Taziar discarded his current abstraction to study the area for the source of his discomfort. Behind him, the forest loomed. In front of him, the sun hung over lifeless fields, sprinkling golden highlights amid a flatland of brown earth and vegetation. In the distance, the village of Mittlerstadt huddled, a black spot on the horizon. Smoke twined from the town, the narrow stalks of gray diffusing among the clouds. Cook fires, Taziar guessed. His gait grew more cautious as he focused on his other senses. Wind ruffled the standing stalks, and Taziar sorted the shuffles of his companions’ feet from habit. No other sound met his hearing. He would have expected to have disturbed red deer grazing the few dried grains missed at harvest or for some noises to drift over the open fields from the town, but the relative quiet did not seem significant enough to have caught his notice.
Still, Taziar’s sense of alarm grew stronger as he dismissed potential causes, rather than bringing the reassurance he would have expected. He stopped, casting a sideways glance at his companions, not wanting to worry them with vague and nameless concerns. Silme drew up beside him. Astryd remained self-absorbed. Larson walked with stiff caution, eyes slitted and nostrils widened.
Cued by Larson’s manner, Taziar sniffed the air, concentrating on the mingled odors that had grown familiar so gradually he had dismissed them. He discovered an acrid tinge too strong for hearths and a stench beneath it that he recognized as the root of his growing discomfort. He turned to face Larson and Astryd. “Do you smell ... ?” He broke off, not quite certain how to describe it.
“Death,” Larson finished. “Yes. What ... ?”
“Dragon!” Silme screamed.
Taziar whirled. A huge, green-black shape hurtled toward them from the village. Its leathery wings skimmed air, its scaled body rippled gracefully, and its mouth gaped open in a triangular head.
Silme’s hand lashed upward. From instinct or concern, she was preparing to cast a spell.
The baby. “Silme, no!” Taziar sprang for Silme. He crashed into her side, dashing breath from her lungs in a frenzied shriek of broken spell words. They toppled in a snarl of limbs. Silme cursed. Something sharp slashed Taziar’s cheek. Pain sapped his vision to white spots, and he recoiled, tearing himself away from Silme. Hand clenched to his face, Taziar rolled to a crouch. His sight cleared enough to show him Silme, now standing, with a scarlet-stained utility knife in her fist. Blood trickled between Taziar’s fingers.
She cut me. The realization seemed so alien, Taziar could only stare at Silme.
Silme glanced at the blade in her fist as if it belonged to a stranger. Her gaze whipped to Taziar, her expression mingling horror, desperation, and rage.
The exchange lasted only a second. Silme’s motivations could wait. For now Taziar turned his attention to the more immediate danger. The dragon hovered in a nearly vertical position, its head reared back and its claws splayed. Another dragon shot toward it, copper-gold in the sunlight.
Two dragons. Fear clutched Taziar. He glanced at Larson who hunched in a perfect battle position, too far beneath the dragons to strike. Astryd knelt among the weeds, her eyes locked on the creatures.
Suddenly, the darker dragon’s head lunged forward. Its jaw unhinged, and flame gouted from its mouth. The other dragon twisted, spiraling upward. But the blast caught it full in the chest. It screeched, the sound painful in Taziar’s ears. Tongues of the fire struck and bounced groundward. Larson sprang sideways, barely missed by a flame that singed the ground where he had stood. Sparks bounced from scales like armor, raining downward, fiery pinpoints that stung Taziar’s skin. Astryd remained still.
Astryd. Understanding struck Taziar, making him feel foolish. She called the yellow dragon, and she’s directing its attack.
The green-black dragon whipped after the gold. Now above the other, Astryd’s creation straightened, then plunged for its foe like a living arrow. But the darker dragon changed its course, ripping to the left, then swerving directly toward Larson. Smoke billowed from its nostrils, followed by a spout of red-orange fire.
“Allerum!” Taziar shouted.
The warning was unnecessary. Larson dove aside. Though spared the main blast, he did not move quickly enough. Cinders hissed against the back of his tunic, igniting to flames. He turned the leap into a wild, lurching roll, snuffing the fire against dirt and dry stems.
