Larson turned to watch. The wolf sidestepped easily, then charged the mongrel in a frenzied blur of attack. Fenrir slashed and tore, never in one position longer than a second. Fascinated, Larson stared as each of the Hel hound's mighty lunges fell short.
Gaelinar prodded Larson's shoulder. "Quickly now.
The farther we get before they finish, the better off we are."
Larson needed no more urging. He whirled and scrambled along the narrow pathway which would take them up the incline from Hvergelmir's pit.
A grating voice rose above the bellowing current of white water. "I'll find you again. No mere dog will keep me from my vengeance!"
Larson shivered, though whether from the cold sting of water droplets or some deeper discomfort, he did not know. Some trick of the rising sun lit Hvergelmir's falls the color of blood.
PART II:
The Masters of Midgard
CHAPTER 4
Master Thief
"Who is all-powerful should fear everything."
—Pierre Corneille LeCid
Al Larson awakened to utter darkness. He remained immobile in the dirt, not daring to believe he was finally out of Hel. The events of the previous morning: Fenrir's challenge, the dog fight, the rugged climb from Hvergelmir's pit all seemed too vividly real to have been a dream. Filled with bitter disbelief, he stared into the sky. Gradually, he discerned the pinpoint light of stars through interwoven branches, and he realized it was a normal, moonless night in Midgard. The air felt thick with the mingled scents of loam and pine and the comforting, acridly woody smell of a campfire. Larson rolled to his side. "Gaelinar?"
Gaelinar's voice came from Larson's left. "I'm here, hero. Are you ready for practice?"
"Now?" Larson groaned, twisted to face Gaelinar, and swept to a sitting position. "But I still don't have a sword."
Gaelinar perched on a fallen trunk, lit by a weak circle of flame. His golden robes spread about his legs like a crumpled flower, but the black sash around his waist held his katana and shoto, their sheaths and brocade immaculately clean. "That is of no consequence. I train the man, not the sword. The weapon is only a tool, an extension of the spirit. The technique, the intent and motivation of each cut remains regardless of the blade. Come." Gaelinar rose and trotted into the woods.
Larson rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the last, heavy vestiges of sleep. I can't believe this fucking gook's got me up in the middle of the night to swing an imaginary sword. Grumbling curses in three languages, he followed the Kensei between hardy trunks of birch and aspen to a grove of ancient pines. The lower boughs had withered and broken in the shadow of their younger brothers, leaving a thick blanket of needles as a floor. The higher branches clustered into a tangled roof thirty feet above Larson's head. Huddled trunks stood, as wide as fire hydrants, their limbs forming walls which barred the winds. To Larson, the clearing beneath the pines seemed not unlike an oblong, indoor stadium with the lights turned off.
Gaelinar kicked aside fallen branches to establish practice space. He walked to the center of the grove. "Sweeps. Begin, hero."
Larson blinked in the grayness at the edge of the clearing. "Let me get this straight. You woke me up to practice with a pretend sword? And in the dark for Christ's sake?''
Gaelinar waved Larson to him. "When I was a humble and lowly student…" He emphasized the adjectives with malicious glee. "… we sparred blindfolded, standing on ice. When you can't see your opponent's body, you must fight his spirit, and strategy is ultimately a contest of spirits. By training on ice, I was forced to keep my consciousness centered during combat. Until you learn to cut with your spirit as well as your sword, you'll master neither your weapon nor yourself."
Larson muttered beneath his breath, "You'd think I'd be used to his nonsense by now." Cautiously, he approached Gaelinar. "Fine, O most exalted swordmaster whom even the gods envy. What do you want me to do?''
Gaelinar ignored Larson's blatant sarcasm. "Sweeps. As I showed you at your first lesson."
Larson adjusted his stance. He clenched his hands together, as if to a hilt, and swung in high arcs. He pulled each strike just past his leg.
"Stop," Gaelinar said impatiently. "Is that how you would perform with a sword?"
Larson poised, left foot forward and weight evenly distributed. "Probably not."
"Try it again."
