Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

Magic. The explanation seemed embarrassingly obvious and oddly comforting. For reasons Larson could not understand, sorceries seemed far more benign than grenades. Unexpectedly, visions from Vietnam flared, horrific as nightmares. He remembered sitting in darkness complete save for the narrow slit of moon over the rows of grass huts. A dank wind rustled the barracks, blended chorus with the shriek of insects and the gentle whisper of sentries at the fire base gate. Peaceful. For a moment he could almost forget the ubiquitous threat of the V.C. who owned the jungle nights.

Back pressed to the door jamb of his hut, Larson lifted a joint to his lips; its tip was a singular bobbing light in the pitch darkness. He inhaled. Smoke rolled across his tongue leaving a sweet taste, then funneled into his lungs. He squeezed his mouth shut and held it, swallowing gently. Nothing could spoil the sanctity of this night.

A flash of red-orange light colored the sky and outlined the bamboo of huts on either side. Even as Larson's mind responded to the sight, an explosion rocked his foundation, filling his head with sound. Something unseen thudded against his cheek, spinning his face with the force of a slap.

With a warning cry, Larson crashed through the door of his hut. Static blattered and a muffled voice screamed. "Incoming fire! Incoming:" A second mortar blast rendered the words incomprehensible. Larson collided with a man in the entranceway with a force which wrenched his ankle. Pain lanced through his abdomen, and Fisher's baritone cursed him with steamy epithets only a street kid could design. As Larson dived for his bunk and the M-16 on the quilt, two more men pushed past and out the door.

The explosion had torn a hole in the hut, and the harried exits of Larson's companions through the door seemed as ludicrous as the gunshot at the fire base perimeter. Not content to lie low while mortars shattered the camp to chaos, soldiers wasted round after round shooting blindly into the jungle. With a sigh, Larson seized his gun to help, but a roaring mortar lit a scene which froze him in place. Danny lay face down on the floor, unresponsive to Tom Dragelin's frantic proddings.

Larson leaped forward, pulled Dragelin's arm with a force that sent the other man reeling against his bunk. Dragelin protested furiously, but Larson flipped Danny over. The body rolled like a rag doll. Blood slicked Larson's fingers, and he recoiled with a choked sob. A chunk of wood from the cottage foundation was embedded in Danny's chest like a stake. His glazed eyes glared accusingly in the scarlet glow of the mortars. The continuous stream of gunshot, screamed orders, man-shouts, and the louder, broken reports of mortars blended to a numbing, unrecognizable ring.

Dragelin's quavering voice was the only thing Larson heard. "Is he :?" They had seen death before, too many times in this sordid movie without beginning or end. But this was Danny, and this was different.

Larson dared not feel for a pulse. "Help me carry him."

He caught Danny behind the shoulders, waited until Dragelin seized the legs, and they lifted together. Danny sagged between them, dead weight, yet they struggled through milling soldiers toward the infirmary.

A roar rose wildly above the rest. The high-pitched scream of jets slammed against Larson's ear drums. He grimaced against the agony of sound, unable to clamp burdened hands to his ears. Then the noise dulled to a long thunder roll. He caught a glimpse of two red disks in the sky, like feral eyes. Abruptly, the jungle flamed in a wide circle. Mercifully, the mortar fire ceased. The answering call of guns died to the last panicked bursts, and the sour odor of napalm pinched his nose. Long after, the screams of the dying echoed through his dreams.

Larson's mind returned to the present with a start. His fists were clenched against sweat which ran like blood. His every nerve felt taut. Adrenalin coursed, warm, through his veins. The face which stared curiously into his own was Oriental, yet rounder than a Vietnamese visage. The eyes were the yellow-brown of ancient pages, and they held an odd power which reminded Larson of a picture in a book his mother had read to him as a child. The book was a juvenile rendition of the stories of King Arthur; the drawing was of Merlin the Magician.

"Are you all right, hero?" asked Gaelinar with concern.

"Yes," responded Larson without conviction. Realization struck a cruel blow. Back home, technology made men equals. Here power stemmed from skill with sword or sorcery, and he possessed neither. One thing he knew, he wanted to remain in the graces of a man who could flame dragons to ash. "Forgive my ignorance. I'm grateful for your magic which saved my life. As a:" He rummaged for a word. Warlock seemed derogatory, wizard too plain. Sorcerer conjured images of Mickey Mouse juggling buckets of water and an animated broom. Magician reminded him of staged card tricks. ": great and wonderful user of magics:" The term seemed vague enough for safety. ":you might understand my problem. I'm from another world."

To Larson, his explanation seemed anything but humorous, yet the Kensei's features cracked a smile. Between them, light flashed, bright as a search flare. Larson staggered back with a cry. His eyes snapped shut against the glare, and red spots winked on the backs of his eyelids. He opened them hurriedly, not certain what to expect and, so, prepared for nothing. What he saw shocked him dumb. A woman stood between him and Gaelinar, more starkly real than anything he had experienced since death. She was beautiful in a way Larson could not have understood before he glimpsed her.

Plagued by a passion that native whores could never satisfy, any white woman would have seemed more than human to Larson. Yet it was not simply heightened sexual tension which made this woman inhumanly desirable. She was slim beneath a baggy gray robe which in no way marred the perfect arcs of hips and breasts. Her skin looked snowy white. Her eyes echoed Gaelinar's power, bitter gray as gale-tossed surf. Her hair fell to midback in a gold-white cascade, a color Larson had always hated for its artificiality. Now it became his favorite hue. Dyed or real did not matter, it belonged to the woman whose smile, Larson felt, would satisfy him for weeks.

She did smile. Though tinged with sarcasm, her words plied Larson like song. "Oh, please, great mage Gaelinar. Enlighten us with more of your sorceries." The sapphire gleamed in the staff at the Kensei's feet.

The old man rose with a stiffly formal bow. "Lord Allerum, I think it best you meet the Lady Silme, Dragonrank of Sapphire Claw. I shall take neither credit nor blame for her magics."

"Uh: hi," said Larson, instantly cursing the bumbling stupidity which had characterized his every action since this day began. From the towel-cracking days of junior high to the raw jibes of boot camp, he had tried to appear competent. Death, it seemed, had shaken his confidence. He tried again. "Lady Silme." He mimicked Gaelinar's bow. "It is my very best pleasure to meet you." Not bad for my first attempt at courtly talk, Larson rewarded himself with nonverbal praise.

"You owe me a shuriken, witch," said Gaelinar with none of Larson's respect. "Your fireworks destroyed it. I could have taken the beast without you."

Amusement left Silme's features, replaced by a concern which lined her face beyond its years. "Silence, swordlord." For a brief moment she grinned again at the awkward sound of his title. "You speak as if dragons are commonplace. Someone of Dragonrank summoned the creature."

Gaelinar spoke with bitterness. "Bramin?"

"I recognized his power."

The Kensei paced around the campfire. Silme took the seat he had abandoned and speared a venison steak with a stick. Larson watched both, contemplating a means to correct their misunderstanding of his name without making himself, or Gaelinar, look foolish.