The next week of travel passed in unaccustomed peace. Bramin trailed closely, making no attempt to hide his presence. Whenever Larson or Gaelinar or Taziar wandered into the woods alone, to wash up or relieve himself, the dark elf would hurl insults and threats. Still, Bramin kept his vow not to harm them; his taunts and invasions of privacy soon became familiar. Larson suspected the half man was as interested in the result of the quest for Geirmagnus' rod as he was in his coming battle with Larson.
Life seemed simpler without the Fenris Wolf. Sleep came easily to Larson, no longer interrupted by divine or magical intruders. Only Silme's continued absence and the oaths exchanged with Bramin remained to haunt him. Now, in the quiet serenity of the pine forest, Larson's agreement to fight the dark elf to the death seemed foolish bravado. Bramin was one of the most skilled warriors in the realm, while Larson had never seen a sword outside a museum until less than three months ago. Gaelinar's intensive training would help even the odds, and Larson hoped death might have weakened Bramin. Even so, Larson harbored little hope he could win a fair fight. But what choice did I have? At least this way, Bramin
won't interfere with our efforts to rescue Baldur and Silme.
Gradually, the towering evergreens gave way to spindly aspens and alders and stocky dwarf pines which admitted the glow of the sun. Larson and his companions pressed through thinning forest toward the timber edge. Gaelinar stopped. He pointed through a gap between the trunks. "There it is."
Eagerly, Larson pushed forward and stared over Gaelinar's shoulder. A blanket of snow lay over the dead and dying perennials which defined a short line of clearing. Beyond it, a wall of molded concrete rose above the younger trees to twice Larson's height. Vines with curled brown leaves swarmed over its surface. Coiled wire perched atop, its steel glinting in the sunlight despite centuries of exposure to the elements. Stainless? How? Stunned by the enormity of this anachronism, Larson stared in silent wonderment. This can't be Old Norway. My God, what kind of game are they playing with me? He searched his memories of his time in Midgard. Ever since his arrival, he had noticed differences between this world and his scanty knowledge of Norway's history, geography, and weather, inconsistencies which went beyond the simple reality of mythical and fabled creatures. The uncertainty shocked him. "What the hell is this thing? How did it get here? Where are we?"
Gaelinar met Larson's verbal volley with a quizzical look. "It's Geirmagnus' estate. He built it, and we walked here." The Kensei's tone went patronizingly gentle. "Are you well, hero?"
The familiarity of Gaelinar's voice made Larson reconsider. I have to be in Old Norway. Too much has happened for this to be a joke. "I'm fine, just surprised. The estate looks like something out of my own world." Imagine the power this Geirmagnus must have commanded to build a steel and concrete fortress without factories or supplies. Fascinated, Larson approached the wall and scraped a finger along its surface. Dirt lined pits and cracks, but the recent snows had scoured the main surface clear. It felt cold and coarse beneath his touch, like twentieth century cement.
Gaelinar and Taziar joined Larson. Together, they circled the clearing. The inspection took nearly an hour; each wall spanned a quarter mile. Scattered at the bases, a few bleached bones poked from beneath the snow. A gate interrupted the southeastern wall, a tombstone-shaped entryway of stainless steel bars reinforced with metal triangles and set flush with the concrete. Nicks and dents in the surface indicated failed attempts to hack through it with weapons of iron, copper, or wood.
Taziar assessed his findings. "It would be difficult, but I could climb it."
The casual claim horrified Larson. He caught Taziar's arm to prevent the Cullinsbergen from carrying out his plan. "You see that shiny stuff at the top?" He pointed. "That's razor wire. It'll saw off your fingers as fast as you can touch it. I'm willing to bet the bones lying about are from people who tried to break in."
Taziar gazed at the corkscrew of steel, his expression appropriately impressed. "How do you know?"
This time, it was Larson's turn to respond with, "Trust me."
Gaelinar chipped ice and dirt from an inscription on a square of wall several feet from the gate. "What's this? It's not in any language I know."
Bramin's answer wafted from the forest edge, his tone flat as a remembered chant. "My rod holds the key to unlimited power. Once freed, the future will be changed and nothing will be impossible." He stepped into the clearing, twisting the bottom rim of his dragonstaff into the snow. "And it's signed 'Geirmagnus, Dragonrank Master.' "
Gaelinar and Taziar whirled to face the half man.
