Startled, Larson leaped to his feet. He did not recognize his clothing: tight doeskin pants, a blue linen shirt, and a matching cape. " Wha?" he said stupidly. His hands clamped over both ears. Each came to a delicate point. "I'm a goddamn Vulcan!"
"Elf," said a voice. Larson whirled but saw no one. Except for a belt and sword in the far corner, the room appeared empty.
Larson stared at his hands which looked smaller than he remembered. "Who are you?" he shouted. "Where are you?" If this was a Vietnamese torture, he found it extremely successful. He knew he had gone completely insane.
"Silence." The powerful voice echoed. "I am Freyr. You called me before you died."
"I did?" Yes, I guess I did. Larson caught a handful of the pale hair which fell to his shoulders. "Who am I?"
"I haven't time for foolishness," said the voice impatiently. "Neither have you. You've a purpose to fulfill."
Larson felt small and confused. "What purpose? Where am I? Help me please." He felt ridiculous pleading with a disembodied voice.
"Take up Valvitnir, your sword, and guard it well. Pass northward. You will find an old man and a young woman who are more than they seem. Trust them. They'll aid your task."
Larson's head whirled. "What task?"
No reply.
"Oh, hell." Larson walked to the corner. He hefted the swordbelt, a gaudily-tooled work of leather. He fastened it about his waist, and it dragged like dead weight at his side. Larson gazed at the ceiling. " Freyr? Freyr!"
Silence.
Larson patted the jewel-encrusted sword hilt. "I don't know how to use a sword!"
Nothing.
Larson shrugged. He pulled the worked steel from its sheath. The sleek blade glowed faintly blue. His unfamiliar hand fit the grip exactly. "Why me?"
He had not anticipated a reply. "I found it necessary to bridge time. We'ye few worshipers after the coming of the White Christ. Now, please go. Your companions will explain further."
Larson resheathed the sword and walked to the door. He took hold of its ring and pulled. It opened with a complaining creak to reveal a green meadow surrounded by hills. After months of artillery and jungle, the scene shocked Larson. Jaw gaping, he walked as if in a trance, and the door swung shut behind him.
The sun beamed down on Larson like a golden eye, striping the high grasses with light. In the distance, a tall patch of weeds rose like a tiny forest. Beyond, a real forest of evergreens waved like a chorus in the breeze. Anxiety balled in Larson's gut, and sweat beaded his neck. Fearful of the open terrain, he back-stepped and caught for the door handle. His fingers clawed through air. Startled anew, he whirled, staggered, and fell to the grass. Where the building had stood he saw nothing but fields, not even a shadow or a square of crushed foliage to indicate it had ever existed.
Larson rose to a crouch. This cannot be real. But the screams of his buddies echoed eerily through his memory, vividly clear. // this is not a dream, then I am dead. And dead men cannot dream. Without explanation for the bizarre series of events, Larson could do nothing but believe. He stood and stumbled forward, broad-based like a child learning to walk. Brownish grasses crunched beneath his boots. The sun formed an orange ball in the pale sky, but Larson could not guess whether morning aged or evening began.
His stride grew more confident as he headed for the stand of trees in the distance. He quelled an instinct to run. For now, the field seemed safe enough. He saw no need to incite enemies by crashing blindly through the meadow. The last few minutes seemed ridiculous to the point of impossibility. Yet, never having died before, Larson supposed he had no right to judge. And if I am dead, he surmised, is this heaven or hell? It seemed pretty enough. Lonely perhaps, but he had just begun exploring.
More curious than afraid, he trotted toward the higher grasses which he now recognized as cattails. The reeds bowed around a small pond which reflected the sky like an uncut sapphire. Without rations and slightly thirsty, he veered toward the water. Though he knew he could never have survived the guns in the jungle, he peered about him with caution. Until something came about to convince him more completely of his status as a corpse, or to prove there was no death after death, he saw no need to risk: whatever it was he had.
Larson frowned and abandoned his jumbled maze of thought. Despite his bold oratory in the jungle cabin, he'd never cared much for philosophy. And Vietnam taught even the most obsessive men to live moment by moment. He dropped to his stomach, gritted his teeth in anticipation, and wriggled among the cattails.
