Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

Gaelinar mumbled. "He's close then?"

Silme nodded as she gnawed the meat.

"And the elf?" Gaelinar indicated Larson with a subtle toss of his head.

Silme shrugged. She regarded Larson with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

Larson remained silent, not certain what she expected from him. A memory surfaced in his mind with the intensity of a new idea. You will find an old man and a young woman who are more than they seem: Your companions will explain further. "You two!" he called triumphantly. " Freyr said you'd tell me about my task."

Gaelinar stopped. Silme blinked in the waning light. " Freyr?"

Larson picked up the pacing where Gaelinar left off. "Yes, Freyr, or at least his voice. I:" He broke off, realizing he must sound as touched as the lieutenant who swore he had met Jesus Christ among other raving blasphemies and was duly shipped home. The strained glances between his new companions came not wholly unexpectedly. Further clarification would only place his sanity more completely in doubt. "So you don't know my task?"

Silme returned her attention to the meal while Kensei Gaelinar shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid not."

"Shit." Larson sat, head cradled in his palms. "How many remarkable old men and young women can there be?" Yet he had no way of answering the question. If his experiences to date gave any indication, this world was crowded with extraordinary people.

Silme and Gaelinar offered no comfort. As the sky dimmed to gray, they turned to matters more relevant to themselves. Larson brooded in silence, thinking they had forgotten him. The setting sun colored the horizon with flame-colored arches, a doorway for the daring. Idly, he wondered if he could pass through it like a gate and find himself home or in Oz or back in the stinking hell of Vietnam.

After a time, Silme turned from her companion, retrieved her sapphire-tipped staff, and approached Larson. She moved with a dancer's confident grace, but her eyes shifted in the manner of a deer. Larson stared, surprised at how, despite death and the oddities of his new surroundings, her beauty excited him.

Silme stopped several yards from Larson. Her features remained soft, but she jabbed the tip of her staff toward him. Her words emerged as a calculated threat. "Are you who you claim?"

Her tone made Larson uneasy. He shifted to a crouch. "Y-yes, of course," he stammered defensively, immediately realizing his hasty reply robbed him of any opportunity to correct her misunderstanding of his name. Thrust into a new life and a strange world, he supposed he needed a new identity. Allerum was not the name he would have chosen, but it would do as well as any other. "At least as close as could be expected. You see, I:"

Silme interrupted. "And your purpose in the world of Midgard?"

Larson fidgeted. His gaze swept the tree line. She knows I'm from another world. How? But the answer came to him as swiftly as the question. He sifted his thoughts for the duller cosmology of his mythology text. The Vikings believed in nine worlds, each inhabited by its own race of creatures: giants, gods, elves, dwarves. Midgard, Larson recalled, was the land of men. To her, I'm an elf. The thought seemed foreign. In that respect, I am from another world.

"Your purpose?" Silme prompted.

Larson had forgotten her question. "I'm on a mission. My, um, commander informed me I would find an older man and a young woman who could explain things further. I'm afraid I've mixed you up with someone else."

Silme scowled, unsatisfied. "What connection do you have with Bramin?"

The word meant nothing to Larson. "What's a Bramin?"

Anger darkened Silme's eyes. "I won't stand for lies! Do you think me stupid enough to believe coincidence placed an elf in a wash of Bramin's magic, playing with a conjured dragon?"

"Playing!"

Soundlessly, Gaelinar cleared the distance to Silme and caught her arm. "It wouldn't be the first time an innocent stumbled into Bramin's designs against your life."

Silme never took her gaze from Larson. "An elf?"

Gaelinar shrugged. "We've come upon stranger occurrences." '*

Silme raised her brows and eyed her Oriental companion. "An elf?"

Gaelinar sighed. "In Lord Allerum's defense, the dragon seemed less than friendly toward him. You swore to protect mankind from Bramin's wrath. Would you deny wardings to a traveler without bedding or rations because he happens to be an elf? Shame on you, lady." He smiled at Larson. "Join us for the night?" He motioned to a pile of furs near the campfire.

Silme opened her mouth to protest, but Gaelinar waved her silent. "If the elf can slay us in our sleep, he deserves to wear our heads at his belt." Respectfully, he bowed toward Silme then turned and knelt in the furs. He tapped a space at his side invitingly.

Larson hesitated, sorting his fears. Gaelinar's camaraderie beckoned, despite his features. Silme's comeliness seemed added incentive; he found her aloofness a challenge. He felt certain from their display of power against the dragon, that either of his new acquaintances could already have killed him if they had wished. He turned a glance toward Silme.

Silme's eyes met Larson's stare. She smiled weakly. "Gaelinar's right, of course. You may join us for the night." She emphasized the last phrase as if to assure herself of the transience of his presence.

Larson rose and paced to the furs by the fire. He sprawled beside Gaelinar, more comfortable for soft bedding and warmth. Silme stood, watching the two men, arms spread. Her gaze seemed to pass through and beyond them. Her eyes blazed like gemstones.

"What's she doing?" Larson asked, concerned.

"Quiet," whispered Gaelinar. "You'll mar the spell."

Larson fell silent. He watched in fascination as the grim lines in Silme's face deepened. Light streamed from each hand, the dazzling white of phosphorus. Snakelike, the beams coiled around the camp and met halfway. Blue light welled to life on her fingers, wound about the white with an intensity that colored stars and moon. Silme stepped forward and examined her efforts briefly. At an approving nod, the enchantments faded, but Larson still felt the presence of their brooding power. Protected by the sorceress' wards, Larson pondered the coming day until fatigue overtook him and granted a dreamless sleep.

Manslayer

"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness."

– -Joseph Conrad,

Under Western Eyes

A yellow edge of sun tipped over the horizon, chasing darkness in bands of blue and pink. As if it were a signal, the sleepers within the sorceress' wards stirred. Silme was first to open her eyes and greet the dawn, but her movements wakened Gaelinar and Larson. Her enchantments had dwindled through the night, yet when Larson tried to leave the protected circle to relieve himself, he discovered they still held the potency of an electric fence.

Silme snickered and dispelled her magics with a word. Gaelinar bowed politely. "Lord Allerum, we've enjoyed your company, but we must move along and you as well."

"Wait." Silme rummaged through a weathered pack, pulled out a bag of woven cloth, and handed it to the elf. "Rations," she explained. "I noticed you carried none and couldn't leave you starving." She clipped her words short as if to register her disapproval. "You must have left someplace in an awful hurry." Her tone demanded explanation.

Larson declined to answer. The few times he had tried to enlighten his new friends had put his sanity in question. He preferred an aura of mystery to one of lunacy. "I thank you both." He extended a hand, hoping Silme might accept it like a royal maiden in the movies. He would gladly submit to the ridicule of an entire platoon if it meant a chance to kiss her fingers. But Silme showed no more understanding of the gesture than Gaelinar had of his attempted handshake.