Dragonrank master bg-3

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Larson smiled at Gaelinar's confidence which approached pomposity. It had become too familiar to bother him any longer.

  "… I had risen in the emperor's service until I became his personal bodyguard. Then, one day, a young, yellow-haired woman named Silme arrived from the west. She asked to speak with my lord, in private, and he granted her request." Gaelinar closed his eyes. His chin sank to his chest.

  For a moment, Larson thought the Kensei had drifted off to sleep.

  But Gaelinar raised his head and continued. "While Silme and my lord conversed alone, illness claimed my master. Since it was my duty to protect him, and I was not present when he perished, I had failed. Honor bound me to die with him. In fact, I was preparing to commit seppuku, when Silme convinced me otherwise. She argued that death is a normal part of life. Since my master was not slain by an enemy, I would have shirked my duty had I saved his life and prevented him from fulfilling his destiny. Then Silme told me of the larger world beyond my experience. She described the powers I had not yet tested my skills against and the glory I could win by proving myself the greatest swordmaster, not of an isolated chain of islands, but of the entire world." Gaeli-nar's muddy eyes glimmered with elation and determination. A cruel smile twitched across his features.

  Something uncharacteristically evil about Gaelinar's demeanor made Larson shiver.

  Gaelinar continued, oblivious. "Despite this new challenge, I still felt the need of some personal sacrifice to sever the final bonds between me and my master. In order to face the challenges of the world, my body remained alive, but my birthname died. The moment I left the white sand beach of Honshu, Fujiwara Hida No Kami Shokan ceased to exist; and Silme renamed me Gaelinar."

  Larson suppressed the urge to ask Gaelinar how he ever remembered his full title. "Why 'Gaelinar'? It doesn't sound Japanese or Norwegian."

  Gaelinar shrugged. "I don't know. It took me a year to learn to pronounce it, and I still have no idea what it means. But Silme insisted, and one foreign name seemed the same as another to me."

  Larson grinned, recalling how a spell of inept stuttering had earned him the strange sounding monicker of Allerum. And Shadow doesn't use his real name either. "But you still haven't explained why you tried to kill Shadow."

  Taziar nodded in agreement, then winced in pain.

  "Patience is a rare and wonderful thing." Gaelinar spoke soberly but ruined the effect by adding, "I wish I had some."

  Larson laughed.

  Taziar smiled weakly.

  "One of my lord's advisers had always been jealous of my favor with the emperor. In order to avenge himself on me, he claimed I had shamed my master by refusing to commit seppuku. For years afterward, assassins followed me. They always wore black. They hid in the shadows, attacking, unseen, from behind every corner and tree. Instead of learning the way of the sword, over-coming men for honor and glory, these would-be killers were students of treachery, deceit, and cowardice.

  "Many times, they tried to catch me unaware and slay me in sleep." Gaelinar's bitterness returned. "And many times, they failed. Finally, the attempts ceased. Whether I was forgotten or had merely killed all the assassins who knew where to find me, I cannot know. But I have not seen one for three years." He looked directly at Taziar. "Until I found you clinging to the walls of the Dragon-rank school. After seven years during which my survival depended on striking first, when I saw you, I had no need to question. In my mind, it was my life or yours."

  Gaelinar raised and lowered his head in an abbreviated gesture of respect. "In ten years, Shadow, you're the first one who escaped me."

  Taziar lay in quiet contemplation. At length, he spoke, his voice subdued. "I find it difficult to consider my luck an honor. And I still don't understand. Surely you could tell me from an assassin of your people."

  Gaelinar ran the edges of his hands along his face. "Ten years of habit are hard to break. And others besides the Japanese will kill for money."

  Taziar's features crinkled with concern. "But now, I hope, you realize I'm not one of those 'others.' "

  Gaelinar dropped his hands. "I don't know, Shadow. You've followed us, at least since the Dragonrank school. You've put a lot of effort into gaining my attention. And, by the way, you're lucky I didn't kill you for that incident in the tavern. You agreed to join us with little or no knowledge of our quest. And you haven't offered a plausible explanation for any of that."

  Taziar's face bunched tighter. "So you still believe I've come to kill you?"

  Gaelinar shrugged. "You've given me no reason to think otherwise."

