“We’ll find a way,” Bolverkr said with the same vague assurance Taziar had used to comfort Astryd. “And even if we don’t, why would it matter? There’s no Balance to worry about, no other sorcerers or gods to stop us. Think of the possibilities, Silme. Two Dragonrank mages sharing ultimate authority in a world without mind barriers. I promised you power. I can deliver the world!”
The enormity of Bolverkr’s suggestion struck Taziar. Horror filled him, quickly replaced by relief. I know Silme too well. She’ll never go along with such a thing. Whatever hold Bolverkr has over her, he’ll lose from greed and arrogance.
But Silme’s smile revealed genuine pleasure. She stood in rapt attention as Bolverkr rattled vivid descriptions of buildings crumbling to rubble, people fleeing in blind, bloody panic, and forests shattered to splintered, charred ruin.
And Taziar plucked at knots drawn to unbearable tightness by his struggles in Astryd’s mind. Dried blood chipped from his fingers as he worked, trying not to draw attention.
Bolverkr finished with charged promises of a rulership too strong to challenge. “All I need, Silme, is a simple indication that you’re truly on my side now. I need you to show that you’ve overcome this irrational love for a group of insignificant and ignorant strangers, something to seal the alliance.”
Abruptly aware all eyes would fall on him, Taziar quit his attempts to free the ropes. He rolled his gaze to Bolverkr and Silme.
Silme’s merciless, gray eyes met Taziar’s stare without flinching. “If I killed Shadow. Would that be enough?”
Taziar’s blood seemed to frost over in his veins. Too slow again, Medakan. And now it’s over. His heart quickened to a flutter. Still, he could not quite comprehend the changes in Silme. She wouldn’t really kill me? Would she?
“Yes.” Bolverkr grinned like a child with a rare but favorite treat. “Killing Taz Medakan would be enough. That was my reason for bringing him.” He let the statement linger, giving Taziar plenty of time to understand the significance before letting him off the hook. “But with Astryd dead, I need the little weasel for barter against Allerum.”
Taziar’s heart rate slowed, though the knowledge that Bolverkr was about to suggest some equally evil course of action kept him from relaxing even slightly.
Silme, too, said nothing, apparently waiting for the other shoe to fall.
“Destroy Allerum’s baby,” Bolverkr said.
Silme hesitated, still unspeaking.
“It has no purpose anymore,” the sorcerer continued, the words meaning more than Taziar could guess. “Evil spawns evil. Allerum’s child has as much potential for evil as its father. Kill the baby, and it’ll free you to use your magic the way nature intended. Later, we can make another.”
A smile twitched across Silme’s lips, looking foreign and cruel on beautiful features that had once represented beautiful morals as well. She glanced into the heavens, as if seeking divine guidance. Then her head sank to her chest. Her hands rose.
Spellbound, Taziar watched, fumbling blindly with his bonds at the same time. Finding the knot, he gouged at it with his nails.
A curtain of sparkling buttons wove into the air before Silme, interwoven with multicolored threads of enchantment. Each spot caught and reflected the evening light like a perfect diamond from the setting of a ring, a glittering funeral shroud for an infant who would never be born.
Bolverkr laughed, his joy triumphant, evil, and nearly tangible.
Sorrow tightened over Taziar. The death of the fetus saddened him, but the loss paled before the knowledge of As-tryd’s demise and Silme’s betrayal. He plucked at the knot, not daring to contemplate too hard.
Suddenly, Silme’s expression became pained. Her arms collapsed limply to her sides. The elegant curtain of magics dissolved to a gray net of outline, tarry smoke streaming from its remains. She gazed directly at Taziar, her eyes as wide as a frightened child’s awakening from nightmare. Her lower lip uncurled, as if she wanted to speak but could not find the words. Her hands clenched at her lower abdomen. All color drained from her features, and she slumped to the ground.
Bolverkr’s grin disappeared. He whirled to face Silme directly, his hands clamped to her arms. “Silme? What’s happening?”
“Pain,” she gasped. “The baby. Gods, it hurts.” Her words garbled into a high-pitched whine of agony.
