Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

Larson did not hesitate for consideration. " Sil -me:"

Vidarr's face looked stricken. Allerum, I'm sorry. I want her back as much as you do. If you had used any other sword:

What little strength remained to Larson dispersed. He turned away.

There is something I can do.

Larson heard nothing. He cradled Silme's body like a doll. Both his lost world and the one he had come to save seemed faded and distant as childhood dreams. Vidarr's presence materialized in his mind. The god enfolded his charge, flicking consciousness to peace, and Larson dropped into a twilight sleep.

While Larson lay, anesthetized by Vidarr's powers, the god set to his task. Larson's mind patterns stretched before him like a road map designed by a maniac. Vidarr sighed without bitterness. With the tenderness of a father with his child, he sliced blind loops and alleys. His will forced coiled paths straight, broke unrelated connections, reaffixed the frayed thought waves which allowed Bramin and Loki to torture Larson with memory.

Vidarr's work continued well into the afternoon. The god mended all the flaws his capabilities allowed, deleting only those ideas which Larson found intolerable. He left the recollections of Vietnam, TJ.'s funeral, and Larson's own death along with happier ones of his parents and Terry in her prom dress. Though painful, they belonged to Larson and had their role in shaping his personality. Vidarr had no wish to change his savior, only to restore the sanity which was his by right of birth.

As the last of the tortuous pathways assumed its proper place, Vidarr withdrew to assess his work with pride. He retreated from Larson's mind, leaving a final message of hope and peace, a promise of future happiness and pain in a world with elves, dwarves, gods, and magic. Then Vidarr disappeared for Asgard, mentally and physically, leaving Larson with little or no understanding of his reward. Farewell, Allerum.

"Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world."

– Arthur Schopenhauer,

Studies in Pessimism

Still dazed, Larson watched Gaelinar examine the long row of weapons spread before him on the dirt. A half dozen steel shurikens weathered the Kensei's gaze. Each sharpened corner underwent and passed the test of Gaelinar's thumbnail, and he dropped the shurikens in the grass. Next, the swordmaster turned his attention to a silver chain, tipped at both ends by a five-inch spike. Every link met Gaelinar's intense scrutiny before the Kensei set the manrikigusari aside with the same satisfaction.

Stung by Gaelinar's insensitive disregard for the three corpses and for his own sorrow, Larson abandoned Silme's body and moved toward the Kensei.

Gaelinar looked up briefly, smiled a greeting, and returned his attention to an instrument which resembled a large tuning fork with unequal blades. This, too, the Kensei set aside. He reached for a dagger, unsheathed it, frowned, and wiped a spot on the blade with his cloak. With a toss of his head, he set the edge of the steel to his whetstone and scraped.

Annoyance rose in Larson. He waited for his teacher to speak.

Gaelinar said nothing. He nodded approval at the knife, sheathed it, and placed it with his other weapons. Katana and shoto soon joined his arsenal, along with a small knife which slid from a position in the katana's sheath. Larson had not previously noticed it.

Gaelinar hefted a short metal band and flared it into a fan with recklessly sharp edges. Larson's discomfort exploded into anger. "You inhuman bastard!"

Gaelinar looked up.

Larson paced furiously. "How can you sit there prissing and preening while Silme lies there dead? You're wrong! You do have flaws. You're not a man, you're an insensitive beast, a stone without feelings. Silme is dead! Can't you understand that? Can't you even cry?" Grief crushed wrath, and Larson was overcome by a fresh bout of tears. "Damn you!"

Gaelinar made no reply. A deft flick of his wrist closed the fan. Slowly, he reached for his arsenal. He tied the manrikigusari around his waist, beneath the wide sash. The swords and dagger regained their places at his sides. He stuffed the hachiwari in his belt, behind the katana. The metal fan disappeared beneath his cloak. Carefully, Kensei Gaelinar set to work, arranging each shuriken in its proper position in his arm sheath.

Each moment of silence jabbed Larson like a knife. He cursed the Kensei in Old Norse, switched to English as he expended his repertoire of insults, then finished in the Vietnamese version of American.

Gaelinar seemed to take no notice. He finished his housekeeping efficiently, patted the hilt of his katana, and finally turned his attention to his raving companion. "You coming?"

Larson bit his lip, having exhausted his supply of oaths, blasphemies, and affronts. "Where?" was all he managed to say.

Gaelinar studied the foaming hybrid of waters which formed the falls of Hvergelmir. "To Hel. I'm bringing Silme back."

Larson's eyes widened. His nostrils flared. He found himself utterly incapable of speech.

Gaelinar continued. "In the chasm, beyond the Helspring, is a bridge which leads to Hel."

Larson found his tongue. "You're crazy! Vidarr said he couldn't:"

Gaelinar interrupted, his stare distant. " Vidarr's only a god. Together, we've already killed two, Helblindi without even a weapon. There's only one left." His gaze met Larson's, and the elf looked away. Gaelinar's tone went grim. " Allerum, you made a promise to Silme. You vowed that if this quest doomed the two of you to separate worlds, you would find her."

"But that was when I thought:" began Larson in defense.

Gaelinar waved him silent. "You think too much. I'm going after her. Are you coming?"

Larson chewed his lower lip and turned away. He heard the rustle of grasses as Gaelinar walked toward the narrow path into Hvergelmir's valley.

Gods. Larson approached Loki's body, examining the dark blood which had clotted around his fatal stroke Even for the remote possibility of retrieving Silme's soul, I can't face another god.

Can I?

The rush of cascading rivers and the howl of wind were his only answers. Gaelinar's golden figure marched on toward Hel's pathway. Gritting his teeth against what he might see, Larson rolled Loki's body to its back. The god's face seemed as handsome in death as in life. His oddly-colored eyes still glimmered. "Good-bye, noble foe," said Larson softly. He caught Loki's rigid arm and flipped the body into the Helspring.

Loki tumbled limply through the surge of intertwined rivers and was soon lost beneath the boiling current of white water. Larson caught up Loki's sword and scrambled after the Kensei.

Gaelinar stopped as Larson approached. He waited until the elf drew to his side. "Yeah," Larson said softly. "I'm coming." They turned toward the narrow pathway together.

For some distance, man and elf picked their way down the incline in silence. Larson paused a moment in thought, then confronted his companion. "Gaelinar?"

"Hmmm?"

"While we're at it, can we free Brendor, too?"

Kensei Gaelinar's smile was slight, but unmistakable. His arm pressed to Larson's shoulder. "Sure, hero. You can only die once."