Godslayer

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  As the dream-Larson turned to follow, panic seized him like an overdose of adrenalin. He dismounted and dropped to a crouch, heart hammering in his chest. His mouth dried to rawness. His vision blurred to haze. War memories pressed toward expression, but the being who inspired his nightmare wove barriers with the intricacy of a spider. In the vision, Larson shook his head with uncharacteristic violence and gestured toward the northern trail along the river Sylg.

  There was no sound in Larson's dream, but when Silme cleared slime from the road sign, its writings became clear:

  Temple to Odin

  The Oracle of Hargatyr

  With an air of exasperation, Silme and Gaelinar reined their horses down the eastward branch. Reluctantly, the dream-Larson remounted and followed, but with each hoof-fall his anxiety trebled. Rows of twisted juniper passed unnoticed. The scenery might have been painted backdrops for all the heed he paid it. Instead, his attention focused on the looming gray outline of the temple to Odin.

  By the time Larson and his companions reached the temple dooryard, his clothing had adhered to his sweat-soaked torso. He paused, studying the squat structure with an aura of mistrust. Brown ivies swarmed its exterior in uneven clumps, making it seem to lean awkwardly to the left. Moss chinked the wall stones like green mortar. Larson almost expected to see lightning flare between nonexistent watchtowers. He shivered, wondering whether to blame the temple's eerie appearance or his heightened senses for the fear which coiled his muscles nearly to immobility. He felt like a traitor who had refused both cigarette and blindfold before the firing squad.

  At Silme's knock, the ancient door swung open with a squeal of complaint. A half dozen drab-robed acolytes met Larson and his companions and escorted them past stained altars. Beyond, a dark curtain crisscrossed with glimmering silver threads spanned a doorway from ceiling to floor. Gaelinar and Silme passed through a slit in the fabric. Larson followed them into a room as gray as the moment before dawn. At its farthest end sat the oracle of Hargatyr, a young woman with a seemingly endless cascade of reddish hair. Though shadowed beyond recognition of detail, her face seemed not quite normal to Larson. Before her stood a marble slab which supported a clear, oblong diamond with a black central core rimmed green. Not unlike a giant eye, the stone winked and shone with an intensity which further shattered the dream-Larson's confidence.

  Silme stepped forward and presented a request Larson could not hear in the frustratingly soundless world of his dream. The oracle passed a withered hand twice across the diamond. Mist swirled in the depths of the gemstone, floated upward in lines tenuous as heat haze. Abruptly the oracle burst to a conflagration of yellow flame. Larson reeled backward as a shapeless black form leaped from the fire and attacked the startled sorceress.

  Claws rent Silme's flesh. Blood sprayed the room in arcs of red chaos. Gaelinar howled. His swords reflected highlights of scarlet and gold. Valvitnir rasped from its sheath. Larson and Gaelinar lunged together for the demon which savaged Silme. The beast's claws carved searing lines across Larson's arm, but steel also met its mark. Valvitnir plunged deep into the monster's gut. Even more swiftly, Gaelinar's swords went sticky green with demon blood. It fell, witch-screaming, across Silme's lifeless form.

  The room was awash with color. No life remained in Silme's broken body. The sapphire in her dragonstaff shattered like glass on the cold stone floor. Grief struck Larson in a wave of mental anguish. As he stared at the wild waste of multiple hues, the scene swirled and blurred away to a single black face with glowing red eyes. Bramin! Rationality escaped in a rush of fear, and sound sundered silence in a rolling thunderclap of evil laughter. Bramin's misshapen mouth formed words which struck like daggers of ice. "Be forewarned, Al Larson. Should you choose to seek the oracle, you will pay with the lives of friends!"

  Bramin's face winked out. His dark hand remained and scattered the carefully placed barriers in Larson's mind. Memories burst forth like a torrent through a broken dam. Rockets flared from every angle with roars which deafened Larson. Bullets whined in insect-like swarms where he cowered with no safe place to retreat. Screams formed a chorus of hell-born agonies, while ghosts of buddies and enemies alike sentenced Larson to an eternity of life.

