Taziar fingered his collar and the bruises beneath it, feeling awkward and confused. "Thank you," he replied.
Al Larson peered through the rocky crevice which formed the entrance to Hel. Behind him, eleven rivers, braided into one, raged down from the cliffs of Midgard to batter the ground before Hel's entry way. The torrent flung icy droplets which bounced from his skin and stung like tiny wasps. The lake surrounding the waterfall occupied most of the circular valley which enclosed it, leaving a shelf of packed and cold-hardened silt through which the combined rivers flowed into Hel.
Gaelinar descended from the narrow pathway which threaded into the valley. "Go on." He gestured at the tunnel.
Larson stared. He could see nothing but the black infinity of Hel. "The Hel hound." Recalling how he had blundered blindly into the beast and nearly paid with his leg, Larson felt unwilling to make the same mistake twice. "We'll have to get past it."
"No difficulty to that." Gaelinar walked to Larson's side. "As Hel said, her realm was never designed to keep men out. The hound is trained to prevent escapes, not entrances. If Fenrir didn't kill the Hel hound, you won't even see it."
Larson edged forward. He had known the answer before he spoke the question; he had asked more to stall and to reassure himself than from actual concern. Despite the thrill of freeing Silme, he was still not eager to enter Hel's lightless, lifeless realm nor to encounter its guardians again. And Vidarr's cruel awakening of memory had forced Larson to realize he would also raise an enemy as cunning and powerful as a god and far more dangerous than Fenrir.
Larson stepped into Hel's entry way. A putrid, animal smell hung in the air around him. He crinkled his nose against the odor of the Hel hound and its droppings until time accustomed him to it and, later, distance obscured it. Once beyond the remembered length of the Hel hounds' chain, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
Several hours deeper into the Hel lands, Larson and Gaelinar made camp. A visit to the village in which Gaelinar had purchased Larson's sword had given them the chance to buy provisions and fresh clothing, and they ate well that night. Exhaustion invited sleep, despite the discomfort of Hel. Larson awakened, refreshed. He shouldered his share of the food and drink, refastened his weapons, and prepared to travel.
Gaelinar's voice sounded startlingly loud in the loom-ing silence. "From here on, not a single word or sound. If you have any stupid questions, ask now."
Larson lowered his pack to the ground. How does Gae-linar always make his simplest statements seem insulting? "Why this sudden need for quiet? I thought nothing in Hel would oppose us."
"Nothing in Hel will oppose us, but we can oppose them."
Larson shook his head in bewilderment.
Gaelinar said nothing further.
Realizing Gaelinar had not seen his gesture in the dark, Larson voiced his confusion. "Could you run that by me again?''
A brief pause followed. "You want me to explain it?"
"Please."
"Quite simply, if we want Silme back, we're going to need a bargaining tool."
Larson placed a foot on his pack to keep track of it. "We have a bargaining tool. Bramin holds more power than Silme. Raising them both will give advantage to Chaos."
Gaelinar dissented with maddening certainty. "Hel will not agree to the exchange."
Annoyed by Gaelinar's bold assurance, Larson insisted. "Vidarr said she would."
"Vidarr is mistaken."
"Vidarr is a god," Larson reminded his haughty companion.
"The two are not exclusive, Allerum. Loki would still live if he hadn't underestimated you. The fact is, we need a bargaining tool against Hel. If she wanted us to raise Silme and Bramin together, she would have told us the first time we came here. She wouldn't have sent us off with misconceptions to kill powerful servants of Law."
Larson considered. "Why not? Our killing powerful servants of Law is in her interests, after all. And she must of figured we would eventually realize the right way to raise Silme. This way she gets the best of both worlds."
"Perhaps." Gaelinar seemed unconvinced. "But as angry as she was with us last time, I doubt she'll cooperate. A bargaining tool won't hurt."
Larson found Gaelinar's logic inarguable. "And that tool is…?"
"Modgudr."
Understanding chilled Larson to his core. "The sorceress who sent a dragon at us? How can she become a bargaining tool?"
"That," Gaelinar said in the wickedly wry voice he reserved for insulting gods and describing reckless feats, "is why we must continue in silence." His tone returned to normal. "Come on."
Larson hefted his pack. "Wait. One thing more, Gaelinar. When I crossed the bridge last time, I ran into some magical wall-type thing."
"Modgudr would have no cause to set wards to prevent people from entering Hel. Hero, I traveled with Silme for years. I know how to avoid Dragonrank wards. Don't worry about me. As for you, I want you out of my way. When I signal, stay still and don't move until I tell you. Now, come on. Our delays only weaken Silme."
Unable to see his companion, Larson followed the music of the river, Gjoll, knowing Gaelinar would do the same. Despite Hel's emptiness, its blackness was vibrant with a menace which set Larson's nerves tingling with the premonition of imminent peril. Apprehension kept Larson crouched and hyperalert. But finally the terrors of this world had come to overshadow those of Vietnam. His mind conjured images of gnashing teeth and magic long before he considered and easily discarded the possibility of snipers. He doubted Fenrir would follow them into Hel; Baldur's continued presence suggested that the same defenses which kept ghosts and men from escaping would also discourage a god. More likely, the wolf would bide its time, waiting for Larson and Gaelinar to emerge from the Hel lands, perhaps weakened by another fight.
As Larson walked, the glow of Modgudr's gold-thatched bridge appeared, brightened, and sharpened. Well before Larson's eyes could discern the distant outline of the crossing, Gaelinar pressed a hand to his chest. Larson gathered breath to whisper a question, but Gaelinar's fingers pinched his flesh in warning. Larson went obediently still, watching Gaelinar's yellow robes disappear into the darkness before him.
Several minutes passed. Larson fondled his sword hilt, prepared to rush down on Modgudr in defense of his mentor at the first flash of magic or cry of pain. Gaelinar's depression after Fenrir's last attack remained alarmingly vivid in Larson's memory. Although the Kensei's manner seemed no duferent after the incident than before it, Larson was concerned that, single-handed and without his normal boundless confidence, Gaelinar was taking on a powerful enemy.
Gaelinar's voice echoed from the confines of the bridge. "Come, hero."
Larson trotted forward obediently. "Modgudr?"
"Unconscious."
Larson climbed onto the wooden bridge, groping through the darkness so as not to collide with Gaelinar. "How?"
"I hit her."
Larson turned to his left, following the direction of Gaelinar's voice. "You sapped her?"
"No, I…" Gaelinar broke off, leaving the foreign term undefined. "I caught her off her guard, hit her with the flat of my sword, and knocked her unconscious. Now, hero. I'll wait here. You go talk with Hel."
Larson recoiled in dismay. He reached tentatively until his fingers brushed Gaelinar's head. The Kensei was kneeling. "Me? Alone? You're not coming with me."
"Someone has to stay with Modgudr. Otherwise, I just wasted my time and gave her a headache for nothing. When you discuss terms with Hel, mention my shoto at Modgudr's throat."
Larson let his hand swing free, as much appalled by the thought of leaving his sword master with a sorcerer as by the idea of wading through corpses and facing a god alone. At their last encounter with Modgudr, Gaelinar had underestimated the sorceress' remaining strength. That mistake had cost the Kensei the bones of his hand and nearly his life as well. "Do you think Hel will bargain? Maybe she'll let us kill Modgudr and just replace her with another guardian."