Mickey Reichert: Dragonrank master

Gaelinar sprawled across the ground.

Larson remained seated, too alert to sleep. "I'll keep watch."

The unremitting night hid Gaelinar's expression. "No need, hero. Our time has grown short, and we both need rest. No living creature could come close enough to harm us without awakening me."

"The corpses," Larson reminded.

"They're trapped within Hel's gate, without the strength or wherewithal to climb it. Those newly dead who might pass us on their way to Hel's inner chambers will be too involved with their own fates to concern themselves with ours."

Larson plucked at Silme's rankstone through the folds of his cloak. He snaked his fingers into his pocket and fondled the smoothed surfaces of Baldur's gem, attempting to define the crafted scene by the raised strokes of gold ink. The figure remained elusive. He pulled the gemstone free and studied it. He could discern only the vague outline of a horse through Hel's crushing darkness. He tossed the stone, caught it, flipped it back into his pocket, and addressed Gaelinar. "Baldur."

Gaelinar's voice wafted sleepily through the gloom. "Mmm. What about him?"

Larson slid to his stomach, his chin propped in his hands. "How come he seems so much more…" He struggled for the word. "… well, divine than the other gods?"

There was a short silence while Gaelinar pondered Larson's question. "What do you mean by divine ?"

Larson considered. "I don't exactly know. He didn't actually do anything, but he seemed so… pure… and good." He thought some more. "He brought back memories of Christmas masses and Sunday school." He laughed at his own words, aware Gaelinar could have no knowledge of the events he had just mentioned.

Gaelinar's reply was confident. "Hero, you plague yourself with illusions. Just because someone evokes memories of goodness does not mean he embodies them. You live in a different world now than the one you knew. Be careful. Baldur was the most beloved of the gods, but purity and charity are rare in a religion where the greatest ambition is to die in glorious combat while killing as many enemies as possible. Your thoughts have become clouded by what you would like to see. With age, after many years of looking inside yourself, you will gradually see through the delusions which hide reality."

Larson let his arms slide to the ground and cradled his head on his elbow. He read the wisdom in Gaelinar's words. It had always seemed easy to envision all women with the name Vicky as voluptuous, all Toms as sports heroes, and all Jeffreys as fat and whiny baseti on his experiences in high school. But Larson still felt it necessary to equate his past and present experiences in many circumstances. At least gravity and physics seemed to function in this world as they did at home, and he had already staked his life on his scant knowledge of both. How does Gaelinar come up with this stuff so fast ? Larson sighed. "Do you have an answer for everything?"

Gaelinar replied without hesitation. "No."

"No?" Gaelinar's denial surprised Larson. "What don't you have an answer for?"

Kensei Gaelinar caught Larson's forearm without groping through the darkness. "Anything I don't care about, hero."

Several thoughts converged on Larson. Caught between his awe over Gaelinar's vast knowledge and contempt for the Kensei's smugness, he attempted a carefully considered and well-constructed retort. But, instead, he only managed to blurt, "You're pretty pompous sometimes."

Gaelinar loosed Larson's arm. "Perhaps." He rolled to his side, turning his back to Larson. "I told you I'm not a hero."

Not a hero . Larson made no response, and his world went silent as death. He pictured Gaelinar, swathed in cammie, hunched behind an M-79 launcher and flinging grenades like a madman. No way . Larson amended his own imaginings. Gaelinar wouldn't hide behind a gun. He'd be in the front of every combat. He'd volunteer for every special mission. And no one could touch him. In his spare time, he'd rescue children from burning slums and make the New York subway system safe for all humanity . Larson puckered his lips and caught himself about to whistle "God Bless America." He suppressed a laugh. And this man has the gall to call me hero !

Larson shook his head at the ridiculousness of his current train of thought. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But his exchange with Hel echoed through his mind. Silme died because it was time for a law-abiding creature of her strength to die. To bring her back to Midgard, you would need to open a place for her . Larson rolled to his side, but the memory followed him. He heard Gaelinar's explanation, more jarring for its emotionless tone. Hel has proposed we find someone, a person of Silme's means and bent, willing take her place in Hel . Larson tried to empty his mind enough to sleep. He forced himself to picture curly-coated sheep jumping a battered fence row. But their whiteness muted to Baldur's gleaming visage, soft and pure and pleading. And Hel's final words returned, unbidden. Hel was never designed to keep men out.

Larson twisted to his other side. Damn you, Larson. You've dozed through worse than this . But sleep remained elusive and distant. Rolling to his back, he opened his eyes. Hel had no stars to watch; Larson saw only an impenetrable blackness without end. Even the shrill of insects remained conspicuously absent.

The dark, restless night became a dark, restless day. Breakfast sat like a doughy lump in Larson's gut, and he refused lunch and dinner. A steady march brought Gae-linar and Larson deeper into Hel's pitch when they finally stopped to make camp.

Larson consoled himself with realization. At least we've come one day closer to Midgard. Surely tonight I'll feel tired enough to rest . But sleep remained just beyond Larson's reach. He tossed from one position to the next, hyperalert and plagued with memory.

Gaelinar tolerated Larson's grumbled curses for several hours. At length, he spoke. "Something troubling you, hero?"

Larson snorted. "I can't sleep."

"You're trying too hard. Let it come to you."

"Yeah, sure." Larson felt too irritable for glib advice or amenities. "Maybe I'll read a book or something."

Gaelinar took no notice of Larson's sarcasm. "As you wish."

"As I wish." Larson stared into the darkness. "You have a flashlight?"

"Close your eyes. Concentrate on something you know well."

Larson rolled to his side. He waited until his annoyance faded, then revived the image of a Bronx sunset. Colored bands of light wafted from behind the jagged row of building silhouettes. Car headlights sheened from the skyscrapers and disappeared, their horns blaring even throughout the night. The familiar scene relaxed Larson enough to fall into a deep and troubled sleep. Within half an hour he was dreaming.

Larson wandered through a graveyard obscured by haze. Moist wisps of fog wound across the weathered, gray tombstones like ghosts, rose and disappeared into the mist. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. Crickets trilled, unseen, between the crypts. Birdsong bounced along the oaks which lined the perimeter, and a dog howled in the distance. Dried and withered flowers sagged across the graves, and the earth lay wet with the spattered tears of a million mourners. In his dream, Larson stopped before a headstone. He cleared slime from the letters with his fingers, and read the words inscribed:

Here lies Al Larson,

Harbinger of Doom,

Slayer of the Human Race.

May he rest in peace, A luxury he did not afford his followers.

A chill breeze stabbed through Larson's tunic, sending him into a spasm of shivering. "Oh, God. I didn't…"

A resonating voice interrupted. "But you did, Allerum. And you killed my father.''