Timmy’s screams fell silent.
Larson’s muscles all seemed to give out at once. He dropped to his knees, no longer caring whether he lived or died. Tears streamed from his eyes, and he crawled toward the still form of his brother, dragging himself with an effort that seemed heroic. He reached for a pulse. His hand hovered over the boy’s neck, the ragged, scarlet hole in Timmy’s shirt mesmerizing him, a solid fact in his consciousness that he tried to drive away but could not. He willed his hand forward. It disobeyed him, hanging in midair like a thing disconnected. Until Larson touched Timmy, he could presume the boy lived.
Even as Larson waited, poised between fantasy and knowledge, a grimmer reality intruded. Silme’s still alive. And she’s planning to destroy my world. His hand retreated from Timmy, closing over the Police Special instead. My best friend is dead. My brother is dead. And I’m dead, too. But I’m going to take my enemies with me. Slowly, he twisted, raising the gun.
Haze swirled through the warehouse, turning Silme into distant shadow. She stood over Taziar, her expression as blank as the Climber’s. She did not seem to notice the threat behind her.
Larson drew a perfect bead on Silme’s spine at the level of her chest. His hand tensed. The gun trembled in his grip. Despite all that had happened, he could still feel her warmth against him, still remember the concerns of the world that she repeatedly, unselfishly took upon herself. She’s not Silme anymore. She’s the Chaos-warped stranger who killed Taziar. Rage rose in Larson like fire, and he gathered the courage to shoot.
Suddenly, shadows leapt, broken like glass, as light erupted in the middle of the room. Bolverkr appeared between Larson and Silme, black smoke trailing from his figure.
Aim destroyed, Larson pulled his shot. He whipped the gun toward Bolverkr.
The Dragonrank mage laughed. Sorcery glazed eddying mist, and the air seemed as tense and impending as a predator coiled to spring. A ball of white-hot magics flared into his hands with the suddenness of a gas jet.
Larson fired. The shot struck Bolverkr’s shield at the level of his heart, then bounced into the shadows. Chaos-smoke leeched from Bolverkr’s spell. He tensed to throw, then went suddenly rigid. Light danced and died in his grip. He whirled toward Silme, the threat behind him abruptly forgotten. “Bitch! What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” He used a commanding tone, yet a hint of frenzy betrayed him.
His back. No shield. Even as Larson reaimed, Bolverkr lurched out of the firing line. Smoke boiled from him.
“The power is mine,” Silme chanted, invisible in the thick wash of dispersing Chaos. “You gave it to me. It’s mine!” Her voice was almost unrecognizable. “And I want it all!”
Dense as grease, the Chaos-smoke roiled through the room. Larson’s lungs ached, and his eyes burned. The air became rancid, suffocating him toward the brink of unconsciousness. He sank to the floor. The world blurred to two dark figures who pirouetted like dancers or like demons capering through the ruins of hell.
“Silme, I said I’d share. There’s enough for us both.” Bolverkr pitched backward with an abruptness that all but sprawled him over Larson.
Silme’s answer was a shriek that combined pain and fury. “It’s mine! All mine! Give it to me!”
Larson scrambled for consciousness, desperate to gather the shards of his composure. Dizziness battered him, upending him through a smoky swirl of vertigo. They’re fighting through the link. They’re battling over the same ugly, evil Chaos that turned Bolverkr into a monster and Silme into an enemy. With effort, Larson raked his limbs toward him, trying to regain enough balance to rise, forcing his focus to his own snarl of pain and grief. The handle of the pistol gouged his palm. He forced memory for a solid grounding. Timmy’s dying. The thought flooded Larson with grief, numbing him. The gun slipped from quivering fingers.
Silme and Bolverkr tore back and forth, limbs jerking as if in a seizure. Though no physical blows fell, sweat sheened their hands and faces, haloing features strained with mental effort. The smoke thickened.
Timmy ... is ... dying. Larson gritted his teeth, demanding a rage that would not come. His vision all but disappeared beneath the hovering blanket of Chaos darkness. His killer is here. I can avenge him. A dribble of anger suffused Larson, crushed by a voice from within. You, Al Larson, you are Timmy’s slayer. And the swirling Chaos dragged satisfaction into the thought. Slaughter. Destruction. Chaos ruin.
