Godslayer

YOU?

You needn't shout! The response lanced through Larson's brain. Just think normally.

Whatthehell?

I am Vidarr, the silent god. Already I've sent more words to you than all my followers in the last century. From now, I answer only in images. Ask what you will.

Larson gnawed a fingernail, believing his insanity well beyond question. My sword is a god?

A scene unfolded in Larson's mind. Before him stood the figure of a man, blond as the citizens of Forste -Mar. His face was fair and creased by a smile. His clothing shimmered with an unearthly silver radiance. On his left foot, he wore a crafted sandal. On the other was an oddly-cobbled boot constructed of scraps melded without seam, though the artisan made no attempt to match color.

Oh my god! Fearing his exclamation might be some sort of blasphemy, he amended, Sorry. Growing braver he added, The dream-reader called you an unholy being. And if you're a god, what are you doing in my sword?

An overwhelming sense of exasperation filled Larson's head and transformed to grudging acceptance. His surface thoughts dimmed like lights before a play. Memory receded behind a presence which possessed his mind like a dream. From the perspective of the god whose image had recently occupied his thoughts, Larson marched across a meadow marred by the footprints of giant men. Beside him strode a figure more beautiful than Silme, though decidedly male. His face was cleanshaven and shaped without flaw. His hair hung in a golden mane of ringlets. Through Vidarr's perception, Larson knew the comely figure as Loki, and he watched the Trickster with contempt.

"Isn't it a glorious day, son of Odin?" Though clear as chimes, Loki's voice held an edge of threat. His slim hand stroked the hilt of an ebony- scabbarded sword at his hip.

Vidarr gave no answer, nor did Loki expect one. The Trickster adopted a look of suave assurance, stopped suddenly, and slid the sword from its sheath. The blade gleamed silver, then dulled to black as light fled and shadow gathered along its steel.

Unafraid, Vidarr frowned with impatience. He knew his life was protected by Loki's vow to Odin; the day had not yet come when one god could directly cause the death of another. Reluctantly, Vidarr examined the sword and found the craftsmanship exceptional. He demonstrated his admiration empathically and, when Loki sheathed the blade, returned his aura to one of abhorrence for his evil companion.

Loki laughed. "You like my brother and hate me. Fickle, aren't you, Silent One?"

Confusion wracked Odin's son. He waited for Loki's clarification.

Loki scuffed his feet in the dust, eyes dancing with evil mischief. "By my magic, the soul of my brother, Helblindi, resides in this sword."

Vidarr replied with tangible skepticism which flared to accusation. Surely Loki's claim was ridiculous, a sacrilege from any but a deity of Asgard.

Loki stepped around Vidarr with the grace of a cat, his cloak shimmering with enchantments. "Do you doubt me, Lord of Silence? I can prove my abilities well enough."

Vidarr followed Loki's movements with forced indifference. Yet curiosity glimmered faintly through his facade, and the Trickster seized upon it.

"I'd thought Odin's son too wise to judge with-out evidence." His voice assumed the recriminatory whine of a victim of injustice. "One demonstration will quell all doubt and clear my name. Would you deny me that right?"

It will take more than a display of magics to clear your evil name . Larson understood that Vidarr had kept this thought to himself. The message the silent god actually sent Loki was a mixture of impatience and reluctant concession.

Loki pressed his pale lips together and smiled like a child with a secret. "If you'll help gather materials, this task will be more quickly done. While I find the many necessary components here on the world of giants, I'd appreciate it if you'd procure some items from the dwarves. I'll need an anvil and a piece of white metal more precious than gold."

Before Vidarr could muster protestations, Loki disappeared. To appease the Sly Trickster and satisfy his own inquisitiveness, Vidarr traveled to Nidavellir, the dark home of dwarves. Time passed like a blur in Larson's mind, as if Vidarr tired of the tale and condensed his adventures to outline. He watched the silent god root through the parings of dwarven blacksmiths for a fist-sized chunk of platinum; then Vidarr hefted a half-ton anvil and tossed it carelessly across his shoulders.

Returning at dusk to the world of giants, Vidarr found his evil companion sitting cross-legged in the dirt, head lowered and eyes glazed in trance. Vidarr dropped the anvil; its impact tremored the meadow. Loki took no notice. Words burbled from his throat like boiling pitch. Orange light sprang to life, highlighting the Sly One in wicked splendor, a dancing radiance of Helborn power.

Larson longed to shield his eyes from the glare, but he was forced to witness the scene through Vidarr's eyes. Loki rose, and his aura flared green. "The metal?" Vidarr opened his hand, displaying his find. The platinum winked with reflected light from Loki's sorceries. "The spell works only:" Loki spoke gently, so as not to disturb the intricate mesh of his enchantments, "if the metal is carried by one burdened with a load of nine hundredweight who then becomes:"

Loki's aura broke to a red explosion of fire. Sparks scattered in a wild arc and sizzled to oblivion against spring greenery. ": its victim!"

