Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

Larson awoke with sinews knotted and no sense of place or time. He was on his feet before he could think, eyes searching the room for movement. He scuttled to a corner and pressed his back to the wall. Sanity returned him to the blacksmith's cottage. Larson took several deep breaths, rose, and paced until his muscles uncoiled and his mood passed from panic to anxiety to crimson fury against the half-breed hellion who sought Silme's soul.

"Bramin!" Larson called with a courage he'd never before known he possessed. "I don't fear your threats, your dragons, your demons, or your:" Short of insults, he ended lamely, ": your piddling whangdoodles. Torment me as you wish, but we will visit this oracle. If you could kill Gaelinar or Silme, I think you would have done so already."

Larson believed his challenge was heard by no one except himself. But a shadow fell across the room, and the walls were suddenly suffused with a faint white glow. Caught in the center of the chamber, Larson spun like a fox between two packs of dogs. A message burned through his mind. "You underestimate me, Futurespawn." A long black finger probed his thoughts for a painful memory.

Prepared to fight though he saw no physical threat, Larson freed Valvitnir. Instantly, a benevolent entity joined the intruder in his mind. Bramin's mental presence hissed a shocked epithet and departed. Vidarr's reassurances pervaded

Larson's consciousness. Then the god, too, disappeared to Larson's perception.

Before the startled elf could ponder the significance of the night's events, Gaelinar poked his head through the door to Larson's chamber. "Practicing, hero? Good. You should be ready for your lesson."

After the sword practice, Larson found his stomach too knotted for food despite his twenty-four hour fast. The conversations of his companions passed unheard as Larson made the decision not to describe his dream to Silme. Too proud to reverse his decision about the oracle, he saw no reason to trouble the sorceress with Bramin's untenable threats. Still, time passed in an interminable vacuum; Larson was glad when he exchanged his final farewells and promises with Brendor. In bleary silence, he passed through the remainder of the town with Silme and Gaelinar and continued along the pine-bordered banks of the river Sylg.

The path looked distressingly similar to Larson's nightmare. Discomforted, he unsheathed Val- vitnir and balanced the blade across his knees. His stilted replies to Silme's attempts at conversation frustrated the sorceress and earned him a lonely trip. Still, midday came far too soon for Larson. The sun hovered overhead when Silme drew up her mount at the road sign to the oracle of Hargatyr.

Gaelinar reined his mount and addressed Larson for the first time since his lesson. "You must be hungry. Sorry to go against your wishes not to pack supplies, but Lady Kelda offered fresh meat for our journey. I couldn't refuse. Gather some kindling, and we'll have the best cooked lunch of our wanderings."

Glad for any distraction which differentiated events of reality from those of his nightmare, Larson clambered from his saddle, sheathed his sword, and wandered into the woods. Twigs were plentiful on the forest floor. Larson selectively collected only the driest ones of reasonable length. A mere hundred yards from the crossroads, he had managed to accumulate a thick handful of kindling, and he started back toward his waiting companions.

Brush crackled behind Larson. He whirled, sticks scattering from his grip, in time to watch a small, familiar figure scuttle behind a clump of trees. " Brendor!" Larson screamed. He charged after the retreating child.

Brendor crashed awkwardly through the weeds. Slower, Larson trailed with far more stealth. Ragweed and ferns gave way to a brushless clearing enclosed by intertwining pine. Larson stopped, afraid the chase might already have taken him dangerously far from camp. " Brendor! Come out now! I know you're here, and I'm not playing games." He added with a gentle sigh, "I promise not to hit you."

The child's blunderings transformed to softer rustlings. Within moments, Brendor emerged from the brush and stepped among the shadows of the clearing. His clothing was torn. Small scratches beneath dripped blood. He shuffled toward Larson like a disobedient dog, his head bent low in shame, his eyes oddly vacant.

At a subtle noise from behind, Larson looked around to see Silme who had followed his calls to the edge of the clearing. He conveyed his control of the situation with a nearly imperceptible nod and returned his attention to the approaching child.

Less than an arm's length separated Larson and Brendor when Silme screamed, " Allerum, wait!" Enchantments bright as a flare struck the child and rebounded to glowing streamers. Silme's magics appeared to have no effect on the boy, but its backlash sparked light from a jagged blade clenched in his fist. Even as Larson recoiled in shock, Brendor plunged his knife at the elf's chest.

Reflexively, Larson caught the tiny wrist. Bren-dor's other hand enwrapped Larson's free forearm with a power he had never demonstrated in the past. The child's strength was awesome, despite his size. Larson strained until sweat sprang from his face. The dagger shivered ever closer.

"No!" A beam of amber screamed past Larson's ear and struck Brendor full in the face. Impact jerked the child backward. Desperate, Larson planted his foot on Brendor's knee and rolled onto his back. Stone bit into his spine. The child flipped over Larson, but his viselike grip held. Brendor's fingers pinned Larson's wrist to the ground. The dagger sped for the elf's bared throat. " Brendor, no!" Larson struggled like a madman. He seized Brendor's knife hand, but all his effort scarcely slowed the blade's descent.

Enchantments whizzed over Larson's head, plastering Brendor with multiple barbs of energy. The child flinched. Pain blanked his features as the magics ripped through his body and pitched him backward in a mass of bloody tatters. Larson heaved aside the limp figure and sprang to his feet, staring at the gruesome lump of flesh which was once a beloved companion. Brendor's eyes seemed glazed as marbles, and his blood-flecked hair spread in an inky puddle. Memory slapped Larson, heavy and unforgiving as a migraine. To Larson's mind, the clearing became a dirt road through a Vietnamese village; the bursts of sorcery transformed to the cruel blatter of an M-16.

The child's face was no longer Brendor's. The eyes slanted away from almond-colored irises. The mouth gaped, smeared with melted chocolate. Ti Sun! Larson's stomach lurched. His vision clouded to red haze. He turned hollow, accusing eyes on his buddy, Gavin, who still clutched his smoking gun. Profanities spilled from Larson's throat in an anguished sob. Blood fury raged like fever. He threw himself upon Gavin, swinging his fists with irrational, aimless outrage.

Many hands caught Larson. Men pinned him helplessly between uniformed bodies. Larson shrieked as he struggled. The fingers which bruised his arms caused a pain which only fueled his anger. Several seconds went by while Gavin carefully flipped Ti Sun's remains, and several more passed before Larson recognized the significance of the grenade which rolled from the child's limp hand. "It was him or you, you stupid bastard," Gavin explained with a wretched sob. "Him: or you."

The flashback broke to midday light. As Larson passed from one world to another, he discovered his fist poised to strike a figure already grounded by his blows. From nowhere, Gaelinar's hand seized his wrist and whipped his body to the ground with surprising speed. The Kensei's grip barred Larson's arm at an awkward angle. His other hand neatly caged Larson's throat. Larson knew Gaelinar could fracture arm or windpipe with a simple strike.

Larson lay perfectly still. His knuckles felt raw, and his wrist was bruised from Brendor's attack. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.