Thoughtfulness drew out Hel's pauses even longer. "Agreed… but…"
Larson fought the urge to hurry Hel.
"… you… must… give… me … the… sword."
Give her … Larson struggled against his natural repugnance. In Vietnam, where the emotional closeness necessary for survival meant watching good friends die, Larson recalled many nights huddled in a damp hole haloed by the red streaks of tracers and the glare of illumination rounds. Then, an M-16 and a twisted piece of concertina wire were often the only things between him and the shadowy forms of the NVA. It went against every bit of experience, the rigor of army training, and Gaelinar's unyielding discipline to turn his only weapon over to an enemy. Yet the chance to regain the woman he loved was worth the sacrifice. He pushed aside the heavy-handed instincts ingrained by months of dodging death.
"Okay. It's yours." He undipped the sheathed sword from his belt and awaited Gaelinar's inevitable reproach. "After you uphold your part of the bargain."
Gaelinar remained silent.
Larson smeared sweat from his palm on his tunic and envied the stoic composure of his mentor.
Hel scratched at her cheek with far more deliberateness than the task required. "Very… well. You… do not speak… or bargain… like… any elf… I've encountered but…"
Larson fidgeted. While Hel completed her preliminary comments, he allowed his attention to roam to the milling corpses, dreading the thought of wading through them again. Baldur remained, tense and quiet, on his throne. He met Larson's gaze with uncontained eagerness. It was obvious he wished to talk. A sinuous twist of smoke rose from one of the remaining candles in the chandelier, then it went as dead as Hel's minions.
Hel's halting speech seemed to drag seconds into hours. "… I… will tell… you… what… you… wish… to hear. First, I… swear… upon my oaths… to Odin. I… will not stand… against… Silme's… return… to… Midgard… so long as… you… fulfill… your… part of… our… bargain."
Larson's heart pounded with eagerness. "And the Fates?" he reminded.
"The… Fates." Hel pursed her withered lips and glanced at Gaelinar before answering. "For centuries… they have… kept… our… worlds… in harmony. No… one… can know… how… they decide… whose turn… it is… to die. But… it must… in part… be based on… keeping all forces… in balance." She turned her gaze to Larson. "The… two great… powers of our… world… call them… one and two… order and randomness… good and evil… as you will. I know… them… as… law… and chaos. Silme… died… because it… was time… for a… law abiding… creature… of her strength… to die. To… bring her back… to Midgard, you… would need… to open a place… for her."
"Open a place for her?" Larson shook his head. "I don't understand."
"I… have… fulfilled my… promise." Hel met Larson's confused stare. "I… have… told you… all… you… need to know. Give… me… my… sword."
Larson looked to Gaelinar, feeling cheated.
"Hel has proposed we find someone, a person of Silme's means and bent, willing to take her place in Hel. Now, hero, give Hel her sword."
Larson heard nothing after Gaelinar's first sentence. "Replace her? We have to kill a person? Someone as kind as Silme?" He allowed his thoughts to glide backward to a night, a year, and a lifetime ago. He recalled lying, trapped and terrified, at an outside observation post after less than a week in Vietnam. The memory remained heavy and vivid within him: the stab of high grasses, the deadly howl of mortars, and the mixed reek of sulfur and blood. M-16s blattered ceaselessly through the near darkness, punctuated by the louder explosions of grenades hurled at sounds and unidentifiable shadows. Larson remained still, not daring to shoot for fear the muzzle flash would draw enemy, and perhaps even American, fire.
In Larson's memory, a figure materialized from the darkness. For a moment, the man stood motionless, like a department store manikin in the backwash of light. A flare streaked overhead, illuminating the face in olive-red detail. He was a Vietnamese teenager, younger even than Larson. He seemed equally surprised, his dark eyes wide with fear. They stared at one another for several seconds; neither raised a weapon. Larson saw all his own uncertainty, mortality, and horror mirrored perfectly in his enemy's visage. Then, the American beside Larson cursed and swung around a .45 pistol. The last, dying traces of the flare outlined its steel like a blood-colored star. The American fired, the Vietnamese soldier fell dead, and Larson learned an enduring lesson about war, mercy, and the price of life.
