Mickey Reichert: Dragonrank master

Concern made Larson curt. "What do you mean you're sorry? Where's Brendor?"

"Remember Bramin's spell? The one which allowed Brendor to attack you?"

Larson's chest felt pinched. He recalled the madness which had possessed Brendor's lifeless body; the image remained strong within him. He envisioned Brendor's small form punching, gouging, and wrestling with an inhuman power he had never known in life. In vivid detail, he saw the child's glazed features on a frame bloodied and shattered by Silme's magic. "What about Bramin's spell?" he asked in a strangled whisper.

Silme's tone remained reverent and soothing, despite the unpleasantness of her words. "To gain that control, Bramin would have had to destroy Brendor's soul. He's gone, Allerum. There's no means for us to see him again."

Silme's explanation struck Larson dumb. He stood in silence, ensconced in memories of the inept, halfbred child who had proved an aggravating but invaluable companion. He pictured Brendor staring abashedly at his feet while Gaelinar scraped away the beard stubble which had resulted from Brendor's incompetent attempt at a shaving spell. The image made him smile until the pain of realization swept aside his fantasies. Fury bucked against his control; he felt giddy with hatred. Yet Bramin was already dead, and Larson knew his dreams of vengeance could only remain unfulfilled.

Gaelinar stared through the entry way to Hel's barren fields and the towering gate around them. "We must go now."

Larson remained still, burdened with unresolved sadness. "Wait." He met Silme's gaze, attempting to convey with a wordless glance the support and affection he could only truly express with an embrace. "We may never see Silme again. I need some more time."

"We must go now. " Gaelinar's tone left no room for compromise. He strode through the portal.

Gaelinar's tactlessness fueled Larson's anger. He turned his back to the Hel grounds, obstinately willing to sacrifice Gaelinar's company for a few extra minutes with the woman he cherished. "Silme, I love you…"

Silme's gaze followed Gaelinar. "I know that, Allerum. I love you, too. But when Gaelinar becomes this insistent about something, he usually has good cause. There's nothing you can do for me here."

Larson plucked idly at his tunic. "Can't you just follow us back?"

Silme's lips framed a slight smile. "I'm dead, Allerum. I exist only in Hel. Even if I could pass the barriers which confine the dead, on Midgard I would still be dead. Go. Quickly now. Good-bye and good luck, hero."

Larson turned, his emotions heavy within him. After we fulfill the deed which will bring Silme back, not even my mother would call me hero . He phrased his reply carefully as he walked through the doorway of Hel's citadel into the continuous darkness of her lands. "Farewell, Silme. Until we meet again." He spun toward her one last time, but she had disappeared among the milling corpses in the red gloom of Hel's hall.

"Allerum!" Gaelinar's voice went crisp with impatience.

Larson glimpsed the Kensei near the spidery, silver outline of the gate which surrounded Hel's citadel. He trotted toward it, muttering his annoyance. "Damn gook's always right, and he knows it, too." He shouted, "I'm coming, I'm coming. Keep your…" The expression did not translate well. "… robes on," he ended lamely.

Gaelinar waited only until Larson reached the base of the wrought iron gates, then caught the bars and began to climb. As he changed handholds, rust pattered to the dirt beneath him.

Seconds later, Larson seized the crossbars and shinnied after the Kensei, as glad for his childhood antics at the local YMCA as for basic training. The metal seemed no better tended than Hel's minions. Corroded chips and jagged edges bit into his fingers. The closely-spaced posts and cross posts made for adequate hand- and boot-holds, but Hel's threat echoed through Larson's thoughts. His palms went slick with sweat, colored by the abundant rust, and he frequently paused to wipe red-orange streaks across his tunic. His head felt heavy with learned paranoia. His army training made him anxious about his elevated position, easy target for whichever of Hel's horrors might menace them. He climbed faster, catching the pitted metal only long enough to support a grip for his other hand before reaching for the next bar.

Larson's harried ascent brought him past Gaelinar to the top of Hel's gate. There, the bars swept backward over Larson's head, a further reminder of Hel's intention to prevent escapes from her citadel. He slowed and forced himself to think. Seizing a curved pole in each fist, he allowed his body to dangle, and inched his grip backward.

Gaelinar waited, carefully braced, while Larson positioned himself.

At length, Larson felt the down-curled edges beneath his fingers. He tensed, recalling that the elf body in which Freyr had placed him stood slighter and frailer than the strength-trained, human physique he had accepted as his own for the latter part of his twenty years. Gently, testing the power of his elf form, he worked his chest over the curvature, supporting his frame with his arms. He paused, weight evenly distributed across the bars. For an instant, his mind betrayed him. Imagined bullets made his skin prickle, then his thoughts transformed the illusion to a volley of black-fletched arrows. Cursing his overactive imagination he flipped his legs over the grate. Twisting, he caught toeholds, and began his descent. This world has enough ghosts without me creating my own . The self-chastisement did nothing to soothe his discomfort. Without waiting for Gaelinar, he continued down the gate. Clambering to within five feet of the ground, he loosed his hold. He struck the ground with bent knees, dropped to a crouch, and remained coiled there until Gaelinar alighted.

Gaelinar studied Larson through the mist. "Well, hero. Is it safe?"

"Very funny." Larson rose, still tensed and troubled. Enemies could come from anywhere in the darkness . The realization made him as edgy as a private on his first sniper hunt. He knew from their journey into Hel that the reddish murk would deepen to pitch within a day's travel, and complete blackness would engulf them until they had nearly reached Midgard. "And why were you in such a goddamned hurry that I couldn't spend a little more time with Silme?"

Gaelinar picked rust specks from the brocade of his swords. "Did you notice something different about Silme as compared to the other corpses?''

Equating Silme with the walking mob of death irritated Larson. He crinkled his nose. "Of course. She wasn't… disgusting. She was Silme."

"Exactly." Gaelinar continued into the darkness, still speaking. "And what caused the others to decay?"

Larson paced after Gaelinar, wondering if the Kensei wanted a biology lesson on bacteria. "What do you mean 'caused'? Death, I suppose."

"Time," Gaelinar corrected. "The longer Silme remains there, the more she will become like the others. She'll grow rancid, start to forget her life on Midgard, and her mind and body will no longer be worth salvaging."

A sharp chill of foreboding spread through Larson, and he found himself without a reply. Of course, Gaelinar is right, as always. The faster we act, the better for Silme . The discovery turned his mood bleak, and the pervasive uneasiness inspired by Hel's threat persisted.

Gaelinar and Larson had no means to judge day and night in Hel's eternal blackness. A few hours from the gate, the Kensei knelt on a flat piece of dusty ground near the banks of the river Gjoll, whose burble would become their guide through the Hel lands and into the cavernous entry way to Midgard. Gaelinar divided a ration of hard bread.

Still anxious, Larson toyed with his food. He broke his share into smaller pieces until nothing remained but crumbs which he dusted into his mouth and washed down with water.