Chapter 7
Godslayer
"Death closes alclass="underline" but something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with gods."
– Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses
Larson whirled. Light lanced toward him from the direction of the valleys. He cringed defensively. The magics struck Valvitnir and broke to streamers vivid as rockets. "Yow!" Larson dropped flat to the ground. The valleys seemed to mock him, black as moonless night, yet somewhere in the gloom stalked a sorcerer more dangerous than any sniper. /5 it Loki?
Yes, Vidarr confirmed. Look up. And lift your sword, or I won't be able to shield you from his spells
Pressed tight to the dirt out of habit, Larson raised his eyes. Reddish light hovered on a crag above Sylg's valley. In its center, Loki gestured, menacing as a demon in a fire pit. His sorceries streaked toward Larson with a roar like thunder. Larson rolled aside. Enchantments swirled into a fizzling whirlwind and funneled into Valvitnir's blade. How?
Vidarr's presence seemed weak in Larson's mind. Not certain. Some aspect of Loki's imprisonment spell renders me capable of negating his other magics. Vidarr's reply came, labored as a winded asthmatic. But it requires concentration:
Larson rose to a crouch, seeking cover. On the cliff face, light flared around Loki, brief and glorious as a dying star. Larson squinted against its brilliance. Red and green shadows winked on the inside of his eyelids. When he recovered his vision, Loki was gone.
Where is he? Dammit, where is he? Larson spun like a dancer, sword pressed to his chest in a position more appropriate for a gun.
Be still! Vidarr chastised, but his tone betrayed fear.
Between Sylg's valley and Larson, sorceries blazed. He raised Valvitnir offensively, shielding his eyes as light billowed to agonizing intensity, a mocking column of white flame. The enchantments broke suddenly to traces. Ahead, Loki appeared, sword readied, beneath his fading magics.
Larson felt Vidarr poised to fight enchantments. Loki lunged forward. Larson blocked. The blades met in a shower of glittering sparks. Impact jarred Larson to the elbow. He staggered backward, recovering just in time to block a second strike. The force of Loki's blow drove Larson nearly to his knees.
Loki's assault seemed ceaseless. His strokes came fast and were rhythmically competent. They left Larson no opening for anything but awkward blocks and retreat. The god's face pinched in concentration. Yet, despite Larson's obvious inexperience,
Loki treated his opponent like a worthy threat. He displayed none of Bramin's assuredness. Loki knew overconfidence contrives incompetence.
Larson defended as well as he could, but his efforts seemed woefully inadequate. Loki's sword bit rents in his tunic and skin. Any one of the god's maneuvers could easily have taken Larson's life. But Loki's strategy soon became obvious. He would drive wielder and godsword into the Helspring together, obviating the need to handle Valvitnir himself. And Larson was helpless to prevent him.
Loki's sword wove a wall of steel, herding Larson toward Hvergelmir as a shepherd does an errant sheep. The sharp nicks of his enemy's blade reawakened the throbbing pains left from Larson's fight with Bramin. Tortured sinews screamed with every movement. His face felt as if it were on fire. He tried to stand firm against Loki's hammering blows, but his body could no longer obey.
Blow after blow rang against Valvitnir. Larson's ears buzzed, then roared. Ice shards prickled the back of his neck. The cold made him realize, with sudden terror, that the noises in his head did not come from within; Loki had driven him to the verge of Hvergelmir's pit.
"Christ!" Larson dredged deep for reserves of energy. Strength flowed back, into his limbs. But the effort of blocking Loki's strokes drained his second wind almost instantly. Fatigue obscured Larson's vision to a blur. Sweat stung the many scratches inflicted by Loki. Scarcely able to lift his arms, Larson could only retreat and let Valvitnir tend defense.
Loki bore in. Larson recoiled. The ground fell out beneath his heel. Near panic, he staggered away from the ledge and nearly impaled himself on Loki's blade. Hope shattered beneath a wild explosion of despair. What the hell am I fighting for anyway?
Vidarr's reply seemed weak, as if the efforts of defense cost him as much as Larson. Loved ones, Allerum. The future, my freedom:
And liberty and justice for alclass="underline"
Loki's eyes glittered, violet-blue as gemstones. He drew back his arm for the final lunge.
Loved ones, Vidarr? Larson's thoughts grew bitter. Silme's dead. She's dead by my own hand. Silme is DEAD! Whose cause:
Vidarr jerked upward to block. Her cause! And the cause of all men in the future.
Larson stood, ready to accept the death prom- ised by Loki's descending sword. The Fate giantess, Skuld, claimed freeing you would doom my people.
Vidarr's mental presence went oddly silent. Loki lanced forward.
Larson demanded an answer. Vidarr!
Gaelinar! Vidarr's cry echoed through Larson's consciousness. Hope displaced futility in a corner of his mind. A shuriken skimmed through the air, visible only as a glint from a sun ray. It embedded in Loki's sword hand with a nearly inaudible thunk.
Loki uttered a startled oath. Rather than drop his sword, he pulled his thrust. Holding his blade between Larson and himself, Loki twisted toward his new antagonist. Magics crackled from his outstretched left hand and sheeted toward Kensei Gaelinar.
"No!" Concerned for Gaelinar's life, Larson struck. His upstroke crashed into Loki's armpit, and bit through muscle. Loki screamed. The shuriken dislodged from his hand, flicking blood across Larson's foot. Of itself, Valvitnir jerked downward, severing the tendon behind Loki's knee.
Loki fell. Unable to use his right arm to catch himself, he dropped, face first, to the mud. Larson pressed Valvitnir's point to the back of his neck. The Trickster howled his frustration.
"Wait!" Loki's high-pitched voice betrayed fear.
Hatred, exhaustion, and grief warred within Larson, warping intellect in a gray haze of confusion. Despite its frightened quality, Loki's command held an inviolate authority. Larson paused.
Loki continued quickly. "If you kill me, you destroy your own world."
Loki's voice inspired violent hatred in Larson for this god who had twisted Silme's half brother into a vindictive demon and designed the ruin of gods and men. Abhorrence flared toward the god whose ugly daughter possessed Silme's soul. "Die, you scum!" He arched Valvitnir to gain momentum. The blade leaped hungrily for Loki's neck.
Loki loosed a cry, half sob and half scream. "Your mother's blood is on your hands!"
Inches from Loki, Larson pulled his blow. The accusation seared like a hot knife, but he dared not display weakness before the Trickster. "Explain, " was all he trusted himself to say.
Vidarr's presence intervened, weaker than a whisper. Caution, Allerum. He'll trap you, too.
Larson pressed Valvitnir tighter to Loki's neck. Though the sword fought Larson's restraint, he forced it steady. A second mental being poked gently into Larson's mind, more powerful than the first and as beautiful as the god at his mercy. If you slay me, no one will contest Odin. The Norse pantheon will endure, supreme through eternity. Christianity can never reign. Al Larson, if you kill me, your world, your family, and the people you loved will never exist!
Never exist: never exist: The last phrase reverberated through Larson's mind and no original thought replaced it. Loki's mental essence reached for a memory.
No! Vidarr blocked Loki like a physical entity. You can't:
Stop me! Loki's far stronger presence thrust Vidarr aside effortlessly. Larson remained motionless, his eyes fixed on Gaelinar, who struggled to his feet, still dazed by Loki's magics.