Later, in the chilling aftershock of his first firefight,
Larson discovered that the "gook," like himself, carried pictures of his girlfriend and his family. Larson realized, with a vague feeling of dread, that the only difference between his own death and the enemy's was which set of parents would cry.
Now, Larson discarded his remembrances for the misty murk of Hel's citadel, aware he could never take the life of one like Silme, not even to restore the woman he loved. "Gaelinar, I can't…"
"Hush!" Gaelinar's voice went harsh with warning. "Hero, give Hel her sword."
Larson bit his lip against welling grief and anger. Gingerly, he offered the sheathed sword to Hel's half-rotted queen.
Hel accepted her father's weapon. "And… your explanation?"
"Explanation?" Larson repeated. He had already nearly forgotten his vow to reveal the reason why he carried Loki's sword. He glanced sideways at Gaelinar, not certain how to soften his disclosure.
"May I?" Gaelinar asked sweetly.
Larson nodded, glad to pass the onerous task to his companion.
Gaelinar cleared his throat, his fingers draped casually across the hilt of his katana. "Lady, you have already promised not to stand in the way of Silme's freedom and also that we can see and speak with her before we leave."
"I have," Hel agreed.
Larson swiveled his head and studied the mob of corpses, trying to pick Silme's familiar countenance from the masses. Baldur returned Larson's gaze from his throne.
"That remembered," Gaelinar continued, "I can speak freely."
Larson felt a sudden pang of discomfort.
A mocking smile crept across Gaelinar's features. "We pried Loki's sword from his hand. After we 'helpless mortals' killed him, lady. Good day." He turned to leave.
Hel made a strangled noise of rage.
Larson guessed his mentor's motives for delivering information in such a cruel fashion. I know of no kind way
to tell a woman you've killed her father. To show regret for Loki's slaying would require an insincerity beyond Gaelinar's abilities. And, were I Hel, I wouldn't dare attempt revenge against a warrior with Gaelinar's bold audacity. Larson cringed, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Hel's expression did not change, but the healthier flesh of her body turned scarlet. She pointed a trembling finger at Gaelinar's back. "Know… this well, Kensei. Hel… was… never… designed to… keep… men… out.'' Her dull eyes gained a hint of amusement as she pirouetted with unhurried grace and shuffled into the gloom.
CHAPTER 2
Hel's Gate
"It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air—there's the rub, the task"
—Virgil Aeneid
Hel's threat hovered in the stagnant air of her citadel long after she disappeared from Larson's sight, but the savagery of her promise withered beneath a more oppressive realization. I will have to sacrifice an innocent life in exchange for Silme's. Larson knew the sorceress' death had strengthened his passion for her; his most recent confrontation with mortality reaffirmed the brevity of human life and the value of each minute. Yet Larson felt troubled by an ancient morality instilled by his parents long before a hellish war warped virtue in the name of survival. Everyone is loved by someone. How can I justify my happiness at the expense of others ? Larson lowered his head.
Even Gaelinar seemed repulsed by their t
ask. Wrinkles etched his sagging cheeks, and his stride lacked its usual confidence. He stepped around Baldur's throne and started back down the long corridor, waving for Larson to follow.
During Gaelinar's and Larson's talk with Hel, her dead minions had assembled, respectfully, at the edge of the conversation. Now they shuffled forward, surrounding man and elf in a hovering, silent mass of decay.
Larson took a few, tentative paces toward his mentor. He knew the ghosts had meant him no harm before, but the memory of their touches and Hel's threat made him shiver. We can't hope to battle a legion of corpses. He tried to ignore them, not allowing himself to study them closely enough to glean details of age or sex. They wore an array of costumes, from the faded purple silk of royalty to torn and dirty rags. Some lacked limbs, rotted or hacked away. Others bore slumped and fragile frames; huge, cancerous growths; or bellies swollen with fluid. Larson hurried through the dead as fast as they scampered from his path. In his haste, he brushed against a young female. Coldness spread from her touch, suffused Larson's flesh from shoulder to fingers until his arm felt numb and heavy. Afterward, he moved through the crowd with a respectful caution. They haven't attacked us yet. Maybe they're not under Hel's command or they lack the strength to intentionally harm the living. Or maybe they just don't care.