  The words surprised Larson. He nearly died for me and still may. That's enough proof for me. He opened his mouth to voice his thought, but Taziar's feeble voice broke the encroaching stillness first.

  "Fair enough. My motives are honorable, if somewhat odd. You see Kensei… Allerum…" He rolled his eyes to each of his companions in turn. "… I am possessed by love."

  Larson suppressed a laugh. That's the corniest line I've ever heard. It occurred to him suddenly that traveling to Hel, battling dragons, and beseeching gods and sorcerers to restore life to a dead lover might fall well within Taziar's description. Corny or not, I guess I can identify with that. Larson found a comfortable position, certain he would find Taziar's story intriguing if not particularly accurate.

  Taziar let his lids drift closed. The overhanging boughs draped his sallow face in shadow. With careful yet flowery words, he detailed his love for Astryd, his visit to the Dragonrank school, and the information gained there. "It seemed to me the best way to make Silme receptive to taking Astryd on as apprentice would be for me to assist her return from death. You know the rest."

  Gaelinar's voice sounded unusually loud after Taziar's soft-spoken defense. "Why did you not tell us this before?"

  "You never gave me a chance."

  Apparently satisfied, Gaelinar rolled to his side.

  Larson hesitated, listening to the owlish, whirring barks of foxes. A distant wolf howl sent a chill along his spine. There's still something he's not telling us. His story doesn't explain why he was he so willing to die for me. Larson replayed Fenrir's attack in his mind. Taziar's dive for the great wolfs neck had been an act of fanatical and reckless courage. Why? No one could be that self-sacrificing. He recalled how Silme had dedicated her life to neutralizing her half brother's atrocities. Another scene filled his mind, a trench in Vietnam filled with American soldiers and a single, live grenade. Before anyone else could act, an eighteen-year-old private leaped upon it, shielding his buddies from the blast. It exploded, spraying the others with shrapnel and blood. Chest and abdomen torn open, the hero had suppressed his moans of pain until death claimed him.

  Larson shuddered, chasing the memory from his thoughts. He studied Taziar in the dappled light of early morning. The climber lay, limp and silent, breaths deep but uneven. "Do you think he'll make it?"

  Gaelinar said nothing as he pondered Larson's euphemism. When he did reply, it was with a fatalistic detachment. "We'll know by evening."

  CHAPTER 8: Masters of the Mind

  "What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough: for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams."

  – Pedro Calderon de la Barca Life is a Dream

  Larson rolled over in his sleep. Immediately, darkness enfolded his consciousness. He found himself in blackness as thick, heavy, and tangible as pitch. All memory escaped him. He stood, blind and disoriented, heart pounding with apprehension. He tensed to a crouch, felt the searing presence of enemy eyes watching, unseen, from the impenetrable night. Somehow they could see him, he had no doubt.

  Suddenly, a wolf howled behind him, a wordless, exultant song of evil. Larson whirled. Pain hammered his body; his chest spasmed, making every breath painful. A second howl sounded, louder, contemptuous, and directly across from the first. He spun again. Before he could react to the dull chorus of aches, another howl rent the air to his
right, closer now. Larson twisted toward it. He backstepped, clawing the air behind him for a barrier against which to press his back. His fingers met empty space, and another howl shattered the silence directly behind him.

  Larson leaped in surprise. His foot came down on a root. His ankle rocked sideways, and he tumbled to the ground. He floundered through darkness to his hands and knees, tensed to rise, and found himself gazing into blazing crimson eyes. He screamed, staggered back, and again tripped over the root, now behind him. He fell, hard, on his spine and stared up at a row of saliva-slicked, yellowed teeth, each as long and sharp as a saber.

  Larson threw back his head and bellowed with fright. He lurched away from the creature, sparking a fresh wave of agony through his chest and hip. Foul breath struck his face, and he saw that the beast, and all its teeth, had swerved with him. Pain. Larson panted. Damn this pain. If this is a dream, why do I feel so much goddamned pain? The thought electrified him. All fear drained away. His sense of self returned, hot and strong within him, and he recognized the pain as the bruises from his battle with Fenrir. He clambered to his feet, oblivious to the wolf which threatened him with jaws widely-hinged. "You've lost, Fenrir! This time, you're not real. You're nothing but an intruder in my dreams tonight, and I know you cannot hurt me." Larson's words echoed through the vast cavern of his mind.

