Godslayer

SHAVE!"

As the last command burst gleefully from Brendor's throat, hair sprouted from the Kensei's chin in a stiff, unnatural beard. Gaelinar's face went livid. Brendor loosed a strangled cry and staggered into the forest. Struck by the appearance of his customarily neat and serious swordmaster, Larson broke into laughter.

"We'll continue in the morning." Gaelinar waved a hand stoically. "Get something to eat."

Glad for the freedom, Larson wasted no time on words. He sheathed Valvitnir hurriedly and chased after Brendor, hoping the boy might lead him to Silme. Eventually, he heard the sorceress' voice, loud and angry, and followed it to a clearing near camp where Silme berated her apprentice without mercy. ": not a game, stupid child! The summoning of a chaos force costs nothing; it comes naturally to those born to magic. But you know that channeling its energy to a specific enchantment drains power from its caster's life aura. Your sloppy technique of partially focusing your spell is all that saved you. Had you cast that second spell correctly as I taught you: " She paused. Brendor quivered before her wrath like a townsman in the sights of a loaded gun. ": it would have destroyed you."

Silme looked up as Larson entered the clearing, and her glare made it obvious his presence was unwelcome. Without so much as a gesture of greeting, she continued her tirade. "I was an idiot to think I could trust a child with power:"

Larson wandered away, sick with frustration. Now, when he had finally gathered the courage to approach Silme with his feelings, she was busy with matters she considered more important. Larson supposed hours would pass before she composed herself enough to talk, and by that time she would want to sleep. Crushed by ill luck, Larson took a seat by the fire across from Gaelinar who was scraping the last of Brendor's foiled attempt at. magic from his wrinkled cheeks.

Larson said nothing. He stared into flames orange as a sunset against the darkening background of nightfall. After a short silence, Gaelinar sheathed his dagger, pulled rations from a pack beside the horses, and crouched at Larson's side. Apparently sensing Larson's mood, the Kensei spoke with en- couragement. "You've done well. You learn as fast as any I've taught."

Despite the value of Gaelinar's rare compliment, Larson merely watched the fire and made a noncommittal grunt. He saw little purpose in learning to wield a sword he was commissioned to destroy and even less in journeying with a beautiful woman who would never share his love. Does the old man expect me to battle Bramin after a week of sword training?

"Hungry?" Gaelinar spread a square of cloth before the fire and emptied a small sack of dried fruit and smoked meat.

Larson shared the food without tasting it. Gaelinar's words flowed about him, no more comprehensible than the bubblings of the river. At length, the Kensei stayed his wasted conversation and joined his companion in silence. The campfire settled as it consumed its supply of twigs. The moon rose like a chariot, a lingering token of the sun's glory. And still Larson brooded.

Gaelinar rose. He performed a dexterous series of katas, all lost on Larson whose thoughts centered on his own misfortunes. When the Kensei finished, he gathered bedding and spread it about the fire. He caught Larson's arm and gently tugged the elf to his feet. "Rest will do you good."

Larson made no protest but allowed himself to be led. He crawled between his own snug pile of furs; and, though he made no attempt to sleep, he fell prey to the blissful oblivion which veils men's burdens. Larson's peace was short-lived. He awakened to the low drone of Silme's voice beside him. Fearing he might lose another chance to talk, he groped toward the sound.

Larson caught Silme's leg in the darkness. She recoiled with a shriek. Magics fizzled to sparks around the sorceress, and Gaelinar's swords whisked from their sheaths in a defensive curl before her. "You stupid elf!" shrilled Silme. "You ruined my protection spell and weakened me for nothing. By Vidarr's shoe, am I surrounded by incompetents?"

Gaelinar flipped his katana and shoto to their sheaths and retook a position at Silme's side. "Excepting you, of course, Kensei," the sorceress muttered sullenly. She dropped her head, and again crafted the intricate enchantments of the circular ward which had defended them each night since Larson first met Silme and Gaelinar in the forest. Humbled, Larson retreated beneath his furs, sleep now an unattainable goal.

It's useless. Tears burned Larson's eyes while Silme's voice rose in incantation, followed by the crackle of intertwining magics. / can't live with her derision, not after I've held her in my arms. Flawlessly beautiful, skilled, compassionate and strong, Silme personifies every quality a man could want in a woman. I would never have found one like her in the States. And, he reminded himself, / will never have her here.

The coarse furs tickled Larson's cheek, and he brushed them aside with self-pitying fury. / left my mother nothing but another life to mourn. As a soldier, I failed, only to be rescued from death for a task I still don't understand. I've duped Gaelinar with a living sword which learns his lessons better than I ever can. And Silme: Larson gritted his teeth so tightly, his thoughts folded in a haze of redness. As long as I remain part of it, this quest is doomed to failure. He caught Valvitnir. With strength spawned of a boil of desperate emotion, Larson hurled the sword. It flew straight as a spear, struck the unseen enchantments of Silme's ward, and plummeted with a crash that woke every member of the party.

Cursing like a longshoreman, Larson sprang from his bedding and snatched up the sword. "I dropped it," he explained lamely for the benefit of his companions, though he doubted even Brendor would believe he was practicing at night with a sheathed weapon. But no one questioned Larson as he returned to his pile of furs and realized in a rush of self-deprecation he could not even desert the task with dignity.

A voice broke his dispirited train of thought. Allerum.

"What?" Larson responded with a growl, not wishing to talk. It occurred to him suddenly that the voice was unfamiliar, and his sinews snapped taut. "Who are you?"

"Did you say something, hero?" asked Gaelinar, apparently oblivious to the stranger's presence.

Gaelinar's lack of vigilance struck Larson as odd. The Kensei was usually the wariest member of their group. Sssh, hissed the first voice. Don't talk aloud.

What the hell, thought Larson. Surely Gaelinar can hear as well as me. But the swordmaster neither moved nor spoke again. Trusting Gaelinar's instincts more than his own failing sanity, Larson flipped to his other side and tried to sleep.

Allerum. I'm your sword.

Larson's eyes flared open.

Don't speak. I'm communicating through your mind. You need only think what you wish to say. Do you understand?

Larson's wits exploded into confusion. He lay with heart hammering. At length, he formed a tentative reply and concentrated on it with the intensity of a card in a magician's trick. NO! AND WHO ARE