's frantic glances. He knew Gavin and Fisher were merely working off hostility. The woman walked well beyond reasonable, target range, and, apparently, she had taken no notice of their potshots.

Hamill grew more distressed. He caught Larson's forearm, and his grip tightened painfully as Gavin and Fisher passed the M-16 twice more between them. When Larson finally turned his attention to Hamill , the newcomer mouthed the words, "Make them stop."

Larson shook him off, not comfortable with the situation, yet unwilling to side with an FNG against friends. Hamill balled his hands together and paced wildly. Crazed beyond understanding, he stopped without warning, swung his M-16 from his shoulder, lined and fired. Soundlessly, the old woman fell to the ground.

Hamill's mouth wrenched open and his face puckered. Larson cringed from the inevitable scream, but Hamill stood silent, like a movie without sound. The gun slid from his hands and thumped to the ground. His dull brown eyes stared through Larson, and he staggered toward the huts as if drunk.

Larson turned to follow, but Fisher caught the back of his shirt. "Shit, Larson. Leave the poor FNG alone. You like some dude hoverin ' over you after your first kill?"

Larson paused as Hamill disappeared around a grass hut. "You don't have to be the guy's mother," Gavin added. "Everyone goes through it. You went through it; I went through it. He'll feel like shit with you watching him puke or cry or both. And you ain't going to feel too great either. When:"

A pistol shot sounded in the compound, from the general direction of Larson's hut. Ohmygod! Larson sprinted toward his quarters with a single coherent thought. Let it be a rat. Oh, shit, let it be a goddamn rat! Although trained to his peak physical condition, Larson was out of breath by the time he rounded the corner and burst through the door to his hut. His heart hammered, loud and consistent as machine gun fire. His gaze played over the familiar disarray and settled on the body in his own bunk. Hamill lay still as if in sleep. The. 45 automatic lay across his left thigh. His eyes remained open, as if staring at some horrifying sight. Blood spurted from his mangled chin.

"No!" Larson screamed to ears which could not hear. His first aid training surfaced with mechanical efficiency. For bleeding, apply direct pressure. Larson covered the ground between himself and Hamill in a single heroic bound. Need usurped thought. Larson locked his hands on the tatters of Hamill's face. Shards of bone and teeth gashed his palms, and his blood mingled freely with the scarlet spring ebbing from his patient.

"Al, stop! There's nothing you can do. He's dead:"

"There's nothing you can do. He's dead." The words were the same, but the voice was from another world. Larson focused on the blood which colored his fingers dull red. The chin cupped between his hands sported two days' growth of beard; the eyes were mercifully closed in death. Larson raised his gaze to the burning wagon. Before it, Gaelinar held the struggling boy. "Child, it's too late. Your uncle is dead."

Dazed, Larson recoiled from the corpse. He whirled to stare at the glowing blue sword, and its brilliance returned him to a reality found only in legend. Slowly, he reached for it. Another object caught his eye, a glass bottle with a hand-lettered label. He retrieved both, jammed the sword into its sheath, and examined the phial. A thick, honey-colored liquid sloshed behind the words: Crullian's Marvelous Cure.

Near the dying flames, the boy ceased his furious kicks and punches. He fell against Gaelinar's loose-fitting garb, sobbing. The swordmaster, who had just mercilessly killed three men, held the child in the folds of his robe, face drawn with genuine concern.

Silme strode from behind the wreckage, and her reprimand was singularly tactless. "You may be a sword saint, Kensei. But by Vidarr's shoe, someone's got to teach you to think."

Gaelinar returned her accusation with unbro -ken confidence. "I'm sorry we got in your way. We couldn't take a chance your spells might hit the boy. Besides," he smiled sheepishly. "I was mad."

The boy pulled away to face Silme. He was small; Larson guessed him to be about ten years old. Raven-hued hair covered his head in a tangle, and his skin was light olive. His quick, blue eyes seemed out of place, and they betrayed some Northern blood mixed with a darker, Eastern race. It was obvious he was some sort of half-breed. Larson followed the boy's gaze from a pair of severely burned legs protruding beneath the charred wagon to Silme. The child clamped hands to his face and announced shrilly, "You're Dragonrank!"

