Godslayer

Chapter 4

Wolfslayer

"Brother fights with brother, they butcher each other; daughters and sons incestuously mix; man is a plaything of mighty whoredoms; an axe-time, sword-time shields shall be split; a wind-age, a wolf-age, before the World ends."

– The Spaewife's Song

The dream-reader crossed the barren tract before her cottage and studied the main street of Forste -Mar through cataract-hazed vision. Four figures approached, too distant to discern through her aged eyes. Yet she identified her visitors without mortal sight. The woman at the lead glowed with a life aura bright as a barn fire, surely Dragonrank and therefore unmistakably Silme. Beside her walked a boy suffused by light so pale the dream-reader attributed the illusion to reflections of Silme's glory and her own near blindness.

Behind Silme strode her bodyguard of several years, the ronin, Gaelinar. To believe the rumors, he'd fought a thousand duels in the Far East without a loss and had been lured to the North by stories of fearless pirates commanding longboats carved in dragon form. No one knew how Silme had persuaded the Kensei to her cause, but his loyalty was beyond question.

The dream-reader knew the sorceress' last companion from gossip exchanged in the village market. The citizens named him a light elf. But even through diseased eyes which blurred Larson to an outline, the dream-reader found little comparison between him and the slight, giggling elves who whisked through her cottage on infrequent visits. His tread was heavy as a man's, his manner cautious and careworn.

As the four people crossed the ground before her cottage, the dream-reader lowered her head so her hood might keep her wrinkled face in shadow. She spread her arms. Wind caught the edges of her sleeves, drawing them from wrists thin as broom handles. Affectations were unnecessary before the sorceress, Silme, but the dream-reader assumed her position from decades of habit.

"Good day," called Silme a bit too loudly, as if the dream-reader's failing vision might affect her ears as well.

"Good morning, Lady Silme." The dream-reader bobbed her head once at the sorceress and again for Gaelinar. "Kensei." She waited patiently for Silme's introduction of the strangers.

"Lord Allerum and Brendor the:"

"Apprentice," Brendor interrupted in an excited squeak. "Silme's going to teach me my shave spell!"

Unable to discern expressions from her patrons' blurred faces, the dream-reader watched Silme's life aura for clues to her disposition. Now, the edges tinged pink with annoyance. Beside high rank Dragonschool, the reader's own aura seemed faded as the old cloak across her shoulders. "Have you come to visit an aging woman or for business?" asked the dream-reader, hoping for the latter. It was common knowledge Silme consorted with gods. Only desperation would drive Dragon-rank to the lowly magics of a dream-reader. And desperation had its price.

"Business." Silme stroked the shaft of her staff thoughtfully. "Lord Allerum has a dream for your interpretation."

The dream-reader took one step forward and peered at Larson through slitted eyes. Closer, she recognized the small frame and angularity of an elf. But his long fingers balled nervously against the side of his breeches in a gesture uncharacteristic for a creature of faery. "I should gladly serve you, mistress." The dream-reader stepped around Larson. "In exchange, surely you have the power to cure an old woman's affliction." She pressed forward, giving Silme the full effect of her clouded stare.

Multi-hued light flickered briefly through Silme's aura. "Forgive me, lady. The spell you seek is within my power but not part of my repertoire. I can't help you."

Fearing to lose a chance at sight, the dream-reader persisted. "A mage of your rank has disciples. Surely one of them:" She trailed to silence, awaiting the sorceress' reply.

Silme's life aura shimmered and swelled as she weighed alternatives. "The cost of spells for conju -ration and exchange would exceed that necessary to heal you. They would weaken me."

The dream-reader said nothing, aware Silme's need for her services could bargain better than words.

"Even then," continued Silme, "I couldn't be certain the contacted wizard would agree to help you."

"I ask only that you try." The dream-reader tried to sound humble. "Nothing more."

