Dragonrank master bg-3

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Taziar fingered his collar and the bruises beneath it, feeling awkward and confused. "Thank you," he replied.

  Al Larson peered through the rocky crevice which formed the entrance to Hel. Behind him, eleven rivers, braided into one, raged down from the cliffs of Midgard to batter the ground before Hel's entry way. The torrent flung icy droplets which bounced from his skin and stung like tiny wasps. The lake surrounding the waterfall occupied most of the circular valley which enclosed it, leaving a shelf of packed and cold-hardened silt through which the combined rivers flowed into Hel.

  Gaelinar descended from the narrow pathway which threaded into the valley. "Go on." He gestured at the tunnel.

  Larson stared. He could see nothing but the black infinity of Hel. "The Hel hound." Recalling how he had blundered blindly into the beast and nearly paid with his leg, Larson felt unwilling to make the same mistake twice. "We'll have to get past it."

  "No difficulty to that." Gaelinar walked to Larson's side. "As Hel said, her realm was never designed to keep men out. The hound is trained to prevent escapes, not entrances. If Fenrir didn't kill the Hel hound, you won't even see it."

  Larson edged forward. He had known the answer before he spoke the question; he had asked more to stall and to reassure himself than from actual concern. Despite the thrill of freeing Silme, he was still not eager to enter Hel's lightless, lifeless realm nor to encounter its guardians again. And Vidarr's cruel awakening of memory had forced Larson to realize he would also raise an enemy as cunning and powerful as a god and far more dangerous than Fenrir.

  Larson stepped into Hel's entry way. A putrid, animal smell hung in the air around him. He crinkled his nose against the odor of the Hel hound and its droppings until time accustomed him to it and, later, distance obscured it. Once beyond the remembered length of the Hel hounds' chain, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  Several hours deeper into the Hel lands, Larson and Gaelinar made camp. A visit to the village in which Gaelinar had purchased Larson's sword had given them the chance to buy provisions and fresh clothing, and they ate well that night. Exhaustion invited sleep, despite the discomfort of Hel. Larson awakened, refreshed. He shouldered his share of the food and drink, refastened his weapons, and prepared to travel.

  Gaelinar's voice sounded startlingly loud in the loom-ing silence. "From here on, not a single word or sound. If you have any stupid questions, ask now."

  Larson lowered his pack to the ground. How does Gae-linar always make his simplest statements seem insulting? "Why this sudden need for quiet? I thought nothing in Hel would oppose us."

  "Nothing in Hel will oppose us, but we can oppose them."

  Larson shook his head in bewilderment.

  Gaelinar said nothing further.

  Realizing Gaelinar had not seen his gesture in the dark, Larson voiced his confusion. "Could you run that by me again?''

  A brief pause followed. "You want me to explain it?"

  "Please."

  "Quite simply, if we want Silme back, we're going to need a bargaining tool."

  Larson placed a foot on his pack to keep track of it. "We have a bargaining tool. Bramin holds more power than Silme. Raising them both will give advantage to Chaos."

  Gaelinar dissented with maddening certainty. "Hel will not agree to the exchange."

  Annoyed by Gaelinar's bold assurance, Larson insisted. "Vidarr said she would."

  "Vidarr is mistaken."

  "Vidarr is a god," Larson reminded his haughty companion.

  "The two are not exclusive, Allerum. Loki would still live if he hadn't underestimated you. The fact is, we need a bargaining tool against Hel. If she wanted us to raise Silme and Bramin together, she would have told us the first time we came here. She wouldn't have sent us off with misconceptions to kill powerful servants of Law."

  Larson considered. "Why not? Our killing powerful servants of Law is in her interests, after all. And she must of figured we would eventually realize the right way to raise Silme. This way she gets the best of both worlds."

  "Perhaps." Gaelinar seemed unconvinced. "But as angry as she was with us last time, I doubt she'll cooperate. A bargaining tool won't hurt."

  Larson found Gaelinar's logic inarguable. "And that tool is…?"

  "Modgudr."

  Understanding chilled Larson to his core. "The sorceress who sent a dragon at us? How can she become a bargaining tool?"

  "That," Gaelinar said in the wickedly wry voice he reserved for insulting gods and describing reckless feats, "is why we must continue in silence." His tone returned to normal. "Come on."