Larson realigned. He envisioned a long sword in his grip and attempted to maneuver once more. The movement felt more comfortable until, unbidden, a thought emerged in his mind. It's like the old joke about the unarmed soldier who kills his enemies with a fake gun and bayonet while yelling "bangety-bang" or "stickety-stick" until a weaponless adversary tramples him, saying ' 'tankety-tank.'' The absurdity of the idea threw off Larson's timing.
Gaelinar shouted. "Allerum, keep your spirit and body in the same realm, please. Start again."
Larson lowered his arms. "I'm sorry, Gaelinar. I just can't take this 'pretend sword' stuff seriously. Maybe if you let me use yours, just for the practice, I…"
Gaelinar interrupted, his tone fiercely angry. "After what I just told you, you would dare ask me for my sword? Haven't you been listening at all?" Gaelinar gripped his hilt with such violence Larson took an involuntary backstep. "I've carried this sword longer than you've been alive. Only through years of diligent practice can a weapon become a part of your spirit. Do you expect me to hand over my soul to you because you gave away your sword?" He took a threatening step toward Larson. "Hundreds of years of tradition dictate I could kill you for that question. But it will be forgiven this time and only this time. Handling my sword would be as handling my person. Either would be unwise and at your own peril."
Stunned by Gaelinar's fury, Larson stammered. "I— I'm sorry. I… but… you touch my sword!"
Gaelinar relaxed, but his voice retained its deadly sharpness. "This katana was the sole labor of a master smith for five years and the culminating work of his glorious life. He delicately folded joined layers of hard and soft steel, hundreds upon hundreds of times, to create an edge that, in the proper hands and spirit, can cut through armor as if it didn't exist. Your sword…" Gaelinar snorted, and his tone softened. "Your sword was beaten on a rock by a fat drunkard barely able to call his life an existence. If such is a fitting receptacle for your soul, so be it."
For a moment, Larson stood in silent confusion. Then, righteous indignation boiled up within him. "I'll have you know, you just called Loki a fat drunkard! We both saw him. He was neither. And I think he would have called his life an existence." When Gaelinar did not interrupt, Larson's self-defense became a tirade. "Look. I come from another world. I don't know all your picky, pissant rules. Your society dictates that you kill a man for touching a sword? How the hell am I supposed to know that? What next?" He imitated Gaelinar's gutteral accent. "I'm sorry, hero, but my people behead nose-pickers. Sayanara, Allerumsan. Sukiyaki…"
Gaelinar's demeanor returned to normal. "Are you quite finished, hero?"
"I think so."
"Good." Gaelinar again adopted his teaching tone. "Admittedly, we're from different cultures, and we're going to have misunderstandings. Yet you must realize that when I've been taught to take certain things as insults for sixty years, I'm still going to consider them insults. I find insults intolerable. But notice, I didn't kill you."
Larson found it impossible to feel appreciative. "Gee, thanks."
Gaelinar continued. "I expect the same from you. I don't assume you will tolerate things you consider a personal affront from me." He added carefully, "But at least I do not compound my offenses with stupid questions. Now, hero. Change directions in the middle of an overhand strike."
I find nearly everything you say offensive. Americans are just too damn tolerant. Larson kept this thought to himself, believing the conversation had already dragged on too long. "All right." He assumed a fighting stance, his hands before him as if holding a sword. With a short, forward lunge, he raised his arms above his head, then spun o
n the balls of his feet and executed a strike. His left elbow smacked a pine trunk, shooting agony along his forearm. "Shit!" Larson danced into the clearing as the pain changed to a sensation of pins and needles.
The throb of his injured arm heaped upon the night's frustrations turned Larson's mood completely sour. He tilted his head and regarded Gaelinar through one eye. "Are you sure about this bullshit? Does a sword really work because of the intentions of the man, not the weapon?"
"Yes. It's not the weapon that cuts. It's the focusing of your spirit."
Larson spread his thumb and forefinger and aimed his imaginary gun at Gaelinar's chest. "Bangety-bang!"
Gaelinar's forehead crinkled. "What are you doing?"
"Just trying something." Larson smiled, feeling better for the charade.
"Fine, hero. Now try that strike again. And from now on, whenever you begin a kata, I expect you to finish it."
