Mickey Reichert: Dragonrank master

Hel shifted her weight, meeting Larson's request with a strained and overlong silence. Then, she replied with the maddening tedium of a dripping faucet. "I… make… no bargains… with… the living. Even… dead… elves… do not… belong…"

Larson found not completing the goddess' sentences an effort in restraint.

"… here," Hel finished. "Go away." Her stolid features did not betray a hint of the emotion her words implied.

Larson wiped sweating palms on his tunic. His mind conjured images of Silme, long-legged, slim-waisted, her curves as soft yet pronounced as any gilded model of his own era. He could picture each highlight of her honey-colored hair and the gray eyes which betrayed her every mood. Emotionally, she had proven herself as strong as any man. The deep morality Larson had respected and loved led to her downfall, and drove her to sacrifice her own life for the cause of the world. A world which still sorely needs her . Larson's longing for Silme inspired the courage to try again. This time, he prefaced his words with a stiffly formal bow. "Queen Hel." The title sounded awkward to Larson's Christian-raised ears. "At least hear me out."

In response, Hel neither moved nor spoke.

At least she didn't turn away . Larson accepted it as a sign of encouragement. He cleared his throat and continued. "Kensei Gaelinar and I came to bring back Silme. She's a sapphire-rank Dragonmage who has done more to protect men and gods then anyone could. Her death was a terrible mistake."

Hel's frown deepened more than Larson thought possible. "Is… she… dead?"

Surprised by the question, Larson did not phrase his answer carefully. ' 'Well, yeah.''

"She… was not… killed… in… valorous combat?"

Larson rocked from foot to foot, uncertain where this questioning was leading. "Not in physical combat… but…"

Hel interrupted, "Then… there can be… no mistake. She… stays. You… go. I… cannot… release… the souls… which rightfully belong… here."

Larson suddenly realized what common sense had told him all along. A corpse cannot be made alive again. Gaelinar's determination and my own love allowed me to hope, but I have to accept the fact that Silme is dead .

Gaelinar's voice held the same inviolate authority as when he berated Larson for inappropriate sword figures. "You're lying, witch."

Hel remained, unmoving. She opened her mouth.

But Gaelinar spoke first. "We are foreigners, but not ignorant. I know the story of the slain god, Baldur. You bargained with the gods, living gods for his release."

"I did," Hel admitted. "With… conditions… even the gods… could not… meet. He's… still here." She inclined her head toward the inhumanly handsome man on the throne. "Even… if I… did not oppose… Silme's return… the Fates would see… any provisions I imposed… would not be… fulfilled."

Larson followed Hel's gesture. Baldur's dead eyes met his gaze, and the god seemed keenly interested in the conversation.

Gaelinar met Hel's pronouncement with a disinterested shrug. "Name your price, Lady. Allerum and I will handle the Fates."

Shocked by Gaelinar's cavalier dismissal of the Fates' power, Larson turned his attention back to the conversation. He recalled his encounter with the three hideous giantesses who controlled the destinies of men and gods. A simple meeting had required the efforts of Silme and Vidarr, an oracle's artifact, and passage through his own flawed mind.

Hel's ghastly face remained locked in its pall of gloom, but a twinkle of amusement softened the gunmetal blue of her eyes. "No… need. I know… the… means to appease… the Fates."

Hope spiraled through Larson. "How?"

"I… cannot… say." Hel's tone was maddeningly smug. "The dead… belong… to me. I… cannot… bow to… the whim of… every grieving… parent. I… cannot… sacrifice… my legions… to every… man… willing to… wander… through a few… short… days of… darkness… to retrieve… his lover. I… cannot…"

Gaelinar's katana hissed from its sheath, a gray blur in a world of shadows. "You cannot speak from a head rolling on the ground."

Surprised by Gaelinar's sudden ferocity, Larson sidestepped.

Hel loosed a noise which sounded like a cough, but Larson recognized it as laughter. "What… are you… going to do… swordmaster? Send… me to… Hel… for eternity? Perhaps… you… think… you can… make… me… uglier?"

Larson caught Gaelinar's arm and drew his teacher aside. He spoke as softly as possible. "She has nothing to lose, and we have everything. You kill her, we'll never be able to bargain for Silme's freedom."

Gaelinar frowned his disapproval, but he sheathed his sword. "She's not going to give in to our demands. Violent persuasion may not help, but it'll make me feel better."

"No." Larson was insistent. "She might take out her anger on Silme's soul." He turned back to Hel and spoke aloud. "Won't you reconsider? Silme's not just my girlfriend. She's got powers I never would have believed in a few weeks ago."

Hel did not seem to take notice of Larson's and Gaelinar's whispered exchange. "All… the… more… reason to… keep… her here. It… is her… destiny to… remain in… Hel. And… the world's… to live… without… her.''

Larson felt the growing cold of despair. He lowered his head. "At least let me speak with her before I go?"

Hel's reply seemed to span an eternity. "Talk… with anyone… you wish. Then… both of… you… go."

Larson pivoted, not quite certain what to expect and afraid to pick Silme from among the dead. Discomfort gnawed at him. He steeled himself for the pain of looking upon his lover, her beauty withered and muted into one grimacing corpse among Hel's horde. Yet he knew he had to see her at least one more time.

Hel cried out in sudden surprise. As she struggled to suppress her indiscretion, her dragging speech now appeared to bother her as much as it did Larson. "Where… did you… get that sword?"

Larson followed her stare to the weapon at his own hip. "That what?" he stammered. It came to him with frightening abruptness. Hel is Loki's daughter. And the grandeur of his hilt is unmistakable. She knows this is her father's weapon . He whirled to face the startled goddess, filled with new confidence. "I'll tell you. Immediately after you swear you'll let Silme go and explain how we can get her by the Fates."

Hel hissed, catlike.

Gaelinar remained still. Larson read amusement in a smile cryptic as the Mona Lisa's.

Hel drew up her shriveled form, and another long silence followed.

Larson waited, hiding impatience behind a mask of purpose. He knew he had gained the upper hand. The ball is in her court. Jesus, I hope I don't blow it .

Thoughtfulness drew out Hel's pauses even longer. "Agreed… but…"

Larson fought the urge to hurry Hel.

"… you… must… give… me … the… sword."

Give her … Larson struggled against his natural repugnance. In Vietnam, where the emotional closeness necessary for survival meant watching good friends die, Larson recalled many nights huddled in a damp hole haloed by the red streaks of tracers and the glare of illumination rounds. Then, an M-16 and a twisted piece of concertina wire were often the only things between him and the shadowy forms of the NVA. It went against every bit of experience, the rigor of army training, and Gaelinar's unyielding discipline to turn his only weapon over to an enemy. Yet the chance to regain the woman he loved was worth the sacrifice. He pushed aside the heavy-handed instincts ingrained by months of dodging death.

"Okay. It's yours." He undipped the sheathed sword from his belt and awaited Gaelinar's inevitable reproach. "After you uphold your part of the bargain."