  The darkness fell away, revealing the heavily-muscled form of the Fenris wolf. Clotted blood darkened one shoulder, but its red eyes glowed with life. It growled, deep in its throat. "Allerum. Even in your own thoughts, I am stronger than you!" As it spoke the last syllable, it sprang toward Larson's dream-form, lashing at the twisted coils of thought.

  Despite his bold words, Larson dodged aside instinctively. The wolf struck a glancing blow which knocked him to the ground. The fall stole his breath and his courage. Realization of dream slipped from his grasp. Fear and confusion regained their hold, leaving Larson with a bad taste in his mouth and the knowledge that something seemed out of place. He struggled for the lost concept. Great peals of mocking laughter rocked the wolf as it slid the recognition of dream further from Larson's conscious understanding.

  Abruptly, another being appeared in Larson's mind. The wolf dropped its attack; a spark of insight roused Larson. Dream. It's a… Then both intruders' emotions crashed against him, knocking his consciousness askew.

  He felt suffocated by wolf-inspired panic followed by Fenrir's own shock and surprise, alien but powerful as the tide. The other presence radiated determination.

  Larson groped for some semblance of sanity on which to anchor his shattered reason. The world exploded, hurling him into nothingness. He fell, spinning and tumbling through leagues of empty air, shot through with terror and the certainty of death. Desperately, his fingers cleaved the darkness. Another clash rocked his being, tossing him as carelessly as flotsam. His foot touched something solid. Arching, he flung his body sideways and clung to the only reality he could find.

  A rocket screeched. Directly overhead, it splintered with a roar, splattering multihued pinpoints across the summer sky. Larson clapped, surrounded by gasps of awe and childish squeals of appreciation. He scooted back against the windshield of his father's Dart and glanced at his brother. Suddenly, the scene dissolved around him, and he realized he was alone. Fear struck like madness. Larson groped through the moonless darkness which ensued between one barrage and the next. The car was gone. The crowd had disappeared, replaced by muffled sounds of movement. Larson froze.

  Mortars slashed red trails through the heavens; thickening clouds kept their light alive long after the explosion of sound. Man-shadows and distantly familiar faces replaced the cheering mob. And Larson seized a tenuous grasp on reality. Incoming. Incoming! And I'm sitting here impressed, like I'm watching some stupid Fourth of July fireworks. He leaped to his feet. Whirling, he ran toward the bunker.

  Larson had taken only three steps when he crashed into an unyielding mass of fur and muscle. Pain descended on him. He staggered sideways. The darkness fled and the firebase faded into memory, replaced by a stretch of frozen ground as barren as a tank-cleared plain. Fenrir spun with a startled curse. Old blood still matted its shoulder. No other marks marred its dark hide, but it panted as if from great exertion. Beyond the wolf, Vidarr crouched, sword angled defensively before him. Sweat sheened on his pale limbs. Flaps of clothing dangled, woven through with silver threads. Anger darkened his fair features.

  Fenrir advanced toward Larson, ears laid flat to its head, crimson eyes gleaming. Larson dove aside. Gaeli-nar's words hissed in his ear, foreign and uninterpretable, their inflection wholly alien. Some force outside Larson's mind racked his body, reawakening the ache of his injuries. Fenrir sprang. Larson ducked. The beast sailed over Larson's head and vanished through a yawning gap into the infinity of world beyond his mind. The wolf's voice echoed in threat. "Next time, Allerum, I come for real. No god can save you then."

  Larson staggered, feeling weak and spent. Anchored in his own mind, he heard Gaelinar only as distant noise. He glanced at the gold and silver figure of Vidarr. Where? How?

  Larson did not expect an answer, so Vidarr's reply startled him. Fenrir invaded your mind. I came to aid you.

  Larson studied his surroundings in bleary detachment. Vidarr stood among loops of mental circuitry, a chaotic array of wires which Larson knew must represent his own brain. Light flickered and slashed along the pathways as the scene registered and he contemplated its significance. Fenrir, he repeated, dazed. In my dream. Larson's voice seemed to issue from a tangled coil a short distance before the exit; he held no material form in his own mind. With that discovery, he felt himself drawing back into his physical body. He resisted, strengthened by the early stirrings of resentment. Vidarr, I was fighting Fenrir off until you came.

