As the last command burst gleefully from Brendor's throat, hair sprouted from the Kensei's chin in a stiff, unnatural beard. Gaelinar's face went livid. Brendor loosed a strangled cry and staggered into the forest. Struck by the appearance of his customarily neat and serious swordmaster, Larson broke into laughter.
"We'll continue in the morning." Gaelinar waved a hand stoically. "Get something to eat."
Glad for the freedom, Larson wasted no time on words. He sheathed Valvitnir hurriedly and chased after Brendor, hoping the boy might lead him to Silme. Eventually, he heard the sorceress' voice, loud and angry, and followed it to a clearing near camp where Silme berated her apprentice without mercy. "… not a game, stupid child! The summoning of a chaos force costs nothing; it comes naturally to those born to magic. But you know that channeling its energy to a specific enchantment drains power from its caster's life aura. Your sloppy technique of partially focusing your spell is all that saved you. Had you cast that second spell correctly as I taught you…" She paused. Brendor quivered before her wrath like a townsman in the sights of a loaded gun. "… it would have destroyed you."
Silme looked up as Larson entered the clearing, and her glare made it obvious his presence was unwelcome. Without so much as a gesture of greeting, she continued her tirade. "I was an idiot to think I could trust a child with power…"
Larson wandered away, sick with frustration. Now, when he had finally gathered the courage to approach Silme with his feelings, she was busy with matters she considered more important. Larson supposed hours would pass before she composed herself enough to talk, and by that time she would want to sleep. Crushed by ill luck, Larson took a seat by the fire across from Gaelinar who was scraping the last of Brendor's foiled attempt at .magic from his wrinkled cheeks.
Larson said nothing. He stared into flames orange as a sunset against the darkening background of nightfall. After a short silence, Gaelinar sheathed his dagger, pulled rations from a pack beside the horses, and crouched at Larson's side. Apparently sensing Larson's mood, the Kensei spoke with en-couragement. "You've done well. You learn as fast as any I've taught."
Despite the value of Gaelinar's rare compliment, Larson merely watched the fire and made a noncommittal grunt. He saw little purpose in learning to wield a sword he was commissioned to destroy and even less in journeying with a beautiful woman who would never share his love. Does the old man expect me to battle Bramin after a week of sword training?
"Hungry?" Gaelinar spread a square of cloth before the fire and emptied a small sack of dried fruit and smoked meat.
Larson shared the food without tasting it. Gaelinar's words flowed about him, no more comprehensible than the bubblings of the river. At length, the Kensei stayed his wasted conversation and joined his companion in silence. The campfire settled as it consumed its supply of twigs. The moon rose like a chariot, a lingering token of the sun's glory. And still Larson brooded.
Gaelinar rose. He performed a dexterous series of katas, all lost on Larson whose thoughts centered on his own misfortunes. When the Kensei finished, he gathered bedding and spread it about the fire. He caught Larson's arm and gently tugged the elf to his feet. "Rest will do you good."
Larson made no protest but allowed himself to be led. He crawled between his own snug pile of furs; and, though he made no attempt to sleep, he fell prey to the blissful oblivion which veils men's burdens. Larson's peace was short-lived. He awakened to the low drone of Silme's voice beside him. Fearing he might lose another chance to talk, he groped toward the sound.
Larson caught Silme's leg in the darkness. She recoiled with a shriek. Magics fizzled to sparks around the sorceress, and Gaelinar's swords whisked from their sheaths in a defensive curl before her. "You stupid elf!" shrilled Silme. "You ruined my protection spell and weakened me for nothing. By Vidarr's shoe, am I surrounded by incompetents?"
Gaelinar flipped his katana and shoto to their sheaths and retook a position at Silme's side. "Excepting you, of course, Kensei," the sorceress muttered sullenly. She dropped her head, and again crafted the intricate enchantments of the circular ward which had defended them each night since Larson first met Silme and Gaelinar in the forest. Humbled, Larson retreated beneath his furs, sleep now an unattainable goal.
It's useless. Tears burned Larson's eyes while Silme's voice rose in incantation, followed by the crackle of intertwining magics. / can't live with her derision, not after I've held her in my arms. Flawlessly beautiful, skilled, compassionate and strong, Silme personifies every quality a man could want in a woman. I would never have found one like her in the States. And, he reminded himself, / will never have her here.
