Larson's chest struck the edge with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He blundered into a chair and crashed, with it, to the ground. Rising to a crouch, he watched Gaelinar face off with Alsvithr. The Kensei spoke softly, but his tone carried the confidence of a man used to mastery. "This fight is over."
Blood trickled from Alsvithr's nose. "Step aside, old man!" he screamed. "Your stupid friend dumped beer on me. He hit me in the face. No one does that to Alsvithr and lives!"
Gaelinar held his ground, his manner deadly calm. "This fight is over. Sit down."
Alsvithr aimed a wide punch for Gaelinar. The Kensei's expression never changed. He caught the Norse-man's meaty wrist and effortlessly spun him into his companions. One's back struck the table, lifting the side several inches. Half full mugs tipped and rolled; they hit the floor with a ringing clangor, splattering beer across the planks. Alsvithr regained his balance quickly. His sword leaped from its sheath, and he rushed down on Gaelinar.
Larson surged to his feet, hand clamped to his hilt. He had barely begun to draw the blade when Gaelinar's ka-tana whisked silently through the air. It sliced through Alsvithr's sword as if through a twig. Two feet of worked iron fell to the ground at Alsvithr's boots while he stared, incredulous, at the stump of his mangled sword.
Gaelinar resheathed his katana in the same motion. "This fight is over. Sit down, or next time I take your wrists."
"Sit down," repeated one of Alsvithr's companions urgently. He gathered up the dented mugs.
Alsvithr grumbled something unintelligible, but took his seat. He slammed the broken haft to the tabletop so hard a crack wound along the wood grain.
Gaelinar turned and threw Larson a look of outrage more severe than any reprimand. "Move." He caught Larson's arm, spun him, and herded him toward the table where Taziar sat, watching. Larson knew he would pay for the incident with strained muscles and bruises at his next sword lesson. But, oddly, he did not care. He marched toward the table in quiet resentment and dropped into the chair across from Taziar.
Gaelinar glanced over at the bartender, washing the damaged mugs with unexpectedly calm detachment. "I imagine we'll have to leave?"
Taziar took a gulp of his drink. "We're staying the night. Where I come from, an incident like that would have earned you all a few nights in the dungeons. But here I've noticed people get forgiving when you give them enough money."
Larson slouched, arms folded across his chest and eyes locked on a spidery beer stain on the table before him. He knew he had earned every bit of derision his companions could voice. But the same unreasoning anger which had compelled him to incite the fight also made him unwilling to listen.
Gaelinar spoke without emotion, but Larson sensed the subtle threat beneath the Kensei's outward serenity. "You've shamed your honor, and mine as well. This is not the way you use the skills I've taught you."
Larson remained sullenly silent. The fire danced as the Norsemen opened the door and made their exit from the tavern.
Gaelinar's hands twitched, like the warning rattle of a snake. Before he could speak, Taziar interrupted. "What in darkest hell is the matter with you, Allerum? You respect life. It's not like you to start a fight which could get people killed."
Remorse poked through Larson's fury long enough to make him realize he had inappropriately translated frustration into violence. His anger had nothing to do with Alsvithr or his companions or the tavern. "She lied to me, damn it!" His vision glazed, and he fought away tears with an effort which reawakened hostility.
"Who lied to you?" Taziar pressed.
"Hel." Larson raised his voice and met Gaelinar's stare for the first time in days. "It's been more than a week since she promised to free Silme. Where is she? Damn it, where is she?" His fist crashed to the tabletop, scaring away the serving girl who had arrived with the food.
"Calm yourself." Gaelinar's words were a command. "Have patience. Give Silme time to find us."
"Time? Time!" Larson screamed. He raked dirt-streaked fingers through his hair, and a twig fell into his palm. "I've got her rankstone, remember? She knows where we are. She would be with us if she could. For God's sake, Gaelinar. She's Dragonrank. She travels instantly."
Taziar added helpfully, "I've never known anyone to return from the dead before. Maybe it takes time. Maybe she has to regain strength or reorient herself."
