"I just fought a creature which should have killed me, and I escaped with only an injured hand and shoulder. A warrior doesn't earn respect through what he learns but from what he survives."
Larson shook his head in disbelief. Battered, smashed, and hurting, and he still feels obligated to teach me. He planted his boot in Gaelinar's armpit, tightened his fingers on the Kensei's wrist, and gave a long, steady pull. When he released it, the arm snapped back into place.
Gaelinar accepted the pain without a sound. "Thank you, Lord Allerum."
Larson nodded his acknowledgment of Gaelinar's gratitude, glad the Kensei had not called him "hero." Unarmed and fifty years shy of his mentor's training, Larson's contribution to the dragon's demise seemed paltry.
Exercising his arm and fingers, Gaelinar approached the dark hulk of the dragon. "I need to get my other sword. Then I'm going to the river to clean off. When I get back, I suggest we keep moving. If we press on hard, we may reach Midgard before Modgudr regains her strength."
"And sends another dragon," Larson agreed, but even the battle and Gaelinar's wounds did not allow him to forget that he had thrown Silme's rankstone somewhere in the darkness. "I'll wait for you here. I need to find something." He dropped to his knees, straining his eyes as he pawed the dirt around him.
At length, Gaelinar hacked his short sword free from the dragon's scales and wandered toward the river.
Larson turned. A haggard semicircle illuminated a piece of the bare, black ground. In its center lay Silme's gemstone, appearing expended and spiritless. Its glow sputtered like an old fuse, an eerie reminder of Silme's dwindling time. What have I done to her? Larson crawled to it, feeling as feeble as the sapphire appeared. Did I unleash its powers? Did I cost Silme some of her remaining life force? He raked the stone into his fist and placed it gingerly in his pocket as though it might break. But, as Larson clambered to his feet, understanding replaced his initial feelings of guilt. His meager knowledge of Dragonrank sorcery made him certain life energy could only be spent by its owner. I suspect the sapphire flashed because Silme's magic met Modgudr's, nothing more.
Gaelinar reappeared shortly, his golden robes torn and stained. Water trickled from his gray hair, running in rivulets down his wrinkled face. Early bruises splotched the skin visible through the rents and gaps in his clothing. Yet the sheaths, hilts, and brocade of both swords hung, neat and clean, at his waist. "Let's go."
As Larson and Gaelinar pushed onward, the thinning darkness dwindled to gray mist. Exhaustion hunted Larson, and Gaelinar's silence suggested he, too, was due for sleep. They dragged forward, too tired to speak.
It was well into the tenth hour from Modgudr's bridge when Gaelinar and Larson came upon the cliffs which separated Hel's realm from Midgard. Beyond this natural wall, Larson could hear the roar of Hvergelmir's waterfall, a twisted cascade of eleven rivers which poured ceaselessly into a mile deep hole of death before it once again split into the streams which wound through Hel. It was there, at the top of the falls, where Silme and Bramin had lost their lives. There, too, Larson had hurled Loki into the plunging waters, thereby destroying the god, body and soul, for eternity.
Home. Born and raised in New York City, it seemed odd to Larson to consider the crude world of Midgard his residence now. But light streamed through the gorge which served as Hel's doorway, inviting as a campfire on a cold night. Reflexively, Larson quickened his pace. As he came upon the crack in the mountains which served as Hel's boundary, excitement overtook him. With a wild whoop of joy, he sprang for the opening.
A sudden growl and a shadowed blur of movement cut Larson's leap short. Instinctively, he twisted. A heavy form crashed into his hip, bowling him to the ground. Angry teeth pinched through his breeks and tore flesh. Larson rolled away. He pulled free with a tear of cloth. Blood trickled down his shin, and he stared into the sooty muzzle of a huge dog. It yowled and snarled, straining toward Larson but held in place by a staunch chain.
Larson spun back from the beast, then carefully worked his way to his feet. His injured leg felt numb. He looked at Gaelinar. "H-Hel hound?" he managed at length.
Gaelinar glanced from the frothing, black mongrel to Larson. '' No doubt.''
Now comfortably beyond range of the Hel hound, Larson examined his wound. It was little more than a deep scratch. He held pressure against it until the bleeding stopped, glad for the quickness of his own reaction despite fatigue. Recalling a dog fight he had witnessed in an alley in Manhattan, he suspected the Hel hound would attack with the ferocity of a pit bull. Had it caught a good hold, it would never have released him.
Gaelinar studied the Hel hound, its iron-link leash, and the entry way to Midgard. "I would have warned you, but you knew it was there. I didn't expect you to feed yourself to the Hel hound."
"I was too damn tired to think." Larson scowled. If he gives me a lecture about keeping my guard up, there's not a god in this world who could keep me from killing him. He closed Gaelinar's opening quickly. "How are we going to get past it?"
Gaelinar thumbed the hilts of his shoto and katana, his left hand swollen to twice its normal size. "We have no choice."
Gaelinar's slight, but unmistakable, smile convinced Larson the Kensei would have chosen combat, even if he had another option. Larson watched his mentor tense, becoming annoyed at a teacher with two swords who would let his pupil remain unarmed. "Uh, Gaelinar. Forgive me stating the obvious again, but I don't have a weapon."
Gaelinar turned to Larson. "Not even a knife?"
Larson shook his head. When Freyr had transported him from the Vietnam War to Old Scandinavia, the god had equipped him with only clothing and a sword. The tunic, breeks, and cape had long ago worn through and been exchanged for cleaner attire. He had lost the sword when Loki's death broke the spell which imprisoned the god, Vidarr, within its steel. Larson had misplaced the dagger Gaelinar had given him earlier in their travels, but he kept that information to himself. "Not even a child's slingshot."
The Hel hound crouched at the end of its chain, its growls deep and constant.
Gaelinar reached beneath his cloak and retrieved a pair of matched, ivory-hilted knives, still in their sheaths. "Here, then. Every man should carry a blade, even if he's not fighting dogs."
Though still bothered by Gaelinar's insistence on keeping both his swords, Larson took the daggers and attached them to his belt. His army training returned easily. He had been taught to fight off dogs, though he had never had the opportunity to put the knowledge to use before. Catch it up under the throat and knife it in the belly. Larson shook his head, doubting he would want to come so close to the beast while his mentor was flashing swords.
As Larson mentally prepared for battle, another dark shape filled the crevice, blotting out the light from Mid-gard. A beast twice as large as the Hel hound and thick with fur wound through the crevice and stood, still and proud, before the entry way.
Immediately, Larson recognized the wolf from his dream. "Fenrir," he whispered. Suddenly, the Hel hound no longer concerned him.
Fenrir returned Larson's gaze, its red eyes mocking. Water droplets sparkled at the tip of each hair, silvering the wolf's coat. Its stance was confident and detached, without a hint of fear. "Allerum… Kensei." It indicated each with a toss of its narrow muzzle. Its voice darkened, and its ears swept flat against its head. "You're both mine."
Gaelinar's swords whipped free, and the Kensei adopted a defensive pose. Larson hunched, a knife clenched in each fist. Even the warm rush of adrenaline did little to dispel fatigue. Larson's mind felt heavy and muddled. Gaelinar's stance was devoid of his usual bold confidence.