Not trusting himself to speak, Larson made a noncommittal gesture.
Gaelinar took the knife from Larson. "I don't mean to insult you, but if you travel with Silme and myself you'll have need of skill. An incompetent swordsman is as dangerous to his companions as to himself:"
Larson nodded dreamily as his thoughts drifted toward Hamill. An unpredictable hand on a swordhilt, a shaking hand on a gun trigger:
The whipcrack force of Gaelinar's voice returned Larson to awareness. "I'll teach you if you wish. But I warn you, I settle for nothing short of perfection. My lessons will be the most grueling you'll ever endure."
Larson recalled basic training and bit back a skeptical smile. He nodded tacit assent.
Darkness descended upon Larson and his companions while they were still several hours from Forste -Mar. They set up camp in the sparser woodlands near the roadway. Brendor fell asleep immediately, apparently exhausted from the bandits' attack, mental anguish, and his feeble attempts at magic. Gaelinar crouched with his back against a tree, his gaze locked on Silme as she murmured the incantations which formed her wards. Larson stretched out beside the Kensei, his fingers locked beneath his head as a pillow while he stared at the stars through the interlaced branches.
Larson yawned. It took me six weeks of boot camp to learn the rules of war and six months of combat to realize war has no rules. Now, in three days, I've come to accept elves and swords as commonplace. He rolled to his side and watched Silme pause as the enchantments of her wards faded into the gloom of night. And then, there is magic. The memory of Bramin's cruelties in the woodlands made Larson break, into a cold sweat. If laws govern or moderate its use, they are lenient. For all my knowledge of future technology, I cannot stand against Bramin.
Larson fidgeted, bothered by these new ideas. / thought the Norse gods aided their warriors in battle, not abandoned them without knowledge of purpose in a world of undefeatable enemies. I've risked my life too long for causes I don't understand. Bramin wants my sword, not me. And Silme and Gaelinar seem far more qualified to protect it. His hand fell to the buckle of his sword belt.
A foreign sense of urgency swept through Larson. Freyr's authoritative voice seemed to echo in his mind. "Stop, please. It is true gods meddle in the lives of men, but you have entered the affairs of gods. I am helpless to protect you."
Stunned by Freyr's unexpected appearance, Larson said nothing.
Freyr continued. "The gods have vowed not to work against one another or the Fates. To you it may seem ridiculous, but without such laws nothing could ever get done. For every deity who wishes to stir up war, another would cultivate peace. Every action, every creation would have an antagonist. Soon, we would generate the chaos we guard against; the gods would war against one another in a combat which would not end until it encompassed the nine worlds.
Larson's mind responded sluggishly. "But why me?" he whispered.
Freyr hesitated. "I've seen your world. I brought you from a place where women, children, dirt, and trees were as dangerous as any sword. You learned to fear the few things in life a man should be able to trust. Love lost its allure before the constant threat of death which claimed friends, lovers, and enemies indiscriminately. Nothing remained permanent. In moments, rivers dried and forests exploded to barren plains. Amid colored lights and noise, the ground quaked with enough force to uproot the World Tree, and countless lives were spilled with every shrill of the war god's laughter. Like Valhalla 's Einherjar, soldiers fought brave battles by day, but the dead never rose and the living lost sleep guarding against the dragons which stalked the jungles. Who is better qualified to prevent Ragnarok than a man who suffered its equal?"
Larson bit his lip, focusing on Freyr's words rather than the concepts they represented and the memories they inspired. He whispered a question. " Ragnarok? The war fated to destroy all but a handful of gods and men. Is it my mission to prevent such a thing?"
Freyr's presence in Larson's mind went pensive. "I'm: not certain. I can tell you nothing more. Already I have revealed more than my vows allow. I must never contact you again. If Loki's chaos can be halted, another god shall make your quest clear. If not, my efforts have only thrown you into a war as twisted as the one which killed you. But this one can claim your soul as well as your life. Forgive me." As suddenly as it had come, Freyr's manifestation disappeared.
Sweat beaded Larson's brow. " Freyr. Freyr!" Larson received no answer, but Silme and Gaelinar stared. "J-just a prayer." Larson defended himself lamely. He curled into a fetal position on the grass. Despite his muddled thought, Freyr's disquieting revelations, and his companions' suspicions, he fell into a wary slumber.
The subtle breaking of brush startled Larson awake. His heart pounded. He forced himself to inhale and exhale slowly, counting each breath until the rhythm lulled him to an inner calmness. His senses focused on the irregular, soft sounds of movement through the brush. Gradually, he worked his hand to his side where his gun should sit. His fingers brushed empty ground. Suppressing a curse, he explored the clearing around him. The side of his hand met the hilt of his sword; and, for a time, he lay confused.
A hand pressed his shoulder reassuringly, and Gaelinar's familiar voice hissed into his ear. "Be still. Just watch."
Curiosity replaced Larson's bewilderment. His palm curled around Valvitnir's hilt. His gaze swept the brush at the edge of camp where a hunched, dark figure slithered into view and paused momentarily. Larson's grip tightened. Gaelinar's hand remained on his arm, restraining. Through the slight haze, Larson assessed the man who stalked them. He wore a dark gray tunic. Moonlight emphasized the pallor of his hair and beard. He crawled with calculated caution.
The stranger's hand rose, the gesture arrested as suddenly as if he'd struck a wall. White-hot flames burst around his fingers. He screamed, reeling back as Silme's wards sprang to view in an intertwining pattern around the camp. Gaeliner and Larson leaped to their feet simultaneously as the stranger sprinted into the woods, howling in pain.
A distant voice yelled, " Gilbyr!" Nearby, a curse sounded above the panicked screams. "Damn the dark elf! He never mentioned magic. Gilbyr!" Arrows arched through the air.
"Incoming!" Instinctively, Larson dove to the ground. The arrows struck the magical barrier and, unable to pass through it, plummeted to earth in flames. Brush rattled loudly for a short time, and the woods returned to silence.
Brendor spoke in a frightened whine, and his question mirrored Larson's thoughts. "What happened?"
Silme hadn't even stirred during the attack. Her reply seemed inappropriately calm. "A few of Bramin's lackeys tried to pass my wards. Fools."
Gaelinar resumed his crouch against the tree. Larson remained still, his gaze locked on the forest. "What is ' Gilbyr '?"
Gaelinar closed his eyes. "A name, Allerum. Apparently this Gilbyr has chosen to become our enemy. Therefore, I suggest you remember him."
Larson stared at the glowing waves of Silme's wards, quite certain he could never forget.
Chapter 3
Kinslayer
"Every man's sword shall be against his brother."
– Ezekiel 38:21
Brendor whined fretfully as he followed Silme, Gaelinar, and Larson along the road to Forste -Mar. "You promised I could stay till you taught me to do my shave spell right."
"You can't come with us." Silme rubbed at her eyes with an annoyance which made it obvious she had answered his challenge more than once, and she was weakening. "Gaelinar's right. Our task is too dangerous for a child." In a sudden flash of inspiration she added, "You can stay with my mother. She raised two children to Dragonrank."
Larson moved to the roadside as a rickety wagon rolled past, drawn by a gaunt workhorse. Steam issued from the beast's wide nostrils, and the creak of wheels drowned out Brendor's reply. The driver raised his whip in salute. " Heyo, Silme! What brings you home?"