Larson shook his head. He could not say why his companions were mistaken, he just knew something had gone wrong. "I've killed. I've shared thoughts I can hardly bear myself. I've gone to Hel twice. I've defied and fought and threatened gods for her. I'm not giving up Silme now. Promise or not, I'm going back to Hel. If she doesn't deliver Silme right into my hands, I'm going to rip Hel apart fragment by rotting fragment." He shredded the stick in example.
Timidly, the serving girl sidled to the table and placed steaming rolls and bowls of stew in front of them. She refilled the mugs, spilling little despite her shaking hands, and left as quickly as courtesy allowed.
Gaelinar's voice held an edge as sharp as his katana. "I want Silme back every bit as much as you do. But I won't tolerate your going against the tenets of my teaching. I'll kill you before I let you unleash underserved anger against me, Shadow, or innocents again."
Pressed beneath a tangle of conflicting emotions, Larson accepted Gaelinar's rebuke. "Punish as you will. I have it coming." As the burning ardor of his ire died, Larson understood his motivations more clearly. "I can't remember wanting anything as much as Silme. I was willing to…"He paused in consideration.
"… spend your life and others for her cause." Gae-linar finished neatly.
Larson stared at his mentor, open-mouthed but unable to speak. Gaelinar had finished the sentence far differently than Larson intended. Yet there was a truth to the Kensei's words which jolted Larson to the depths of his conscience.
A log collapsed in the hearth. Sparks sprayed. As the flames chewed into pockets of sap, there followed a series of pops like distant gunfire.
Larson tensed at the sound then relaxed back into his chair. "My own life, maybe, but no one else's. I won't give up my morals for any cause."
Gaelinar skillfully guided Larson away from the source of his anger. "Apparently, these morals don't preclude your instigating fights."
Larson shrugged. "I'm sorry. I made a mistake." He formed a mischievous grin. "You're the one who tells me heroes have flaws."
Taziar tore a piece from his roll. "Heroes have heroic flaws. Flaws which earn us more enemies, we don't need. Control your temper, please, Allerum. Crazed challenges against large Vikings get little bystanders like me killed." Larson suspected the street-raised city thief had seen enough fist fights to know how to avoid the consequences. He winked, holding a hand to the level of Ta-ziar's head. "How hard can it be to duck when you're only this tall?"
Blankets of wool and furs softened the floor before the tavern hearth, but quilts and pillows of satin would not have brought sleep to Larson's troubled soul. The recognition of the cause of his anger forced him to channel it more appropriately. It freed him to treat Gaelinar with the respect he deserved and to exchange gibes with Ta-ziar. But Larson's hatred for the decaying queen of the underworld heightened and spread like a cancer. He lay, staring at the wall, resisting the urge to roll from side to side. He knew the movement would bring him no comfort; it would only deny Taziar and Gaelinar the sleep they had earned.
The fire burned low, chasing flickering shadows across the beamed ceiling. Larson gathered his legs beneath him, with slow, fluent movements so as not to awaken his companions. The shifting curtain of light revealed Gaelinar's chiseled features beneath white hair hacked functionally short. A fold of blanket hid Taziar's face, but his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep.
Larson retrieved his sword belt from the floor and buckled it about his rumpled cloak. He rose and crept to the door. Not a single plank creaked beneath his footfalls. The portal opened on silent, well-oiled hinges. The breeze from the
doorway did not affect the dying flames other than to slightly shift the speckled pattern of their light. Carefully, Larson pulled the panel closed behind him.
Ice-grained air bit down from the north, whipping snowflakes up from the ground into a whirling dance. Larson paused in the roadway. He was uncertain what force had driven him to abandon his companions and the tavern's comforting warmth, but he suspected it was the same irrational anger which had defined his mood over the past week. One thing seemed unquestionable. Hel had cheated him, and she would pay a heavy price for her deceit. There was no time to waste. Already, Silme's identity might have withered to bits of memory. Despite Gaelinar's insistence on patience, Larson knew delay would doom Silme. If Gaelinar and Shadow can't realize it, I have no choice but to go alone.
Larson knew his footprints left an easily followed trail in the snow, and he secretly hoped his companions would track him once they noticed his absence. He had no wish to be wholly free of their company nor to face the Fenris Wolf without their aid. He just wanted a way to turn their route back toward Hel before either of his friends could convince him otherwise.