Larson fought the battering tide of Chaos’ smoke. Again, he raised the gun. But the darkness slammed his sight to nothing. Even movement was lost, and only the muffled exchange of the Dragonrank mages’ curses told Larson the battle continued.
But, where his own efforts to spark fury had failed, the strain of fighting Chaos succeeded. Larson surged to his feet, the gun clamped in both fists, desperately scanning the fog for his target. Bolverkr. You’re going to die, you son of a bitch. Larson stumbled toward the noises of the war.
Even as Larson moved, Bolverkr jerked backward with the sudden triumph of a tug of war.
Silme gasped in frustration.
Larson sprang for the sorcerer. The gun’s barrel drove against the back of Bolverkr’s skull. And Larson pulled the trigger in a red fog of anger. “Die, you bastard!”
An explosion rang through the room. Bolverkr toppled, Larson atop him, his body twisted, but the gun still clamped to the Dragonrank mage’s head.
Silme screamed. Slammed suddenly with all the remaining Chaos, she crumpled.
“Let’s see you heal this.” Larson fired at Bolverkr again, point-blank. Blood splattered Larson’s face. The Chaos seethed around him like a living thing. Perceptions struck him, distant and not his own. He knew a familiar war in Vietnam, escalating, fed by Chaos from another era. He saw trains and subway cars scrawled black with graffiti, children with knives battling in alleyways and concrete parks, intolerance of skin color, ideas, and religion sparking to a violence justified by warped, self-righteous moralities, a New York Larson no longer knew as home. The gun spoke repeatedly, until it dry fired, its wielder’s finger still spasming on the trigger.
Now, the anger Larson had needed for action became a curse. He slammed the gun down on the remains of Bolverkr’s head. Bone gashed his palm, and impact resonated through his fingers. Torn from his hands by force, the gun bounced into the darkness.
Chaos. Larson staggered to his feet, nudging through anger for a semblance of sanity and self. Silme has it all. It’ll warp her like Bolverkr. There’s no choice any longer. I have to kill her. Rationality seeped through, bringing an important memory. The .45. There’s still one bullet left.
Dropping back to his hands and knees, Larson fished through the darkness, scarcely noticing that the blackness had died back to an opaque haze and he could breathe more freely. A glint of metal met his gaze, and he crept toward it. His hand closed over the .45.
Larson could again discern shapes through the haze of Chaos. All four bodies lay still, Timmy at one end of the room, Taziar at the other, Silme and Bolverkr between them. Larson crept to Silme’s side. The Chaos smoke grew progressively lighter, and it seemed to take Larson’s fury with it. The emotion unraveled, leaving nothing in its place.
Now beside Silme, Larson crouched at her head. Tentatively, he extended a finger, tracing a winding highlight through the gold of her hair. Even sweat-slicked and clammy, she seemed the epitome of beauty, her warmth so real and alive. “I love you, Silme,” he said, the words deafening in the silence. “I love you so much. And I’m sorry.” He pressed the gun against her temple, wishing he had just one more bullet. One more bullet. For himself.
A perception touched Larson’s consciousness, an alien idea that took the form of concept rather than words. *Don’t do it, Allerum. It’s not necessary.* The presence did not actually call him by a name. Rather, it seemed to appeal to the portion of his being that had been an elf in Midgard.
Startled, Larson glanced around. The darkness had faded to a maddeningly shifting gray. All the bodies lay
where he had left them, but a new figure stood near the door. He towered over Larson, easily eight feet tall. White hair hung around comely features, and the gray eyes held the color and timelessness of mountains. Divinity fairly radiated from the being, a depth of sensation Larson had not known, even in the presence of Norway’s gods.
Larson blinked. I’ve finally gone irreversibly over the edge. He drew some comfort from the thought. At least the pain will be gone. Thank God for small favors.
*You’re welcome,* the other sent, again in concepts. Though voiceless, Larson discovered something familiar in the tone.
“Vidarr?” Larson shook his head, knowing he must be mistaken. If this was Vidarr, he had aged a thousand years. Aged a thousand years? Christ, could this be a future Vidarr?
Vidarr confirmed the identification.