The copper-gold dragon plummeted, evening sunlight glazing its wings like molten fire. The dark one banked for another pass, dodging too late. The yellow dragon crashed into its side, digging golden claws into the base of a wing. The force of the attack sent the green-black dragon pitching toward the ground.
Larson leapt to his feet, charging the grounded beast. He slashed with enough force to overbalance himself. His blade sliced the opposite wing like paper.
The dragon screamed. Blood splattered over Larson, Astryd, and Taziar, and the great beast whirled on its attacker. Larson fought to change the direction of his momentum, but his foot mired on a dirt clod.
Weaponless, Taziar sprang for the dragon’s head. His hip crashed into a scaled head immobile as granite, but one hand plunged into a moist eye. The beast roared. Its teeth clicked closed on empty air. Larson twisted out of its path.
Astryd’s dragon circled, unable to strike against its enemy without endangering Larson and Taziar. Its bulk blotted the sun, thrusting the battle into swirling shadow. Blindly, the green-black dragon snapped at Taziar. Its bite fell short, but the force of the movement sent Taziar stumbling into a scaled shoulder. The great mouth twisted toward him, opened for another blast of fiery breath.
Pinned between the dragon’s neck and foot, Taziar scrabbled for a hold on its leg. Blood slicked his fingers. The tips slipped from sticky scales. It’s got me. Unable to climb, he hurled himself flat to the ground, hoping to avoid some of the flame, braced for pain.
A great shudder racked the beast, pinching Taziar’s arm between its foot and shin. Then, the green-black dragon went limp. Its head flopped to the ground with an impact that shook the field. Its mangled wings sank, sending dust devils skittering across the dirt.
Taziar looked up. Larson’s sword jutted from the corpse’s opposite eye, buried nearly to the hilt. Heaving a relieved sigh, Taziar clambered over its muzzle.
Larson walked around the beast and offered a hand.
Taziar accepted, grasping Larson’s wrist and using it to steady his ascent over the blood-wet scales. He dropped lightly to the ground. “Thanks.”
Larson chuckled at the irony of being thanked for the simple act of helping Taziar climb, after saving his life went unacknowledged. “Hey, pal, no problem. Any time you need a hand getting off a dead dragon, you just call me, okay?” He studied Taziar, and his smile wilted. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he removed his waterskin and drenched the fabric. Replacing the skin, he dabbed at the gash on Taziar’s cheek. “Jesus, how’d you get that?”
Astryd’s dragon faded. The world seemed to brighten as evening light gaped through the place where it had hovered.
Taziar turned a glance toward Silme. She stood in the same spot where he had left her, though she no longer clutched her knife. She said nothing.
Taziar knew Silme must have injured him by accident. At the Dragonrank school, she had balanced her repertoire of magic toward defenses against her half-brother’s cruelties. One such spell allowed her to destroy dragons. Apparently, she tried to cast it intuitively. Concerned for us, she forgot the baby. Then I dove on her unexpectedly, and she naturally defended herself. Not wanting Silme to feel any worse than she already must, Taziar answer vaguely. “Just a war wound I picked up in the fight.”
Larson examined the clean, straight cut doubtfully, but he did not challenge Taziar’s claim. “Well, here. You hold pressure against it. I’m not your mother.” He pressed the dampened cloth to the wound, waiting until Taziar raised his hand before letting go.
As Larson turned, Taziar assessed his companion. The elf’s leather vest had absorbed most of the damage from the
fire. A gap had burned into the center, the area around it darkly singed, and fingertip-sized holes lay scattered over the fabric of his tunic.
Larson ripped his sword from the dragon, using another handkerchief to clean the steel. “Can’t believe I look and smell like I’ve spent a month in a downtown bar, and I didn’t even get a damned cigarette.”
Uncertain of Larson’s reference, Taziar turned his attention to the sorceresses. Astryd and Silme still seemed tense, casting about near the woods as if searching for something.
Handkerchief still clamped to his cheek, Taziar approached Astryd. “What are you looking for?”
“Bolverkr.” Astryd poked the brass-bound base of her staff at a clump of vines.