  Larson hefted his pack. "Wait. One thing more, Gaelinar. When I crossed the bridge last time, I ran into some magical wall-type thing."

  "Modgudr would have no cause to set wards to prevent people from entering Hel. Hero, I traveled with Silme for years. I know how to avoid Dragonrank wards. Don't worry about me. As for you, I want you out of my way. When I signal, stay still and don't move until I tell you. Now, come on. Our delays only weaken Silme."

  Unable to see his companion, Larson followed the music of the river, Gjoll, knowing Gaelinar would do the same. Despite Hel's emptiness, its blackness was vibrant with a menace which set Larson's nerves tingling with the premonition of imminent peril. Apprehension kept Larson crouched and hyperalert. But finally the terrors of this world had come to overshadow those of Vietnam. His mind conjured images of gnashing teeth and magic long before he considered and easily discarded the possibility of snipers. He doubted Fenrir would follow them into Hel; Baldur's continued presence suggested that the same defenses which kept ghosts and men from escaping would also discourage a god. More likely, the wolf would bide its time, waiting for Larson and Gaelinar to emerge from the Hel lands, perhaps weakened by another fight.

  As Larson walked, the glow of Modgudr's gold-thatched bridge appeared, brightened, and sharpened. Well before Larson's eyes could discern the distant outline of the crossing, Gaelinar pressed a hand to his chest. Larson gathered breath to whisper a question, but Gaelinar's fingers pinched his flesh in warning. Larson went obediently still, watching Gaelinar's yellow robes disappear into the darkness before him.

  Several minutes passed. Larson fondled his sword hilt, prepared to rush down on Modgudr in defense of his mentor at the first flash of magic or cry of pain. Gaelinar's depression after Fenrir's last attack remained alarmingly vivid in Larson's memory. Although the Kensei's manner seemed no duferent after the incident than before it, Larson was concerned that, single-handed and without his normal boundless confidence, Gaelinar was taking on a powerful enemy.

  Gaelinar's voice echoed from the confines of the bridge. "Come, hero."

  Larson trotted forward obediently. "Modgudr?"

  "Unconscious."

  Larson climbed onto the wooden bridge, groping through the darkness so as not to collide with Gaelinar. "How?"

  "I hit her."

  Larson turned to his left, following the direction of Gaelinar's voice. "You sapped her?"

  "No, I…" Gaelinar broke off, leaving the foreign term undefined. "I caught her off her guard, hit her with the flat of my sword, and knocked her unconscious. Now, hero. I'll wait here. You go talk with Hel."

  Larson recoiled in dismay. He reached tentatively until his fingers brushed Gaelinar's head. The Kensei was kneeling. "Me? Alone? You're not coming with me."

  "Someone has to stay with Modgudr. Otherwise, I just wasted my time and gave her a headache for nothing. When you discuss terms with Hel, mention my shoto at Modgudr's throat."

  Larson let his hand swing free, as much appalled by the thought of leaving his sword master with a sorcerer as by the idea of wading through corpses and facing a god alone. At their last encounter with Modgudr, Gaelinar had underestimated the sorceress' remaining strength. That mistake had cost the Kensei the bones of his hand and nearly his life as well. "Do you think Hel will bargain? Maybe she'll let us kill Modgudr and just replace her with another guardian."

  "Not likely. Ther
e are few enough Dragonrank mages to make it difficult to find one willing to spend his years alone in darkness herding corpses. Apparently, Modgudr found that to her liking."

  "Apparently." Larson twisted Silme's sapphire through the cloth of his pocket. "Can't we take Modgudr with us? It would make a more graphic display for Hel."

  "And let the corpses escape Hel? Someone has to stay and guard the bridge."

  "Let the Hel hound take care of the ghosts."

  "Believe me, hero. If the Hel hound could keep all the corpses off Midgard, Modgudr would not be here. Now on with you. The sooner you return, the sooner I finish babysitting."

  Larson stared off into the seemingly endless sea of darkness beyond the bridge. Once again, it had fallen to him to bargain with Hel, to reverse the damage his sword stroke had inflicted on Silme. But, difficult as it had seemed with Gaelinar at his side, alone the task became like a lead weight upon him. He tried to remind himself that Gaelinar's intolerance of small talk and delay had also raised Hel's hatred against them; surely he could perform better without the Kensei. But Larson could not shake a feeling of betrayal as strong as that he still harbored against his father, who had died and left Larson's family penniless.

