Carefully, Bramin and Vidarr followed.
Larson chose his course with quiet deliberation. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the battle yet remain within sight of the napalm. There was no longer any reason to find a helicopter. The pilot would as likely shoot as save the monstrous trio, and Larson knew escape back to Norway lay only through his own mind. Unable to hold his mental barrier more than a few seconds at a time, he remained alert to Bramin's or Vi-darr's further attempts to enter a deeper layer of his thoughts.
At length, Larson stopped and dropped to a crouch, bracing the rifle against his knee. "Now, Bramin, talk."
Bramin kept a respectable distance between Vidarr, Larson, and himself. "I'll kill you."
"Go ahead," Larson challenged. "But brazen as you are, I believe you're wise enough to realize my death would trap you here forever."
Bramin shrugged, eyes blazing red hatred. "No matter. It's men I despise. I can take my vengeance against your people as easily as mine."
Larson sought words to convince the dark elf of the folly of his decision. Vidarr's hand kneaded the hilt of his sword, but Larson felt uncertain whether even a god could stand before Braffun's magic, or whether the sorcerer could stand against a gun. Before Larson could settle on a reply, he heard the distant roar of jets banking for an approach. A smile twitched across his features. "Suit yourself," he said softly.
The noise of the jets disappeared, then returned as a high-pitched whine. Bramin hesitated as the phantoms screamed overhead, visible only as paired red lights through the leaves. Five hundred yards away, a section of jungle burst into flame. Fire leaped toward the heavens, wound through with smoke and the gasoline reek of napalm. Even as the trailing rumble of the jets faded, a second round approached with the same earsplitting shrill of sound.
After weeks in a world without planes, the grandeur of the scene struck even Larson by surprise. Vidarr's and Bramin's bolt for his mind caught him off guard. It was all he could do to snap closed the entrance with a suddenness which caused Vidarr to cry out in physical pain. The blaze glared higher, encompassing another circle of jungle.
Dead silence followed. Gradually, the monkeys resumed their chatter. A macaw shrieked its mournful song of death, and the birds twittered in a more minor key. Bramin abandoned his attempt to enter Larson's mind, and the barrier melted away. Larson took advantage of the dark elf's confusion. "Where's Silme?"
"What?" Bramin seemed genuinely startled by the question.
Vidarr broke in. "Just before you brought us here, I consulted the Fates. Bramin threw some sort of spell over Silme. I don't understand the workings of sorcery, but he bound her destiny to the balance of Chaos. Allerum, Silme will not go free until Geirmagnus' rod has been retrieved. "
"He lies!" Bramin screamed. "I've not seen Silme since you killed her at the falls. And everyone knows the quest for Geirmagnus' rod is…"
Vidarr broke in with incongruous fury. His sword rattled free. "Stop now, Dark One, or I swear you'll never leave this world alive."
Larson swore. "Quiet, both of you, or none of us will leave this world alive. He turned his gaze to Bramin, uncertain of who to believe. Vidarr had always been honest with him, but the god's love for Baldur had driven him beyond honor. Binding Silme's fate to that of a doomed god seemed precisely the sort of scheme Bramin would use, but Larson could see no advantage to the Dra-gonrank sorcerer in using such a strategy. And, in the past, Bramin had always maliciously delighted in revealing his treacheries.
Now, the dark elf's face lay impassive. He said nothing in his defense, but a bright web of light glowed to life between his fingers.
Larson sprang to his feet and trained the rifle on Bramin. Instantly, a memory flashed through his thoughts.
Once before, Larson's flawed sanity had pulled Vidarr and Silme into the war in Vietnam. Then, Vidarr had assessed his visit with a single sentence: The men of your world removed all the glory from war and left only the killing. On the heels of the memory came Gaelinar's words: The goal of combat is spiritual enlightenment. This can only come through willingly pitting your life and skill against your enemies in fair combat. Anything less is merely murder, in which nothing is gained and courage is surrendered. "Hang honor," Larson mumbled, but his die was already cast. He let the gun sag in his arms. "No one's going to be killed here. We're all going back. But I need a promise from both of you."
Vidarr sheathed his weapon.
Bramin's spell died in his hands, and he seemed relieved. Larson suspected the battle at the town border and the run-in with Vidarr had taxed Bramin down to his last spell.
Larson confronted Vidarr. "From you, I need a vow that you will not harm Bramin unless he kills me or directly affronts the gods. Our rivalry is our own. If I can't handle it, I deserve to die."
Vidarr regarded Bramin with distaste, but nodded his agreement.
"And you." Larson turned on Bramin. "You will not hamper or hurt me or my companions, mentally or physically, until we eithef retrieve Geirmagnus' rod or fail in the attempt."
Bramin watched the flames wither into black wraiths of smoke. He glanced at Vidarr. "Agreed, if you and your companions will not attempt to harm me either. And afterward…" The sounds of the jungle filled Bramin's long-drawn pause. "… you and I will fight alone. To the death, Allerum."
Sweat beaded Larson's brow, and the rifle seemed unusually heavy in his hand. "By skill. Without magic," he added.
"Very well." Bramin glared viciously. Though a prisoner in Larson's war and era, there was no doubt he was in control. "Clever of you to bring a god to witness our oaths. Most would settle for reciting their vows at a shrine." He grinned at Vidarr. "Regardless of your bias, it is your obligation to see that both sides of this bargain are kept."
Vidarr nodded grudging acceptance. "Don't patronize me, elf, or I'll consider it a direct affront to the gods."
Larson caught the rifle bolt, pulled it free, and hurled it into the foliage. He dropped the useless rifle to the ground. "Let's go home."
CHAPTER 11: Master Plan
"I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits."
– John Webster Duchess of Malfi
Al Larson, Kensei Gaelinar, and Taziar Medakan shared a breakfast of rolls and stew left over from dinner the previous evening. Larson's gaze traced the beamed ceiling of the tavern. Lack of sleep made his mind feel hazy and distant; even simple thoughts taxed him. While Taziar described the conflict with Bramin at the town border, Larson ate in methodical silence, glad his small friend omitted details which would reveal Larson's initial angry incompetence.
The food tasted like ash in Larson's mouth, and fatigue gave it the consistency of rubber. He shook his head to clear it, but his perceptions still felt thick and sluggish. "I fought another battle last night."
Gaelinar dipped a piece of roll into his stew. "We know."
Taziar added, "You kicked and twitched and cried out enough to keep everyone from sleep. I tried, but I couldn't wake you. What happened?"
Larson shook his head again with the same unsatisfactory results. He harbored no wish to spend hours explaining Vietnam to his otherworld companions; instead, he replied simply. "I trapped Vidarr and Bramin in my mind. I asked each about Silme. Bramin pleaded ignorance. Vidarr claimed Silme's destiny is tied in with this Law and Chaos balancing act. He says we have to get Geirmagnus' rod to free her. And…" Larson trailed off in frustration.