Larson came up behind Gaelinar and studied the message. Someone had carved it into the concrete using an impact drill, a power chisel, or some other instrument well beyond the technology of the Vikings. Larson blinked, unable to believe his eyes. The message was inscribed in English. Aside from the substitution of the name 'Gary Mannix' for 'Geirmagnus,' it read exactly as Bramin had translated. This doesn't make any sense. It can't be. Larson tapped the resilience of spirit which had seen him through months of combat in Vietnam. I can't afford these distractions. I'm in a situation where I have to fight for my life. If I live, I'll have time to figure this out later. If not, it doesn't matter. Too surprised by Bra-min's knowledge to concern himself with rivalry, Larson questioned. "How did you know what it said?"
Bramin wore an expression of haughty amusement. "Every glass-rank Dragonmage has learned the words since the second master broke Geirmagnus' code with magic. The gods believe the final sentence refers to bringing Baldur back from the dead."
"And does it?" Taziar asked.
Bramin arched narrow shoulders. "How would I know?"
Larson turned his attention to the gate, leaving Gaeli-nar to keep watch over Bramin. The straight, central edges of the metal doors matched perfectly, leaving no crack between them. Larson found no keyholes nor even a chain for a padlock. Tentatively, he laid a hand against the bars and pushed. The panels did not yield.
Gaelinar spoke. "They say no one has ever penetrated Geirmagnus' estate. The sharpened wire explains why no man's gone over the walls, but what's to stop people from digging under it? Why haven't gods or sorcerers flown over?"
Larson turned his attention to the space of wall beside the gates as Taziar addressed Gaelinar's questions. "Invisible, lethal spells protect the Dragonrank school. According to-" Taziar caught himself, apparently not wishing to reveal his source in Bramin's presence. -"someone, they're harmful only to sorcerers and magically-created creatures. I'd guess the original Dragonrank Master might have similar defenses. Either that, or no sorcerer's been brave enough to try."
Larson realized Taziar had addressed his last statement to Bramin, because the half man responded. "I have no interest in freeing Baldur."
Taziar continued. "As for digging under, there must be some barrier. It's possible no one's succeeded for the same reason no trees have yet grown close enough to provide branches to climb safely over the wire. I've never seen soil so sandy."
"Sandy?" Larson lowered his head. But before Taziar could scoop aside enough snow to demonstrate, Larson caught sight of a battered and twisted clasp jutting from the wall near the gates. He reached for it. The metal fell free in his hands; it had not weathered the elements and trespassers as well as the rest of the fortress. Closer, Larson recognized a panel set into the concrete. He pushed. The steel resisted. He caught his fingernails under the irregularity left by the broken clasp and pulled. The metal did not budge. Larson exerted sideways pressure, and the panel slid haltingly into runner slits in the concrete, uncovering a recess.
Buttons of black plastic confronted Larson in four rows of three. Arabic numerals from one through nine were engraved on the keys of the first three rows, one digit on each. The last row contained a zero on the central button while the ones on either side read "close." Beneath the configuration, an etched plaque held the English instructions: "To open, dial information."
Dial? How? Larson stared in co
nfusion. The setup appeared unlike any telephone he could recall from his last days in America in the late 1960s. He tapped his fingers on the concrete. And who the hell am I supposed to call? The idea seemed so ludicrous, he could not suppress the mental scenario. Hello, police? This is Al Larson. I'm calling from eleventh century Norway. You see, officer, I'm standing here with a German pickpocket, a samurai, and a demon sorcerer. Pause. That's right, sir, a demon sorcerer. And did I happen to mention I'm an elf? Click. Hello? Hello?
Larson redirected his thoughts to appropriately serious matters. Bramin had not moved from the timberline; the dark elf was returning Gaelinar's unflinching scrutiny with icy detachment. Larson saw no immediate threat. Dial information. Press it, perhaps? Feeling foolish, he raised a finger and tapped out 555-1212 on the keys. He heard a muffled, metallic snap followed by a hydraulic whine. The gates inched open, plowing snow into drifts.
