Dragonrank master bg-3

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Larson paused for a drink of water. Gaelinar and Ta-ziar watched him expectantly. Bramin fidgeted with impatience. Larson gulped slowly, savoring a little power of his own before returning to Gary Mannix's narrative.

  "Some ten years after I discovered Hosvir, a claw-shaped scar appeared on the hand of every sorcerer. Somehow, they knew it came from the entropy-force, but it was quite some time before we realized the creature was stamping its prey. We called the scars 'dragonmarks' after their source, and the sorcerers became known as my 'dragon ranks' or 'dragon troops.' The mark helped bring us all together. The first accidental channeling of chaos would cause the mark to appear on adults and chil-dren with the potential to become sorcerers. Frightened parents brought their marked sons and daughters to me. I took them all in, hoping one could learn the time travel 'magic' which would take me home.

  "Luckily, the gift was rare. Over the next nine years, my dragon ranks swelled to eighteen. And the chaos force grew exponentially. It had begun to kill people, at first singly. Then it slaughtered entire towns. A few of the sorcerers attempted to destroy or contain it, but they were beaten before they started. The chaos they summoned to use for spells against it only added to its power. And the entropy-force grew.

  "Eighteen years of training sorcerers gave me enough knowledge of their craft to finally realize how to reroute their energy and stop feeding the entropy-force. Rather than summoning an extrinsic chaos force, I taught the novice mages to tap only the psychic power within themselves. In good faith, the higher ranking sorcerers tried to do the same. But the change limited their powers to a tiny fraction, and old habits die hard. Hosvir and his earlier-trained companions frequently slipped back into previous patterns. Worse, the tapping of self-energy required keener judgment of the amount of summoned force needed for a spell. Bringing forth more life energy than necessary simply sapped their own strength, and depleting life force too far resulted in death. We lost six of my dragon ranks in the first week. Though more slowly now, the chaos force continued to grow, leaving a trail of death and destruction in its wake.

  "Now in my twenty-second year in Old Norway, I have come to realize my dragon ranks will never learn to bridge time, especially with their power curtailed. Last week, desperation drove me to attempt something recklessly stupid. I gathered the remaining dozen sorcerers who still knew how to channel external psychic energy and brought them together in a cause. It occurred to me that, if the sorcerers were unable to control time, perhaps a god could. I had them create 'Thor,' describing him from my memory of the comics. Had I not been blinded by homesickness, I might have realized just how foolish this undertaking was. The Thor they created came directly from their own perceptions. With him, they brought the entire Norse pantheon. And the excess entropy was almost beyond comprehension."

  Larson let the book slap closed over his finger. The implications seemed too far beyond reality to believe. If Gary Mannix wrote the truth, we have the answer to the age old question, "But who created God?" I can't believe the gods were invented by a twentieth century American parapsychologist. He reopened the journal and continued reading.

  "The backlash was tremendous. Earthquakes swept Norway. Forests shattered to kindling, and death came in the form of a rampaging dragon. God only knows the ripple effect on the countries outside Scandinavia. The way Hosvir explained it to me, Law and Chaos are in a constant battle for control. There are advantages to being the stronger force, but too much power serves no one and destroys everyone. We were approaching that threshold. The world had become so skewed toward Chaos, it was rocketing toward oblivion.

  "I'm convinced the entropy-force is nonintelligent, but somehow it knew it had grown too strong. The night we summoned the gods, Hosvir's dragonmark began to ache. By morning, the entropy-force had clawed him to death. It came for the sources of its excessive power. One by one, it hunted down and killed my dragon ranks, sparing only those who tapped exclusively internal energy sources. Then, tonight, the mark appeared on me. It hurts like an open wound, and I have no doubt the entropy-force will come for me soon. I've set a trap for it. I hope to contain it within the particle accelerator beneath this laboratory, thereby removing it and restoring the balance of the world. I have no choice but to use myself as bait. Likely, I'll die with it, perhaps deservedly. But I can't help wondering what will happen to this world that I've created. When time travel was only the realm of science fiction, people wondered if tiny changes in the past might multiply and radically alter the future. I've always been of the mind that, once time travel becomes possible, so many people will make so many changes, the mistakes of any one individual will go unnoticed. Let us hope, friend reader, my theory is correct. Judge as you will."

