"Stop them." Bramin's feral eyes followed his master's frantic course. "We have them routed straight for Hel, certain their mission is to destroy the sword."
Abruptly, Loki ceased pacing. "We have them headed straight for the oracle of Hargatyr."
"So?"
"So!" Loki screamed above the rush of falling waters. "So, the oracle taps the knowledge of the Fates for her wisdom. So she tells Silme and her wretched companions disposing of Valvitnir serves the cause of evil. Perhaps she even informs them of their true quest."
"Which is?"
Loki's face puckered into a frown of grim aversion. "Against our purposes, Hatespawn."
Bramin fingered his sword hilt, the fringe of his life aura dulled by irritation. "More specifically?"
Loki brushed off the half-man with a wave and resumed his rambling gait. "I'm a god! I've earned the right to be vague."
Bramin scowled, watching eleven rivers fuse in a cascade white as ice. "But not the right to grow impatient. That is your flaw. You told me so the first time we talked."
Loki froze midstride. His perfect features seemed chiseled and powerful as the background of clashing waters whipped to foam. He spoke in a placid monotone. "Very true, Hatespawn. You've more than enough time to divert them from the oracle, no matter the cost. Do you understand?"
Helblindi rasped from its sheath, sudden as a striking serpent. It drew shadow like a magnet, dulling the frigid waters and Bramin's life aura to gray. "Completely," said the Hatespawn. : The dream-reader of Forste -Mar hummed a tune from her youth as she cleaned the floor of her one-room hovel with pendulous sweeps of a broom. Her gaze flitted from the black pit of the hearth, to the rectangle of her sleeping pallet, to the spindly-legged figure of her dining table. She imagined each piece of furniture as it had appeared before cataracts blurred her world to contours. Each hollow straw, every woodgrain seemed to reappear in the bold relief of her memory.
While the dream-reader basked in the anticipa-tion of a visit from an amber-rank mage, light flared behind her accompanied by a thunderblast which shook the foundations of her cottage. She whirled. A tall, dark male poised before her. He clutched a diamond-tipped dragonstaff, and an ebony scabbard hung at his belt. A strikingly powerful life force bathed him in brilliance, its edge flaming red with anger. The dream-reader read murder in the undulating shadows which wound through his aura. She gasped. "Bramin?"
Bramin stepped forward. As he neared, the dream-reader recognized red eyes filled with accusation and the cruel sneer which twisted his features. Rage deepened his voice. "You trifling adept! Whatever galled you to meddle in my affairs. If you had contented yourself performing your paltry dream-reading abilities and not tried to second-guess my motives, I wouldn't have to take your life." His right hand caressed the hilt of his sword.
The dream-reader shrank from Bramin's threatening form; fear destroyed all pretense of dignity. "Bramin, please stop. I don't understand:"
Bramin's sword slid from its sheath. Its blade scattered highlights of his life aura from the faded fabrics of the dream-reader's cloak. "I fashioned the elfs dream. The visions were yours to interpret, not to advise. You sent Silme to the oracle of Hargatyr!"
The permanent darkness of death loomed over the gray reality of the dream-reader's near blindness. She realized impudence would lose her any chance to claim Silme's payment, and tears blurred her vision further. Slowly, courage returned to her, lending her strength to speak against the dark elf. "And I would do so again. Silme has done only good for mankind. There was a time, Bramin, when you and your sister shared tea in my cottage. You both begged stories of magic. And, while the citizenry attacked your elven heritage, I protected you and warned them of your potential abilities. Does my loyalty gain me no mercy?"
Bramin's aura blazed red hatred. He advanced. The point of Helblindi hovered at the dream-reader's throat, driving her backward. "You just wanted my power," he accused. "You thought any kindness you showed me then would be repaid once I became Dragonrank. It was your investment, a gamble. You lost."
The dream-reader's back struck the wall with enough force to jar her fragile frame. The sword point scratched her neck. Desperately she thrust a mental probe to Bramin's mind, trying to understand the mad affliction which corrupted his thoughts and incited him to demonic fury. But her consciousness met defenses solid as stone.
Bramin's foot flicked against the dream-reader's knee, dropping her to the floor. "Grovel, witch!"
All strength fled the dream-reader. Gradually, panic drained to complacency, and she fixed an answering stare on Bramin. "Not for you or anyone else, Dark One. I'm too old to fear death."
Bramin gave no verbal reply. His face puckered to a scowl. Helblindi sheared through the dream-reader's throat. Pain wrenched a scream from her, but the half-man's laughter was the last sound she heard before the half-dead goddess, Hel, claimed her soul.
Deep in the forests north of Forste -Mar, near the banks of the river Svip, Larson repeatedly performed his only sword form for a Kensei who challenged him with offensive strokes of a wooden practice weapon. After four days of morning and evening lessons, the figures had grown as familiar to Larson as the never-ending sequence of pine and the widening river. Yet Gaelinar persisted, adding only simple directional changes to the basic cut of Larson's first session.
The time spent traveling between lessons might have offset the merciless repetition of Gaelinar's training had Silme chosen to grace Larson with conversation or even an encouraging smile. But she withdrew to inner contemplations, responding stiltedly to his attempts at humor, when she replied at all. During Larson's sword lessons, Silme and Brendor shared breakfast or dinner. After he finished, sweat freezing on his tired limbs, Larson was prepared for some social interaction along with his meal. But Silme would take Brendor into the woods for a discourse on magic, and Larson would have only Gaelinar for company. For reasons Larson could not discover, Silme appeared to be avoiding him.
I'll confront her today, Larson decided with unwavering resolution. If I've done something to offend her, I've a right to know . As his thoughts meandered in this new direction, Valvitnir jerked suddenly. Gaelinar's wooden sword rattled from the blade, skimming the edge of Larson's pants.
"Nice recovery." Gaelinar seemed pleased. "Perhaps you'll learn a new form tomorrow."
Larson flushed, too modest to credit himself with a maneuver wholly attributable to a sword it had become his mission to destroy. If the dream-reader was correct and Valvitnir housed the soul of an unholy being, it had thus far proved friendly.
Larson wondered whether the sword might lull him to confidence and betray him in real combat. Earlier, he had mentioned nothing of Valvitnir's strange powers to Gaelinar since the sword rescued him from many embarrassing situations in the course of the Kensei's teachings. Now, the decision to confront Silme made him bolder. "Gaelinar. I:"
He was interrupted by Brendor who crashed through the thin tangle of brush, face glowing with excitement. "Watch this!" called the boy.
Larson turned toward the child with a mixture of relief and apprehension. Brendor's eyes screwed tight in concentration. His face lined like an adult's. His hand curled in a smooth gesture and shook slightly, fingers stretched toward Gaelinar. "Shave," he said quietly.
Gaelinar flinched back. His chin, which had sported a day's growth of stubble, was now clean as Larson's. " Brendor, you did it!" screamed the elf.
"I: did: it!" Panting with exertion, Brendor cast his head about as if to determine which direction to run. "Shave, shave, shave,
SHAVE!"
As the last command burst gleefully from Brendor's throat, hair sprouted from the Kensei's chin in a stiff, unnatural beard. Gaelinar's face went livid. Brendor loosed a strangled cry and staggered into the forest. Struck by the appearance of his customarily neat and serious swordmaster, Larson broke into laughter.