Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed

by By Chaos Cursed (v1. 0)

  Timmy made a high-pitched noise of distress.

  Al Larson managed to stagger to his feet. As he rose, he found himself staring into Taziar Medakan’s face. Timmy stood, watching in horror.

  “Quick.” The Shadow Climber said. He crammed his Dodger’s cap on Larson’s head. Too tight, it squeezed the wound, but the pain seemed minimal compared with the deeper ache of his shoulder.

  Bulling through agony with will alone, Larson grabbed Timmy with his good arm and swung the boy to his uninjured shoulder. “Hang on. We’re out of here.” He ran. Scarcely able to see through the darkness, Larson kept to the grass, tracing brightly lit sidewalks. Though he could not see or hear Taziar, he trusted that his companion sprinted along beside him.

  From his perch, Timmy prattled excitedly. “He is Robin Hood. Shadow really is Robin Hood. You should have seen him crawl all over the wall. Outta sight! Did you really point a gun at that lady? I can’t believe the way you decked out that cop.” He made several sound effects to mimic punches.

  Larson let Timmy ramble on, afraid to let his last words to his brother become “shut up.” Silme and Bolverkr will return and soon. There’s nothing left but to make a stand, someplace where no more innocents can get injured. Larson gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt nearly as much as his arm. We’re going to need food. And ammunition. He channeled his mind to practical issues, aware he could never hope to defeat two high-ranking Dragonrank sorcerers. God, I hope Shadow’s swiped some cash from somewhere. What a time for shopping. If he had felt any less battered and harried, he might have found the observation funny. He clutched Taziar’s cap to his head with his free hand. Can’t afford to lose the hat. Dirt won’t bother anyone, and half the young adult population in New York wears clothing as tattered as mine. But blood’s gonna draw attention.

  Larson shifted to a more sobering thought. There’s got to be a way to keep Timmy safe. He drew a blank, and his attempts tore memory to the forefront. He could not help but recall the last time he had dealt with a loved one Timmy’s age, a half-breed, bumbling boy named Brendor who had served as Silme’s apprentice. He recalled leaving the child with Silme’s friends in a village, hoping to keep Brendor secure until they defeated Bramin and returned for the child.

  The remembrances came, rapid-fire, between each of Larson’s running steps and panting breaths. Vivid as yesterday, he saw Brendor’s savage rush, felt the boy crush him to the ground with magically enhanced strength. He relived the brilliant yellow spears of Silme’s sorcery as they tore through the last remnants of Brendor, a corpse killed and animated by Bramin.

  Silme can track Timmy through his mind. As dangerous as it seems, Timmy is safer with me. Larson put the thought of his mother heading toward the station from his mind. We’ll just have to start the battle before Mom arrives. And hope Silme and Bolverkr take the bait.

  Larson and Taziar ran on.

  Cobwebs choked the abandoned warehouse on 6th Street, dividing its single room into triangles with gossamer walls. Al Larson crouched on a floor thick with dust and the scattered, unidentifiable shards that had fallen from objects long ago moved. Timmy huddled in a corner, his grime-smeared features angelic in sleep. Taziar sat beside a fire extinguisher and behind the bags of rations they had bought with what little of his money remained. He chewed on a ham and cheese sandwich, pausing after every bite to stare at the unfamiliar arrangement of meat and bread. He offered the next taste to Larson.

  Larson shook his head, frowning. He knew he should eat, yet he dared not do so. Anxiety kept hunger at bay, and he felt certain he could not keep food down for long. Images of Silme paraded through his mind: the smile that seemed to touch deep into his soul, her warm, silky skin pressed up against him in desire, the soft look in her gray eyes when he made a comment only she could understand. His mind seemed incapable of capturing her beauty; every glance he took showed facets he had forgotten, the perfect shape of her features, the cascade of golden hair, the firm, slender curves he could never tire of seeing. Thoughts of her brought a whirlwind of grief and hope. We can get her back. We have to be able to free her from Chaos. He could not abandon that hope, yet reality intruded. I have to fight against her. I might have to kill her. His hand fell on the .45. It felt heavy and dragging, out of place at his side. “I can’t do it.”

  Taziar looked up. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t hurt Silme. I just can’t.”