The coarse furs tickled Larson's cheek, and he brushed them aside with self-pitying fury. / left my mother nothing but another life to mourn. As a soldier, I failed, only to be rescued from death for a task I still don't understand. I've duped Gaelinar with a living sword which learns his lessons better than I ever can. And Silme … Larson gritted his teeth so tightly, his thoughts folded in a haze of redness. As long as I remain part of it, this quest is doomed to failure. He caught Valvitnir. With strength spawned of a boil of desperate emotion, Larson hurled the sword. It flew straight as a spear, struck the unseen enchantments of Silme's ward, and plummeted with a crash that woke every member of the party.
Cursing like a longshoreman, Larson sprang from his bedding and snatched up the sword. "I dropped it," he explained lamely for the benefit of his companions, though he doubted even Brendor would believe he was practicing at night with a sheathed weapon. But no one questioned Larson as he returned to his pile of furs and realized in a rush of self-deprecation he could not even desert the task with dignity.
A voice broke his dispirited train of thought. Allerum.
"What?" Larson responded with a growl, not wishing to talk. It occurred to him suddenly that the voice was unfamiliar, and his sinews snapped taut. "Who are you?"
"Did you say something, hero?" asked Gaelinar, apparently oblivious to the stranger's presence.
Gaelinar's lack of vigilance struck Larson as odd. The Kensei was usually the wariest member of their group. Sssh, hissed the first voice. Don't talk aloud.
What the hell, thought Larson. Surely Gaelinar can hear as well as me. But the swordmaster neither moved nor spoke again. Trusting Gaelinar's instincts more than his own failing sanity, Larson flipped to his other side and tried to sleep.
Allerum. I'm your sword.
Larson's eyes flared open.
Don't speak. I'm communicating through your mind. You need only think what you wish to say. Do you understand?
Larson's wits exploded into confusion. He lay with heart hammering. At length, he formed a tentative reply and concentrated on it with the intensity of a card in a magician's trick. NO! AND WHO ARE YOU?
You needn't shout! The response lanced through Larson's brain. Just think normally.
Whatthehell?
I am Vidarr, the silent god. Already I've sent more words to you than all my followers in the last century. From now, I answer only in images. Ask what you will.
Larson gnawed a fingernail, believing his insanity well beyond question. My sword is a god?
A scene unfolded in Larson's mind. Before him stood the figure of a man, blond as the citizens of Forste-Mar. His face was fair and creased by a smile. His clothing shimmered with an unearthly silver radiance. On his left foot, he wore a crafted sandal. On the other was an oddly-cobbled boot constructed of scraps melded without seam, though the artisan made no attempt to match color.
Oh my god! Fearing his exclamation might be some sort of blasphemy, he amended, Sorry. Growing braver he added, The dream-reader called you an unholy being. And if you're a god, what are you doing in my sword?
An overwhelming sense of exasperation filled Larson's head and transformed to grudging acceptance. His surface thoughts dimmed like lights before a play. Memory receded behind a presence which possessed his mind like a dream. From the perspective of the god whose image ha
d recently occupied his thoughts, Larson marched across a meadow marred by the footprints of giant men. Beside him strode a figure more beautiful than Silme, though decidedly male. His face was cleanshaven and shaped without flaw. His hair hung in a golden mane of ringlets. Through Vidarr's perception, Larson knew the comely figure as Loki, and he watched the Trickster with contempt.
"Isn't it a glorious day, son of Odin?" Though clear as chimes, Loki's voice held an edge of threat. His slim hand stroked the hilt of an ebony-scabbarded sword at his hip.
Vidarr gave no answer, nor did Loki expect one. The Trickster adopted a look of suave assurance, stopped suddenly, and slid the sword from its sheath. The blade gleamed silver, then dulled to black as light fled and shadow gathered along its steel.
Unafraid, Vidarr frowned with impatience. He knew his life was protected by Loki's vow to Odin; the day had not yet come when one god could directly cause the death of another. Reluctantly, Vidarr examined the sword and found the craftsmanship exceptional. He demonstrated his admiration empathically and, when Loki sheathed the blade, returned his aura to one of abhorrence for his evil companion.
