Gaelinar caught Larson's arm. "Allerum. This way." He started across the waste of packed mud toward Hel's stronghold.
Larson followed Gaelinar without protest. After all, his own vow, that no world could come between him and Silme, had brought them to Hel's realm of unending night. My words and Gaelinar's determination. Larson stared at the Kensei's black-trimmed gold robes and the matched swords which hung through his mentor's sash. To him, no task is too dangerous to attempt, no cause too small to die for. Now, an ill-considered oath uttered in a love-blind moment would probably get them both killed.
Despite Larson's somber musings, the task had so far proved easier than he had expected. The foul, animal smell at the entryway to Hel had either faded or become too familiar to notice. The only obstacles to his and Gaelinar's venture had been a bridge roofed with gold and the locked gates around Hel's fortress which they had scaled without difficulty. No being had challenged their descent. After several days of dodging and ducking the shadows which flitted just beyond his vision, Larson had come to accept them as harmless. Even the inevitable hardships, to which he had long ago resigned himself, seemed to have dissolved in the deep oblivion of his sadness. Since Alfheim's god, Freyr, had plucked Larson from his bullet-riddled body in Vietnam, placed him in the guise of an elf, and loosed him in a world which was not quite Old Norway, flashbacks of the war had plagued him unmercifully. Now, even that familiar madness had abandoned him. I wonder why everyone doesn't come to Hel and reclaim his dead. Larson suspected he would soon find out.
Gaelinar stopped before the open portal to Hel's citadel and whispered a warning. "Do not address the dead, not even Silme, until we've spoken with Hel."
Beyond his mentor, Larson glimpsed a hallway packed with milling figures. The ruddy haze which enshrouded the scene gave them a ghostly cast. The dead? Ghostly? Larson's gut knotted. Suddenly, his mind filled with doubts and questions.
But before Larson could sort through his mental confusion, Gaelinar passed through the doorway and started down a hall of paneled ash. "I'd like to handle this peacefully."
Larson swallowed hard, nodded agreement and trailed Gaelinar closely. He harbored no wish to battle another deity. Although he had slain Loki, he attributed most of his success to the sapphire-rank Dragonmage he had come to rescue and to the silent god, Vidarr, who had been trapped in Larson's sword by Loki's spell.
Lost in thought, Larson nearly collided with a figure which seemed to materialize before him. It was a man, his body green and puckered. Rotted skin hung in strips from a face of yellowed bone. Dull, shriveled eyes turned in their sockets and settled on Larson.
Larson drew a sharp, terrified breath. He shied from the dead man and blundered into a tight pack of walking corpses. Their contact chilled him to the marrow; they seemed to drain the warmth of his very life essence. Their flesh gave like overripe fruit. Shocked and off-balance, Larson clawed through them and fell to one knee. The dead closed around him, staring silently, scowling or leering in murderous agony.
Larson screamed. Memory crowded in on him. But this time, his thoughts lacked the horrifying reality of his flashbacks. He knew who and where he was. Yet he surrendered to the saner world of images to escape the living death his mind could not accept. The dark stillness of Hel became the steamy murk of Vietnam, the muffled swish of Gaelinar's robe a slash of breeze through bamboo jungle. Al Larson stood in a silence of unmatched intensity, the one which can only exist after the mind-shattering explosion of a hidden mine. Blood stained the slender leaves in an arc. In its center, Private John Lewis lay, his face sallow and speckled with gore. His recognizable features ended below his abdomen; his pelvis and legs trailed like tattered streamers. The air hung heavy with the reek of ruptured bowel.
Now Larson flinched, the picture still vivid within him. He remembered how he stood in shocked sorrow. No matter how much death he witnessed, watching the slaughter of another friend never seemed to become easier. But, Lewis' eyes remained open, soulful and seeing. By all anatomical possibility, his hand could no longer function; nevertheless it seized Larson's ankle. Lewis'
voice emerged, weak yet frighteningly alive. "I'm hurt bad, huh?"
Larson recalled how his stomach lurched and he dared not speak for fear he might scream or cry, run or puke. He managed a short nod.
"Al." Lewis' fingers tightened spasmodically on Larson's shin then fell away. "I'm going home, right? They're gonna ship me back."
