"Wait."
Larson thought he detected fear in Hel's voice. He froze in position.
"All… right. I… accept… your bargain… as offered. But… you… must… swear… never to… return… here."
Larson lowered his sword and suddenly realized he was shaking. He bit his lip to keep from smiling. "I swear it," he said.
CHAPTER 10: Mastering War
"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike at him as hard as you can and as often as you can, and keep moving on."
– Ulysses S. Grant
Gradually, the elation inspired by Larson's successful negotiation with Hel faded into the cold, dark infinity of her realm. As promised, Larson and Gaelinar escaped through the entryway to Midgard without interference from the released Modgudr or the Hel hound. But even the magnificence of the waterfall, streaked through with silver sunlight, brought no joy to Larson. Air scoured clean by recent snows might as well have been the putrid aura of Hel's corpses for all the interest he paid it.
Taziar met Larson and Gaelinar on the cliffs above the falls. Two weeks had passed since the Cullinsbergen had set off to amend the mistake he had made by freeing the Fenris Wolf. Yet Larson managed only a weak smile of welcome. Something he could not name lay like lead upon his soul.
The days passed in wooden silence. Though mostly through evergreen forests devoid of underbrush, the route seemed vaguely familiar. Each of Larson's daily sword lessons began with distracted incompetence until Gaelinar's reprimands spurred his student to angered sweeps and counter thrusts. Taziar made sincere attempts at conversation. But after Larson's third inappropriately harsh rebuke, Gaelinar and Taziar left their companion to his own sullen company.
Late afternoon of their third day in Midgard, they reached the town where Larson had consulted Vidarr at the open shrine. Taziar glanced longingly down the main pathway. "Anyone object to a night on the tavern floor? I've slept on enough pine needles to satisfy me for a lifetime."
Gaelinar shrugged. "Fenrir's less likely to attack with the extra swords of the villagers against him."
Larson raised no objections. He hoped a couple of tankards of beer might soothe the evil mood he seemed unable to shake. "Lead on."
They shuffled down the narrow, snow-covered roadway in silence. For the first time, Larson noticed just how little there was to the village. Crooked, spindly roads wound between thatch-roofed cottages. The clang of the blacksmith's hammer reverberated through the threadlike lanes. Only a few sets of footprints marred the crust of ice which glazed the roads; the recent snows appeared to have inhibited some of the trade which kept the town alive.
Larson, Gaelinar, and Taziar headed directly for the sod-chinked structure of the tavern at the center of the village. As they passed, a middle-aged woman pointed from the doorway of her cottage, her form a plump shadow backlit by candles in the room beyond. Three children peered at the travelers from around their mother's skirt. Otherwise, the village seemed deserted.
Gaelinar caught the brass ring of the tavern door and wrenched it open. Wind gusted into the stale, windowless interior. Fed by fresh air, the hearth fire blazed, drafting smoke up the stone chimney. Its flare revealed nine square tables with wooden chairs and benches worn to polished smoothness by use. A portly man sprawled across three stools on the business side of the bar. Sleepy-eyed, he glanced over three greasy-haired Norsemen seated near the doorway and waved the newcomers inside.
Larson followed his companions to a table near the fireplace, allowing the door to slam closed behind him. The flames shriveled to their previous height. Wood-sweetened smoke leaked back into the common room. As Larson slid his chair to the table, two teen-age girls descended upon them. One seized the remaining seat and positioned herself at the table. The other paused at Gaelinar's elbow. "What can we get you?"
Larson folded his arms and let his head sink to the hollow between them, not bothering with a response.
"Food," Gaelinar said. "Whatever you have."
"And plenty of beer," Larson added, his voice muffled by the sleeve of his cloak.
The serving girl trotted off toward the bar. The remaining woman threw back hip-length blonde hair and regarded Taziar, her blue eyes wide and interested. "From which direction did you come?"
"North," Taziar replied.
"What news do you bring from the North?"
Larson watched Taziar with one eye.
The Shadow Climber shrugged apologetically. "None, I'm afraid. Our business has kept us in the forests and away from farmers and towns."
The girl lowered her head in genuine disappointment, and the fire struck bronze highlights through her hair. "Very well." She spoke naturally, but betrayal sifted through her tone. Apparently, the tavern served as a place to exchange information as well as to provide food and shelter and direct trade.
The woman lost interest. Her eyes strayed beyond the table to the patrons near the door, and a gesture caught her attention. Gracefully, she rose and walked toward the other customers, just as her sister returned with three full mugs of beer and set them before Larson, Gaelinar, and Taziar. "Another moment for the food."
Larson raised his head long enough to guzzle down his drink without even tasting it. He waited while his companions nodded acknowledgement of the service, then shoved his mug into the woman's hand. "More." He added as an afterthought, "Please."
Ignoring Taziar's curious stare, Larson lowered his head back to his arms. His companions' conversation about a magical rope and a wolf-god flowed past him, mostly unheard. The words seemed distant, another place, another era, some other man's concern.
Larson accepted his fourth mug of beer while his companions still nursed their second. The alcohol shifted his mood from somber to heated. He felt restless. No longer content to sit with his head on the table, he fidgeted, eyes probing the half-lighted, smoky haze of the common room. The conversations of the filthy, war-stained men near the door wafted to him in crude snatches intermingled with boisterous laughter which prodded at the edges of Larson's temper. He watched the waitress, tankard in hand, approach a large patron with a wild snarl of red hair and beard.
The woman leaned forward and poured ale from the tankard into the mug. The Norseman ran his tongue over his grimy teeth and stared into the cleavage of her patched and faded bodice. He waited only until she finished filling his drink, then caught her around the waist and pulled her to his lap. He thrust his other hand down the front of her dress.
The woman squealed in surprise and fear. She twisted away. Linen tore, leaving a scrap of fabric in the man's fingers. She struggled free as the Norsemen laughed, and the red-haired patron dragged her back onto his knee.
Larson's control snapped, driving him into a rage beyond any he had known before. He leaped to his feet and charged to the other table. Not until he arrived did he realize he still clutched his drink. Slamming the mug to a nearby table, he glared at the Norseman over the girl's ragged shoulder. "Let her go."
The Norseman rose, dumping the girl from his lap. She landed in a heap at his feet, rolled to her hands and knees, and skittered toward the bar. Larson found himself glaring up into steely eyes and a face ugly with anger. "By what right do you pretend to command me?" the Norseman demanded.
Larson dropped his gaze to the Norseman's hands which rested on the hilt of a broadsword. Each finger seemed thick as Larson's wrist. Blood and dirt framed the edges of the nails. "By the same right that men have always commanded swine," Larson returned. Rage pushed him far beyond fear.