Larson raised his sword. Fenrir back-stepped and circled clockwise, ears flat back, tail low and full. Larson rotated, keeping his sword arm toward Fenrir. From the periphery of his vision, he watched Taziar follow the wolf. Fenrir slowed, just beyond Larson's reach, allowing Taziar to close the gap between them.
Larson lunged. Fenrir sprang aside, then dove for Larson. Its teeth slashed his tunic, missing flesh. Taziar rushed Fenrir, sword high. The wolf spun, redirecting its attack for Taziar's unprotected side. The Cullinsbergen recoiled midstrike, and Fenrir reversed his stalk, keeping to Taziar's left.
Larson wove around behind Taziar, trying to approach from Fenrir's opposite side. But the wolf spun, herding Taziar so that, once again, it had both enemies before it.
Larson howled in frustration. "You want to fight or dance?''
Fenrir plunged toward Larson. Larson raised his sword to meet the attack. At the last moment, Fenrir pulled his feint and leaped for Taziar. The Cullinsbergen dodged hard left, but the wolfs canines closed on his arm. The force of the bite drove the sword from his fingers, and it spun into the darkness at the edge of the clearing. Larson thrust for Fenrir's throat, his free hand groping for bundled powder. His fingers closed over the cloth as he completed the strike.
With a toss of his head, Fenrir flung Taziar at Larson. Taziar stumbled toward the blade. With sudden terror, Larson realized his own sword would impale his companion. He dropped the hilt; there was time for nothing else. The sword toppled as man and elf crashed to the dirt. Larson's handkerchief tore open, scattering powder harmlessly across the clearing.
Fangs bared, Fenrir leaped for Larson and Taziar. Both rolled aside. The wolf landed, claws chewing through frozen ground, the sword lying at its feet. Sweat blurred Larson's vision, turning the glint of moonlight on its steel into a dull glaze. He dove for the crossguard. His reach fell short; he felt the cool metal of its sharpened edge beneath his grip. Then Fenrir's paw slammed down on his knuckles, pinning his hand against the blade. Larson twisted his neck to find himself staring into Fenrir's wide, red jaws. "You can't win, insect! So long as the balance remains tipped toward Law, no one can slay me!" Its open mouth dipped toward Larson.
There was no time for grace. Larson wrenched backward with a force which strained every muscle in his forearm. The blade slashed his palm as he pulled free, and he tumbled into the center of the clearing. Fenrir tensed. Larson gathered breath, willing his spent muscles to draw him away from the beast's next attack.
Suddenly, Taziar leaped in front of Fenrir. Weaponless and dwarfed by the bulk of the great wolf, the Cullins-berg man had little chance of deterring Fenrir for more than a few seconds. Larson struggled to weak legs as the wolf raised a paw to dash Taziar aside. Then, Larson noticed the parcel in his companion's hand. Taziar ripped and threw. The bundle struck home, splashing powder across Fenrir's muzzle.
Fenrir reared backward with a bellow of pain. It bounded through the circle of pines which surrounded the clearing and disappeared between the huddled branches of the trees. Too tired to give chase, Larson listened to the sounds of its stumbling progress until they faded to silence.
Taziar handed Larson his sword and helped the elf to his feet. Blood showed through the shallow bite on Taziar's arm; apparently, Fenrir had gripped with only his foreteeth. Larson knew the wolfs molars would have crushed the climber's bones to splinters. The gash across Larson's fingers was also superficial.
Taziar trotted toward the border of the clearing. "I need to find my sword. You better tend Gaelinar." He inclined his head toward the swordmaster.
Larson cringed, bracing himself to face the newest victim of Fenrir's violence. It had become too familiar. Since Larson's arrival in Scandinavia, one battle had followed another. No longer could he crouch behind a gun and fire at distant shadows and enemies. He had moved beyond counting piles of dead soldiers to confronting gods face to face, sword to sword, sword to tooth. And after-every skirmish, there was more death and more wounds. He realized Fenrir was weakening them all, in increments.
Larson turned his gaze to Gaelinar. To his relief, the old man was sitting, methodically cleaning his swords with a torn scrap from his golden robe. There was a strange awkwardness to Gaelinar's movements which drew Larson's attention to the Kensei's hands. The right appeared supple and freckled, lacking the depressions between the tendons which marked the atrophy of aging skin and muscle. But the left had swollen to twice its normal size. A ring of purple-black marred the palm, and the protruding fingers appeared thin and yellowed by comparison.
Larson winced. It's from his run-in with the dragon in Hel. How could I have forgotten? Larson berated himself, though he felt certain Gaelinar had made an effort to hide the injury. He walked to the Kensei's side and flopped to the ground beside him. Peering into the wrinkled countenance, he noticed something even more alarming. Gaelinar's dark eyes had gone dull. His features sagged, blank with defeat. Larson caught his mentor's shoulder. "Are you all right?"
Gaelinar went still. His voice emerged flat and toneless. "I'm fine. Just fine for an old man."
Gaelinar's docile manner struck terror through Larson. He felt as if he conversed with a stranger. "What do you mean 'fine'? You're beat to hell." He waved a hand over the tattered, filthy robes and the greenish-brown bruises revealed through the holes. "You look like you swallowed a porcupine. How can you feel fine after fighting a wolf the size of a Clydesdale? And what do you mean old?"
Gaelinar did not look up from his swords, but his tone became angry and color returned to his features. "If I was strong, no mere animal could best me. My spirit has grown old and tired."
"Are you stupid?" Larson tightened his grip. "The damn wolf's a god."
"Just another god." Gaelinar let his sword fall into his lap and looked directly at Larson. "I lost not because of Fenrir's strength but because of my weakness. If I was still strong, you would see a dead wolf here. I failed you. I failed Silme. And I failed myself." He shook free of Larson's hand. "I failed myself, Allerum. That, I can't tolerate."
Words did not come easily to Larson. He sputtered. "But you heard Fenrir. Right now, no one could kill him."
"There are no excuses."
Larson slapped his palms over his face, unable to understand the events which had suddenly turned his arro-gant swordmaster into this self-deprecating "old" man. Disgusted, he stood.
Before Larson could walk away, Gaelinar caught his hand. "I'm mad at myself, hero, not you. You and the small one bested Fenrir while I lay here like an old lady."
"Damn it, Gaelinar. I…"
The Kensei waved his student silent. The glimmer of determination returned to his eyes. "My life and everything I believed in has stood on a table supported by three legs. One leg is duty, one spirit, and the last strength. I've seen beauty and horror beyond most men's imaginings. I also saw my own mortality when Fenrir bested me the second time."
Larson felt duty-bound to interrupt. "Fenrir didn't best you the first time. He ran away."
Gaelinar shrugged. "He lived to come back this time. And his return made my life a table with only two legs. My body can no longer do what my spirit demands." He flexed the fingers of his injured hand. "As a two-legged table must fall, I cannot accept less than perfection. But I can accept my own death. And you, hero, must carry on my teachings."
"Carry on…" Suddenly, Gaelinar's meaning seemed all too clear. "Oh, no. You can't kill yourself. I haven't learned anything.''
Gaelinar smiled, and all his confident power seemed to return. "I can't kill myself now. I promised to bring Silme back, and I will see that through."