Dragon! Holy god, not again. Larson broke into a gallop, still following the river bank. He knew he could never outrun the creature; for all its size, it maneuvered like a hawk. And this time Larson had no cover and no Dragonrank sorceress to aid him.
The pulse of the dragon's wings rose in pitch as it banked for another pass. Larson lowered his head and quickened his pace, following the beast's progress by sound. It swooped, catching him effortlessly. Larson sprang aside. Flame fanned the ground where he had stood. Sparks splattered, sizzling into his tunic. Pinpoints of light rebounded like stars, revealing the grim, gray figure of the dragon. Weapon. I need a goddamned weapon. The instant the thought came to mind, he realized he was still clutching Silme's rankstone. He stopped so suddenly, the dragon swished over his head. I can't throw a stone which contains Silme's last vestiges of life. Can I? His only answer was the slap of batlike wings. But I have to try something. Otherwise, I'm dead, and Silme's rankstone will remain in Hel for eternity.
Before Larson could reposition, the dragon swooped, turned, and dove for him again. Steam twined from its nostrils, blue-white and visible in the darkness. Larson dodged, lost his footing, and forced himself to roll. This time, the dragon anticipated his movement. A tight bar of fire stabbed the ground an inch from Larson's forearm. Hot cinders splashed across his face and clothing. He gasped in pain, pitching across the ground to suffocate the early flames. The dragon circled for another attack.
Larson clambered to his feet. Smoke burned his lungs. His airways felt raw, and his breath rattled through his throat. It's only a matter of time before I miss a dodge or grow too fatigued to avoid its strikes. Cinders which had caught on his clothing fizzled to ash. The smell of burnt linen served as a constant reminder of his near escapes. Larson gripped Silme's rankstone and eased to a crouch, awaiting the dragon's next pass.
To Larson's left, Gaelinar's voice rose above the approaching slap of the dragon's wings. "Hie, beast! Here, you ugly monster. Your father was a toad!" He suffixed the insult with a series of wild howls.
Larson knew the dragon could not understand Gaeli-nar, but a hunter had once told him predators hated loud noises. Larson recalled a story of a bear attacking a camp because a barking dog drove it mad. Apparently, the dragon held a similar hatred for sound. For an instant, it hovered, listening. Then, roaring in anger, it whirled and whisked toward Gaelinar.
Larson chased the steady flap of the dragon's flight, clasping the gemstone so tightly its facets left squared impressions on his palm. Four running steps brought him within sight of Gaelinar's golden outline. He watched the dragon wheel and dip toward the Kensei, flame billowing from its mouth. Gaelinar danced aside. His arm arched toward the beast. Two shurikens, lit red by the plunging fire, rattled from its facial scales. A third embedded in one glaring, yellow eye.
The dragon loosed a bellow of fury and spiraled to the ground less than thirty yards from Larson. There, it pawed at its face with the frenzy of a dog with a painful burr. Through the fading fires of its attack, Larson watched Gaelinar rush the beast. The Kensei held a sword in one hand, his manrikigusari, a chain with end spikes, in the other. Even as he narrowed the gap, the shuriken dislodged. The dragon raised its head. Its eyes swiveled toward Gaelinar, its wings unfurled, and its jaws splayed open.
Larson shouted. He saw no place for Gaelinar to dodge. This close, there was not time for his mentor to avoid the dragon's flaming breath. "Gaelinar!" Larson cocked his arm and threw. The sapphire slapped the beast's cheek; fierce blue light exploded like a flare. With a snort of surprise, the dragon flinched and whirled to face Larson, crimson sparks spewing from its mouth in a scattered array. The sapphire thumped to the ground.
Desperately, Larson searched the broken gray ness with light-slashed vision. The dragon leaped skyward, the chain of Gaelinar's manrikigusari tangled on one of its ankles. The Kensei had wrapped the other end around his own hand, and the beast's abrupt movement jerked him into the air with a wrench which made Larson cringe. What the hell is that idiot doing? Larson blotted sweat from his brow with his sleeve, not daring to believe Gaelinar had tethered himself to a flying dragon. The nightmarish flap of wings sounded dangerously close.
Suddenly, the dragon loosed an almost human scream. A sticky liquid rained down on Larson, reeking with the thick, salt odor of fresh blood. The shadow of the dragon grew as it plummeted toward him. He dove free as the beast crashed to the ground, landing on its belly, crowing in rage. Larson watched, horrified, as it rolled from side to side, smashing Gaelinar beneath it.