Larson massaged his aching elbow. "But I hit my funny bone."
Gaelinar caught at his own elbow in imitation and spoke in a perfect mockery of Larson's Bronx accent. "Excuse me, O most worthy opponent. I banged my arm. Please don't decapitate me."
Larson's practice continued deep into the night.
Later, over a breakfast of fresh berries and stale bread, Larson felt invigorated. Gaelinar had insisted on prolonging the sword session until Larson demonstrated some degree of competence. The successful cuts and figures Larson had executed at the conclusion of his practice left him with fonder memories of its last half hour. Now, he basked in the drying tingle of his own sweat and the feeling of accomplishment it represented. "Gaelinar, I know we arrived in Midgard at twilight. But, eventually, we're going to have to reverse our days and nights back to normal."
Gaelinar shrugged. "There are some few advantages to traveling at night."
Larson popped a handful of green, striped berries into his mouth. He recalled shadowy figures, all but invisible in Vietnam's darkness. For all their tanks, jets, and helicopters, the Americans had never conquered the jungle nights. "If you're used to it, I suppose. Otherwise, all the advantages belong to your enemies."
Gaelinar rose and tossed dirt on the fire, plunging them into moonless darkness. "Wolves hunt by sight. In daylight, Fenrir would see us better than we could avoid it. Night disadvantages it more than us."
Larson sighed, sprang to his feet, and helped the Kensei bury the remains of their camp. Wistfully, he wondered if he would ever see sunlight again. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"There's only one place we can find another person with Silme's power." Gaelinar paused, as if uncomfortable with his own revelation. "We're going to the school of Dragonrank magic."
Taziar Medakan kept a loose grip on the pine trunk, his legs braced on the branches beneath him. The tree swayed in the icy autumn breezes, but he felt confident on his carefully chosen perch. Across a stretch of fire-cleared plain stood the wall of the Dragonrank school; the late morning sun gave the granite an eerie red cast.
Taziar had studied the school since dawn, pacing the edges of the forest to define the square of wall which enclosed its grounds. He knew the gate occupied the center of the southern wall. A glance through it had revealed that the Dragonrank mages employed armed sentries in addition to whatever magics they used to protect their fortress. The walls towered to four times Taziar's height, and a climb to the highest secure boughs had gained him only a distant, ill-defined view of rows of buildings, boring in their similarity, and colorful gardens between them.
Suddenly, the gates swung open, and a loose formation of forty Dragonmages emerged. Taziar inched down between the needled branches, curious but fearing discovery. He scanned the disorderly ranks for a leader and singled out four sorcerers, each of whom held one of the trademark staves of the Dragonrank: a rod of polished and stained mahogany tapering to a carven dragon's claw, its black toenails gripping its owner's rankstone. Taziar recognized the gems in their staves as jadestones. Several of their followers carried translucent stones on thongs at their belts. Though faceted, the jewels' scratched and purpled interiors betrayed them as glass. Others fingered rock-sized bulges in their pockets. By their insecurity and quickness to obey their jade-rank masters' commands, these men and women were probably also of glass rank, the most inexperienced of the mages by Astryd's descriptions.
Once outside, the glass-rank sorcerers split into eight groups of four or five. The jade-rank leaders separated, one to each wall, while their students moved to the corners. For most of the morning, Taziar observed the two teams of glass-rank mages working from either corner of the western wall. Facing the granite, their backs to Taziar, they pointed fingers at varying levels of the stonework and muttered garbled, mystic syllables. Weak sparks bounced from the wall stones and fizzled out, leaving no recognizable traces. Then, moving half a step closer to the center of the western wall, the sorcerers would repeat the process.
Taziar had no means of identifying the glass-rank mages' spells, if, indeed, they were using magic, but he suspected their work might make his already rugged climb even more formidable. He was pleased to note that whenever their jade-rank teacher rushed over to reprimand one team, the members of the opposite group would slacken pace. When a flaw in the structure of the wall placed the northernmost crew into a hollow beyond sight of their master, the glass-rank students whispered conspiratorially. They yawned, worked cramps from their hands, and cast only a few spells along the narrow stretch of granite. Like overtaxed apprentices everywhere, Taziar noted their laxity with amusement. But, this time, their negligence may work to my advantage.