Larson thought he should try to talk to whomever this odd telephone might have connected him with, but realization made the words stick in his throat. Suddenly, an idea which had seemed crazed became a stroke of genius. Geirmagnus, or rather, Gary Mannix apparently wanted to be sure that only someone with knowledge of twentieth century American technology could enter his estate. But why? Again he shook the thought aside, but there was no longer any doubt. Vidarr claimed I was the only person the gods ever transported in time, and my transfer cost too much for them to attempt it again. But to gain the knowledge to build a fortress like this and with a name like Gary Mannix, the first Dragonrank sorcerer had to be a time traveler! The theme from Twilight Zone flashed through Larson's mind and could not be fully banished.
Taziar stared incredulously at the opened entry way. "How did you do that?"
"Magic," Larson replied offhandedly. A full explanation would have taken too much time, and he had not yet decided how much he wanted Bramin to know. "Let's go." He walked through the portal.
Two buildings rose from a snow-covered courtyard, the smaller and closer an unadorned square of concrete, the other a homey, two-story with windows. A metal panel lay inset into the wall by the gateway, a duplicate of the one on the outside which housed the buttons, except with the clasp unmolested. Larson opened the box as Taziar and Gaelinar filed through the entry behind him.
Bramin trailed after them.
Gaelinar whirled to face the half man, hand light on his sword hilt. "You're not coming in."
Bramin slammed down the base of his staff, kicking up a spray of snow which settled across the hem of his cloak. "You can't deny me, Kensei. My presence causes you no harm."
Larson hated to agree with Bramin, but he knew the dark elf could read his mind. The instant Bramin explored Larson's thoughts, the button code could no longer remain secret. Bramin could come and go as he pleased, sharing the method of entry with anyone he chose. Larson addressed Gaelinar, phrasing his words so as not to encourage Bramin to probe. "Recall what that wise man said about the vicinity of enemies."
Gaelinar hesitated while the deeper meaning of Larson's words became clear. He made no reply, but he did step aside and allow Bramin to enter.
Larson waited until everyone had cleared the area around the gate before punching the "close" key. The high-pitched sound recurred as the gates wound shut. Larson secured the panel and hooked the clasp. He turned, staring over the expanse of snow. Excitement swept him. The thrill of his discovery went far beyond the chance to find a rod or even to raise a god who might become the chosen of his own people. Whatever his original time or place, Gary Mannix had known and emulated twentieth century America. Larson considered further. The gate mechanism was unlike anything I've ever seen. Maybe it's twenty-first or twenty-second century knowledge. Maybe it's not even American. The possibilities seemed endless, but Larson knew the answers lay beyond the walls of the buildings. He approached the nearer structure.
It seemed odd to Larson that Taziar, Gaelinar, and Bramin accepted Geirmagnus' estate and its protections without question. Larson imagined their nonchalance came as a result of viewing constructions so far beyond their understanding that they attributed it all to magic. And they're probably right. Every bit of technology for the next eight hundred years won't allow men to build a place like this.
The steel door of the smaller building opened easily to Larson's touch, revealing a single room packed with metal gadgets. A water tank the size of a family car filled one comer. Thick, steel tubing came out of one side, passed through a pump, and disappeared into the earth of the floor. A short distance away, the pipe resurfaced into a cylinder, humming like an insect and connected by another pipe to a turbine. A pair of naked wires passed out of holes into a cable of heavy plastic which plunged into the sand. A generator of some kind. And by the sound, it's functioning. Larson backstepped, pulling the door closed. "We won't find what we're looking for here."
Though not at all certain of his statement, Larson wanted the chance to explore the main house. It was far more likely to furnish answers to the many questions which plagued him.
To Larson's relief, neither of his companions challenged him. Apparently, they realized he had more knowledge of the first Dragonrank Master's estate than seemed reasonably possible. In silence, they followed him to the house. Larson circled the building, trampling a lane of snow to the pale sands beneath it. Two casement windows set in the lower level were half buried in a drift. Time and wind-borne sand had worn the glass to polished convexity. The upper story held three windows, all intact and similarly timeworn. Concrete steps led up to a gray door into the second level. Larson climbed to the portal. The paint was apparently some sort of bonded epoxy; aside from some chipped flakes in the corners, it had weathered the centuries well.
