Fenrir complied while Taziar readjusted the noose to its optimal position for each of the wolf's movements. The shifting rope scraped fur from Fenrir's toes like a razor. Then the wolf stood free.
Taziar rose, lacking the usual elation his successes inspired. Having chosen to untie Fenrir, he also carried the burden of protecting the world from his decision, beginning with two specific men. Man and elf, Taziar corrected himself. But what, in Karana's darkest hell, is an elf? He glanced at the shimmering, three-stranded Bifrost Bridge, twice a man's height above him, and marveled for the first time at how lucky he was to have survived the fall without serious injury. He followed the sweep of the rainbow to its end just beyond the waters of the wolf's island. If I had managed to remain conscious a few more moments, I could have avoided this whole situation. He turned his attention to the Fenris Wolf.
Fenrir crouched, ready to spring. Its eyes seemed to blaze with real fire. Its mouth parted in a wolfish grin which displayed every tooth. "Thank you, Shadow. And now I eat you."
Taziar took an involuntary backstep. Suddenly, he saw his entire plan crumbling around him. "Y-you made a vow. You promised your father's murderers would die first."
Fenrir hunched lower. "I merely said I would kill no man on Midgard before them. You, my lucky friend, stand in Asgard." It sprang with a snarl.
Taziar dove aside. The wolf's lunge fell short, but its shoulder crashed against Taziar's side. Impact bowled Taziar over. He rolled, then gained his feet from habit. The wolf's huge form sailed toward him again.
Gathering his remaining strength, Taziar leaped. His fingers hooked the edge of the Bifrost Bridge, and he hung there. The wolf loosed a bone-chilling howl of frustration. It rocketed straight upward. Taziar swung his legs. Fenrir's teeth snapped closed where his feet had been. As Taziar flung his body flat to the surface of the Bifrost, Fenrir sprinted for the water and the far end of the bridge.
Taziar jumped to his feet and ran down the quivering form of the rainbow bridge. Too astute to delude himself, he knew the wolf would catch him before he could reach Midgard. Fenrir could cover twenty of his longest strides with every bound.
Suddenly, a figure loomed before Tazier. Not daring to waste his breath in warning, Taziar dodged past. He was jarred backward by a fist wrapped in the folds of his tattered bearskin cloak. He whirled to face Heimdallr. This time, the god's face was dark with anger, his mouth set in a grim line. "You again! How did you get up there?"
Beyond Heimdallr, Fenrir's gigantic, black form filled the horizon. Taziar shrank away. "Behind you!" he screamed. "Wolf!"
Heimdallr's face twisted to a glare of withering disdain. His grip tightened, and he shook Taziar until the little man lost his footing and sank to one knee. "Don't lie to me, weasel! Did you think I'd fall for such an old and stupid trick, that I'd turn around and gave you a chance to escape? You got by me once…"
Fenrir sprang.
Taziar cringed away as far as Heimdallr's grip would allow and steeled himself for the inevitable. Wolf and god collided with an explosion of sound. The force sent Taziar sprawling. The bridge rocked and roiled as Fenrir and Heimdallr engaged, hurling thunderous taunts whose meaning Taziar could not fathom. He fought for balance as the whole fabric of the rainbow threatened to collapse beneath him.
The Bifrost bucked like an unbroken stallion. Taziar half-crawled, half-slid toward Midgard, aware that a fall now would spell instant death. But, as he clawed his way farther from the battle, the swaying of the bridge lessened. Gradually, he worked his way to his feet and raced down the rainbow way. Two names swirled through his thoughts: Allerum and Gaelinar. And Taziar knew he would need the help of his Dragonrank girlfriend to locate a man and an elf who could be anywhere on nine worlds.
PART I:
CHAPTER 1: Hel's Hall
"… Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell…"
– Algernon Charles Swinburne Atalanta in Calydon
For nearly a week, Al Larson and Kensei Gaelinar had journeyed ever deeper into darkness so thick Larson could discern his own arms only as pale blurs. In the last day, Hel's confines had grown colder and damper, but the blackness thinned gradually to a red mist. Larson felt as if he was caught in the bat exhibit at the Bronx Zoo or the pseudo-illumination of a photography developing room. He could see now. Behind him loomed the twenty-foot gate which surrounded Hel's citadel, its upper edges curved inward, as if to keep prisoners within the grounds rather than prevent trespassers from entering. Ahead, the shadowed hulk of Hel's citadel stood, long and flat in the gloom, and no more inviting than its fence.
The unnatural quiet of the underworld crushed in on Larson, as stifling as humid heat. Its continual gloom seeped into his being, intensifying the aching sorrow for his beloved Silme, a grief tainted by guilt. Her own magic had bound her soul to her half brother, Bramin. But it was Larson's sword stroke which claimed Bramin's life… and Silme's with it.
Gaelinar caught Larson's arm. "Allerum. This way." He started across the waste of packed mud toward Hel's stronghold.
Larson followed Gaelinar without protest. After all, his own vow, that no world could come between him and Silme, had brought them to Hel's realm of unending night. My words and Gaelinar's determination. Larson stared at the Kensei's black-trimmed gold robes and the matched swords which hung through his mentor's sash. To him, no task is too dangerous to attempt, no cause too small to die for. Now, an ill-considered oath uttered in a love-blind moment would probably get them both killed.
Despite Larson's somber musings, the task had so far proved easier than he had expected. The foul, animal smell at the entryway to Hel had either faded or become too familiar to notice. The only obstacles to his and Gaelinar's venture had been a bridge roofed with gold and the locked gates around Hel's fortress which they had scaled without difficulty. No being had challenged their descent. After several days of dodging and ducking the shadows which flitted just beyond his vision, Larson had come to accept them as harmless. Even the inevitable hardships, to which he had long ago resigned himself, seemed to have dissolved in the deep oblivion of his sadness. Since Alfheim's god, Freyr, had plucked Larson from his bullet-riddled body in Vietnam, placed him in the guise of an elf, and loosed him in a world which was not quite Old Norway, flashbacks of the war had plagued him unmercifully. Now, even that familiar madness had abandoned him. I wonder why everyone doesn't come to Hel and reclaim his dead. Larson suspected he would soon find out.
Gaelinar stopped before the open portal to Hel's citadel and whispered a warning. "Do not address the dead, not even Silme, until we've spoken with Hel."
Beyond his mentor, Larson glimpsed a hallway packed with milling figures. The ruddy haze which enshrouded the scene gave them a ghostly cast. The dead? Ghostly? Larson's gut knotted. Suddenly, his mind filled with doubts and questions.
But before Larson could sort through his mental confusion, Gaelinar passed through the doorway and started down a hall of paneled ash. "I'd like to handle this peacefully."
Larson swallowed hard, nodded agreement and trailed Gaelinar closely. He harbored no wish to battle another deity. Although he had slain Loki, he attributed most of his success to the sapphire-rank Dragonmage he had come to rescue and to the silent god, Vidarr, who had been trapped in Larson's sword by Loki's spell.
Lost in thought, Larson nearly collided with a figure which seemed to materialize before him. It was a man, his body green and puckered. Rotted skin hung in strips from a face of yellowed bone. Dull, shriveled eyes turned in their sockets and settled on Larson.