Larson stared at Taziar, glad his small companion had a habit of cutting through the bullshit and approaching problems head on.
Taziar’s features crinkled thoughtfully. “Allerum leaving can only make the rest of us that much weaker against Bolverkr. But you’ve given me another idea.”
Now Silme also regarded Taziar.
“You’ve already proven you can take people from this world to yours. In fact, from what you’ve told me, you may only be able to go back when you do take someone with you.”
Larson nodded encouragingly, eager to hear the rest of Taziar’s idea.
“And Geirmagnus has shown that even the most powerful Dragonrank mages can’t throw spells that bridge time. So, it follows that if you take us to your world, we’re completely safe from Bolverkr. We can plan, prepare, perhaps gather weapons, all in relative safety.”
Stunned by the idea, Larson took several seconds to discover its obvious flaws. “It won’t work.”
“Why not?” Silme asked.
Larson returned to the deadfall and sat. “A bunch of reasons. First, only sorcerers and gods can enter my mind. That means I can’t take Shadow.” He addressed Taziar directly. “You’d be stuck here to face Bolverkr alone.”
Taziar’s shoulders rose and fell in resigned acceptance.
“Second, the lapses into memory aren’t something I control. They just happen when I’m stressed. I usually return to some horrible, traumatic place and time, too. Third, there’s bombs, traps, V.C., and North Vietnam Army soldiers where I’d take you. Not to mention fire-breathing dragon-like things we call jets.” Larson recalled how Silme had attacked a phantom with magics that had sent it exploding in a rain of twisted metal and turned Larson’s own war buddies against them.
“Fourth, we have reason to believe my world has become nothing more than a figment of my imagination. And last, as far as I can tell, whenever I return to ‘Nam, I’m thrown back into my other body. This ...” He outlined his delicate elf form with both hands. “... stays here, unconscious. If it’s killed ...” He trailed off, lacking the knowledge to finish the sentence but naturally assuming the worst. The events in his memory seemed real enough, yet he could not discount the possibility that it all took place inside the brain of this elf body, that death for Allerum the elf meant death for Al Larson the man as well as anyone harbored in his thoughts. At best, he felt certain that death for his elf body meant he could never return to Midgard, trapped in the meaningless violence of the Vietnam conflict, forced to live in terror until the familiar death, riddled by V.C. assault rifles. Or, perhaps Freyr will rescue me again, and I’ll get caught in some asinine, Twilight Zone-ish time loop.
Taziar’s hands went still on Astryd’s forehead while he considered Larson’s words. “I’m sure you didn’t spend your whole life in this ’Nam place. If you concentrate hard enough, I’m willing to bet you could take Silme and Astryd to a safe memory. It doesn’t have to really exist. You’ll be coming back eventually.”
Larson waited, thin brows arched, hoping Taziar had the answer to his other points.
Taziar sighed, as if in answer. “As to leaving me and your body. Naturally, I’d protect both as best as I can.” He hesitated, then, apparently seeing no way around the difficulties, he finished lamely. “Fine. So it wasn’t a perfect plan. At least keep it in mind if things get desperate.”
Larson banished the idea to the back of his thoughts. I won’t abandon Taziar or experiment with Silme’s and Astryd’s lives. Besides, dwelling on the thought will only give Bolverkr access to it. Larson knew that because of his lack of mind barriers, sorcerers could read his superficial thoughts without his knowledge. To delve more deeply, though, required the reader to physically enter his mind. Larson had learned to detect and defend against presences and deeper probes, and he doubted Bolverkr would attempt such a thing, except as a full-scale attack.
Astryd’s eyes fluttered open. Her body stiffened.
Taziar knelt, pressing a hand to her forehead to keep her from moving too quickly. “Lie still. You’re safe.”
Taziar’s reassurance sounded ridiculous to Larson, and he bit his cheeks to keep from laughing in hysteria. Safe, that is, except for one lunatic, all-powerful wizard out for our blood who could be anywhere preparing our doom. He did not speak aloud.
“Bolverkr,” Astryd managed.
“We ran,” Taziar admitted. “Silme ...”
Larson tuned out the conversation, not wanting to be reminded of the rout and its consequences. Rising, he approached Silme, catching her in an embrace.
