Gaelinar returned, grim-faced, and sheathed his katana. "If you know this form within three weeks, I will be pleased."
Shocked, Larson stared. "Three weeks? I can walk and chew gum at the same time."
"Gum?" repeated Gaelinar. He shrugged the strange word off as unimportant.
Evening breezes cut through Larson's ragged tunic, and he shivered. Gaelinar freed his katana and rested its tip on the sand. "Hero, you are a fledgling. At first, an eagle flaps its wings awkwardly and achieves nothing. Eventually, it understands. You are an eaglet without the luxury of time. You must soar and hunt before learning to fly. You will know this kata as nothing you have known before. Guide your sword with your spirit as well as your arm. When you find the way, it will become a part of you. Begin."
Larson shifted from foot to foot, seeking a comfortable stance. He lowered the sword, mimicking Gaelinar, and made a cut toward and past his right leg. Valvitnir jerked back, as if of its own volition. Larson froze. Slowly, he turned an accusatory glance toward Gaelinar who stood patiently waiting for Larson to finish. Puzzled, the elf repeated the attempt, and again the sword pulled to the same position. He gripped the hilt tighter and tried again. Though he struggled against it, the sword still adjusted.
" Allerum!" the Kensei instructed. "You needn't crush your sword. It is not your enemy. Relax. You must control your strokes. Don't swing past and return your blade. Stop the cut nearer your leg. Now, continue."
Valvitnir gleamed red-blue in the last dying rays of the sun. Larson recommenced. Apparently, whatever the sword did was correct. There are too many odd things in this world to question. Is a sentient sword less likely than dragons or magic? Its abilities and motives could be determined later. Now, he must practice.
Whatever had controlled the sword released it. Larson executed the same strokes repeatedly, and all Gaelinar ever said was, "Again." The heat inspired by movement felt pleasant against the chill breeze, but it was night and time to join Silme and Brendor at the inn.
The practice went on until Larson's exertion no longer kept him warm from frigid winds. Silme and Brendor have probably already gone to sleep, Larson told himself. And I'm stuck freezing my ass off with some maniac who thinks I'm still in boot camp." Larson's patience wore thin as his tunic as the lesson dragged interminably onward.
"Enough!" shouted Larson. "You said we would go till night, not morning! It's time for a hot meal and a warm bed. This practice is finished!" He jammed Valvitnir into its sheath and stormed toward the inn.
"Wait," said the Kensei quietly. "There are two minor mistakes I can correct if you perform the kata one more time. Then we will find you a warm bed."
Hesitantly, slightly embarrassed at his own outburst, Larson returned and unsheathed Valvitnir. Gaelinar stood an arm's length in front of Larson. "Go through the kata. I will retreat before you." When Larson's weight shifted to his leading foot, a sharp kick from Gaelinar sprawled him on the cold sand.
Larson clutched his knee, rolling from side to side. "What the hell! You god damned sonofabitch! I won't be able to walk for a week. Why:"
"If you listen, I will tell you why." The Kensei's face was a mask, but his eyes smiled broadly. And that annoyed Larson more than anything. "You have just learned two important lessons. First, do not put so much weight on your front foot. It's harder to defend, and if knocked away, you fall." He paused thoughtfully. "Also, never gainsay your teacher."
Gaelinar smiled and offered Larson his hand. With his assistance, Larson stood. "For the remainder of the evening, you are a friend, not a student. Let's see about your bed, hero."
Darkness had settled about swordmaster and pupil as they worked. The moon hung, little larger than her court of stars. Gaelinar crossed the sand and shouldered beneath the rope. "We'll talk on the way to the inn."
Larson limped after, only partially listening. For neither the first nor last time, he realized there was something unusual about his sword, Valvitnir. Like some sort of primitive life form, it seems able to comprehend its environment and communicate with me in a rudimentary way. I just hope it knows how to fight.
Gaelinar continued as Larson joined him on the roadway and they walked toward Ura's tavern. "I want to warn you about Silme."
Suddenly Gaelinar had Larson's full attention. Ideas swirled through Larson's brain, few plausible but all possible in this eldritch world which was not quite Old Scandinavia. Jaw set, he awaited the Kensei's words.
Gaelinar continued as the shapes along the roadside grew more familiar. "Silme and I:"
Larson squeezed his lids shut.
":visited her family today. I'm afraid Bramin reached them first."
Larson's eyes jerked open. They stood before Ura's Inn; the bar sign creaked as it swung in the breeze like a body from a hangman's noose. "What do you mean?" he asked, not daring to contemplate further.
"Killed, Allerum." Wind spread the tassels on Gaelinar's swords to a pair of golden flowers. "Faces twisted in pain. The bodies were dismembered and accorded none of the honor the dead deserved. Bramin left enough traces of sorcery for Silme to know without question." He added more softly. "As if we might mistake his evil for another's."
Larson shivered, chilled both by wind and the Kensei's words. He fought images of almond-skinned children screaming for fathers, fathers crying for daughters, women's last blood gushing rhythmically onto dirt floors. In Vietnam, the villains were not black-hearted half-breeds cursed with a demon inheritance, but true-blooded American boys who, hours later, would shed tears for an orphaned puppy or a fallen comrade. "Silme," Larson forced the question around his thoughts. "How is she?"
"Silme?" Gaelinar seemed puzzled by the query. "You mustn't forget, hero. She's not like most women. The Dragonrank training hardened her like the stone in her staff. And she's dedicated her life to neutralizing Bramin's atrocities. Come on." He caught Larson's hand and half dragged him toward the inn.
Trapped between two equally unsatisfying thoughts, Larson walled off his mind to a small square of consciousness. Like a man entranced, he let Gaelinar lead him to the inn, through a door behind the bar counter, up a narrow set of stairs to the door of their suite. The Kensei produced a brass key from the folds of his robe and inserted it in the lock. The door swung open to reveal a clean-walled room lit by a guttering lantern on a table surrounded by four matching chairs. Beside the lantern lay a bowl and pitcher. Cloth rags were spread neatly across the back of one of the chairs.
When the two men stepped into the room, details became more apparent between the spinning shadows cast by the lantern. The farthest wall was broken by four portals. Two were covered by drawn curtains. The others opened to smaller rooms furnished with beds of straw and cloth. Each held a night table with an unlit candle and a crude iron striker.
Gaelinar closed the door, crossed the room, and flicked his fingers through the water in the bowl. "Tomorrow, when we leave Forste -Mar, your real lessons begin."
Larson unlatched his sword belt and slung it across a chair. "Where are we going?" Frustrated by the elusiveness of the quest thrust upon him, Larson spoke his words as a challenge.
Gaelinar submerged both hands in the bowl and splashed water on his forearms. "Silme and I thought we should purchase a few more supplies in the morning." He examined Larson's torn and soiled garments with a disapproving frown. "Then," he continued in an apologetic tone which instantly turned Larson against the suggestion, "we thought we'd take you to the dream-reader."
"The what?" asked Larson suspiciously. His fingers massaged the pommel of Valvitnir where it rested on the chair before him.
Gaelinar scrubbed his face. "The dream-reader of Forste -Mar. She's an old witch with a few minor magics and a talent for mind search and thought interpretation. Silme thinks the lady might find some answers in that dream you had in the woods, something to explain your quest and send us in the right direction." He reached for a rag.