  Taziar set his sandwich on the bag of canned goods and jerky sticks. “I know. That’s why you need to focus your attention on Bolverkr. I’ll handle Silme.”

  Doubt assailed Larson. “Handle her? What does that mean, handle her? Kill her?”

  Taziar scooted around to face Larson, sitting cross-legged, the fire extinguisher against his knee. “If that’s what it takes, yes.” He brushed away the comma of hair that continually slipped down his forehead. Though routine, the gesture seemed contrived, not quite hiding his nervousness.

  Larson knew just the idea of killing anyone sickened Taziar, that the little Climber tended to freeze in combat, even when his life or his friends’ lives lay in the balance. Still, Larson’s love for Silme drove him to discard this knowledge and assume the worst. “I know she may have to die. I’ve accepted that. But you won’t kill her if you see another way?”

  Taziar said nothing.

  Larson’s concern quadrupled in an instant. “Right?”

  Taziar brushed crumbs from his lap.

  “Answer me, damn it!”

  Larson’s shout awakened Timmy. The boy opened one eye, then rolled over and relaxed again.

  “Allerum,” Taziar said mildly. “It is fair to assume I have a plan. Silme and Bolverkr can read your mind. Therefore, if I told you anything, I’d be an idiot.” He shrugged. “Despite Bolverkr’s opinion, I’m not an idiot.”

  “But ...” Larson started. He stopped, uncertain what to say. If he needed to steal an elephant from seven hundred armed guards on the topmost floor of the Empire State Building, he would consult Taziar. But for combat strategy, Taziar’s eye for guesswork and detail had proven worse than blind in the past. Still, Taziar had made an effective point. The best plot in the world became far more dangerous than the lousiest once it fell into enemy hands. “At least tell me what you want with that?” He pointed to the fire extinguisher that Taziar had pilfered on the way out of the grocery store.

  “Sure.” Taziar patted the canister, his fingers thudding hollowly against it. “You told me it fights fires.”

  “Right,” Larson agreed.

  “And you told me Bolverkr has a spectacular fire spell that we should prepare against.”

  “Ri-ight.” Larson blinked, the pieces falling together slowly. “You brought it to put out Bolverkr’s fire spell?”

  “Ri-ight,” Taziar imitated Larson’s thoughtful stretching of the syllable.

  Larson closed his eyes, his fingers on the blood-smeared headband, shaking his head at the craziness of the idea. “Shadow, if Bolverkr hits us with that spell, we’ll be cooked before you could even think to use the extinguisher.”

  “Maybe.” Taziar shrugged. “Maybe not. No one’s supposed to be able to dodge those magical lightning flashes either, but I’ve done it several times.”

  Larson pursed his lips in consideration. He recognized his challenging and irritation as a reaction to fear for Silme. Once identified, he could not disperse it, but he did find it easier to think around the concern. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. From what I remember from Silme and Astryd talking, Dragonrank magic doesn’t work all that well against nonmagical objects and beings, like us. If there was a spell that could shatter a man’s heart instantly or could heat the air around us all to a bazillion degrees or could create a giant blend-o-matic, I’m sure Bolverkr would have used it against us already. I’ve seen single spells destroy dragons and ‘living corpses,’ but the worst I’ve experienced is a spell that paralyzed me and the lightning that missed you.”

  Taziar retrieved his sandwich, not bo
thering to voice the obvious. They both remembered how Bramin’s paralyzing spell had once left Larson helpless, that Bramin would have stabbed Larson to death if not for Taziar’s unexpected interference. Both knew Taziar had dodged the lightning with a skill and speed Larson could never hope to match. Even then, the concussion had left the little Climber unconscious on Bolverkr’s ramparts.

  Larson’s words died to hopeless silence.

  “We can handle this,” Taziar said with cheerful certainty. “Remember, as powerful as he seems, Bolverkr’s Chaos isn’t infinite. If it was, he could make up any spell he wanted, even that blend-b-whatever-you said. The bulk of Silme’s power comes from him, so, in that respect, her presence weakens him. They can throw twice as many spells against us at once, but with Bolverkr’s Chaos-energy curtailed by the sharing and by whatever he’s lost permanently in your world, he’s not likely to try some newly invented, complicated, mass-slaughtering spell.”

