The image froze as Vidarr's illusions ceased, the end slapping into Larson's mind with the impact of a broken film. Through the knowledge of a god, the elf knew that Loki had been -defeated. Though Surtr's fires would destroy the world, elves, dwarves, giants, and most of the gods as well, there was a strong suggestion, like that in a fairy tale whose last sentence reads, "And they lived happily ever after," that all would ultimately be well. Somehow Larson knew the earth would rise again, complete with heaven and hell. From the two humans hidden in an ash tree would spring a new generation of men in the image of a god who was the son of a god; they would be the forebears of Larson's own world.
Just when Larson believed the nightmare had ended, Vidarr gathered his thoughts and forced him to understand what would happen if the same battle occurred with the silent god still imprisoned in his sword. Again the gods fought evil on the plain of Vigrid, but this time, the elf Larson had come to know as himself stood nearby, removed from the skirmish. As before, divinities died. Loki and the god fated to kill him locked in conflict. The glowing blue sword in Larson's grip quivered with sorrow as he watched Bramin wield Helblindi to protect Loki from his would-be slayer.
With Bramin's assistance, Loki endured until Fenrir swallowed Odin. But this time, Vidarr, Valvitnir the wolfslayer, shivered, imprisoned and impotent in the metal in Larson's hand. Alive because of the entrapment of Vidarr's soul, Fenrir howled with wolfish laughter and leaped onto Loki's enemy. With a snap of his jaws, the Wolf broke his opponent's spine then set upon the firelord, Surtr.
Loki rose in triumph. At his command, Chaos swirled like colored fire in a cyclone. It descended upon Vigrid, breathing new life into Loki's demon hordes. The souls of Valhalla fell prey to agonies beyond that which any being of flesh could understand. On Midgard, Chaos whipped men to killing frenzy. Fathers slew sons who pleasured mothers and raped sisters. Winds smashed rotted trees and swirled oceans to ship-swallowing maelstroms. Then Bramin's shadow sword splintered the World Tree, and the half-breed dragged the chosen survivors to the tortures of Hel.
"Stop!" Larson screamed through a haze of pain. "I've seen enough."
But the Lord of Silence showed him one thing more. Waves hurled foam against a cliff where Silme crouched, protected from the Hel hordes by a dwindling ring of magics. Larson watched helplessly as Bramin burst through her wards, his laughter cruel as thunder. "Now sister, your soul is mine!" He jerked the Helsword from its sheath and struck for Silme's breast. She flinched back; horror etched her features like sculpted glass.
"No!" Larson jerked away with enough force to break Vidarr's control. He fell back into his own private hell. A bullet-riddled, Vietnamese girl dropped to the ground screaming, her baby left to die in the field. A companion sprawled legless in the mud, babbling about returning home before medics shoveled him into a bag marked KIA. Shells screamed about Larson with the intensity of Loki's Chaos. Grenades roared like Fenris. Men fell like twisted puppets. And this time it was his own hand on the trigger.
Larson's fist struck the ground again and again. "Why me? Why me? Why me?'
This time, Vidarr did not answer.
Chapter 5
Childslayer
"Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other."
– Francis Bacon, Of Death
Silme's voice cut through the dark haze of Larson's confusion. " Allerum! Allerum, what's the matter?"
Drawn from the wild surges of memory inspired by Vidarr's imagings , Larson raised his head. Gaelinar crouched among the pines, patient as a shadow in the predawn mist. Closer, Brendor and Silme stood over Larson. The child cocked his head sideways in question. Silme's brow was lined, and concern darkened her blue eyes. For the first time since they had left Forste -Mar, she regarded Larson with something other than hostility.
"Just another dream," Larson muttered. He rolled to a sitting position and refastened the sword to his belt. Sweat dripped from his hair.
Gaelinar grunted disinterestedly and returned to his bedding. Brendor comforted Larson in a childish soprano. "I have nightmares, too. I used to lie real close to Uncle Crullian and tell him about them. He said if I told someone, I wouldn't ever have the same bad dream again."
Now more accustomed to flashbacks, Larson recovered his composure quickly. He stared at Silme, both pleased and discomforted by her anxious expression. "Describe the dream," said the sorceress softly. "Your last vision detailed our quest."