“What?” Taziar hoped he had misheard.
This time, Silme replied. “Bolverkr. We’re watching for Bolverkr. Dragons aren’t natural. They have to be created and controlled by sorcerers.”
“Shit.” Larson wandered over, still polishing the sword. “Are you sure? It doesn’t make sense. If Bolverkr’s here, what’s he waiting for? He’s got spells that can kill almost instantly. Why’s he mucking around with dragons?”
Silme stiffened. “Come on. We’d better check the town.” Whirling toward Mittlerstadt, she ran across the furrowed field.
The others caught up to Silme within a few strides. “What are you thinking?” Larson asked the question on all their minds.
Silme did not slow. “Against four people, especially ones who can fight, a dragon doesn’t make sense. But against an entire town....” She trailed off, the conclusion of her statement obvious.
Taziar cringed. “You think he may have attacked the townsfolk? But why?”
Larson clung to a previous unanswered question. “And, if Bolverkr’s here, why hasn’t he tried anything besides the dragon?”
“Why, why, why?” Silme flung back her head, setting her golden hair streaming. “How should I know? Do I look like Bolverkr’s adviser to you?” She finished with a gasp, halting so suddenly, Taziar had to take a side step to keep from running into her.
Larson spun, and Taziar drew to Silme’s side to see what had upset her. A twisted, male body lay in a pile of charred weeds, its clothing and much of its flesh seared away. Insects crawled over the remains.
Taziar’s stomach lurched, and he turned away.
Astryd pointed toward the town. “Look!”
Glad of another place to turn his attention, Taziar glanced in the indicated direction. Heat haze shimmered around the dark hulk of Mittlerstadt. Taziar could now see that the trails of smoke came not from hearth fires, but from random locations around the streets. The cottages appeared as broken as the newfound corpse. “Oh, no.”
Shivers racked Taziar, and fear froze him. Concerned for what he might find, his mind conjured a thousand excuses to avoid the town of Mittlerstadt. But he also knew he might find injured survivors needing aid.
Larson and Silme seemed unperturbed. Grabbing the corpse by its hands and feet, they hefted it and set it gently and neatly on the open ground. Familiar with Taziar’s discomfort with killing and death, Larson pointed at the field. “Shadow, why don’t you start digging and watch for Bolverkr. Silme and I can check for survivors and gather bodies for burial. Astryd, you see if you can find supplies in the town.” Larson turned back to Taziar and offered the sword, hilt first. “If Bolverkr shows up, you’ll need this. I’ll get another.”
Taziar accepted the sword reluctantly, aware Larson could find another weapon, though it would take some time and diligent searching. Fanners rarely had need of blades longer than a utility knife, and the ones who owned swords were usually veterans mustered by Cullinsberg’s baron for the old Barbarian Wars. Guilt descended on Taziar at the thought that his friends would protect him from having to see the corpses, then send Astryd into the thick of the town. But, before he could protest, Astryd trotted off, followed by Silme and Larson. It’s probably for the best anyway. I’d rather I met Bolverkr alone than that Astryd did.
Using the tip of his sword as a shovel, Taziar set to work.
Night descended over the gutted town of Mittlerstadt, plunging the world into new moon darkness. Unable to sleep, Silme chose first watch, lost in the arrhythmic harmony of insects as she sat guard over her sprawled companions. Silme recalled the havoc her half-brother had wreaked across the towns of Norway, the trail of slaughter she had followed, the cries and pleas of the villagers, the skewed Dragonrank education she had chosen in order to balance Bramin’s malice. It begins again. Yet Silme saw other things this time. Bolverkr’s destruction seemed far more directed and thorough. He had not left a single survivor in the town of Mittlerstadt nor a bite of food or drop of water for Silme and her companions to find. He had even diverted the primitive sewage system directly into the river that supplied the town.
Silme’s mind reconjured the images of corpses heaped in shallow graves and Taziar’s hurried, mass eulogies. The Shadow Climber had cried unabashedly. Later, Astryd and Larson had joined his laments. But Silme had not shed a tear. She had seen innocents die too many times to mourn the loss of a few more strangers. And, this time, the sight of the scattered, half-charred corpses had raised emotions she’d never recognized before. She found a rhythm and beauty to nature’s completed cycle: birth, life, and death. She saw artistry in the shattered and crumbled randomness of the city and its ghosts. The baby’s life aura flickered within her, alternately invader and miracle.
