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.