"I don't think:" Larson trailed off. Only a fool could surrender such an opportunity. "Fine. But I want to talk to you alone."
Silme pinched her lip between her fingers. For some time, Larson received no reply except the low-pitched hum of mosquitoes. Eventually, the sorceress nodded assent and gestured toward the brush beyond camp. She passed through the sparse undergrowth with no more noise than a summer breeze. Apprehensively, Larson jumped to his feet and followed her into the twilight haze of the forest.
Once beyond sight and sound of their companions, Silme confronted Larson with silent forbearance. Though half-hidden in shadow, her face reflected the same distress Larson had recognized at his bedside. "The dream?" she reminded him politely.
"Dream," repeated Larson vacantly. Sunrise lit glimmers of gold in Silme's hair. Wind pressed the fabric of her dress tight against her finely-sculpted breasts. She held a pose of self-assurance and command, but her eyes imparted interest as well as concern. Suddenly Larson felt awkward as a teenager on his first date. "It seems I: my sword:" A rush of passion spoiled his compo-sure. "Silme, I love you," he blurted without preamble.
Silme's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. An answering warmth flashed through her eyes and quickly disappeared.
Caught in a swirl of joyous emotion at the realization that Silme might actually share his affection, Larson caught her to his chest. Her body went taut as wood against him. Her hand snaked free and lashed across his face. Larson staggered, as much from shock as pain and stared with wide-eyed innocence.
"How dare you!" Silme's indignation cut Larson like a blade. "I'll not suffer the touch of a rogue who would worry friends to maneuver a woman alone!" She whirled with an anger that whipped her hair in a golden wave and stormed toward the camp.
Crushed by Silme's rejection and sick with embarrassment at his brazen approach, Larson rubbed his aching cheek. As the sorceress stomped into the shadows, he called after her in a voice weak with humiliation. "Silme. Please wait."
She continued as if he had not spoken. The details of her retreating form became lost among the trees.
"Wait." Larson shifted from foot to foot and pressed his one remaining advantage. "I want to talk about Vidarr."
Silme hesitated.
Larson continued with a valiant attempt at resolve which could not hide his tension. "I know how to contact Vidarr."
Silme turned, too concerned about the fate of her god to ignore any source no matter how unlikely. Her manner was stiff and threatening as a crouched tigress. Yet her features held a stunningly feminine vulnerablity which awakened Larson's desires despite his attempts to hold his emotions in rein. "If this is another ruse, I swear I'll kill you," she said coldly.
From another woman the challenge might have seemed ludicrous, but Silme had proven herself quite capable of lethal magics. Larson shivered and pressed his lips in a noncommittal line. "It's truth. I've spoken with Vidarr."
Silme scowled warningly.
Quickly, Larson detailed his story, the sequence of mixed reality and illusion which had threaded through his mind since nightfall. As he spoke, Silme's pinched face relaxed to nearly accepting warmth. But her arms remained crossed, and her fists tightened against the fabric of her cloak. From the corner of his eye, Larson caught Silme staring at him with strangely tender sympathy. But whenever he met her glance, she turned her face away like a star-struck school girl found examining the object of a crush.
"So you see, Vidarr's been with
us all along." Larson swallowed, both confused and intimidated by Silme's odd behavior. "I guess I can't expect you to believe me. I'm never quite certain when to believe myself. I:" Larson stopped speaking as he realized proof swung from his hip. He pulled Valvitnir from its sheath so abruptly Silme recoiled. "Here. Speak with him yourself." He offered the hilt to the sorceress.
Larson's mind tingled from a blast like static. An idea glided gently though his thoughts. Allerum. You're the only one who can communicate with me.
"What!" Larson screamed aloud. Silme startled again. "What do you mean?" he challenged the sword.
"I: I said nothing," Silme stammered.
Silme's mental defenses are too strong for my intrusions, Vidarr explained. I told you before. You lack mind barriers. That's why Freyr chose you.
Damn. Larson returned the blade to its scabbard, hand heavy against its jeweled hilt. Now what do I tell Silme?
