Instinctively, Larson dropped to the ground, held himself flat and silent in the gloom. Then, remembering that the thieves in this world carried no guns or grenades, he caught the sword hilt and sprinted after the retreating child. Though encumbered by the weapon's weight, Larson overtook Brendor halfway across the plowed field, and matched the child's pace. Like hunted deer, elf and boy bounded across the tract. By the time they reached the gate, Larson's legs ached from the effort, and he had twisted his ankles countless times.
Only when they reached the alley did they dare to look behind. The cottage stood shrouded in haze, but it seemed no thieves dared pursue the elven swordsman and his "master Dragonrank." Larson tried not to imagine who would have suffered Gilbyr's wrath had the thief realized the magic-using adept could be better called inept.
As he regained his breath, Larson looked at Brendor, and the boy returned his stare. "You spoiled my ambush," Brendor accused.
"It's only fair," Larson snapped back. "You ruined my dinner."
Brendor smothered a giggle. "Ruined Gilbyr's face, too."
Struck by the absurdity of the comment after their harrowing series of experiences, Larson laughed so hard he needed to catch the gate to keep his balance. Brendor lapsed into convulsive titterings. Their chortles melded to a gleeful duet as tension broke in a rush of camaraderie. Elf and boy regained composure simultaneously. Then Brendor hiccuped, and they burst into wild laughter again.
Less than a yard deeper in the alley, someone spoke. "Where have you two been?"
Startled, Larson inhaled a mouthful of saliva. No longer laughing, he wheeled to face a thin man in black-trimmed gold robes. The adrenalin rush inspired by Gaelinar's swift, silent appearance strained Larson's cry of welcome.
Gaelinar took no notice. "I thought you'd meet us in the tavern."
"We went exploring." Larson lied, not wishing to explain to the swordmaster how he had disarmed himself in battle and was forced to retrieve his sword from bandits.
Gaelinar fondled the brocade at his sword hilt. "Looking for trouble would better describe it if I'm to believe Ura. He told me you challenged the guard captain."
"Welclass="underline" " started Larson, with no idea how he would finish the sentence.
Gaelinar did not need explanations. He scrutinized Larson in the waning light. "Did you at least win?"
"Of course," Larson said with a false confidence. Impossible as it seemed, his reply was true.
"Good." The Kensei turned in a swirl of gold robes and started down the alley. "Then you should do well with your first sword lesson tonight."
Brendor and Larson trotted behind Gaelinar. "Tonight?" repeated Larson incredulously, feeling very tired.
"Tonight," Gaelinar confirmed with a toss of his gray locks. "But just until dark. I would have started sooner had I known you made a habit of antagonizing guards."
Larson wanted to protest but could think of nothing convincing to say. The alleyway broadened and met the road before Ura's Inn, conspicuously devoid of the afternoon crowd. Forste -Mar had literally closed for the evening.
Gaelinar continued. "Silme settled your tab at the tavern. I've never traveled on Alfheim, Allerum, but here we pay for our meals before we leave the table." He nodded toward the hulking shape of the inn. " Brendor, get some sleep. Silme rented a suite for an infinitely reasonable price, and Ura gave her the sack of rations you left in the barroom. She can get very convincing." The slight smile which played across Gaelinar's lips as he thumbed his sword guard caused Larson to wonder about the Kensei's role in Ura's persuasion.
Brendor headed for the inn, and Gaelinar called after him. "And don't bother Silme until morning!" Swiftly, the Kensei turned and strode along the hard-packed road. "How much do you know about swordplay?"
Larson jogged to keep up with his companion. "Nothing. Believe it or not, men in my world haven't used swords for centuries."
Gaelinar made a disgruntled noise. "I commend the peacefulness of your people. But just because you've put an end to warfare doesn't mean you should forget weapons skills."
" Wha -huh?" Larson's incoherent reply was star-tied from him. Throughout the last few days, nightmare visions of Vietnam had haunted his waking moments as well as his dreams. Though he would have preferred to erase the war from memory, its actuality was too vivid to deny, even to a friend from a happier world. "I'm afraid my people abandoned swords for more lethal weapons. So long as a world contains men and issues, war will result."
"True enough." Gaelinar ducked beneath an age-blackened rope which enclosed a square of freshly-raked sand. "But disagreement needn't end in death. Many worthy opponents have become allies. And there is a glory to dying in a battle you and an able enemy chose to fight. Men here believe death in valorous combat earns a place in Odin's Valhalla for oneself or a noble foe. There souls battle through the day; those slain rise again each evening in preparation for the final war against Loki and his minions. The infirm and cowardly join Loki's Hel hordes, forced to side against mankind for the cause of utter Chaos."
Larson supposed the roped off area was a practice ground for guards. He followed Gaelinar, convinced the most important phrase in the Kensei's rhetoric was "chose to fight." Vietnam seemed nothing better than a lame excuse to satisfy the cruel fantasies of men and goad eighteen-year-old children to murder and misguided vengeance.
"Philosophy will not save you from my lesson." Gaelinar's katana sprang silently from its sheath. Its tip pointed toward Valvitnir's scabbard. "You will now begin the way."
Larson waited for an explanation which never came. He watched in silence as Gaelinar walked to the center of the field. Faster than Larson could follow, the Kensei drew his shoto and executed a strike with its handle. The katana followed with an upward cut. Gaelinar recovered, both swords close to his body.
Awed, Larson rested his hand on Valvitnir's pommel as he watched Gaelinar's swords flow around the Kensei, scattering reflections of the rising moon. Then a subtle change in timing gave his strokes the cruel snap of flames leaping through kindling. Abruptly, the Kensei stopped. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve and beckoned Larson forward. Expectantly, Larson approached his teacher.
"You must learn much in a short time," said Gaelinar. "I will teach you a lot, but you will teach yourself more. Draw your sword."
Larson found Valvitnir's hilt and unsheathed the sword. The leather molded to his hand, but the grip shifted like a living thing against his palm until his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger rested only lightly on it while his remaining two fingers held the sword firmly. With a surprised gasp, Larson let the weapon drop from his hand. The blade struck the sand with a thump and lay still.
At Gaelinar's curious look, Larson reclaimed the sword sheepishly, certain fatigue accounted for his strange perception. The hilt settled in his grip. With the patience of wind whittling a mountain range, Valvitnir again adjusted to the proper position in Larson's hand.
"Good." The Kensei nodded his approval. "I see you've had some training. You do hold the sword properly. Now you'll learn your first form. Watch." Gaelinar sheathed his companion sword and gripped his katana in his right hand. Larson watched intently as his teacher positioned himself, left foot ahead and sword low. Gaelinar stepped forward and arched his sword over his head, then drove downward and slightly past his leg.
Larson chuckled inwardly as Gaelinar repeated the maneuver half a dozen times to either side of his body. This will be easy, he told himself. Strange laughter accompanied his assessment. Larson spun and saw no one. He and the Kensei were alone, and his teacher was not amused. Confused, Larson dismissed the incident as hallucination, attributing his odd perceptions to fatigue.