Larson dropped to a crouch. "But you have more reasons to live. You want me to carry on your way. I've only been with you a few weeks. Surely you have more to teach than that."
Gaelinar sheathed his short sword. "I've taught you all that one man can teach another. I've trained you to have a bold spirit, a sense of honor, and that death need not be feared. Anything beyond that, hero, you must teach yourself."
Frustration made Larson angry. "Gaelinar! Cut it out. There's no time for this nonsense. You've been old for a long time. There's a difference between being old and giving up. You talk about bold spirits, but you're afraid to face old age."
"It's the only time for this 'nonsense.' " Gaelinar rose, catlike. To Larson's relief, he seemed his familiar self again. "Every day, I have grown slower and weaker than the day before. My death may come soon or years from now. But it approaches. I'm not afraid of getting old. I'm not afraid of dying." He slid his katana into its scabbard. "Now, hero. Let's go kill a wolf."
Gaelinar's talk of death and defeat unnerved Larson. When Taziar approached, sword recovered and sheathed, Larson was glad to abandon his previous conversation. "Shadow. Found it, I see."
Taziar nodded, but his attention seemed fixed on Gaelinar. He stopped, well beyond sword range, within a step of the darkening periphery of the pine trees. His eyes darted from the bunched figure of the Kensei to the seemingly endless stretch of forest. "I have an idea which may stop the Fenris Wolf."
Larson's spirit soared. He passed a reassuring glance to Gaelinar.
"But," Taziar continued, "it would require a few day's journey to the Bifrost Bridge."
"Bifrost Bridge," Larson repeated. It sounded familiar from his readings of Norse mythology in the Vietnam bunker. He shrugged, wondering why Taziar seemed so nervous. "Why not? We know how to free Silme now. After we go to Hel, we can veer toward this bridge thing."
At the mention of Silme's rescue, Taziar shuffled a step forward. He pursed his lips in consideration then shook his head with resignation. "No, Allerum. I doubt that powder will deter Fenrir long. You two get Silme." He smiled. "Tell her the essential role I had in her resurrection, and convince her she needs a garnet-rank apprentice. I'll take care of Fenrir."
Larson was beginning to believe he was the only sane man left in existence. "You'll take care of Fenrir, huh? When you're traveling alone and the wolf attacks, I suppose you'll just grab it by the tail and swing it till it cries 'uncle.' "
Taziar gave Larson a curious look. "Don't worry about me. Once we've separated, Fenrir will go after you, not me." He spoke with a bold certainty which intrigued Larson but changed the subject before the elf could ask the obvious question. "One way or the other, my business won't take as long as yours. I'll meet you near the great falls outside Hel. If I'm not there, don't wait."
Gaelinar returned the conversation to its earlier tack. "How can you be so certain Fenrir will come after us?"
Taziar swallowed hard. He shifted from foot to foot, each movement inching him closer to the tree line. His face screwed into a mask of discomfort and guilt, but his tone sounded apologetic. "Forgive me, my friends. I can't hold this secret from you any longer. Two weeks ago, I freed Fenrir from centuries of bondage and allowed him to hunt down his father's slayers."
The news shocked Larson. He recalled Taziar's reckless courage against the wolf, and, suddenly, it all came together. Larson gathered breath to question further.
But in the instant it took Larson's mind to register the meaning of the words, Taziar had faded into the shadows of the woodlands and quietly disappeared.
CHAPTER 9: Master of Fate
"Yet they, believe me, who await No gifts from Chance, have conquered Fate."
– Matthew Arnold Resignation
After the evening sword lesson, the first night of Larson's and Gaelinar's journey progressed in tense silence. Never one to speak unless he had something important to say, Gaelinar left Larson alone with his thoughts. And, as they retraced their earlier route through the pine forest, Larson found his own contemplations disquieting. He considered his mental struggle with Fenrir, the battle between the wolf and Vidarr which had ignited random memories, and his own careful and taxing trap which walled Vidarr into a corner of his mind. None of it seemed possible, yet the gods' manipulations had become too familiar to deny or condemn with simple logic.
The world faded to an endless blur of shadows as Larson continued to look inside himself. Apparently, he lacked the natural, anatomical barriers which protected people of this era from gods and sorcerers who would manipulate their thoughts. Until the previous morning, he had believed that defect left him helpless against such attacks. Now he had discovered a weapon, albeit weak and untrained. He could not help but wonder whether practice might strengthen his skills. If so, his mind and memories could become his own again.
As he walked, Larson rehearsed imagining walls. He pictured brick, stone, wire, and mortar without difficulty, but they had no relation or corresponding location in his mind. Each was just a barrier floating in his thoughts like any other conjured fantasy. They lacked the reality of time and place Larson had imparted to the wall he'd used against Vidarr while the god and he were standing within his mind. Larson considered. Perhaps that's it. I need to be inside myself to erect a solid barrier. The proposition intrigued him. He tried to place himself into his thoughts. But although he could picture himself among the circuitry which represented his brain, he could not actually work himself into his own mind. Apparently, that procedure required an outside force or being to trip his memories.
Larson relaxed, trying to view the puzzle from the other side. Maybe I can build the walls while outside my mind, but I have to be inside to set them in place. It seemed as likely as any other conclusion; anything seemed possible when dealing with a situation as absurd as treating thoughts and memories as physical entities. If so, practice might hone my abilities. He returned to mentally drawing walls. He imagined barbed wire fences, prison barricades, and great castle bastions. He tried to consider each invented partition as a step toward mental freedom, but he only managed to make himself feel foolish. I'm probably wasting my time. Even if I'm on the right track, I can't be certain I'm crafting the walls correctly. And, as Gaelinar has often said, "Practicing a maneuver incompetently is worse than not practicing at all. ''
Larson abandoned his psychic enterprise, and turned his attention elsewhere. Tree branches and dark wisps of cloud striped the full moon, dappling the forest with shadows. Gaelinar slipped quietly between the needled branches, his posture alert, prepared for Fenrir's next attack. The realization turned Larson's thoughts to the wolf. Fenrir claimed no one could kill it, yet it refused Gaelinar's challenge in our last fight. Larson recalled Fenrir clutching Gaelinar by the back of his robes, the wolf bunched and angered by the swords at its throat. If Fenrir truly could not be slain, why didn't it shake Gaelinar? Why did it run from us when Shadow's powder blinded it? Why bide time between attacks?
Larson closed the widening gap between himself and Gaelinar, intending to bring his questions to his mentor. But the Kensei's solemn expression convinced him otherwise. Why do I expect Gaelinar to know the answers any more than I do? Apparently, part of being unslayable is knowing when to retreat. Or, more likely, Fenrir lied. The certainty of defeat could damage our morale, making us easier to conquer. Besides, even the will of the Fates can be overthrown. According to Vidarr, it was Loki's destiny to survive and lead an assault against the gods of Law. No Norse mythology book I ever read mentioned a dead American soldier from 'Nam.