Farther along the grayed corridor, the dead god, Baldur, glided through the masses and stopped before Larson. He stood with legs widely-braced in the center of the hallway, his features white as fresh-fallen snow, a beacon in a grim world of death. Unlike the other cadavers, he did not move aside as Larson came upon him. His sunken, blue eyes glittered with a mixture of sorrow and hope. His lips parted, but no words emerged.
Baldur wore an expression of pure innocence, like a victimized child. Deep sympathy welled up in Larson. Attentively, he waited, but Baldur remained silent, his visage pleading.
Gaelinar's voice shattered the enveloping hush. "Talk to him, hero. By Hel's law, he cannot speak first."
There was an aura about Baldur which unsettled Larson. He had faced gods before. But while Loki had simply seemed an unusually handsome and evil man, Hel a hideously deformed lady, and Vidarr a mere presence in a sword, Baldur conjured images of stained glass windows, cushioned pews, and hymnals. Larson felt intimidated, and his voice revealed his trepidation. "Hello." he said uncomfortably. "Did you want to say something?"
Baldur flashed a candid smile. "Please," he said, his voice high and musical. He extended an arm and opened his fist. A brooch balanced on his palm, an opaque blue pern on which some artist had painted a miniature scene in gold ink. "Take this to my father. Remind him I am still here, and that I have riot forgotten him."
Larson stared at the jewel in Baldur's hand, but he made no move to retrieve it. "Your father," Larson repeated. He met Baldur's imploring gaze with puzzlement. "Is he some sort of god?"
Baldur's grin widened, and his face went pink with amusement.
Larson backstepped. "I'm sorry. I have no way to contact gods." He realized how ludicrous he must sound after Gaelinar had announced their slaying of Loki while engaged in conversation with Hel. But he also knew he had spoken honestly.
Baldur inched toward Larson, still offering the gem. His tone became insistent. "Anyone can communicate with gods. They need only pray in the proper temple, consult an oracle, make an appropriate sacrifice." He prodded Larson's forearm with the brooch. "Please, try. I will understand if you cannot deliver my message."
The dead remained still and expectant. Baldur's gleaming presence blocked Larson's retreat from the corridor. Toward the outer doorway, beyond the god, Larson spotted a female figure drifting toward Gaelinar. She moved with the lithe grace of a dancer and the confidence of the living. Golden hair fell in waves to the middle of her back. Larson knew Silme at once; her every detail lay fixed in his memory. Death seemed not to have changed her at all. She carried none of Hel's mold. She remained free of any disfiguring wound or condition. She appeared exactly as Larson had last seen her: slim, pale, everything about her so perfectly formed, he could think of no feature even the gods could improve upon. His desire for her returned in an exhilarating rush. All thought of morality fled him. I must win back her life… and her love. Suddenly, no task done for her could be too great, no sacrifice too large. He moved toward her and nearly collided with Baldur who still stood in his path.
Frustration tightened Larson's chest. He seized the painted gem from Baldur's hand and jammed it into a pocket of his cloak. "I'll try," he muttered harshly. "Now step aside."
The instant Baldur relaxed his guard, Larson slipped past. Carefully, he threaded through the gathered corpses, avoiding their icy touches. He reached Silme in three running strides and hurled himself into her arms.
Silme shrank away, avoiding his embrace.
Silme's dodge off-balanced Larson. He careened into Gaelinar, then whirled, and stared at her, incredulous. Her rejection seared him like a hot knife. "W-Why?" he stammered.
"Don't," Silme whispered. "It'll only hurt you. My life aura is gone. I have only the blank chill of the dead to offer you now." Her voice quivered with sorrow. "Allerum, you should never have come."
Grief and outrage warred within Larson. Closer, he noticed Silme's fair skin had grown sallow, her fiercely gray eyes hollowed and dull. "But I love you." He fought the urge to cradle her in his arms. "I need you, Silme. We came to bring you back."