Taziar continued his struggle with the ropes. The knot inched open. He knew Bolverkr could see him; at any moment, his magics could tear through Taziar with the same quiet apathy as Silme had used to kill her own child.
But, fully absorbed in Silme, Bolverkr paid Taziar no heed. “Silme?” he said with alarm. He caught her close, harsh, magical syllables of healing rushing from his throat. As with Silme’s spell, black chaos-smoke billowed from his sorceries, unlike anything Taziar had seen in his own world.
The knot fell free. Taziar’s heart quickened.
Silme’s breathing grew more comfortable. She kept her eyes closed against dispersing pain.
Swiftly, Taziar untangled the ropes from his ankles. He measured the distance to the tents, starting a cautious crawl. The dispersing smoke settled over him, bringing an alien sensation of hatred and cruelty, goading him to an evil so far beyond his nature it frightened him.
Bolverkr cried out, jerking away suddenly. “The Chaos I used for the spell. It’s gone.”
Silme’s hands fell away from her abdomen. Still, she made no move to rise, and her voice retained the hesitant, breathy quality that comes with tears. “What do you mean, it’s gone? Of course, it’s gone. You used it.”
“You don’t understand.” Bolverkr drew Silme closer.
Taziar ignored the corrupt stirrings within him, recognizing them as foreign rather than self, certain they came from the sorcerers. He felt the fog roll over him, heading toward the crowd beyond the tents.
Bolverkr continued, his voice growing more distant. “The Chaos I used is gone. Forever. I can tell I can’t get it back.”
From beyond the tents, steel crashed against steel. Someone screamed, followed by a collective gasp from the audience.
Realizing the noise would draw Bolverkr’s attention, Taziar rose and ran.
From the unseen gathering, a strong male voice cried out a command. Then a string of familiar English swear words erupted from the ranks, followed by a heated argument Taziar could not decipher.
The Shadow Climber dodged between the tents. The Chaos has touched them, too. Bolverkr’s right. It’s diffusing, fouling the air like a poison.
Bolverkr howled a spell word. The snap of wood and the flutter of canvas filled Taziar’s ears. The tent to his left collapsed, flames licking across the fabric. Taziar saw an open, grassy lot spotted with tents, pole shelters, and occasional young, spindly trees. A crowd of people surrounded a rectangle staked out with ropes and poles. The spectators wore an odd array of colors and clothing, some in belted silk dresses and tunics, others in crude sacks, and still more in strangely sewn fabrics Taziar did not recognize. Inside the rectangle, one man towered over another who knelt on one knee, looking dazed. Both wore thickly padded cloth, wound and tied around waist, chest, arms, and legs, partially hidden beneath hauberks of chain mail constructed of the most perfect rings Taziar had ever seen. The grounded man wore a hopelessly thin, steel helmet with a huge dent hammered into one side. Both held hilted sticks encased in a shiny, fabric-like substance.
Taziar took in the scene at a glance, more concerned with the wide open lot than with the crowd of screeching spectators. As every gaze whirled toward the mangled tent, Taziar plunged into the masses, at first hoping the sorcerers would hold their deadly spells around innocents, then cursing himself for the danger he placed these strangers in by making a ridiculous assumption not supported by facts. Bolverkr’s destroyed entire villages. Why would I think he would hesitate to murder a few bystanders? More accustomed to guardsmen’s tactics, Taziar had reacted from habit. I have to get away from this crowd.
Taziar floun
dered into a young blonde, her hair bunched into a long braid. She gave him a shove that sent him staggering into a hefty man. The collision jarred Taziar to his knees. Fleeing the ruined tent, a woman tripped over him, accidentally ramming a slippered foot into his ribs. Her consort’s boot ground Taziar’s hand into the dirt as he passed.
The pain scarcely registered beneath the throb of Taziar’s bruises and the constant agony of his mangled wrists. Desperation and cordoned grief robbed all meaning from physical pain. As the throng parted, Taziar scrambled to his feet, racing toward the farther edge of the grassy lot, wishing for cover. He listened for Bolverkr’s or Silme’s voice beneath the mingled and unfamiliar language and accents of the crowd. No magical syllables touched his ears. No brilliant splashes of sorcery split the afternoon. A strange smell filled the air, the mingled reek of smoke, chemicals, and garbage, but Taziar did not find the ozone odor of killing spells.