Loki laughed. "You like my brother and hate me. Fickle, aren't you, Silent One?"
Confusion wracked Odin's son. He waited for Loki's clarification.
Loki scuffed his feet in the dust, eyes dancing with evil mischief. "By my magic, the soul of my brother, Helblindi, resides in this sword."
Vidarr replied with tangible skepticism which flared to accusation. Surely Loki's claim was ridiculous, a sacrilege from any but a deity of Asgard.
Loki stepped around Vidarr with the grace of a cat, his cloak shimmering with enchantments. "Do you doubt me, Lord of Silence? I can prove my abilities well enough."
Vidarr followed Loki's movements with forced indifference. Yet curiosity glimmered faintly through his facade, and the Trickster seized upon it.
"I'd thought Odin's son too wise to judge with-out evidence." His voice assumed the recriminatory whine of a victim of injustice. "One demonstration will quell all doubt and clear my name. Would you deny me that right?"
It will take more than a display of magics to clear your evil name. Larson understood that Vidarr had kept this thought to himself. The message the silent god actually sent Loki was a mixture of impatience and reluctant concession.
Loki pressed his pale lips together and smiled like a child with a secret. "If you'll help gather materials, this task will be more quickly done. While I find the many necessary components here on the world of giants, I'd appreciate it if you'd procure some items from the dwarves. I'll need an anvil and a piece of white metal more precious than gold."
Before Vidarr could muster protestations, Loki disappeared. To appease the Sly Trickster and satisfy his own inquisitiveness, Vidarr traveled to Nidavellir, the dark home of dwarves. Time passed like a blur in Larson's mind, as if Vidarr tired of the tale and condensed his adventures to outline. He watched the silent god root through the parings of dwarven blacksmiths for a fist-sized chunk of platinum; then Vidarr hefted a half-ton anvil and tossed it carelessly across his shoulders.
Returning at dusk to the world of giants, Vidarr found his evil companion sitting cross-legged in the dirt, head lowered and eyes glazed in trance. Vidarr dropped the anvil; its impact tremored the meadow. Loki took no notice. Words burbled from his throat like boiling pitch. Orange light sprang to life, highlighting the Sly One in wicked splendor, a dancing radiance of Helborn power.
Larson longed to shield his eyes from the glare, but he was forced to witness the scene through Vidarr's eyes. Loki rose, and his aura flared green. "The metal?" Vidarr opened his hand, displaying his find. The platinum winked with reflected light from Loki's sorceries. "The spell works only…" Loki spoke gently, so as not to disturb the intricate mesh of his enchantments, "if the metal is carried by one burdened with a load of nine hundredweight who then becomes…"
Loki's aura broke to a red explosion of fire. Sparks scattered in a wild arc and sizzled to oblivion against spring greenery. "… its victim!"
Too late, Vidarr realized his danger. Metal spun from his hand as he whirled to run. Magic pounded his back like a giant's fist and sprawled him over the stolen anvil. He struck the ground, body and soul sundered with a violent lurch. Larson felt his thoughts fold in blackness, spinning in the cyclone of Loki's fury. Oblivion strangled Vidarr's scream. There remained only a nothingness beyond darkness, the visual void of the blind accompanied by the ultimate silence of the deaf.
There followed a greater nothingness, a time of pure ignorance without benefit of discovery. From his prison of soundless, sightless eternity, Vidarr reached for the perceptions of those who molded his new blade form and plied the Fates for his destiny. But each attempt slammed him solidly against the impenetrable mental defenses of the gods and men who held him. Doomed to an existence without any contact with sentient beings, Vidarr settled uncomfortably into his confinement.
Claustrophobic panic nearly overwhelmed Larson's senses. Then Vidarr's awareness broke free to wander, unrestrained, through the mind of a future-born wielder selected by Freyr for his in-ability to defend against mental probes. Aside from a tangled web of guilt- and fear-inspired flaws mingled with strange words and concepts, Vidarr found functioning eyes and ears and a hand he could influence while it gripped his hilt. Larson realized Vidarr's window to the world was his own consciousness.
Larson felt violated. Remembering that the god could read his emotions directly, he struggled to control rising resentment and concentrated on a single question. Why must I destroy you?