Silme rolled her eyes with resignation. She ran a pallid hand through her hair, and a brief smile graced her features. "And I appreciate your effort. If anyone could accomplish such a thing, it would be you." She addressed Larson, but her gaze played over Gaelinar. "But I'm afraid such a thing is impossible. And I'd rather you remembered me as I was than as I am now." She traced her body with her fingertips.
Larson followed Silme's gesture, still certain he faced the most beautiful woman in existence. "We'll free you," he insisted, though not at all certain he could keep his promise. "Hel told us what we need to do." Sudden doubt rushed down upon him, and he paused to consider. "Do you think Hel might have lied to us?"
Silme shook her head. "Probably not. The gods are intolerant of falsehoods, even among themselves. But she would try to mislead you. Consider her words carefully. What did she tell you to do?"
Larson knew Silme would never allow the slaying of an innocent person in exchange for her life. Quickly, he waved Gaelinar silent. "Never mind." Larson changed the subject with an awkward abruptness. "How long did you know we were here?"
Silme hesitated, shrugged, and followed Larson's tack. "From the time you arrived. But I avoided you. I didn't want you to see me until you had spoken with Hel and grown accustomed to the appearances of the dead."
Larson gnawed his lip, gravely aware of the unspoken concern beneath her explanation. The flashbacks had made him unpredictable, emotionally volatile, and, at times, violent. He knew the control he had gained over his memories would please her and hoped she had seen how well he'd handled himself among the walking corpses after his conversation with Hel.
Silme placed her hand into the folds of her baggy, gray cloak and retrieved a fist-sized, rectangular sapphire, cut and shaped like a diamond. She offered it to Larson.
Larson recognized the stone as the one which had nested between the carven claws of Silme's dragonstaff. He accepted the gem, running his fingers across its smoothed facets. "What should I do with this?"
"Keep it safe," came Silme's soft reply. "It's my rankstone. It symbolized my level of Dragonrank training. But, more importantly, it can store life aura as power." She met Larson's stare with pointed intensity, as if to instill in him the knowledge it had taken her years to master. "Because I had placed energy into the gem before my death, a tiny piece of me remains alive within it. Carry it, and remember me. If, by some miracle, I should be brought to life again, I can track you by it."
Gaelinar, Silme, and Larson exchanged glances as the gawking ring of corpses closed more tightly around them. Gaelinar cleared his thro
at. "We'd best be on our way. If Hel's threats are any indication, our journey is best undertaken well-rested." He examined the dead. "And I don't want to sleep here."
Larson agreed. Hel's citadel does not seem the safest
or most welcome bedroom. "Fine. But I need to know one thing more." He inclined his head toward Silme and scarcely refrained from catching her hands. "We came to Hel for another reason. Have you seen Brendor?" An image of Silme's bumbling, young apprentice formed in Larson's mind. Time had warped the picture. The simple features of the boy he had planned to accept as his son intermingled inseparably with his recollections of his own baby brother, Timmy. "We came to rescue him, too. Where is the little guy?"
Silme winced, shifting uncomfortably. "Allerum, I'm sorry."
Concern made Larson curt. "What do you mean you're sorry? Where's Brendor?"
"Remember Bramin's spell? The one which allowed Brendor to attack you?"
Larson's chest felt pinched. He recalled the madness which had possessed Brendor's lifeless body; the image remained strong within him. He envisioned Brendor's small form punching, gouging, and wrestling with an inhuman power he had never known in life. In vivid detail, he saw the child's glazed features on a frame bloodied and shattered by Silme's magic. "What about Bramin's spell?" he asked in a strangled whisper.
Silme's tone remained reverent and soothing, despite the unpleasantness of her words. "To gain that control, Bramin would have had to destroy Brendor's soul. He's gone, Allerum. There's no means for us to see him again."
Silme's explanation struck Larson dumb. He stood in silence, ensconced in memories of the inept, halfbred child who had proved an aggravating but invaluable companion. He pictured Brendor staring abashedly at his feet while Gaelinar scraped away the beard stubble which had resulted from Brendor's incompetent attempt at a shaving spell. The image made him smile until the pain of realization swept aside his fantasies. Fury bucked against his control; he felt giddy with hatred. Yet Bramin was already dead, and Larson knew his dreams of vengeance could only remain unfulfilled.
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