At first, Silme went rigid. Then, slowly, her arms circled him, and she pulled him closer.
“I’m sorry,” Larson whispered into Silme’s hair. “I don’t want to fight. I love you so much.”
Silme tilted her face toward his. Something flashed in the depths of her eyes, and Larson felt certain she would impart a message or distant thought of ultimate importance. “I ...” she started and stopped. “I ...” The look faded into the vast grayness of her eyes. “... love you, too,” she finished.
And though it did not seem like the urgent message she had needed to convey, right now, for Al Larson, it was enough.
That night, Silme awakened to the shrill of night insects and the unhurried, regular breaths of her companions. She was uncertain what had awakened her, aware only that it had happened abruptly, like a poke in the ribs by a sleeping companion. But Larson had rolled beyond reach, one hand clamped to the hilt of Taziar’s sword, the other arm draped across his face. Taziar and Astryd lay further away, curled together in slumber. The circle of wards Astryd had placed had dwindled to a pale ghost in the night. Moonlight flittered through the branches, diffusing night’s ink to gray.
Needing to relieve her bladder, Silme rose with silent grace and pushed through Astryd’s fading magic, suffering only a mild sting for her recklessness. Not wanting to wander too far from her friends, she wove between a clump of tightly-packed oaks to a narrow clearing. She fumbled with her dress.
Suddenly, light shattered the darkness.
Silme gasped, straggling backward. She crashed against the line of oaks hard enough to shoot pain along her spine.
A dark figure took shape, clearly outlined in brilliant white. She recognized Bolverkr at once, his eternal features becoming familiar beneath soft, blue-gray eyes. He kept his hands outstretched in a gesture of peace and parlay. His sorceries dispersed around him, plunging the woods back into night’s gloom.
Blinded, Silme blinked aside afterimages, drawing breath to scream.
“Please, don’t call out.” Bolverkr’s voice sounded gentle as wind. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. We just need to talk.”
Silme hesitated, lips still parted but no sound emerging. Usually, emotion tempered her logic only slightly, but now she found herself lost, unable to differentiate the two. She knew Bolverkr had drawn most of his images of her through his searches of Larson’s emotions: a young, intense love blind to her flaws. Bolverkr had had the opportunity to kill her before and had chosen only to talk. I’m in no danger, but if I draw my companions, Bolverkr may kill them. Maybe I can calm him, talk him out of this mindless vengeance.
Silme stared at the tall, slender wizard, watched the wind feather his milk-white hair and send his brown cloak into a serene dance. His life aura hovered in a glow that dwarfed her own, though hers was vital and untapped and his still tarnished by the battle. Her mouth closed. Her thoughts drifted to a curiosity and hunger she could not deny. The Dragonrank school had taught her that mages were born with all the life energy they would ever possess, that strength came of honing skills until it took less internal chaos to cast any particular spell. Yet Bolverkr’s power beckoned, teased her imagination until she needed to understand. Before she knew it, she had taken a step toward him.
Bolverkr smiled, revealing straight teeth. “Come with me. I told you before, there’s enough for us both, and I’m willing to share.”
Silme paused. It seem
ed so simple to follow, to forget the cares she had just left behind in the clearing. Yet something jarred.
“Come.” Bolverkr stretched his hand toward her. “I offer power beyond anything you’ve known, mastery over wind, wave, and fire, the beauty of nature and her art. Why should one of your potential stay with companions so insignificant their presence or absence takes no accounting on the world’s balance?”
Silme listened without trying to formulate a reply. She knew Bolverkr spoke the truth. Only Dragonrank sorcerers and gods wielded enough significance, whether for Law or Chaos, to seriously affect the Balance. Of her companions, only Astryd’s demise would require compensation in the guise of equal deaths on the side of Chaos. And, at garnet rank, her life could be easily repaid. Still, Silme realized that, though accurate, Bolverkr’s point carried no importance. “I’ve dedicated my life to protecting the innocent. Their effect on the Balance doesn’t matter.”
Bolverkr’s eyebrows arched, smoothing some of the creases from his features. “Doesn’t matter? But of course it matters, Silme. It’s nature’s way to destroy the weak and see that the strong live on to create a better, more vital and significant world. Food, time, and space are wasted on the weak. The mediocre drag us all under, prevent us from becoming the best we can. Come with me, Silme. We’ll make the nine worlds perfect.”
