Halfrija's hands whitened as her face flushed with ugly rage. "I'll not be disdained by my own people because a dark creature loves me." She added cruelly, "If, indeed, your kind can know love."
Bramin caught his breath with a sob. "Now I know love and pain." Desperately, he spouted Silme's trite comforts as if they were truths. "The people of Forste -Mar don't hate me. They mistreated me as a child from ignorance. But many years have passed since:"
"You stupid animal!" Halfrija's voice rose in pitch and volume. "We hate you now more than ever. We would kick and spit, even slay you if we didn't fear your power. You're no man, you're a beast. Worse than a beast, for a rat is content with its lot and you have the audacity to pretend you're human!"
Slapped by Halfrija's cruelty, Bramin made a pained noise. His grip went lax. "Halfrija:"
Her sword struck. Though too near her target for an effective strike, her blade nicked Bramin's side. The razor edge opened his tunic. Blood beaded his skin. Bramin watched in fascination as a single drop slid down his breeks and splashed a tiny, scarlet circle in the sand.
He looked up as Halfrija raised her sword like a club and lashed at his face. Tears stung his eyes. He stood, hopeless and uncaring, as the blade cut above his head. Just before the blow fell, self-righteous fury warmed his blood. The will to live and claim vengeance on all who had ever wronged him replaced the anguish roused by Halfrija's scorn. He sprang aside. Her sword whisked through air where he had stood and hammered the packed sand with a crash.
Off-balance, Halfrija staggered. Bramin caught her by the throat. He drew her so close their faces nearly touched. Her cheeks and eyes paled with fear, which gave Bramin a morbid satisfaction. The legacy of his dark ancestors rose hot in his veins. "Too good for me, lady?" His voice transformed to an ancient croak of evil. "You're not too good for death." His hands knotted convul-sively, cartilage crumbled beneath his fingers, and Halfrija fell limp against him.
Blood trickled from the corner of her thin lips, staining Bramin's hand. He looked up quickly to a condemning horde. A great shout rose from the stands, and men descended upon him. "Stop!" screamed Bramin. His cry was lost in the rising din. Clutching Halfrija's body with one arm, he raised the other. Spell words rushed from his throat. His life aura flared to blinding white. Smoke broiled from his fingers and rolled like fog across the arena floor. It struck the first wave of courtiers and roared to flame.
Screams filled Bramin's ears like song. The courtiers' charge was transformed to chaotic flight. Enchantments rolled from the half- elfs tongue. Bramin's staff leapt to his hand. Its jade stone winked once, staining the roiling magics an eerie green-blue. And when the works of sorcery cleared, all that remained of Bramin and Halfrija were five drops of blood on the sands of the arena,
Stiffly, Halfrija let the last of her garments fall to the floor of Bramin's quarters at the School of Dragonrank. She stood before him, naked. He had imagined her unclothed so many times in his dreams and desires, yet now the sight only sickened him. Her slimness transformed to a cadaverous frailty. Her breasts sagged, violet with pooled blood. Her eyes were hollow and dead. All his magic could not restore life, only simulate it. This was not Halfrija, just a crude animation which would perform as Bramin wished, without will or knowledge of its lot.
Black rage engulfed Bramin. His life aura rose to off white as he channeled his energies. Magic lanced Halfrija's body as it fell, and the pale form crumbled to dust. Bitterness grew like a cancer. Bramin rose and paced. With each jagged pass, his fist crashed against the smoothed-stone walls. "Hate me, do they?" he screamed at the ceiling. "Hate spawns hate."
He stared at the charred pile which had once been the person of the princess of Forste -Mar. One kick scattered the ashes around his quarters. " Hatespawn I am, and so will I remain. But all mankind shall pay for their abhorrence." His thoughts shifted slightly. For a moment he pictured his half sister Silme, as beautiful as Halfrija and in many ways as cruel.
Bramin paced again. "It was she who told me they meant no harm. She blinded me to their treacheries and laughed behind my back. She taught me the torture of love as though it were a pleasure and held me from my vengeance. She goaded me to destroy my love and shame myself before Forste -Mar's peasants. It's too late to sunder Halfrija's soul, but not Silme's. She will die in torment and the manworld of Midgard with her!"
