Dragonrank master bg-3

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  "No one knows." Gaelinar spoke with casual indifference as they traced Taziar's path through the densely-clustered branches. "No one has gotten into Geirmagnus' estate."

  "And I suppose you can't tell me why."

  An impatient frown formed on Gaelinar's lips. "I could. For Silme's sake, though, I've chosen not to."

  Wonderful. Larson folded his arms across his chest. "You know, Gaelinar. If there's some sort of monster guarding this place, I believe I have a right to know."

  The crow's feet at the corners of Gaelinar's eyes deepened with cynical amusement. "Trust me, Allerum."

  Larson pictured the Hel hound howling and slavering at the entrance to Midgard and found the Kensei's reassurance less than comforting.

  Ignoring Larson's worry, Gaelinar cleared his throat and returned the conversation to the matter which concerned him. "Now tell me, Allerum. Why would Vidarr suggest we drag along an arrogant, little thief?"

  Gaelinar's question was still unresolved when evening descended upon the pine forest. The world dulled to silver haze, broken by the towering, skeletal forms of the trees. Aggravated by Gaelinar's and Taziar's exchanged slurs and plagued by events beyond his control, Larson felt restless. "I'll take first watch."

  To Larson's relief, neither of his companions argued. After a supper of jerked meat and tasteless bread, each chose a piece of cleared ground, some distance apart, and dropped into sleep.

  Surrounded by the soft rhythms of his companions' breathing, Larson brooded. I'm a goddamned pawn. As far as the gods are concerned, they saved my life and now they own it. He leaped to his feet.

  Gaelinar and Taziar stirred briefly at the movement, then returned to their dreams.

  Carefully, Larson paced between them. What's going to happen if I do retrieve Geirmagnus' rod? I'll get Silme back… maybe. Then Vidarr or Freyr or Odin will find some new form of blackmail. He slammed his fist into his palm. Well, forget it. I've paid my dues. From now on, if Vidarr wants a favor, he can ask like anyone else.

  Larson retook his seat on the needle-blanketed woodland floor. Frustration settled over him, suffocatingly heavy in the silence. I've got to stop thinking like this. The gods can read my every treasonous thought as if I shouted it from the highest mountaintop. The realization further fueled his ire. And that, too, makes damn little sense. Vidarr claimed Freyr chose me for the initial quest because I have no "mind barriers. " Silme believed this defect was very rare, perhaps unique. Whatever these ' 'mind barriers'' are, having none seems to mean certain beings-dream-readers, sorcerers, gods, and giant wolves-have access to my thoughts and memories. AND I DON'T LIKE IT!

  Larson scowled, allowing his mind to run freely with the topic until fatigue grew strong enough to overpower anger. By the position of the moon and the color of the night sky, he could tell several hours had passed. Yawning, he scrutinized his companions and chose Taziar as the least comfortable of the pair. Larson approached the climber, caught a thin forearm, and shook.

  Taziar opened his eyes.

  "Your turn on watch." Feeling spiteful, Larson added, "Though I can't say I'll sleep all that well with a thief guarding me."

  Taziar sat up, suddenly fully alert. "I'd appreciate it if the two of you would stop calling me a thief.''

  Larson stretched out on his side and leaned on one elbow, prepared to vent this irritation on his newest companion. "Why?" he asked gruffly.

  "Why?" Taziar's voice rose with incredulity, then went gruff with annoyance. From a larger man, his tone might have sounded menacing. "First, it's insulting. Second, it makes me and anyone who hears you uneasy. And third, it's not true."

  Larson blinked twice in succession. "But you steal. You take other people's things. Where I come from, that makes you a thief.''

  "Allerum. Have you ever killed?"

  "Yes," Larson confessed.

  Taziar hugged his knees to his chest. "Then you won't mind if I call you 'murderer.' "

  Taziar's words infuriated Larson. Guilt slammed against his conscience, and the old, Vietnamese woman near the fire base filled his memory. "Don't you dare! There's a difference between killing and murder, you know."

  Taziar quirked one eyebrow. "Taking things and stealing aren't the same either."

  "Taking things against a person's will after he earned them is stealing."

  "Oh." Taziar rocked from his heels to his buttocks. "You mean like taxes."

  "No!" Larson heaved an exasperated sigh. "You're playing games with me, and I don't like it."

  "I'm just defending myself from undeserved abuse. Mardain knows, I've taken my share today."