" Allerum. Are you well?" Silme reached for Larson. He cringed reflexively, though her touch was gentle on his shoulder. "What's happened?"
"Vidarr can only speak with me." Grieved by his discovery, Larson did not notice the change in Silme's demeanor. "Now you'll never trust me." He spoke more to himself than to the sorceress. Then, in a rush of emotion, he continued quickly, "I suppose I really can't blame you. But I've loved you almost since the day we met. When I told you how I felt, hope made me think you returned my affection. I'm sorry I grabbed you, Silme. It was all a stupid misunderstanding." Larson gathered a great breath and released a sigh so loud it nearly obliterated Silme's whispered answer.
"There was no misundertanding."
Larson caught his breath. "What did you say?"
Silme met Larson's gaze for the first time since he'd confronted her in the brush. "I do love you. I:" She turned away with a lowered head, her face buried in her palms.
Larson hovered, uncertain. He wanted desperately to hold and comfort Silme, yet memory of her warning stayed him. Touching the sorceress against her will could well prove fatal.
Silme looked up. Her eyes were miserably red, yet tearless. "Someday," she began with an obvious attempt to be tactful. "I want to have children."
Confusion strained Larson's smile. "That would suit me, too."
"But it can't be with you," Silme continued. "And we mustn't start something we can't finish."
Larson opened his mouth, but found himself unable to speak. He stared at Silme's face which seemed to shine like a second sun as dawn dispelled all darkness but the shadows of trees and ferns.
"You don't understand." Silme seemed troubled by his ignorance.
Larson stroked his sword hilt while he searched his mind for a reply.
"You're an elf," Silme prodded softly.
It always seemed such a simple thing to remember, yet Larson continued to forget he was no longer a man. Doubts rushed upon him like a plague. Once before he had wondered whether elves and humans could interbreed, a question pushed aside by the many adventures and wonders of Silme's world. Now, if he was to, believe the sorceress, their union was impossible. But even through a haze of frustration and sorrow, Larson discovered a flaw in his conclusion; he wondered why Silme attempted to dupe him with biological falsehoods. "I may be from another world, but I'm not a fool. I know elves and humans can have children together. Your half brother:"
Silme wrung her hands with a fresh aura of distress. "That's the problem, don't you see?"
"No."
Silme paced. "Our children would be half-breeds like: Bramin."
"No!" Larson's denial held the authority of a command. "Bramin's father was a dark elf. His demon blood ruined your brother."
Silme stopped, shaking her head vigorously. "Bramin was a good child until the gibes of neighbors poisoned him. Our offspring would fare no better. This world is unprepared for crossbreeds of any type. I'm sorry, Allerum." Resigned, Silme turned and walked solemnly toward camp.
"Wait!" Larson's screamed order stopped Silme in her tracks. "Denying love won't make it go away. You can't turn it off and on like a light switch!" Afraid to speak too boldly and anger Silme, Larson pursed his lips and kept the remainder of his thoughts hidden. How can you condemn the citizenry of Forste -Mar for their treatment of Bramin when your own prejudice transcends bve? Desperately, he continued, "By his appearance, Brendor's a half-breed of Scandinavian and some darker race. And Gaelinar's a goo: a full-bred foreigner."
"Light's witch?" Silme seemed confused by Larson's tirade. She folded her arms across her chest and did not bother to face him. "They're both human. And Gaelinar can silence teasing."
"So can we." Larson's voice cracked as he sought to make his point before he lost Silme forever. "We can protect our children."
Silme pursed her lips and said nothing. Nor did she move when Larson came up behind her and made his final plea. "I'm good enough for your god, Silme. Why else would Freyr have chosen me to save him?"
The sorceress turned slowly. "And once we free Vidarr, every human in Midgard would respect us and our offspring."
Larson stared, not daring to believe the uncertainty which softened Silme's tone. He met her gaze. Warmth replaced the menacing coldness which had marred the beauty of her eyes. He caught her to his chest. Her presence drove aside all memory of the biting winds. She returned his embrace wholeheartedly, without trace of her former reluctance. Her slim hands sent shivers of desire through him, inducing his mind to conjure a third world between the archaic fantasy of Midgard and his nightmares of Vietnam. It encompassed only Silme and himself, a slim shadow of reality which would hazard no intruders.
