Gaelinar went still. For a full minute, he did not move so much as a finger or an eyelid.
Larson fidgeted. He had expected almost any reaction but none at all, and Gaelinar's silence unnerved him. "I said…"
"I heard you."
"And?" Larson prompted.
Gaelinar leaped to his feet. "Let's go."
Larson crammed berries into his cheeks, dumped the remainder to the ground as he stood, and returned Gaelinar's handkerchief. He hoped it was his own imagination which made the Kensei's movements seem less fluid than usual. Then another concern usurped his attention. "Where's Shadow?" In his moments of lucidity, Larson had noticed only Gaelinar. When I last saw Shadow, we didn't know if he'd make it till evening.
"He's washing up." Gaelinar jerked a thumb toward the ring of pine which surrounded the grove. Wrinkling his nose, he added, "You might do well to join him."
Larson smiled, too glad at the news to take offense. "He's all right, then?"
Gaelinar nodded. "A lot better than you looked today. What happened? Nightmares again?"
"Sort of." Larson knelt, scooped up a few stray berries, and ate them. He ignored the dirt which grated beneath his teeth. "Vidarr and I had a disagreement."
Gaelinar met Larson's gaze. His eyes gained a glint of satisfaction, and his lips gradually bent into a smile. "Just another god, after all."
"Just another god," Larson agreed, though without Gaelinar's wry pleasure. "Now, where'd you say that water is?"
Gaelinar pointed.
Larson turned in the direction of the Kensei's gesture. He twisted his head back toward his mentor. "Is it frozen over?"
"It's a hot spring," Gaelinar explained.
"Oh." Larson brushed through the needled branches. He paced a straight course in the indicated direction and, shortly, came upon a natural, oblong pool. Wisps of steam curled from its surface, merging into the shadowing branches of the pine. A stream exited the northern bank. In the center of the spring, Taziar floated on his back, scrubbing his abdomen with a handful of grit. He acknowledged Larson with a brief nod. His linens lay, neatly folded, at the American's feet.
Larson stripped down and dropped his clothes into a pile beside Taziar's black climbing outfit. Measuring the distance with a careful glance, he took a shallow dive. The water parted before him, then closed around him. It felt near body temperature, warm, wet, and comfortable in the autumn chill. From experience, Larson knew cold would not bother him in his elf form, but he imagined Taziar would wish to dawdle in the tepid waters as long as possible.
Larson came up for air within five feet of Taziar who was now washing his crotch. Larson chuckled and called conversationally. "Don't you hate jock itch?"
Taziar spent some time in deep contemplation, as if Larson had said something particularly profound. At length, he asked carefully, "What's 'jock itch?' "
"That." Larson pointed. "What you've got."
Taziar traced Larson's gesture to its logical conclusion. "Hmmm. Well, Allerum. You may call yours Jock, but I call mine… Thor."
Larson laughed, the humor tempered by the fact that Taziar had chosen the name of one of the few gods who might actually hear and take offense. "You're all right."
Taziar nodded agreement and turned his attention to his legs.
Larson flipped and dove. He scooped up a handful of pebbles and, treading water, scoured his own anatomy. "I'm glad. You're all right, I mean. You looked pretty hurt."
Taziar raked plastered hair from his eyes. "You, too. Gaelinar'll probably get mad I told you, but he worried about you."
"Really?" Larson smiled. He found it hard to imagine Gaelinar concerned about anything.
"Yes." Taziar bathed his other leg. "I think he feared he'd have to travel with me alone."
"Horrors!" Larson mocked. "A fate worse than death."
Taziar considered Larson's word choice. Even literally, it would be difficult to take the expression as anything but an insult. "Very nice. Thank you."
"Just a little joke."
Taziar splashed a wave of spring water over Larson, his tone colored with feigned offense. "So now you're belittling my size."
Larson grinned broadly. "An accident. But it was small of me," he quipped.
"Watch it. I'll start telling elf jokes." Taziar rolled and swam back to the shore, deliberately kicking water onto Larson.
Larson finished washing quickly and followed the Cul-linsbergen to the banks. He enjoyed the exchange. Locker room gibes had been one of the few pleasures which made Vietnam tolerable, though fast friendships had a way of becoming fast deaths and faster grief. Since coming to Old Scandinavia, Larson's only companion near his own age was Silme. But trading digs and caustic cracks with the woman of his dreams did not appeal to him.
Larson and Taziar dressed in silence. Larson was fastening his sword belt when Taziar questioned. "Did Gae-linar tell you about our new wolf weapon?"
"No." Larson patted the buckle in place. "I hope it's a tank."
Brow furrowed, Taziar took a step toward Larson. "A what?"
"Never mind." Larson waved Taziar off. "Just one of those stupid things I like to say to amuse myself. What's the new toy?"
"This." Taziar pulled a folded square of linen from his pocket. He rummaged through his clothing for some time, then raised his hand to flick hair from his face before producing a handkerchief. "Gaelinar put together a powder. He says it burns if thrown in the eyes." Taziar knelt, unwrapped the parcel to reveal a pile of gray-white dust, and spread the second scrap of cloth beside it. Using a stick, he divided its contents in half and prepared to scrape powder from one to the other.
Noticing the difficulty Taziar had had producing the second handkerchief, Larson dug through his pocket for one of his own. "Here. Use mine."
Taziar did not look up from his work. "This is yours."
Larson's fingers groped an empty pocket. "What?"
"Sorry. Habit." Taziar stood, a neatly tied bundle in each hand. He passed one to Larson and turned the elf a wicked smile.
"You…" Before Larson could think of a suitably vile insult, a cry of pained rage rent the woodland peace followed by an animal growl of determination. Gaelinar! Larson sprinted toward the grove, Taziar on his heels.
The pines parted easily before Larson. Following the direction of the sound, he clawed through jumbles of needled branches, leaped over a deadfall, and emerged in a star-shaped clearing near the grove. At the farther edge stood Fenrir, its bristled fur brushing the higher branches. Fresh blood trickled from a gash in its flank. Gaelinar dangled from its jaws; the wolf's teeth closed over a thick crease on the back of the Kensei's robes. Gaelinar's swords formed a perfect cross, locking the wolf's neck between them.
"Come on, wolf! Shake me!" Gaelinar's voice rang with challenge. "You may kill me, but you'll slash your own throat as well. I'm ready. Do you fear death, puppy?"
Fenrir growled.
Larson froze, taking a moment to assess the situation. There was truth to Gaelinar's words, but it seemed a perfect stalemate. For the Kensei to strike, he would need to draw back for momentum, removing any deterrent to Fenrir shaking the life from him. But Fenrir could not bite unless it loosed the hold it already had, granting Gaelinar a chance at escape.
In his moment of hesitation, Larson heard Taziar's sword rasp free. He drew his own and charged the wolf.
Fenrir raised its eyes. Suddenly, it dropped Gaelinar. The Kensei tumbled to the ground with a gasp of jarred breath and tensed to rise. But, before he could move, Fenrir planted a lion-sized paw squarely on his chest.
Larson quickened his pace.
Using Gaelinar as its launching site, Fenrir sprang to meet Larson. The elf sidled. The wolf's shoulder struck a glancing blow which staggered Larson. He caught a brief glimpse of Gaelinar, limp and still, before his own defense absorbed his full attention. He twisted, catching his balance, and found himself staring into Fenrir's lowered face. The wolfs lips curled into a cruel parody of a human smile, revealing a sharp row of canines. "Let's see how well you fare without your swordmaster."