Light flashed through his quarters, dimming his life aura to dirty yellow as another's power pulsed against him. Bramin turned with a hiss. Before him stood a man more beautiful than the woman he had loved. Fine gold locks fell to his shoulders. His dark blue eyes twinkled with cruel mischief. He wore a strangely-tailored costume interwoven with magics which shimmered as he moved. Arms folded across his chest, the stranger stared at Bramin with a grin of arrogant scorn.
"Die, human!" screamed the half-man. Power streamed from his fingers, slowed, and fizzled to sparks a foot before the handsome stranger.
The man laughed, sweet as rain. "Very pretty, Hatespawn. But you've much to learn."
Bramin glared. "Who are you?"
The stranger yawned, and his shirt sparkled so it nearly blinded Bramin. "I am called by many names." He chuckled. "Some even I am too polite to speak. I am Loki, first father of lies, thief of Brisingamen , evil companion of Odin, slanderer and cheat of the gods, and father of the Fenris Wolf."
Bramin's scowl wilted. His throat went dry, and he swallowed several times before attempting speech. "A god? But why:?"
"Did you mean your threats, Hatespawn?" Loki frowned accusingly. "Or were they the idle ram- blings of self-pity? Decide quickly. I don't waste time with fools."
Anger blazed anew. Bramin's fists clenched so tightly his fingernails bit red welts in the palms. Though sorely embittered, he chose his words with care. "I never speak idly. I will cause the downfall of man."
The corners of Loki's mouth twitched upward, and his voice lilted. "And the gods as well if you serve my cause."
Bramin started. "Gods have enlisted the aid of high claw Dragonrank. But I am only jade. Why me?"
"Because, Hatespawn." Loki's inflection almost made the title sound pleasant. "You will rise quickly through the ranks. Already the master prepares your staff for garnet. And:" The god leaned casually against the stone wall. "You take your swordplay as seriously as your magic. I've use of that."
Bramin focused on the shimmering patterns of Loki's shirt. "It will still take time," he said sullenly.
"I've plenty of it." Loki grinned wickedly. "And so have you. It would be wise for us both to learn patience."
Bramin scowled, saying nothing.
Loki continued. "Save your vengeance. I've something for you to remember our bargain in the meantime." The god bowed his head and his golden hair fell about his cheeks like waterfalls, obscuring his face. His hands crossed before him, fingers spread. Slowly, he drew his hands apart as he uttered sharp, harsh syllables of summoning.
Loki's fingers curled. Suddenly, his wrists flicked outward. A globe of blackness winked into place before him, marred only by the silver lines of sorcery from Loki's shirt and Bramin's aura. The ball stretched to a rod-like shape and dropped in to Loki's hands. It was a sword.
Loki raised his head. "Take it."
Bramin bit his lower lip. Hesitantly, he took a step forward and met Loki's eyes. They were chill blue, with the same contempt as the men of Forste -Mar. Anger made the half-breed more confident. He strode forward and seized the sword.
Its sheath was carved ebony. Its hilt was split leather-wrapped steel studded with fire opals, and it fit Bramin's hand comfortably. With a quick pull, he freed the blade, slim and silver, polished so fine its glow mocked enchantments. Near its hilt, runes flickered, effused with red light. For a moment, their meaning was clear to him. Then they muddled to obscurity and his memory of them as well. Bramin muttered a spell in frustration, but the writings remained just beyond com- prehension. "What does it say?" he demanded, hating his inability.
Loki smiled. "I
t's the sword's name, Helblindi. And its purpose. Your vengeance begins when the writings become clear to you. Know only that men will flee from your blade, and the braver the man, the more he must fear it."
" Helblindi." Bramin raised his brows in question. "Isn't that the name of another god?"
"Very perceptive, Hellspawn. Very perceptive." As suddenly as he had arrived, Loki was gone. All that remained was a rumbling of laughter which echoed between the walls.
Chapter 1
Dragonslayer
"For those whom God to ruin has designed, he fits for fate, and first destroys their mind."
– Dryden, The Hind and the Panther
Death hung like an omnipresent shadow over the fire base at Aku Nanh, Vietnam. A wave of heat rustled a circle of thirty grass huts and drummed against the quonset of messhall and infirmary. It carried the reek of burning excrement but no relief from the broiling sun.
Inside a shelter of wood frame and bamboo, a corporal slammed his cards on the table, and Al Larson looked up from his book.
