Larson fumbled through his pocket for the stone Baldur had so insistently given him in Hel. Nearly forgotten for other concerns, the gem lay nestled deep in the folds of Larson's tunic. He pulled it free and studied it in the waning light. Gold ink striped the indigo surface. Larson identified the painted scene as a man astride a muscular horse. But the craftsman seemed to have erred; he had doubled each of the beast's legs and the rider had a single eye. A one-eyed Viking on an eight-legged horse. Memory groped through Larson's beer-muddled senses. He recalled his readings of Norse mythology. Odin. The leader of the pantheon. A god whose idea of fun was to stir up war among mortals and watch them die, whose desired sacrifices were enemies hung or butchered in his name. Odin the AllFather. All father? Larson frowned. Guess that explains his relationship to Baldur. He flipped the stone back into his pocket and considered turning back. Odin's cruel enough to have incited wars like the one in Vietnam. Do I really want to have dealings with him? Larson hesitated, suddenly faced with the truths inspired by his contemplation. But it wasn't Odin who started Vietnam, was it? It was my own ever-merciful, turn-the-other-cheek, Christian God. Larson shook aside his current train of thought. I need to speak with Vidarr.
A man hurried past Larson, huddled in a coat worn thin with use.
Larson called after the stranger. "Excuse me, sir."
The man turned. He studied Larson's pointed ears and the wind-whipped, white-blond hair which danced around his angular features. The peasant hunched deeper into his coat.
"Please." Larson approached, and the man took a wary step back. "Where can I find a church?"
The stranger shook his head and risked a glance over his shoulder.
Larson pursed his lips. Nobody seemed to notice my strangeness at the tavern. I guess an odd-looking, beer-drinking traveler seems less of a threat than a "demon" on a dark, deserted street. "A temple," he clarified. "A place to worship gods."
"The shrine." The man pointed down a side street. "A few steps and to your right. You'll see a cleared area and a big stone." He pivoted and trotted off down the roadway without waiting for Larson's thanks.
With a shrug of resignation, Larson hummed "What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor" as he followed the peasant's directions. Soon he came upon a rock the size of a coffin off to the side of the road… Ear-lye in the morning… Leaning against the lump of granite, he tangled with a new problem. Now, how do I contact Vidarr? Idly, he ran his hand along the rough surface of stone. His touch met something sticky, and he jerked away reflexively. The substance colored his fingers red-brown.
Blood. Larson sprang away from the stone and wiped his hand on the surrounding weeds. Human offerings to Odin? A more logical explanation sifted through the beer haze. Animals. Damn this paranoia, even my God used to take goats and sheep in sacrifice. He approached the stone again. But this time, he thought it wiser not to slouch against the shrine. "Vidarr?" he called tentatively.
No answer.
"Vidarr."
Still nothing.
Larson considered. What was it Baldur said? Anyone can communicate with gods. They need only pray in the proper temple… make the appropriate sacrifice. Larson brushed hair from his face. "Oh, no. I'm not going to steal and kill some farmer's pig just to talk to a dead god's father." He slid both hands into his pockets and rubbed the smoothed facets of Silme's sapphire and the rounded curves of Baldur's gem. He pictured the collection plate in the church in New York. Maybe they'll take money. He pulled free the painted stone and pitched it to the shrine. It clicked against the granite, bounced once, and skidded to a stop. "Yo, Vidarr!"
Larson felt a pressure in his mind. Attributing it to the beer, he shook his head to clear it. But the sensation sharpened and grew more persistent. Larson froze. "Vidarr?"
The presence in Larson's mind became stronger, then waned again.
"Vidarr?" Larson tried again.
Once more, the pressure heightened and dulled.
"Vidarr! Cut the crap. We need to talk."
Sullenness trickled through Larson's thoughts. It felt as if his entire mind was pouting.
Familiar with Vidarr's designation as the silent god and the deity's use of emotion and imagery as a form of communication, Larson sighed. "Look. I'm half-drunk, frustrated, and tired. I saved your life once. You owe me the courtesy of speaking in words."
There was a long pause. Resignation flowed through Larson's thoughts. Very well, Allerum. A reasonable request. But first, tell me where you got that gem.
"From a dead god in Hel. Baldur said to remember him to his father.''
Remorse washed across Larson, as heavy as his grief for Silme. Use your mind, Allerum.
Annoyed by what seemed like an undeserved reprimand, Larson countered. "What did I say that was so stupid?''
No, the god amended. I meant you don't have to speak aloud. Just think what you want to say. Remember?
Right. Sorry. It seemed like an eternity since Larson had carried on a conversation in this manner. Now it felt as uncomfortable as the first time Vidarr had contacted him.
Vidarr radiated pensiveness. Allerum, wait here. I'm going to leave you for a moment. I have to discuss this with someone. I'll be right back. Before Larson could protest, Vidarr was gone.
I don't believe this. Larson fumed. A thousand years before the invention of the telephone, and Vidarr just put me on "hold!" He paced an anxious circle around the stone.
Allerum!
Vidarr's sudden reappearance in Larson's mind caused him to jump in fright. Don't do that.
Now it was Vidarr's turn to apologize. Sorry. I've got a task you need to do for me.
Vidarr's casual assumption that Larson would perform the deed roused the American's ire. In annoyance, he spoke aloud. "I need to do a task for you? First, the least you could do is ask me. I've been out of the army too long to take commands. Second, the last favor I did for you resulted in Silme's death, not to mention pitting me against a god and a dark elf sorcerer/swordsman who tortured me, like a cat does a mouse, before I killed him." He paused for breath. "And third, I called you. Where I come from, that means I get to tell you my demands first."
Very well. Vidarr seemed appropriately repentant. What do you desire?
Silme.
Impatience weaved through Larson's mind. I already told you at the falls. I have no power to raise her.