Still, Taziar ran. Soon the cushion of grass was replaced by a tan walkway composed of perfect, giant squares of flat stone. A black ribbon of pathway stretched as far as Taziar could see, hedged by buildings taller than any mountain. People swarmed the lighter-colored walkways bordering the black surface, dressed in a wider variety of colors, patterns, and fabrics than Taziar had ever imagined.
But as varied as the clothing seemed, the spectrum of the human beings who wore them shocked Taziar far more. The split second glimpses he caught winding through the crowds were enough to reveal dark-skinned men and women with hair in tight curls or wild, bushlike arrangements. Some people waddled on legs thick as tree trunks, their bodies more bulbous than the richest royalty. These intermingled freely with others as skeletal as starving beggars. Most fell between the extremes. A curvaceous woman swayed her hips, each step flipping an indecently short skirt farther up her thigh. A willowy man in a loose-fitting shirt and sandals walked beside her, his honey-colored hair and beard dangling nearly to his navel.
Despite the teeming mass of people, Taziar never slowed. He wove and darted, ignoring the shouted warnings he did not understand and the muttered obscenities that he did. Most of the people parted around him. Those who stood firm or did not see him coming, he dodged. The buildings confused him. Lean, endless towers sandwiched squat hovels with grimy signs he could not read. To Taziar’s left, a red light flashed. He skittered sideways, crashing into a stout woman so suddenly that she dropped an armload of packages. A bag tore, strewing gauzy fabric across the sidewalk.
“You clumsy idiot!” she shrieked, followed by an accusatory sentence Taziar did not understand.
Ignoring her, Taziar crouched, fixated on the light, expecting Bolverkr’s attack. But the scarlet flashes simply outlined a series of runes on a building sign. Shortly, they disappeared and flashed on again.
The crowd parted around the heavy woman as she stuffed her purchases back into the ruined bag. Tossing a parting glare at Taziar, she huffed back down the street.
The pattern of the masses shifted slightly as it milled around Taziar where he stood, frozen in awed stillness. Now that the people had become more familiar, other sights and sounds broke through the hovering fog of grief and fear. Lights in red, green, yellow, and white flared and died throughout the city, some curled into letters, others in hovering dots suspended from wires or poles. An ear-splitting wail cut over the ceaseless hubbub of a thousand conversations. Slammed by a noise louder than anything he had ever heard, Taziar bolted in terror. Tearing through the crowd, he slid onto the darker roadway. Brakes squealed. A horn blasted. Something huge whipped by Taziar three times faster than the fleetest horse cart. Then a red metal vehicle fishtailed to an abrupt halt before him. The bumper smashed into Taziar’s hip, hurling him to the roadway.
Dazed, Taziar skidded across macadam, the roadway chafing skin from his leg and side. His mind fogged. Agony and darkness closed in on him, and his thoughts churned madly.
“Oh, my God!” the driver shouted. His car door sprang open. The crowd converged on Taziar.
As the masses drew closer, panic assailed Taziar. Lurching to his feet, he sprinted the rest of the way across the street and darted across the walkway. Another high-pitched blare of noise slammed his hearing. Brakes screamed again, but this time, Taziar gained the sidewalk. Voices chased him.
Taziar fled in blind hysteria, unable to make sense of the sounds and sights around him, uncertain how to avoid the impossibly gigantic, metal objects that swooped down on him faster than he could see them coming. His world narrowed to a strip of vision surrounded by fabricated darkness. He flailed through the press of people, whipping across roads, between buildings, and along alleyways with no knowledge of location or direction.
Finally, pain crushed in on Taziar. His legs ached. His lungs labored for every breath, lancing anguish through his ribs. His hip throbbed worse than any bruise he had gained in the battle. Deep in an alley, he pressed his back to a brick wall and slid slowly to the walkway. His vision returned, revealing darkness to his left and a sea of passing legs on the sidewalk to his right. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he did not bother to wipe them away. Gradually, grief stole all meaning from time, place, and pain, and Taziar surrendered to oblivion.