  The signature read "Gary Mannix, 9th/10th century Norway on the equivalent of May 3, 2011."

  Beneath the signature, a brown discoloration covered words scrawled across the bottom of the page in shaky, unfamiliar handwriting: "I believe only my rads will kill the monster. -GM."

  "Rads," Larson repeated in English, puzzled. "I must have misread that. It has to be rods. Geirmagnus' rod." With this correction, he told the final sentence to his companions.

  Taziar glanced at the page. "Geirmagnus must have trapped the chaos-force in that 'thing you can't translate.' Otherwise, it would have destroyed the world a long time ago."

  The sun had slipped lower in the sky while Larson read, lengthening the shadows into slender caricatures. "Apparently, it killed Geirmagnus, too. The handwriting, the bloodstain, and the skeleton convince me. Mannix must have staggered up the stairs, fatally wounded, to write that last sentence. It must have been pretty important…"

  Bramin interrupted, casually sidling beyond range of Gaelinar's swords. "More important than you know. What your so-called friends neglected to tell you…"

  Gaelinar leaped to his feet.

  Bramin met the threat with a sneer. "I am protected by Allerum's vow."

  "Not if you break that vow," Gaelinar threw back. "You swore not to hurt Allerum or hinder the quest for Geirmagnus' rod. If you say it, you will do both."

  "Say what?" Larson pressed, annoyed at being talked around.

  Bramin met Larson's gaze. Red eyes flashed in a face wearing an expression like iron. He addressed Gaelinar, but his reply was for Larson alone. "Do I hinder him with knowledge or do you fetter him with ignorance? Would you send him to his doom unaware?"

  "Stop right now," Gaelinar warned. He laid a hand on each sword hilt.

  Larson tried to gain some control of the situation. "Quit it, both of you," he screamed. All eyes turned to Larson as he continued. "Bramin and I made the vow. We can revise it if we both agree.''

  Bramin remained still and silent. His features were placid, without triumph.

  "Fool." Gaelinar spat. "Don't let him play you again. Do you really think Bramin would tell you something to help you?"

  "No," Larson admitted. "But I do believe you would hide information to protect me; I know it for a fact. And right now, the more I understand, the better off we all are."

  Taziar tugged at Larson's sleeve. "Trust us," he said softly.

  Larson hesitated, recalling Taziar's pleas at the city border. I have every reason to trust my companions, to place my life in their hands. Perhaps my ignorance may prove the best way to complete this quest. As he came to the decision, a feeling of complacency settled over Larson. He had no doubt he had made the right choice. And yet, the certainty itself seemed tainted, foreign. Realization seeped around Larson's inner calm. Vidarrl You influenced my thoughts. How dare you! Anger exploded across Larson's mind. He lashed out in fury against Vidarr's presumed violation and the companions who would not trust him with the knowledge of his own life and death. "Damn it, I'm no child. I can handle the truth. I retract the vow, Bramin, only enough to allow you to speak."

  Vidarr's voice wound through Larson's mind in startled accusation. Allerum, I didn V…

  A smile curled across Bramin's features, grotesque as a stone gargoyle
on a motel roof. Realization hammered Larson. It wasn't Vidarr. My god! Bramin influenced my thoughts to make me believe he was Vidarr. He made me betray my friends. And I can't claim foul because it was my misinterpretation, not an attack.

  Bramin spoke quickly, before Larson could rescind his permission. "Allerum, your quest is impossible. "

  "You idiot!" Taziar shouted, but Larson never knew whether the Shadow Climber addressed him or Bramin.

  Gaelinar pointed a finger at the dark elf. "You know I have too much honor to interfere with your vows. But you had best hope the hero kills you. If he doesn't, I will."

  If I don't get him first, Vidarr added.

  "Take a number," Larson grumbled, surprised by his own calm acceptance. "But first, let Bramin finish. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Tell me why the quest is impossible."

