"And… I… will… keep… my… word." Hel stared at Larson directly and with dignity. "But… I… made… no similar… promise… for… Bramin. He… stays. Without him as… counterbalance… the Fates… will… prevent… Silme's escape."
Each tedious syllable further enraged Larson. "Why? Why would you do that? Bramin is more powerful than Silme. The trade can only strengthen your cause."
Hel's expression never changed. "My… legion… is… my strength. The… dead… are my… subjects. Releasing… even one… weakens… me. And… you… are… requesting… two of my… most mighty…"
Impatient, Larson interrupted. "Without life force, neither can cast spells. And, with time, they will lose all memory and become no more valuable than any other."
"Eventually. Until… then… they… strengthen… my power. Besides… if I… free… Bramin and… Silme… every man… on Midgard… would… come… seeking… his dead. To… give in… to even… one… would… take all… permanence and… all… glory from… death."
Hel's words spun through Larson's mind like fragments of dream. He saw truth in them and understood, but the cause of Silme's life still seemed more important than any rule of nature. "I had hoped to bargain peacefully, but you leave me no choice. My companion holds Modgudr prisoner. If I do not come back or I return unsuccessful, he will kill her."
Hel's face remained locked in its gloomy pall, but her eyes flashed in the candlelight. "I… don't… believe you."
"That is your prerogative."
Larson waited in a silence which jarred every nerve while Hel considered. He kept his face expressionless.
"Prove… it."
"How?"
Another long pause.
Larson bided his time with admirable patience. He recalled the uncertainty which characterized his previous actions. No doubt, Gaelinar's example and his own arguments with Vidarr had fueled his confidence. When Hel did not speak after a full minute, Larson took control of the conversation. "Surely you know we got past Modgudr, her dragon, and the Hel hound on our last visit. Do you doubt Gaelinar's ability to capture Modgudr?"
"Fool!" Hel shook her head, and a snarl of golden hair obscured her face. "If… you… moved Modgudr… from… her post… the dead… will… escape… Hel. The… havoc… they wreak… will seem… minor… compared with… the wrath… Odin… will… bring… down… upon me… you… and your… stupid… companion. Odin… has… no… room… in his heart… for mercy. Men… and… gods… live… only… to furnish… him… sport…"
The description sent a chill through Larson, but his love for Silme remained, reducing fear to an obscuring fog. Purpose drove him to speak with Gaelinar's reckless courage. "Lady, if Silme remains in Hel, there is nothing Odin can do to make my life more miserable. I do not fear him. It is your stubbornness which will bring his wrath upon us. If you agree to my demands, we will free Modgudr unharmed.''
The grim-eyed goddess quivered with anger. "You… would… let… your selfish… love… for a… woman result… in hordes… of the dead… running… free… to torture… the… living?"
"Yes," Larson said. He hid the lie behind his best poker face and hoped his eyes would not betray him. "You made it clear that if we killed you, it would only result in your staying here." He tossed a casual gesture over one shoulder. "Judging by Baldur, I would guess death would not change you. But, lady, there are worse things a man can do with a sword than kill. " The room echoed with the sudden sound of Larson's sword clearing its sheath.
Hel did not flinch. "You'll… never… leave… my hall… alive. I will… turn… my hordes… against… you!"
Larson hesitated. His Gaelinar-like maneuver had achieved much the same results as the Kensei's threats in the Dragonrank school, and Larson liked them even less now that he stood alone. Still, it was too late to change his approach. "Hmmm. You keep Silme and Bramin and kill me. I get the satisfaction of torturing you before Odin gets to you and of knowing Modgudr dies with me." He stood in mock contemplation, then shrugged. "Sounds fair." He took a menacing step toward Hel, trusting Bal-dur to hold the corpses at bay.
"Wait." Hel spoke with uncharacteristic speed. "We can… find… an agreeable… compromise."
Larson's fear was forgotten in a moment of fierce triumph. "No compromises. You free Silme and Bramin. Then you allow Gaelinar and me to leave your lands completely unmolested. In exchange, we won't harm you or Modgudr. We won't allow any ghosts to escape while Modgudr is captive, and we won't tell anyone who doesn't already know that we raised Silme from the dead."