A huge, red puddle seeped from beneath the dragon. God! Let it be the beast's blood. Larson raced toward it, wishing he held a weapon, any weapon. He seized Bal-dur's brooch from his pocket and balled it in his fist to add weight to his punch. The dragon's movements had become more agitated. It seemed to take no notice as Larson positioned himself at its side and raised his arms for a blow.
The dragon lurched heavily first right, then left. Its wings whipped suddenly upward. Larson dodged aside as the leathery limbs unfolded, then he ducked through the opening between a wing and the scaled neck. He cracked his fists down on the back of the beast's head.
The dragon roared. Its head bobbed only slightly. Its neck coiled, and it slashed at Larson, snakelike. He skipped aside; the dragon's uncharacteristic slowness was all that saved his hands. The curved fangs scraped Larson's knuckles as he retreated. The bite burned like fire. Larson swore as the dragon screeched again. It rocked across Gaelinar to its right side. Nursing his hand, Larson watched in horror as a gory hand, clutching a blood-soaked short sword, slid from beneath the dragon's softer underbelly. Gaelinar anchored the shoto's hilt against the dirt as the dragon rolled back. Larson sprang for the weapon too late. The creature swayed to the left, impaling itself on the protruding blade. It shuddered once and lay still.
Larson hesitated only an instant. He ran around the gigantic corpse. Gaelinar sat between the dragon's curled forelegs. Blood still poured from an artery positioned in the pit where the monster's shoulder met its chest, accounting for the scarlet gore which covered Gaelinar from head to toe. The Kensei still clutched the chain of the manrikigusari, wound tight around his hand. His katana lay by his side.
"You're alive." Shocked, Larson could think of nothing more intelligent to say. He replaced Baldur's gem in his pocket.
Gaelinar glanced up, appearing his age for the first time in Larson's memory. "And you have a strange habit of stating the obvious. Do all people where you come from do that?" Carefully, he freed his fingers from the chain. Without awaiting an answer, he continued. "Now come down here and help me get my arm back in place."
Larson stared. Apparently, the impact of the dragon's sudden flight had dislocated Gaelinar's shoulder. His left arm hung lower and farther forward than the right. Larson had seen a similar injury to a friend on his high school wrestling team. The coach had replaced the joint while his friend was still on the mat and all the athletes watched in fascination. "Lie down."
Gaelinar tossed his sword from the path of the dripping blood and moved away from the dragon. He settled to his back on the ground.
Larson seized Gaelinar's hand.
The Kensei loosed a grunt of pain. "Use the wrist."
Larson readjusted his grip carefully. "Sorry." Gaelinar's flesh had swollen around the indentations of the manrikigusari's chain. Chips and lumps grated beneath his skin. "Gaelinar," he said, alarmed. "I think you've crushed some bones."
"I just fought a creature which should have killed me, and I escaped with only an injured hand and shoulder. A warrior doesn't earn respect through what he learns but from what he survives."
Larson shook his head in disbelief. Battered, smashed, and hurting, and he still feels obligated to teach me. He planted his boot in Gaelinar's armpit, tightened his fingers on the Kensei's wrist, and gave a long, steady pull. When he released it, the arm snapped back into place.
Gaelinar accepted the pain without a sound. "Thank you, Lord Allerum.
"
Larson nodded his acknowledgment of Gaelinar's gratitude, glad the Kensei had not called him "hero." Unarmed and fifty years shy of his mentor's training, Larson's contribution to the dragon's demise seemed paltry.
Exercising his arm and fingers, Gaelinar approached the dark hulk of the dragon. "I need to get my other sword. Then I'm going to the river to clean off. When I get back, I suggest we keep moving. If we press on hard, we may reach Midgard before Modgudr regains her strength."
"And sends another dragon," Larson agreed, but even the battle and Gaelinar's wounds did not allow him to forget that he had thrown Silme's rankstone somewhere in the darkness. "I'll wait for you here. I need to find something." He dropped to his knees, straining his eyes as he pawed the dirt around him.
At length, Gaelinar hacked his short sword free from the dragon's scales and wandered toward the river.