"Four jacks." A grin split the corporal's owlish face as he raked in a tidy sum of cash.
"Shit," said Jamie Fisher, a streetwise black from south Philadelphia. "Big Man knows rank, eh, blood?" He glanced teasingly at Tom Dragelin who had been kneeling on the floor for the last quarter hour. Larson awaited Dragelin's inevitable retort, but the boy only continued his prayer.
"Throw in a word for me." Gavin Smith gath-ered the cards with a gesture of annoyance. "I'm losing."
Dragelin loosed a purse-lipped grunt of disapproval. Larson swung his leg over the side of his bunk. "Won't help. You really want to win, learn to deal off the bottom of the deck like Steve." He gestured at the corporal.
The room fell silent. The corporal's dark eyes went cold as he glared at Larson.
"What you readin ', Al? How to Win Friends?" Fisher picked his teeth with the corner of a card.
Gavin rose. He looked at the book in Larson's hand and laughed. "It's a text book. We're stuck in hell, and he's readin ' a goddamn text book."
"Hey, this is major theology." Larson set the book aside. "Christianity's mixed up. It's fine for people at home, but what good does it do us? What good did it do Danny?"
"Stop!" The corporal's single word was a threat.
Larson's eyes burned as he fought tears. Though only twenty, he was the oldest of the group except for the corporal.
Dragelin turned toward the wall.
Gavin dealt the cards. "We're dodgin ' bullets while Danny's in heaven havin ' tea with God. Come on, let's finish the game."
"Wait. Hear me out." Larson ran a hand through the tangled growth of his blond hair. "What's the fundamental teaching of Christianity?"
Fisher lit a cigarette. "Do unto others."
"Peace, brotherhood, and the word of God," called Dragelin from the corner.
"Exactly." Larson smiled as Dragelin stepped into his well-prepared trap. "How much of that do you see here?"
Gavin picked up his cards, swore, and slapped them to the table. "I got a piece just yesterday."
"We got ourself a brotherhood right here," added Fisher.
Gavin finished. "And Tom'll pass God's word, won't you, buddy?" He laughed.
Larson spoke over the snickers. "We're worshiping a peace god during war. Doesn't work. The Vikings had some real war gods. Get a load of this." He raised the book and read aloud. " 'Stir war!' cried Odin. 'Set men at each other's throats. Whether they wish it or not, have men rip one another to pieces. And when they lay steeped in their blood, have them rise to fight again.' "
Dragelin crossed himself.
The corporal scowled, hand over his cards.
" Fuckin '-A, man," said Fisher. "You're crazy."
"What's your point?" asked Gavin, obviously unimpressed.
For effect, Larson stood to deliver his philosophy. "Odin signified wisdom in Norse mythology. He wasn't even their war god. The real war gods helped their side in battle. That's what we need. Not some pansy who lets people smack both cheeks."
The corporal gathered the cards with a frown. "Ten o'clock, time for patrol. Draw. Lowest two on point."
The five men grew grave as each slipped a card from the deck. Larson, frowned at his three. The others displayed their draws. Gavin flipped his six. "Your war gods didn't help us much. You and me play target."
Larson forced humor around the lump growing in his throat. "On the contrary. What could please a war god more than placing his follower in the most dangerous position. " He donned his helmet and gripped his M-16. "Sorry about what I said, Steve."
The corporal waved a hand. Everything was forgiven before a patrol.
Al Larson and Gavin Smith left the hut first and stepped into the withering heat of afternoon. A football hit the ground before them with a thud, and Larson started. Immediately, he cursed himself. Wariness was an asset on a sniper hunt, but hyperarousal could prove worse than none at all. Larson took several deep breaths, hefted the ball, and tossed it to a grinning, sandy-haired corpsman.
Gavin sidled several paces ahead while Larson watched the corpsman's retreating figure. It seemed ludicrous. Here was this troop of trained soldiers playing games like they were in some kind of sandlot, while he and his buddies prepared for fire action in the jungle. As instinct rose like ire, he could almost forget the card game in the hut. Everybody took a turn on patrol. It just felt better when it was the other guy's turn.