  Larson considered, but took little comfort from Taziar’s explanation. Right. So all we have to worry about is being burned, electrocuted, mentally tortured, chased by a dragon, or paralyzed, unable to move but fully aware of our defenselessness. Great. How comforting.

  Taziar took another bite of sandwich, ignoring Larson’s turmoil. He chewed carefully, then swallowed before speaking. “I was thinking. Since I didn’t save enough money to buy more bullets, would it help if you kept this?” He held out the policeman’s gun, casually pointing the barrel toward Larson.

  Having been taught since childhood to treat every gun as if it were loaded and lacking a safety, Larson cringed out of the line of fire. “Careful with that!”

  Taziar lowered the weapon.

  “You want me to hold both guns?” Larson knew it made more sense to spread their fire, yet he had no time for a crash course in marksmanship. He realized a quick and dirty “aim and shoot” technique would only take a few minutes to explain to Taziar; but, with himself, Silme, and Timmy in the room, wild shooting would prove far more dangerous than none at all. “All right.” Larson took the second gun. “But what will you use for a weapon?”

  “This.” Taziar pulled out his utility knife. “And this.” He patted the fire extinguisher. “I’m not much good with any weapon. If you’re capable enough with yours, I shouldn’t need one. I’ve seen and felt what guns can do.”

  “Not against Bolverkr.” Another wave of frustration struck Larson. “Those magical shields of his deflect bullets, too. And I’m not shooting Silme unless I have to.”

  “Nor would I expect you to. I don’t want to harm Silme, either.” Taziar looked away, his food forgotten.

  Only then it occurred to Larson how callous his attitude must seem. Here I am going on about how I don’t want to hurt Silme, even though she was indirectly the cause of Astryd’s death. He understands how I feel about Silme. He’s not going to do anything foolish. And he cares for her, too. “Look, Shadow. I’m sorry. I’m just sick and tired, frustrated, annoyed ...” He paused, hardly daring to admit it to himself. “... and scared. I’m also damned scared.”

  “Good,” Taziar said.

  “Yeah. What’s so good about it?”

  “It’s just good to see something normal in all this chaos. Now get some sleep.”

  “Sleep?” The suggestion startled Larson. “How am I supposed to sleep?”

  “I don’t know, but you can’t afford not to.” Taziar glanced at Timmy. “We can’t go to Bolverkr. We have to wait until he comes to us. If I were him, I’d be thrilled to know my opponents had decided to exhaust themselves by staying awake forever. So I figured we’d work shifts, one of us up during the day, the other at night. There’ll be some overlap for exchanging ideas.” He waved at the darkening confines of the warehouse. “I’m guessing I’m more used to a night schedule than you. Besides, you’re more injured. So you sleep now.”

  “Here.” Larson rummaged through the bags, emerging with a flashlight and a package of batteries. Placing the batteries into the stem, he switched on the light and handed it to Taziar. “Not the best lantern in the world, but it’ll have to do.”

  Taziar accepted the flashlight, staring at it curiously.

  Larson crawled over to Timmy. Catching a shoulder, he shook the boy.

  “Hmmn?” Timmy rolled toward Larson.

  “Timmy, sorry to wake you, but this is important.”

  “Uhn-huhn.” Timmy signed, opening one eye reluctantly.

  Certain Timmy was awake enough to hear, Larson continued. “At any time, the witch and an evil sorcerer named Bolverkr may appear here. No matter what happens, I want you to stay in this corner and away from the fight. Do you understand that?”

  “Uhn-huh.”

  “Don’t do anything else unless I tell you to. Or unless I’m killed. Then, you run away. Got that?”

  “Uhn-huh.”

  Larson frowned, believing Timmy had received the message, but wishing he could make sure. “All right, go back to sleep.”

  “Okay,” the boy murmured.

  Larson moved away, hoping a sudden spell against him would not strike Timmy as well. He curled against the wall, barraged by worries and tension. His muscles cramped. He closed his eyes against a burning discomfort, certain he would never fall asleep. Yet fatigue overtook him in minutes.

  Larson awakened to Taziar’s warning shout. Instantly alert, he sprang to a crouch, and his eyes snapped open to blinding light. A grim sense of evil engulfed him, and he caught a dull, retinal impression of a brilliant flash against the painful glare. Taziar crashed against him, bowling him into a concrete corner that bruised his leg and sent pain shocking through his wounded shoulder. Something struck the stone where he had lain. Electricity raised the hair along the back of his neck, and a thunderstorm odor permeated the air.