Larson turned. A haggard semicircle illuminated a piece of the bare, black ground. In its center lay Silme's gemstone, appearing expended and spiritless. Its glow sputtered like an old fuse, an eerie reminder of Silme's dwindling time. What have I done to her? Larson crawled to it, feeling as feeble as the sapphire appeared. Did I unleash its powers? Did I cost Silme some of her remaining life force? He raked the stone into his fist and placed it gingerly in his pocket as though it might break. But, as Larson clambered to his feet, understanding replaced his initial feelings of guilt. His meager knowledge of Dragonrank sorcery made him certain life energy could only be spent by its owner. I suspect the sapphire flashed because Silme's magic met Modgudr's, nothing more.
Gaelinar reappeared shortly, his golden robes torn and stained. Water trickled from his gray hair, running in rivulets down his wrinkled face. Early bruises splotched the skin visible through the rents and gaps in his clothing. Yet the sheaths, hilts, and brocade of both swords hung, neat and clean, at his waist. "Let's go."
As Larson and Gaelinar pushed onward, the thinning darkness dwindled to gray mist. Exhaustion hunted Larson, and Gaelinar's silence suggested he, too, was due for sleep. They dragged forward, too tired to speak.
It was well into the tenth hour from Modgudr's bridge when Gaelinar and Larson came upon the cliffs which separated Hel's realm from Midgard. Beyond this natural wall, Larson could hear the roar of Hvergelmir's waterfall, a twisted cascade of eleven rivers which poured ceaselessly into a mile deep hole of death before it once again split into the streams which wound through Hel. It was there, at the top of the falls, where Silme and Bramin had lost their lives. There, too, Larson had hurled Loki into the plunging waters, thereby destroying the god, body and soul, for eternity.
Home. Born and raised in New York City, it seemed odd to Larson to consider the crude world of Midgard his residence now. But light streamed through the gorge which served as Hel's doorway, inviting as a campfire on a cold night. Reflexively, Larson quickened his pace. As he came upon the crack in the mountains which served as Hel's boundary, excitement overtook him. With a wild whoop of joy, he sprang for the opening.
A sudden growl and a shadowed blur of movement cut Larson's leap short. Instinctively, he twisted. A heavy form crashed into his hip, bowling him to the ground. Angry teeth pinched through his breeks and tore flesh. Larson rolled away. He pulled free with a tear of cloth. Blood trickled down his shin, and he stared into the sooty muzzle of a huge dog. It yowled and snarled, straining toward Larson but held in place by a staunch chain.
Larson spun back from the beast, then carefully worked his way to his feet. His injured leg felt numb. He looked at Gaelinar. "H-Hel hound?" he managed at length.
Gaelinar glanced from the frothing, black mongrel to Larson. '' No doubt.''
Now comfortably beyond range of the Hel hound, Larson examined his wound. It was little more than a deep scratch. He held pressure against it until the bleeding stopped, glad for the quickness of his own reaction despite fatigue. Recalling a dog fight he had witnessed in an alley in Manhattan, he suspected the Hel hound would attack with the ferocity of a pit bull. Had it caught a good hold, it would never have released him.
Gaelinar studied the Hel hound, its iron-link leash, and the entry way to Midgard. "I would have warned you, but you knew it was there. I didn't expect you to feed yourself to the Hel hound."
"I was too damn tired to think." Larson scowled. If he gives me a lecture about keeping my guard up, there's not a god in this world who could keep me from killing him. He closed Gaelinar's opening quickly. "How are we going to get past it?"
Gaelinar thumbed the hilts of his shoto and katana, his left hand swollen to twice its normal size. "We have no choice."
Gaelinar's slight, but unmistakable, smile convinced Larson the Kensei would have chosen combat, even if he had another option. Larson watched his mentor tense, becoming annoyed at a teacher with two swords who would let his pupil remain unarmed. "Uh, Gaelinar. Forgive me stating the obvious again, but I don't have a weapon."
Gaelinar turned to Larson. "Not even a knife?"
Larson shook his head. When Freyr had transported him from the Vietnam War to Old Scandinavia, the god had equipped him with only clothing and a sword. The tunic, breeks, and cape had long ago worn through and been exchanged for cleaner attire. He had lost the sword when Loki's death broke the spell which imprisoned the god, Vidarr, within its steel. Larson had misplaced the dagger Gaelinar had given him earlier in their travels, but he kept that information to himself. "Not even a child's slingshot."
The Hel hound crouched at the end of its chain, its growls deep and constant.