  Bramin's gaze passed over each of Larson's companions in turn. When no one protested, he continued. "My source is the Fates and therefore cannot be disputed. Centuries back, they released a trinity of fortunes concerning Geirmagnus' rod. All the gods know the prophecy, and every child born to Midgard hears the tale at his mother's knee. First, the retrieval of the rod will release a chaos-force of immeasurable power. Second, no matter the state of the balance, the release of the chaos-force will open a place for Baldur on Midgard. Third, and I quote, 'The weapon Geirmagnus planned to be used to defeat the chaos-force has not yet been made and may never be. The only weapon of its kind will not be used against it.' "

  Gary Mannix's last scrawled words rang clearly through Larson's thoughts. I believe only my rod will kill the monster. Sweat rose on his temples. He fingered his own ear, bending it down until the point touched the lobe. So I have to find this rod/weapon, thereby freeing a creature which destroyed cities and killed a dozen Dragonrank sorcerers. And the only weapon which will work against it is destined never to be used. Frustration writhed through him, and Vidarr's echoing hatred in his mind served only to strengthen it. Larson stared down Gaelinar and Taziar in turn. "The quest is impossible. You led me into it, blindly, knowing we all would die. And you dare call yourselves friends?" Larson whirled.

  Something slammed him in the back of the head. He staggered forward a step. On angry impulse, he drew his sword and spun to face Taziar. The comma of black hair had slipped into the Shadow Climber's eye, making his scarlet features seem almost comical. "You stupid, selfish bastard! When are you going to start thinking with your head instead of your sword? Sure, we knew the quest was impossible. But we chose to sacrifice our lives and come anyway. Gaelinar is here, prepared to die with a student who apparently doesn't deserve his loyalty. I came, ready to die to prove nothing is impossible. Silme's life hangs on your willingness not only to die, but to achieve the impossible."

  Taziar tossed his head, freeing blue eyes cold as ice and deadly serious. "They said Loki couldn't be killed until Ragnarok, but he was. Not even the gods could find a way to raise the dead, but you've done that." He made a vague gesture at Bramin. "Sneaking into the Dragon-rank school is impossible, right? But a man half your size did just that. Impossible has no meaning; it's a term coined by the simple-minded to explain tasks they're too weak or lazy to accomplish. If you would rather bow to the whims of gods and Fates and sorcerers, lie down and die here. I'm getting Silme." Quick as a rabbit, Taziar dodged between Gaelinar and Bramin and was halfway to the door of Gary Mannix's lab before Larson could think to reply.

  CHAPTER 13: Master of Time

  "My rod holds the key to unlimited power. Once freed, the future will be changed And nothing will be impossible."

  – Gary Mannix, Dragonrank Master

  Taziar's verbal attack swept raw fury through Larson. Shadow and Gaelinar decided to come. I was never given a choice! He charged after Taziar, boots crunching in the shallow layer of snow. Bounding up the concrete steps, he dashed through the open doorway just in time to hear Taziar's footfalls on the lower landing of the stairs.

  Once inside Gary Mannix's laboratory, Larson's anger dissipated, replaced by a feeling of imminent danger. His acid retort died, forgotten. Silme is my problem. I'm not going to let Shadow face the chaos-force alone. As he stood debating in the entry way, Bramin and Gaelinar drew up beside him. But what the hell is Gary Mannix's rod?

  Evening cast a gray haze over piled centuries of dust and the dark line of office furniture. From habit, Larson flipped a set of four plastic switches by the door. The first three had no visible effect. As the fourth snapped upward, pale light sputtered, dimmed, then brightened at the bottom of the stairs accompanied by Taziar's startled cry. Fluorescent. Thank God for modern technology. Shouting a reassurance, Larson plunged down the stairwell, a film of dirt coating his snow-wet boots. Gaelinar and Bramin clattered down the steps behind him.

  The diffuse glow from an elongated, overhead bulb chased darkness from the quarter of the room at the base of the staircase. Beyond it, the light faded, revealing kitchen appliances as hulking shapes lining the western and northern walls. Air from the propped door had not circulated well; the lower level still felt stifling. A portal in the eastern wall opened into a bathroom. A rectangular table of plastic, constructed to appear woodlike, occupied the center of the room. It rested against a brick and mortar pole which supported the plumbing, a fuse box, and a conduit cable to supply power to the upstairs and basement.

