Godslayer

Chapter 5

Childslayer

"Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other."

– Francis Bacon, Of Death

Silme's voice cut through the dark haze of Larson's confusion. " Allerum! Allerum, what's the matter?"

Drawn from the wild surges of memory inspired by Vidarr's imagings , Larson raised his head. Gaelinar crouched among the pines, patient as a shadow in the predawn mist. Closer, Brendor and Silme stood over Larson. The child cocked his head sideways in question. Silme's brow was lined, and concern darkened her blue eyes. For the first time since they had left Forste -Mar, she regarded Larson with something other than hostility.

"Just another dream," Larson muttered. He rolled to a sitting position and refastened the sword to his belt. Sweat dripped from his hair.

Gaelinar grunted disinterestedly and returned to his bedding. Brendor comforted Larson in a childish soprano. "I have nightmares, too. I used to lie real close to Uncle Crullian and tell him about them. He said if I told someone, I wouldn't ever have the same bad dream again."

Now more accustomed to flashbacks, Larson recovered his composure quickly. He stared at Silme, both pleased and discomforted by her anxious expression. "Describe the dream," said the sorceress softly. "Your last vision detailed our quest."

"I don't think:" Larson trailed off. Only a fool could surrender such an opportunity. "Fine. But I want to talk to you alone."

Silme pinched her lip between her fingers. For some time, Larson received no reply except the low-pitched hum of mosquitoes. Eventually, the sorceress nodded assent and gestured toward the brush beyond camp. She passed through the sparse undergrowth with no more noise than a summer breeze. Apprehensively, Larson jumped to his feet and followed her into the twilight haze of the forest.

Once beyond sight and sound of their companions, Silme confronted Larson with silent forbearance. Though half-hidden in shadow, her face reflected the same distress Larson had recognized at his bedside. "The dream?" she reminded him politely.

"Dream," repeated Larson vacantly. Sunrise lit glimmers of gold in Silme's hair. Wind pressed the fabric of her dress tight against her finely-sculpted breasts. She held a pose of self-assurance and command, but her eyes imparted interest as well as concern. Suddenly Larson felt awkward as a teenager on his first date. "It seems I: my sword:" A rush of passion spoiled his compo-sure. "Silme, I love you," he blurted without preamble.

Silme's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. An answering warmth flashed through her eyes and quickly disappeared.

Caught in a swirl of joyous emotion at the realization that Silme might actually share his affection, Larson caught her to his chest. Her body went taut as wood against him. Her hand snaked free and lashed across his face. Larson staggered, as much from shock as pain and stared with wide-eyed innocence.

"How dare you!" Silme's indignation cut Larson like a blade. "I'll not suffer the touch of a rogue who would worry friends to maneuver a woman alone!" She whirled with an anger that whipped her hair in a golden wave and stormed toward the camp.

Crushed by Silme's rejection and sick with embarrassment at his brazen approach, Larson rubbed his aching cheek. As the sorceress stomped into the shadows, he called after her in a voice weak with humiliation. "Silme. Please wait."

She continued as if he had not spoken. The details of her retreating form became lost among the trees.

"Wait." Larson shifted from foot to foot and pressed his one remaining advantage. "I want to talk about Vidarr."

Silme hesitated.

Larson continued with a valiant attempt at resolve which could not hide his tension. "I know how to contact Vidarr."

Silme turned, too concerned about the fate of her god to ignore any source no matter how unlikely. Her manner was stiff and threatening as a crouched tigress. Yet her features held a stunningly feminine vulnerablity which awakened Larson's desires despite his attempts to hold his emotions in rein. "If this is another ruse, I swear I'll kill you," she said coldly.

From another woman the challenge might have seemed ludicrous, but Silme had proven herself quite capable of lethal magics. Larson shivered and pressed his lips in a noncommittal line. "It's truth. I've spoken with Vidarr."

Silme scowled warningly.

Quickly, Larson detailed his story, the sequence of mixed reality and illusion which had threaded through his mind since nightfall. As he spoke, Silme's pinched face relaxed to nearly accepting warmth. But her arms remained crossed, and her fists tightened against the fabric of her cloak. From the corner of his eye, Larson caught Silme staring at him with strangely tender sympathy. But whenever he met her glance, she turned her face away like a star-struck school girl found examining the object of a crush.

"So you see, Vidarr's been with us all along." Larson swallowed, both confused and intimidated by Silme's odd behavior. "I guess I can't expect you to believe me. I'm never quite certain when to believe myself. I:" Larson stopped speaking as he realized proof swung from his hip. He pulled Valvitnir from its sheath so abruptly Silme recoiled. "Here. Speak with him yourself." He offered the hilt to the sorceress.

Larson's mind tingled from a blast like static. An idea glided gently though his thoughts. Allerum. You're the only one who can communicate with me.

"What!" Larson screamed aloud. Silme startled again. "What do you mean?" he challenged the sword.

"I: I said nothing," Silme stammered.

Silme's mental defenses are too strong for my intrusions, Vidarr explained. I told you before. You lack mind barriers. That's why Freyr chose you.

Damn. Larson returned the blade to its scabbard, hand heavy against its jeweled hilt. Now what do I tell Silme?

" Allerum. Are you well?" Silme reached for Larson. He cringed reflexively, though her touch was gentle on his shoulder. "What's happened?"