Gaelinar reached beneath his cloak and retrieved a pair of matched, ivory-hilted knives, still in their sheaths. "Here, then. Every man should carry a blade, even if he's not fighting dogs."
Though still bothered by Gaelinar's insistence on keeping both his swords, Larson took the daggers and attached them to his belt. His army training returned easily. He had been taught to fight off dogs, though he had never had the opportunity to put the knowledge to use before. Catch it up under the throat and knife it in the belly. Larson shook his head, doubting he would want to come so close to the beast while his mentor was flashing swords.
As Larson mentally prepared for battle, another dark shape filled the crevice, blotting out the light from Mid-gard. A beast twice as large as the Hel hound and thick with fur wound through the crevice and stood, still and proud, before the entry way.
Immediately, Larson recognized the wolf from his dream. "Fenrir," he whispered. Suddenly, the Hel hound no longer concerned him.
Fenrir returned Larson's gaze, its red eyes mocking. Water droplets sparkled at the tip of each hair, silvering the wolf's coat. Its stance was confident and detached, without a hint of fear. "Allerum… Kensei." It indicated each with a toss of its narrow muzzle. Its voice darkened, and its ears swept flat against its head. "You're both mine."
Gaelinar's swords whipped free, and the Kensei adopted a defensive pose. Larson hunched, a knife clenched in each fist. Even the warm rush of adrenaline did little to dispel fatigue. Larson's mind felt heavy and muddled. Gaelinar's stance was devoid of his usual bold confidence.
The Hel hound growled, a low rumble of menace. A ridge of spiked, black hair bristled along its back. It thrust its nose beneath Fenrir's abdomen.
Fenrir's triangular ears flicked forward suddenly. The glimmer of triumph died in its eyes. Its gaze never strayed from Gaelinar and Larson, but it addressed Hel's mongrel. "Get away from me, you stupid mutt."
The Hel hound's snarls deepened. It marched forward, stiff-legged, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Fen-ris Wolf. Both animals remained still, frozen like statues.
Gaelinar lowered his swords. His laughter rose over the Hel hound's threats. He assumed his normal posture.
Surprised by his mentor's lapse and finding no humor in the coming battle, Larson hesitated. "Why are you laughing?"
"Can't you see?" Gaelinar broke into another round of mirth. "The hound thinks Fenrir's another dog on his territory. If Fenrir takes a ste
p toward or away, there's going to be a… a dog fight." Gaelinar sheathed his swords. Pausing to laugh once more at Fenrir's expense, he stepped around the wolf and into the fissure.
Quickly, Larson followed.
The rush of Hvergelmir's waterfall echoed through the gorge, drowning out the Hel hound's growls. Droplets bounced from Larson's face, a moist, clean change from Hel's stifling darkness. A frenzied howl slashed the air. Slipping through the crevice into Midgard's twilight, Larson caught a glimpse of the Hel hound hurling its solidly-muscled bulk for Fenrir's throat.
Larson turned to watch. The wolf sidestepped easily, then charged the mongrel in a frenzied blur of attack. Fenrir slashed and tore, never in one position longer than a second. Fascinated, Larson stared as each of the Hel hound's mighty lunges fell short.
Gaelinar prodded Larson's shoulder. "Quickly now.
The farther we get before they finish, the better off we are."
Larson needed no more urging. He whirled and scrambled along the narrow pathway which would take them up the incline from Hvergelmir's pit.
A grating voice rose above the bellowing current of white water. "I'll find you again. No mere dog will keep me from my vengeance!"
Larson shivered, though whether from the cold sting of water droplets or some deeper discomfort, he did not know. Some trick of the rising sun lit Hvergelmir's falls the color of blood.
PART II:
The Masters of Midgard
CHAPTER 4: Master Thief
"Who is all-powerful should fear everything."
– Pierre Corneille LeCid
Al Larson awakened to utter darkness. He remained immobile in the dirt, not daring to believe he was finally out of Hel. The events of the previous morning: Fenrir's challenge, the dog fight, the rugged climb from Hvergelmir's pit all seemed too vividly real to have been a dream. Filled with bitter disbelief, he stared into the sky. Gradually, he discerned the pinpoint light of stars through interwoven branches, and he realized it was a normal, moonless night in Midgard. The air felt thick with the mingled scents of loam and pine and the comforting, acridly woody smell of a campfire. Larson rolled to his side. "Gaelinar?"
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