Desperate and dizzied, Larson cast for some landmark on which to ground his reason. The wolf's muzzle drew into tight focus, slick with slaver. It struck again. A machine gun blasted and howled until its barrel glowed red. Then sudden, sharp pain slammed Larson to conscious-ness. He sat up with a cry of alarm. The gunfire and the wolf dissolved into Hel's lightless world. Larson's face stung.
Gaelinar clapped a reassuring hand to Larson's shoulder. "Bad dream, hero?"
"Nightmare." Larson rubbed his smarting cheeks, wondering why he still felt physical pain. "Did you hit me?"
Gaelinar's voice went soft with discomfort. "Sorry. You didn't respond to shaking."
"Sorry." Larson felt stupid apologizing, but he could think of nothing better to say. His heart was racing. The visions still seemed vivid. He harbored no wish to return to sleep and more of his dream. He was disappointed in his self-control; it seemed the flashbacks had recurred. And there was still something frighteningly real about his tormentor. "Gaelinar, does Hel have a wolf of some sort?"
"A wolf?" Gaelinar's grip tightened. "Not one I know of."
Larson shook his head, plagued by half-forgotten recollections of the Norse mythology book he had read and quoted in his bunker in Vietnam. "Isn't there some sort of demon wolf or devil dog?" The memory evaded him. "Damn it. I remember reading about a dog with a name like Hel pooch… or Hel mutt… or something." He laughed at his unintentional pun, dampening the brooding tension inspired by his dream. "It's supposed to guard the entrance to Hel."
"Hel hound," Gaelinar corrected. "Garmr. You're correct. I had forgotten."
"Forgotten!" Larson was incensed. "You recall every mistake I've ever made. When I misplace my feet in a kata, you mention each individual time it happened before, never failing to include the time, the place, and anything else even vaguely related to the practice. You remember every block, stroke, and parry of every fight you've ever seen. But you forgot the Hel hound?"
Gaelinar released Larson's shoulder. "It didn't seem important."
Not for the first time, Gaelinar's logic was lost on Larson. "Not important! A man-eating beast bounding through the darkness to kill us in our sleep didn't seem worth mentioning? Not even casually? Like…" Larson simulated Gaelinar's voice in conversation. "So, Allerum. If a wolf the size of a Buick comes by tonight to eat us, you might want to wake me."
Gaelinar remained unruffled. "First, Allerum, Garmr is tied at the entrance to Hel, not running freely. Second, he is a dog, not a wolf. And third…" He left a thoughtful pause. "What is a 'Byu Wick'?"
Larson latched on to Gaelinar's second point. "Garmr's a dog?"
"I don't know why you seem so surprised. We passed him in Hel's entry way."
"We did?" Larson blinked, wishing he sounded less careless. "But I didn't see…"
"I did," Gaelinar interrupted. "But I could understand how an elf with busy thoughts might miss a mongrel of deepest black lying still in the darkness. Garmr had no interest in us. It is his job to keep the dead from escaping, not entering. He ignored us, so I ignored him."
That explains the animal smell at Hel's entrance. Larson shook his head as the creature from his dream returned to his mind easily. It wasn't all black. And it didn't look like a mongrel. "Gaelinar, does Hel also keep a wolf?"
Gaelinar passed Larson a handful of dry cheese. "If you're going to keep me awake, we might as well make this an early morning. As far as I know, Hel has no wolf. Why do you ask?"
"Without sounding stupid," Larson began, well aware he did, "a wolf played a major role in my dream. I think it said I killed its father." Larson bit into a chunk of cheese, awaiting Gaelinar's laughter.
Gaelinar's robes rustled as he rose. "Perhaps it was not a dream."
Food muffled Larson's voice "Don't kid around like that." He swallowed. "Don't be ridiculous. I've never shot a wolf in my life. I've never even hit one with a Byu Wick. I suppose I really went back to Vietnam, too?"
Gaelinar offered an arm and helped Larson to his feet.
"Silme used to talk about how you didn't have any mind…"
Larson found it unamusing that Gaelinar chose that particular moment to pause.
"… barriers, and how anyone with the power and knowledge can enter your thoughts. Loki sired other offspring than Hel, among them a wolf named Fenrir."
Larson choked on a piece of cheese. He coughed until tears rose in his eyes. He recalled how Bramin had plucked the most painful memories from Larson's mind, inciting them into riotous detail. Loki and Vidarr had battled among the coiled and tangled circuitry of his thoughts, and Silme had once used them as a portal. Larson no longer harbored any doubt. Fenrir's mental intrusion seemed every bit as real as Bramin's. "That wolf claimed it would kill me," he said hoarsely.
"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?"