Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

Larson rose to a crouch. This cannot be real. But the screams of his buddies echoed eerily through his memory, vividly clear. // this is not a dream, then I am dead. And dead men cannot dream. Without explanation for the bizarre series of events, Larson could do nothing but believe. He stood and stumbled forward, broad-based like a child learning to walk. Brownish grasses crunched beneath his boots. The sun formed an orange ball in the pale sky, but Larson could not guess whether morning aged or evening began.

His stride grew more confident as he headed for the stand of trees in the distance. He quelled an instinct to run. For now, the field seemed safe enough. He saw no need to incite enemies by crashing blindly through the meadow. The last few minutes seemed ridiculous to the point of impossibility. Yet, never having died before, Larson supposed he had no right to judge. And if I am dead, he surmised, is this heaven or hell? It seemed pretty enough. Lonely perhaps, but he had just begun exploring.

More curious than afraid, he trotted toward the higher grasses which he now recognized as cattails. The reeds bowed around a small pond which reflected the sky like an uncut sapphire. Without rations and slightly thirsty, he veered toward the water. Though he knew he could never have survived the guns in the jungle, he peered about him with caution. Until something came about to convince him more completely of his status as a corpse, or to prove there was no death after death, he saw no need to risk: whatever it was he had.

Larson frowned and abandoned his jumbled maze of thought. Despite his bold oratory in the jungle cabin, he'd never cared much for philosophy. And Vietnam taught even the most obsessive men to live moment by moment. He dropped to his stomach, gritted his teeth in anticipation, and wriggled among the cattails.

The surface of the pond spread before him, broken only by the ripples of wind and the wakes of water striders. For several seconds, Larson watched the insects glide like skaters, legs stretching like wires from their bulbous bodies. He touched the water, and it felt oddly chill after the enveloping heat of the jungles. Widening rings spread from his finger, lengthening his reflection. His gaze riveted on a face which seemed to stare from the bottom of the pond.

Larson recoiled with a cry. The face mimicked him with a perfection only nature could achieve. It was his reflection, yet the features were not at all as Larson remembered. His forehead was shorter, covered with bangs of fine, white hair. Larson had always felt self-conscious about the roundness of his "baby face." Now, it looked oval and angular, with high, sharp cheekbones and a narrow chin. His eyes seemed broadly-set, though he could not distinguish their color through the pond's distortion. He caught a lock of hair between his fingers. It was not actually white, but such a pale gold as to seem almost white. It reminded him of the color some women dyed their hair back in the States. He had never liked the unnatural, washed-out look, and had always been partial to brunettes.

Recalling his earlier discovery, Larson held the hair away from his head. He cocked his face sideways, and strained his eyes. The oddly-shaped ear remained just beyond his vision. He tried snapping his head about quickly, but found this even less successful. With a sigh, he resigned himself to a tactile impression of the ears. He rose to his full height and examined the clothing which had surprised him earlier. The cape flapped in the wind behind Larson, reminding him of a gripping scene from a Superman cartoon. The most striking feature of his garb was the sword at his left hip. Even sheathed in leather, it seemed to glow ever so slightly, like a television screen only recently shut off.

Larson turned his attention to his own stature.

He seemed as tall as ever, about six feet, but he had no way of knowing for certain. He looked thinner, too, and that bothered him. For a moment, he forgot he was lucky to have any body at all and cursed. Many painful hours had toned and shaped his muscles, now all gone to waste. He flexed an arm, and leaned closer to examine it. The sky darkened till only the sword remained clearly visible on the surface of the pond.

With a frown, Larson dropped to his haunches and waited for the cloud to pass. It did not. Slowly, the shadow encompassed the surface of the water and hovered there. Wary tension returned in a rush. Larson jerked his head upward. Swaying in the air above him was some enormous creature. Screaming, Larson leaped aside. A column of fire struck the water with a hiss.

Larson rolled to his feet as the creature banked for a second pass. He clawed at the cattails. Two bat- like wings carried a long, sleek body covered with scales the color of bark. Plates jutted from back and tail like a stegosaurus. It came around, and the sight of its triangular head mobilized Lar: son. He sprinted for the woods.

The beast caught him effortlessly, spraying the ground behind with flame. Panicked, Larson did not stop to wonder why the creature had such poor aim. The forest loomed closer, but still too far. His legs ached. Cold air rasped his lungs painfully and brought the taste of blood. Rationality returned only one thought to his numbed mind. Among the trees, I can maneuver. It cannot.

Heat seared the back of Larson's neck. Frantically, he ripped the cape from his shoulders and let the flaming linen drop to the ground. The beast rose over his head with a noise between a bark and a human laugh. Larson ran on. He could not control his thoughts, so he let them ramble as they would. Dragon. Goddamned fire-breathing dragon like every legend and fairy tale I've ever read. Yet there was a major difference. This one was real.

A wall of trees rose before him. With a joyous sob, Larson ran between them. Another man appeared suddenly before him, and Larson braked with a sharp intake of breath. He stood, panting, before the stranger while sweat dried on his back. The other regarded him with scornful curiosity. His features looked enough like the ones Larson had seen in the pond to be those of a brother. Yet, his hair and skin were as black as Larson's were white. His eyes glowed a feral red.

"Dr- dr -dragon!" stuttered Larson, glad of the stranger's company. "Run!"

The dark elf remained in Larson's path, un-moving, like a carving in black onyx. He spoke in a sibilant voice with an accent Larson recognized but could not place. "Give me the sword."

Hope flared. The sword. "Certainly, if you can use it." Larson's fingers trembled as he unsheathed the sword and thrust it toward the stranger.

The dark elf withdrew with a high-pitched expletive. "On the ground, fool! Put it on the ground."

The words puzzled Larson. He balanced the glowing blade on his hands and offered the hilt. The sword vibrated slightly, and the light grew brighter.

"On the ground, idiot!" The stranger retreated farther. His voice lost some of its power.

The reaction raised Larson's suspicions. His mind cleared, and he noticed the other elf as if for the first time. At the Dark One's hip swung a black wooden sheath from which jutted a hilt wrapped with black split leather and garnished by red gem-stones as wild as the stranger's eyes. So why does he want my sword?

The dark elfs lips twisted to a scowl. He took one bold step forward and gestured angrily toward the ground. Larson hesitated. They stood face to face, dark to light, like chess queens before the final battle. Larson caught the hilt of Valvitnir in his callused palm. The stranger stiffened, and sweat oozed above his drawn lips.

Larson knew he had the advantage with his sword already freed. He would keep that upper edge, at least until the dark elf realized he did not know how to wield the blade. "Call me idiot, will you?" said Larson, not at all certain it was not an accurate assessment. Suddenly, six grueling weeks of combat training seemed woefully inadequate. He executed an awkward fencing lunge. The sword whined like a hungry dog. The dark elf cursed and vanished as completely as the building in the fields.