Larson felt the horrified gazes of the entire patrol at his back and wished someone would say something… anything. They had all helped injured companions before, but this was different. For all his movement and speech, Lewis was dead. Nothing any doctor could do would change that fact, and the only one who seemed unable to comprehend it was Lewis' own broken, bloodless body.
Larson remembered how he had gathered a courage he'd never believed he had. He knelt at his friend's side, caught the cold, blood-slicked hand, and met glazing brown eyes. "Yeah, buddy." Larson kept his face composed. "You're going home."
Lewis' eyes swept closed. His mouth twitched into a smile which remained until his last drop of life seeped into the jungle floor.
Now, surrounded by corpses in Hel's dank hall, Larson tapped the gentle strength of his memory. The dead studied him with fearless curiosity. Yet they did not reach to touch him nor open their mouths to speak. Unlike the phantoms of the movies, these ghosts appeared to have no designs against the living. Rather it seemed as if they sought to recapture some memory of the upper worlds and the individual existences they once took for granted.
Gaelinar wove through a gap in the crowd. His almond-hued skin and Oriental features seemed oddly out of place amidst the blackly-rotted flesh and wraith's pallor of Hel's dead. The agile movements which belied his advancing age and the brilliant gold of his clothing made him appear a caricature. With an impatient wave of his arm, he summoned Larson to him.
Larson came gladly, noting as he did that the dead separated to open a lane and allow his passage. They had not tried to harm him, he realized. Rather, he had stumbled into them. As warmth filtered back into his being with the painful slowness of thawing frostbite, he harbored no wish to make physical contact with these corpses again.
Gaelinar turned a disapproving glare on Larson. He spoke in a grating whisper. "I told you not to speak to them."
"Speak?" Larson was incredulous. "I didn't speak, I screamed. And it wasn't on purpose."
Gaelinar whirled and strode deeper into the hallway. "Someday, hero, you must learn self-control."
Control! Larson trailed Gaelinar, not bothering to voice his annoyance. In the past two weeks, I died, was hunted, had my thoughts violated by wizards and warring gods, fell in love with a woman then killed her, assassinated a god, and destroyed the only world I used to know. There was no longer any doubt in Larson's mind. When God… He amended. When gods created Gaelinar, they ran out of fear, so they substituted extra intolerance. He snorted, sending the animated cadavers scuttling from his path.
Farther down the hallway, Hel's citadel opened into a huge, unfurnished room. A chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling. Thick mist obscured the metal work so it appeared like a handful of intertwined snakes frozen for eternity. Half of the eight candles had burned out; the others danced in the breeze from the doorway, shedding scarcely enough light to delineate the granite blocks which composed the ceiling. In the entry way, first Gaelinar, then Larson, came upon a throne pushed against one wall, its jeweled magnificence dwarfed by the sad-faced man perched upon it. There was no mold or decay upon this visage. It seemed ageless and timeless, and splendor fairly radiated from it. Beside him sat a woman every bit as well-kept, but her beauty paled in comparison, though she seemed to bear at least as heavy a burden as her companion.
Larson paused, thinking these might be the gods they had come to see. But Gaelinar shook his head and led Larson a little farther into the chamber. The corpses remained huddled and attentive in the portal, but not one crosse
d into the partially illuminated room. The Kensei stopped and pointed into the cross corridor. "That's her."
Larson squinted as a figure approached through the mist. "Hel?"
Gaelinar nodded. "Queen of the realm she was named for. Choose your words with care, hero."
Larson watched as Hel crept toward them, advancing so slowly, he was uncertain if she moved at all. "Me? I'm going to talk to her?"
"Who else?"
Larson frowned, thinking the answer too obvious for him to bother replying. Nervously, he traced the gold and silver designs on the hilt of the sword he had claimed from Loki's corpse. He gathered breath to protest, but his words were never spoken. In the eon it took Hel to come before them, he realized what Gaelinar had pieced together long ago. I killed Silme. I won't be able to live with myself unless my own efforts either win her back or lose her forever. Throughout the trip from Midgard to Hel, grief, guilt, and disbelief had haunted Larson too hard for him to consider the persuasions he might use to charm the goddess who owned Silme's soul.
