Dragonrank Master

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  to worship since childhood, how can you expect me to respect you ?

  Vidarr's eyes followed the shifting lights which betrayed Larson's current abstraction.

  Larson seized the god's silence to continue. I'm sick of everyone expecting me to kowtow and cast aside my own ideals for theirs. Protected or not, my mind is my own. Your presence is as much a violation of my privacy as Fenrir's. Recalling Vidarr was an ally, Larson tried to soften his words. Damn it, Vidarr. I feel like I'm being raped. I have to learn to handle this handicap on my own. Don't worry about my thoughts. I know myself well enough to recognize and ignore a concept which goes against my nature.

  Vidarr remained haughty and relentless. Bramin once convinced you I was an unholy being and your mission was to destroy me.

  That was before either of us knew he could influence my dreams.

  Regardless, Allerum. It's my job to keep you on task. Freyr pulled you from a hellish war…

  … To place me into another hellish war. Into Hel itself even! I'm supposed to feel grateful that Freyr ripped me from a world of technological miracles and dumped me into the body of a ninety-eight pound weakling ?

  Vidarr persisted. Technological miracles or not. You were dead.

  Dead or not, I was free. I'm no slave. You tell me "get Geirmagnus' rod,'' but you won't describe what guardians I'll have to face. You know how to raise Silme, but you won't tell me. Instead, you used the information to blackmail me. I say enough! If I am to serve gods, I shall do so willingly or not at all. Otherwise, you can kill me right now.

  Allerum! Vidarr's presence shook with impatience. Stop this nonsense.

  Driven nearly to violence, Larson pressed onward. These are the ground rules, Vidarr. From now on, if you need a favor, you ask. Second, any uninvited intrusion into my mind will be considered an act of war.

  An act of what! Exasperation beat through Larson's mind. My battle with Fenrir has addled you.

  Not addled! Larson screamed. Enlightened. It was you who triggered my memories, not Fenrir. The wolf merely came to threaten me.

  Irritation sifted through Vidarr's reply. This is crazy. You've gone crazy. I'll return when you've recovered your senses. He took a step toward the gap through which Fenrir had exited Larson's mind.

  No! If you return without settling this, I'll consider it an attack.

  Vidarr paused. Good-bye, Allerum.

  No! Larson realized he could not allow Vidarr to leave yet. It would take all meaning from future promises and threats. Desperate, he gathered every fiber of mental energy and channeled it into the image of a restraining wall, hard and high as the one which enclosed the Dragonrank school. To Larson's surprise, a broad shape shimmered to life before Vidarr, hazy and indistinct.

  The god hesitated. Allerum? What are you doing, Allerum ?

  Larson said nothing. He gritted his teeth, tensing every muscle. Pain ground through him. He ignored it, mind and body drawn together in effort. Sweat rolled from his forehead. Unbeknownst to him, his physical body contorted to a knot of concentration. Gradually, the wall came into focus, neatly blocking Vidarr's escape.

  Larson could barely perceive Vidarr's mix of shock and sudden fear. Allerum! What?

  Larson replied carefully. Every syllable seemed to weaken him. Tell… how… to… rescue… Silme. The wall behind Vidarr collapsed. Larson fell silent. A fresh wave of frustrated anger gave him the strength to reconstruct it, brick by mental brick. He hoped the barricade would also keep Vidarr from seeing the self-doubt which rilled the remainder of his consciousness. He knew he had to get Vidarr's answer quickly. If the god stalled long enough, Larson would lose the strength to hold him.

  Apparently, Vidarr did not recognize the tenuousness of Larson's trap. Discomfort shot through his reply, and he seemed on the edge of panic. Allerum. Calm down. We can discuss…

  Spasms racked Larson's material form, and he feared he might be having a convulsion. The momentary redirection of his thoughts blurred the mental walls. Rage warred with the threat of defeat.

  Allerum ?

  Quickly, Larson refocused his mind. The walls wavered, then grew more visible. Anger speared through him. Now! He shouted with such directed fury, fire splattered the ground at Vidarr's feet.

  Vidarr lurched backward with a startled cry. All right. Stop! I'll tell you.

  Now. Larson managed to insist. The effort of that single word nearly drove him to unconsciousness.

  Vidarr hesitated only a second, but it dragged like hours. Now, the god agreed reluctantly. But you're making a mistake.

