Larson suppressed a laugh. That's the corniest line I've ever heard. It occurred to him suddenly that traveling to Hel, battling dragons, and beseeching gods and sorcerers to restore life to a dead lover might fall well within Taziar's description. Corny or not, I guess I can identify with that. Larson found a comfortable position, certain he would find Taziar's story intriguing if not particularly accurate.
Taziar let his lids drift closed. The overhanging boughs draped his sallow face in shadow. With careful yet flowery words, he detailed his love for Astryd, his visit to the Dragonrank school, and the information gained there. "It seemed to me the best way to make Silme receptive to taking Astryd on as apprentice would be for me to assist her return from death. You know the rest."
Gaelinar's voice sounded unusually loud after Taziar's soft-spoken defense. "Why did you not tell us this before?"
"You never gave me a chance."
Apparently satisfied, Gaelinar rolled to his side.
Larson hesitated, listening to the owlish, whirring barks of foxes. A distant wolf howl sent a chill along his spine. There's still something he's not telling us. His story doesn't explain why he was he so willing to die for me. Larson replayed Fenrir's attack in his mind. Taziar's dive for the great wolfs neck had been an act of fanatical and reckless courage. Why? No one could be that self-sacrificing. He recalled how Silme had dedicated her life to neutralizing her half brother's atrocities. Another scene filled his mind, a trench in Vietnam filled with American soldiers and a single, live grenade. Before anyone else could act, an eighteen-year-old private leaped upon it, shielding his buddies from the blast. It exploded, spraying the others with shrapnel and blood. Chest and abdomen torn open, the hero had suppressed his moans of pain until death claimed him.
Larson shuddered, chasing the memory from his thoughts. He studied Taziar in the dappled light of early morning. The climber lay, limp and silent, breaths deep but uneven. "Do you think he'll make it?"
Gaelinar said nothing as he pondered Larson's euphemism. When he did reply, it was with a fatalistic detachment. "We'll know by evening."
CHAPTER 8: Masters of the Mind
"What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough: for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams."
– Pedro Calderon de la Barca Life is a Dream
Larson rolled over in his sleep. Immediately, darkness enfolded his consciousness. He found himself in blackness as thick, heavy, and tangible as pitch. All memory escaped him. He stood, blind and disoriented, heart pounding with apprehension. He tensed to a crouch, felt the searing presence of enemy eyes watching, unseen, from the impenetrable night. Somehow they could see him, he had no doubt.
Suddenly, a wolf howled behind him, a wordless, exultant song of evil. Larson whirled. Pain hammered his body; his chest spasmed, making every breath painful. A second howl sounded, louder, contemptuous, and directly across from the first. He spun again. Before he could react to the dull chorus of aches, another howl rent the air to his right, closer now. Larson twisted toward it. He backstepped, clawing the air behind him for a barrier against which to press his back. His fingers met empty space, and another howl shattered the silence directly behind him.
Larson leaped in surprise. His foot came down on a root. His ankle rocked sideways, and he tumbled to the ground. He floundered through darkness to his hands and knees, tensed to rise, and found himself gazing into blazing crimson eyes. He screamed, staggered back, and again tripped over the root, now behind him. He fell, hard, on his spine and stared up at a row of saliva-slicked, yellowed teeth, each as long and sharp as a saber.
Larson threw back his head and bellowed with fright. He lurched away from the creature, sparking a fresh wave of agony through his chest and hip. Foul breath struck his face, and he saw that the beast, and all its teeth, had swerved with him. Pain. Larson panted. Damn this pain. If this is a dream, why do I feel so much goddamned pain? The thought electrified him. All fear drained away. His sense of self returned, hot and strong within him, and he recognized the pain as the bruises from his battle with Fenrir. He clambered to his feet, oblivious to the wolf which threatened him with jaws widely-hinged. "You've lost, Fenrir! This time, you're not real. You're nothing but an intruder in my dreams tonight, and I know you cannot hurt me." Larson's words echoed through the vast cavern of his mind.
The darkness fell away, revealing the heavily-muscled form of the Fenris wolf. Clotted blood darkened one shoulder, but its red eyes glowed with life. It growled, deep in its throat. "Allerum. Even in your own thoughts, I am stronger than you!" As it spoke the last syllable, it sprang toward Larson's dream-form, lashing at the twisted coils of thought.
Despite his bold words, Larson dodged aside instinctively. The wolf struck a glancing blow which knocked him to the ground. The fall stole his breath and his courage. Realization of dream slipped from his grasp. Fear and confusion regained their hold, leaving Larson with a bad taste in his mouth and the knowledge that something seemed out of place. He struggled for the lost concept. Great peals of mocking laughter rocked the wolf as it slid the recognition of dream further from Larson's conscious understanding.
Abruptly, another being appeared in Larson's mind. The wolf dropped its attack; a spark of insight roused Larson. Dream. It's a… Then both intruders' emotions crashed against him, knocking his consciousness askew.
He felt suffocated by wolf-inspired panic followed by Fenrir's own shock and surprise, alien but powerful as the tide. The other presence radiated determination.
Larson groped for some semblance of sanity on which to anchor his shattered reason. The world exploded, hurling him into nothingness. He fell, spinning and tumbling through leagues of empty air, shot through with terror and the certainty of death. Desperately, his fingers cleaved the darkness. Another clash rocked his being, tossing him as carelessly as flotsam. His foot touched something solid. Arching, he flung his body sideways and clung to the only reality he could find.
A rocket screeched. Directly overhead, it splintered with a roar, splattering multihued pinpoints across the summer sky. Larson clapped, surrounded by gasps of awe and childish squeals of appreciation. He scooted back against the windshield of his father's Dart and glanced at his brother. Suddenly, the scene dissolved around him, and he realized he was alone. Fear struck like madness. Larson groped through the moonless darkness which ensued between one barrage and the next. The car was gone. The crowd had disappeared, replaced by muffled sounds of movement. Larson froze.
Mortars slashed red trails through the heavens; thickening clouds kept their light alive long after the explosion of sound. Man-shadows and distantly familiar faces replaced the cheering mob. And Larson seized a tenuous grasp on reality. Incoming. Incoming! And I'm sitting here impressed, like I'm watching some stupid Fourth of July fireworks. He leaped to his feet. Whirling, he ran toward the bunker.
Larson had taken only three steps when he crashed into an unyielding mass of fur and muscle. Pain descended on him. He staggered sideways. The darkness fled and the firebase faded into memory, replaced by a stretch of frozen ground as barren as a tank-cleared plain. Fenrir spun with a startled curse. Old blood still matted its shoulder. No other marks marred its dark hide, but it panted as if from great exertion. Beyond the wolf, Vidarr crouched, sword angled defensively before him. Sweat sheened on his pale limbs. Flaps of clothing dangled, woven through with silver threads. Anger darkened his fair features.