"Vidarr can only speak with me." Grieved by his discovery, Larson did not notice the change in Silme's demeanor. "Now you'll never trust me." He spoke more to himself than to the sorceress. Then, in a rush of emotion, he continued quickly, "I suppose I really can't blame you. But I've loved you almost since the day we met. When I told you how I felt, hope made me think you returned my affection. I'm sorry I grabbed you, Silme. It was all a stupid misunderstanding." Larson gathered a great breath and released a sigh so loud it nearly obliterated Silme's whispered answer.

"There was no misundertanding."

Larson caught his breath. "What did you say?"

Silme met Larson's gaze for the first time since he'd confronted her in the brush. "I do love you. I:" She turned away with a lowered head, her face buried in her palms.

Larson hovered, uncertain. He wanted desperately to hold and comfort Silme, yet memory of her warning stayed him. Touching the sorceress against her will could well prove fatal.

Silme looked up. Her eyes were miserably red, yet tearless. "Someday," she began with an obvious attempt to be tactful. "I want to have children."

Confusion strained Larson's smile. "That would suit me, too."

"But it can't be with you," Silme continued. "And we mustn't start something we can't finish."

Larson opened his mouth, but found himself unable to speak. He stared at Silme's face which seemed to shine like a second sun as dawn dispelled all darkness but the shadows of trees and ferns.

"You don't understand." Silme seemed troubled by his ignorance.

Larson stroked his sword hilt while he searched his mind for a reply.

"You're an elf," Silme prodded softly.

It always seemed such a simple thing to remember, yet Larson continued to forget he was no longer a man. Doubts rushed upon him like a plague. Once before he had wondered whether elves and humans could interbreed, a question pushed aside by the many adventures and wonders of Silme's world. Now, if he was to, believe the sorceress, their union was impossible. But even through a haze of frustration and sorrow, Larson discovered a flaw in his conclusion; he wondered why Silme attempted to dupe him with biological falsehoods. "I may be from another world, but I'm not a fool. I know elves and humans can have children together. Your half brother:"

Silme wrung her hands with a fresh aura of distress. "That's the problem, don't you see?"

"No."

Silme paced. "Our children would be half-breeds like: Bramin."

"No!" Larson's denial held the authority of a command. "Bramin's father was a dark elf. His demon blood ruined your brother."

Silme stopped, shaking her head vigorously. "Bramin was a good child until the gibes of neighbors poisoned him. Our offspring would fare no better. This world is unprepared for crossbreeds of any type. I'm sorry, Allerum." Resigned, Silme turned and walked solemnly toward camp.

"Wait!" Larson's screamed order stopped Silme in her tracks. "Denying love won't make it go away. You can't turn it off and on like a light switch!" Afraid to speak too boldly and anger Silme, Larson pursed his lips and kept the remainder of his thoughts hidden. How can you condemn the citizenry of Forste -Mar for their treatment of Bramin when your own prejudice transcends bve? Desperately, he continued, "By his appearance, Brendor's a half-breed of Scandinavian and some darker race. And Gaelinar's a goo: a full-bred foreigner."

"Light's witch?" Silme seemed confused by Larson's tirade. She folded her arms across her chest and did not bother to face him. "They're both human. And Gaelinar can silence teasing."

"So can we." Larson's voice cracked as he sought to make his point before he lost Silme forever. "We can protect our children."

Silme pursed her lips and said nothing. Nor did she move when Larson came up behind her and made his final plea. "I'm good enough for your god, Silme. Why else would Freyr have chosen me to save him?"

The sorceress turned slowly. "And once we free Vidarr, every human in Midgard would respect us and our offspring."

Larson stared, not daring to believe the uncertainty which softened Silme's tone. He met her gaze. Warmth replaced the menacing coldness which had marred the beauty of her eyes. He caught her to his chest. Her presence drove aside all memory of the biting winds. She returned his embrace wholeheartedly, without trace of her former reluctance. Her slim hands sent shivers of desire through him, inducing his mind to conjure a third world between the archaic fantasy of Midgard and his nightmares of Vietnam. It encompassed only Silme and himself, a slim shadow of reality which would hazard no intruders.

Wind ruffled the foliage which defined the clearing, but Larson remained blind and deaf to everything except Silme. He wound his fingers in the soft waves of her hair, savoring her beauty now promised to him by love. Silme's hesitation changed his existence as suddenly as had death. Since his enlistment, the bliss of sleep melting to reality each morning filled his mind with dread. But from now, the rising sun must reawaken euphoric memories of Silme. And even after the initial intensity of their relationship faded, Silme's fierce loyalty to causes would bind them for as long as an elf and a sorceress might live.

Thrilled to the elation of love long denied, Larson pressed his lips to Silme's and explored her mouth with his tongue. He desired to know her like a treasured story which, read a thousand times, would never lose its magic. He studied her with his eyes, hands, and mind, dreading at any moment that she might stiffen and grow cold to him. But it never came. Silme's answering warmth intensified their kiss until Larson withdrew for fear of losing control of his passion so close to camp and driving Silme away with boldness. She loves me! Joy exploded within him.

Gradually, Larson's narrow ribbon of world expanded, and realization crowded him. He recalled Silme's earlier reluctance and her words which seemed so simple yet nearly formed an impenetrable wall between them. Someday, I want to have children. The accusation in her voice triggered memories, plunging Larson deeper into his flawed mental tapestry. Poised at the edge of sanity, he brushed aside the plaintive visages of slant-eyed orphans. The effort flung him further into his past to an age when he welcomed rather than feared the night. Though discomforting, his vision held none of the terror usually inherent in flashback. Soft and vague as a whisper, he revived the porcelain doll features of his young brother, Timmy, as they sat before the headstone of their father's grave. The haze of gathering night hid the tears in the child's eyes, but his voice emerged as a quavering whine. "Why? Why did he have to die? Why would he go to heaven and leave us?" His plea faded in the stillness.