Gradually, dusk turned the sky pewter gray. A crescent moon rose, visible as a pale outline. As the trainee teams approached the center of the western wall, and one another, Taziar clambered from the tree. He crept deeper into the pine forest, stopping well beyond sight and sound of the Dragonrank school grounds. Rummaging through his pockets, he passed over half a dozen gold coins and a gaudy, emerald brooch filched from a gambler during a card game while the shyster smugly cheated Taziar out of a handful of coppers. From beneath the jewel, he retrieved a vial of fish skin glue and a thong. Using the knife at his belt, he shaved slices from the leather strip and blended them with the brown-tinged, transparent paste. A fraction of a drop of the juice of a weed berry gave the mixture the pinkish color Taziar sought.
Satisfied, Taziar used his concoction to craft a claw-shaped mark on the back of his right hand, a copy of the scar which marred Astryd's flesh. His garnet-rank lover had told him the symbol appeared, naturally, on the skin of any person destined to become Dragonrank; it remained as an identifying feature for the remainder of the sorcerer's life. Taziar flexed and extended his fingers while the compound dried, maintaining the freedom of movement he would need to scale the walls. He studied his handiwork with a frown. Far from adequate, but it should pass a casual inspection in the dark. He headed back toward the Dragonrank school.
By the time Taziar arrived at the edge of the forest, the sorcerers were gone. He assumed they had returned home to eat dinner and rest after a long day of hurling spells at a wall. Or perhaps they're tearing through the woods seeking would-be thieves and unwelcome visitors. Taziar dismissed the thought. Surely, if they noticed me lurking about, they would have threatened or killed me by now. And the fact that most people believe it impossible to sneak into the school should keep such attempts rare. If I'm lucky, uncommon enough for their security to have become lax.
Taziar smoothed wrinkles from his shirt and britches. The sun had slid fully below the western horizon, leaving the clearing in darkness. The sliver of moon seemed a welcome friend; Taziar had undertaken nearly all his major conquests in its presence. It hid his black-clothed form better than any phase but the new moon and still left him enough light by which to see. In Cullinsberg, where most citizens had known him as Taziar the junk merchant and a few as a night-stalking thief called the Shadow Climber, Taziar had worn a hood to prevent cross-recognition. Here the extra precaution seemed
unnecessary, a form of dress which could only draw attention for its oddity.
Taziar dropped to a crouch, awash in the euphoric mixture of excitement and restlessness which came to him whenever he undertook an impossible task. He savored the accompanying clarity of thought and action which made the remainder of the world seem to move at half speed. Dropping to his chest, he belly-crawled across the cleared ground, tensed for sudden bursts of magic or verbal challenges. He arrived at the base of the wall without incident and examined the massive structure of granite.
Moonlight flashed from chips of pyrite in the stonework, and Taziar's mind registered something out of place. He hesitated, considering. As yet unable to identify this new source of concern, he crept to the depression in the wall where he had seen the glass-rank apprentices grow remiss in their duties. The wall lay flat gray and featureless before him. At the edges of his peripheral vision, the stone still appeared to glitter, lit by the meager glare of the moon and stars. Now, Taziar realized what had bothered him. The reflections formed a pattern of jagged lines not quite random enough to pass for a work of nature. Magic. Taziar smiled. I can see it, so I can avoid it.
Glad he had taken the time to observe the glass-ranks at work, Taziar found handholds in the stonework of the hollow. Cautiously, he shinnied upward. The granite felt rough and cool against his skin, and the challenge of its ascent seemed, somehow, appropriate. Taziar felt a strange sense of belonging, as if he had been born solely for this climb. He reveled in the sensation until, at a level twice his own height from the ground, he caught a glimpse of silver on the stone upon which he was about the place his fingers. He recoiled, catching his balance on the remainder of his limbs. Hunching closer, he examined a spot on the wall. It appeared dull and benign in the darkness. Gone? Too certain of his eyesight to doubt what he had seen, Taziar avoided the site as he continued his climb.
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