She had seen him, too. The panic in her eyes was permanently inscribed into Larson's memory. A thousand years of guilt tore through him before his own bullets ripped through her chest and left her, dead and bleeding, on the dirt.
Larson had waited in the sudden, jarring silence, then crept toward the corpse cautiously. Yellow-white, bloodless skin felt thin as ash beneath his fingers. Desperately, he sought a weapon tucked in some fold of flesh or clothing. But he found nothing to justify the woman's death. She was a peasant searching for something: an herb to cure an ill relative, a wandering grandchild. Larson cursed her with every vile word he knew, not realizing in his rage that he was really damning himself.
The scene rushed through Larson's mind in the fraction of a second it took Gaelinar to strike. "No!" Larson sprang. His shoulder smashed into Bengta's gut, tumbling her. Larson landed heavily on top of her. The point of Gaelinar's katana shaved a line of skin from Larson's back before the Kensei could pull his cut.
Larson whirled to face his mentor, still shielding Bengta with his body. "Don't do it."
Gaelinar swore. "Allerum, you idiot! Out of my way. I vow to any god listening, I'll run you both through if I must."
"No." Larson shook his head, still disoriented and uncertain what force or thought had driven him to defy Gaelinar and deny Silme the life he wanted so much to return to her. He attempted a reply. "It's wrong, Gaelinar." The explanation sounded lame, even to Larson.
The muscles in Gaelinar's cheeks twitched. He glared down at Larson, his expression dark with a bitter anger which bordered on hatred. "At least you won't have far to fall when I behead you."
Frozen by the realization he had slain Silme for the second time, Larson felt little concern for his own welfare. "You wouldn't kill me. We're friends…"
Gaelinar crouched, sword still poised to strike. "Hero, you really don't understand. I pledged myself to Silme and her cause. Lives, even of friends, are nothing compared with honor. If I have to kill twenty thousand people to fulfill my pledge to Silme, I will." He tensed. "I would regret killing you. But if I'm willing to spend my life on a cause, why wouldn't I spend yours?"
Larson met Gaelinar's stare with an insolent scowl. He knew his defiance had lost him everything: his sanity, Silme's life, Gaelinar's companionship. The threat of his own death lost all meaning in comparison. He wrapped an arm more tightly about the woman beneath him. "You're a liar!" he screamed. "You may have served Silme once. Now you work against her."
Gaelinar's reply was a sudden snap of his foot to Larson's face.
Pain jarred a whimper from Larson and drove his world into a deeper haze. "You bastard." His voice was hoarse. "I loved Silme more than anyone. I know her mind, Gae-linar. Deep down, I think you do, too. Were she here, Silme would never let us sacrifice an innocent life for hers. If we brought her back by killing Bengta, Silme would never forgive either of us and neither could I." Tears stung Larson's eyes. "If you want to kill us both, Gaelinar, go ahead. But, don't delude yourself into thinking you did it for Silme. Don't mistake your own cause for hers."
Larson felt Bengta shudder beneath him. Then her body shook rhythmically as she wept.
Crouched behind a trellis swarming with fleshy, purple wine grapes, Taziar Medakan observed the scene in Bengta's garden, moved by Larson's sensitivity. At first, sneaking into the Dragonrank school grounds in broad daylight had seemed like folly. But Gaelinar's ravings had held the attention of guards and sorcerers while Taziar slipped boldly through the front gate. Not quite foolish enough to brave the archmaster's palace, Taziar had waited outside while Gaelinar and Larson conversed with Karrold. Then, catching sight of his quarries as they emerged from between the columns of the portico, Taziar trailed them to Bengta's garden where he easily dodged her wards.
It surprised and impressed Taziar that Gaelinar and Larson had discovered a cause so unthinkable even he had never considered attempting it. If Ketel's assessment was correct, the Kensei and his partner were working to restore life to a corpse. Furthermore, the sorcerers seemed to believe it possible. I want a hand in this. From habit, Taziar ignored the cramp of muscles held too long in one position. And Silme could hardly refuse to accept Astryd as an apprentice after I assisted in her resurrection.
Taziar studied Larson, recalling Fenrir had called Gae-linar's companion an "elf." In the dawn light, Larson had appeared the same as any man. But now Taziar could discern subtle differences. Unnaturally lean for his height, Larson sported sharply-defined, angular features. His ears tapered to delicate points. Larson's gestures and some of his speech were unlike any Taziar had ever encountered, and the elf's accent was unfamiliar. Larson's morality pleased Taziar. It had saved not only Bengta's life but, earlier, his own as well.
Reluctantly, Taziar turned his attention to Gaelinar. The Kensei watched Larson and Bengta with grim impassivity. There was no doubt in Taziar's mind. If we meet again, he'll kill me without giving me a chance to speak. But I have no choice. I freed Fenrir; the wolf is my responsibility. And I'll have to gain Gaelinar's trust if I want a role in rescuing Silme. Taziar had always prided himself on accurately reading intentions. Yet Gaelinar's mentality confused him. He had met men inclined to sacrifice friends, usually to further their own power. He had known patriots who gave their lives for their friends or countries. But never before had Taziar seen someone willing to forfeit the lives of his friends and himself for a cause. Somehow I have to make Gaelinar listen. I have to prove myself his equal. As Taziar considered his withdrawal from Bengta's garden, he realized persuading Gaelinar would require every bit of cunning he could muster. And it pleased him.
CHAPTER 6: Master of Illusion
"Morality is a private and costly luxury." -Henry Brooks Adams
The Education of Henry Adams
Al Larson sat in a tavern whose sign he had not read, in a town he had not bothered to identify, sipping a bitter liquid which tasted vaguely like beer. A dozen other patrons chatted and laughed over food and drinks, but in Larson's mind he was alone. Four days' travel through nameless woods had brought him and Gaelinar to a nameless bar in a nameless city, their only communication the Kensei's barked commands during brutal sword practices. But the grief which haunted Larson was not nameless.
Silme. Larson took another long pull at his mug. They say every beer kills a hundred brain cells. If I could only hit the right ones. He downed the remaining beer and gestured at the waitress for a fourth. There's not enough liquor in Scandinavia to make me forget I killed Silme again; I destroyed her in the name of her own cause. The good must die to make the world safe for the simple. God bless America. He amended. Gods bless Norway.
A skinny, young woman in a tattered dress refilled Larson's mug from a dented, bronze tankard. She rushed away to fill another order.
"Allerum?" Gaelinar's voice stirred lazily through Larson's thoughts. "Allerum, there's a blacksmith just a few cottages from here. Remember Fenrir." You'll need a sword."
Protectively, Larson looped a hand around his drink. "Maybe later."
Gaelinar's voice grated with the ire which seemed to taint all of his words and actions since the incident at the Dragonrank school. "The tavern will not run out of beer in your absence."
Larson downed half the contents of his mug without pausing for breath. "Get it yourself." Immediately, guilt gnawed at his conscience. "Please," he added, attempting to soften the demand to a request. When that proved unsuccessful, he explained. "I'm sorry, Gaelinar. I didn't mean that. I just need some time alone. I wouldn't know what to look for in a sword, anyway."