In his memory, Al Larson scuffed his shoe in the dust, fighting his own sorrow for an answer. "He loved us, Timmy. God took him:" God and his drunk driver. Larson's present thoughts twisted the past. ": Dad didn't want to leave us. No one chooses to die." No one but an enlistee. Again, the Larson in Midgard amended his imaginings. This observation opened other channels of memory. He recalled the day he left for boot camp, plagued by doubts yet morbidly excited by the glamour of espionage and the challege of matching wits with other men. While in a zone of peace, distant dangers enticed him. But this thrill shattered before the hollow glare of betrayal he found in Timmy's eyes. Larson realized suddenly his brother had never said "good-bye."

A tear formed in Larson's eye, blurring his image of Timmy. Joy fled before an onrush of resolve. Lost in the promise of passion, I dared to believe I could raise a child. I cannot subject some kid to my insanity or the consequences of flashback. Every person I care for becomes a weapon for my enemies. A child will not join my life until I learn to control my thoughts. And I can't allow myself to love Silme until we vanquish Bramin.

Larson dropped his hands to his sides, and his index finger traced a gem in Valvitnir's hilt. Vidarr's voice crashed into his mind. You hypocrite! Now who thinks of controlling love? Are you selfish or merely stupid? Anger speared through the pathways of Larson's mind, and he winced beneath the onslaught of emotion. Denying love won't protect you from grief And fatherhood is more than ancestry. You already have a child; Brendor cares deeply for you. Does the camaraderie you shared in Forste -Mar mean nothing to you? If you reject Brendor like you did Timmy, you'll destroy his trust completely .

" Allerum?" Silme caught Larson's arm.

Larson shoved the sword hilt aside; and Vidarr's presence fled his mind, leaving ghostly echoes in its wake. I never abandoned Timmy! I did what I had to do. Do you think I wanted to go to war? He battered aside the nagging memory of his brother's face, replaced it with others: his sister Pam, Ti Sun, Brendor. Each had experienced the greatest trauma chance could perpetrate upon a child, the loss of a parent. Like Timmy, all three returned to life with a resilience Larson could scarcely comprehend, innocents caught in a world without mercy. They came to me with trust and hope. And I betrayed them all! "Damn it, I do love Brendor. He needs me. He shall become our first child."

Silme seized Larson's hands and chided gently. "Of course we will raise Brendor. Did you think I'd abandon a partially trained apprentice who knows just enough of magic to endanger himself?"

Not realizing he had spoken aloud, Larson shied. Relaxing, he smiled. Again he pulled Silme to him, content with the pressure of her body against his. His thoughts remained in a lazy stupor of complacence. Stolen in death from a world at war, Freyr seemed to have given him everything: life in a new world, a woman more beautiful than a fairy-tale princess, and a child who, if a bit inept, reminded him of himself in youth and might one day inherit great power.

Silme continued speaking softly in his ear. "Naturally, I still think it best to leave Brendor safely in a town until our conflict with Bramin is completed. A battlefield is no place for a boy."

Larson agreed. Before he could reply, Gaelinar's gruff baritone interrupted their embrace. " Allerum. Time for your lesson."

Muttering blasphemies from his own world, Larson released Silme. He knew from past experience it was as unhealthy to ignore Gaelinar as a rearing cobra. For several seconds, the elf stood, touching only Silme's fingertips. "See you at breakfast?"

"Of course," she replied as if that had always been her habit. Hand in hand, they returned to camp.

Sunlight spilled through the clouds, coloring the river Sylg like gilt. But Larson was too preoccupied to notice. Feet soaked by dew, he followed Gaelinar's instructions with a renewed enthusiasm which pleased his teacher. "Good, Allerum. You've learned to treat your sword as a friend rather than an obstacle. Again."

Laughing inwardly at the unwitting double meaning of Gaelinar's praise, Larson repeated the maneuver. Valvitnir crashed solidly against the Kensei's notched wooden blade. Momentarily, Larson's attention strayed to Silme who watched his practice with approval.

"Enough." Gaelinar followed the direction of Larson's stare. "Work will make a swordsman of you. For now your interests are elsewhere."

Smiling, Larson sheathed his sword. Drying sweat intensified the late morning chill as he strode to Silme and took her arm. Returning to the camp-fire, they found Brendor sorting a sack of rations.

The four travelers breakfasted together for the first time in more than a week. Glad for company, Brendor prattled in an unending, childish banter. More attentive to Silme's hand, Larson heard little of the conversation until the sorceress spoke. "Yes. Brendor's done well. He's learned the spell I promised to teach him."

The child beamed as Silme continued. "I recognize this land. The town of Manivoll lies a half day ahead. I have friends there who would gladly watch Brendor while we complete our quest."

Brendor's smile vanished, replaced by a grimace of horror. "Watch: you can't leave me! You just can't, I:" His eyes pleaded with Larson.

Gaelinar nodded in tacit agreement with Silme's plan. Unable to meet Brendor's eyes, Larson took a sudden, inordinate interest in his meal.