Silme nodded in reply.

The boy's words tumbled over one another, the murdered uncle momentarily forgotten in his excitement. "My great, great grandfather was Dragon-rank. And my uncle Crullian knew some magic, too. He's a healer:" He broke off suddenly, and his speech decreased in tempo and volume. " Was a healer."

Larson walked over to his companions and stood at Gaelinar's side as Silme quickly changed the subject. "What's your name, child?"

" Brendor," the child introduced himself. "And I'm a wizard, too. Watch!"

Silme made only a half-hearted attempt to stop him. Curious, Larson watched as the child pointed a finger at Gaelinar's face and screamed, "Shave!"

As if in direct defiance of Brendor's command, whiskers sprouted from the Kensei's chin. Gaelinar loosed a startled cry, and Silme hid an amused smile behind her hand. Brendor's face flushed scarlet, and he tried again. "Shave!"

Soft, black hair coated Gaelinar's right cheek. Despite the fact-Larson's tension had been heightened by the brutal slayings and flashbacks, he broke into uncontrollable laughter. Gaelinar's eyes narrowed in annoyance. Brendor seemed drained. Yet he drew a deep breath, stomped his sandaled foot in the dirt, and screamed his command in frustration. "SHAVE!"

Larson's face tingled strangely as hair grew in random patches. His chuckles died to an incoherent grumble, and he rubbed at the oddly-placed stubble. Winded and purple-faced, Brendor relinquished his spell and dropped -his arms. He glanced at his uncle's smoldering corpse beneath the wagon, and the sight wrenched a new volley of tears from his pale eyes.

Gaelinar made a subtle gesture. Silme nodded slightly, put an arm about the child's shoulders, and led him down the road toward the town of Forste -Mar. While Larson watched, woman and boy disappeared around a bend in the road among the wheat stalks. Once they passed beyond his view, Larson turned toward the wagon to find Gaelinar stoking the waning fire with twigs and branches. Without question, he joined in the effort, dragging debris from the forest to feed the flames that were devouring Crullian's body.

The fire flared to brilliance. Gaelinar knelt before it with bowed head and spoke the words of farewell. "Good-bye from Midgard to the healer Crullian. May he have died with dignity and the gods find him worthy of Valhalla or whatever haven in which he believed."

After Gaelinar's ruthless swordplay, Larson found the Kensei's compassionate prayer a surprise. Good and evil may be more well defined in this world, he mused. But they remain relative. Absorbed by this new abstraction, Larson failed to notice as Gaelinar hauled the three dead bandits within half a yard of the pyre. The smell of death, grain fields, and the roaring red flames against a background of forest formed a familiar knot in Larson's gut. Caught in the past, he stared until his eyes watered from pain.

Gaelinar's hand on his wrist rescued Larson from flashback. He started, acutely aware of every line on the Kensei's face, from the grim creases in his forehead to the sweep of his newly-grown beard. "If you're not going to help, at least hold this for the boy." Gaelinar tossed a tied linen pouch torn from a bandit's belt. The cloth muffled the clink of coins as Larson caught the offering.

"I'll also help." Larson smiled, pocketed the pouch, and added teasingly, "Since you're too weak to do it yourself." He hefted one of the bandits by the armpits. Gaelinar returned the grin and lifted the corpse by the ankles. In this manner, they tossed all the rapists' bodies on the pyre without benefit of epitaph.

The duty of disposing of the corpses dispatched, the two men started off along the road through the wheat. At a safe distance from the smoke, Gaelinar stopped so abruptly his odd, black-trimmed robes swayed about his hips. Larson whirled. Gaelinar bowed with a politeness his words did not match. "You look ridiculous with clumps of fuzz on your face, hero. Do you have something to take it off with before we rejoin Silme?"

Larson shook his head, grievously aware Freyr had ill-equipped him for whatever monumental task recalled him from the future.

"Here then." Gaelinar produced a knife from the folds of his cloak and tossed it in a gentle arc. He frowned as Larson let the blade fall to the ground at his feet.

