I always knew any or all of you might die, but I had no other choice. If you refused the quest, Odin would have slain you all, perhaps me, as well. I care for Baldur very deeply. I did not enjoy the deceptions any more than you, but I saw no other way. I plead the cause of brotherly love and hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. Vidarr stopped, obviously awaiting a reply. His anxiety felt tangible.
Larson trembled in the grip of pain. He tried to search his mind for an answer, but he felt only the crushing weight of darkness. Quietly, he slipped into oblivion.
Epilogue
"The law that I have preached… and the discipline that I have established will be your master after my disappearance.''
– The Pali Canon Digha Nikaya, II
A quarter moon dangled above Hvergelmir's chasm, mirrored in the sluggish waters of the eleven rivers which formed the falls. Twisted as one, the streams crashed to Hel's entry way, whipped to foam by the force of impact on the rocks below. Spray rebounded, needling Larson and freezing on the metallic surfaces of the rifle in his hands. Winds from the rushing cascade ruffled thin, yellow-white hair into his eyes. With no regrets, he hurled the weapon. It spun through air, reflecting patterns of moonlight across the surface of water. Then Hvergelmir accepted the offering. Steel clanked against stone, and the rifle was swallowed beneath the boiling current. Larson knew the wild waters would pummel Gary Mannix's rod to splinters and beyond; he had learned from Loki's death that the cascade could bash not only a man, but also his soul, to irretrievable oblivion.
For some time after the gun disappeared, Larson stood watching, awed by the unbridled power of the waterfall. It held a vitality beyond man's ability to master, a strength he might capture in his mind and tap in times of need. Unconsciously, his hand fell to the hilt of the katana at his hip. Suddenly, Gaelinar was with him again, berating stupid questions, punishing inattentiveness with an un-expected kick during a practice, preparing to retrieve Silme's soul from Hel as if readying for an excursion to a farm village. Larson's eyes burned and his face felt moist; he blamed it on the pelting splatter of the falls. Could we resurrect Gaelinar? Larson answered his own question. When Gaelinar first spoke with Modgudr, he claimed death would make his soul become one with the universe. Where would we look for him? Larson realized something more. Gaelinar was an old man, a warrior who lived and died by his swords. His deeds were his immortality. He would never have wanted us to steal him from his ultimate reward.
Larson turned, shuffling through snow speckled with crushed, brown foliage, a chaotic pattern of stems and seeds, the timeworn mingling inseparably with the hopes of the future spring. What goes around comes around. It seems strangely fitting Gaelinar would choose to say ' 'begin again'' rather than ' 'it's over.'' Grimly, Larson returned to the companions who awaited him by the cliffs which surrounded the clearing. Astryd sat cross-legged, propped against a boulder, Taziar's head cradled in her lap. The thief's eyes were closed. Tousled black hair fringed features oddly at peace; to Larson the notorious Shadow Climber looked more like an unkempt child. Larson could not banish a feeling of guilt, aware the risk of peritonitis had forced Astryd to focus her taxing healing spells on him. Taziar's limping gait surely required twice the energy of normal walking, but the little Climber had never complained.
Silme extended her arm as Larson approached. He accepted her hand, pulling her into an embrace. For the hundredth time in as many minutes, he felt like the luckiest creature alive. Side by side, they sat, touching in as many places as the position and decorum allowed. But a question still plagued Larson, and he realized Silme would have the answer. "Gaelinar told us how the two of you wound up together."
Silme rested a palm on Larson's knee. Her nod encouraged him to continue.
"Gaelinar said you met him in Japan. He didn't know why you came there."
"He didn't?" Silme seemed surprised. She stroked Larson's leg absently. "I came for him. When I realized I would need to contest Bramin's evil, I selected my repertoire of spells to counteract his, to protect innocents from his vengeance. He was always more powerful than me, both in magic and physical strength. I needed someone to even the odds. So, with the help of other Dragon-rank sorcerers and Vidarr, I identified our world's most skilled swordsman. I met with Gaelinar's lord, a loathsome weasel of a man, and asked him to free Gaelinar from his service." Silme's features screwed into wrinkles at the memory, as if she had tasted something bitter.
Larson glanced at Astryd who was smoothing stray strands of hair away from Taziar's lids. "And?" he prompted.
"Gaelinar's lord refused, of course," Silme continued. "Then the old fool tried to force himself on me."
Larson winced, wondering how any man could be stupid enough to try to ravish a Dragonrank sorceress. With equal speed, he recalled the mages were a Northern phenomenon, nearly unknown outside Scandinavia.
"I didn't mean to kill him," Silme said with honest regret. "I think he had a weak heart and my spell simply propelled him a bit closer to Hel."
Larson put his hand over Silme's. "Gaelinar believed his master died of natural causes."
"A necessary lie." Silme stared off toward the horizon. "If Gaelinar had known I took his lord's life, he would have been obligated to kill me."
Wind hissed through the snow, tossing flakes in a gentle spray. Larson remained in silent contemplation, wondering if Gaelinar could have avenged himself on Silme. The Kensei's dedication to Silme, his willingness to serve her even after death seemed beyond the realm of normal loyalty. Though Gaelinar had tried to hide and deny his morality, it came through in a thousand different ways: his selfless dedication to causes, his ability to tolerate and even find humor in Larson's disrespect. Larson could not help but wonder whether Gaelinar's pledge to a repulsive master would allow him to act against Silme. He doubted it. But we'll never really know.
"Any other questions?" Silme prompted.
Just one, Larson thought. But you can't answer it. I still don't understand why Gary Mannix wrote "rod" or rather, "rads" instead of "rifle" or "gun. " But that's another thing I don't believe I'll ever fully understand. Larson slipped an arm around Silme, drawing her closer. The warm reality of her nearness remained scarcely within his ability to believe. "No," he said. "That's enough." His words went beyond the reply to Silme's query. "That's enough," he repeated emphatically. "I don't care if I never see another dragon or hear from another god. We've saved mankind twice. Now, if the world doesn't mind, I'd tike to forget about Law and Chaos, about hopeless futures and doomed pasts, and especially about performing impossible tasks. I've got some 'happily ever after' time coming, and I'm going to share it with the woman of my dreams." He pressed his cheek to Silme's breast.
Taziar spoke. "Happily ever after time, huh? I've never heard it put that way."
Larson glanced at his small companion to find Taziar's blue eyes wide and sparkling with excitement. "I know just the place. Did I ever tell you about a city called Cullinsberg? Its baron has a bounty on me, but if we're careful, we should be able to slip past…"
Larson lost the remainder of Taziar's words to the distant roar of Hvergelmir. He studied the Shadow Climber for a long time before he laughed. It's not over yet. Not by a long shot.
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