  Larson's mental flight from madness ran him headlong into a scene from the past. He crouched between the banks of a dried river, clutching an M-16 which grew surprisingly light in the moments before death. Surrounded by enemies, he charged from the banks with Freyr's name on his lips. But where the last time he had recalled nothing except awakening in a strange elf body and a foreign world, now he recalled the torment of bullets riddling his body, jerking his limbs like a marionette. Horror held him screamless while a river of his own blood washed between the banks.

  Larson awoke with sinews knotted and no sense of place or time. He was on his feet before he could think, eyes searching the room for movement. He scuttled to a corner and pressed his back to the wall. Sanity returned him to the blacksmith's cottage. Larson took several deep breaths, rose, and paced until his muscles uncoiled and his mood passed from panic to anxiety to crimson fury against the half-breed hellion who sought Silme's soul.

  "Bramin!" Larson called with a courage he'd never before known he possessed. "I don't fear your threats, your dragons, your demons, or your…" Short of insults, he ended lamely, "… your piddling whangdoodles. Torment me as you wish, but we will visit this oracle. If you could kill Gaelinar or Silme, I think you would have done so already."

  Larson believed his challenge was heard by no one except himself. But a shadow fell across the room, and the walls were suddenly suffused with a faint white glow. Caught in the center of the chamber, Larson spun like a fox between two packs of dogs. A message burned through his mind. "You underestimate me, Futurespawn." A long black finger probed his thoughts for a painful memory.

  Prepared to fight though he saw no physical threat, Larson freed Valvitnir. Instantly, a benevolent entity joined the intruder in his mind. Bramin's mental presence hissed a shocked epithet and departed. Vidarr's reassurances pervaded

  Larson's consciousness. Then the god, too, disappeared to Larson's perception.

  Before the startled elf could ponder the significance of the night's events, Gaelinar poked his head through the door to Larson's chamber. "Practicing, hero? Good. You should be ready for your lesson."

  After the sword practice, Larson found his stomach too knotted for food despite his twenty-four hour fast. The conversations of his companions passed unheard as Larson made the decision not to describe his dream to Silme. Too proud to reverse his decision about the oracle, he saw no reason to trouble the sorceress with Bramin's untenable threats. Still, time passed in an interminable vacuum; Larson was glad when he exchanged his final farewells and promises with Brendor. In bleary silence, he passed through the remainder of the town with Silme and Gaelinar and continued along the pine-bordered banks of the river Sylg.

  The path looked distressingly similar to Larson's nightmare. Discomforted, he unsheathed Val-vitnir and balanced the blade across his knees. His stilted replies to Silme's attempts at conversation frustrated the sorceress and earned him a lonely trip. Still, midday came far too soon for Larson. The sun hovered overhead when Silme drew up her mount at the road sign to the oracle of Hargatyr.

  Gaelinar reined his mount and addressed Larson for the first time since his lesson. "You must be hungry. Sorry to go against your wishes not to pack supplies, but Lady Kelda offered fresh meat for our journey. I couldn't refuse. Gather some kindling, and we'll have the best cooked lunch of our wanderings."

  Glad for any distraction which differentiated events of reality from those of his nightmare, Larson clambered from his saddle, sheathed his sword, and wandered into the woods. Twigs were plentiful on the forest floor. Larson selectively collected only the driest ones of reasonable length. A mere hundred yards from the crossroads, he had managed to accumulate a thick handful of kindling, and he started back toward his waiting companions.

 
; Brush crackled behind Larson. He whirled, sticks scattering from his grip, in time to watch a small, familiar figure scuttle behind a clump of trees. "Brendor!" Larson screamed. He charged after the retreating child.

  Brendor crashed awkwardly through the weeds. Slower, Larson trailed with far more stealth. Ragweed and ferns gave way to a brushless clearing enclosed by intertwining pine. Larson stopped, afraid the chase might already have taken him dangerously far from camp. "Brendor! Come out now! I know you're here, and I'm not playing games." He added with a gentle sigh, "I promise not to hit you."

  The child's blunderings transformed to softer rustlings. Within moments, Brendor emerged from the brush and stepped among the shadows of the clearing. His clothing was torn. Small scratches beneath dripped blood. He shuffled toward Larson like a disobedient dog, his head bent low in shame, his eyes oddly vacant.

