Dragonrank Master

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Carefully, Bramin and Vidarr followed.

  Larson chose his course with quiet deliberation. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the battle yet remain within sight of the napalm. There was no longer any reason to find a helicopter. The pilot would as likely shoot as save the monstrous trio, and Larson knew escape back to Norway lay only through his own mind. Unable to hold his mental barrier more than a few seconds at a time, he remained alert to Bramin's or Vi-darr's further attempts to enter a deeper layer of his thoughts.

  At length, Larson stopped and dropped to a crouch, bracing the rifle against his knee. "Now, Bramin, talk."

  Bramin kept a respectable distance between Vidarr, Larson, and himself. "I'll kill you."

  "Go ahead," Larson challenged. "But brazen as you are, I believe you're wise enough to realize my death would trap you here forever."

  Bramin shrugged, eyes blazing red hatred. "No matter. It's men I despise. I can take my vengeance against your people as easily as mine."

  Larson sought words to convince the dark elf of the folly of his decision. Vidarr's hand kneaded the hilt of his sword, but Larson felt uncertain whether even a god could stand before Braffün's magic, or whether the sorcerer could stand against a gun. Before Larson could settle on a reply, he heard the distant roar of jets banking for an approach. A smile twitched across his features. "Suit yourself," he said softly.

  The noise of the jets disappeared, then returned as a high-pitched whine. Bramin hesitated as the phantoms screamed overhead, visible only as paired red lights through the leaves. Five hundred yards away, a section of jungle burst into flame. Fire leaped toward the heavens, wound through with smoke and the gasoline reek of napalm. Even as the trailing rumble of the jets faded, a second round approached with the same earsplitting shrill of sound.

  After weeks in a world without planes, the grandeur of the scene struck even Larson by surprise. Vidarr's and Bramin's bolt for his mind caught him off guard. It was all he could do to snap closed the entrance with a suddenness which caused Vidarr to cry out in physical pain. The blaze glared higher, encompassing another circle of jungle.

  Dead silence followed. Gradually, the monkeys resumed their chatter. A macaw shrieked its mournful song of death, and the birds twittered in a more minor key. Bramin abandoned his attempt to enter Larson's mind, and the barrier melted away. Larson took advantage of the dark elf's confusion. "Where's Silme?"

  "What?" Bramin seemed genuinely startled by the question.

  Vidarr broke in. "Just before you brought us here, I consulted the Fates. Bramin threw some sort of spell over Silme. I don't understand the workings of sorcery, but he bound her destiny to the balance of Chaos. Allerum, Silme will not go free until Geirmagnus' rod has been retrieved. "

  "He lies!" Bramin screamed. "I've not seen Silme since you killed her at the falls. And everyone knows the quest for Geirmagnus' rod is…"

  Vidarr broke in with incongruous fury. His sword rattled free. "Stop now, Dark One, or I swear you'll never leave this world alive."

  Larson swore. "Quiet, both of you, or none of us will leave this world alive. He turned his gaze to Bramin, uncertain of who to believe. Vidarr had always been honest with him, but the god's love for Baldur had driven him beyond honor. Binding Silme's fate to that of a doomed god seemed precisely the sort of scheme Bramin would use, but Larson could see no advantage to the Dra-gonrank sorcerer in using such a strategy. And, in the past, Bramin had always maliciously delighted in revealing his treacheries.

  Now, the dark elf's face lay impassive. He said nothing in his defense, but a bright web of light glowed to life between his fingers.

  Larson sprang to his feet and trained the rifle on Bramin. Instantly, a memory flashed through his thoughts.

  Once before, Larson's flawed sanity had pulled Vidarr and Silme into the war in Vietnam. Then, Vidarr had assessed his visit with a single sentence: The men of your world removed all the glory from war and left only the killing. On the heels of the memory came Gaelinar's words: The goal of combat is spiritual enlightenment. This can only come through willingly pitting your life and skill against your enemies in fair combat. Anything less is merely murder, in which nothing is gained and courage is surrendered. "Hang honor," Larson mumbled, but his die was already cast. He let the gun sag in his arms. "No one's going to be killed here. We're all going back. But I need a promise from both of you."

  Vidarr sheathed his weapon.

  Bramin's spell died in his hands, and he seemed relieved. Larson suspected the battle at the town border and the run-in with Vidarr had taxed Bramin down to his last spell.

