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.