Bolverkr’s philosophy seemed vaguely familiar to Silme. She followed the memory to its source, the dark-skinned diamond-rank master who had been her half-brother, Bramin. She recalled his wanton destruction and deadly rages, the dragons he called down upon villages on a whim. She remembered the great beasts swooping, gouting fire on innocent townsmen and their cottages, their screams wound through with Bramin’s laughter.
Another image filled Silme’s mind. She thought of the hovel that had served as her only home for ten years, then, later as a blessed vacation from her training at the Dragon-rank school. But her last vision of the cottage pained. Her mother’s broken body sprawled on the floor of the main room, her arms gashed from defending herself from her own son’s knife. The corpse of Silme’s younger brother dangled, decapitated, from the loft stairs. She had found her sister lifeless in her bed, and even the baby was not spared. Silme discovered her youngest sibling chopped in the cooking pot, as if prepared for some hideous stew. Every one had died at Bramin’s hand to fulfill some ghastly, Chaos-inspired vengeance against Silme’s interference, as if the dark sorcerer had forgotten this family had once nurtured him as well.
“Go away!” Silme shrank from Bolverkr. “Don’t you know what Chaos does to people? It robs them of mercy, of kindness and forgiveness.”
Bolverkr dropped his hand. “Chaos brings only vitality and power. You may choose to do as you wish with that power.”
Silme shook her head, aware her arguments would prove fruitless. The Chaos had poisoned Bolverkr beyond retrieval. And my insistence, in the dream, that he surrender is the cause. “Go away. I’m not interested in what you offer, and my friends never meant you any harm. Can’t you just leave us alone?”
Bolverkr’s cheeks turned scarlet, and his face lapsed into angry creases. “Your friends destroyed a legacy I spent my life building. They killed my wife and my unborn child, shredded my home, slaughtered every person I loved. That crime can only be paid in blood.”
Silme bit her lip.
Bolverkr’s patient tenderness vanished. “You, my dear Silme, have a choice. You know I can kill your so-called friends any time I choose. You can come with me, share my love and power, or you can die with them. That, my lady, would be a waste and a pity.” Bolverkr turned away. A moment later, his magics crackled through the glade, trailing a wake of gray-white smoke. Bolverkr was gone.
Silme sagged to the ground, feeling spent and queasy, though her aura filled the clearing with a vibrant blue glow. She clutched the fetus to her protectively. Its aura hovered within her, more alert and vigorous than ever before. It’s so real, so alive. I can’t let it die. Yet, Silme knew Bolverkr had spoken the truth. He could kill us at his leisure. Our only hope lies in my using my magic against Bolverkr. Even I’m not powerful enough to stand against him, but if we all work together, it just might be possible. Silme let the thought trail, afraid to contemplate the possibilities and consequences. It had become her way to compute the odds, to determine even her most spontaneous courses of action by the probability of success and the way that harmed the fewest innocents. It had made her suggestions intelligent and reasonable, the kind that others accepted with due seriousness. Now, she felt muddled and confused, not wanting to assess Bolverkr’s abilities because it might drag her morale deeper into the quagmire.
One course of action permeated Silme’s thoughts. I could take the Chaos Bolverkr offers, then turn that power against him while it’s still renegade and not yet assimilated to me and the baby. Logic interceded. I tried that before, and it didn’t work. Even infused slowly, the Chaos binds too quickly. Silme recalled the contact she had created with Bolverkr, her intention then to take just enough Chaos to allow her to transport. But the smallest taste of that renegade power had made her crazy for more. Only her last rebelling spark of morality had allowed her to rechannel that Chaos to her rankstone. Its sheer volume had shattered her sapphire irrevocably, returning the Chaos to Bolverkr. If I accept his gift of Chaos, it will destroy me. Our only chance is to fight with what we have. Yet the thought of killing her baby seemed more evil and alien than attempting to tap Bolverkr’s Chaos again.
Silme buried her face in her arms. I can’t tell the others about Bolverkr’s visit. It would destroy them. Silme justified her silence by recalling the dark atmosphere of depression that seemed to surround her friends since their defeat. Nothing bad has come of it, no need for them to know.