“But you’re ...” Larson started. “How could ...” The theological implications because too staggering, and philosophy seemed far too secondary to discuss when Silme’s life hung in the balance. “What did you mean when you implied Silme’s death wasn’t necessary?”
Vidarr responded in the same complex, nonverbal manner. *Chaos doesn’t bind or assimilate in your world. It only goads.* He waved a hand through the air, as if gathering something, and the room brightened again. *When Silme cast the spell that paralyzed Taziar, she lost enough of her bound Chaos to release her from its influence. She went after Bolverkr’s power not because she wanted it, but to save you from his spells.*
“Oh, no.” Larson dropped the gun and hugged Silme to him, stroking the damp locks. “Is she going to be okay?”
*She was knocked unconscious by the sheer volume of Chaos she pulled to herself. She’s starting to come around now.*
Larson drew Silme closer. “What about Timmy? Is he... ?” He let the question hang.
*He’s alive.* The concept of a tenuous link to life came clearly with the words. *For now. So is Taziar. But say good-bye. Neither will survive more than a few minutes longer. *
Silme trembled in Larson’s arms, her lids flickering.
“Can’t you do something for them? You must be able to do something?”
*I could, * Vidarr admitted. *But I won’t. If I’ve learned nothing else over the last ten centuries, it’s not to interfere. You mortals make your own histories and cause your own ends.*
“Cut it out!” Frustration drove Larson to shout. “Don’t give me that Silent God and noninterference bullshit! I know you too well.”
*You don’t know me at all. Not anymore.*
“Damn it!” Larson could almost feel the seconds ticking away, stealing his brother’s final breath. “I don’t have time for this. You want me to beg. Fine, I’ll beg. Please, Vidarr, save my brother and my friend. We’ll discuss the implications later. You can always change your mind and kill them again. I’ll do anything! Anything, Vidarr.”
*I’m sorry. * There was no trace of compromise.
You bastard! Hot tears entered Larson’s eyes, and it was all he could do to keep from rushing Vidarr. “You have to do something!”
*On the contrary. I don’t have to do anything at all. Except return this Chaos.* Vidarr arched his arm once more. *And take Bolverkr’s body and Silme back where they belong.*
“Take Silme? You’re going to take Silme, too?” Terror battered at Larson’s remaining reason. “You’re going to leave me with nothing?” Another thought surfaced, without Vidarr’s input. “Or will I simply die in Vietnam, never rescued by Freyr?”
*All that has gone before has gone before. Your history from this moment is open. You have to chart your own waters.*
This time, the concepts seemed more vague. “Chart my own waters? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re starting to sound like Gaelinar.” Larson imitated his swordmaster; hysteria allowed him to joke about the Kensei for the first time since his death. “Ah so, hero. It’s not the weapon that cuts, it’s the intention of the wielder.” He returned to his normal voice. “I’m having enough trouble keeping my sanity. Damn it, use a language I can understand!”
Vidarr remained patient. *Just as alternate events have occurred since you returned to the graveyard, so will they continue. No mortal should know when he’s going to die. From now on, whatever happens happens, unrelated to the future you remember.*
Silme sat up, clutching at Larson’s hand.
Larson glanced at her, and her smile sparked hope. “You’re saying I can make my own choices.”
*Correct.*
“Then I choose to return to Midgard with Silme.”
*You can’t.*
“Why not?”
*I destroyed your elf body.*
“What!” Larson’s voice roared through the room. He leapt to his feet. “You promised to protect it! You lied! You fucking traitor! How could you swear to protect it then destroy it? I thought gods didn’t lie.”
*I didn’t lie. I promised only to take care of the body as I saw fit.* Vidarr ignored the advancing human. *I saw fit to destroy it.*
“You arrogant son-of-a....”
God, Vidarr finished, this time in straight words. I’m a god. And the son of a god. Don’t ever forget that. He switched back to instant conceptualizations. *Now let me explain. *
Silme drifted toward Taziar’s still form, as if in a trance.
Vidarr continued, *When Bolverkr left our world, it was instantly hurled too far in the direction of Law. Only one of two things could happen: either the world could shatter into nothingness, or we had to kill several powerful, Lawful creatures quickly. Our world had only one group of beings powerful enough to balance Bolverkr’s disappearance.*
“Gods,” Larson said, the word as much an expletive as an answer.