"All right then," Silme responded in a hoarse whisper. She walked away from her companions and crouched on the frozen soil. Her life aura blazed like wind-stoked fire, then folded around her in a glimmering shield. Gaelinar strode forward and positioned himself before her, eyes watchful, hands tensed at his sides.

A slight smile shivered across the dream-reader's lips as she turned her attention to Larson. She shifted her shriveled hands to his shoulders. Sweat soaked through the fresh cloth of his tunic. He trembled slightly as a rising breeze flicked soft, pale hair and the folds of his newly-purchased silk cape against the reader's wrists. "Concentrate on your dream, so I can locate it," she informed him gently. "And try to lower your defenses."

The dream-reader knew her final suggestion was ineffectual routine. Only men accustomed to mental searches could withdraw defenses with any success. Thought invasion induced reflexive closure of the mind and its secrets. Anticipating a long session of relaxation techniques, the dream-reader thrust her consciousness toward the elf.

To her surprise, she met no resistance. Her mental probe passed effortlessly into Larson's mind, and his thought processes spread before her like the workings of a clock. It was not an elven mind; it lacked the wire-thin pathways and array of colors. It was a human mind and badly flawed. Passages looped in blind circles or linked with unrelated thoughtways in random binds and breaks. The effect seemed not unlike the looping chaos of stuffing from a torn doll. Though curious, the dream-reader avoided the strange conglomeration and focused on the faintly-glowing configuration which indicated Larson's present abstraction. Exploring other avenues of thought would betray the trust of her client.

The dream assumed the clarity of a play. The dream-reader saw the trees as Larson's link with the forest of his then current reality. The trunks muted to rivers, and Larson's memory of their names highlighted their importance to his vision. The titles which seemed foreign to Larson rolled through her mind like old friends: Svol the cool and Gunnthra the defiant, Fjorm and loud-bubbling Fimbulthul, Slidr the fearsome river of daggers and swords, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, and Vid the broad, Leipt which streaks like lightning, and frozen Gjoll. These were the eleven rivers which cascaded through Midgard straight to Hel and the roaring cauldron of the spring, Hvergelmir.

The dream-reader of Forste -Mar saw the glowing form of the sword, Valvitnir, as the dream-Larson tossed it into the tumult of the Helspring. Hungrily, Hvergelmir swallowed the offering, and the dream-reader felt the relief inspired by the powerful being who had invaded Larson's thoughts and fashioned his vision. She found the misstep which caused the dream weaver to trigger unbidden memories of Vietnam and the misplaced circuits which amplified them to pain and awakened

Larson screaming. Gently, the dream-reader withdrew. She stepped away from her subject to face Silme and Gaelinar.

Silme waited expectantly, her life aura dulled by effort. "Within the week, expect a visit from an aged wizard of amber rank. He has agreed to lift your curse of nature."

Excitement plied the dream-reader like a faery dance, but she resisted response for the sake of dignity. "Bless you, mistress," she managed at length. "And the elf's dream is clear. Some divine being bid him on a quest to fling his sword into the spring of Hel at the tip of the deepest root of the World Tree."

In the silence which followed her explanation, the dream-reader continued. "You must realize, I can only interpret the dream. I can't guess who inspired it, nor the motive behind the quest. Loki's realm is unfit for any but the dead, and a journey even to its borders unsafe for man or elf or god. Legend says any object which falls into Hvergelmir is utterly destroyed. Unless the sword contains the essence of a most unholy creature, I can't fathom why the gods would send the elf on such a task."

Larson seemed about to speak, then went still. "How do we find this Helspring?" asked Silme softly.

The dream-reader tugged her hood against the wind. "North of town find the river Svip. Followed seven days it widens to Sylg which will bring you, in several more days, to the valleys of darkness which lead to the underworld. Eleven rivers coalesce before the golden bridge the dead must cross to enter Hel. They join at Hvergelmir." Pity rose for the four companions saddled with a quest envied by no man. "Something strikes me odd about pure gods sending minions to Loki's realm. If you'll forgive the advice of an elderly woman who has experienced more than most, the oracle of Hargatyr lies less than a day trip off your course. She can tell you whether destroying the sword will serve Midgard well or ill."