  Derisive laughter rang through Larson's thoughts. Until I came, Fenrir was playing you like a mouse.

  No!

  Vidarr radiated an aura of contempt. Yes, Allerum. I've told you before, you lack the natural mental barriers people of this era possess. Your mind is like a book. Any force with enough knowledge and power can penetrate and manipulate it, writing and rewriting as it pleases.

  Wrong, Vidarr! Growing rage lent power to Larson's rebuttal. Fenrir can wake old memories. It can inspire

  thoughts and torture me with images. But, while inside my mind, Fenrir can cause me no physical harm.

  Vidarr's anger echoed Larson's. Of what consequence is physical harm! Your strongest enemies can control your beliefs. They can turn you away from your important goals.

  Ah ha!

  Vidarr hesitated. Ah ha?

  This is what it all comes down to, isn't it, Vidarr? You're scared Fenrir might convince me not to fetch Geirmagnus' rod.

  Vidarr was accustomed to communicating with emotions; his self-righteousness came through every bit as clearly as his words. Whatever happened to gratitude, Allerum? I just faced the strongest chaos force in existence for you. Fenrir may not be able to hurt you in your mind, but it could have killed me. And you seem to have forgotten that Freyr rescued you from death to bring you here, at no small risk to his own life.

  Larson snorted. The sound filled every crevice of his mind. Freyr brought me here because he needed someone from my age. He needed a person without mind barriers to communicate with you by wielding the sword in which Loki had trapped you. He summoned me to slay a god. I accomplished that. In doing so, I destroyed my own world. My debt is paid. I'm free now. I don't owe you or Freyr any favors. I didn't ask him to bring me here, and I didn't ask you for help against Fenrir. In fact, I politely requested you to STAY OUT OF MY PERSONAL MEMORIES!

  Vidarr dismissed Larson's tirade, his annoyance hot and tangible through the cramped corners of Larson's mind. Listen, Allerum. I'm tired of your disrespect. I don't know what gods are like in your world, but here, we seldom deign to speak with humble mortals. When we do, it's considered the greatest honor.

  Spare me the speech… and the honor, Vidarr. Fr
eyr chose me because I yelled his name in my last moment of life. Freyr doesn't exist in my world. Calling on him was a sacrilege. If I don't respect the God I was taught

  to worship since childhood, how can you expect me to respect you?

  Vidarr's eyes followed the shifting lights which betrayed Larson's current abstraction.

  Larson seized the god's silence to continue. I'm sick of everyone expecting me to kowtow and cast aside my own ideals for theirs. Protected or not, my mind is my own. Your presence is as much a violation of my privacy as Fenrir's. Recalling Vidarr was an ally, Larson tried to soften his words. Damn it, Vidarr. I feel like I'm being raped. I have to learn to handle this handicap on my own. Don't worry about my thoughts. I know myself well enough to recognize and ignore a concept which goes against my nature.

  Vidarr remained haughty and relentless. Bramin once convinced you I was an unholy being and your mission was to destroy me.

  That was before either of us knew he could influence my dreams.

  Regardless, Allerum. It's my job to keep you on task. Freyr pulled you from a hellish war…

  … To place me into another hellish war. Into Hel itself even! I'm supposed to feel grateful that Freyr ripped me from a world of technological miracles and dumped me into the body of a ninety-eight pound weakling?

  Vidarr persisted. Technological miracles or not. You were dead.

  Dead or not, I was free. I'm no slave. You tell me "get Geirmagnus' rod,'' but you won't describe what guardians I'll have to face. You know how to raise Silme, but you won't tell me. Instead, you used the information to blackmail me. I say enough! If I am to serve gods, I shall do so willingly or not at all. Otherwise, you can kill me right now.

  Allerum! Vidarr's presence shook with impatience. Stop this nonsense.

  Driven nearly to violence, Larson pressed onward. These are the ground rules, Vidarr. From now on, if you need a favor, you ask. Second, any uninvited intrusion into my mind will be considered an act of war.