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  "Let it try." Gaelinar shrugged with a maddeningly cold courage. "It's too foolish to succeed. Its best weapon was surprise, and it's already given that away."

  Larson patted his hip, now more acutely aware of his missing sword. Will the killing never end? Over the ceaseless bubbling of the river Gjoll, Larson thought he heard an answering howl.

  CHAPTER 3: Hel's Hound

  "It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake." -Geoffrey Chaucer Troilus and Criseyde

  Another three days passed in Hel's black void, its silence broken only by the ceaseless babble of the river Gjoll, which guided Larson and Gaelinar toward Midgard. Larson saw nothing more of Loki's son; the wolf penetrated neither his life nor his dreams again. Several restful nights restored his flagging spirits. He no longer imagined monsters, ghosts, and snipers huddled in Hel's concealing darkness. Time diluted the ferocity of its mistress' vague warnings and blurred the wolf's threat to ephemeral nightmare.

  Oddly, as Larson's anxiety diminished, Gaelinar's caution heightened. He avoided conversation, answering Larson's questions with monosyllables or not at all. He checked points and edges on his knives, swords, and shu-rikens, though he had used none since his last inspection. He kept his fist on the sheath of his katana with his thumb looped over the crossguard.

  Not wishing to become embroiled in another wave of paranoia, Larson ignored Gaelinar's unusual vigilance for several hours. Then the Kensei began repeatedly flicking his hilt a few inches free from its scabbard and sliding it back into place until the gesture became an annoyance. Abruptly, Larson stopped and faced his mentor. "Do you have a problem?"

  "Yes." There was unexpected anger in Gaelinar's re-ply. "Stupid questions." He stepped around Larson and continued walking.

  Larson trotted after his mentor, incensed by Gaelinar's chastisement. "What did I do?"

  Gaelinar's voice was restrained. "We're half a hundred paces from the single place Hel has most likely stationed her minions. Our one advantage might have been surprise, and you're flapping your tongue like a cock heralding the dawn."

  Larson's cheeks felt warm. He knew he would fare best remaining quiet, but Gaelinar's words seemed too important to dismiss without probing further. "Where do you mean?"

  "Look to your right, hero."

  Larson turned his head. The darkness felt bunched and tangible around him. On more careful inspection, he recognized a diffuse, sallow glow, like the moon on a cloudy night. Thinking back, it had been visible for at least the last two days, but Larson had passed it off as normal. Now, drawn by Gaelinar's concern, Larson recalled the gold-roofed bridge over the Gjoll. Apprehension quickened his pulse. "You think Hel rigged the crossing?"

  Gaelinar hesitated. "If you mean she might have made it difficult to pass, yes. Few men and no corpse would have the strength to swim Gjoll's torrent. Anyone attempting escape would need to cross her bridge. Can you think of a better place to stop us? Now, hush. We're almost there."

  Larson went silent, head low with shame. I'm a trained soldier, for Chrissakes. I should have figured this out without Gaelinar's help. Another worry surfaced with chilling abruptness. We're about to fightsomething, and I haven't got a weapon. Though now only a few yards from the Hel bridge, he dared a whisper. "Gaelinar."

  Kensei Gaelinar did not answer.

  Shit. Larson groped blindly for his mentor. The air felt cold and empty. "No sword."

  Gaelinar seized Larson's arm and jerked.

  Larson spun to face his mentor. He could distinguish only the Kensei's outline through the gloom.

  "I know," Gaelinar said softly. "That couldn't be helped. We'll have to do the best we can without it."

  Larson glanced into the hovering yellow fog. With effort, he could just discern the frame of the crossing, as crudely constructed as a Vietnamese footbridge but thatched with metallic gold. "Do you have a plan?"

  Gaelinar released Larson's arm. "A plan?" The Ken-sei's voice held a tinge of annoyance. "A warrior makes his plans in the instant between sword strokes. You want a plan? Fine, this is my plan. Move toward the bridge. When I signal, you run across as fast as possible. Don't stop until you reach the other side."

  "But, I…"

  Gaelinar cut Larson short. "In this darkness, without a weapon, you can only become an obstacle or a casualty. Do as I say."

  Larson scowled, unsatisfied. "What will you do?"

  "I don't know yet."

  "The signal?" Larson whispered.