Brendor leaped to his feet. His unfinished apple tumbled to the dirt. "I won't go! I won't go! I won't:" When this tactic gained no sympathy, the child changed to another. " Allerum." He knelt beside Larson and seized the elf's arm with grubby fists. "Please, Al. Pleeease."

Larson closed his eyes as the image of another child took vivid form in his memory. Ti Sun's voice rang clear as reality. "Candy, Joe?" A small hand tugged at his fatigues.

Larson heard himself reply, his voice stiff with feigned offense. "You know my name, Ti Sun."

The child amended. "Candy, Al. Please, Al____________________

"

"All right. Okay." Larson thrust a hand into his pocket and retrieved a packet wrapped in crisp, clean paper. Ti Sun watched with a bright-eyed excitement which made Larson smile. Slowly, he peeled away the wrapper to reveal a piece of chocolate melted nearly to liquid.

"Thanks! Thanks!" The child accepted the offering and soon coated his Fingers and mouth with candy.

Gavin called from farther along the road. "Al, you coming?"

Larson turned. Light flashed through his thoughts like a warning. Suddenly, he realized he was caught in flashback as fully as a shallow sleeper knows when he is dreaming. Memory crowded him, solid as brick. Larson struggled against reexperiencing the catastrophe he could not bear a second time. He tried to force his mind from Ti Sun a dozen times with no success. Madness engulfed his conscious thought, pushing his mind back toward a village in Vietnam and the chocolate-stained child with the beatific smile.

Larson staggered. His hand cracked painfully against steel. Inadvertently, he seized Valvitnir's hilt, and another consciousness merged with his own. With Vidarr's aid, Larson escaped his flashback none the worse for his vision except for sweat-slicked palms and a shiver which wracked his entire body.

Brendor clung to Larson's shirt, his entreaties muffled by folds of cloth. Larson mentally communicated profuse gratitude to Vidarr, then turned his attention to the child at his chest. " Brendor, I like you very much."

The child tightened his grip.

"Enough so," Larson continued, "that I want to keep you as a son." The words sounded hollow to Larson's ears. Even nine months in Vietnam had not aged him enough to have a ten-year-old child. Al Larson was only twenty, but I can't know the age of this elf body in which Freyr placed me. According to fairy tales, elves are immortal. If that holds true, the point becomes assuredly moot. Larson forced his thoughts from this new distraction. "I won't have you killed because of my task. You stay in Manivoll, Brendor. I won't apologize for caring enough to keep you safe."

Brendor made no reply, but his mouth puckered to a scowl and he moved away with a tread sufficiently heavy to convey betrayal. Haunted by remembrances of a Vietnamese boy who became a casualty in the affairs of men, Larson paid the sorceress' apprentice no heed. He helped Silme and Gaelinar pack the horses, believing his decision a wise one.

The journey to the town of Manivoll convinced Larson of the soundness of his choice to side with Silme and Gaelinar. In an attempt to sway the lenient elf who had already proven himself a child's easy mark, Brendor became Larson's self-appointed servant. The boy volunteered to carry Larson's supplies on his own horse, dismounted to retrieve a cape pin the elf dropped, and offered to groom all the steeds at their next encampment. Larson supposed Brendor would have eaten, drunk, and pissed for him if given the opportunity. Since Gaelinar recognized the change in Larson's and Silme's relationship, he rode ahead on the pretext of scouting; but Brendor's constant presence made even simple exchanges of affection impossible. By the time the travelers reached the outskirts of Manivoll, Larson could scarcely wait to be free of the boy.

Brendor fell distressingly silent as they entered the town. Larson recalled the first time his mother had left him in the home of a strange babysitter. Then, he had clung to his mother, overwhelmed by the irrational fear she would never return. Sensing his discomfort, his mother had entrusted him with a necklace she wore every day. Though it was senseless to think she would abandon him and not her jewelry, the gesture consoled him. At the time, Larson had been considerably younger than Brendor; he knew a token far more valuable than a silver chain would be required to reassure the healer's nephew.

The moment Larson and his companions reached the town proper, peasants converged on Silme like groupies in the presence of a rock star. Disquieted by the gathering crowd, Larson, Gaelinar, and Brendor shied away from the sorceress' admirers. The Kensei explained in a whisper. "Years ago, Bramin sent a dragon after Silme. After a long and arduous battle, she defeated the wyrm near the town of Manivoll. Naturally, the citizenry was convinced she rescued them from the beast; and in all fairness, she probably did. Once Silme recovered from her confrontation, she hired me as bodyguard."

Larson nodded, only partially listening as he pondered a means to comfort Brendor. His only item of value was Valvitnir, but he could not hand the sword to the boy and still complete his quest. Gaelinar's katana and shoto were surely off limits; and Larson doubted Silme would surrender her dragonstaff to a novice magician, though she often left it in Gaelinar's care.

A tarp-covered wagon creaked past Larson and stopped before the throng which surrounded Silme. A man reined in the horse while a plump woman dragged a freckle-faced girl toward the sorceress who was already engaged in an inordinate number of simultaneous conversations. A gust of wind swirled a few dusty feathers from the wagon, and the woeful clucks of its live cargo gave Larson an idea. He placed an arm about Brendor's slumped shoulders and addressed the Kensei. "How many days of travel do we have left?"

Gaelinar kept his gaze on Silme, though she surely had nothing to fear from her reverent crowd of townsfolk. "A half day to the oracle and the same back to the river. Then one more day to the Valleys of Darkness and the Helspring."