*Ragnarok. The fated war that destroyed the gods. All but one god. Me. One God. Your God, Allerum.*
“No.” Larson rallied for a last, desperate protest. “No. My God is merciful. You’re mean, spiteful, and deceitful. Like Bolverkr, you would take everything I love from me. But, in one way, you’re worse. Bolverkr had the decency to claim my life as well, but you’re stupid enough to believe I would draw solace from living on, haunted by my brother’s slaying, and the loss of my best friend, my baby, and my wife.”
*Check the Bible, Allerum. Your God is no stranger to meanness or spite.*
Larson fell into a deep, mournful silence. There was nothing left to live for, and nothing left to say.
Silme cleared her throat. “My Lord, may I speak?”
*Of course.*
Silme used the edge of her skirt to wipe the blood from Taziar’s cheek. The expression on her face mixed grief and guilt. “There’s no Balance in this world of Allerum’s. Is that correct?”
*Correct.*
“Well, since this is supposedly a future time from mine, I have to assume my absence hasn’t caused Midgard to collapse.”
*Actually, even after Ragnarok, the world remains dangerously tipped toward Law. It is only because I return this mass of Chaos to the past that the world still exists.*
Silme rolled the fire extinguisher from Taziar, her voice level. “Since you’ve gathered the dispersed Chaos, can I assume the Chaos you take back doesn’t necessarily need to be bound to any individual?”
*Correct. You’re asking if I can take the Chaos you wield and leave you behind.* Silme nodded.
Larson held his breath. His heart pounded, but he dared not raise too much hope for fear it would come crashing down around him again.
*That would require you to cast out every bit of Chaos you hold. You would no longer be a sorceress, Silme. You would be trapped in a world whose language you don’t speak and whose technology you don’t understand. Is that what you want?*
“No,” Silme admitted.
Larson lowered his head.
“I want Allerum. I love him. He’s made sacrifices for me, and now it’s time for me to make a few for him. I have no reason to return to Midgard. My family’s dead. My loved ones are here. And I’m not stupid. If I return to Midga
rd with as much Chaos as I carry now, I’ll become as corrupted and terrible as my brother ever was. But if you take my Chaos unbound, you can distribute it more evenly. No individual needs to be wholly evil.”
A silence followed Silme’s speech. To Larson, it seemed to last an eternity.
At last, Vidarr replied. *Very well. You can stay, on the condition that you drain yourself of all Chaos before leaving this room. Once I gather that Chaos, you will never see or hear from me again. You must accept the consequences of your decision and your actions, and they are yours to suffer.*
“I do,” Silme said, certainly unaware of the irony in her choice of phrase. She glanced from Taziar to Timmy, a worried frown creasing her features. “And I think I know exactly what to do with all this magic.”
Larson recalled how Bolverkr had used his sorcery to heal his own fatal wound. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Al Larson smiled.
* * *
Epilogue
Al Larson perched on the edge of his hotel bed, staring at the clock’s hash marks of hands and numbers glowing through the darkness. One in the afternoon. Larson estimated he had been awake for thirty hours.
After Silme had healed Timmy and Taziar, they had all headed back to the police station. Larson had sent Silme and Timmy with his mother and sister, to an uncle’s house in New Jersey. Then, the most intense questioning in Larson’s life had begun.
Policemen from two precincts had fired challenges at Al Larson until exhaustion rode them all. Seven separate interpreters had failed to find a means to communicate with Taziar. The police had forced Larson to relay multiple, complex commands to the Climber before reluctantly accepting that Taziar’s language was, in fact, a language, and allowing Larson to do the translating.
Larson smiled weakly at the remembrance, not quite distant enough to find it humorous yet. He glanced over to the other bed. Taziar slept, curled beneath the bedspread, looking as fragile and insubstantial as a battered child. It had seemed easier for Larson to answer those questions the cops had aimed at the Shadow Climber. So, instead of translating, Larson had used the exchanges in barony tongue to explain the progress of the questioning, then he’d given the police the best and most consistent responses he could muster. Once, to lighten the mood, he had told Taziar a joke. That technique backfired when Taziar could not hold back a chuckle at what should have been a gruelingly serious query.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 29