  Larson confronted Vidarr. "From you, I need a vow that you will not harm Bramin unless he kills me or directly affronts the gods. Our rivalry is our own. If I can't handle it, I deserve to die."

  Vidarr regarded Bramin with distaste, but nodded his agreement.

  "And you." Larson turned on Bramin. "You will not hamper or hurt me or my companions, mentally or physically, until we eithef retrieve Geirmagnus' rod or fail in the attempt."

  Bramin watched the flames wither into black wraiths of smoke. He glanced at Vidarr. "Agreed, if you and your companions will not attempt to harm me either. And afterward…" The sounds of the jungle filled Bramin's long-drawn pause. "… you and I will fight alone. To the death, Allerum."

  Sweat beaded Larson's brow, and the rifle seemed unusually heavy in his hand. "By skill. Without magic," he added.

  "Very well." Bramin glared viciously. Though a prisoner in Larson's war and era, there was no doubt he was in control. "Clever of you to bring a god to witness our oaths. Most would settle for reciting their vows at a shrine." He grinned at Vidarr. "Regardless of your bias, it is your obligation to see that both sides of this bargain are kept."

  Vidarr nodded grudging acceptance. "Don't patronize me, elf, or I'll consider it a direct affront to the gods."

  Larson caught the rifle bolt, pulled it free, and hurled it into the foliage. He dropped the useless rifle to the ground. "Let's go home."

  CHAPTER 11

  Master Plan

  "I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits."

  —John Webster

  Duchess of Malfi

  Al Larson, Kensei Gaelinar, and Taziar Medakan shared a breakfast of rolls and stew left over from dinner the previous evening. Larson's gaze traced the beamed ceiling of the tavern. Lack of sleep made his mind feel hazy and distant; even simple thoughts taxed him. While Taziar described the conflict with Bramin at the town border, Larson ate in methodical silence, glad his small friend omitted details which would reveal Larson's initial angry incompetence.

  The food tasted like ash in Larson's mouth, and fatigue gave it the consistency of rubber. He shook his head to clear it, but his perceptions still felt thick and sluggish. "I fought another battle last night."

  Gaelinar dipped a piece of roll into his stew. "We know."

  Taziar added, "You kicked and twitched and cried out enough to keep everyone from sleep. I tried, but I couldn't wake you. What happened?"

  Larson shook his head again with the same unsatisfactory results. He harbored no wish to spend hours explaining Vietnam to his otherworld companions; instead, he replied simply. "I trapped Vidarr and Bramin in my mind. I asked each about Silme. Bramin pleaded ignorance. Vidarr claimed Silme's destiny is tied in with this Law and Chaos balancing act. He says we have to get Geirmagnus' rod to free her. And…" Larson trailed off in frustration.

  '' And?'' Gaelinar prompted.

  Larson struggled for clarity of thought, and the effort made him irritable. "And I don't fully believe either of them. Hel must have kept her end of the bargain. Bramin's free. She had to compensate his release with someone else. Who but Silme would be recently dead and have anywhere near Bramin's power? So, right now, Hel is the only one I trust." He appended hastily, "And the two of you, of course." He paused as memory stumbled through the mists of his sleeplessness. Just last night, Taziar said something
about trusting only him and Gaelinar. He glanced at Taziar who hid a smile behind a mouthful of stew. "How did you know… ?"

  "Lucky guess." The irony in Taziar's voice was unmistakable.

  Larson suspected Taziar had learned some revealing piece of information on his journey to the Bifrost Bridge. But before he could question further, Gaelinar interrupted. "So we're back to the same task. And our bargaining with Hel only gained us another powerful enemy."

  Larson fidgeted in his chair, the food forgotten. "Uh, not exactly."

  His companions waited for an explanation.

  Choosing his words with care, Larson detailed the promises exchanged with Bramin in Vietnam.

  In response, Gaelinar chewed thoughtfully. "Very honorable, hero. But I suggest you pay as much heed to Bramin's words as to his intentions. I doubt he would directly break a vow, but he might find ways around it."

  Larson nodded. That had already occurred to him, and he had tried to phrase his requests to Bramin appropriately. "What do we do now? Do we go after the rod? Or do we try to find some oracle or sorcerer to locate Silme?"