Larson hefted the knife uncertainly. Unused to using a dagger as a shaving tool, he waited until Gaelinar drew a second blade and, as hair rasped from the Kensei's chin, tried to imitate his companion's practiced motion. The unsharpened side of the blade settled awkwardly into Larson's hand, pinned to his palm by the tips of his fingers. He set the edge against his cheek and scraped. The knife carved hair and skin from his face with stinging pain. Blood trickled across his fingers, and Larson loosed a violent curse. He granted Gaelinar a glare which dared the man to laugh, but the Kensei kept his thoughts well hidden.

Larson pressed his hand to his cheek until the bleeding slowed. His second, more timid pass with the knife blade went smoother. Gaelinar finished quickly, flicked stubble from his dagger, and waited in silence while Larson struggled with an inept-ness which covered his face with nicks. Still, Gaelinar said nothing until Larson finished his task, wiped congealing blood from the steel, and wrapped the dagger in its proffered sheath.

Gaelinar spoke in a voice free of emotion. "Don't be embarrassed. I understand why you can't shave; elves don't have facial hair:"

Of course. The revelation made Larson feel foolish. He had forgotten to consider the differences between men and elves. Perhaps his transformation also accounted for his strange tolerance to colder weather. Another thought caused him to break into a sweat which burned the lacerations on his face. Perhaps elves and humans cannot interbreed – which makes my love for Silme both futile and ludicrous. The idea so unnerved Larson, he nearly forgot that Gaelinar had not finished his speech.

": but I don't know how you've survived this long without sword training," continued the weapon-master.

Not trusting himself to speak, Larson made a noncommittal gesture.

Gaelinar took the knife from Larson. "I don't mean to insult you, but if you travel with Silme and myself you'll have need of skill. An incompetent swordsman is as dangerous to his companions as to himself:"

Larson nodded dreamily as his thoughts drifted toward Hamill. An unpredictable hand on a swordhilt, a shaking hand on a gun trigger:

The whipcrack force of Gaelinar's voice returned Larson to awareness. "I'll teach you if you wish. But I warn you, I settle for nothing short of perfection. My lessons will be the most grueling you'll ever endure."

Larson recalled basic training and bit back a skeptical smile. He nodded tacit assent.

Darkness descended upon Larson and his companions while they were still several hours from Forste -Mar. They set up camp in the sparser woodlands near the roadway. Brendor fell asleep immediately, apparently exhausted from the bandits' attack, mental anguish, and his feeble attempts at magic. Gaelinar crouched with his back against a tree, his gaze locked on Silme as she murmured the incantations which formed her wards. Larson stretched out beside the Kensei, his fingers locked beneath his head as a pillow while he stared at the stars through the interlaced branches.

Larson yawned. It took me six weeks of boot camp to learn the rules of war and six months of combat to realize war has no rules. Now, in three days, I've come to accept elves and swords as commonplace. He rolled to his side and watched Silme pause as the enchantments of her wards faded into the gloom of night. And then, there is magic. The memory of Bramin's cruelties in the woodlands made Larson break, into a cold sweat. If laws govern or moderate its use, they are lenient. For all my knowledge of future technology, I cannot stand against Bramin.

Larson fidgeted, bothered by these new ideas. / thought the Norse gods aided their warriors in battle, not abandoned them without knowledge of purpose in a world of undefeatable enemies. I've risked my life too long for causes I don't understand. Bramin wants my sword, not me. And Silme and Gaelinar seem far more qualified to protect it. His hand fell to the buckle of his sword belt.

A foreign sense of urgency swept through Larson. Freyr's authoritative voice seemed to echo in his mind. "Stop, please. It is true gods meddle in the lives of men, but you have entered the affairs of gods. I am helpless to protect you."

Stunned by Freyr's unexpected appearance, Larson said nothing.

Freyr continued. "The gods have vowed not to work against one another or the Fates. To you it may seem ridiculous, but without such laws nothing could ever get done. For every deity who wishes to stir up war, another would cultivate peace. Every action, every creation would have an antagonist. Soon, we would generate the chaos we guard against; the gods would war against one another in a combat which would not end until it encompassed the nine worlds.