  Gaelinar's reply sounded distant. "It won't be subtle. Approach, quietly now."

  Larson hesitated, his mind filled with the rickety footbridges over Vietnam's chessboard of rivers and swamps. More than once, he had heard the sudden roar of explosives. He had watched flames wash wooden planks while supports shattered, heaving splinters like darts, leaving men, blood-splashed and moaning on the bridges' charred and jutting frames. But this world has no C-4, no grenades, no M-16s. Larson's realization brought only scant comfort. He inched uncertainly toward the hovering golden fog, no longer able to discern Gaelinar in the mist.

  No sound came from Hel's bridge. Nothing swished, snapped or banged in the windless air. It's not what you hear, it's what you don't hear that kills you. Larson chased the thought from his mind, not wishing to cross the fine line between caution and paranoia. He took another careful forward step. His boot touched down on ground slick as glass. His foot shot out from under him. He scrabbled for balance, lost it, and crashed to his buttocks. His toe struck the wooden lip of the bridge with a muffled thunk. Pain shot up his spine, and he fought the urge to curse aloud.

  A deep female voice challenged Larson from the bridge. "You cannot cross."

  Larson dove to his left and hunkered into Hel's shadows, his mind scrambling for strategy. He understood what had happened. Impervious to cold in his elven form, he had forgotten Hel's chill and slipped on a frozen puddle of river water in the depression before the bridge. He tried to locate the woman who had addressed him, but his vision fought a losing battle with the darkness.

  Gaelinar's voice hissed into Larson's ear. "Keep her talking." Then the Kensei disappeared.

  Larson cleared his throat and rose to a crouch. "Excuse me?" he said, tensed to roll aside at the twang of a bowstring.

  The same voice repeated its warning. "You cannot cross."

  Larson asked the obvious questions. "Who are you? And why would you want to keep me from crossing?" He chose the singular pronoun, hoping to keep Gaelinar's presence secret.

  The woman replied immediately. "I am Modgudr, guardian of the bridge. It is my job to keep the dead in Hel."

  "A noble task." Larson heard nothing to indicate Modgudr had companions. He grew more daring. "But I'm not dead. I'm alive."

  Modgudr's voice deepened with contempt. "Undoubtedly. You make more noise than a legion of corpses. But my orders stand. I am to allow no one to pass without Hel's prior command. You cannot cross."

  Larson chewed his lip, uncertain where to take the conversation. It appeared no one planned to shoot him down where he stood, and Modgudr seemed reasonably polite. He phrased his next question to glean as much information about Hel's guardian as he could without goading her to attack. "Please forgive my boldness, but you're one woman against a heavily armed man. How do you plan to prevent me from crossing?"

  Modgudr's snort echoed beneath the gold-thatched roof of her bridge. "Do you think me blind? You've no arms but those you were born with. And I believe one Dra-gonrank sorceress a match for any warrior. Do you still wish to challenge me?"

  Modgudr's pronouncement struck Larson dumb. According to Silme, the nine worlds harbored only a handful of Dragonrank, so few the vast majority of men lived a lifetime without having seen or heard of one. In less than a month in Old Scandinavia, Larson had already encountered two: the diamond-rank master, Bramin, and his half sister, Silme. The odds of happening upon another seemed not unlike those of winning the Irish sweepstakes. Yet, Larson realized, a man's chances of entering Hel alive can't be mu
ch greater.

  Uncertain whether Modgudr was bluffing, yet not eager to invoke a sorceress' wrath, Larson chose his words with care. "You see pretty well in the dark."

  Modgudr's answer was a garbled shriek of syllables. Suddenly, magical light pulsed across the bridge, shattering darkness into streaked shadows. Larson dropped to the ground, shielding aching eyes with his hand. He caught a quick glimpse of a pale female form, arm raised in arched threat, and the golden profile of Gaelinar and his swords. Then the sorceries died, and the air filled with shouted warnings.

  Larson hesitated, blinded and weaponless. More than anything, he wanted to aid Gaelinar, but he knew better than to defy his mentor's orders. The signal? Crouched, head low and protected beneath his arms, he raced onto the bridge.

  Gaelinar and Modgudr yowled like fighting cats. Before Larson, metal rang against metal. He dodged aside. A spear of light slashed Hel's blackness, revealing the two combatants in hazy, red outline. Something wet splashed Larson's cheek, but he was uncertain whether it was water or blood. "Gaelinar!" He paused, fearing for the Kensei's life.