"And another to return to Manivoll for Brendor," Larson finished. "How much food do we have?"

Gaelinar scratched his leg through the layers of his wind-spread robes. "Four, maybe Five days."

"Good," said Larson with surprisingly effective finality. "Just enough to reach our goal and get us back to Brendor. We won't buy any rations here." He smiled at the child. Without supplies or a nearby town, Larson and his companions would be forced to return to Manivoll to secure food or go hungry.

Gaelinar looked away from Silme to confront Larson. His glower made it clear he understood Larson's intentions, and equally apparent that they displeased him. "We may be delayed."

Larson remained adamant. "Unless we're killed, we can make it back in five days."

Gaelinar rattled his fingers against the sheath of his katana impatiently. "I consider death a more extreme delay." He met Brendor's stricken stare and relented. "Fine, no rations. But I'm certain Brendor knows I could think of better ways to be rid of a young wizard than leaving him in a town, with my name and description, to wreak future vengeance." Gaelinar patted his sword pommel to make his pronouncement perfectly clear. Still staring at the boy, the Kensei pointed at the adoring peasants and changed the topic. " Brendor, Silme has many friends in Manivoll. If you ever wanted to become a silversmith or a baker or a cooper, let her know."

"I want to be a wizard." Brendor's pout was uncompromising.

"And?" Gaelinar asked as if the child had not finished.

"Just a wizard." Brendor jerked his head with resolution. "Wizards are the smartest people in the world."

"Gaelinar laced his fingers on his chin as he pondered a situation which had grown more complex than he anticipated. Larson tried to help. "What's so special about wizards?"

Brendor answered without hesitation. "Wizards make magic, and they know more than anyone else."

"More than silversmiths and coopers?" Larson asked, though he was unfamiliar with the latter occupation and could only guess at its meaning.

Brendor nodded.

Larson winked at Gaelinar. "Then I guess you already know how to fashion jewelry and: urn: shoe horses."

"Well: no."

Gaelinar chuckled at Larson's misinterpretation of a cooper's profession. "Did your Uncle Crullian know how to: um: shoe horses?"

Brendor bit his lip and nodded assent.

"As does Silme," Gaelinar finished. "Wizards are supposed to understand simple things like that." He cast a furtive glance toward Silme who had already begun working her way toward them through the crowd. The Kensei's voice dropped to a whisper as he addressed the child again. "Lucky for you Silme never discovered the gap in your education or she wouldn't have let you become her apprentice. You've only five days to correct your serious deficiency. But don't worry, we won't tell her." The swordmaster clamped a hand over his mouth in mock conspiracy as Silme dispersed the throng and returned to her companions.

"We won't have any problem finding a temporary home for Brendor." Silme jabbed the road dirt with the base of her dragonstaff. "I've found more than enough volunteers."

Gaelinar winked at no one in particular. " Brendor has requested a five-day apprenticeship with the blacksmith."

"Fine choice," she said to the boy. "I'm certain Sigurdhr would appreciate your company." She led her companions through a town smaller and poorer than Forste -Mar, stopping occasionally to exchange greetings and introductions. Larson met scores of blonds and redheads with names which required spelling out. He found that most had final pronounced e's or silent r's and promptly forgot all of them. For their part, the townsfolk spared Larson more than his share of stares, but he recognized none of the hostility against elves he had received in Silme's hometown. He wondered how much Silme's presence might have altered the events in Ura's tavern.

Larson heard the crash of hammer against anvil long before they rounded the corner of Sigurdhr's house. They found the blacksmith intent on a bent strip of steel, his honey-colored beard sweat-plastered to his chin. Back to the newcomers, a youngster a few years older than Brendor worked the bellows with an effort which grew sloppy with fatigue.

" Yo, Eirik!" Sigurdhr bellowed at the boy. He raised his head, caught sight of Silme, and stopped in mid-yell. "Silme!" He gestured her forward with an exaggerated wave. Sigurdhr examined his works briefly, dismayed to find only horseshoes, barrel hoops, and a wood-cutting axe, none of which seemed the proper gift for a lady. Eirik released the bellows with a relieved sigh and shook cramps from his arms.

While the blacksmith introduced his son, Eirik, and Silme presented Tier companions, Brendor clung to Larson despite the fact that the elf was every bit as inexperienced as himself. Eirik greeted Brendor with so much exuberance, the healer's nephew regained sufficient confidence and interest to release Larson and speak. "I'm a wizard!"

Eirik's features twisted in awe. Sigurdhr nodded encouragement. "Silme. You and your distinguished companions must stay for dinner and the night. Kelda's prepared lamb stew with goat's milk cheese. She always makes enough for a boat load of warriors. And we've plenty of room." He waved his guests toward the door of the cottage without waiting for confirmation.

For the first time, Larson noticed the streaks of gray in the sky which heralded sunset. The gnawing in his gut which he had attributed to the anxiety of entering the town became a tense grumble of hunger. They had traveled right through without pausing for lunch. Eagerly, he followed Silme and Brendor through the cottage door, into the welcoming aroma of gravy and fresh-baked bread.

Gaelinar bowed politely to his hosts. "Forgive me, Sigurdhr Blacksmith. Lord Alleruni and I cannot attend your meal. We've a sword lesson to complete."

Larson turned suddenly and reluctantly from the feast. "Now? But there's food on the table."

