Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

After a breakfast of dried meat and fruit, Larson took his leave. He skirted the tangled clearing, reminded of Vietnam 's towering elephant grasses which forced the point man to waddle as he cleared a path for his followers. He traveled northward, beneath interlocking branches which muted the sun. Pines flowed endlessly past, lower branches withered in the shadow of their younger brothers. Songbirds flitted above Larson's head, their sweet trills a welcome relief from the too-well remembered screams of macaws.

Near midday, his mood reversed. He began to question Silme's and Gaelinar's sidelong glances in the clearing and the sorceress' mistrustful queries. The birds became less apparent, their song more shrill. A squirrel, startled from its food hunt, scolded, while Larson was still some distance away. A shiver traversed him from buttocks to neck, warning of imminent peril. Repeatedly, Larson reminded himself this forest hid no snipers. But his fear remained and intensified nearly to panic until he would have bet all the water in his pouch that unseen eyes watched from the branches.

Larson stopped, hoping the sudden cessation of his own passage would amplify any noises around him. The harsh call of a crow ruined the silence. Suddenly, light sparked before him, flaring to blinding brilliance. He dropped to a crouch, now capable enough to recognize a sorcerer's craft. Desire dared him to hope the power originated from the slim- waisted beauty he had left that morning.

But the figure which sprang to clarity was cloaked in a blackness which was echoed in his features. Red eyes met Larson's for the second time, filled with cruelty and misplaced hatred. This time, the dark elf clutched a staff like Silme's, but the gem gripped between carven claws was a flawless diamond. And he raised it threateningly.

Shaken, Larson stumbled two steps backward. His mind reverberated with memory of his last encounter with the demon elf. His trembling fingers found the hilt of his sword and drew it with a rasp of steel.

"Fool!" Bramin's voice mocked him. "Do you think your toy will save you from my wrath?" He suffixed his threat with a single coarse syllable.

Pain lanced through Larson's fist, flaming to an agony which swept his entire arm. The sword fell from his weakened grip and crashed against stone with a shower of ice blue sparks. Bramin's assault continued ruthlessly. Waves of torture racked mind and body, twitched Larson's limbs like those of a stringless marionette. Scream after scream ripped from his raw lungs in ghastly duet with Bramin's laughter.

Pain stabbed through Larson's body like daggers, worse than any agony described as hell. Could he have uttered a coherent sentence, he would have pleaded for death. But Bramin knew no mercy. His spell stole strength of body and reserves of mind, seared like flame, and convulsed its hapless victim with anguish.

Suddenly, the pain stopped. Larson flopped to the ground like a beached fish. His mind jumped erratically. His breaths came thankfully easier from his aching lungs. Through vision clouded by his ordeal, he saw movement, and watched the blue blur of the sword slide toward Bramin's gesturing hand. He understood what was happening, but it meant nothing to him. Let the dark elf have the sword. I have no use for it.

The shadows flickered, suffused with blue as the sword flared with an anger all its own. The hilt knocked against a stone in its path toward Bramin, splattering enchantments like the rays of a star. A soft breaking of brush from behind startled Larson where he lay helpless and still, recalling stories of injured soldiers left for dead. Silver flashed over his head, casting a slight breeze which cooled his tortured limbs.

Bramin recoiled with a pained hiss. As he clamped his hands to his chest, his red eyes blazed purple with rage. His link with the sword broke, and it halted with a lurch. Blood trickled between his fingers, and his slim hand raised in an ominous gesture. Larson recognized a shaped piece of steel jutting from Bramin's wound. The dark elf's gaze locked on the gold-robed Kensei behind Larson who had hurled the shuriken.

Sorceries crackled, bounced between Bramin's outstretched hands as though they were opposing mirrors, and intensified to blinding white. Bramin moved. His magic leaped like a beast and screamed toward the man behind Larson. Larson heard a curse. Then, a second jagged ray sprang from the brush. Magics met with a sound like thunder, and both spells broke to glittering traces. Silme! Larson shielded his eyes against the backlash.

Bramin's malevolent voice broke the ensuing silence. "Hel take all your souls!" The diamond in his staff winked black, and the dark elf vanished.

Gaelinar's callused hand gripped Larson's upper arm and hoisted the elf to his feet. Movement dizzied Larson. He staggered, but regained his balance with the Kensei's aid. His stomach heaved. Unable to avoid the inevitable, Larson ripped free, dropped to his knees, and vomited with an intensity unknown since more experienced soldiers had forced him to wallow through rotting bodies to prepare him for death. Embarrassment brought tears to his eyes. He knew the most beautiful woman in existence watched, surely with disgust.

But Silme waited until Larson's sickness passed and squeezed his hand with a reassurance which almost made the ordeal worthwhile. "My humblest apologies, Lord Allerum," she said. "Had I known we shared such an enemy, I would never have let you travel alone."

Larson bowed though his legs felt weak and rubbery. He chose his words with delicate care. "Lady, I could never hold any offense against you." He beamed at his own efforts.

Gaelinar continued. "We dared not trust you. Light elves act as capricious as Bramin's kind do evil." He gestured, toward the place where the dark elf had stood. "But faery creatures of any sort are rare in the manworld of Midgard. We assumed you were outcast, that Alfheim's lord,

Freyr, had exiled you. Bramin's attack and your sword tell us otherwise."

Larson tried to recall his readings on the subject of elves. He had concentrated his interest on gods and war, and all he could dredge from memory was the respective good and evil tendencies of light and dark elves. He had read somewhere that tales of the latter were so rare many authorities believed dark elves and dwarves to be interchangeable. He regarded Silme and Gaelinar. / have to trust someone. With enemies as unassailable as Bramin and his dragons, I have no chance of survival without capable, knowledgeable companions. And these two people have already rescued me twice. "This may sound strange or impossible:" He spoke slowly, studying Silme's face for any clue he might have overstepped the boundaries of credibility. " Freyr called me from a place beyond the scope of your nine worlds. Aside from a few legends, I'm ignorant of even the simplest matters of Midgard."

Silme's face twisted in doubt, but her eyes widened and her lips pursed in consideration. Her gaze dropped to the faintly-glowing sword on the ground, and her expression changed suddenly to one of surprise. Ignoring Larson's revelation, she knelt before Valvitnir.

Larson cleared his throat. "Why are elves so uncommon here?"

Gaelinar seemed to accept Larson's explanation easily. "Travel between the nine worlds requires great effort and power. Even the gods cannot wholly disregard the energy such travel demands. Elves of any sort were never common. In time, men grew to despise the dark elves for their cruelty and vile sense of humor. Where men still remember dark elves, they slay them on sight.

"Light elves view men as narrow-minded beings so concerned with death they refuse to enjoy their short lives. Man's somber nature made light elves extremely uncomfortable, so they gradually curtailed all commerce with the world of men. Now, the tales and memories of elves have been confused or, at best, forgotten. At times, dark elves are welcomed because of the legends of light elves, and light elves are slain for the ancient crimes of their dark cousins. Mostly, the sidelong glances and whispered comments which follow any stranger viewed as different will accompany you throughout the world of Midgard ."