Timidly, the serving girl sidled to the table and placed steaming rolls and bowls of stew in front of them. She refilled the mugs, spilling little despite her shaking hands, and left as quickly as courtesy allowed.
Gaelinar's voice held an edge as sharp as his katana. "I want Silme back every bit as much as you do. But I won't tolerate your going against the tenets of my teaching. I'll kill you before I let you unleash underserved anger against me, Shadow, or innocents again."
Pressed beneath a tangle of conflicting emotions, Larson accepted Gaelinar's rebuke. "Punish as you will. I have it coming." As the burning ardor of his ire died, Larson understood his motivations more clearly. "I can't remember wanting anything as much as Silme. I was willing to…"He paused in consideration.
"… spend your life and others for her cause." Gae-linar finished neatly.
Larson stared at his mentor, open-mouthed but unable to speak. Gaelinar had finished the sentence far differently than Larson intended. Yet there was a truth to the Kensei's words which jolted Larson to the depths of his conscience.
A log collapsed in the hearth. Sparks sprayed. As the flames chewed into pockets of sap, there followed a series of pops like distant gunfire.
Larson tensed at the sound then relaxed back into his chair. "My own life, maybe, but no one else's. I won't give up my morals for any cause."
Gaelinar skillfully guided Larson away from the source of his anger. "Apparently, these morals don't preclude your instigating fights."
Larson shrugged. "I'm sorry. I made a mistake." He formed a mischievous grin. "You're the one who tells me heroes have flaws."
Taziar tore a piece from his roll. "Heroes have heroic flaws. Flaws which earn us more enemies, we don't need. Control your temper, please, Allerum. Crazed challenges against large Vikings get little bystanders like me killed." Larson suspected the street-raised city thief had seen enough fist fights to know how to avoid the consequences. He winked, holding a hand to the level of Ta-ziar's head. "How hard can it be to duck when you're only this tall?"
Blankets of wool and furs softened the floor before the tavern hearth, but quilts and pillows of satin would not have brought sleep to Larson's troubled soul. The recognition of the cause of his anger forced him to channel it more appropriately. It freed him to treat Gaelinar with the respect he deserved and to exchange gibes with Ta-ziar. But Larson's hatred for the decaying queen of the underworld heightened and spread like a cancer. He lay, staring at the wall, resisting the urge to roll from side to side. He knew the movement would bring him no comfort; it would only deny Taziar and Gaelinar the sleep they had earned.
The fire burned low, chasing flickering shadows across the beamed ceiling. Larson gathered his legs beneath him, with slow, fluent movements so as not to awaken his companions. The shifting curtain of light revealed Gaelinar's chiseled features beneath white hair hacked functionally short. A fold of blanket hid Taziar's face, but his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep.
Larson retrieved his sword belt from the floor and buckled it about his rumpled cloak. He rose and crept to the door. Not a single plank creaked beneath his footfalls. The portal opened on silent, well-oiled hinges. The breeze from the doorway did not affect the dying flames other than to slightly shift the speckled pattern of their light. Carefully, Larson pulled the panel closed behind him.
Ice-grained air bit down from the north, whipping snowflakes up from the ground into a whirling dance. Larson paused in the roadway. He was uncertain what force had driven him to abandon his companions and the tavern's comforting warmth, but he suspected it was the same irrational anger which had defined his mood over the past week. One thing seemed unquestionable. Hel had cheated him, and she would pay a heavy price for her deceit. There was no time to waste. Already, Silme's identity might have withered to bits of memory. Despite Gaelinar's insistence on patience, Larson knew delay would doom Silme. If Gaelinar and Shadow can't realize it, I have no choice but to go alone.
Larson knew his footprints left an easily followed trail in the snow, and he secretly hoped his companions would track him once they noticed his absence. He had no wish to be wholly free of their company nor to face the Fenris Wolf without their aid. He just wanted a way to turn their route back toward Hel before either of his friends could convince him otherwise.
Larson rounded a crook in the roadway. Ahead, a depression the size of a horse and ringed by boot tracks disrupted the blanket of snow. Larson approached and stared in curiosity. Furrows gouged to the stoney roadway and ridges of higher snow gave the impression of a struggle. A red-brown puddle near its center and similar smaller, stains splashed around it completed the picture. A blood trail and deeper human prints led off toward the border. It appeared to Larson as if some hunter had shot an animal here, perhaps a deer, then hefted and carried it from the town. But why would a deer leave the forest to enter a village? And why would a hunter carry his dinner back into the woods?
Larson's self-questioning raised doubts and concerns. He considered turning back, but a fresh wave of anger against Hel caused him to discard the idea. Gaelinar will only try to talk me into giving Hel more time. He pushed onward, following the red droplets with newly aroused caution.
The trail took him to the boundary of the village and the edge of the evergreen forest. Snow sagged the needled branches, enhancing the reflected light of the half-moon. A round, dark shape perched upon the weather-beaten sign which identified the village. Unable to read it, Larson crept closer and wished he had thought to bring a lantern from the tavern.
Larson hunched before the sign and focused on the letters. Winding paths of red marred the neatly painted name. Something warm dripped on Larson's head. He froze in position. His eyes went wide with apprehension. By inches, he straightened. His gaze roved up the battered wood to the undefined thing perched atop it, and he found himself staring into Alsvithr's severed head.
Larson recoiled with a sharp intake of breath. He had seen a similar sign before; his troop had once passed through a village to find the V.C. had left every citizen's head speared on a pole. But the horror etched on Alsvithr's dead features went beyond any natural human expression.
"Consider it a gift." The sibilant voice made Larson's skin prickle.
Larson edged away from the sign and dropped into a crouch, seeking the location of the voice. He thought he heard the sound of leather whisking across snow and spun toward the town.
But a moment later, the same voice hissed from behind Larson. "He would have waylaid you when you left the tavern. But I wanted you for myself. You're a one-man job, Allerum."
The voice was unmistakably Bramin's. Larson whirled back to the forest as the dark elf/man emerged from the tree line. Moonlight traced features black as the night. Red eyes glowed like embers. Larson felt helpless and exposed before evil more primitive than murder. Hatred burned like acid, and realization swept nausea through him. Bramin played me. Some magic or mind game enhanced my anger, driving me to start a bar fight and abandon my companions. And he did it with such subtle mastery, I never noticed his meddling. Larson's hand dropped to his sword hilt as his rage shifted from Hel and channeled against the creature before him.
Bramin advanced, his stance loose and casual. His left arm held a plain wooden shield without adornment or metal bracing. His right hand dangled well away from the broadsword at his hip. "No sorceress. No magic weapon. No swordmaster. Can you fight so badly crippled? Or will you fall to your knees and beg mercy?"