Deep within her, the Chaos that had become Silme’s supported the decision.
* * *
CHAPTER 5
Chaos Destruction
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned!
—Alexander Pope Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
Taziar Medakan threaded through the forest east of Cullinsberg, attuned to the nearly inaudible rustle of woodland creatures fleeing ahead and the louder sounds of his companions behind him. They’re right, of course. There’s no need or reason to return to Cullinsberg. Ever. Sorrow crushed in on him, heavy and densely suffocating. It was the second time he had run from his home city, a bounty on his head and grief filling his heart. Yet, before, he had always harbored a spark of hope that he would return, that the baron would forget the transgressions of one small thief for graver matters in the city of Cullinsberg. Now, a bleak sense of permanency hung over the exodus, like a lead weight dangling from Taziar’s shoulders. It held the dark, unalterable hopelessness accompanying thoughts of death. The city of Taziar’s birth, loves, hopes, and friendships had become a city of deaths, imprisonments, and torture. It’s over. Taziar’s perspective had always been one of beginnings, an acceptance of changes and hardships as challenges to be met with enthusiasm. But the baron’s city of Cullinsberg had always remained his single anchoring focus, a place he knew by rote, a home that had outlasted his family.
Taziar pressed through a stand of pine, pausing to let his companions catch up. Silme came first, her mouth in a grim line that revealed thoughts as stormy as his own. Astryd followed, swept into the lengthy silence. Her shoulders sagged, she kept her gaze rolled toward the needle-covered ground, and she carried her garnet-tipped dragonstaff in a carelessly loose grip. Behind her, Larson stopped, drew the sword Taziar had given him, and examined the flat and edges with a scowl that appeared indelibly etched onto his features. It seemed to Taziar as if the elf would spend the rest of his life comparing a weapon Taziar had purchased from a roadside stand to the life-culminating labor of a Japanese swordsmith.
&nbs
p; Guilt flickered through Taziar. Here I am bemoaning the loss of a childhood village while my friends need comforting. Repeatedly, Taziar’s rallying speeches had kindled his friends to their best efforts, making the impossible seem merely difficult. But Taziar had played all his cards. His friends had grown numb to the reminders of past prowess and successes, and the rout at Bolverkr’s castle cast a pall over every previous accomplishment. This time, even Taziar did not have the answers. But I have to do something to raise my friends’ spirits.
Taziar considered, shoving aside his own sadness and discomfort for the cause of his friends’ morale. He kept his voice cheerful and his tone optimistic. “You’ll love Mittlerstadt. It’s got the area’s finest blacksmith, and the Thirsty Stallion makes a great meal, not to mention a decent glass of beer ...” Taziar turned and pressed onward, threading through the trees, touting a village he had never visited with half-truths gleaned from friends or outright lies. His companions knew he had spent most of his life in Cullins-berg, yet they had no way of knowing he had never left its walls until after his twenty-first birthday, and then only with the baron’s guardsmen at his heels. Aside from merchants and messengers, few people left the city’s comforts for a cold, lonely ride through desolate woodlands.
Taziar glanced over his shoulder as he detoured around a tight grouping of trees with vine-choked lower branches. “... the typical friendly hospitality of a farm town....” Taziar’s words seemed to have little effect on his companions. Silme shuffled after him mechanically. Larson had sheathed the sword in order to facilitate movement through brush, but he kept his fist clutched to the hilt, as if to memorize it by feel. The flight of each songbird sent him skittering into a tense defense. Astryd kept her hands near her face, hiding her emotions from friends too absorbed with their own concerns to take notice of hers anyway.
The forest grew sparser. Ancient oaks and towering pines gave way to fragile, young locusts and poplars. Gradually, the trees disappeared, replaced by fields of broken, brown stalks and unrecognizable tangles of harvested vines. Taziar quieted, mulling new tactics to bolster confidence. Simple, happy conversation did not seem to be having a noticeable effect. Recently, humor seemed to enrage rather than soothe Silme; yet Taziar considered resorting to gibes and jokes because they seemed to improve Larson’s mood, at least. The Climber had finally settled on a direct, confrontational approach when a subtle change in the patterns of the fields drew his attention.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 9