Larson's mind responded sluggishly. "But why me?" he whispered.

Freyr hesitated. "I've seen your world. I brought you from a place where women, children, dirt, and trees were as dangerous as any sword. You learned to fear the few things in life a man should be able to trust. Love lost its allure before the constant threat of death which claimed friends, lovers, and enemies indiscriminately. Nothing remained permanent. In moments, rivers dried and forests exploded to barren plains. Amid colored lights and noise, the ground quaked with enough force to uproot the World Tree, and countless lives were spilled with every shrill of the war god's laughter. Like Valhalla 's Einherjar, soldiers fought brave battles by day, but the dead never rose and the living lost sleep guarding against the dragons which stalked the jungles. Who is better qualified to prevent Ragnarok than a man who suffered its equal?"

Larson bit his lip, focusing on Freyr's words rather than the concepts they represented and the memories they inspired. He whispered a question. " Ragnarok? The war fated to destroy all but a handful of gods and men. Is it my mission to prevent such a thing?"

Freyr's presence in Larson's mind went pensive. "I'm: not certain. I can tell you nothing more. Already I have revealed more than my vows allow. I must never contact you again. If Loki's chaos can be halted, another god shall make your quest clear. If not, my efforts have only thrown you into a war as twisted as the one which killed you. But this one can claim your soul as well as your life. Forgive me." As suddenly as it had come, Freyr's manifestation disappeared.

Sweat beaded Larson's brow. " Freyr. Freyr!" Larson received no answer, but Silme and Gaelinar stared. "J-just a prayer." Larson defended himself lamely. He curled into a fetal position on the grass. Despite his muddled thought, Freyr's disquieting revelations, and his companions' suspicions, he fell into a wary slumber.

The subtle breaking of brush startled Larson awake. His heart pounded. He forced himself to inhale and exhale slowly, counting each breath until the rhythm lulled him to an inner calmness. His senses focused on the irregular, soft sounds of movement through the brush. Gradually, he worked his hand to his side where his gun should sit. His fingers brushed empty ground. Suppressing a curse, he explored the clearing around him. The side of his hand met the hilt of his sword; and, for a time, he lay confused.

A hand pressed his shoulder reassuringly, and Gaelinar's familiar voice hissed into his ear. "Be still. Just watch."

Curiosity replaced Larson's bewilderment. His palm curled around Valvitnir's hilt. His gaze swept the brush at the edge of camp where a hunched, dark figure slithered into view and paused momentarily. Larson's grip tightened. Gaelinar's hand remained on his arm, restraining. Through the slight haze, Larson assessed the man who stalked them. He wore a dark gray tunic. Moonlight emphasized the pallor of his hair and beard. He crawled with calculated caution.

The stranger's hand rose, the gesture arrested as suddenly as if he'd struck a wall. White-hot flames burst around his fingers. He screamed, reeling back as Silme's wards sprang to view in an intertwining pattern around the camp. Gaeliner and Larson leaped to their feet simultaneously as the stranger sprinted into the woods, howling in pain.

A distant voice yelled, " Gilbyr!" Nearby, a curse sounded above the panicked screams. "Damn the dark elf! He never mentioned magic. Gilbyr!" Arrows arched through the air.

"Incoming!" Instinctively, Larson dove to the ground. The arrows struck the magical barrier and, unable to pass through it, plummeted to earth in flames. Brush rattled loudly for a short time, and the woods returned to silence.

Brendor spoke in a frightened whine, and his question mirrored Larson's thoughts. "What happened?"

Silme hadn't even stirred during the attack. Her reply seemed inappropriately calm. "A few of Bramin's lackeys tried to pass my wards. Fools."

Gaelinar resumed his crouch against the tree. Larson remained still, his gaze locked on the forest. "What is ' Gilbyr '?"

Gaelinar closed his eyes. "A name, Allerum. Apparently this Gilbyr has chosen to become our enemy. Therefore, I suggest you remember him."

Larson stared at the glowing waves of Silme's wards, quite certain he could never forget.