  Larson rolled to his stomach and propped his chin in his hands. "Give it up, Shadow. I may learn to tolerate you, but I'm not going to approve of pickpocketing. I don't think much of people who steal from working men because they're too lazy to get jobs of their own."

  Taziar scooted toward Larson and thrust a palm near the elf's face. The fingers appeared badly scarred and yellow-gray with calluses. "Does this look the hand of an idle man?"

  "No," Larson admitted.

  "Then quit judging me on a single incident and Gae-linar's prejudice."

  "Look." Larson swept to a sitting position, legs crossed before him. "I wish Gaelinar would ease up on you, too. But he does have a point. I don't like traveling with men I don't trust any more than he does. Dishonesty is not an admirable trait in a companion."

  Taziar laid a hand on the sheathed sword by his knee, but his maneuver seemed more of a gesture than a threat. "Dishonesty? You had best be speaking of Gaelinar. I assure you, my integrity is genuine and intact."

  "A man who would steal wouldn't hesitate to lie."

  Taziar leaned forward. "That's nonsense, Allerum. The one has nothing to do with the other. And when have I ever taken anything from you?"

  "Never." Larson yawned. "At least, I don't believe you have. But you stole from Gaelinar."

  "Aga'arin's fat, metallic ass, Allerum. I gave everything back to him. Does that sound like stealing to you?"

  "No. But you robbed Gaelinar too easily for me to believe you haven't had practice. A lot of practice."

  "Sure, I've taken things before."

  "Ah ha!" Larson crowed his triumph. "So you do lie. And you are a thief.''

  "No." Taziar clamped a hand to his face in disgust. "I never said I didn't take things. I said I wasn't a thief."

  It seemed to Larson the conversation had returned to its original premise without moving an inch nearer to resolution. "What's the difference between taking and stealing?"

  "The same as that between killing and murder. Intent. Have you ever lived in a big city, Allerum?"

  Larson smiled. "You could say that."

  "How large?"

  "When I left it, New York City had a population of about eight million people."

  Taziar snorted. "That's not funny. I'm serious."

  "So am I."

  "Eight million of the two million people in the world live in this city 'New York'. And I've never even heard of it?" Taziar hesitated. "Is this an elven city?"

  Larson sighed, wishing he had not answered Taziar's population question truthfully. "Not exactly. It's too hard to explain. Just go on with your point."

  "Fine." Taziar rose to his knees, raked his sword to his hand, and fastened it to his belt. "Then you must have noticed beggars and street orphans and lunatics living in the roadways."

  "Sure."

  "How do you think they eat?"

  Larson smiled. "Food stamps?"

  Taziar crinkled his face, perplexed. "I've only recently learned your language. I've never heard those words used that way. Explain."

  Larson shrugged off Taziar's confusion. "It's an inside joke and not a very good one. I imagine they beg or find jobs."

  Taziar climbed to his feet. He seemed intent and agitated, as if the conversation had become too familiar. "Find jobs? Allerum, these people are children, elderly, ill, crippled, blind, or crazy. They steal, Allerum. They steal whateve
r they can from whoever they can. They steal, or they starve. Believe me, I know. I was orphaned at twelve. And, yes, I stole, too. When I got good enough at it to feed myself and my friends, I chose my victims more carefully. I targeted men and institutions who could afford to nourish the hungry. And it didn't stop there. You see, Allerum, the more I took, the more empty bellies I could fill."

  Now Larson snorted. "Right. Sure. Sort of a… miniature, German Robin Hood. I always pictured Errol Flynn taller.''

  Taziar cocked his head. His eyes widened with confusion. "What language are you speaking?"

  "Never mind." Larson cajoled Taziar, his voice heavy with mockery. "Go on. Tell me more about your…" He chose his words with care, "… astounding altruism."

  Taziar's shoulders rose and fell; apparently Larson's sarcasm went unrecognized. "There's not much left to tell. For years, my father loyally led the baron's troops through a senseless war. When my father died, the baron's politics condemned me to the streets. The baron owed a chance at life to the orphans and cripples his stupid battles created, and I simply took it for them. I'd be there still if I hadn't been betrayed and nearly executed. Perhaps, in a few years, I'll go back."