  "Well?" Gaelinar's voice startled Larson from his thoughts.

  "I'm going," Larson replied defensively. He trotted across the bridge planks and into the darkness beyond it.

  The miles passed swiftly. In an attempt to keep his mind free of distressing concerns, Larson traveled until exhaustion overtook him, ate and drank from his pack of rations, slept, awoke, ate, and again marched until he collapsed. While he walked, he sang pop tunes remembered from the half semester he had managed at college before the financial burdens of his family forced him to enlist in the army. Many of the lyrics escaped him. He found himself longing for a radio to fill in the missing rhymes and verses, and was suddenly reminded of his mother's strange affliction. She knew the melody to every popular song ever written since well before her birth, but she only remembered a handful of the lyrics. She substituted the remainder of the words with whistles, humming, or la-la's.

  By the third day, Larson's strategy failed. The constant, ominous threat of Hel's blackness pushed in, spurring the neatly hidden portion of his mind which held his apprehensions. He wondered about Taziar's plan and whether the little foreigner would reach the Bifrost Bridge to accomplish whatever purpose he had there. He worried about Gaelinar, keeping watch over a crafty, unpredictable enemy night after day. He considered Baldur and what relation, if any, this single peaceful god in a warrior pantheon had to his own Christ. And, already, Larson felt responsible for the cruelty and chaos Bramin would inflict upon Midgard.

  Soon the fence which hemmed Hel's citadel became visible as the darkness thinned to the red mist which defined this corner of the land of the dead. Larson set to the task of climbing, shifting his concentration to his handholds and footholds. Through the gaps between the bars, he could see the squat, flat shadow of Hel's fortress. A few ghostly figures flitted through the courtyard, stained oily red by the haze.

  Sharp flakes of rust embedded in Larson's palms as he pulled himself higher up the barrier. Shortly, he reached the top, maneuvered around the upper poles which arched toward the stronghold, and scrambled down the inner side. He dropped the last five feet to the ground, turned, and found himself staring into gaunt but familiar features. Gilbyr? Horrified, Larson remembered the bandit who had tried to steal his Vidarr-sword for Bramin. The corpse's face was locked in a permanent expression of terror. A stiff beard encased his chin, the effect of Silme's young apprentice incompetently casting his shaving spells. Larson had taken advantage of the child's ineptitude by convincing Gilbyr the boy would turn him into a wolfman. A bloody hole marred Gilbyr's chest where he had run, panicked, onto a companions' sword. Earlier, one of Silme's wards had burned Gilbyr's hand; it had rotted off leaving a blackened stump.

  With a gasp, Larson flinched back against the fence. The corpse turned hollow eyes on him. A glimmer of recognition passed through them. Shock and anger twisted the masklike features. Gilbyr's remaining hand latched onto his sword hilt, and he took a menacing step forward.

  Rammed against the fence in a startled wonder, Larson clasped his own haft. Corroded crossbars bored into his back. His gaze locked on Gilbyr's fist, awaiting the first aggressive move.

  Gradually, Gilbyr's fingers fell away from his hilt. Larson looked up to find the corpse's eyes had gone as dead as their owner. Gilbyr peered at Larson with mild curiosity then stumbled off into the strange, red glow of Hel's courtyard.

  Larson watched Gilbyr's huddled form disappear into the gloom. He released his own hilt and stepped away from the fence. The thwarted encounter filled him not with relief but with alarm. Gilbyr's already nearly forgotten me. And Silme died only about two weeks after him. The realization sparked urgency. If I want Silme back intact, I'm going to have to barter quickly. Larson ran to Hel's squat citadel.

  A layer of mold coated the open door to Hel's fortress, its dead plant odor mingling with the rot of the corpses which filled the corridor. Larson paused in the portal, ill with the recollection of the searing cold touches of the ghosts. The smell of death raised memories of cadavers decaying in the heat more vividly than any visual image could. But purpose gave him the courage to pick his way among the corpses until the stench became lost in the now familiar background of Hel's brooding promises of pain and despair.

