"Al, stop! There's nothing you can do. He's dead:"
"There's nothing you can do. He's dead." The words were the same, but the voice was from another world. Larson focused on the blood which colored his fingers dull red. The chin cupped between his hands sported two days' growth of beard; the eyes were mercifully closed in death. Larson raised his gaze to the burning wagon. Before it, Gaelinar held the struggling boy. "Child, it's too late. Your uncle is dead."
Dazed, Larson recoiled from the corpse. He whirled to stare at the glowing blue sword, and its brilliance returned him to a reality found only in legend. Slowly, he reached for it. Another object caught his eye, a glass bottle with a hand-lettered label. He retrieved both, jammed the sword into its sheath, and examined the phial. A thick, honey-colored liquid sloshed behind the words: Crullian's Marvelous Cure.
Near the dying flames, the boy ceased his furious kicks and punches. He fell against Gaelinar's loose-fitting garb, sobbing. The swordmaster, who had just mercilessly killed three men, held the child in the folds of his robe, face drawn with genuine concern.
Silme strode from behind the wreckage, and her reprimand was singularly tactless. "You may be a sword saint, Kensei. But by Vidarr's shoe, someone's got to teach you to think."
Gaelinar returned her accusation with unbro -ken confidence. "I'm sorry we got in your way. We couldn't take a chance your spells might hit the boy. Besides," he smiled sheepishly. "I was mad."
The boy pulled away to face Silme. He was small; Larson guessed him to be about ten years old. Raven-hued hair covered his head in a tangle, and his skin was light olive. His quick, blue eyes seemed out of place, and they betrayed some Northern blood mixed with a darker, Eastern race. It was obvious he was some sort of half-breed. Larson followed the boy's gaze from a pair of severely burned legs protruding beneath the charred wagon to Silme. The child clamped hands to his face and announced shrilly, "You're Dragonrank!"
Silme nodded in reply.
The boy's words tumbled over one another, the murdered uncle momentarily forgotten in his excitement. "My great, great grandfather was Dragon-rank. And my uncle Crullian knew some magic, too. He's a healer:" He broke off suddenly, and his speech decreased in tempo and volume. " Was a healer."
Larson walked over to his companions and stood at Gaelinar's side as Silme quickly changed the subject. "What's your name, child?"
" Brendor," the child introduced himself. "And I'm a wizard, too. Watch!"
Silme made only a half-hearted attempt to stop him. Curious, Larson watched as the child pointed a finger at Gaelinar's face and screamed, "Shave!"
As if in direct defiance of Brendor's command, whiskers sprouted from the Kensei's chin. Gaelinar loosed a startled cry, and Silme hid an amused smile behind her hand. Brendor's face flushed scarlet, and he tried again. "Shave!"
Soft, black hair coated Gaelinar's right cheek. Despite the fact-Larson's tension had been heightened by the brutal slayings and flashbacks, he broke into uncontrollable laughter. Gaelinar's eyes narrowed in annoyance. Brendor seemed drained. Yet he drew a deep breath, stomped his sandaled foot in the dirt, and screamed his command in frustration. "SHAVE!"
Larson's face tingled strangely as hair grew in random patches. His chuckles died to an incoherent grumble, and he rubbed at the oddly-placed stubble. Winded and purple-faced, Brendor relinquished his spell and dropped -his arms. He glanced at his uncle's smoldering corpse beneath the wagon, and the sight wrenched a new volley of tears from his pale eyes.
Gaelinar made a subtle gesture. Silme nodded slightly, put an arm about the child's shoulders, and led him down the road toward the town of Forste -Mar. While Larson watched, woman and boy disappeared around a bend in the road among the wheat stalks. Once they passed beyond his view, Larson turned toward the wagon to find Gaelinar stoking the waning fire with twigs and branches. Without question, he joined in the effort, dragging debris from the forest to feed the flames that were devouring Crullian's body.
The fire flared to brilliance. Gaelinar knelt before it with bowed head and spoke the words of farewell. "Good-bye from Midgard to the healer Crullian. May he have died with dignity and the gods find him worthy of Valhalla or whatever haven in which he believed."
After Gaelinar's ruthless swordplay, Larson found the Kensei's compassionate prayer a surprise. Good and evil may be more well defined in this world, he mused. But they remain relative. Absorbed by this new abstraction, Larson failed to notice as Gaelinar hauled the three dead bandits within half a yard of the pyre. The smell of death, grain fields, and the roaring red flames against a background of forest formed a familiar knot in Larson's gut. Caught in the past, he stared until his eyes watered from pain.
Gaelinar's hand on his wrist rescued Larson from flashback. He started, acutely aware of every line on the Kensei's face, from the grim creases in his forehead to the sweep of his newly-grown beard. "If you're not going to help, at least hold this for the boy." Gaelinar tossed a tied linen pouch torn from a bandit's belt. The cloth muffled the clink of coins as Larson caught the offering.
"I'll also help." Larson smiled, pocketed the pouch, and added teasingly, "Since you're too weak to do it yourself." He hefted one of the bandits by the armpits. Gaelinar returned the grin and lifted the corpse by the ankles. In this manner, they tossed all the rapists' bodies on the pyre without benefit of epitaph.
The duty of disposing of the corpses dispatched, the two men started off along the road through the wheat. At a safe distance from the smoke, Gaelinar stopped so abruptly his odd, black-trimmed robes swayed about his hips. Larson whirled. Gaelinar bowed with a politeness his words did not match. "You look ridiculous with clumps of fuzz on your face, hero. Do you have something to take it off with before we rejoin Silme?"
Larson shook his head, grievously aware Freyr had ill-equipped him for whatever monumental task recalled him from the future.
"Here then." Gaelinar produced a knife from the folds of his cloak and tossed it in a gentle arc. He frowned as Larson let the blade fall to the ground at his feet.
Larson hefted the knife uncertainly. Unused to using a dagger as a shaving tool, he waited until Gaelinar drew a second blade and, as hair rasped from the Kensei's chin, tried to imitate his companion's practiced motion. The unsharpened side of the blade settled awkwardly into Larson's hand, pinned to his palm by the tips of his fingers. He set the edge against his cheek and scraped. The knife carved hair and skin from his face with stinging pain. Blood trickled across his fingers, and Larson loosed a violent curse. He granted Gaelinar a glare which dared the man to laugh, but the Kensei kept his thoughts well hidden.
Larson pressed his hand to his cheek until the bleeding slowed. His second, more timid pass with the knife blade went smoother. Gaelinar finished quickly, flicked stubble from his dagger, and waited in silence while Larson struggled with an inept-ness which covered his face with nicks. Still, Gaelinar said nothing until Larson finished his task, wiped congealing blood from the steel, and wrapped the dagger in its proffered sheath.
Gaelinar spoke in a voice free of emotion. "Don't be embarrassed. I understand why you can't shave; elves don't have facial hair:"
Of course. The revelation made Larson feel foolish. He had forgotten to consider the differences between men and elves. Perhaps his transformation also accounted for his strange tolerance to colder weather. Another thought caused him to break into a sweat which burned the lacerations on his face. Perhaps elves and humans cannot interbreed – which makes my love for Silme both futile and ludicrous. The idea so unnerved Larson, he nearly forgot that Gaelinar had not finished his speech.
": but I don't know how you've survived this long without sword training," continued the weapon-master.