Larson hurried to catch Gavin, and they strode side by side to the perimeter gate. One of the sentries yawned as he tripped the latch, and the other raised his gun in mock salute. The men made no sound as they crossed three hundred yards of tank-cleared ground and entered the steamy murk of the jungle. The ghostly cry of a macaw drowned the noise of their boots in the soft, red mud. Gavin stiffened. Larson knew his companion believed macaw calls foreshadowed death. With so many of the birds in the Vietnamese jungles, it seemed unlikely. Yet death was nearly as common. Alert, Larson moved away.
Humidity converged on them with a stench of sewage and blood. Larson crept through brush like a shadow, tensed for a sniper's volley. For half an hour he moved, muscles knotted. Biting insects and heat weakened him, but he found nothing except jungle fauna. Larson wondered whether he should feel relieved that no snipers waited or terrified of one concealed in the trees.
Suddenly, an explosion rocked the forest behind Larson. He plunged into the mud, heart racing. An ugly scream numbed his mind till it allowed no thought. But his body reacted. He wriggled forward cautiously.
"Al." Gavin's frantic whisper came from his right. Though tinged with panic, the familiar voice soothed.
"What happened?"
"Trap," said Gavin.
Larson shuddered. The dying scream of his companion would haunt him to the end of his life. He did not want to see what remained of the others, but he could not continue until he knew their fates with certainty. Reluctantly, Larson followed Gavin.
Bellies to the ground, they crawled between the trees. Gavin stopped abruptly and loosed an oath. His body spasmed regularly as he retched. Steeling himself, Larson looked beyond at the torn bodies. His mind exploded in terror. The corporal still lived. Nothing protruded below his waist, but he breathed in a regular, shallow pattern. Larson pushed past Gavin who caught his arm.
"No, Al." Gavin's face turned the color of fatigues.
"He's alive."
"Not long," Gavin said weakly. "He won't make it to camp. If we carry him, neither will we."
"Let go." Larson tried to twist free of Gavin's grip, not certain why he had to rescue the corporal. He could imagine his own body hemorrhag-ing on the jungle floor, living food for rats.
A macaw shrieked four consecutive notes. Gavin shivered, and Larson pulled away.
"Wait, listen." Gavin seized the back of Larson's shirt.
Above the continuous hum of insects, they heard the faint rustle of approaching men. "Stay." Larson licked dried lips and flitted between the trunks. Ahead he
saw a dozen black-clothed figures moving stealthily toward them. Larson stood, paralyzed.
Gradually, he gathered his wits and headed back to where he'd left Gavin. "Charlie. Too many for us. Hide."
Gavin nodded. "This way."
Gavin slithered to the right. The thick foliage let too little sunlight through for underbrush to grow. Trapped in the open with only trees for cover, Larson saw no means of escape. But Gavin grabbed his arm and led him to a dry river bed. Larson grew giddy with hope. They might hide between the banks while the Vietnamese passed. Gavin gestured Larson to stillness and crept farther along the stream bed. Kneeling in mud, Larson watched his companion merge into the green infinity of jungle. The rustlings grew louder, and Larson heard a gruff vocal exchange.
Gavin's pained cry broke the hush. A volley of gunfire followed. Larson's heart beat at least as loud. He could only imagine what happened, perhaps a snake bite caused Gavin's indiscretion. It no longer mattered. Larson flattened against the bank, clutching his M-16 like a teddy bear.
Limbs frozen with fear, Larson forced himself to think rationally. The enemy knew as well as he that soldiers did not travel alone by choice. They would come looking for him. Even as he watched, a man in black circled and entered the river bed north of his position. Larson lined his sights but did not fire, unwilling to reveal his own position. The moment he did, he died.
Larson knew without seeing that another man stalked him from the south. Cornered, he needed a miracle. God help me, he thought. Despite his situation, the irony of his prayer struck him. Not quite ready to accept death, he hugged the bank and waited.
Death prowled closer. He let understanding settle over him. He would die, but not alone. Deliberately, Larson switched the gun setting from semi to full auto. Freyr. You're a war god. You ought to love this. "For my buddies, Freyr!"
Larson burst from the river bed, shooting. He embraced death.
Al Larson stared at bleak stone walls. Alive, he thought. Impossible. Those guns should have cut me in half. He ran anxious hands along his body and felt nothing abnormal but the slick sweat which coated his palms. He sat up and realized he lay on a hard stone floor, alone. He ran his fingers through the fine, soft hair on his head and his hand stopped on the edge of a pointed ear.
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