For several seconds, Larson received no answer. The sword shifted uncomfortably in his grip as Vidarr abandoned pictures for words. What makes you so certain HvergeImir will destroy me?
The dream-reader said…
The one who called me an unholy being? interrupted Vidarr.
Good point. Larson rolled to his back. Still clutching the hilt, he rested the sword across his chest and abdomen. What does happen when I toss you in the Helspring?
Uncertainty inundated Larson. Vidarr seemed irritated. How should I know? Hopefully, it frees me. Only the Fates know the means to break Loki's spell, aside from the Trickster himself.
The next question followed naturally. So who influenced my dream?
The hilt in Larson's fist went cold. That, of course, is the problem. Apparently your people lost all means of mental exchange and warfare. You can't defend against manipulation. All your thoughts are suspect.
Much of Vidarr's explanation meant nothing to Larson, but he had to agree with the final statement. Why, started Larson, trying to phrase the query delicately though he guessed Vidarr could read his intentions as well as his thoughts. Why must we set you free?
Reality crumbled before illusion as Vidarr again took control of Larson's mind, showing him the alternate fates of the world. Vision blurred to a vast white plain, and hail stung like cinders. Larson came to realize he was seeing a monstrous winter without end, a bitter frost which slew crops and beasts without mercy. Evil seized tree roots in a grip of ice, dropping century-old forests like stands of saplings.
As Larson watched in wonder, hordes of men appeared, arrayed in armor of skins, links, or chains. Shields gleamed on their arms. Axe, sword, and spear bobbed eagerly in the hands of warriors trembling like hounds before a hunt. Driven to madness by eternal cold, the armed men fell upon one another in a wild sea of battle without strategy, issue, or goal. Warriors dealt death to kin without remorse; men with matching crests fell, pinioned by each other's swords. Blood geysered, staining shields and snow like wine.
No! Larson bucked against Vidarr's control, ripped partially free only to fall prey to his own memories. The glint of light from metal became the flash of gunfire. War howls transformed to the roar of mortars. The scene broke to a tide of fire, and Larson screamed inwardly.
Intent on his demonstration, Vidarr seized a strand of Larson's sanity and hauled his charge back to his own imagings. T
he sun filled Larson's mind, a golden ball of glory shining down upon the chaos. From the sidelines, a wolf leaped upon the daystar, and caught it in fangs sharp as needles. Light crunched like bone, and bloody foam flecked the wolfs maw. The world plunged into darkness.
A distant cock's crow rose above the din of battle, followed by a second and a third. In blackness, the ground quaked. The World Serpent rose from its bed in the sea, and the gentle lap of surf became an all-consuming hell, battering rock to sand. Elsewhere, at the seat of the world, an enormous tree of ash moaned and shivered as a man and woman found refuge in the hollow of its trunk. Tension built like the crescendo of a song. While the men of Midgard slaughtered one another, greater armies gathered, preparing for a war which would color the heavens sunset red with the blood of giants, monsters, and gods.
The battle plain of Vigrid stood ready. Giants poured to its northern shore from a ship created of human Fingernails. From a second vessel, Loki leaped to shore, leading the tortured souls of Hel who followed his commands like automatons. From the south came hordes of living flame led by the black giant, Surtr, whose sword blazed with the glory of the murdered sun. Before them all waited Loki's children: the flame-eyed wolf, Fenrir, breath soured by meals made of Midgard's warriors, and the World Serpent whose venom spewed as thickly as tar.
A handful of gods strode forth to challenge those who sought to destroy the world. They were flanked by the ranks of Valhalla, men who had died in the glory of war and whose souls had been rescued from battlefields by Odin for this conflict. Odin commanded his troop, terrible with his magic spear and helm of gold. The sight might have driven Larson to total mindlessness if not for Vidarr's influence. Guided by the god's vision, he saw the Silent One himself poised among the defenders.
With a howl of hellish fury, the Wolf sprang upon Odin. The warriors of Valhalla swept forward to meet the riot of giants and the Hel hordes under Loki. Sadly outnumbered but honed to a skill which evened the odds, their swords blurred to a whirling fury which scattered limbs and spilled lives like water.
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