Too late, Vidarr realized his danger. Metal spun from his hand as he whirled to run. Magic pounded his back like a giant's fist and sprawled him over the stolen anvil. He struck the ground, body and soul sundered with a violent lurch. Larson felt his thoughts fold in blackness, spinning in the cyclone of Loki's fury. Oblivion strangled Vidarr's scream. There remained only a nothingness beyond darkness, the visual void of the blind accompanied by the ultimate silence of the deaf.

There followed a greater nothingness, a time of pure ignorance without benefit of discovery. From his prison of soundless, sightless eternity, Vidarr reached for the perceptions of those who molded his new blade form and plied the Fates for his destiny. But each attempt slammed him solidly against the impenetrable mental defenses of the gods and men who held him. Doomed to an existence without any contact with sentient beings, Vidarr settled uncomfortably into his confinement.

Claustrophobic panic nearly overwhelmed Larson's senses. Then Vidarr's awareness broke free to wander, unrestrained, through the mind of a future-born wielder selected by Freyr for his in-ability to defend against mental probes. Aside from a tangled web of guilt- and fear-inspired flaws mingled with strange words and concepts, Vidarr found functioning eyes and ears and a hand he could influence while it gripped his hilt. Larson realized Vidarr's window to the world was his own consciousness.

Larson felt violated. Remembering that the god could read his emotions directly, he struggled to control rising resentment and concentrated on a single question. Why must I destroy you?

For several seconds, Larson received no answer. The sword shifted uncomfortably in his grip as Vidarr abandoned pictures for words. What makes you so certain HvergeImir will destroy me?

The dream-reader said:

The one who called me an unholy being? interrupted Vidarr.

Good point. Larson rolled to his back. Still clutching the hilt, he rested the sword across his chest and abdomen. What does happen when I toss you in the Helspring?

Uncertainty inundated Larson. Vidarr seemed irritated. How should I know? Hopefully, it frees me. Only the Fates know the means to break Loki's spell, aside from the Trickster himself.

The next question followed naturally. So who influenced my dream?

The hilt in Larson's fist went cold. That, of course, is the problem. Apparently your people lost all means of mental exchange and warfare. You can't defend against manipulation. All your thoughts are suspect.

Much of Vidarr's explanation meant nothing to Larson, but he had to agree with the final statement. Why, started Larson, trying to phrase the query delicately though he guessed Vidarr could read his intentions as well as his thoughts. Why must we set you free?

Reality crumbled before illusion as Vidarr again took control of Larson's mind, showing him the alternate fates of the world. Vision blurred to a vast white plain, and hail stung like cinders. Larson came to realize he was seeing a monstrous winter without end, a bitter frost which slew crops and beasts without mercy. Evil seized tree roots in a grip of ice, dropping century-old forests like stands of saplings.

As Larson watched in wonder, hordes of men appeared, arrayed in armor of skins, links, or chains. Shields gleamed on their arms. Axe, sword, and spear bobbed eagerly in the hands of warriors trembling like hounds before a hunt. Driven to madness by eternal cold, the armed men fell upon one another in a wild sea of battle without strategy, issue, or goal. Warriors dealt death to kin without remorse; men with matching crests fell, pinioned by each other's swords. Blood geysered, staining shields and snow like wine.

No! Larson bucked against Vidarr's control, ripped partially free only to fall prey to his own memories. The glint of light from metal became the flash of gunfire. War howls transformed to the roar of mortars. The scene broke to a tide of fire, and Larson screamed inwardly.

Intent on his demonstration, Vidarr seized a strand of Larson's sanity and hauled his charge back to his own imagings. The sun filled Larson's mind, a golden ball of glory shining down upon the chaos. From the sidelines, a wolf leaped upon the daystar, and caught it in fangs sharp as needles. Light crunched like bone, and bloody foam flecked the wolfs maw. The world plunged into darkness.

A distant cock's crow rose above the din of battle, followed by a second and a third. In blackness, the ground quaked. The World Serpent rose from its bed in the sea, and the gentle lap of surf became an all-consuming hell, battering rock to sand. Elsewhere, at the seat of the world, an enormous tree of ash moaned and shivered as a man and woman found refuge in the hollow of its trunk. Tension built like the crescendo of a song. While the men of Midgard slaughtered one another, greater armies gathered, preparing for a war which would color the heavens sunset red with the blood of giants, monsters, and gods.

The battle plain of Vigrid stood ready. Giants poured to its northern shore from a ship created of human Fingernails. From a second vessel, Loki leaped to shore, leading the tortured souls of Hel who followed his commands like automatons. From the south came hordes of living flame led by the black giant, Surtr, whose sword blazed with the glory of the murdered sun. Before them all waited Loki's children: the flame-eyed wolf, Fenrir, breath soured by meals made of Midgard's warriors, and the World Serpent whose venom spewed as thickly as tar.

A handful of gods strode forth to challenge those who sought to destroy the world. They were flanked by the ranks of Valhalla, men who had died in the glory of war and whose souls had been rescued from battlefields by Odin for this conflict. Odin commanded his troop, terrible with his magic spear and helm of gold. The sight might have driven Larson to total mindlessness if not for Vidarr's influence. Guided by the god's vision, he saw the Silent One himself poised among the defenders.