Larson rounded a crook in the roadway. Ahead, a depression the size of a horse and ringed by boot tracks disrupted the blanket of snow. Larson approached and stared in curiosity. Furrows gouged to the stoney roadway and ridges of higher snow gave the impression of a struggle. A red-brown puddle near its center and similar smaller, stains splashed around it completed the picture. A blood trail and deeper human prints led off toward the border. It appeared to Larson as if some hunter had shot an animal here, perhaps a deer, then hefted and carried it from the town. But why would a deer leave the forest to enter a village? And why would a hunter carry his dinner back into the woods?
Larson's self-questioning raised doubts and concerns. He considered turning back, but a fresh wave of anger against Hel caused him to discard the idea. Gaelinar will only try to talk me into giving Hel more time. He pushed onward, following the red droplets with newly aroused caution.
The trail took him to the boundary of the village and the edge of the evergreen forest. Snow sagged the needled branches, enhancing the reflected light of the half-moon. A round, dark shape perched upon the weather-beaten sign which identified the village. Unable to read it, Larson crept closer and wished he had thought to bring a lantern from the tavern.
Larson hunched before the sign and focused on the letters. Winding paths of red marred the neatly painted name. Something warm dripped on Larson's head. He froze in position. His eyes went wide with apprehension. By inches, he straightened. His gaze roved up the battered wood to the undefined thing perched atop it, and he found himself staring into Alsvithr's severed head.
Larson recoiled with a sharp intake of breath. He had seen a similar sign before; his troop had once passed through a village to find the V.C. had left every citizen's head speared on a pole. But the horror etched on Alsvithr's dead features went beyond any natural human expression.
"Consider it a gift." The sibilant voice made Larson's skin prickle.
Larson edged away from the sign and dropped into a crouch, seeking the location of the voice. He thought he heard the sound of leather whisking across snow and spun toward the town.
But a moment later, the same voice hissed from behind Larson. "He would have waylaid you when you left the tavern. But I wanted you for myself. You're a one-man job, Allerum."
The voice was unmistakably Bramin's. Larson whirled back to the forest as the dark elf/man emerged from the tree line. Moonlight traced features black as the night. Red eyes glowed like embers. Larson felt helpless and exposed before evil more primitive than murder. Hatred burned like acid, and realization swept nausea through him. Bramin played me. Some magic or mind game enhanced my anger, driving me to start a bar fight and abandon my companions. And he did it with such subtle mastery, I never noticed his meddling. Larson's hand dropped to his sword hilt as his rage shifted from Hel and channeled against the creature before him.
Bramin advanced, his stance loose and casual. His left arm held a plain wooden shield without adornment or metal bracing. His right hand dangled well away from the broadsword at his hip. "No sorceress. No magic weapon. No swordmaster. Can you fight so badly crippled? Or will you fall to your knees and beg mercy?"
Larson retreated, tensed for violence. Bramin's taunts fueled his already excessive anger. His fist tightened around his haft, but he made no reply.
Bramin went still. "You want my sister, Futurespawn? You want to bed her? Well, perhaps I'll have her first!"
Larson's self-control shattered, plunging him into a darkness deeper than Hel. He drew his sword and charged.
Bramin met the attack with a lunge. His shield crashed into Larson's chest and face. Pain exploded in ribs scarcely healed from Larson's battle with Fenrir, and Bramin's superior weight and strength sprawled Larson. He struck the ground with a force which jarred the breath from his lungs. It took him desperate seconds to regain enough balance to move. He cringed as he rolled, certain Bramin's sword would take him. But as Larson gained his feet, he realized Bramin had not pressed his advantage. The dark elf had taken only enough time to draw his broadsword and then waited for Larson to recover.
Bramin's laughter rang between the pines, mocking and filled with ancient evil. "Trained by the most capable swordmaster in existence, and you have learned nothing."
Inflamed, Larson sprang. He feigned a straight cut, then spun backward and delivered a strike to Bramin's opposite side. His sword thunked against the shield. He back-stepped as Bramin's riposte slashed a line through his cloak.