Hel came before her guests while Larson still brooded. Her face was crinkled and jowly, frozen into an eternal grimace of gloom. She was naked. Above the waist, she looked as normal as any living woman, small breasted, her skin pink and supple as an infant's. But her thighs and legs appeared green-black with decay. Her expression never changed as her eyes flickered over Larson and Gaelinar. She spoke so sluggishly, her words emerged shorter than the pauses between them. "Dead… or alive. Neither… of you… belongs… here."
Larson glanced sideways at Gaelinar, seeking some clue to the correct formalities when addressing the queen of the underworld. But Gaelinar remained still, his gaze fixed on Hel, his face impassive. Still uncertain, Larson considered bowing or kneeling, and settled on a simple nod of acknowledgement. "Your majesty, we've come to ask a favor."
Hel shifted her weight, meeting Larson's request with a strained and overlong silence. Then, she replied with the maddening tedium of a dripping faucet. "I… make… no bargains… with… the living. Even… dead… elves… do not… belong…"
Larson found not completing the goddess' sentences an effort in restraint.
"… here," Hel finished. "Go away." Her stolid features did not betray a hint of the emotion her words implied.
Larson wiped sweating palms on his tunic. His mind conjured images of Silme, long-legged, slim-waisted, her curves as soft yet pronounced as any gilded model of his own era. He could picture each highlight of her honey-colored hair and the gray eyes which betrayed her every mood. Emotionally, she had proven herself as strong as any man. The deep morality Larson had respected and loved led to her downfall, and drove her to sacrifice her own life for the cause of the world. A world which still sorely needs her. Larson's longing for Silme inspired the courage to try again. This time, he prefaced his words with a stiffly formal bow. "Queen Hel." The title sounded awkward to Larson's Christian-raised ears. "At least hear me out."
In response, Hel neither moved nor spoke.
At least she didn't turn away. Larson accepted it as a sign of encouragement. He cleared his throat and continued. "Kensei Gaelinar and I came to bring back Silme. She's a sapphire-rank Dragonmage who has done more to protect men and gods then anyone could. Her death was a terrible mistake."
Hel's frown deepened more than Larson thought possible. "Is… she… dead?"
Surprised by the question, Larson did not phrase his answer carefully. ' 'Well, yeah.''
"She… was not… killed… in… valorous combat?"
Larson rocked from foot to foot, uncertain where this questioning was leading. "Not in physical combat… but…"
Hel interrupted, "Then… there can be… no mistake. She… stays. You… go. I… cannot… release… the souls… which rightfully belong… here."
Larson suddenly realized what common sense had told him all along. A corpse cannot be made alive again. Gaelinar's determination and my own love allowed me to hope, but I have to accept the fact that Silme is dead.
Gaelinar's voice held the same inviolate authority as when he berated Larson for inappropriate sword figures. "You're lying, witch."
Hel remained, unmoving. She opened her mouth.
But Gaelinar spoke first. "We are foreigners, but not ignorant. I know the story of the slain god, Baldur. You bargained with the gods, living gods for his release."
"I did," Hel admitted. "With… conditions… even the gods… could not… meet. He's… still here." She inclined her head toward the inhumanly handsome man on the throne. "Even… if I… did not oppose… Silme's return… the Fates would see… any provisions I imposed… would not be… fulfilled."
Larson followed Hel's gesture. Baldur's dead eyes met his gaze, and the god seemed keenly interested in the conversation.
Gaelinar met Hel's pronouncement with a disinterested shrug. "Name your price, Lady. Allerum and I will handle the Fates."
Shocked by Gaelinar's cavalier dismissal of the Fates' power, Larson turned his attention back to the conversation. He recalled his encounter with the three hideous giantesses who controlled the destinies of men and gods. A simple meeting had required the efforts of Silme and Vidarr, an oracle's artifact, and passage through his own flawed mind.
Hel's ghastly face remained locked in its pall of gloom, but a twinkle of amusement softened the gunmetal blue of her eyes. "No… need. I know… the… means to appease… the Fates."
Hope spiraled through Larson. "How?"