* * *
CHAPTER 10
Chaos Coupled
He that wrestles with us strengthens
our nerves and sharpens our skill.
Our antagonist is our helper.
—Edmund Burke Reflections on the Revolution in France
The yellow taxi threaded through afternoon traffic on the Major Deegan Expressway. Jouncing with his brother in the back seat, Al Larson studied the patterns of cars, trucks, and buses, cringing each time the cabby whipped into an opening scarcely large enough for a pedestrian. The ceaseless rattle and bump of the cab emphasized its speed until Larson felt like a hillbilly locked in a phantom jet. He wished he had chosen a vehicle with working shocks as his reinitiation to twentieth-century American technology.
“So.” Timmy stared at Larson with a wide-eyed innocence bordering on hero worship. “That lady’s a witch who can read minds and make you think stuff and use magic and junk like that?”
Phrased by a child, the explanation sounded like a rambling rehash of a Disney animated feature. Larson sighed. “Sort of like that.” Defining the present danger seemed enough for now. He had not attempted to explain that he had died, then wound up in a warped, mythological version of ancient Europe in the guise of an elf. So far, Timmy seemed to have accepted his brother’s story with guileless simplicity, and Larson did not want to press the limits of even a child’s credibility.
“Cool.” Timmy bounced against the backrest, twisting to get a better view out the side window.
Still rattled by his run-in with Silme, Larson smiled at his brother’s resilience. One moment in a panicked frenzy, the next cool as a cucumber and ready to play cowboys and Indians with a Dragonrank mage. His grin wilted. Of course, it’s all a game to Timmy. He trusts his big brother to keep him safe. And he has no way of knowing how dangerous Silme really is.
Larson looped his arm protectively about Timmy. No longer directly threatened, he gathered enough composure to realize that the stakes had grown critical. There’s nothing I can do for Shadow and Astryd. If my bomb and the dragon didn’t kill them, Bolverkr has had more than enough time to finish the deed. Fighting down a wave of grief and guilt, he forced his thoughts to his present situation. I love Silme. But I won’t let her torture my family and friends or seven and a half million innocent people. As readily as his morality rose to the challenge, doubt accompanied it. I can’t hurt Silme. Can I? Larson wrestled with the dilemma, wishing he had paid more attention to Silme’s descriptions of magic and Chaos as renegade or bonded to life energy. For now, it all seemed a blur.
Timmy’s questions scarcely penetrated Al Larson’s fog of emotion and speculation. “How’re you gonna get this witch? Does she make things disappear? Can she throw fire and make stuff dance and ride a broom?” Timmy plunked back down onto the s
eat, studying Larson with sparkling brown eyes. “When are we going home? I wish Dad was here. Dad would know what to do. ...”
The word “home” triggered a new direction of thought. Larson waved his brother silent. “Hush up, Timmy. I’m trying to think.” I have to keep Timmy and myself from concentrating on home and family. Otherwise, Silme can get that information from his mind. Realization came with frightening intensity. Shit. She might get it anyway. She can’t delve too deeply into my thoughts because I know how to tell she’s there and build defenses. But she could search Timmy’s mind to its core. Larson went rigid. “Turn around!” he instructed the driver.
The cabby glanced at Larson over his shoulder. “You talking to me?”
Larson simulated a U-turn with his hand. “Turn around. Take us to Freedom Land.”
The cabby blinked. “You want to go back to the Bronx?”
Through the windshield, Larson watched the taxi roar dangerously close to a silver sedan. He sucked in a sharp breath, slamming down his foot on an imaginary brake.
Calmly turning his gaze back to the road, the cabby slowed. “Hey, man. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. But you probably ought to know Freedom Land closed down five-six years ago. They’re building these new rent-controlled apartments....”
“... Co-op City,” Larson finished. “Yes, I know. Take us there.”
Timmy stared, silenced by the urgency in Larson’s voice.
The cabby shrugged, tossing his blond head. “You’re the boss. But, you know, you were only a few blocks from there when I picked you up.” He flicked on the blinker, zipping across two lanes of traffic to an exit.
Someone leaned on a car horn.
Larson stiffened, watching the traffic miraculously part before them. “I changed my mind, all right?” he said between gritted teeth.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 19