Distantly, light sparked through the trees, a brilliant blast of triggered magics. A fox sprang to vivid relief. Caught suddenly in light, it froze, then twined back into gathered shadow.
Bolverkr’s magic. Anger seethed through Silme, faded to concern, then died. She glanced at her companions. Larson slept tensely, curled like a fetus around his sword. Taziar lay on his back. Astryd sprawled nearby, her hand outflung near her dragonstaff and her head cradled on Taziar’s thigh.
Silme looked back toward the light. It had withered to a fuzzy glow through branches. This is a charade. My watch means nothing. Bolverkr could transport right next to us and kill at least one of us before the others came fully awake. She rose, aware Bolverkr could have only one reason for making his presence known without attacking. He wants to talk. And talking may be the only way to end this feud without more bloodshed.
Silme craned her neck, staring at her sleeping companions over one shoulder. Her conscience nudged her to awaken at least one, and deep down, she knew it was reckless to leave them unguarded. But another thought rose to smother the first. No scavenger will harm them with so many corpses so shallowly buried. Our only enemy is Bolverkr, and I’ll be watching him directly. They’re tired and hungry. Better to let them sleep. Again, Silme turned her attention on the hovering gleam visible beyond the forest’s trunks. Without further debate, she slipped from the field and into the woodlands.
Bolverkr met Silme just beyond hearing range of her companions. He wore a shirt and breeches of matching tailored silk, black trimmed with blue. An azure cape, draped majestically over his narrow shoulders. Neatly combed, white hair fell to his collar. He looked more like a politician or a prince than a sorcerer hell-bent on bloody vengeance, and the tender glance he gave Silme completed the picture. “Hello,” he said, with the bland affection of a friend seen only the previous day.
Silme frowned, not bothering to return the greeting.
“You’ve decided to join me?” Bolverkr did not wait for an answer to his question. He took a step toward her, reaching for the satin gold waves of her hair. “A wise choice. One you won’t regret.”
Silme sidled, avoiding Bolverkr’s touch. “I came to talk.” She added carefully in a voice designed to make her point clear without inciting, “Only to talk.”
Bolverkr lowered his hand with a resigned shrug. “Very well. Talk.” He leaned against a gnarled pine, watching Silme expectantly.
Having anticipated that Bolverkr would begin the conversation, Silme felt unprepared. She rose to the occasion, keepi
ng accusation from her tone. “The dragon we met outside the town....” Silme paused to consider her wording.
Bolverkr smiled. “Pretty, wasn’t he?”
Silme’s hand curled at her side, a habit acquired when she used to carry a dragonstaff. Since her sapphire rank-stone had exploded, she could no longer store spell energy and saw no reason to lug the container around. “So, I can, in fact, presume you sent the dragon after us.”
“Do you know of any other Dragonrank mages this far south?” Bolverkr’s pale eyes sparkled, and the grin remained. “Actually, though, I sent the creature after the village. You and the others arrived conveniently.” He added quickly. “Though, of course, I kept it from hurting you.”
“So you were there controlling it?” Though it seemed obvious, Silme asked anyway. Summonings had never become a part of her repertoire, but she knew from learning defenses against dragons that, once called, a dragon could be given a single command, such as to attack a specific individual, group, or village.
“Yes,” Bolverkr admitted freely. “I was there.”
Silme plucked at a fold in her dress. She met Bolverkr’s gaze directly, gray eyes glaring into blue. “But when we killed your dragon, you didn’t attack.”
“Ah.” Bolverkr chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. “So you noticed my gift to you.”
“Gift?”
Bolverkr pushed off the pine trunk, straightening. “Freyr and the Fates threw you together with a group of fools, and your wonderful sense of loyalty makes you believe you need to protect them for eternity.” He shrugged, his rugged, timeless face betraying no emotion.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 10