  At a subtle noise from behind, Larson looked around to see Silme who had followed his calls to the edge of the clearing. He conveyed his control of the situation with a nearly imperceptible nod and returned his attention to the approaching child.

  Less than an arm's length separated Larson and Brendor when Silme screamed, "Allerum, wait!" Enchantments bright as a flare struck the child and rebounded to glowing streamers. Silme's magics appeared to have no effect on the boy, but its backlash sparked light from a jagged blade clenched in his fist. Even as Larson recoiled in shock, Brendor plunged his knife at the elf's chest.

  Reflexively, Larson caught the tiny wrist. Bren-dor's other hand enwrapped Larson's free forearm with a power he had never demonstrated in the past. The child's strength was awesome, despite his size. Larson strained until sweat sprang from his face. The dagger shivered ever closer.

  "No!" A beam of amber screamed past Larson's ear and struck Brendor full in the face. Impact jerked the child backward. Desperate, Larson planted his foot on Brendor's knee and rolled onto his back. Stone bit into his spine. The child flipped over Larson, but his viselike grip held. Brendor's fingers pinned Larson's wrist to the ground. The dagger sped for the elf's bared throat. "Brendor, no!" Larson struggled like a madman. He seized Brendor's knife hand, but all his effort scarcely slowed the blade's descent.

  Enchantments whizzed over Larson's head, plastering Brendor with multiple barbs of energy. The child flinched. Pain blanked his features as the magics ripped through his body and pitched him backward in a mass of bloody tatters. Larson heaved aside the limp figure and sprang to his feet, staring at the gruesome lump of flesh which was once a beloved companion. Brendor's eyes seemed glazed as marbles, and his blood-flecked hair spread in an inky puddle. Memory slapped Larson, heavy and unforgiving as a migraine. To Larson's mind, the clearing became a dirt road through a Vietnamese village; the bursts of sorcery transformed to the cruel blatter of an M-16.

  The child's face was no longer Brendor's. The eyes slanted away from almond-colored irises. The mouth gaped, smeared with melted chocolate. Ti Sun! Larson's stomach lurched. His vision clouded to red haze. He turned hollow, accusing eyes on his buddy, Gavin, who still clutched his smoking gun. Profanities spilled from Larson's throat in an anguished sob. Blood fury raged like fever. He threw himself upon Gavin, swinging his fists with irrational, aimless outrage.

  Many hands caught Larson. Men pinned him helplessly between uniformed bodies. Larson shrieked as he struggled. The fingers which bruised his arms caused a pain which only fueled his anger. Several seconds went by while Gavin carefully flipped Ti Sun's remains, and several more passed before Larson recognized the significance of the grenade which rolled from the child's limp hand. "It was him or you, you stupid bastard," Gavin explained with a wretched sob. "Him… or you."

  The flashback broke to midday light. As Larson passed from one world to another, he discovered his fist poised to strike a figure already grounded by his blows. From nowhere, Gaelinar's hand seized his wrist and whipped his body to the ground with surprising speed. The Kensei's grip barred Larson's arm at an awkward angle. His other hand neatly caged Larson's throat. Larson knew Gaelinar could fracture arm or windpipe with a simple strike.

  Larson lay perfectly still. His knuckles felt raw, and his wrist was bruised from Brendor's attack. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.

  Gaelinar's grip eased slightly. Silme knelt at Larson's side. Blood trickled from the side of her mouth, and Larson realized with a sudden rush of horror that she was the victim of his own crazed assault. "Oh my god. What have I done?"

  Gaelinar released Larson. The elf staggered to his feet. He caught Silme in an embrace strengthened nearly to violence by the need for apology. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" Larson repeated it twenty times before humiliation broke his grip, and he turned away with self-loathing.

  "Finish the quest without me." Larson unhooked Valvitnir and let the sword drop to the ground. "I could have killed her."

  "I assure you, you couldn't have." Gaelinar drew to Larson's side. "Hero…"

  "I'm not a hero!" Larson's screamed reply echoed between gangling pines and warped juniper. "I'm a raving lunatic, a madman, a paranoid maniac with delusions of… of… sanity…" When he ran out of Norse descriptions, he switched to English slang.

  Gaelinar waited until the tirade passed and spoke with the sincerity he usually reserved for sword practice. "All heroes are flawed."

