"Not likely. There are few enough Dragonrank mages to make it difficult to find one willing to spend his years alone in darkness herding corpses. Apparently, Modgudr found that to her liking."
"Apparently." Larson twisted Silme's sapphire through the cloth of his pocket. "Can't we take Modgudr with us? It would make a more graphic display for Hel."
"And let the corpses escape Hel? Someone has to stay and guard the bridge."
"Let the Hel hound take care of the ghosts."
"Believe me, hero. If the Hel hound could keep all the corpses off Midgard, Modgudr would not be here. Now on with you. The sooner you return, the sooner I finish babysitting."
Larson stared off into the seemingly endless sea of darkness beyond the bridge. Once again, it had fallen to him to bargain with Hel, to reverse the damage his sword stroke had inflicted on Silme. But, difficult as it had seemed with Gaelinar at his side, alone the task became like a lead weight upon him. He tried to remind himself that Gaelinar's intolerance of small talk and delay had also raised Hel's hatred against them; surely he could perform better without the Kensei. But Larson could not shake a feeling of betrayal as strong as that he still harbored against his father, who had died and left Larson's family penniless.
"Well?" Gaelinar's voice startled Larson from his thoughts.
"I'm going," Larson replied defensively. He trotted across the bridge planks and into the darkness beyond it.
The miles passed swiftly. In an attempt to keep his mind free of distressing concerns, Larson traveled until exhaustion overtook him, ate and drank from his pack of rations, slept, awoke, ate, and again marched until he collapsed. While he walked, he sang pop tunes remembered from the half semester he had managed at college before the financial burdens of his family forced him to enlist in the army. Many of the lyrics escaped him. He found himself longing for a radio to fill in the missing rhymes and verses, and was suddenly reminded of his mother's strange affliction. She knew the melody to every popular song ever written since well before her birth, but she only remembered a handful of the lyrics. She substituted the remainder of the words with whistles, humming, or la-la's.
By the third day, Larson's strategy failed. The constant, ominous threat of Hel's blackness pushed in, spurring the neatly hidden portion of his mind which held his apprehensions. He wondered about Taziar's plan and whether the little foreigner would reach the Bifrost Bridge to accomplish whatever purpose he had there. He worried about Gaelinar, keeping watch over a crafty, unpredictable enemy night after day. He considered Baldur and what relation, if any, this single peaceful god in a warrior pantheon had to his own Christ. And, already, Larson felt responsible for the cruelty and chaos Bramin would inflict upon Midgard.
Soon the fence which hemmed Hel's citadel became visible as the darkness thinned to the red mist which defined this corner of the land of the dead. Larson set to the task of climbing, shifting his concentration to his handholds and footholds. Through the gaps between the bars, he could see the squat, flat shadow of Hel's fortress. A few ghostly figures flitted through the courtyard, stained oily red by the haze.
Sharp flakes of rust embedded in Larson's palms as he pulled himself higher up the barrier. Shortly, he reached the top, maneuvered around the upper poles which arched toward the stronghold, and scrambled down the inner side. He dropped the last five feet to the ground, turned, and found himself staring into gaunt but familiar features. Gilbyr? Horrified, Larson remembered the bandit who had tried to steal his Vidarr-sword for Bramin. The corpse's face was locked in a permanent expression of terror. A stiff beard encased his chin, the effect of Silme's young apprentice incompetently casting his shaving spells. Larson had taken advantage of the child's ineptitude by convincing Gilbyr the boy would turn him into a wolfman. A bloody hole marred Gilbyr's chest where he had run, panicked, onto a companions' sword. Earlier, one of Silme's wards had burned Gilbyr's hand; it had rotted off leaving a blackened stump.
With a gasp, Larson flinched back against the fence. The corpse turned hollow eyes on him. A glimmer of recognition passed through them. Shock and anger twisted the masklike features. Gilbyr's remaining hand latched onto his sword hilt, and he took a menacing step forward.
Rammed against the fence in a startled wonder, Larson clasped his own haft. Corroded crossbars bored into his back. His gaze locked on Gilbyr's fist, awaiting the first aggressive move.
Gradually, Gilbyr's fingers fell away from his hilt. Larson looked up to find the corpse's eyes had gone as dead as their owner. Gilbyr peered at Larson with mild curiosity then stumbled off into the strange, red glow of Hel's courtyard.
Larson watched Gilbyr's huddled form disappear into the gloom. He released his own hilt and stepped away from the fence. The thwarted encounter filled him not with relief but with alarm. Gilbyr's already nearly forgotten me. And Silme died only about two weeks after him. The realization sparked urgency. If I want Silme back intact, I'm going to have to barter quickly. Larson ran to Hel's squat citadel.
A layer of mold coated the open door to Hel's fortress, its dead plant odor mingling with the rot of the corpses which filled the corridor. Larson paused in the portal, ill with the recollection of the searing cold touches of the ghosts. The smell of death raised memories of cadavers decaying in the heat more vividly than any visual image could. But purpose gave him the courage to pick his way among the corpses until the stench became lost in the now familiar background of Hel's brooding promises of pain and despair.
Larson dodged through the crowd, glad the effort kept him focused on his pathway rather than the milling cadavers which defined it. Soon he reached the paired thrones at the portal to Hel's meeting room; Baldur and his wife perched upon them in morose silence. The god raised a hand in greeting. Light from the lopsided chandelier in the chamber fell upon multihued jewels embedded in the stone of Baldur's chair. Their reflection formed halos of color which Larson had not seen since entering the limitless blacks and grays of Hel. Again, Larson felt the aura of divinity radiating from the dead god. More familiar images of slim white candles, stained glass windows, and temple arches replaced the looming tension inspired by Hel's imprisoned minions.
Larson studied Baldur in the blood-colored gloom of the hallway and the guttering candlelight which escaped from the room beyond them. He found little resemblance between this hardy, blond god of peace and the emaciated, dark-haired Jesus artists painted upon the cross. Yet I can't know how much the paradox of my own existence and the slaying of a god have changed the course of history. Larson glanced beyond Baldur and noticed Hel gliding toward the room at her snail's pace. A faint breeze from the doorway eddied candle smoke around her like a robe.
Larson turned his attention back to Baldur, aware it would take Hel some time to creep into the meeting room. Recalling that the dead could not speak first, Larson addressed Baldur in the softest voice he could manage. "You can have this back." He offered the painted stone Baldur had given him at their last encounter.
Baldur made no move to retrieve it, but his visage sank into sadness. "You could not find my father?"
"I gave your message to Vidarr."
A hopeful glimmer returned to Baldur's eyes, like sunlight fractured on a sea of darkest blue. "And?"
Larson glanced toward Hel. The goddess seemed to have moved no closer, though her toes inched toward the chamber. "And Vidarr made me give up my own task to work at rescuing you." Resentment flared. "If I had known your intention, I would never have accepted this." Larson tossed the gem in his hand, then dropped it into Baldur's lap. Despite his words, he felt all his anger channeled against Vidarr rather than Baldur.