With a howl of hellish fury, the Wolf sprang upon Odin. The warriors of Valhalla swept forward to meet the riot of giants and the Hel hordes under Loki. Sadly outnumbered but honed to a skill which evened the odds, their swords blurred to a whirling fury which scattered limbs and spilled lives like water.

Unable to turn from the violence, Larson pleaded for mercy. Despite his efforts to tear free, Vidarr's nightmare visions unreeled relentlessly. The battle raged on. Odin locked in mortal combat with the Wolf, whose fangs tore like daggers. Beside them, Freyr faced Surtr's firesword with only his fists for weapons. Freyr capered like a dancer, but a final lunge by Surtr tore open his gut. Larson watched helplessly as his patron became the first god to die.

Nearby, the World Serpent vomited poison on the taut-muscled god, Thbr, who bruised the snake's mottled flesh with hammer blows mighty enough to fell an army of men. Thor crushed the Serpent's skull. The god stumbled nine steps in triumph, then collapsed, lifeless, as the venom overwhelmed him.

While parrying the strokes of giants, Vidarr searched for his enemy. He saw Loki's agile form dodge then return the blows of another god. Both sprang forward in offense. Sword scraped sword and each pierced flesh. God and Helmaster died together.

Vidarr broke from the throng. His cloak was stained with sweat and blood, his sword notched and dripping. As he raced to add his strength to that of his father, the Wolf swallowed Odin and turned on him. The scene progressed in slow motion. Eager for vengeance, the Silent^ God stomped his booted foot on the Wolfs lower jaw. His hands caught Fenrir's muzzle and held. Vidarr strained with an effort that taxed every sinew. Sweat sprang from his forehead, rolled down his cheeks like tears, and pooled on his lips. The Wolf loosed a human scream. Its body gave like' cloth, sprouting a river of blood which washed souls from the battle plain.

The image froze as Vidarr's illusions ceased, the end slapping into Larson's mind with the impact of a broken film. Through the knowledge of a god, the elf knew that Loki had been -defeated. Though Surtr's fires would destroy the world, elves, dwarves, giants, and most of the gods as well, there was a strong suggestion, like that in a fairy tale whose last sentence reads, "And they lived happily ever after," that all would ultimately be well. Somehow Larson knew the earth would rise again, complete with heaven and hell. From the two humans hidden in an ash tree would spring a new generation of men in the image of a god who was the son of a god; they would be the forebears of Larson's own world.

Just when Larson believed the nightmare had ended, Vidarr gathered his thoughts and forced him to understand what would happen if the same battle occurred with the silent god still imprisoned in his sword. Again the gods fought evil on the plain of Vigrid, but this time, the elf Larson had come to know as himself stood nearby, removed from the skirmish. As before, divinities died. Loki and the god fated to kill him locked in conflict. The glowing blue sword in Larson's grip quivered with sorrow as he watched Bramin wield Helblindi to protect Loki from his would-be slayer.

With Bramin's assistance, Loki endured until Fenrir swallowed Odin. But this time, Vidarr, Valvitnir the wolfslayer, shivered, imprisoned and impotent in the metal in Larson's hand. Alive because of the entrapment of Vidarr's soul, Fenrir howled with wolfish laughter and leaped onto Loki's enemy. With a snap of his jaws, the Wolf broke his opponent's spine then set upon the firelord, Surtr.

Loki rose in triumph. At his command, Chaos swirled like colored fire in a cyclone. It descended upon Vigrid, breathing new life into Loki's demon hordes. The souls of Valhalla fell prey to agonies beyond that which any being of flesh could understand. On Midgard, Chaos whipped men to killing frenzy. Fathers slew sons who pleasured mothers and raped sisters. Winds smashed rotted trees and swirled oceans to ship-swallowing maelstroms. Then Bramin's shadow sword splintered the World Tree, and the half-breed dragged the chosen survivors to the tortures of Hel.

"Stop!" Larson screamed through a haze of pain. "I've seen enough."

But the Lord of Silence showed him one thing more. Waves hurled foam against a cliff where Silme crouched, protected from the Hel hordes by a dwindling ring of magics. Larson watched helplessly as Bramin burst through her wards, his laughter cruel as thunder. "Now sister, your soul is mine!" He jerked the Helsword from its sheath and struck for Silme's breast. She flinched back; horror etched her features like sculpted glass.

"No!" Larson jerked away with enough force to break Vidarr's control. He fell back into his own private hell. A bullet-riddled, Vietnamese girl dropped to the ground screaming, her baby left to die in the field. A companion sprawled legless in the mud, babbling about returning home before medics shoveled him into a bag marked KIA. Shells screamed about Larson with the intensity of Loki's Chaos. Grenades roared like Fenris. Men fell like twisted puppets. And this time it was his own hand on the trigger.

Larson's fist struck the ground again and again. "Why me? Why me? Why me?'

This time, Vidarr did not answer.