  Gaelinar's voice rose above the din. Larson could decipher only one of the Kensei's words, "… run!" Obediently, he quickened his pace. Suddenly, a body slammed into him, driving him into a low, wooden rail.

  Impact knocked the breath from his lungs and spun him to the ground. He lurched to his feet, cursing the darkness, trying to regain his sense of direction. Again, a bright flare of sorcery clove the darkness and sparked against the rail to Larson's right. The wooden strut sizzled and caught fire. Larson whirled and sprinted for the farther end of the bridge.

  Larson's footfalls crashed on the thick lumber of the bridge. Darkness closed over him again. He continued, uncomfortably aware of the tearing clash of magic and metal growing more distant behind him. Then he blundered into the semi-solid magics of an unseen ward. Light flashed. Impact bounced him to the ground, and he rolled to the softer soil beyond the bridge's planks. Sound blared across the Hel lands, shrill and persistent as a fire alarm.

  Larson stumbled to his feet. He ached everywhere, as if he had finished a grueling workout in the gym, but he had nothing to blame but the sorceress' ward. Sick and dizzied, he swiveled his head toward the battle on the bridge. The fire had turned the handrail into a spreading inferno which revealed Gaelinar and Modgudr in horrific detail. The Kensei's frenzied strokes kept falling inches from their mark. Though grimacing with fatigue and effort, Modgudr was somehow driving Gaelinar backward, step by step, toward the blaze.

  Gaelinar! Hold on. Larson reeled toward Modgudr, the sounds of his progress drowned by the shrieks of her ward. As the flames licked the edges of Gaelinar's robes, the Kensei sheathed his blade and sprang toward Modgudr. He crashed into the same invisible barrier which had impeded his sword. The collision jolted him to one knee, and Modgudr pressed her advantage with desperate glee. Gaelinar slid toward the fire and the rushing river below it.

  Larson dove. He caught Modgudr in a flying tackle. His momentum sprawled her to the ground. Woman and elf skidded across the wooden planks, wood slivering through the sorceress' robes. Modgudr howled in pain and anger. Her ward went suddenly quiet. Apparently she had also lost her magical shield because, when Larson glanced up, Gaelinar held his blade pressed to Modgudr's throat. "Don't move."

  Larson knew Gaelinar addressed Modgudr, but the malice in the Kensei's voice held him still as well.

  "If you make a sound I don't recognize or a single gesture, I'll kill you."

  The odor of singed cloth reminded Larson how narrowly his mentor had eluded death. Beneath him, Modgudr was panting. She made no attempt to struggle but loosed a weak snort of disgust. "You cannot slay me. If you did, Hel's dead would escape to Midgard and wreak havoc on mankind."

  There followed a moment of careful silence as Gaelinar considered. "That is not my concern, Modgudr. I pledged myself to Silme, not her world. If she remains in Hel, I no longer have cause to live except to train my student to reasonable competence. I am a foreigner. When I die, my soul becomes one with our universe, not caged in a world like Hel. The fate of Midgard's citizens would not interest me any more."

  Gaelinar's loyalty touched Larson, but the Kensei's coldness discomforted him. Surely, he's acting. I once saw him rush down, single-handed, on three bandits raping a young boy. That kind of crazed loyalty to a stranger can only come from the heart, not from dedication to someone else's principles. But Larson also knew the ancient Japanese culture was one of honor, brutality, and single-minded devotion to lords and their causes. Larson released Modgudr, rising to a cautious crouch. To his left, the flaming rail had dissolved into a charred skeleton. The fire dulled and winked out, plunging them back into Hel's darkness.

  Modgudr's tense hiss answered Gaelinar's words.

  Gaelinar's reply was patient. "Hel said we could exchange the life of another Dragonrank for Silme. Perhaps you'll do."

  Larson could not read Modgudr's expression through the pitch, but she sounded more confused than frightened by Gaelinar's threat. "But I'm not dead."

  Gaelinar spoke again. "I can change that."

  "Perhaps." Modgudr's voice had withered to a frac-tion of its former resonance. "But it will do you no good. I don't know what my mistress told you." Though feeble, her tone carried a note of calculation which convinced Larson she knew more than she would tell. "But Silme served Vidarr, a god of Law. Hel is of Chaos. Killing me can only disrupt the balance farther toward Order and make Silme unnecessary."