"I… cannot… say." Hel's tone was maddeningly smug. "The dead… belong… to me. I… cannot… bow to… the whim of… every grieving… parent. I… cannot… sacrifice… my legions… to every… man… willing to… wander… through a few… short… days of… darkness… to retrieve… his lover. I… cannot…"
Gaelinar's katana hissed from its sheath, a gray blur in a world of shadows. "You cannot speak from a head rolling on the ground."
Surprised by Gaelinar's sudden ferocity, Larson sidestepped.
Hel loosed a noise which sounded like a cough, but Larson recognized it as laughter. "What… are you… going to do… swordmaster? Send… me to… Hel… for eternity? Perhaps… you… think… you can… make… me… uglier?"
Larson caught Gaelinar's arm and drew his teacher aside. He spoke as softly as possible. "She has nothing to lose, and we have everything. You kill her, we'll never be able to bargain for Silme's freedom."
Gaelinar frowned his disapproval, but he sheathed his sword. "She's not going to give in to our demands. Violent persuasion may not help, but it'll make me feel better."
"No." Larson was insistent. "She might take out her anger on Silme's soul." He turned back to Hel and spoke aloud. "Won't you reconsider? Silme's not just my girlfriend. She's got powers I never would have believed in a few weeks ago."
Hel did not seem to take notice of Larson's and Gaelinar's whispered exchange. "All… the… more… reason to… keep… her here. It… is her… destiny to… remain in… Hel. And… the world's… to live… without… her.''
Larson felt the growing cold of despair. He lowered his head. "At least let me speak with her before I go?"
Hel's reply seemed to span an eternity. "Talk… with anyone… you wish. Then… both of… you… go."
Larson pivoted, not quite certain what to expect and afraid to pick Silme from among the dead. Discomfort gnawed at him. He steeled himself for the pain of looking upon his lover, her beauty withered and muted into one grimacing corpse among Hel's horde. Yet he knew he had to see her at least one more time.
Hel cried out in sudden surprise. As she struggled to suppress her indiscretion, her dragging speech now appeared to bother her as much as it did Larson. "Where… did you… get that sword?"
Larson followed her stare to the weapon at his own hip. "That what?" he stammered. It came to him with frightening abruptness. Hel is Loki's daughter. And the grandeur of his hilt is unmistakable. She knows this is her father's weapon. He whirled to face the startled goddess, filled with new confi
dence. "I'll tell you. Immediately after you swear you'll let Silme go and explain how we can get her by the Fates."
Hel hissed, catlike.
Gaelinar remained still. Larson read amusement in a smile cryptic as the Mona Lisa's.
Hel drew up her shriveled form, and another long silence followed.
Larson waited, hiding impatience behind a mask of purpose. He knew he had gained the upper hand. The ball is in her court. Jesus, I hope I don't blow it.
Thoughtfulness drew out Hel's pauses even longer. "Agreed… but…"
Larson fought the urge to hurry Hel.
"… you… must… give… me… the… sword."
Give her… Larson struggled against his natural repugnance. In Vietnam, where the emotional closeness necessary for survival meant watching good friends die, Larson recalled many nights huddled in a damp hole haloed by the red streaks of tracers and the glare of illumination rounds. Then, an M-16 and a twisted piece of concertina wire were often the only things between him and the shadowy forms of the NVA. It went against every bit of experience, the rigor of army training, and Gaelinar's unyielding discipline to turn his only weapon over to an enemy. Yet the chance to regain the woman he loved was worth the sacrifice. He pushed aside the heavy-handed instincts ingrained by months of dodging death.
"Okay. It's yours." He undipped the sheathed sword from his belt and awaited Gaelinar's inevitable reproach. "After you uphold your part of the bargain."
Gaelinar remained silent.
Larson smeared sweat from his palm on his tunic and envied the stoic composure of his mentor.
Hel scratched at her cheek with far more deliberateness than the task required. "Very… well. You… do not speak… or bargain… like… any elf… I've encountered but…"
Larson fidgeted. While Hel completed her preliminary comments, he allowed his attention to roam to the milling corpses, dreading the thought of wading through them again. Baldur remained, tense and quiet, on his throne. He met Larson's gaze with uncontained eagerness. It was obvious he wished to talk. A sinuous twist of smoke rose from one of the remaining candles in the chandelier, then it went as dead as Hel's minions.
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