Silme's life aura guttered like an aging candle flame. "We thank you lady, for both direction and advice."

The men muttered gracious words. Then the four companions turned and made their way northward along the main track of Forste -Mar. The dream-reader watched until they passed beyond sight of her diseased eyes, and still she waited several minutes longer. Tipping back her hood, she let the breeze swirl her curled gray locks like sea foam. She loosed a single scream of joy and skipped toward her cottage for the first time since childhood:

At the base of the spring, Hvergelmir, Loki paced before Bramin, his golden hair streaming like the mane of a lion. "We must stop them, Hatespawn."

"Stop them." Bramin's feral eyes followed his master's frantic course. "We have them routed straight for Hel, certain their mission is to destroy the sword."

Abruptly, Loki ceased pacing. "We have them headed straight for the oracle of Hargatyr."

"So?"

"So!" Loki screamed above the rush of falling waters. "So, the oracle taps the knowledge of the Fates for her wisdom. So she tells Silme and her wretched companions disposing of Valvitnir serves the cause of evil. Perhaps she even informs them of their true quest."

"Which is?"

Loki's face puckered into a frown of grim aversion. "Against our purposes, Hatespawn."

Bramin fingered his sword hilt, the fringe of his life aura dulled by irritation. "More specifically?"

Loki brushed off the half-man with a wave and resumed his rambling gait. "I'm a god! I've earned the right to be vague."

Bramin scowled, watching eleven rivers fuse in a cascade white as ice. "But not the right to grow impatient. That is your flaw. You told me so the first time we talked."

Loki froze midstride. His perfect features seemed chiseled and powerful as the background of clashing waters whipped to foam. He spoke in a placid monotone. "Very true, Hatespawn. You've more than enough time to divert them from the oracle, no matter the cost. Do you understand?"

Helblindi rasped from its sheath, sudden as a striking serpent. It drew shadow like a magnet, dulling the frigid waters and Bramin's life aura to gray. "Completely," said the Hatespawn. : The dream-reader of Forste -Mar hummed a tune from her youth as she cleaned the floor of her one-room hovel with pendulous sweeps of a broom. Her gaze flitted from the black pit of the hearth, to the rectangle of her sleeping pallet, to the spindly-legged figure of her dining table. She imagined each piece of furniture as it had appeared before cataracts blurred her world to contours. Each hollow straw, every woodgrain seemed to reappear in the bold relief of her memory.

While the dream-reader basked in the anticipa-tion of a visit from an amber-rank mage, light flared behind her accompanied by a thunderblast which shook the foundations of her cottage. She whirled. A tall, dark male poised before her. He clutched a diamond-tipped dragonstaff, and an ebony scabbard hung at his belt. A strikingly powerful life force bathed him in brilliance, its edge flaming red with anger. The dream-reader read murder in the undulating shadows which wound through his aura. She gasped. "Bramin?"

Bramin stepped forward. As he neared, the dream-reader recognized red eyes filled with accusation and the cruel sneer which twisted his features. Rage deepened his voice. "You trifling adept! Whatever galled you to meddle in my affairs. If you had contented yourself performing your paltry dream-reading abilities and not tried to second-guess my motives, I wouldn't have to take your life." His right hand caressed the hilt of his sword.

The dream-reader shrank from Bramin's threatening form; fear destroyed all pretense of dignity. "Bramin, please stop. I don't understand:"

Bramin's sword slid from its sheath. Its blade scattered highlights of his life aura from the faded fabrics of the dream-reader's cloak. "I fashioned the elfs dream. The visions were yours to interpret, not to advise. You sent Silme to the oracle of Hargatyr!"