The surface of the pond spread before him, broken only by the ripples of wind and the wakes of water striders. For several seconds, Larson watched the insects glide like skaters, legs stretching like wires from their bulbous bodies. He touched the water, and it felt oddly chill after the enveloping heat of the jungles. Widening rings spread from his finger, lengthening his reflection. His gaze riveted on a face which seemed to stare from the bottom of the pond.
Larson recoiled with a cry. The face mimicked him with a perfection only nature could achieve. It was his reflection, yet the features were not at all as Larson remembered. His forehead was shorter, covered with bangs of fine, white hair. Larson had always felt self-conscious about the roundness of his "baby face." Now, it looked oval and angular, with high, sharp cheekbones and a narrow chin. His eyes seemed broadly-set, though he could not distinguish their color through the pond's distortion. He caught a lock of hair between his fingers. It was not actually white, but such a pale gold as to seem almost white. It reminded him of the color some women dyed their hair back in the States. He had never liked the unnatural, washed-out look, and had always been partial to brunettes.
Recalling his earlier discovery, Larson held the hair away from his head. He cocked his face sideways, and strained his eyes. The oddly-shaped ear remained just beyond his vision. He tried snapping his head about quickly, but found this even less successful. With a sigh, he resigned himself to a tactile impression of the ears. He rose to his full height and examined the clothing which had surprised him earlier. The cape flapped in the wind behind Larson, reminding him of a gripping scene from a Superman cartoon. The most striking feature of his garb was the sword at his left hip. Even sheathed in leather, it seemed to glow ever so slightly, like a television screen only recently shut off.
Larson turned his attention to his own stature.
He seemed as tall as ever, about six feet, but he had no way of knowing for certain. He looked thinner, too, and that bothered him. For a moment, he forgot he was lucky to have any body at all and cursed. Many painful hours had toned and shaped his muscles, now all gone to waste. He flexed an arm, and leaned closer to examine it. The sky darkened till only the sword remained clearly visible on the surface of the pond.
With a frown, Larson dropped to his haunches and waited for the cloud to pass. It did not. Slowly, the shadow encompassed the surface of the water and hovered there. Wary tension returned in a rush. Larson jerked his head upward. Swaying in the air above him was some enormous creature. Screaming, Larson leaped aside. A column of fire struck the water with a hiss.
Larson rolled to his feet as the creature banked for a second pass. He clawed at the cattails. Two bat- like wings carried a long, sleek body covered with scales the color of bark. Plates jutted from back and tail like a stegosaurus. It came around, and the sight of its triangular head mobilized Lar: son. He sprinted for the woods.
The beast caught him effortlessly, spraying the ground behind with flame. Panicked, Larson did not stop to wonder why the creature had such poor aim. The forest loomed closer, but still too far. His legs ached. Cold air rasped his lungs painfully and brought the taste of blood. Rationality returned only one thought to his numbed mind. Among the trees, I can maneuver. It cannot.
Heat seared the back of Larson's neck. Frantically, he ripped the cape from his shoulders and let the flaming linen drop to the ground. The beast rose over his head with a noise between a bark and a human laugh. Larson ran on. He could not control
his thoughts, so he let them ramble as they would. Dragon. Goddamned fire-breathing dragon like every legend and fairy tale I've ever read. Yet there was a major difference. This one was real.
A wall of trees rose before him. With a joyous sob, Larson ran between them. Another man appeared suddenly before him, and Larson braked with a sharp intake of breath. He stood, panting, before the stranger while sweat dried on his back. The other regarded him with scornful curiosity. His features looked enough like the ones Larson had seen in the pond to be those of a brother. Yet, his hair and skin were as black as Larson's were white. His eyes glowed a feral red.
"Dr- dr -dragon!" stuttered Larson, glad of the stranger's company. "Run!"
The dark elf remained in Larson's path, un-moving, like a carving in black onyx. He spoke in a sibilant voice with an accent Larson recognized but could not place. "Give me the sword."
Hope flared. The sword. "Certainly, if you can use it." Larson's fingers trembled as he unsheathed the sword and thrust it toward the stranger.