Hel gathered her shattered composure. Ignoring Larson's naked sword, she leaned toward him conspiratori-ally. "Accepted. With… one… further condition." She stared beyond Larson.
Larson resisted the urge to follow her gaze and watched the goddess distrustfully. "Which is?"
"That… you… send… five… souls to… replace… each of… them. Their… identities… and… philosophies… do not concern me. They… can… be your… enemies… or strangers. Adults… or… children. But… they… must… come to me… not… Odin's… Valhalla. You… must… not kill… them in fair… combat."
Desperation forced Larson to consider Hel's offer, but his morality would not allow him to accept it. "The deal is as I said. I will not compromise."
"Neither… will…1."
Larson accepted Hel's decision with dour fatalism. He doubted he could fight his way past Hel's minions. Yet, he could condone his own death more easily than he could take the lives of more innocents. Trusting that Gaelinar would release Modgudr and not allow the corpses free run of Midgard, Larson sealed his own fate. "Then you leave me no choice." He raised his sword. Smoke from the candles swirled like ghosts around the blade.
"Wait."
Larson thought he detected fear in Hel's voice. He froze in position.
"All… right. I… accept… your bargain… as offered. But… you… must… swear… never to… return… here."
Larson lowered his sword and suddenly realized he was shaking. He bit his lip to keep from smiling. "I swear it," he said.
CHAPTER 10: Mastering War
"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike at him as hard as you can and as often as you can, and keep moving on."
– Ulysses S. Grant
Gradually, the elation inspired by Larson's successful negotiation with Hel faded into the cold, dark infinity of her realm. As promised, Larson and Gaelinar escaped through the entryway to Midgard without interference from the released Modgudr or the Hel hound. But even the magnificence of the waterfall, streaked through with silver sunlight, brought no joy to Larson. Air scoured clean by recent snows might as well have been the putrid aura of Hel's corpses for all the interest he paid it.
Taziar met Larson and Gaelinar on the cliffs above the falls. Two weeks had passed since the Cullinsbergen had set off to amend the mistake he had made by freeing the Fenris Wolf. Yet Larson managed only a weak smile of welcome. Something he could not name lay like lead upon his soul.
The days passed in wooden silence. Though mostly through evergreen forests devoid of underbrush, the route seemed vaguely familiar. Each of Larson's daily sword lessons began with distracted incompetence until Gaelinar's reprimands spurred his student to angered sweeps and counter thrusts. Taziar made sincere attempts at conversation. But after Larson's third inappropriately harsh rebuke, Gaelinar and Taziar left their companion to his own sullen company.
Late afternoon of their third day in Midgard, they reached the town where Larson had consulted Vidarr at the open shrine. Taziar glanced longingly down the main pathway. "Anyone object to a night on the tavern floor? I've slept on enough pine needles to satisfy me for a lifetime."
Gaelinar shrugged. "Fenrir's less likely to attack with the extra swords of the villagers against him."
Larson raised no objections. He hoped a couple of tankards of beer might soothe the evil mood he seemed unable to shake. "L
ead on."
They shuffled down the narrow, snow-covered roadway in silence. For the first time, Larson noticed just how little there was to the village. Crooked, spindly roads wound between thatch-roofed cottages. The clang of the blacksmith's hammer reverberated through the threadlike lanes. Only a few sets of footprints marred the crust of ice which glazed the roads; the recent snows appeared to have inhibited some of the trade which kept the town alive.
Larson, Gaelinar, and Taziar headed directly for the sod-chinked structure of the tavern at the center of the village. As they passed, a middle-aged woman pointed from the doorway of her cottage, her form a plump shadow backlit by candles in the room beyond. Three children peered at the travelers from around their mother's skirt. Otherwise, the village seemed deserted.
Gaelinar caught the brass ring of the tavern door and wrenched it open. Wind gusted into the stale, windowless interior. Fed by fresh air, the hearth fire blazed, drafting smoke up the stone chimney. Its flare revealed nine square tables with wooden chairs and benches worn to polished smoothness by use. A portly man sprawled across three stools on the business side of the bar. Sleepy-eyed, he glanced over three greasy-haired Norsemen seated near the doorway and waved the newcomers inside.