The permanent darkness of death loomed over the gray reality of the dream-reader's near blindness. She realized impudence would lose her any chance to claim Silme's payment, and tears blurred her vision further. Slowly, courage returned to her, lending her strength to speak against the dark elf. "And I would do so again. Silme has done only good for mankind. There was a time, Bramin, when you and your sister shared tea in my cottage. You both begged stories of magic. And, while the citizenry attacked your elven heritage, I protected you and warned them of your potential abilities. Does my loyalty gain me no mercy?"

Bramin's aura blazed red hatred. He advanced. The point of Helblindi hovered at the dream-reader's throat, driving her backward. "You just wanted my power," he accused. "You thought any kindness you showed me then would be repaid once I became Dragonrank. It was your investment, a gamble. You lost."

The dream-reader's back struck the wall with enough force to jar her fragile frame. The sword point scratched her neck. Desperately she thrust a mental probe to Bramin's mind, trying to understand the mad affliction which corrupted his thoughts and incited him to demonic fury. But her consciousness met defenses solid as stone.

Bramin's foot flicked against the dream-reader's knee, dropping her to the floor. "Grovel, witch!"

All strength fled the dream-reader. Gradually, panic drained to complacency, and she fixed an answering stare on Bramin. "Not for you or anyone else, Dark One. I'm too old to fear death."

Bramin gave no verbal reply. His face puckered to a scowl. Helblindi sheared through the dream-reader's throat. Pain wrenched a scream from her, but the half-man's laughter was the last sound she heard before the half-dead goddess, Hel, claimed her soul.

Deep in the forests north of Forste -Mar, near the banks of the river Svip, Larson repeatedly performed his only sword form for a Kensei who challenged him with offensive strokes of a wooden practice weapon. After four days of morning and evening lessons, the figures had grown as familiar to Larson as the never-ending sequence of pine and the widening river. Yet Gaelinar persisted, adding only simple directional changes to the basic cut of Larson's first session.

The time spent traveling between lessons might have offset the merciless repetition of Gaelinar's training had Silme chosen to grace Larson with conversation or even an encouraging smile. But she withdrew to inner contemplations, responding stiltedly to his attempts at humor, when she replied at all. During Larson's sword lessons, Silme and Brendor shared breakfast or dinner. After he finished, sweat freezing on his tired limbs, Larson was prepared for some social interaction along with his meal. But Silme would take Brendor into the woods for a discourse on magic, and Larson would have only Gaelinar for company. For reasons Larson could not discover, Silme appeared to be avoiding him.

I'll confront her today, Larson decided with unwavering resolution. If I've done something to offend her, I've a right to know . As his thoughts meandered in this new direction, Valvitnir jerked suddenly. Gaelinar's wooden sword rattled from the blade, skimming the edge of Larson's pants.

"Nice recovery." Gaelinar seemed pleased. "Perhaps you'll learn a new form tomorrow."

Larson flushed, too modest to credit himself with a maneuver wholly attributable to a sword it had become his mission to destroy. If the dream-reader was correct and Valvitnir housed the soul of an unholy being, it had thus far proved friendly.

Larson wondered whether the sword might lull him to confidence and betray him in real combat. Earlier, he had mentioned nothing of Valvitnir's strange powers to Gaelinar since the sword rescued him from many embarrassing situations in the course of the Kensei's teachings. Now, the decision to confront Silme made him bolder. "Gaelinar. I:"

He was interrupted by Brendor who crashed through the thin tangle of brush, face glowing with excitement. "Watch this!" called the boy.

Larson turned toward the child with a mixture of relief and apprehension. Brendor's eyes screwed tight in concentration. His face lined like an adult's. His hand curled in a smooth gesture and shook slightly, fingers stretched toward Gaelinar. "Shave," he said quietly.

Gaelinar flinched back. His chin, which had sported a day's growth of stubble, was now clean as Larson's. " Brendor, you did it!" screamed the elf.

"I: did: it!" Panting with exertion, Brendor cast his head about as if to determine which direction to run. "Shave, shave, shave,