Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

Alarmed, Larson started toward her. "Silme?" As Bramin rose and advanced, Larson turned back to the fight. "What have you done to her?" he demanded. Hysteria raised his voice an octave.

Blood colored Bramin's mouth scarlet. "I did nothing," he replied triumphantly. He flicked blood from his cheek. "But every time you mar this pretty face, you injure hers as well."

Larson retreated defensively, afraid to strike. Bramin swept forward. His left foot drove into Larson's gut with a force which doubled him over. As Bramin completed his spin, his right foot jolted against Larson's head. Larson rolled clumsily, awaiting a death stroke which never fell. Confidence made Bramin patient as a cat. He explained while Larson struggled dizzily to his feet. "To save you from my sorceries, Silme linked her life aura to mine. She holds our magic inoperative, but our souls are fused. Her fate and mine have become one."

Bramin faked a foot strike. As Larson dodged, Bramin delivered a brazenly high kick. His heel slammed against Larson's forehead. Impact snapped Larson's neck rearward. The back side of his skull struck the ground first. Darkness swam down on him. Larson shook his throbbing head, watching Bramin's retreating back through a veil of colored mist.

Fury gave Larson renewed strength. He charged Bramin's back, just as the sorcerer bent for his Helsword. Larson punched. Bramin wheeled. His elbow caught Larson in the gut. The half-breed seized Larson's outstretched arm and hurled the elf over his shoulder.

Accustomed to wrestling, Larson struck the ground, unhurt. Bramin knelt beside him, pinning his right wrist to the ground. Larson rocked toward the half-breed, wrapped his left arm about one dark leg, and rolled. Bramin flipped to the ground. Even as he landed, Larson reversed direction. The force pitched Bramin to his stomach, hands trapped beneath his chest. Larson pressed his full weight against the half-breed. His one hand clutched a swarthy wrist. His forearm thrust Bramin's face in the dirt.

Silme screamed between panting gasps. "Kill him, Allerum! Forget me. Kill him!"

Larson jolted his fist against the back of Bramin's skull, cursing himself for Silme's pained whimper. He released Bramin and seized Helblindi's hilt before the half-breed could do anything more than roll to his back. Larson spun and pressed the blade to Bramin's throat. The sorcerer went still. His face drained of color; his chest heaved. "If you kill me, you kill Silme, too." Bramin warned in a reedy whine.

Larson's hand shook. Sick with worry, he called over his shoulder. " Is it true} "

Silme made no reply.

Larson twisted toward the sorceress. "Damn you, is it true?"

"Yes," she whispered. "It's true, but.

Bramin clawed to his feet and ran. Gaelinar's training resurfaced mechanically. Larson struck. Helblindi's blade carved through Bramin's hamstring. The muscle curled into a ball. Bramin collapsed. Larson finished the strike from habit gained from hours of practice. He thrust the blade through Bramin's chest. The half-breed quivered, then fell limp, and Silme's dying scream reverberated in accusation.

Anguish tore denial from Larson's throat. "No! No!" He ripped Helblindi free and cast it aside in wild sorrow. Blood splashed as the blade tumbled awkwardly to the ground, and Larson fell with it. Grief-mad, he howled like a wounded animal and crawled to Silme's prone form. She lay like a marble carving beside the blade which imprisoned her god. Larson dropped to her side. She was cold as ice and every bit as still. Tears burned his eyes like poison, cleaning tracks through the blood which stained his chin. His gaze fell upon the motionless Kensei, and he howled anguished curses at the swordmaster who had drilled him until the sword figure which killed Silme became reflex.

Larson's sanity crumbled to a muddle of thought.

His fist struck the ground with a force which jarred his arm to the shoulder. His second blow landed against Valvitnir's blade; its sharpened edge slit the side of his hand. Oblivious to physical pain, Larson caught the sword by its hilt. Vidarr filled his mind with warning. Allerum, behind you!

Godslayer

"Death closes all: but something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with gods."

– Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

Larson whirled. Light lanced toward him from the direction of the valleys. He cringed defensively. The magics struck Valvitnir and broke to streamers vivid as rockets. "Yow!" Larson dropped flat to the ground. The valleys seemed to mock him, black as moonless night, yet somewhere in the gloom stalked a sorcerer more dangerous than any sniper. /5 it Loki?

Yes, Vidarr confirmed. Look up. And lift your sword, or I won't be able to shield you from his spells

Pressed tight to the dirt out of habit, Larson raised his eyes. Reddish light hovered on a crag above Sylg's valley. In its center, Loki gestured, menacing as a demon in a fire pit. His sorceries streaked toward Larson with a roar like thunder. Larson rolled aside. Enchantments swirled into a fizzling whirlwind and funneled into Valvitnir's blade. How?

Vidarr's presence seemed weak in Larson's mind. Not certain. Some aspect of Loki's imprisonment spell renders me capable of negating his other magics. Vidarr's reply came, labored as a winded asthmatic. But it requires concentration:

Larson rose to a crouch, seeking cover. On the cliff face, light flared around Loki, brief and glorious as a dying star. Larson squinted against its brilliance. Red and green shadows winked on the inside of his eyelids. When he recovered his vision, Loki was gone.

Where is he? Dammit, where is he? Larson spun like a dancer, sword pressed to his chest in a position more appropriate for a gun.

Be still! Vidarr chastised, but his tone betrayed fear.

Between Sylg's valley and Larson, sorceries blazed. He raised Valvitnir offensively, shielding his eyes as light billowed to agonizing intensity, a mocking column of white flame. The enchantments broke suddenly to traces. Ahead, Loki appeared, sword readied, beneath his fading magics.

Larson felt Vidarr poised to fight enchantments. Loki lunged forward. Larson blocked. The blades met in a shower of glittering sparks. Impact jarred Larson to the elbow. He staggered backward, recovering just in time to block a second strike. The force of Loki's blow drove Larson nearly to his knees.

Loki's assault seemed ceaseless. His strokes came fast and were rhythmically competent. They left Larson no opening for anything but awkward blocks and retreat. The god's face pinched in concentration. Yet, despite Larson's obvious inexperience,

Loki treated his opponent like a worthy threat. He displayed none of Bramin's assuredness. Loki knew overconfidence contrives incompetence.

Larson defended as well as he could, but his efforts seemed woefully inadequate. Loki's sword bit rents in his tunic and skin. Any one of the god's maneuvers could easily have taken Larson's life. But Loki's strategy soon became obvious. He would drive wielder and godsword into the Helspring together, obviating the need to handle Valvitnir himself. And Larson was helpless to prevent him.

Loki's sword wove a wall of steel, herding Larson toward Hvergelmir as a shepherd does an errant sheep. The sharp nicks of his enemy's blade reawakened the throbbing pains left from Larson's fight with Bramin. Tortured sinews screamed with every movement. His face felt as if it were on fire. He tried to stand firm against Loki's hammering blows, but his body could no longer obey.

Blow after blow rang against Valvitnir. Larson's ears buzzed, then roared. Ice shards prickled the back of his neck. The cold made him realize, with sudden terror, that the noises in his head did not come from within; Loki had driven him to the verge of Hvergelmir's pit.