  Larson smiled, amused. Though he doubted every word of Taziar's story, the simple, amiable exchange of conversation had dispelled his aggravation. "That was a pretty good yarn. I'm impressed." He tipped his head to meet Taziar's face which wore a look of solemn innocence. "I'm still going to keep my wallet in my jock strap, but I am impressed." He considered. Taziar reminded him of a certain high school senior who was a great asset at a fight or any athletic event but who could never be trusted near a sister or girlfriend. The climber had a smooth, friendly confidence which made him likable though not reliable. "And you know something, Shadow? Even though you just spent half an hour spouting bald-faced lies…"

  Taziar opened his mouth to protest, but Larson waved him silent.

  "Even though you just wasted half an hour of my sleeping time with fiction," Larson nodded repeatedly to emphasize his point, "I think you're all right."

  Taziar chewed his lip in contemplation. " 'All right,' huh?" He knelt, imitating Larson's head bobbing. "That, my friend, is what I've been trying to tell you."

  "Wolf!"

  Larson was asleep only a few minutes when Taziar's shout jarred him awake. Instinctively, he leaped to his feet, clawing at his belt for a weapon. The instant he rose, Fenrir slammed into him with express train force. Impact sprawled him. Something gashed his scalp, and he heard the snap of teeth as the wolf's bite fell short.

  Fenrir! Larson struggled for breath. The pain which plowed through his body lost meaning in the battle for air. Through vision blurred by darkness and anguish, he glimpsed the giant form of the wolf towering over him. Jaws wide, Fenrir loosed a harsh bellow of contempt. Its neck went taut, and it lunged again.

  Larson tensed; his sinews shrieked in complaint. Chest heaving with effort, he forced himself to roll. Fenrir's canines slashed his collar like a razor. The cloth tore away, revealing a grim line of scarlet. He tried to scream for help, but his air-starved lungs resisted.

  Gaelinar! God, Gaelinar, where are you? Larson's breaths came in tortured moans he could not suppress. He threw up his arms to guard his throat. It was a feeble gesture at best; he knew the wolf's next attack would claim his life.

  Again, Fenrir's gaping mouth plunged toward Larson. He winced, gathering his failing strength to twist away. Rows of sword-sharp teeth the color of old ivory filled his vision. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure dive at the wolf's face. Fenrir yowled and staggered back, Taziar clinging to the beast's great neck. Moonlight glinted from the dagger in his fist, and it struck through Fenrir's fur again and again.

  The Fenris wolf bellowed in rage. It reared, forelegs pawing for Taziar, tossing its head in chaotic circles. Blood splashed Larson. The knife tore from Taziar's fist and flew between the huddled pines. The thief clung, ashen-faced, arms wrapped around the wolf's neck until a final buck dislodged him. Taziar soared in an ungainly arc, struck a tree trunk, and crumpled in an awkward, motionless heap.

  Larson cringed in sympathy, breathing more easily now. He wallowed through agony to his sword hilt. The blade rattled free with maddening slowness.

  Fenrir whirled back to Larson. Blood speckled the dark fur between its ears. It wore a broad grimace of triumph; malice darkened its eyes.

  "My turn, wolf." Beyond Fenrir, Gaelinar adopted a perfect fighting stance. Still and coiled, he appeared like a statue carved in gold. His swords remained in their sheaths.

  Fenrir spun toward Gaelinar. A ridge of hair rose along its spine. Its plumed tail went low with threat. "Your turn, Kensei? Your turn to die! "It charged Gaelinar with the same wild rush which had toppled Larson.

  Larson straggled to a sitting position, ignoring the warning ache of his hip.

  In a single motion, Gaelinar dodged, drew, and cut. The wolf swerved with him; its movement dulled the impact of their clash. Gaelinar bounced to the ground, but his strike opened Fenrir's shoulder. With a snarl of pain, the wolf overran Gaelinar, then whirled to face the Kensei again.

  Fenrir staggered slightly. Its bloodied head swung from Taziar's broken form; to Larson, clumsily attempting to stand; to Gaelinar braced for another attack. The wolf's tongue lolled. "One dead. Two left. Next time, you won't hear me coming." With that warning, Fenrir turned and bounded into the forest.

  With some satisfaction, Larson noted Fenrir was limp-ing. At least we hurt it, too. He accepted Gaelinar's extended hand and stood. Trying to hide his own lameness, he tottered unsteadily to a nearby pine and leaned against its trunk. The pain localized to his left arm and hip. His vision swirled.