Gaelinar bowed again, but his words were without compromise. "Practice. Now."

"Excuse me," Larson mumbled to their host. He found abandoning dinner for swordplay painful, but he followed the Kensei across the brown grasses of the blacksmith's lawn to an open area beyond the forge. An edge of the sun had already slipped beneath the horizon, coloring the western sky as red as the blood in Vidarr's vision. Larson scowled as he reached for his sword. "You're one hell of a gung ho gook."

"Pardon me?" Gaelinar's hand paused on the brocade of his katana.

"Nothing." Larson sighed, enjoying the sound of English in this legendary Northern world. "But where I come from, it's impolite to refuse dinner with a host."

Gaelinar nodded once, his eyes dark as midnight. "Hero, if you miss a meal tonight, you will have another tomorrow." He paused as the air hummed with the first of the evening's mosquitoes. "If you skip practice, you may not. Begin."

Larson obeyed with reluctant annoyance. In two days, he would face the greatest challenge of his new life with nothing but the knowledge of a few dodges and strikes. Surely one lesson more or less would make little difference to his abilities. But Gaelinar seemed to think otherwise, and Larson found it impossible to argue with the swordmaster concerning his own trade.

Gaelinar worked Larson without mercy far into the moonless night. For each success, the Kensei presented a new challenge until Larson's annoyance folded beneath all-encompassing fatigue. More and more frequently, he relied on Vidarr's cues. By the time the practice concluded, without ceremony or. praise, Larson no longer wanted food, just a place to lie down and a full night's rest.

Gaelinar and Larson returned to the cottage in a silence which pleased the elf. Condemning words or maxims would have rekindled the exasperation he struggled to suppress. Inside, Gaelinar joined the conversation of Silme, Sigurdhr, and Kelda who shared tea before a roaring fire. Larson excused himself with a yawn, and Kelda showed him to a bedroom with a straw pallet and a hand-knitted quilt. There, Larson promptly fell asleep.

The dream seized control of Larson during the shallow, twilight slumber near to awakening. It began as a pleasant vision of the extension of their journey. Gaelinar, Silme, and himself rode along a meandering path beside the river Sylg, which twisted like a silver serpent, widening to a torrent of ice-flecked waters. The trail forked many times. Always in the past they had taken the branch which most closely paralleled the river. But in the dream, Silme indicated a wooden sign corroded by fungus and started down a side path which led away from the stream.

As the dream-Larson turned to follow, panic seized him like an overdose of adrenalin. He dismounted and dropped to a crouch, heart hammering in his chest. His mouth dried to rawness. His vision blurred to haze. War memories pressed toward expression, but the being who inspired his nightmare wove barriers with the intricacy of a spider. In the vision, Larson shook his head with uncharacteristic violence and gestured toward the northern trail along the river Sylg.

There was no sound in Larson's dream, but when Silme cleared slime from the road sign, its writings became clear:

Temple to Odin

The Oracle of Hargatyr

With an air of exasperation, Silme and Gaelinar reined their horses down the eastward branch. Reluctantly, the dream-Larson remounted and followed, but with each hoof-fall his anxiety trebled. Rows of twisted juniper passed unnoticed. The scenery might have been painted backdrops for all the heed he paid it. Instead, his attention focused on the looming gray outline of the temple to Odin.

By the time Larson and his companions reached the temple dooryard, his clothing had adhered to his sweat-soaked torso. He paused, studying the squat structure with an aura of mistrust. Brown ivies swarmed its exterior in uneven clumps, making it seem to lean awkwardly to the left. Moss chinked the wall stones like green mortar. Larson almost expected to see lightning flare between nonexistent watchtowers. He shivered, wondering whether to blame the temple's eerie appearance or his heightened senses for the fear which coiled his muscles nearly to immobility. He felt like a traitor who had refused both cigarette and blindfold before the firing squad.

At Silme's knock, the ancient door swung open with a squeal of complaint. A half dozen drab-robed acolytes met Larson and his companions and escorted them past stained altars. Beyond, a dark curtain crisscrossed with glimmering silver threads spanned a doorway from ceiling to floor. Gaelinar and Silme passed through a slit in the fabric. Larson followed them into a room as gray as the moment before dawn. At its farthest end sat the oracle of Hargatyr, a young woman with a seemingly endless cascade of reddish hair. Though shadowed beyond recognition of detail, her face seemed not quite normal to Larson. Before her stood a marble slab which supported a clear, oblong diamond with a black central core rimmed green. Not unlike a giant eye, the stone winked and shone with an intensity which further shattered the dream-Larson's confidence.

Silme stepped forward and presented a request Larson could not hear in the frustratingly soundless world of his dream. The oracle passed a withered hand twice across the diamond. Mist swirled in the depths of the gemstone, floated upward in lines tenuous as heat haze. Abruptly the oracle burst to a conflagration of yellow flame. Larson reeled backward as a shapeless black form leaped from the fire and attacked the startled sorceress.

Claws rent Silme's flesh. Blood sprayed the room in arcs of red chaos. Gaelinar howled. His swords reflected highlights of scarlet and gold. Valvitnir rasped from its sheath. Larson and Gaelinar lunged together for the demon which savaged Silme. The beast's claws carved searing lines across Larson's arm, but steel also met its mark. Valvitnir plunged deep into the monster's gut. Even more swiftly, Gaelinar's swords went sticky green with demon blood. It fell, witch-screaming, across Silme's lifeless form.

