The night dragged on. Heavy cloud cover obscured the gradual lightening of the sky toward dawn. Freezing drizzle pattered against the tight umbrella of overhanging branches, and very little penetrated to the travelers beneath it. A hearty dinner whittled their supplies dangerously low but brought sleep easily to exhausted men with full bellies.
Early in the cycle of slumber, Larson felt a pressure in his mind. Doubts prickled through his thoughts, strangely alien. He lay in half repose, dimly aware of the intrusion. It seemed to him like the moments before sleep, when reality fades to dream and the implausible mingles with the concerns of the previous day. This odd sense of uncertainty winked out with unnatural suddenness, as if suppressed. A wavering image filled Larson's awareness. Gradually, it solidified, forming into the contours of a face, its skin and hair dark as the depths of Hel. It was not a racial, human blackness but rather the solid, gun-metal hue of a panther. High, arched cheekbones formed hollows for eyes the color of fresh blood. A sharp chin and gaunt, cadaverous features gave an impression of points and angles.
Bramin! Larson struggled to awaken. Foreign frustration rattled through his mind, choked off with the same abruptness as the uncertainty. Larson jarred awake. He stared into a chaotic jumble of branches and a broken array of muted sunlight. The clicking of insects formed a strange duet with the ceaseless rattle of the rain. Carefully, Larson reoriented. He held sleep at bay long enough to convince himself of the reality of the forest and to recognize Bramin's image as fleeting fantasy. Then he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off again.
Sleep returned almost immediately, and with it the same entity which had conjured Bramin's features. Some portion of Larson's unconscious acknowledged the being and mistakenly dismissed it. This time, the dream weaver made certain not to reveal its own emotions as it fashioned Larson's thoughts. The picture of Bramin again sharpened into existence. The half man's eyes seemed to flay Larson. Thin lips twisted into a malicious sneer, and Bramin's voice wound through Larson's consciousness. "… To save you from my sorceries, Silme linked her life aura to mine… Her fate and mine have become one… If you kill me, you kill Silme, too!"
Despair rushed down on Larson. No! He struggled against the memory and momentarily caught another glimpse of waking reality. The intruder's emotions pulsed against him, a mixture of guilt and sudden desperation, then it pummeled Larson with a collage of memory: Bramin demanding the sword which held Vidarr prisoner; Bramin sweeping his blade with dazzling speed; Bramin pounding his fist repeatedly into Larson's face, his knuckles striped red with blood. The images relentlessly howled through Larson's mind bringing with them remembered tortures, guilt, grief, and violent pain. Each new angle struck Larson like a physical blow. He spun, ran, blundered into another memory carefully placed by the intruder. Bramin's laughter pulsed through Larson's mind, heavy with hatred. Sparks splashed across Larson's vision, then the dark elf stood before him again, hand raised in threat.
Larson cringed away as Bramin's spell ripped into him. Agony stabbed and spiraled, stealing strength from body and soul. Larson heard his own screams as distant echoes. Then, abruptly, the assault stopped. The visions of Bramin disappeared. The pain subsided. Larson found himself standing in a clearing in the pine forest, panting from mental exertion. He was gripping his drawn sword as if fighting some unseen enemy. When he sheathed it, he discovered the knurling on the hilt had left a ring of diamond-shaped impressions across his palm.
Gaelinar knelt at the edge of the clearing, watching Larson curiously. "Dream?"
Larson considered. He could vaguely recall a presence in his mind before the sequence had started, and it lacked the cold courage of Bramin, Loki, or the Fenris Wolf. Those three had sparked painful memories with malicious pleasure while the entity who conjured the facets of Bramin seemed almost apologetic. '.'No," he replied carefully. "Not a dream. Excuse me for a moment, please. I need to discuss this with someone."
Gaelinar shrugged, too accustomed to Larson's oddities to comment further.
Larson sat on a dry circle of fallen needles. He gathered as much accusation and resentment as he could, then focused all his concentration on a single word. Vidarr!
There followed a lengthy silence.
Anger and impatience joined Larson's chosen sentiments. VIDARR!
No emotion accompanied Vidarr's reply. You bellowed for me, Allerum?
I did. Though I can't imagine why it took you so long to respond. I know you were already here.
Perfect confusion radiated from Vidarr. I don't understand.
I don't understand, Larson mimicked, his rage magnified by Vidarr's denial. Vidarr, I'm not stupid. Quit playing dumb or I'll consider your cruelty an intentional attack rather than an ignorant gesture.
Vidarr did not answer; he held his feelings thoroughly masked.
Well? Larson demanded.
Vidarr's voice emerged as a barely perceptible mumble. All right. I did it.
Larson snorted, hoping his thoughts made it obvious he harbored no doubts about Vidarr's guilt. That was never in question. He supposed'the god had searched his thoughts. Otherwise, Larson suspected Vidarr would not have confessed so quickly. Now tell me why. What's the matter? Fenrir hasn't destroyed my sleep to your satisfaction? Did you feel I hadn't suffered enough?
I wasn't trying to hurt you.
Liar! You had to know reviving memories of Bramin would cause pain.
Vidarr persisted. I just wanted to remind you how dangerous Bramin is. Before you plead with Hel to raise Bramin from the dead, I needed you to remember his evil.
Larson stared at his hands in frantic disbelief. Did you think I could forget?
Regardless…
Don't regardless me! Furious, Larson interrupted. I saved your life. I thought we were friends. But in the last few days you've done worse to me than any enemy I ever had. You demand favors. You intrude on my private thoughts. Now, you've attacked me.
Annoyance sifted through Vidarr's defenses. I saved your life, too. I neutralized Loki's magic, turning your conflict into a battle of swords. And, without my assistance with parries and strikes, you would have lost that contest. Vidarr hesitated. Then, apparently afraid Larson would break in, he continued quickly. And I didn't "attack '' you. You just don't understand, do you?
I understand you assaulted my mind with memories which caused me emotional anguish and physical pain.
Baldur is my brother.
Larson remained unmoved. Loki's final words before his death at Hvergelmir's falls returned, unbidden: "If you slay me, no one will contest Odin. The Norse pantheon will endure, supreme through eternity. Christianity can never reign. Al Larson, if you kill me, your world, your family, and the people you loved will never exist!" Larson spat. I had a brother, too, Vidarr. Rescuing you doomed him for eternity.
Vidarr paused. He made no attempt to hide his surprise. Are you still bitter about that?
Did you think I'd just forget I destroyed my world and everyone in it?
No, Vidarr admitted. But I did think you'd realize you had no choice. Loki determined that the day he trapped my soul in the piece of steel the other gods shaped into your sword. Without me, the gods of Chaos would surely have won the final battle, the ' 'Ragnarok.'' Loki would have destroyed all humanity; your world and ours would