Wind ruffled the foliage which defined the clearing, but Larson remained blind and deaf to everything except Silme. He wound his fingers in the soft waves of her hair, savoring her beauty now promised to him by love. Silme's hesitation changed his existence as suddenly as had death. Since his enlistment, the bliss of sleep melting to reality each morning filled his mind with dread. But from now, the rising sun must reawaken euphoric memories of Silme. And even after the initial intensity of their relationship faded, Silme's fierce loyalty to causes would bind them for as long as an elf and a sorceress might live.
Thrilled to the elation of love long denied, Larson pressed his lips to Silme's and explored her mouth with his tongue. He desired to know her like a treasured story which, read a thousand times, would never lose its magic. He studied her with his eyes, hands, and mind, dreading at any moment that she might stiffen and grow cold to him. But it never came. Silme's answering warmth intensified their kiss until Larson withdrew for fear of losing control of his passion so close to camp and driving Silme away with boldness. She loves me! Joy exploded within him.
Gradually, Larson's narrow ribbon of world expanded, and realization crowded him. He recalled Silme's earlier reluctance and her words which seemed so simple yet nearly formed an impenetrable wall between them. Someday, I want to have children. The accusation in her voice triggered memories, plunging Larson deeper into his flawed mental tapestry. Poised at the edge of sanity, he brushed aside the plaintive visages of slant-eyed orphans. The effort flung him further into his past to an age when he welcomed rather than feared the night. Though discomforting, his vision held none of the terror usually inherent in flashback. Soft and vague as a whisper, he revived the porcelain doll features of his young brother, Timmy, as they sat before the headstone of their father's grave. The haze of gathering night hid the tears in the child's eyes, but his voice emerged as a quavering whine. "Why? Why did he have to die? Why would he go to heaven and leave us?" His plea faded in the stillness.
In his memory, Al Larson scuffed his shoe in the dust, fighting his own sorrow for an answer. "He loved us, Timmy. God took him:" God and his drunk driver. Larson's present thoughts twisted the past. ": Dad didn't want to leave us. No one chooses to die." No one but an enlistee. Again, the Larson in Midgard amended his imaginings. This observation opened other channels of memory. He recalled the day he left for boot camp, plagued by doubts yet mo
rbidly excited by the glamour of espionage and the challege of matching wits with other men. While in a zone of peace, distant dangers enticed him. But this thrill shattered before the hollow glare of betrayal he found in Timmy's eyes. Larson realized suddenly his brother had never said "good-bye."
A tear formed in Larson's eye, blurring his image of Timmy. Joy fled before an onrush of resolve. Lost in the promise of passion, I dared to believe I could raise a child. I cannot subject some kid to my insanity or the consequences of flashback. Every person I care for becomes a weapon for my enemies. A child will not join my life until I learn to control my thoughts. And I can't allow myself to love Silme until we vanquish Bramin.
Larson dropped his hands to his sides, and his index finger traced a gem in Valvitnir's hilt. Vidarr's voice crashed into his mind. You hypocrite! Now who thinks of controlling love? Are you selfish or merely stupid? Anger speared through the pathways of Larson's mind, and he winced beneath the onslaught of emotion. Denying love won't protect you from grief And fatherhood is more than ancestry. You already have a child; Brendor cares deeply for you. Does the camaraderie you shared in Forste -Mar mean nothing to you? If you reject Brendor like you did Timmy, you'll destroy his trust completely .
" Allerum?" Silme caught Larson's arm.
Larson shoved the sword hilt aside; and Vidarr's presence fled his mind, leaving ghostly echoes in its wake. I never abandoned Timmy! I did what I had to do. Do you think I wanted to go to war? He battered aside the nagging memory of his brother's face, replaced it with others: his sister Pam, Ti Sun, Brendor. Each had experienced the greatest trauma chance could perpetrate upon a child, the loss of a parent. Like Timmy, all three returned to life with a resilience Larson could scarcely comprehend, innocents caught in a world without mercy. They came to me with trust and hope. And I betrayed them all! "Damn it, I do love Brendor. He needs me. He shall become our first child."
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