Mickey Reichert: Dragonrank master

Gaelinar remained silent.

Larson smeared sweat from his palm on his tunic and envied the stoic composure of his mentor.

Hel scratched at her cheek with far more deliberateness than the task required. "Very… well. You… do not speak… or bargain… like… any elf… I've encountered but…"

Larson fidgeted. While Hel completed her preliminary comments, he allowed his attention to roam to the milling corpses, dreading the thought of wading through them again. Baldur remained, tense and quiet, on his throne. He met Larson's gaze with uncontained eagerness. It was obvious he wished to talk. A sinuous twist of smoke rose from one of the remaining candles in the chandelier, then it went as dead as Hel's minions.

Hel's halting speech seemed to drag seconds into hours. "… I… will tell… you… what… you… wish… to hear. First, I… swear… upon my oaths… to Odin. I… will not stand… against… Silme's… return… to… Midgard… so long as… you… fulfill… your… part of… our… bargain."

Larson's heart pounded with eagerness. "And the Fates?" he reminded.

"The… Fates." Hel pursed her withered lips and glanced at Gaelinar before answering. "For centuries… they have… kept… our… worlds… in harmony. No… one… can know… how… they decide… whose turn… it is… to die. But… it must… in part… be based on… keeping all forces… in balance." She turned her gaze to Larson. "The… two great… powers of our… world… call them… one and two… order and randomness… good and evil… as you will. I know… them… as… law… and chaos. 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."

"Open a place for her?" Larson shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I… have… fulfilled my… promise." Hel met Larson's confused stare. "I… have… told you… all… you… need to know. Give… me… my… sword."

Larson looked to Gaelinar, feeling cheated.

"Hel has proposed we find someone, a person of Silme's means and bent, willing to take her place in Hel. Now, hero, give Hel her sword."

Larson heard nothing after Gaelinar's first sentence. "Replace her? We have to kill a person? Someone as kind as Silme?" He allowed his thoughts to glide backward to a night, a year, and a lifetime ago. He recalled lying, trapped and terrified, at an outside observation post after less than a week in Vietnam. The memory remained heavy and vivid within him: the stab of high grasses, the deadly howl of mortars, and the mixed reek of sulfur and blood. M-16s blattered ceaselessly through the near darkness, punctuated by the louder explosions of grenades hurled at sounds and unidentifiable shadows. Larson remained still, not daring to shoot for fear the muzzle flash would draw enemy, and perhaps even American, fire.

In Larson's memory, a figure materialized from the darkness. For a moment, the man stood motionless, like a department store manikin in the backwash of light. A flare streaked overhead, illuminating the face in olive-red detail. He was a Vietnamese teenager, younger even than Larson. He seemed equally surprised, his dark eyes wide with fear. They stared at one another for several seconds; neither raised a weapon. Larson saw all his own uncertainty, mortality, and horror mirrored perfectly in his enemy's visage. Then, the American beside Larson cursed and swung around a.45 pistol. The last, dying traces of the flare outlined its steel like a blood-colored star. The American fired, the Vietnamese soldier fell dead, and Larson learned an enduring lesson about war, mercy, and the price of life.

Later, in the chilling aftershock of his first firefight,

Larson discovered that the "gook," like himself, carried pictures of his girlfriend and his family. Larson realized, with a vague feeling of dread, that the only difference between his own death and the enemy's was which set of parents would cry.

Now, Larson discarded his remembrances for the misty murk of Hel's citadel, aware he could never take the life of one like Silme, not even to restore the woman he loved. "Gaelinar, I can't…"

"Hush!" Gaelinar's voice went harsh with warning. "Hero, give Hel her sword."

Larson bit his lip against welling grief and anger. Gingerly, he offered the sheathed sword to Hel's half-rotted queen.

Hel accepted her father's weapon. "And… your explanation?"

"Explanation?" Larson repeated. He had already nearly forgotten his vow to reveal the reason why he carried Loki's sword. He glanced sideways at Gaelinar, not certain how to soften his disclosure.

"May I?" Gaelinar asked sweetly.

Larson nodded, glad to pass the onerous task to his companion.

Gaelinar cleared his throat, his fingers draped casually across the hilt of his katana. "Lady, you have already promised not to stand in the way of Silme's freedom and also that we can see and speak with her before we leave."

"I have," Hel agreed.

Larson swiveled his head and studied the mob of corpses, trying to pick Silme's familiar countenance from the masses. Baldur returned Larson's gaze from his throne.

"That remembered," Gaelinar continued, "I can speak freely."

Larson felt a sudden pang of discomfort.

A mocking smile crept across Gaelinar's features. "We pried Loki's sword from his hand. After we 'helpless mortals' killed him, lady. Good day." He turned to leave.

Hel made a strangled noise of rage.

Larson guessed his mentor's motives for delivering information in such a cruel fashion. I know of no kind way

to tell a woman you've killed her father. To show regret for Loki's slaying would require an insincerity beyond Gaelinar's abilities. And, were I Hel, I wouldn't dare attempt revenge against a warrior with Gaelinar's bold audacity . Larson cringed, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Hel's expression did not change, but the healthier flesh of her body turned scarlet. She pointed a trembling finger at Gaelinar's back. "Know… this well, Kensei. Hel… was… never… designed to… keep… men… out.'' Her dull eyes gained a hint of amusement as she pirouetted with unhurried grace and shuffled into the gloom.

"It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air-there's the rub, the task"

– Virgil Aeneid

Hel's threat hovered in the stagnant air of her citadel long after she disappeared from Larson's sight, but the savagery of her promise withered beneath a more oppressive realization. I will have to sacrifice an innocent life in exchange for Silme's . Larson knew the sorceress' death had strengthened his passion for her; his most recent confrontation with mortality reaffirmed the brevity of human life and the value of each minute. Yet Larson felt troubled by an ancient morality instilled by his parents long before a hellish war warped virtue in the name of survival. Everyone is loved by someone. How can I justify my happiness at the expense of others ? Larson lowered his head.

Even Gaelinar seemed repulsed by their task. Wrinkles etched his sagging cheeks, and his stride lacked its usual confidence. He stepped around Baldur's throne and started back down the long corridor, waving for Larson to follow.

During Gaelinar's and Larson's talk with Hel, her dead minions had assembled, respectfully, at the edge of the conversation. Now they shuffled forward, surrounding man and elf in a hovering, silent mass of decay.

Larson took a few, tentative paces toward his mentor. He knew the ghosts had meant him no harm before, but the memory of their touches and Hel's threat made him shiver. We can't hope to battle a legion of corpses . He tried to ignore them, not allowing himself to study them closely enough to glean details of age or sex. They wore an array of costumes, from the faded purple silk of royalty to torn and dirty rags. Some lacked limbs, rotted or hacked away. Others bore slumped and fragile frames; huge, cancerous growths; or bellies swollen with fluid. Larson hurried through the dead as fast as they scampered from his path. In his haste, he brushed against a young female. Coldness spread from her touch, suffused Larson's flesh from shoulder to fingers until his arm felt numb and heavy. Afterward, he moved through the crowd with a respectful caution. They haven't attacked us yet. Maybe they're not under Hel's command or they lack the strength to intentionally harm the living. Or maybe they just don't care .