  Taziar had followed the right, southern wall, groping through grime-filled mist which had once been nearly total blackness. Not at all certain what to look for, Larson circled in the opposite direction, examining the western wall. He came first upon a wooden storage cabinet. Flicking open its hinged doors, he discovered its contents had fallen to dust. Atop it, a boxlike, glass and metal appliance sported buttons not unlike the ones which coded the gate. A list of temperatures and cooking instructions beneath the keys revealed it as some sort of oven, unlike any Larson had ever seen. Above it, the sand-covered, warped casement windows he had noticed from the outside admitted meager stripes of sunlight.

  Next in line, Larson discovered a dishwasher and an electric stove with a conventional oven beneath it. He watched Bramin fiddle with the temperature controls. Burner coils glowed to red life, inspiring spiteful thoughts in Larson's mind. It'd serve the bastard right if he burned his hands off. After the stove/oven unit, the room came to a corner. Against the northern wall, closed cabinets of oak hung over a porcelain sink with a steel spigot and handles and an attached countertop of speckled, dingy formica. Beside it, a refrigerator towered nearly to the ceiling.

  Taziar blurred into the shadows beyond the light, moving toward the southeastern corner. Gaelinar chose not to aid their search. Instead, he leaned against the table, gaze locked on Bramin with fanatical interest. The dark elf turned his attention to the sink, and Larson spun the stove dial to its off position to protect his friends. The burner dulled to orange, then faded to neutral black. Watching a process which seemed trivial and routine turned Larson's thoughts to the ridiculousness of an exploration for an undescribed item. Mannix's journals had given him no clue, and he wondered if his companions might have more knowledge they had not revealed to him. "Does anyone have the foggiest notion what we're looking for?"

  Larson half expected someone to reply stupidly, "Geirmagnus' rod." But no one did. Taziar and Gaelinar remained silent. Bramin made a wordless sound, but offered no further explanation.

  Larson pressed. "Bramin? You know what the rod looks like?"

  Bramin did not bother to face Larson as he replied, regal as a king. "I have an idea."

  "And?"

  "And I'm not here at your convenience, to share my thoughts with a fool who has condemned himself and his friends to death. I never promised to help you, only that I wouldn't interfere."

  Larson restrained an obscenity, glad Gaelinar had chosen to guard the dark elf. If the rod has some sort of magical powers, I would as soon it not fall into Bramin's hands.

  Vidarr replied. I believe it is a product of sorcery, Allerum. The description
I've heard is "a rod of wood and iron, a weapon of unfathomable power. "

  Anything more? Larson urged.

  Vidarr lapsed into an aura of regret without attempting a verbal reply.

  Bramin seemed preoccupied with the miniature waterfall created by twirling the faucet knobs. Larson ducked into the lane between the half man and the table. Nearly at the northeastern corner, he stopped before the refrigerator, his back to the brick pole which held the pipes. Scattered light from the fluorescent bulb dragged pale shadows across magnets in the form of metal hooks and plastic fruit. It appeared much like the refrigerator Larson remembered from his parents' apartment in New York City, except that his mother had trapped memos, school menus and scrawled children's drawings beneath the magnets. Recalling the odor of week-old leftovers green with mold, Larson wondered what effect a century or two might have had on stored refreshments. Only he and Bra-min stood close enough to suffer the consequences of his curiosity. Holding his breath, Larson caught the metal handle and pulled.

  The door swung open easily, but the bulb inside did not go on. Weak light from the farther corner filtered in, defining shapes into recognizable figures. Plastic containers lined the upper shelf. All were sealed, Larson noted in relief. A receptacle which had once held milk lay on its side, half-filled with a clear substance he guessed was water. On the lower level, a single can of Pepsi stood, pushed to the back. Its red, white, and blue emblem seemed different than he recalled; but so much time had passed since his last soda, the details escaped him. The flip top appeared more square and flat, laid into a depression. He grabbed the can. It felt flimsier than he expected, aluminum instead of steel.

  Taziar's voice wafted to Larson from beyond the pole. "What's this?"

  "The rod!" Bramin screamed.

  Larson jerked his head out of the refrigerator. Bramin's sword crashed into its door, slamming it shut. Magnets showered to the floor, and a spray of broken chips rattled across the concrete.