The room was awash with color. No life remained in Silme's broken body. The sapphire in her dragonstaff shattered like glass on the cold stone floor. Grief struck Larson in a wave of mental anguish. As he stared at the wild waste of multiple hues, the scene swirled and blurred away to a single black face with glowing red eyes. Bramin! Rationality escaped in a rush of fear, and sound sundered silence in a rolling thunderclap of evil laughter. Bramin's misshapen mouth formed words which struck like daggers of ice. "Be forewarned, Al Larson. Should you choose to seek the oracle, you will pay with the lives of friends!"

Bramin's face winked out. His dark hand remained and scattered the carefully placed barriers in Larson's mind. Memories burst forth like a torrent through a broken dam. Rockets flared from every angle with roars which deafened Larson. Bullets whined in insect-like swarms where he cowered with no safe place to retreat. Screams formed a chorus of hell-born agonies, while ghosts of buddies and enemies alike sentenced Larson to an eternity of life.

Larson's mental flight from madness ran him headlong into a scene from the past. He crouched between the banks of a dried river, clutching an M-16 which grew surprisingly light in the moments before death. Surrounded by enemies, he charged from the banks with Freyr's name on his lips. But where the last time he had recalled nothing except awakening in a strange elf body and a foreign world, now he recalled the torment of bullets riddling his body, jerking his limbs like a marionette. Horror held him screamless while a river of his own blood washed between the banks.

Larson awoke with sinews knotted and no sense of place or time. He was on his feet before he could think, eyes searching the room for movement. He scuttled to a corner and pressed his back to the wall. Sanity returned him to the blacksmith's cottage. Larson took several deep breaths, rose, and paced until his muscles uncoiled and his mood passed from panic to anxiety to crimson fury against the half-breed hellion who sought Silme's soul.

"Bramin!" Larson called with a courage he'd never before known he possessed. "I don't fear your threats, your dragons, your demons, or your:" Short of insults, he ended lamely, ": your piddling whangdoodles. Torment me as you wish, but we will visit this oracle. If you could kill Gaelinar or Silme, I think you would have done so already."

Larson believed his challenge was heard by no one except himself. But a shadow fell across the room, and the walls were suddenly suffused with a faint white glow. Caught in the center of the chamber, Larson spun like a fox between two packs of dogs. A message burned through his mind. "You underestimate me, Futurespawn." A long black finger probed his thoughts for a painful memory.

Prepared to fight though he saw no physical threat, Larson freed Valvitnir. Instantly, a benevolent entity joined the intruder in his mind. Bramin's mental presence hissed a shocked epithet and departed. Vidarr's reassurances pervaded

Larson's consciousness. Then the god, too, disappeared to Larson's perception.

Before the startled elf could ponder the significance of the night's events, Gaelinar poked his head through the door to Larson's chamber. "Practicing, hero? Good. You should be ready for your lesson."

After the sword practice, Larson found his stomach too knotted for food despite his twenty-four hour fast. The conversations of his companions passed unheard as Larson made the decision not to describe his dream to Silme. Too proud to reverse his decision about the oracle, he saw no reason to trouble the sorceress with Bramin's untenable threats. Still, time passed in an interminable vacuum; Larson was glad when he exchanged his final farewells and promises with Brendor. In bleary silence, he passed through the remainder of the town with Silme and Gaelinar and continued along the pine-bordered banks of the river Sylg.

The path looked distressingly similar to Larson's nightmare. Discomforted, he unsheathed Val- vitnir and balanced the blade across his knees. His stilted replies to Silme's attempts at conversation frustrated the sorceress and earned him a lonely trip. Still, midday came far too soon for Larson. The sun hovered overhead when Silme drew up her mount at the road sign to the oracle of Hargatyr.

Gaelinar reined his mount and addressed Larson for the first time since his lesson. "You must be hungry. Sorry to go against your wishes not to pack supplies, but Lady Kelda offered fresh meat for our journey. I couldn't refuse. Gather some kindling, and we'll have the best cooked lunch of our wanderings."

Glad for any distraction which differentiated events of reality from those of his nightmare, Larson clambered from his saddle, sheathed his sword, and wandered into the woods. Twigs were plentiful on the forest floor. Larson selectively collected only the driest ones of reasonable length. A mere hundred yards from the crossroads, he had managed to accumulate a thick handful of kindling, and he started back toward his waiting companions.

Brush crackled behind Larson. He whirled, sticks scattering from his grip, in time to watch a small, familiar figure scuttle behind a clump of trees. " Brendor!" Larson screamed. He charged after the retreating child.

Brendor crashed awkwardly through the weeds. Slower, Larson trailed with far more stealth. Ragweed and ferns gave way to a brushless clearing enclosed by intertwining pine. Larson stopped, afraid the chase might already have taken him dangerously far from camp. " Brendor! Come out now! I know you're here, and I'm not playing games." He added with a gentle sigh, "I promise not to hit you."

The child's blunderings transformed to softer rustlings. Within moments, Brendor emerged from the brush and stepped among the shadows of the clearing. His clothing was torn. Small scratches beneath dripped blood. He shuffled toward Larson like a disobedient dog, his head bent low in shame, his eyes oddly vacant.

At a subtle noise from behind, Larson looked around to see Silme who had followed his calls to the edge of the clearing. He conveyed his control of the situation with a nearly imperceptible nod and returned his attention to the approaching child.

