The Hel hound growled, a low rumble of menace. A ridge of spiked, black hair bristled along its back. It thrust its nose beneath Fenrir's abdomen.
Fenrir's triangular ears flicked forward suddenly. The glimmer of triumph died in its eyes. Its gaze never strayed from Gaelinar and Larson, but it addressed Hel's mongrel. "Get away from me, you stupid mutt."
The Hel hound's snarls deepened. It marched forward, stiff-legged, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Fen-ris Wolf. Both animals remained still, frozen like statues.
Gaelinar lowered his swords. His laughter rose over the Hel hound's threats. He assumed his normal posture.
Surprised by his mentor's lapse and finding no humor in the coming battle, Larson hesitated. "Why are you laughing?"
"Can't you see?" Gaelinar broke into another round of mirth. "The hound thinks Fenrir's another dog on his territory. If Fenrir takes a step toward or away, there's going to be a… a dog fight." Gaelinar sheathed his swords. Pausing to laugh once more at Fenrir's expense, he stepped around the wolf and into the fissure.
Quickly, Larson followed.
The rush of Hvergelmir's waterfall echoed through the gorge, drowning out the Hel hound's growls. Droplets bounced from Larson's face, a moist, clean change from Hel's stifling darkness. A frenzied howl slashed the air. Slipping through the crevice into Midgard's twilight, Larson caught a glimpse of the Hel hound hurling its solidly-muscled bulk for Fenrir's throat.
Larson turned to watch. The wolf sidestepped easily, then charged the mongrel in a frenzied blur of attack. Fenrir slashed and tore, never in one position longer than a second. Fascinated, Larson stared as each of the Hel hound's mighty lunges fell short.
Gaelinar prodded Larson's shoulder. "Quickly now.
The farther we get before they finish, the better off we are."
Larson needed no more urging. He whirled and scrambled along the narrow pathway which would take them up the incline from Hvergelmir's pit.
A grating voice rose above the bellowing current of white water. "I'll find you again. No mere dog will keep me from my vengeance!"
Larson shivered, though whether from the cold sting of water droplets or some deeper discomfort, he did not know. Some trick of the rising sun lit Hvergelmir's falls the color of blood.
PART II:
CHAPTER 4: Master Thief
"Who is all-powerful should fear everything."
– Pierre Corneille LeCid
Al Larson awakened to utter darkness. He remained immobile in the dirt, not daring to believe he was finally out of Hel. The events of the previous morning: Fenrir's challenge, the dog fight, the rugged climb from Hvergelmir's pit all seemed too vividly real to have been a dream. Filled with bitter disbelief, he stared into the sky. Gradually, he discerned the pinpoint light of stars through interwoven branches, and he realized it was a normal, moonless night in Midgard. The air felt thick with the mingled scents of loam and pine and the comforting, acridly woody smell of a campfire. Larson rolled to his side. "Gaelinar?"
Gaelinar's voice came from Larson's left. "I'm here, hero. Are you ready for practice?"
"Now?" Larson groaned, twisted to face Gaelinar, and swept to a sitting position. "But I still don't have a sword."
Gaelinar perched on a fallen trunk, lit by a weak circle of flame. His golden robes spread about his legs like a crumpled flower, but the black sash around his waist held his katana and shoto, their sheaths and brocade immaculately clean. "That is of no consequence. I train the man, not the sword. The weapon is only a tool, an extension of the spirit. The technique, the intent and motivation of each cut remains regardless of the blade. Come." Gaelinar rose and trotted into the woods.
Larson rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the last, heavy vestiges of sleep. I can't believe this fucking gook's got me up in the middle of the night to swing an imaginary sword. Grumbling curses in three languages, he followed the Kensei between hardy trunks of birch and aspen to a grove of ancient pines. The lower boughs had withered and broken in the shadow of their younger brothers, leaving a thick blanket of needles as a floor. The higher branches clustered into a tangled roof thirty feet above Larson's head. Huddled trunks stood, as wide as fire hydrants, their limbs forming walls which barred the winds. To Larson, the clearing beneath the pines seemed not unlike an oblong, indoor stadium with the lights turned off.
Gaelinar kicked aside fallen branches to establish practice space. He walked to the center of the grove. "Sweeps. Begin, hero."
Larson blinked in the grayness at the edge of the clearing. "Let me get this straight. You woke me up to practice with a pretend sword? And in the dark for Christ's sake?''
Gaelinar waved Larson to him. "When I was a humble and lowly student…" He emphasized the adjectives with malicious glee. "… we sparred blindfolded, standing on ice. When you can't see your opponent's body, you must fight his spirit, and strategy is ultimately a contest of spirits. By training on ice, I was forced to keep my consciousness centered during combat. Until you learn to cut with your spirit as well as your sword, you'll master neither your weapon nor yourself."
Larson muttered beneath his breath, "You'd think I'd be used to his nonsense by now." Cautiously, he approached Gaelinar. "Fine, O most exalted swordmaster whom even the gods envy. What do you want me to do?''
Gaelinar ignored Larson's blatant sarcasm. "Sweeps. As I showed you at your first lesson."
Larson adjusted his stance. He clenched his hands together, as if to a hilt, and swung in high arcs. He pulled each strike just past his leg.
"Stop," Gaelinar said impatiently. "Is that how you would perform with a sword?"
Larson poised, left foot forward and weight evenly distributed. "Probably not."
"Try it again."
Larson realigned. He envisioned a long sword in his grip and attempted to maneuver once more. The movement felt more comfortable until, unbidden, a thought emerged in his mind. It's like the old joke about the unarmed soldier who kills his enemies with a fake gun and bayonet while yelling "bangety-bang" or "stickety-stick" until a weaponless adversary tramples him, saying ' 'tankety-tank.'' The absurdity of the idea threw off Larson's timing.
Gaelinar shouted. "Allerum, keep your spirit and body in the same realm, please. Start again."
Larson lowered his arms. "I'm sorry, Gaelinar. I just can't take this 'pretend sword' stuff seriously. Maybe if you let me use yours, just for the practice, I…"
Gaelinar interrupted, his tone fiercely angry. "After what I just told you, you would dare ask me for my sword? Haven't you been listening at all?" Gaelinar gripped his hilt with such violence Larson took an involuntary backstep. "I've carried this sword longer than you've been alive. Only through years of diligent practice can a weapon become a part of your spirit. Do you expect me to hand over my soul to you because you gave away your sword?" He took a threatening step toward Larson. "Hundreds of years of tradition dictate I could kill you for that question. But it will be forgiven this time and only this time. Handling my sword would be as handling my person. Either would be unwise and at your own peril."
Stunned by Gaelinar's fury, Larson stammered. "I- I'm sorry. I… but… you touch my sword!"
Gaelinar relaxed, but his voice retained its deadly sharpness. "This katana was the sole labor of a master smith for five years and the culminating work of his glorious life. He delicately folded joined layers of hard and soft steel, hundreds upon hundreds of times, to create an edge that, in the proper hands and spirit, can cut through armor as if it didn't exist. Your sword…" Gaelinar snorted, and his tone softened. "Your sword was beaten on a rock by a fat drunkard barely able to call his life an existence. If such is a fitting receptacle for your soul, so be it."