  Gaelinar and Taziar exchanged knowing glances. "May I?" the Cullinsbergen asked.

  Gaelinar lowered his head in assent.

  Taziar pushed aside his empty bowl. "Do you have cause to trust Bramin?"

  Larson picked at his roll. "Well, no, but…"

  Taziar continued. "Has Vidarr ever lied to you before?"

  "I don't think so, but…"

  Taziar broke in again. "Will you agree most people find being called a liar offensive?''

  Unable to get a word in, Larson stuffed the remainder of his bread into his mouth and nodded acceptance.

  "You already have a deal with Bramin; you can offend him with impunity. But insulting a god might have… um… certain consequences."

  Larson recalled the words of a war buddy in Vietnam: Sure I believe in God. If He doesn't exist, it don't make no difference, and if He does, I'm covered. Taziar's statement held the same inarguable logic. Whether or not Vidarr is lying now, I want him on my side when I go after Silme. She's out of Hel; we don't have to worry about time anymore. Once we've retrieved Geirmagnus' rod, Vidarr will owe us a favor. Even if he doesn't feel obligated to help us save Silme, Baldur certainly will.

  "Besides…" Gaelinar said.

  Larson was startled. It took him a moment to realize Gaelinar was addressing the question about consulting an oracle rather than Larson's thoughts.

  "… you told Bramin you would fight him after you attempted to retrieve Geirmagnus' rod. It would dishonor you to make such a vow, then go wandering off to do other things."

  Larson swallowed, gazing from Gaelinar to Taziar and back. "Neither of you has a stake in this rod thing. Why are you both suddenly eager to complete the quest?"

  Again, Larson's companions exchanged glances. Taziar replied. "The Kensei and I had a talk while you thrashed last night. Baldur has other relatives. Most are not as patient or nice as Vidarr. If we delay too long, we may earn the wrath of gods. I enjoy a good challenge, but being crushed by Odin doesn't sound like fun to me." He changed the subject abruptly, as if he had received some nonverbal signal, perhaps a kick or poke from Gae-linar beneath the table. "We decided one other thing, too."

  Taziar paused for so long, Larson felt obligated to ask. "And that is?"

  Taziar stared at his hands. "I'm not going with you."

  Larson looked sharply at Gaelinar who shrugged his innocence.

  Taziar noted the exchange. "Allerum, it was my decision. You already agreed to convince Silme to take As-tryd on as apprentice. There's no reason for all of us to die on your quest."

  Larson fought down rising aggravation. After all, I told him the same thing yesterday. He's twice saved my life. I think that makes up for loosing Fenrir. "How will we find you and Astryd?"

  Taziar rose from the table. "I'll meet you here. When you get back, I'll buy you a drink. You'll need it." He trotted to the hearth fire and shouldered the gray linen pack which held his supplies. "I'll head back to the Dragonrank school and see if I can find out anything about Silme while you're gone. When I last left Astryd, I told her I would return the following day. She probably thinks I'm dead, a misconception I would eagerly correct." He trotted for the door.

  "Shadow, wait!" Larson stood.

  Hand on the pull ring of the door, Taziar turned.

  Larson crossed the room. He retrieved Baldur's stone from his pocket and pressed it into Taziar's hand. "Take this. It's worth a small fortune and ought to keep you out of trouble for a while."

  Taziar studied the gem in his palm, then turned a smile on Larson. "I learned something years ago. No man or woman and no amount of money could keep me out of trouble." He flipped the stone back to Larson, opened the door, and slipped out into the morning light.

  Larson caught the trinket and kneaded it between his fingers while he watched Taziar go. "I'll miss the little jerk," he mumbled in English.

  A few hours' journey through the pine forest brought Gaelinar and Larson to the base of a mountain range.

  Beyond the trees, gray peaks stretched skyward. Choosing a different route toward Geirmagnus' estate, Gaelinar trudged up the hillside until he passed the timberline. Larson followed without comment. Snow capped the summits, whitened the scrub at the edge of the forest, and coated the meadows and ridges beyond it.

  They followed the tree line. It seemed odd to Larson that Gaelinar chose to lead him along thickets, boulder covered fields, and gorges when a few steps would take them into the forest. Perhaps Gaelinar has grown as tired of the endless trees and underbrush as Shadow, and he thinks the mountainous terrain might provide a welcome change. It also placed them in the open, but Fenrir had already shown he could locate his quarry easily even in the cover of forest.