Larson followed his companions to a table near the fireplace, allowing the door to slam closed behind him. The flames shriveled to their previous height. Wood-sweetened smoke leaked back into the common room. As Larson slid his chair to the table, two teen-age girls descended upon them. One seized the remaining seat and positioned herself at the table. The other paused at Gaelinar's elbow. "What can we get you?"
Larson folded his arms and let his head sink to the hollow between them, not bothering with a response.
"Food," Gaelinar said. "Whatever you have."
"And plenty of beer," Larson added, his voice muffled by the sleeve of his cloak.
The serving girl trotted off toward the bar. The remaining woman threw back hip-length blonde hair and regarded Taziar, her blue eyes wide and interested. "From which direction did you come?"
"North," Taziar replied.
"What news do you bring from the North?"
Larson watched Taziar with one eye.
The Shadow Climber shrugged apologetically. "None, I'm afraid. Our business has kept us in the forests and away from farmers and towns."
The girl lowered her head in genuine disappointment, and the fire struck bronze highlights through her hair. "Very well." She spoke naturally, but betrayal sifted through her tone. Apparently, the tavern served as a place to exchange information as well as to provide food and shelter and direct trade.
The woman lost interest. Her eyes strayed beyond the table to the patrons near the door, and a gesture caught her attention. Gracefully, she rose and walked toward the other customers, just as her sister returned with three full mugs of beer and set them before Larson, Gaelinar, and Taziar. "Another moment for the food."
Larson raised his head long enough to guzzle down his drink without even tasting it. He waited while his companions nodded acknowledgement of the service, then shoved his mug into the woman's hand. "More." He added as an afterthought, "Please."
Ignoring Taziar's curious stare, Larson lowered his head back to his arms. His companions' conversation about a magical rope and a wolf-god flowed past him, mostly unheard. The words seemed distant, another place, another era, some other man's concern.
Larson accepted his fourth mug of beer while his companions still nursed their second. The alcohol shifted his mood from somber to heated. He felt restless. No longer content to sit with his head on the table, he fidgeted, eyes probing the half-lighted, smoky haze of the common room. The conversations of the filthy, war-stained men near the door wafted to him in crude snatches intermingled with boisterous laughter which prodded at the edges of Larson's temper. He watched the waitress, tankard in hand, approach a large patron with a wild snarl of red hair and beard.
The woman leaned forward and poured ale from the tankard into the mug. The Norseman ran his tongue over his grimy teeth and stared into the cleavage of her patched and faded bodice. He waited only until she finished filling his drink, then caught her around the waist and pulled her to his lap. He thrust his other hand down the front of her dress.
The woman squealed in surprise and fear. She twisted away. Linen tore, leaving a scrap of fabric in the man's fingers. She struggled free as the Norsemen laughed, and the red-haired patron dragged her back onto his knee.
Larson's control snapped, driving him into a rage beyond any he had known before. He leaped to his feet and charged to the other table. Not until he arrived did he realize he still clutched his drink. Slamming the mug to a nearby table, he glared at the Norseman over the girl's ragged shoulder. "Let her go."
The Norseman rose, dumping the girl from his lap. She landed in a heap at his feet, rolled to her hands and knees, and skittered toward the bar. Larson found himself glaring up into steely eyes and a face ugly with anger. "By what right do you pretend to command me?" the Norseman demanded.
Larson dropped his gaze to the Norseman's hands which rested on the hilt of a broadsword. Each finger seemed thick as Larson's wrist. Blood and dirt framed the edges of the nails. "By the same right that men have always commanded swine," Larson returned. Rage pushed him far beyond fear.
The Norseman followed Larson's stare. He leaned forward, his arm extended. "It's good you've noticed these hands." The muscles bunched into a fist. "In a moment, they'll crush your head like a leaf."
Larson remained unmoving. "I'm not worried about those hands. Size and competence are two different things. Otherwise, you'd be able to get women by other means than force."
