Branches rustled overhead, too loud for wind. Fire lanced before him in a column, but the tree-tops obscured the dragon's vision. Sparks bounced outward from the impact and died among the greenery. Larson ran in random circles, doubling back like a fox. But the creature followed his ruses, apparently by sound. Soon, the maneuvers wore on the elf, and his run slowed dangerously. The stabbing fires came closer, threatening to set the entire forest ablaze.
In the distance, Larson saw a more benign fire, the flickering orange of a camp. Desperate, he ran toward it. As he neared, he observed a single figure hunched before it with back turned. From the short gray hair, Larson supposed it was an elderly man and instantly regretted steering the dragon toward the stranger. Too tired to swerve, he ran on.
The man rose and turned suddenly, confirming Larson's impression. Though clean-shaven, the man's lined face revealed his age and gave him an air of power. He wore a loose-fitting yellow garment, trimmed with black and belted at the waist. Two swords girded his waist, a matched set slightly curved like an old Japanese katana and shoto. Gold brocade enhanced both hilts. But the feature which drew Larson's attention was a wooden staff at the old man's feet. Its tip was carved like a claw, and the four black-nailed toes cradled a sapphire.
Flame shot through the spruce, and a wall of heat knocked Larson to one knee at the edge of camp. "Dragon!" He screamed his warning though his lungs felt raw. "Fire: breathing: dragon!"
The older man seemed unperturbed. "As far as I know they all spit fire." He smiled encouragingly.
From the ground, Larson stared at the stranger's baggy yellow pants. He raised his head to a sagging face. The old man's eyes were brown, slightly slanted, and with prominent epicanthic folds. New danger lent Larson a second wind. He lurched to his feet and reached instinctively for the gun which no longer lay slung across his shoulder.
The stranger watched his antics with obvious amusement. "Beast won't come to ground and fight fair? We'll see what we can do about it." He winked.
Larson fought for breath, quelling panic. He was no longer in Nam . An Oriental face was nothing to fear in and of itself, though he wondered why he should find such a face in Old Scandinavia, or dragons for that matter.
The stranger seemed to notice none of Larson's consternation. He strode past the campfire where the trees thinned and undergrowth grew lush in the sunlight. Larson felt more comfortable despite the open terrain and the dragon shadow which darkened the weeds. The forest seemed much more like those of the New Hampshire camp he had known in his youth than the Vietnamese tangles of stench and death. He followed.
" Wyrm!" screamed the old man.
Larson cringed back as the dragon descended. Its breath reeked of ozone, and scales rattled together like shingles. The beast's jaws gaped. Its black fangs were like giant stalactites, and Larson dodged the globs of spittle which struck the ground with a smoky hiss. With a whoop of wild joy, the old man pulled a piece of metal from his belt and hurled it toward the bus-sized target. His hand was a blur as he pitched three more missiles at the dragon. The first glanced from the hoary chest plates. The second struck, and an explosion rocked the trees. Flame gouted and spread across the dragon, engulfing it. The huge body plummeted with an unearthly wail.
Instinct flattened Larson to the ground; his heart pounded like gunshot. Smoke burned his eyes, and fumes choked him. As he watched through a veil of mist, the smoldering corpse faded to memory. Two of the metallic missiles thumped to earth, and the old man gathered them with a curse. Larson wanted to speak. His lips parted, but no words came forth. He rose, gathered scattered wits, and tried to understand how Freyr expected him to survive with only a sword in a world with both dragons and grenades. All courage fled his overtaxed mind. No amount of field drills could have prepared him for such a madman's reality. He stood utterly still, hoping to escape his fever dreams, yet equally afraid he might again awaken in the jungles.
The old man approached and bowed courteously. "I've not had such fun in days. I, Kensei Gaelinar, thank you, hero." He bowed again.
"Kensei Gaelinar?" Larson's Bronx accent mangled the name. He extended his hand in greeting, but quickly withdrew it when the old man showed no recognition of the gesture. Muddled, he continued. "Um: I'm Al." His name seemed pitiably inadequate, so he added inanely ": er: um:"
" Allerum." Gaelinar's brows knitted together in thought. "Odd name. Elven, I suppose. I haven't seen many of your kind in Midgard ." He gestured toward the fire. "You look hungry, Allerum. Would you join us?"
More intrigued by the old man's use of the plural pronoun than the misinterpretation of his name, Larson quickly scanned the brush. He saw no one. The odor of roasting meat rose from the campfire and made his stomach rumble. Glad for human company, Larson followed his host to the fire where four steaks hung from a spit. Forgotten in the excitement, their lower sides were vastly overcooked.
"Lola's children!" swore the Kensei. He dismantled the spit and slid the blackened carcasses onto a piece of leather on the dirt. He speared a hunk of meat with a sharpened stick and passed it to Larson apologetically. "I'm not the best cook."
As adrenalin ebbed, Larson found himself ravenously hungry. Saliva poured into his mouth like the rich juices which sizzled on the lesser cooked areas of the steak. He did not know what sort of meat he had accepted from his Oriental-looking companion, but the aching void of his gut would have been pleasured even by manflesh were it the staple of this strange world.
Gaelinar answered his unspoken question. "It's the last of the fresh venison. We smoked the rest for the journey ahead."
Gaelinar used "we" again, Larson noted. Does the old man simply refer to himself in this odd manner? Larson had not seen any living creature to dispute his conclusion, except the dark elf he had encountered at the edge of the woods. The thought made him shiver, and so he discarded it. The meat did taste a lot like the deer he used to shoot in the upstate forests, though, perhaps because of his hunger, he found the flavor richer despite the ash.
"Where do you come from, elf?" Kensei Gaelinar asked around a mouthful.
Reluctantly, Larson lowered the food to answer. "I come from far, far away." He winced. His words were not only trite, but grossly understated.
Gaelinar raised his eyebrows encouragingly, but Larson lapsed into silence. His teeth ripped muscle and gristle indiscriminately from the preboned feast. But when the growls of his stomach settled to a satisfied purr, Larson grew more curious about his new companion. "Those: um: missiles of yours saved my life. How do they work?"
Gaelinar's elbow fell to his knee; his sharpened stick still supported a ring of meat. His slanted eyes slitted, and his features twisted to a scowl of withering disdain. "Your sword didn't help much either."
Larson settled back gingerly, and his chest flinched taut beneath his tunic. He tried to remember what he'd said which might have angered the Kensei. "P-please, I: I meant no disrespect," he stuttered.
Gaelinar met Larson's eyes, and his expression went from affronted to puzzled. As suddenly, he smiled. "Oh! You think:" He laughed. "No, no, hero. Magic, not my shuriken, flamed that dragon."
Magic. The explanation seemed embarrassingly obvious and oddly comforting. For reasons Larson could not understand, sorceries seemed far more benign than grenades. Unexpectedly, visions from Vietnam flared, horrific as nightmares. He remembered sitting in darkness complete save for the narrow slit of moon over the rows of grass huts. A dank wind rustled the barracks, blended chorus with the shriek of insects and the gentle whisper of sentries at the fire base gate. Peaceful. For a moment he could almost forget the ubiquitous threat of the V.C. who owned the jungle nights.
Back pressed to the door jamb of his hut, Larson lifted a joint to his lips; its tip was a singular bobbing light in the pitch darkness. He inhaled. Smoke rolled across his tongue leaving a sweet taste, then funneled into his lungs. He squeezed his mouth shut and held it, swallowing gently. Nothing could spoil the sanctity of this night.