The dark elf withdrew with a high-pitched expletive. "On the ground, fool! Put it on the ground."
The words puzzled Larson. He balanced the glowing blade on his hands and offered the hilt. The sword vibrated slightly, and the light grew brighter.
"On the ground, idiot!" The stranger retreated farther. His voice lost some of its power.
The reaction raised Larson's suspicions. His mind cleared, and he noticed the other elf as if for the first time. At the Dark One's hip swung a black wooden sheath from which jutted a hilt wrapped with black split leather and garnished by red gem-stones as wild as the stranger's eyes. So why does he want my sword?
The dark elfs lips twisted to a scowl. He took one bold step forward and gestured angrily toward the ground. Larson hesitated. They stood face to face, dark to light, like chess queens before the final battle. Larson caught the hilt of Valvitnir in his callused palm. The stranger stiffened, and sweat oozed above his drawn lips.
Larson knew he had the advantage with his sword already freed. He would keep that upper edge, at least until the dark elf realized he did not know how to wield the blade. "Call me idiot, will you?" said Larson, not at all certain it was not an accurate assessment. Suddenly, six grueling weeks of combat training seemed woefully inadequate. He executed an awkward fencing lunge. The sword whined like a hungry dog. The dark elf cursed and vanished as completely as the building in the fields.
Larson basked in his triumph for scant seconds. Flame gouted through the trees with a heat that made him scream. Despite the forest, the dragon's aim seemed to have improved miraculously. Still clutching the sword, Larson ran, dodging trees with a speed born of desperation. Behind he heard a beastly roar of frustration, followed by the whisk of giant wings as the creature rose above the forest.
Branches rustled overhead, too loud for wind. Fire lanced before him in a column, but the tree-tops obscured the dragon's vision. Sparks bounced outward from the impact and died among the greenery. Larson ran in random circles, doubling back like a fox. But the creature followed his ruses, apparently by sound. Soon, the maneuvers wore on the elf, and his run slowed dangerously. The stabbing fires came closer, threatening to set the entire forest ablaze.
In the distance, Larson saw a more benign fire, the flickering orange of a camp. Desperate, he ran toward it. As he neared, he observed a single figure hunched before it with back turned. From the short gray hair, Larson supposed it was an elderly man and instantly regretted steering the dragon toward the stranger. Too tired to swerve, he ran on.
The man rose and turned suddenly, confirming Larson's impression. Though clean-shaven, the man's lined face revealed his age and gave him an air of power. He wore a loose-fitting yellow garment, trimmed with black and belted at the waist. Two swords girded his waist, a matched set slightly curved like an old Japanese katana and shoto. Gold brocade enhanced both hilts. But the feature which drew Larson's attention was a wooden staff at the old man's feet. Its tip was carved like a claw, and the four black-nailed toes cradled a sapphire.
Flame shot through the spruce, and a wall of heat knocked Larson to one knee at the edge of camp. "Dragon!" He screamed his warning though his lungs felt raw. "Fire: breathing: dragon!"
The older man seemed unperturbed. "As far as I know they all spit fire." He smiled encouragingly.
From the ground, Larson stared at the stranger's baggy yellow pants. He raised his head to a sagging face. The old man's eyes were brown, slightly slanted, and with prominent epicanthic folds. New danger lent Larson a second wind. He lurched to his feet and reached instinctively for the gun which no longer lay slung across his shoulder.
The stranger watched his antics with obvious amusement. "Beast won't come to ground and fight fair? We'll see what we can do about it." He winked.
Larson fought for breath, quelling panic. He was no longer in Nam . An Oriental face was nothing to fear in and of itself, though he wondered why he should find such a face in Old Scandinavia, or dragons for that matter.
The stranger seemed to notice none of Larson's consternation. He strode past the campfire where the trees thinned and undergrowth grew lush in the sunlight. Larson felt more comfortable despite the open terrain and the dragon shadow which darkened the weeds. The forest seemed much more like those of the New Hampshire camp he had known in his youth than the Vietnamese tangles of stench and death. He followed.