  Snow-slicked rocks among the crushed, brown foliage of the meadows kept Larson's attention on his footing. By midday, he had found his second wind. Then, too, a vague, unnameable discomfort settled over him. His steps grew more cautious. The sudden rattle of falling stones from behind startled him. Larson jumped, nearly sliding from a precariously situated ledge. "Gaelinar, are we being followed?"

  "Yes," Gaelinar replied in a matter-of-fact manner.

  "Fenrir?"

  "Bramin."

  "Oh." Larson mulled over this bit of news. "Why would Bramin follow us?"

  "I don't know." Gaelinar stepped around a large, ungrounded rock. "Whatever his reason, he wants us to know he's there. He can move silently as wind if he chooses. I'd guess he's trying to unnerve you. Of course, we could turn around and ask him."

  "Never mind." Larson pushed onward, reminded of Gaelinar's words when Taziar had joined them. "A wise man once said 'An enemy within sword range is safer than one concealed.' "

  Gaelinar smiled. "And it might do you well to listen to that wise man now and again."

  They continued on into the day, always traveling parallel to the dwarf pines, aspens, and poplars which de-fined the timberline. Well before dark, Gaelinar began taking an inordinate interest in the many caves which dotted the hillside.

  After a time, Larson tired of waiting alone while Gaelinar explored crevices and caverns. A day of travel after a sleepless night made him curt. "Are you looking for something?''

  "Yes," Gaelinar said. "When I'm ready, I'll explain what."

  Larson sighed. He knew better than to provoke Gaelinar with questions. Exhaustion had settled over him again, and it seemed like too much effort to press his luck.

  At length, Gaelinar found a cave which seemed to satisfy him. Its huge, misshapen mouth seemed particularly unwelcoming. A boulder field covered the ground before it, the loose, piled stone riddled with holes and clefts which seemed to drop off into nowhere.

  Gaelinar tossed his pack to a flat stone wedged between the cliff face and several boulders. "Camp."

  Larson studied the gray infinity of rock in the dim light of evening. The anchoring lichens surely lay dead beneath the blanke
t of snow, but the bulk of the boulders would hold them in place. The hard, jagged surfaces of rock looked uninviting. If Larson rolled in his sleep, he might fall through the chinks between boulders, quite possibly to his death. "Here? On the rocks?"

  "Yes. You set up camp, and I'll be back shortly." Gaelinar wandered into the forest. Grumbling epithets against the Kensei's sanity, Larson brushed snow from the smoothest rocks, laid blankets, and selected cheese and bread from the sack of rations.

  Within minutes, Gaelinar returned with a stout, green branch. Perched atop a stacked throne of boulders, he whittled one end of his stick to a point. He poked at the barb with a fingertip, rose, and trotted into the cave. Shortly, he joined Larson again.

  Larson watched Gaelinar's antics without comment. Curiosity gnawed at him, but he knew his mentor would appreciate patience. He may even be testing me. Larson dismissed the thought; when Gaelinar was ready, he would discuss his plans.

  Gaelinar's secretiveness extended through a sword practice tempered by fatigue and through a meal eaten nearly in silence. It was not until they lay between thick blankets, nestled around the craggy protrusions of the rocks, that Gaelinar chose to reveal his scheme. "I couched the spear at the level of Fenrir's chest. If at any time the wolf chases you, run into the cave. Be careful of the point. It sits about here." Using his finger, the Kensei traced a depiction of the cave on Larson's arm. He emphasized a location which corresponded to three-quarters of the distance from entrance to end. "Run straight. Ignore any branches. I picked a cavern with an exit in the back, so we have an escape if the trap fails." He added in a reluctant tone which discouraged inquiries, "Any questions?"

  Larson yawned. Already, he could feel sleep huddled at the edge of his consciousness. "What if Fenrir doesn't attack tonight?"

  Gaelinar removed his hand from Larson's arm. "No matter. There are plenty of caves in these mountains. We'll set the same trap every night until we reach Geir-magnus' estate."

  A sudden gust showered snow down upon Larson and Gaelinar. Larson huddled deeper beneath the blankets, more from habit than need. He had long ago learned cold did not faze him in the elf form Freyr had given him.