  Larson dodged through the crowd, glad the effort kept him focused on his pathway rather than the milling cadavers which defined it. Soon he reached the paired thrones at the portal to Hel's meeting room; Baldur and his wife perched upon them in morose silence. The god raised a hand in greeting. Light from the lopsided chandelier in the chamber fell upon multihued jewels embedded in the stone of Baldur's chair. Their reflection formed halos of color which Larson had not seen since entering the limitless blacks and grays of Hel. Again, Larson felt the aura of divinity radiating from the dead god. More familiar images of slim white candles, stained glass windows, and temple arches replaced the looming tension inspired by Hel's imprisoned minions.

  Larson studied Baldur in the blood-colored gloom of the hallway and the guttering candlelight which escaped from the room beyond them. He found little resemblance between this hardy, blond god of peace and the emaciated, dark-haired Jesus artists painted upon the cross. Yet I can't know how much the paradox of my own existence and the slaying of a god have changed the course of history. Larson glanced beyond Baldur and noticed Hel gliding toward the room at her snail's pace. A faint breeze from the doorway eddied candle smoke around her like a robe.

  Larson turned his attention back to Baldur, aware it would take Hel some time to creep into the meeting room. Recalling that the dead could not speak first, Larson addressed Baldur in the softest voice he could manage. "You can have this back." He offered the painted stone Baldur had given him at their last encounter.

  Baldur made no move to retrieve it, but his visage sank into sadness. "You could not find my father?"

  "I gave your message to Vidarr."

  A hopeful glimmer returned to Baldur's eyes, like sunlight fractured on a sea of darkest blue. "And?"

  Larson glanced toward Hel. The goddess seemed to have moved no closer, though her toes inched toward the chamber. "And Vidarr made me give up my own task to work at rescuing you." Resentment flared. "If I had known your intention, I would never have accepted this." Larson tossed the gem in his hand, then dropped it into Baldur's lap. Despite his words, he felt all his anger channeled against Vidarr rather than Baldur.

  The god looked stricken. His eyes glazed with moisture, and his fingers gripped the arms of his throne with desperate self-sacrifice. "Forgive me, please. You must believe I did not know. Vidarr is good, and he surely meant you no harm. Love for a woman, a sister, a brother can make even a god do things against his nature. And my mother's hope for retrieving her youngest child might have spurred my father to pressure Vidarr. Odin i
s the one even the gods do not dare to cross." He plucked the painted stone from his thigh. "I have no means to communicate with my family. Otherwise, I would insist they not demand from you. The kindness you performed for me was appreciated. Were it within my power, I would make them realize I would rather remain here for eternity than allow them to torture you."

  Aware Vidarr could read his every thought, Larson smiled. "You don't realize it, but you may have just told them. I'm not mad at you. Once I've returned to Mid-gard, I will do everything in my power to free you from Hel." Larson was surprised by his own sincerity.

  Repeatedly, Baldur turned the gemstone between his fingers. "Because of my brother?"

  "No," Larson insisted. "Because I want to."

  Baldur reached out, stone pinched between his thumb and first finger. "You keep this. My mother left it on my pyre. It's worth a rich man's share of gold, but it's scant payment for the favor you've done me."

  Larson accepted the stone, realizing as he did that Hel had reached the center of her chamber. He eyed the sword at Baldur's hip. "One more thing. Can you keep the corpses from the room and the doorway while I talk with Hel?"

  Baldur nodded. "They won't enter the chamber while Hel is in conference. I can't do much, but I'll help as I can."

  Larson settled for the vague promise, then trotted into the room to meet with the half dead queen of Hel.

  She watched Larson approach through narrowed eyes. Tangled blonde hair framed features sharp with angry accusation. "So… you have… returned… murderer. "

  The statement required no reply, but Larson spoke before Hel could continue in her maddeningly halting style. "I am no murderer, lady. I killed your father in self-defense. I understand your grief, but it wasn't my fault." Hel's mouth quivered, but Larson continued before she could respond. "I have returned to ask you to free Silme with Bramin to balance the trade."

  Hel shifted from one rotted leg to the other. "No."

  "No?" Larson allowed surprise to color his tone. Hel's refusal annoyed him every bit as much as learning that Gaelinar had been correct, as always. "You can't refuse. You promised on your oaths to Odin you would not oppose Silme's return to Midgard."