  Gently, Gaelinar knelt over Taziar and pressed two fingers to the smaller man's throat.

  "Is he?" Larson asked, fairly certain Fenrir's assessment was correct. Taziar seemed too still to be breathing, and dark blood trickled from one ear.

  "He's alive, but he needs our help." Gaelinar twisted to face Larson as he sat beside the fallen man. "I suppose he's earned it." He looked pensive. "Allerum, I'm not often wrong, but this time I may have judged too quickly. He's…"

  "All right," Larson finished hoarsely. "I know." Dizzy and aching, he fought a wave of nausea. "That's what he kept trying to tell us."

  A careful assessment revealed Larson's wounds less severe than they might have been. From the sharp pains he suffered with every breath, he knew he had strained the cartilage between his ribs and sternum. Irregular, tender patches of red on his hip, chest, and forearm warned of coming bruises. Though the gash from Fenrir's teeth ached, he doubted it would cause a problem as long as it did not become infected.

  Larson found Taziar's injuries more difficult to evaluate. A brief inspection confirmed all the damage Taziar had taken was internal. And Larson knew from experience there was nothing less predictable or more dangerous than a blow to the head.

  Gaelinar hefted Taziar's limp form. "Let's find some other place to finish our sleep. I don't think Fenrir will return tonight. But if it does, I'd rather it had to hunt for us."

  Larson nodded, feeling battered and exhausted. "Let's go" Gaelinar and Larson wandered to a sheltered grove a short distance farther into the woods. The Kensei placed Taziar on a soft pile of shed needles, and the two conscious men cleared ground for their own beds. Provisions and weapons within easy reach, Larson listened to the purr of insects and strained his hearing for the crackle of wolf paws through brush.

  Before Larson or Gaelinar found sleep, Taziar sat up. His gaze swept the clearing in confusion then focused on Gaelinar. He spoke as if awakening from a simple nap. "Kensei…" His voice went tremulous and faint. "You still owe me an explanation."

  Larson crouched, glad Taziar had awakened but afraid the climber believed they were still in the tavern. "What did you say?''

  Taziar's pale eyes remained fixed on Gaelinar. "Allerum, your friend still has not told me why he attacked me at the Dragonrank schoo
l. I think I earned the right to know."

  Larson bit his lip to keep from smiling.

  Gaelinar laughed aloud. "Agreed. But does it have to be now? We're all hurt and tired."

  Taziar's face tensed into a solemn mask. "It can't wait. I'm not stupid. We all know I may not survive the night."

  Larson thought he could discern a note of sadness beneath Taziar's matter-of-fact tone. He winced. Taziar was no older than his war companions in Vietnam. And, for some reason he could not fathom, this bothered Larson.

  Gaelinar tucked his legs beneath him and lowered his buttocks to his heels. "Very well. But the story begins long before we met. It may take some time."

  Shakily, Taziar lay flat on the ground. "I'm not going anywhere soon."

  Larson scooted backward and hunched against a pine tree. He suspected Gaelinar's tale would address some of the issues which plagued him as well. He listened with closed eyes, allowing Gaelinar's descriptions to fill his mind with imagery.

  "My country is one of rugged peaks and low, silken valleys enclosed and protected by the clear blue waters of its ocean. Aside from the crafted stone castles of the emperors, we lived in wooden cottages with sliding doors and shutters. It is a land where every man must have a skill to sell. The farmers toil, raising rice to feed the lords and their own families. The artisans master tools and plans. The merchants live to profit from the others. But the samurai must sell his very soul, his way with weapons and strategy. He must adhere to a rigid code of honor, loyalty, courage, and the resolute acceptance of death at all times." Gaelinar's eyes held a distant look.

  Larson and Taziar waited in respectful silence until Gaelinar continued. "My training as a warrior began almost before I could walk. The weapons skills and the use of my spirit in combat came as naturally as breathing. I was pledged to the emperor before I reached manhood, but my musha shugyo, my spiritual path to enlightenment through combat, did not begin until many years later, when Silme came to Edo."

  Interest replaced Larson's fatigue. Gaelinar's relationship to Silme had always engrossed and, sometimes, troubled him.

  Gaelinar leaned forward and braced his hands on his thighs. "Before Silme arrived, I had served my lord, and later his son, for more than forty years. I had never strayed from the code of bushido. Because of my skill and dedication…"