Silently, Larson backed toward the forest, quivering with raw fury at Gaelinar's attack. Driven beyond sane reasoning, he drew his daggers, angling their tips between himself and Gaelinar. "Damn you. I have something to say, and I'm going to talk." He hesitated, watching the Kensei's hands for any sign of movement. "You're not the world's sole repository of wisdom. You almost killed a stranger out of hand. How can someone who's lived as long as you have so little respect for human life?"
To Larson's surprise, Gaelinar's lips formed a grim smile. "Put the knives away. You know they won't do you any good."
Larson remained crouched, not daring to allow the Kensei too close.
With a snort of amusement, Gaelinar continued. "You're not the brightest student I've ever taught. You're neither the fastest nor the most capable. But you've got more nerve than any three of them together. It's precisely because I have lived so long that I've lost respect for human life. People are content to toil their lives away for mere survival. They give no consideration to honor or glory. If they place no value on their lives, why should I?"
Larson's anger faded slightly, and he sheathed his daggers. "You've got the audacity to judge the value of other people's lives?"
Gaelinar shrugged. "The value of a life is the same as the value of anything else. If a man's not strong enough to keep it, he doesn't deserve to have it."
"How can you say that!" Larson had grown sick of a mentality he had come to consider adolescent. "Life isn't property. Life is sacred."
"Flaws like that are why you're the hero." Gaelinar's expression went as solemn as his words. "The belief that human life is special is dangerous and expensive. Remember what it did to Silme."
Larson considered, finding a disturbing truth in Gaelinar's explanation. He knew his own unshakable faith in the sanctity of human life was the cause of his deep-set feelings of guilt and, ultimately, of the flashbacks, hallucinations, and nightmares which had plagued him since leaving the war in Vietnam. But it was a morality instilled since childhood, by caring parents, a free society, and The United Church of Christ. He doubted he could escape it, nor did he want to. "Gaelinar," he said. "This is one of those times when our cultures and upbringings clash. If I see you trying to kill someone without a good reason, I will try to stop you."
Gaelinar's eyes went hard as diamonds. "Very well. But if you come between me and our enemies, you will hamper our chances for survival. And if I feel I must slay someone, neither you nor any man on Midgard could keep me from it."
Larson hesitated. Nearly all his anger had dispersed, leaving him feeling uncertain and somewhat repentant for having challenged his teacher. "I understand," he said at length. "But I hope it never comes to that." He turned and headed deeper into the woods. "Come on, Gaelinar. I'm sick to death of arguing. Let's make camp and get some rest."
Al Larson and Kensei Gaelinar slept through the remainder of the morning and well into the day. After a sword practice far more satisfying than the one of the previous night, and a breakfast scavenged from the forest, Larson felt ready to face the Dragonrank school and its master. "So what's it like inside?" He imagined stony-faced youths in neat rows transforming one another into newts and toads. The vision made him smile.
Gaelinar paced to the tree line and studied the granite wall which confined the sorcerer's school. "I don't know."
"What do you mean? Didn't Silme give you the grand tour?"
Gaelinar followed the eastern wall southward. A breeze fanned his robes into a golden flower. "I only know the outside. Silme had business here once, but I waited for her in the woods." He flicked his fingers to indicate the forest of birch and evergreen in which they had made camp. "The Dragonrank don't welcome outsiders, and they allow their trainees no visitors."
Larson trailed Gaelinar around a sharp corner, continuing westward. Ahead, halfway along the southern wall, he saw the black silhouette of a gate; the angle of their approach hid the school grounds beyond it. Larson noticed no activity outside the walls. But as he and Gaelinar came up to the gate, he found two soldiers guarding the entrance just inside the iron framework. Both wore shirts of riveted links which fell to their knees and were belted at the waist. Iron helmets with decorative bubbles and swirls and long, curled horns perched on their heads. They stood, rigid and motionless, with their spears crossed. Each carried a sheathed broadsword with a jutting, crudely bulbous hilt within easy reach. Larson wondered whether the guards had seen him and Gaelinar approaching or simply spent their entire watch at complete attention.
Larson took advantage of the sentries' silence to study the gate. Some artisan had crafted it from strips of blackened iron, carefully shaped into straight, even bars. In its center, the double doors of the gateway came together to form a dragon, an exact likeness of the one which had attacked them in Hel, its head cocked back in preparation for a blast of fiery breath. Beyond the sharp featured guardsmen, Larson saw rows of squat, one- and two-story buildings. Between them, gardens of late blooming flowers and crops added color to an otherwise grave looking schoolyard.
Gaelinar lowered and raised his head respectfully. "I am Kensei Gaelinar, and my companion is Lord Allerum. We need to see the schoolmaster."
The sentries uncrossed their spears. As one, they jabbed the wooden butts to the ground at their feet. The leftmost one replied. "Karrold isn't seeing anyone/'
Larson met the sentry's gaze. The man stood as tall as himself, about six feet. But the guard's linebacker frame gave him nearly a hundred pounds on Larson's fragile elf form. The second guardsman, slightly smaller than his companion, remained still.
Gaelinar nodded again, this time curtly. "Karrold will see us."
The larger guard repeated his warning. "Karrold isn't seeing anyone."
Gaelinar's fist curled around the sheath of his katana. The thumb he looped over his crossguard blanched. "You can take us to the schoolmaster now, or I can climb this gate and take your heads to him."
As one, the sentries back-stepped and lowered their spears. "Try it, old man," the larger one said. "We'll run you through before you reach the ground."
Gaelinar tensed.
Larson held his breath. For an instant, he feared the Kensei might accept the guardsman's challenge. Then an idea came to him suddenly, and he strode around his mentor. "What my… um… irritable friend forgot to mention…" He heard the rustle of Gaelinar's robes behind him but resisted the urge to turn. "A Dragonrank mage sent us." He plucked Silme's rankstone from his pocket and displayed it for the guards.
The spear tips sagged. The sentries came together for a whispered exchange. The smaller one turned and trotted toward an elegant building at the center of the compound. The remaining guardsman watched Gaelinar, his eyes squinting with suspicion.
Larson rocked back and forth, annoyed by the formality. Silme's mind and body were withering each moment he spent arguing with insolent guardsmen. As if we haven't already wasted enough time chasing cat burglars and swinging an imaginary sword.
Several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence before the sentry returned. "Karrold asked me to bring him the sapphire."
Larson cradled the gem in both hands. "Tell Karrold we're a package. The sapphire does not leave my possession." His own bold words reawakened his guilt over having hurled Silme's ranks tone at the dragon in Hel. He winced.
The larger guard glanced at his companion. "Who's our supervisor today?''
"Ketel."
"Ketei?"
"Ruby-rank."
"Call him."
Again the smaller guard trotted off into the school grounds.
Gaelinar muttered something incomprehensible about "delays" and "incompetence." He exchanged glares with the remaining sentry through the wrought iron gate.
Larson began to pace.