Vidarr continued. Do you know who my father is, Allerum?
I can guess.
He is called by many names, including Smiter, Destroyer, and The Terrible One. He is Odin. And he made me swear I would do nothing else before raising Baldur, the most beloved of the gods, from Hel. For your sake and my own, Odin should never be crossed. Besides, I was telling the truth when I said the method of raising Silme would make the quest far more difficult.
Larson struggled to salvage his argument. Silme could help us get the rod. You know she'd do anything for you.
Larson's attempt to stir Vidarr's guilt and loyalty failed. Silme's abilities would not outweigh the dangers of raising her. Allerum, it would be best for us both if you saw the retrieval of Geirmagnus' rod as a means to restore Silme. Dedicate yourself to Baldur as you would to Silme. In truth, their fates are wholly entwined.
It's not fair! Larson blustered. Why don't you make someone else go after this sorcerer's rod? If you love your brother so damned much, why don't you get it yourself?
Deep sadness assaulted Larson's consciousness. I would do anything for Baldur. I would die for him, if necessary. But you are the only one I know who could successfully complete the task.
Me? Larson shook his head. How can that be? I'm a stranger here; an elf not by choice; and, at best, a mediocre swordsman.
Vidarr went uncharacteristically sullen. I don't have to explain everything to you. You'll have to take some things on faith. Good-bye, Allerum. Vidarr's presence faded.
Wait! Larson thought desperately. At least tell me where to find this rod.
Vidarr pressed back into position. Gaelinar will know. Enlist his aid if you still can. He added dryly, You'll need it. And you may want to bring the little foreigner with you too.
That Shadow fellow? He can help us? Larson's natural curiosity died before a gathering wave of anger. Hey, wait a minute, Vidarr. How did you know about Shadow?
Your thoughts…
My thoughts! Larson hissed in revulsion. "You immortal bastard! Is nothing sacred? I asked you to stay the hell out of my memories. It's bad enough you manipulate my mind at will. How dare you…" Larson raged on long after Vidarr had quietly withdrawn from his consciousness.
CHAPTER 7: Swordmaster
"The business of the Samurai consists in reflecting on his own station in life, in discharging loyal service to his master if he has one, in deepening his fidelity in associations with friends and, with due consideration of his own position, in devoting himself to duty above all."
– Yamaga Soko
The Way of the Samurai
The autumn sun hovered, a diffuse halo of light just above the eastern horizon; its meager glow sifted through the forest of evergreens. Beside Gaelinar, Al Larson watched Taziar weave a trail between the shadow-splotched boughs and trunks, a full ten paces before them. The needled branches slid easily from the tough, black linen of the climber's clothing. Jabbed and scraped through his thinner tunic and cloak, Larson felt a pang of envy.
"Why would Vidarr suggest we drag along a foul, filthy bandit?" Gaelinar spoke loudly, oblivious or indifferent to the fact that Taziar could not help but overhear him.
Larson sighed. Only fifteen minutes from town and already Gaelinar's trying to goad Shadow to attack him. "I don't know." Annoyed with the prospect of having to deal with feuding companions and still bitter about Vidarr's secrecy and intrusion, Larson did not care if Taziar or Gaelinar found his tone insulting. "That's only one of a zillion questions I wish I'd asked Vidarr while I had the chance. Maybe this rod thing's hidden in a place too small for us to reach. Maybe we have to steal it." He dismissed the subject with a flick of his hand. "You're the one who knows about the rod. You promised you'd tell me what you could. So what is it we have to do?"
Gaelinar stared after Taziar, ignoring Larson's query. "There's a saying where I come from: 'Meet a man once, it's a chance. Meet twice and it's coincidence. The third time, you must embrace him or slay him.' To happen upon Shadow in the tavern seems unlikely enough. But to discover him snooping around our camp just when we're planning our journey? The dishonorable rodent owes us an explanation."
Taziar froze in his tracks. "The 'dishonorable rodent' would appreciate it if you would stop speaking to him in the third person." He turned to Gaelinar. "And I wasn't snooping. I was taking a walk."
"In the dark?" Gaelinar snorted. "And you just stumbled upon our camp by accident?"
Taziar shrugged. "However it happened, you and Allerum invited me along. If you want me to leave, say so. I'll gladly trail you unseen."
Larson kicked a dead branch at his feet, wishing his companions would stop bickering and continue walking. Time is of the essence. The delay turned his mood cruel. Maybe I should just have let Gaelinar kill Shadow at the Dragonrank school.
Gaelinar's tone carried a hint of threat. "You may find tracking us more difficult than you think."
Taziar met Gaelinar's glare with a triumphant grin. "I didn't have any trouble following you from the school. Shall I stay or leave? I'll abide by your decision."
Gaelinar's nostrils flared. Otherwise, his bland features betrayed no surprise or anger. "Stay. An enemy within sword range is safer than one concealed. But I warn you. If you try to kill Allerum or me, you will find us stronger than you can handle. If you take anything belonging to us, if you betray us at any time, you will die in the most horrible fashion I can design."
Taziar's blue eyes narrowed in offense. "In my life, I have killed only twice. Both times, my hand was forced; and never, before or since, have I had to do anything so vile." His fingers curled at his sides. "I'm not an enemy. What is in your best interests is in mine as well. And if I wanted something you carried, I would have it already." He spun on the balls of his feet and returned to his path, shoving branches aside with a new violence.
Relieved to continue their quest, Larson trotted after Taziar. He suppressed the urge to question the thief's motives for tailing them, not wanting to incite another argument. Instead, he attempted to distract Gaelinar. "It's time, now. Tell me about Geirmagnus' rod."
Gaelinar walked beside Larson, his attention still fixed on Taziar. "Geirmagnus was the first and most powerful Dragonrank Master. His estate still stands, a day's travel south of the city of Rajarkmar. Some say removing his rod from its resting place will restore life to the dead god, Baldur."
Larson creased his forehead. "That's common knowledge? ''
"For almost a century."
Confusion rode Larson. "But if Baldur is as well loved as Vidarr tells me, why hasn't anyone retrieved the rod yet?"
"Many have tried. None have succeeded."
Larson brushed dried needles from his hair, concerned by the multitude of potential barriers to completing Vidarr's task and obtaining the knowledge he needed to rescue Silme. "Why has no one succeeded?"
Gaelinar turned his gaze to Larson. "To tell you would doom you to failure, too."
Curiosity piqued, Larson pressed further. "How could that be?"
Larson's insistence strained Gaelinar's patience. "To answer your second question, Allerum, I would obviously need to address the first. As I said, that would assure your failure."
It makes no sense. How can knowledge doom me to failure? I would think ignorance would prove far more dangerous. Larson kept the comment to himself, not wishing to further antagonize Gaelinar. "But exactly what is…" He adopted the melodramatic tone of a bad Shakespearean actor. "… the rod of Geirmagnus?''