" Wyrm!" screamed the old man.
Larson cringed back as the dragon descended. Its breath reeked of ozone, and scales rattled together like shingles. The beast's jaws gaped. Its black fangs were like giant stalactites, and Larson dodged the globs of spittle which struck the ground with a smoky hiss. With a whoop of wild joy, the old man pulled a piece of metal from his belt and hurled it toward the bus-sized target. His hand was a blur as he pitched three more missiles at the dragon. The first glanced from the hoary chest plates. The second struck, and an explosion rocked the trees. Flame gouted and spread across the dragon, engulfing it. The huge body plummeted with an unearthly wail.
Instinct flattened Larson to the ground; his heart pounded like gunshot. Smoke burned his eyes, and fumes choked him. As he watched through a veil of mist, the smoldering corpse faded to memory. Two of the metallic missiles thumped to earth, and the old man gathered them with a curse. Larson wanted to speak. His lips parted, but no words came forth. He rose, gathered scattered wits, and tried to understand how Freyr expected him to survive with only a sword in a world with both dragons and grenades. All courage fled his overtaxed mind. No amount of field drills could have prepared him for such a madman's reality. He stood utterly still, hoping to escape his fever dreams, yet equally afraid he might again awaken in the jungles.
The old man approached and bowed courteously. "I've not had such fun in days. I, Kensei Gaelinar, thank you, hero." He bowed again.
"Kensei Gaelinar?" Larson's Bronx accent mangled the name. He extended his hand in greeting, but quickly withdrew it when the old man showed no recognition of the gesture. Muddled, he continued. "Um: I'm Al." His name seemed pitiably inadequate, so he added inanely ": er: um:"
" Allerum." Gaelinar's brows knitted together in thought. "Odd name. Elven, I suppose. I haven't seen many of your kind in Midgard ." He gestured toward the fire. "You look hungry, Allerum. Would you join us?"
More intrigued by the old man's use of the plural pronoun than the misinterpretation of his name, Larson quickly scanned the brush. He saw no one. The odor of roasting meat rose from the campfire and made his stomach rumble. Glad for human company, Larson followed his host to the fire where four steaks hung from a spit. Forgotten in the excitement, their lower sides were vastly overcooked.
"Lola's children!" swore the Kensei. He dismantled the spit and slid the blackened carcasses onto a piece of leather on the dirt. He speared a hunk of meat with a sharpened stick and passed it to Larson apologetically. "I'm not the best cook."
As adrenalin ebbed, Larson found himself ravenously hungry. Saliva p
oured into his mouth like the rich juices which sizzled on the lesser cooked areas of the steak. He did not know what sort of meat he had accepted from his Oriental-looking companion, but the aching void of his gut would have been pleasured even by manflesh were it the staple of this strange world.
Gaelinar answered his unspoken question. "It's the last of the fresh venison. We smoked the rest for the journey ahead."
Gaelinar used "we" again, Larson noted. Does the old man simply refer to himself in this odd manner? Larson had not seen any living creature to dispute his conclusion, except the dark elf he had encountered at the edge of the woods. The thought made him shiver, and so he discarded it. The meat did taste a lot like the deer he used to shoot in the upstate forests, though, perhaps because of his hunger, he found the flavor richer despite the ash.
"Where do you come from, elf?" Kensei Gaelinar asked around a mouthful.
Reluctantly, Larson lowered the food to answer. "I come from far, far away." He winced. His words were not only trite, but grossly understated.
Gaelinar raised his eyebrows encouragingly, but Larson lapsed into silence. His teeth ripped muscle and gristle indiscriminately from the preboned feast. But when the growls of his stomach settled to a satisfied purr, Larson grew more curious about his new companion. "Those: um: missiles of yours saved my life. How do they work?"
Gaelinar's elbow fell to his knee; his sharpened stick still supported a ring of meat. His slanted eyes slitted, and his features twisted to a scowl of withering disdain. "Your sword didn't help much either."
Larson settled back gingerly, and his chest flinched taut beneath his tunic. He tried to remember what he'd said which might have angered the Kensei. "P-please, I: I meant no disrespect," he stuttered.
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