  Larson's concentration snapped. The wall dissolved. Pain crushed down on him, well beyond the bruises Fen-rir had inflicted, and it sapped his remaining strength. Voices wafted to him, drowned by a harsh ringing in his ears. He opened his eyes. His bleary gaze registered little. He lay on the ground. Gaelinar knelt at his side, speaking softly and incomprehensibly. "A minute," he forced himself to say. His tongue felt twisted and heavy.

  Gaelinar fell silent.

  Larson concentrated on a thought. Vidarr?

  I'm still here. The god amended, Actually, I'm no longer inside your mind. I'm communicating through a probe.

  Larson was careful not to reveal any information about his mental trap; it would not do to reveal the difficulty of its construction nor the frailty of his barrier. Explain.

  Explain what?

  Larson felt weak as a rag. What the hell is a "probe?" And how do I free Silme? Even as he asked, Larson wished he had reversed the order.

  When we communicate telepathically or I just need to read some surface thought or a memory you've highlighted for me, I use a magical, mental link to do it.

  Vidarr paused, as if waiting for some indication Larson understood the concept. When he got none, he continued. In order to manipulate your thoughts, spark old memories, or fight Fenrir, I have to actually enter your mind. That's why I could have taken physical damage from the wolf. Do you understand?

  Yes. Larson lied. His mind felt fuzzy, and he needed to consider Vidarr's descriptions at a more opportune time. And Silme?

  Vidarr hesitated.

  Larson could raise no more than a faint spark of anger. The truth, Vidarr, or I swear Baldur will rot in Hel.

  In his weakness, Larson could not read Vidarr's intentions. Allerum, you promised.

  So did you, Vidarr.

  Only under duress.

  Oh! Larson tried to work sarcasm into his reply. And my vow was obtained in good faith ? Quit stalling and tell me how to free Silme.

  Very well. Vidarr's mental words grew so soft, Larson had to strain to discern them. To bring Silme back to Midgard, you need to open a place for her. You must keep Chaos and Law in balance.

  Larson struggled against unconsciousness. He felt drained, body and soul. Tell me something I don't know.

  Allerum, think. Annoyance increased Vidarr's volume. The Fates will allow you to kill a man only if his time has come to die. You can't ' 'open a place for Silme'' by slaying a servant of Law. You have to balance her resurrection with the resurrection of a tool of Chaos . . .

  … of similar strength to Silme. The revelation lent Larson a second wind. So, I have to find a Chaos-serving, sapphire-rank Dragonmage who died some time in the past.

  Again Vidarr hesitated, apparently grappling with a decision. Allerum, for some reason, you're not thinking clearly. Eventually, you're going to figure this out, so I might as well take credit for telling you. Do you recall the dead in Hel?

  Larson nodded, not wasting the effort of retrieving the memory.

  Vidarr continued. Then you know that the longer they remain in Hel, the less human they become. Gradually, they lose all sense of self. The sorcerer you raise with Silme cannot have died too long before her.

  Despair filled Larson. I have to find a sapphire-rank mage who died about the same time as Silme? Is there one?

  Vidarr radiated exasperation with such intensity, Larson acknowledged it even through his failing perceptions. Your sl
aying of the god, Loki, tipped the world's balance toward Law. Hel is of Chaos. Therefore, she must be willing to compensate Silme's freedom with a Chaos-serving sorcerer somewhat more powerful than Silme.

  Suddenly, everything came together. Bramin! God, Vidarr! You're talking about Bramin. An image came, unbidden. Again, Larson saw Bramin's features, sharply defined and slender with a deadly, sinuous grace. He stared into eyes as red as Fenrir's but flashing with an evil which defied the ages. Bramin's dark elf father had stolen the virginity from Silme's mother by rape. The cruelty of townsfolk and Bramin's demon breeding had trained him to hate, and the Dragonrank teachings gave him the power to turn his bitterness into violence. Worse, in addition to having mastered Dragonrank sorcery to its highest level, Bramin was also a swordsman of superior talent.

  Vidarr's manner became soothing. So you understand now why I couldn't tell you how to free Silme earlier. Bramin would stand against your quest. He might prove powerful enough to prevent you from retrieving Geir-magnus' rod. Surely, you understand why you must revive Baldurfirst, while you're still unopposed. Then you can raise Silme and Bramin. Vidarr's words came faster, and Larson thought he detected a note of nervousness. Do it in that order, the only logical way, and I'll aid you against Bramin as much as the laws which govern gods allow. He waited.