Larson bore in, blood lust hot within him. Repeatedly, he hammered his long sword at Bramin's head. Each time, his strokes slammed against the shield. On the fourth attempt, Bramin tipped his shield. Larson's sword bit into the wooden edge and stuck fast. Bramin flung his shield arm outward drawing Larson's sword and arm with it and opening Larson's defense. Realizing his mistake, Larson ducked as he leaped backward. His sword wrenched free. Bramin's blade whistled inches above his head.
Larson retreated, fighting off the fury which had made him careless. He forced himself to concentrate on Gae-linar's words. Anyone who attacks an equal opponent in
anger is doomed to failure. You must willingly commit everything to your goal. When you can calmly accept your own death as a means to your end, you become unbeatable. The familiarity of a sword lesson settled over him, and he raised his sword with a new and deadly peace.
"You bore me," Bramin baited. "I'm tired of playing with such a child. This time, I think Til kill you."
Larson adopted a defensive pose, allowing Bramin's words to flow past, unheard. He let the dark elf make the first move.
Bramin approached, taut as a stalking cat. They attacked simultaneously. Larson's sword rattled from the shield. He spun off the wood as Bramin's sword stabbed through the air where he had stood. Larson jabbed his heel behind Bramin's leg and rammed his shoulder into the shield. The dark elf tumbled to the ground and rolled. Larson pursued. Bramin rose to a crouch as Larson's sword slashed down upon him. Bramin met the strike with his shield and gained just enough time to shift his weight before he was forced to block Larson's side cut. Again, Bramin sacrificed his opportunity to strike to improve his footing.
Larson undercut. A quick descent of the shield saved Bramin's abdomen but opened his upper defenses. Larson drove his hand into the dark elf's face. Bramin fell again, then rolled. Larson chopped for Bramin's head in silent fury. Bramin twisted. He raised a hand, as if to block the killing stroke with his bare fingers.
Larson howled, drawing all his strength into the final cut. Inches from Bramin, his sword struck something solid. Light flared and splintered with the sound of breaking glass. Orange sparks streaked Larson's vision. Power surged through him, hurling him into a tangled copse of brambles. Branches jabbed painfully into his back, and his own scream rang in his ears. He ripped himself free, tearing his hands on thorns, and pulled his sword from the brush with
a force which scattered sticks across the battleground.
Bramin stood, still and straight, awaiting Larson's next attack. Darkness hid the half man's features, but Larson knew the angular face held a smile of cruel triumph. He also knew his only chance to survive was to engage Bra-min in swordplay so rapid the dark elf would not have the chance or energy to work his magic. Dizziness wrapped Larson in a fog of whirling spots, and the moon transformed the forest into a blur of trunks. His legs felt as unsteady as rubber. He stumbled forward. Gathering strength and determination, he raised his sword and rushed down upon Bramin.
Bramin held a stance of casual indifference. He let the edge of his shield rest on the ground, leaning the remainder against his leg. He gripped his sword in a lax hand, its point scraping the dirt. When Larson narrowed the distance between them, Bramin raised his arm to reveal a sunbright ball of sorceries blazing beneath his dark fingers.
Too late to rework his strike, Larson made an urgent dive for Bramin. Magics sheeted through the air. White light burned Larson's eyes, and a shimmering web entangled him. He crashed to the ground. His limbs felt detached, as if they belonged to someone else. He could not gather enough strength to lift his head. Through aching eyes, he watched Bramin's booted feet shuffle toward him.
Larson struggled against the spell which held him immobile and helpless. He managed only to roll his gaze to Bramin's face, as cold and evil as death. Red eyes flashed through the gloom, alive with blood sickness and savage joy. Sudden fear swept a chill through Larson, but he felt only the numbing power of the magics which held him. If Bramin delays his killing stroke until his spell wears off enough for me to notice pain, I may yet have a chance.
Bramin granted Larson no quarter. He stood and raised his sword above Larson's neck.
Larson fought to flinch away. He attempted speech, but the spell did not allow even these simple movements. He caught a glimpse of motion beyond Bramin, a shadow moving silently through darkness. He blinked uncertainly.
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