  A second later, Taziar’s weight disappeared. Again, Larson leapt to a crouch, blinking wildly as the flare of magics faded to a darkness pierced only by the flashlight’s beam on the floor. Taziar had scuttled along the wall, and was now several feet from Larson. The Shadow Climber clutched the fire extinguisher as if it were a baby. Bolverkr’s dark form towered in the room’s center. Silme stood some distance behind him, her arm flexed in menace, her fingers clenched around a glowing sphere of readied sorcery.

  Larson seized the .45, firing a quick-draw hip shot. The bullet struck Bolverkr’s shield, whining off into the darkness. Impact staggered the Dragonrank sorcerer back a step, and Larson stole the second it gained him to dart around for Bolverkr’s unshielded back.

  “Al!” Timmy shouted from the corner, now behind Larson. “Watch out! The witch!”

  Larson ducked as he fired. His shot pinged off at an angle, defining the edge of Bolverkr’s shield.

  A deafening hiss reverberated through the room so abruptly that even Larson jumped, though this time he recognized the sound of the fire extinguisher.

  Silme screamed. Her spell splintered to glimmering fragments around her. White powder coated her dress.

  Apparently equally startled, Bolverkr ripped both his arms downward. Magic pulsed through the room, chokingly thick with Chaos smoke, and he disappeared.

  “Bolverkr!” Silme shouted, suddenly without an ally. Gathering her composure, she began another spell.

  Larson spun crazily, trying to relocate Bolverkr. Only two bullets left in this gun. Got to make them count. He felt for the .38 and found it tucked in his belt, its presence reassuring.

  Awkwardly, Taziar backed away from Silme, still gripping the fire extinguisher.

  Light tented between Silme’s fingertips, chaotic as a spider’s web, its glow intensifying with each new strand. Suddenly, she tensed.

  Again, the fire extinguisher boomed, blasting some of its contents over Silme.

  For the second time, Silme’s unfinished spell fizzled to harmless sparks. “You little bastard!” she shrieked. “You insect!” She began to charge Taziar, then retreated, hurriedly forming another spell. Chaos in the form of tarry smoke undulated from her, go
rging the room with a foul-smelling, translucent mist.

  Bolverkr! Where the fuck is Bolverkr? Larson wished his eyes could adjust fully to the wavering darkness, afraid to concentrate on Silme for fear of missing Bolverkr. Shadow knows what he’s doing. Taziar’s plan seemed clear now. He’s trying to force her to keep casting, to drain enough Chaos for her identity to come through. Larson tried not to contemplate the situation too hard. Guess this is where we find out whether Chaos and life energy are the same thing here.

  “Allerum!” Taziar screamed. “Behind you!”

  Even as the warning came, Larson heard rushing footfalls at his back. Bolverkr! He whirled, firing as he moved.

  But the person who charged was not a sorcerer hellbent on vengeance, just a boy under his influence. The bullet tore through Timmy’s abdomen. He collapsed, screaming in agony and terror.

  Timmy. A thousand emotions paralyzed Larson. The .45 fell from his fingers, the sound of its landing lost beneath another blast from the extinguisher. Larson could not know that Bolverkr had drawn illusions in his brother’s mind, warping Larson’s form to look like Bolverkr’s own. Nor could he know that Bolverkr had imitated Al Larson’s voice, desperately commanding the boy to battle. Larson knew only that he had sent his eight-year-old brother into an unbearable anguish that could only end in death.

  “Timmy.” Larson’s voice rose to a hysterical shriek. “Timmy! Timmy!”

  Behind Larson, light flared and snapped, slashing ricocheting bands through the confines of the warehouse.

  Larson could not gather enough interest to turn, but his instincts betrayed him. He spun, apathy transforming the movement to an awkward stumbling. Silme’s magic silhouetted Taziar in blue, revealing an expression of stark realization through air smoky as a barroom’s.

  Suddenly, the Shadow Climber collapsed. The fire extinguisher crashed down on his abdomen, driving breath between clenched teeth. The magics faded to a sultry afterimage. He lay still, eyes open and staring, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.