  A red curtain of fatigue blinded Larson. His thoughts stumbled through mist, and it took every last vestige of energy to form a coherent answer. Vidarr, I'm going to

  Hel. Darkness descended on Larson, and a long time passed before he knew anything more.

  Larson awoke to the gray haze of evening. He rolled to his back, braced for a barrage of pain. But he felt only the dull ache of his injured ribs and hip. Sleep had healed the fog of his mental battle, and, though it taxed him in mind and sinew, it seemed to have left no physical aftereffects.

  Gaelinar took a seat next to Larson and set a handkerchief full of berries in the elf's lap. "Are you well now, hero?"

  Larson stretched, though the maneuver sent berries tumbling onto his breeches. "I feel great." He considered his conversation with Vidarr. Was it all a dream? "Gaelinar, I think I know how to get Silme back."

  Gaelinar studied Larson curiously. "Are you certain?"

  Larson popped a handful of berries into his mouth, their taste an equal mixture of sweet and sour. "I believe so. We have to return to Hel and ask its queen to release Silme and Bramin together.''

  Gaelinar went still. For a full minute, he did not move so much as a finger or an eyelid.

  Larson fidgeted. He had expected almost any reaction but none at all, and Gaelinar's silence unnerved him. "I said…"

  "I heard you."

  "And?" Larson prompted.

  Gaelinar leaped to his feet. "Let's go."

  Larson crammed berries into his cheeks, dumped the remainder to the ground as he stood, and returned Gaelinar's handkerchief. He hoped it was his own imagination which made the Kensei's movements seem less fluid than usual. Then another concern usurped his attention. "Where's Shadow?" In his moments of lucidity, Larson had noticed only Gaelinar. When I last saw Shadow, we didn't know if he'd make it till evening.

  "He's washing up." Gaelinar jerked a thumb toward the ring of pine which surrounded the grove. Wrinkling his nose, he added, "You might do well to join him."

  Larson smiled, too glad at the news to take offense. "He's all right, then?"

  Gaelinar nodded. "A lot better than you looked today. What happened? Nightmares again?"

  "Sort of." Larson knelt, scooped up a few stray berries, and ate them. He ignored the dirt which grated beneath his teeth. "Vidarr and I had a disagreement."

  Gaelinar met Larson's gaze. His eyes gained a glint of satisfaction, and his lips gradually bent into a smile. "Just another god, after all."

  "Just another god," Larson agreed, though without Gaelinar's wry pleasure. "Now, where'd you say that water is?"

  Gaelinar pointed.

  Larson turned in the direction of the Kensei's gesture. He twisted his head back toward his mentor. "Is it frozen over?"

  "It's a hot spring," Gaelinar explained.

  "Oh." Larson brushed through the needled branches. He paced a straight course in the indicated direction and, shortly, came upon a natural, oblong pool. Wisps of steam curled from its surface, merging into the shadowing branches of the pine. A stream exited the northern bank. In the center of the spring, Taziar floated on his back, scrubbing his abdomen with a handful of grit. He acknowledged Larson with a brief nod. His linens lay, neatly folded, at the American's feet.

  Larson stripped down and dropped his clothes into a pile beside Taziar's black climbing outfit. Measuring the distance with a careful glance, he took a shallow dive. The water parted before him, then closed around him. It felt near body temperature, warm, wet, and comfortable in the autumn chill. From experience, Larson knew cold would not bother him in his elf form, but he imagined Taziar would wish to dawdle in the tepid waters as long as possible.

  Larson came up for air within five feet of Taziar who was now washing his crotch. Larson chuckled and called conversationally. "Don't you hate jock itch?"

  Taziar spent some time in deep contemplation, as if Larson had said something particularly profound. At length, he asked carefully, "What's 'jock itch?' "

  "That." Larson pointed. "What you've got."

  Taziar traced Larson's gesture to its logical conclusion. "Hmmm. Well, Allerum. You may call yours Jock, but I call mine… Thor."

  Larson laughed, the humor tempered by the fact that Taziar had chosen the name of one of the few gods who might actually hear and take offense. "You're all right."

  Taziar nodded agreement and turned his attention to his legs.

  Larson flipped and dove. He scooped up a handful of pebbles and, treading water, scoured his own anatomy. "I'm glad. You're all right, I mean. You looked pretty hurt."

  Taziar raked plastered hair from his eyes. "You, too. Gaelinar'll probably get mad I told you, but he worried about you."