Less than an arm's length separated Larson and Brendor when Silme screamed, " Allerum, wait!" Enchantments bright as a flare struck the child and rebounded to glowing streamers. Silme's magics appeared to have no effect on the boy, but its backlash sparked light from a jagged blade clenched in his fist. Even as Larson recoiled in shock, Brendor plunged his knife at the elf's chest.

Reflexively, Larson caught the tiny wrist. Bren-dor's other hand enwrapped Larson's free forearm with a power he had never demonstrated in the past. The child's strength was awesome, despite his size. Larson strained until sweat sprang from his face. The dagger shivered ever closer.

"No!" A beam of amber screamed past Larson's ear and struck Brendor full in the face. Impact jerked the child backward. Desperate, Larson planted his foot on Brendor's knee and rolled onto his back. Stone bit into his spine. The child flipped over Larson, but his viselike grip held. Brendor's fingers pinned Larson's wrist to the ground. The dagger sped for the elf's bared throat. " Brendor, no!" Larson struggled like a madman. He seized Brendor's knife hand, but all his effort scarcely slowed the blade's descent.

Enchantments whizzed over Larson's head, plastering Brendor with multiple barbs of energy. The child flinched. Pain blanked his features as the magics ripped through his body and pitched him backward in a mass of bloody tatters. Larson heaved aside the limp figure and sprang to his feet, staring at the gruesome lump of flesh which was once a beloved companion. Brendor's eyes seemed glazed as marbles, and his blood-flecked hair spread in an inky puddle. Memory slapped Larson, heavy and unforgiving as a migraine. To Larson's mind, the clearing became a dirt road through a Vietnamese village; the bursts of sorcery transformed to the cruel blatter of an M-16.

The child's face was no longer Brendor's. The eyes slanted away from almond-colored irises. The mouth gaped, smeared with melted chocolate. Ti Sun! Larson's stomach lurched. His vision clouded to red haze. He turned hollow, accusing eyes on his buddy, Gavin, who still clutched his smoking gun. Profanities spilled from Larson's throat in an anguished sob. Blood fury raged like fever. He threw himself upon Gavin, swinging his fists with irrational, aimless outrage.

Many hands caught Larson. Men pinned him helplessly between uniformed bodies. Larson shrieked as he struggled. The fingers which bruised his arms caused a pain which only fueled his anger. Several seconds went by while Gavin carefully flipped Ti Sun's remains, and several more passed before Larson recognized the significance of the grenade which rolled from the child's limp hand. "It was him or you, you stupid bastard," Gavin explained with a wretched sob. "Him: or you."

The flashback broke to midday light. As Larson passed from one world to another, he discovered his fist poised to strike a figure already grounded by his blows. From nowhere, Gaelinar's hand seized his wrist and whipped his body to the ground with surprising speed. The Kensei's grip barred Larson's arm at an awkward angle. His other hand neatly caged Larson's throat. Larson knew Gaelinar could fracture arm or windpipe with a simple strike.

Larson lay perfectly still. His knuckles felt raw, and his wrist was bruised from Brendor's attack. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.

Gaelinar's grip eased slightly. Silme knelt at Larson's side. Blood trickled from the side of her mouth, and Larson realized with a sudden rush of horror that she was the victim of his own crazed assault. "Oh my god. What have I done?"

Gaelinar released Larson. The elf staggered to his feet. He caught Silme in an embrace strengthened nearly to violence by the need for apology. "I'm sorry: I'm sorry:" Larson repeated it twenty times before humiliation broke his grip, and he turned away with self-loathing.

"Finish the quest without me." Larson unhooked Valvitnir and let the sword drop to the ground. "I could have killed her."

"I assure you, you couldn't have." Gaelinar drew to Larson's side. "Hero:"

"I'm not a hero!" Larson's screamed reply echoed between gangling pines and warped juniper. "I'm a raving lunatic, a madman, a paranoid maniac with delusions of: of: sanity:" When he ran out of Norse descriptions, he switched to English slang.

Gaelinar waited until the tirade passed and spoke with the sincerity he usually reserved for sword practice. "All heroes are flawed."

Larson whirled abruptly. "Heroes? Flawed?"

"All heroes," Gaelinar repeated. "To have courage, a man must know fear. Good cannot exist without evil. And a man becomes a hero when he excels despite his flaws."

Larson hesitated, mentally drained of emotion. Silme took his hands gently. "Hero, you are forgiven. I can't blame you for avenging the child, even against me. You couldn't know he was not the same Brendor we loved. Only my training as enchantress enabled me to recognize Bramin's influence when I reached the clearing."

"Then› Brendor:?" Larson's voice quivered with hope.

Silme turned her gaze to her feet. "He's dead, Allerum. Bramin would need to destroy him completely to gain control of his body. I'm as sorry as you."

Larson hugged Silme again, grieved by the loss of a friend who was as a son and scarcely daring to believe the sorceress' unbounding compassion.

While Larson recovered his poise, Gaelinar set Brendor's body to pyre. It was only a formality. Bramin's automaton was a soulless shell no more worthy of dignity than a fallen sapling. Even so, Brendor's corpse left the world with a whispered eulogy and the Kensei's priceless respect.

As the three companions solemnly mounted horses and reined toward the oracle of Hargatyr, Larson confronted Gaelinar with a question. "Kensei, what's your flaw?"

Gaelinar's lips bent to a slight smile. "I, Lord Allerum, am no hero."