The Norseman gathered breath.
Before he could speak, the bartender shouted to the Norseman's blond companions. "You'd best hobble your friend or the three of you will no longer be welcome here."
One of the other Norsemen responded instantly. "Sit down, Alsvithr. You've been thrown out of enough taverns. We won't be able to get a drink between here and Forste-Mar.''
Oblivious, Alsvithr lunged.
Larson tensed to meet the attack.
But before Alsvithr could reach the elf, his companions caught him by either arm and dragged him back to the table. Howling, Alsvithr struggled against his friends. "Cowards, let me go. What's one bar?"
The bartender tossed aside a cleaning rag and stepped around the counter. "One bar's important when it's the only one that'll take your business." He fixed his gaze on Larson. "And you, stranger. Sit down, or I'll let Alsvithr kill you. The girls expect this sort of thing. It comes with the job." He turned back to his work, muttering, "All women are whores."
The bartender's words stung Larson. Silme's no whore! The Norsemen ceased to bother him. He took a menacing step toward the bartender.
The bartender whirled to face him.
Gaelinar's voice cut over the hiss of the fire. "Allerum. Sit down right now!"
For a rebellious moment, Larson refused to move. His attention jumped from the bartender, whose fingers crept toward some weapon behind the counter, to the red-faced Norseman, to the Kensei. The look on Gaelinar's features warned that he would brook no disobedience. Larson retrieved his drink and spun back toward his companions.
Alsvithr's mumbled threat barely penetrated the silence. "His mother must have been a whore for him to take this so seriously. I'd have smashed the bony bastard."
Larson's self-restraint shattered. He whirled. A snap of his wrist splashed beer over Alsvithr.
Surprise crossed Alsvithr's sodden features, immediately replaced by an anger which echoed Larson's own. He ripped free of his companions' hold.
The bartender raised a club and rushed down on Larson. Before he had taken two steps, a shuriken embedded into the wood a finger's breadth from his hand. Gaelinar's warning followed. "Get back!" Shocked, the man obeyed.
Fists clenched, Alsvithr charged Larson. His blond companions advanced behind him.
Larson fou
ght back the red curtain of anger which clouded his mind. Mug still in his hand, he threw a punch which caught Alsvithr across the jaw. Metal folded in Larson's fingers. The larger man staggered. Larson pressed his advantage. He tensed for another blow just as Gaelinar's fingers tightened around his shoulder. The Kensei lodged a foot behind Larson's heel and spun the elf into the table behind him.
Larson's chest struck the edge with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He blundered into a chair and crashed, with it, to the ground. Rising to a crouch, he watched Gaelinar face off with Alsvithr. The Kensei spoke softly, but his tone carried the confidence of a man used to mastery. "This fight is over."
Blood trickled from Alsvithr's nose. "Step aside, old man!" he screamed. "Your stupid friend dumped beer on me. He hit me in the face. No one does that to Alsvithr and lives!"
Gaelinar held his ground, his manner deadly calm. "This fight is over. Sit down."
Alsvithr aimed a wide punch for Gaelinar. The Kensei's expression never changed. He caught the Norse-man's meaty wrist and effortlessly spun him into his companions. One's back struck the table, lifting the side several inches. Half full mugs tipped and rolled; they hit the floor with a ringing clangor, splattering beer across the planks. Alsvithr regained his balance quickly. His sword leaped from its sheath, and he rushed down on Gaelinar.
Larson surged to his feet, hand clamped to his hilt. He had barely begun to draw the blade when Gaelinar's ka-tana whisked silently through the air. It sliced through Alsvithr's sword as if through a twig. Two feet of worked iron fell to the ground at Alsvithr's boots while he stared, incredulous, at the stump of his mangled sword.
Gaelinar resheathed his katana in the same motion. "This fight is over. Sit down, or next time I take your wrists."
"Sit down," repeated one of Alsvithr's companions urgently. He gathered up the dented mugs.
Alsvithr grumbled something unintelligible, but took his seat. He slammed the broken haft to the tabletop so hard a crack wound along the wood grain.
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