  "Really?" Larson smiled. He found it hard to imagine Gaelinar concerned about anything.

  "Yes." Taziar bathed his other leg. "I think he feared he'd have to travel with me alone."

  "Horrors!" Larson mocked. "A fate worse than death."

  Taziar considered Larson's word choice. Even literally, it would be difficult to take the expression as anything but an insult. "Very nice. Thank you."

  "Just a little joke."

  Taziar splashed a wave of spring water over Larson, his tone colored with feigned offense. "So now you're belittling my size."

  Larson grinned broadly. "An accident. But it was small of me," he quipped.

  "Watch it. I'll start telling elf jokes." Taziar rolled and swam back to the shore, deliberately kicking water onto Larson.

  Larson finished washing quickly and followed the Cul-linsbergen to the banks. He enjoyed the exchange. Locker room gibes had been one of the few pleasures which made Vietnam tolerable, though fast friendships had a way of becoming fast deaths and faster grief. Since coming to Old Scandinavia, Larson's only companion near his own age was Silme. But trading digs and caustic cracks with the woman of his dreams did not appeal to him.

  Larson and Taziar dressed in silence. Larson was fastening his sword belt when Taziar questioned. "Did Gae-linar tell you about our new wolf weapon?"

  "No." Larson patted the buckle in place. "I hope it's a tank."

  Brow furrowed, Taziar took a step toward Larson. "A what?"

  "Never mind." Larson waved Taziar off. "Just one of those stupid things I like to say to amuse myself. What's the new toy?"

  "This." Taziar pulled a folded square of linen from his pocket. He rummaged through his clothing for some time, then raised his hand to flick hair from his face before producing a handkerchief. "Gaelinar put together a powder. He says it burns if thrown in the eyes." Taziar knelt, unwrapped the parcel to reveal a pile of gray-white dust, and spread the second scrap of cloth beside it. Using a stick, he divided
its contents in half and prepared to scrape powder from one to the other.

  Noticing the difficulty Taziar had had producing the second handkerchief, Larson dug through his pocket for one of his own. "Here. Use mine."

  Taziar did not look up from his work. "This is yours."

  Larson's fingers groped an empty pocket. "What?"

  "Sorry. Habit." Taziar stood, a neatly tied bundle in each hand. He passed one to Larson and turned the elf a wicked smile.

  "You…" Before Larson could think of a suitably vile insult, a cry of pained rage rent the woodland peace followed by an animal growl of determination. Gaelinar! Larson sprinted toward the grove, Taziar on his heels.

  The pines parted easily before Larson. Following the direction of the sound, he clawed through jumbles of needled branches, leaped over a deadfall, and emerged in a star-shaped clearing near the grove. At the farther edge stood Fenrir, its bristled fur brushing the higher branches. Fresh blood trickled from a gash in its flank. Gaelinar dangled from its jaws; the wolf's teeth closed over a thick crease on the back of the Kensei's robes. Gaelinar's swords formed a perfect cross, locking the wolf's neck between them.

  "Come on, wolf! Shake me!" Gaelinar's voice rang with challenge. "You may kill me, but you'll slash your own throat as well. I'm ready. Do you fear death, puppy?"

  Fenrir growled.

  Larson froze, taking a moment to assess the situation. There was truth to Gaelinar's words, but it seemed a perfect stalemate. For the Kensei to strike, he would need to draw back for momentum, removing any deterrent to Fenrir shaking the life from him. But Fenrir could not bite unless it loosed the hold it already had, granting Gaelinar a chance at escape.

  In his moment of hesitation, Larson heard Taziar's sword rasp free. He drew his own and charged the wolf.

  Fenrir raised its eyes. Suddenly, it dropped Gaelinar. The Kensei tumbled to the ground with a gasp of jarred breath and tensed to rise. But, before he could move, Fenrir planted a lion-sized paw squarely on his chest.

  Larson quickened his pace.

  Using Gaelinar as its launching site, Fenrir sprang to meet Larson. The elf sidled. The wolf's shoulder struck a glancing blow which staggered Larson. He caught a brief glimpse of Gaelinar, limp and still, before his own defense absorbed his full attention. He twisted, catching his balance, and found himself staring into Fenrir's lowered face. The wolfs lips curled into a cruel parody of a human smile, revealing a sharp row of canines. "Let's see how well you fare without your swordmaster."