  Larson whirled abruptly. "Heroes? Flawed?"

  "All heroes," Gaelinar repeated. "To have courage, a man must know fear. Good cannot exist without evil. And a man becomes a hero when he excels despite his flaws."

  Larson hesitated, mentally drained of emotion. Silme took his hands gently. "Hero, you are forgiven. I can't blame you for avenging the child, even against me. You couldn't know he was not the same Brendor we loved. Only my training as enchantress enabled me to recognize Bramin's influence when I reached the clearing."

  "Then »Brendor… ?" Larson's voice quivered with hope.

  Silme turned her gaze to her feet. "He's dead, Allerum. Bramin would need to destroy him completely to gain control of his body. I'm as sorry as you."

  Larson hugged Silme again, grieved by the loss of a friend who was as a son and scarcely daring to believe the sorceress' unbounding compassion.

  While Larson recovered his poise, Gaelinar set Brendor's body to pyre. It was only a formality. Bramin's automaton was a soulless shell no more worthy of dignity than a fallen sapling. Even so, Brendor's corpse left the world with a whispered eulogy and the Kensei's priceless respect.

  As the three companions solemnly mounted horses and reined toward the oracle of Hargatyr, Larson confronted Gaelinar with a question. "Kensei, what's your flaw?"

  Gaelinar's lips bent to a slight smile. "I, Lord Allerum, am no hero."

  Chapter 6

  Mageslayer

  "The haft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagle's own plumes. We often give our enemies the means of our own destruction."

  —Aesop, The Eagle and the Arrow

  The temple to Odin appeared far more benign in reality than it had in Larson's dream. The ivy which covered its walls was shaped and tended, though cruel northern winds battered the vines flatter on one side than the other. Age claimed its toll in cracks, discolorations, and grime. Yet someone had taken the time to nurture bluebells at its foundation, despite soil so solidly frozen it scarcely supported the scraggly vegetables which were the sustenance of oracle and acolytes.

  Larson paced fretfully between Gaelinar and Silme. The shock of Brendor's death had faded, replaced by memories of the demon in his nightmare. Repeatedly, he replayed the scene in his mind. Each time, the shapeless shadowform sprang from the oracle's swirling mass of flame, shredding Silme's body with talons sharp as steel. And always Larson's defense came too late to save his beloved.

  Silme knocked on the temple door. The heavy, wooden panel muffled sound nearly to silence. It was opened almost instantly by a young man who ushered Larson and his companions inside. He wore a clean gray cloak. Lines of hardship marred his features, but his lips c
urled in an amiable smile. He flicked away his hood, and hair the color of goldenrod fell to his shoulders. "Have you come to pay homage?"

  Silme tapped the base of her dragonstaff against the earthen floor. "We wish to see the oracle."

  The acolyte's expression grew grave. He led his new charges past groups of priests engaged in ritual. Light spilled through numerous windows, muted to gray haze by crudely thickset glass. Other acolytes nodded pleasantly as they passed, and Larson found nothing inherently threatening about the temple to Odin. Still, the memory of his nightmare wracked his spine with shivers, and anxiety closed him in an icy grip.

  The acolyte led Larson and his companions past a row of three stone altars. The elf paused by the last, attracted by a stain dark as spilled wine. Closer inspection revealed the faint odor of death. Larson flinched back with a small cry and crashed against Gaelinar.

  The Kensei turned swiftly and followed Larson's horrified gaze. He answered the unspoken question in a whisper. "War casualties, Allerum. Calm down. You've seen blood before." He caught the elf by a cloak sleeve and hauled him through a silver-threaded curtain identical to the one in the dream inspired by Bramin.

  In the adjoining room, the oracle sat before her marble table. As Larson, Silme, and Gaelinar stepped through the curtain, she raised her red-maned head. One blue eye examined her visitors with withering disdain. Beside it, a scarred socket gave mute testimony to the traumatic loss of her other eye. Leery of the oracle's disfigured and condemning features, Larson stared at the viewing stone before her. In the dream, he had thought the gemstone a diamond. Closer, he recognized it as a nearly transparent, oval-shaped block of quartz. Yet some work of nature or magic gave it the strange, eye-like configuration of green-irised black.