  Modgudr's argument made sense to Larson. I doubt she would qualify as having a similar ' 'means and bent'' to Silme. He felt uncomfortable leaving a powerful enemy alive at his back; but if Modgudr was the only deterrent to the dead escaping Hel, he could see no other option. Though the corpses had not tried to harm him, they had shown curiosity and an ability to inflict inadvertent pain. Just the sight of mutilated, rotting relatives returning from caskets and graves would surely cause panicked chaos on Midgard. He imagined zombies wandering the New York streets, consuming the strength and warmth of the living, impervious to the weapons of the national guard. Most basic horror movie plot in existence. And I wouldn't inflict it on America, Norway, or anywhere else.

  Still blinded by Hel's incessant darkness, Larson heard a creak of movement. Modgudr fell silent. Then Gaelinar caught Larson's arm and drew him across the bridge.

  Larson waited only until they had withdrawn beyond earshot of Modgudr. "What did you do about her?"

  Gaelinar's hand fell away from Larson's sleeve. "I knocked her to sleep."

  Larson grumbled, bothered by the thought of an angered and unpredictable sorceress on his heels. "I hope you hit her hard enough to keep her out for a day. If I recall, that's about how long it's going to take us to get out of Hel."

  "She'll sleep only a short time. But that's all right. We'll be beyond the range of her spells when she awakens."

  "How can you be sure?"

  Gaelinar curved toward the left, still following the song of the river. "I can't. But remember, hero. Modgudr is Dragonrank. She draws her power from her own vitality.

  Our fight left her weak and winded. Whenever Silme strained her sorcery, a long time would pass before she felt well enough to create magic again. By then, we will have traveled far enough that Modgudr would need to come to us to do battle. That would require her to leave her post on the bridge. In her absence, how many of Hel's corpses might cross? I doubt she would find us worth the risk. Surely pursuing a man and elf with the strength and amorality to kill her, who don't belong in Hel anyway, cannot justify allowing the dead, whom she's pledged to confine, to escape to Midgard."

  Gaelinar and Larson continued in thoughtful silence. As they followed the Gjoll, toward the path from Hel, the darkness grew less overwhelming and gradually faded. Larson's spirits soared as his mentor's golden form and the vast spread of Hel's barren lands became more visible. Idly, Larson plucked Silme's gem from his pocket. It gave off a faint glow which seemed cheerful
in the thick gray haze which now replaced Hel's blackness. Comforted by its presence, Larson continued to hold it, allowing memories of Silme to replace the oppressive burden of his task. But before he could form a mental image of the woman he loved, a distressing thought filled his mind. "Gaelinar. If this gem holds part of Silme's life aura," he raised the sapphire, "she must have placed it there before she died."

  "Correct."

  Larson stared at the glimmering facets of the sapphire. "Why would she do that?"

  Gaelinar shrugged, looking bored by Larson's questioning. "It was fairly standard. A difficult situation might tax Silme down to her last spell. She always kept enough energy stored in the gem for a transport escape if things became desperate." A light dawned in Gaelinar's eyes. "You're thinking of Modgudr, aren't you?"

  Larson nodded. "Did you notice a staff?"

  "Amethyst."

  "So, Modgudr could have stored power in her rank-stone?"

  "Certainly."

  Larson's fingers tightened around Silme's sapphire.

  "Which means she may still have some energy when she awakens. She may claim it immediately, while we're still within spell range. And she may have reserved more than just enough for an escape."

  Gaelinar turned, his gaze probing the darkness behind them.

  Larson could discern a dull, flapping sound over the rush of the river. Birds? He whirled toward Gaelinar as the noise intensified. "What the…?"

  "Wyrm!" Gaelinar screamed. Without warning, he dove onto Larson, sprawling him, then rolled free. Hel's hard earth jarred pain through Larson's side. He glanced up as yellow-orange flame gouted before him, hot against his face. Sparks bounced, enmired with smoke. He straggled to his feet, frighteningly aware he would have been burned if Gaelinar had not thrown him. The fumes roiled upward. Larson followed them with his gaze to a lizard-shaped mass, large as a tractor trailer.

  "Separate." Gaelinar's voice came from behind Larson. "We can't let it get us both."