Mickey Reichert: Dragonrank master

Taziar blurred into the shadows beyond the light, moving toward the southeastern corner. Gaelinar chose not to aid their search. Instead, he leaned against the table, gaze locked on Bramin with fanatical interest. The dark elf turned his attention to the sink, and Larson spun the stove dial to its off position to protect his friends. The burner dulled to orange, then faded to neutral black. Watching a process which seemed trivial and routine turned Larson's thoughts to the ridiculousness of an exploration for an undescribed item. Mannix's journals had given him no clue, and he wondered if his companions might have more knowledge they had not revealed to him. "Does anyone have the foggiest notion what we're looking for?"

Larson half expected someone to reply stupidly, "Geirmagnus' rod." But no one did. Taziar and Gaelinar remained silent. Bramin made a wordless sound, but offered no further explanation.

Larson pressed. "Bramin? You know what the rod looks like?"

Bramin did not bother to face Larson as he replied, regal as a king. "I have an idea."

"And?"

"And I'm not here at your convenience, to share my thoughts with a fool who has condemned himself and his friends to death. I never promised to help you, only that I wouldn't interfere."

Larson restrained an obscenity, glad Gaelinar had chosen to guard the dark elf. If the rod has some sort of magical powers, I would as soon it not fall into Bramin's hands .

Vidarr replied. I believe it is a product of sorcery, Allerum. The description I've heard is "a rod of wood and iron, a weapon of unfathomable power. "

Anything more ? Larson urged.

Vidarr lapsed into an aura of regret without attempting a verbal reply.

Bramin seemed preoccupied with the miniature waterfall created by twirling the faucet knobs. Larson ducked into the lane between the half man and the table. Nearly at the northeastern corner, he stopped before the refrigerator, his back to the brick pole which held the pipes. Scattered light from the fluorescent bulb dragged pale shadows across magnets in the form of metal hooks and plastic fruit. It appeared much like the refrigerator Larson remembered from his parents' apartment in New York City, except that his mother had trapped memos, school menus and scrawled children's drawings beneath the magnets. Recalling the odor of week-old leftovers green with mold, Larson wondered what effect a century or two might have had on stored refreshments. Only he and Bra-min stood close enough to suffer the consequences of his curiosity. Holding his breath, Larson caught the metal handle and pulled.

The door swung open easily, but the bulb inside did not go on. Weak light from the farther corner filtered in, defining shapes into recognizable figures. Plastic containers lined the upper shelf. All were sealed, Larson noted in relief. A receptacle which had once held milk lay on its side, half-filled with a clear substance he guessed was water. On the lower level, a single can of Pepsi stood, pushed to the back. Its red, white, and blue emblem seemed different than he recalled; but so much time had passed since his last soda, the details escaped him. The flip top appeared more square and flat, laid into a depression. He grabbed the can. It felt flimsier than he expected, aluminum instead of steel.

Taziar's voice wafted to Larson from beyond the pole. "What's this?"

"The rod!" Bramin screamed.

Larson jerked his head out of the refrigerator. Bramin's sword crashed into its door, slamming it shut. Magnets showered to the floor, and a spray of broken chips rattled across the concrete.

Gaelinar sprang for Bramin, halted by the dark elf's snarl. " Fair fight, Kensei.''

Reluctantly, Gaelinar retreated as Bramin thrust for Larson.

It seemed less than fair to Larson, who had neither time nor space to draw a sword. He dodged into the lane between the pole and the eastern wall, still clutching the Pepsi. Bramin's blade swept for Larson's head. Larson ducked. The sword struck the fuse box with a thin chime of steel. In the seconds it took Bramin to recover from his stroke, Larson slapped the bottom of the can against the conduit and pulled the tab. Soda geysered, splashing over the combatants and forming a foaming, brown puddle across the floor. Caught by surprise, Bramin hesitated. Larson used the opening to draw his sword and cut for Bramin's throat.

Bramin parried and riposted. Larson sidled, slipping in the spilled cola. Bramin's blade slit open the sleeve of ¦ Larson's cloak. Though too close for another sword I stroke, the half man pressed his advantage. He caught I Larson's chin in a sticky hand, and slammed the elf i against the pole. Larson's head hit a pipe. A bolt of white; slashed his vision, and his limbs went suddenly flaccid. I The world swirled in sickening circles. He felt his back: sliding down the bricks, and fought desperately for con-; sciousness.

Bramin spun Larson and hurled him to the floor, creating the distance needed for a sword stroke. Impact snapped Larson to full awareness. As Bramin's sword plunged toward him, he rolled. The blade scraped concrete. Larson's back whacked against the solid stone of the southern wall. Dizzily, he noticed an empty gun rack nailed to the wall above his head, but its significance escaped him. Gathering his feet beneath him, he raised his sword and rushed Bramin.

Bramin scrambled back to avoid the bold commitment of Larson's attack. He caught Larson's blade on his crossguard, parrying the stroke aside. Bramin's riposte sliced the air before Larson's chest and bit squarely into the conduit cable.

Sparks blazed from the contact. White light flared like fire around the sword. The fluorescent bulb winked out, plunging them into darkness. Larson dove aside. Bramin's shout of triumph split into a scream, and his face went pale as bleached wool. The force hurled him, limp, to the ground; the sword stuck, embedded in the circuits. The ozone reek of electrical fire permeated the room, twined through with smoke.

Larson scarcely had time to register the scene before an explosion rocked the courtyard. Outside, chips of concrete rattled like hail from the walls and roof. One piece slammed through the window, hurling glass shards across the stove, Gaelinar, and the table beyond him with a soprano sprinkle of noise. Nearer to the stairwell, Gaelinar and Taziar responded first. They led a frantic charge up the steps with Larson close behind. As they burst into the fading light of evening, Larson's mind registered a number of realities at once.

Jagged blocks of concrete littered the courtyard around a hole the size of a mine crater. A section of the outer wall had collapsed. Snapped free at one end, its razor wire coiled to the ground. In the center of the carnage, a dragon thrashed in a spiraled wreath of copper wire with clinging slivers of cement. Scales of solid steel-gray made the evening look pale in comparison. Twice the size of the creature in Hel, its flailing jaws seemed to rake the clouds into the blood-colored streaks of dusk. Only its head and neck had emerged from the shattered ring of the particle accelerator, the remainder was still caught in wire now devoid of current.

Gaelinar covered the distance from door to monster in three running strides. His sword bit into the muscle of a tremendous foreleg, splitting wire like paper. With a roar, the chaos-force wrenched a claw partially free. It snapped for Gaelinar. The Kensei scrambled backward as Taziar came up on the dragon from the opposite side.

Larson scurried to the attack. He had covered only half the distance when Gaelinar bore in for a second strike. Again, his blade sliced flesh and wire. Black blood seeped from the wound, thick as syrup. The chaos-force bit for Gaelinar. Taziar dodged in. The Climber swung his weapon like a club, and Larson got his first glimpse of Geirmagnus' rod. My god, I should have known. It's a fucking rifle ! The butt crashed against the monstrous head, and wood split with a crack. The dragon turned its jaws on Taziar. The Climber dodged, and knifelike fangs closed on empty air.