Larson grasped the aluminum doorknob. For several seconds, he stood without moving. Something seemed fundamentally wrong with dragging his companions into the world beyond the door; he had no idea what the collision of past and future might yield. And Gary Mannix might have set magical or technological traps to protect his estate. Larson suspected a device in this dwelling converted the electricity harnessed from the smaller building into usable household current. The possibilities were endless and more than possibly lethal. Still, Larson reasoned, if Mannix didn't want people in his estate, he wouldn't have revealed the gate opening sequence. Even a person familiar with such a device would have required years of trial to crack a seven digit code. Comforted by this thought, Larson twisted the knob and pushed the door open.
A blast of hot, stale air struck Larson. The panel swung a full ninety degrees. Sunlight flooded in, revealing a rectangular room which ended in a window. Office furniture lined the longer walls, choked with dust. Directly to the left of the entry way, a set of stairs led to the lower level. A short distance farther, on the same side, a doorway opened into another room.
Larson took in the scene at a glance. The furnishings consisted of three filing cabinets, a laboratory desk with a scattering of journals, bookshelves built into the wall and crammed full of texts, and an unidentifiable assembly of gauges and dials in the far corner. A human skeleton was draped awkwardly across a chair of wood and vinyl before the desk. Larson took a shuffling step into the room. The movement dislodged a pile of dirt which whirled madly through the air, sparkling in the sun's rays. Grit stung Larson's eyes and clung to the moist membranes of his mouth. Blinking and spitting, he motioned his companions back and waited for the debris to settle. The interior felt stifling compared with the late autumn coolness outside, and he doubted the warped windows could be opened.
Walking with more caution, Larson made a rapid circuit of the room. The desk supported the skeleton's arm and skull across a blank page of an open journal. Scraps of leathery skin still clung to the yellowed bones; the walls had protected it from insects and the elements. Too accustomed to death to concern himself with the remains, Larson removed a bound journal from the top of the stack and flipped to the title page. It read, "The Acceleration of Anti-muons to Super-relativistic Velocities and Its A
pplications to Time Travel by Galin R…" The last name was smeared beyond further recognition. "… and Gary Mannix." Though not discarding the potential significance of his discovery, Larson closed the journal and moved on to the shelves.
The books on the mantles fell into categories, many of their titles obscured by mold. The upper levels held psychology texts and guides to hypnotism, witchcraft, and other paranormal phenomena. Beneath it, a row of physics and history tomes stood in stately contrast. The historical references held a definite bias toward the Middle Eastern cultures. The last shelf consisted of a mixed batch of hardbound science fiction novels, a bible, and assorted medical and literary references. Many of the volumes held the same Library of Congress classification tags Larson had thought he recognized on the books of the current Dragonrank Master. A glance down the stairwell re-vealed a well-equipped kitchen and a bathroom. The remaining room appeared to be a bedroom.
The tour took only a few minutes, but the trapped, ancient air felt suffocating and centuries of grime burned Larson's lungs. Until he had a chance to identify the strange gadgets in the laboratory and kitchen, he knew that allowing his companions to explore might prove too dangerous.
Gaelinar stood in the doorway, blocking Bramin's entry. Only Taziar had followed Larson inside. Snatching up the half dozen journals on the lab bench, including the one wedged beneath the skeleton, Larson caught Taziar's arm and herded the climber to the exit. "I'm not sure what we have here, but I'd rather examine them where I can breathe and see." His brief inspection had also revealed overhead lighting. But even if Mannix had created a working system for electricity, Larson doubted the bulbs could have survived.
Larson led his companions back outside, leaving the door propped to air out the building. Scraping aside snow to uncover the sand beneath, they sat in their manufactured clearing. To Larson's relief, Bramin came, too; apparently the dark elf wanted to keep track of his quarry or else he assumed the journals in Larson's arms held more interesting information than the house itself. And he's probably right. If these are, as I believe, Gary Man-nix's private notes, they may hold a wealth of magical and technological data. He shook his head, picking the first volume up in a hand which had begun to tremble. The mind boggles.
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