Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

  The Chaos-force seethed within Bolverkr, and he stumbled forward in blind, convulsive rage. Greedily, he seized its power, shaping it to a spell he had not attempted for over a century. Ignorance and lack of practice cost him volumes in energy, but he tapped his new Chaos power with ease.

  Harrimans’s gaze fell across Bolverkr’s tousled gray head and harried features. He signaled his men to a sudden stop. The wagons grated to a halt.

  Grimly, Bolverkr dredged power through the self-made opening in his mind barriers. Chaos-force coursed through his body, wild as a storm-wracked tide. Driven by a once alien, Chaos-provoked need for destruction, he channeled its essence, calling forth a dragon the size of his ruined mansion. The beast materialized through a rent in the clouds. Sunlight refracted from scales the color of diamonds; yellow eyes glared through the afternoon mists. It struck with all the fury of its summoning. Unfurling leathery wings, it hurtled like an arrow for the wagons.

  Harriman and his charges stood, wide-eyed, stunned by the vision of a monster from legend bearing down upon them. One screamed. The sound tore Harriman from his trance. Rushing forward, he drew his sword and thrust for the dragon’s chest. It swerved. The blade opened a line of blood between scales. Its foreleg crashed against Harriman’s ear. The blow sprawled the nobleman, and the dragon’s wings buffeted him to oblivion.

  Bolverkr quivered with malicious pleasure, hardened by the Chaos-force whose rage had become his own. A gesture sent the dragon banking with hawklike finesse. A horse reared, whinnying its terror to the graying heavens. Its harness snapped with a jolt, overturning the cart. Richly woven cloth was scattered in the mud, and the odor of spices perfumed the air. Another horse bolted, dragging a wagon that jounced sideways into a copse of trees where it shattered to splinters against tightly-packed trunks. Before the others could react, the dragon renewed its assault. Fire gouted from its jaws. The remaining wagons burst into flame, and the jumbled screams of men and horses wafted to Bolverkr like music. A man staggered from the inferno, his clothes alight, then collapsed after only two steps. At Bolverkr’s order, the dragon whirled for another pass.

  Again, the dragon swooped, spraying the burning wreckage with flame. Strengthened, the fire leaped skyward, an orange-red tower over the treetops, splattering cinders across a row of maples. A wave of heat curled the hand-shaped leaves. Branches sputtered. Wind streamed acrid smoke, stinging Bolverkr’s eyes. The crackle of hungry flames replaced the pained howls of men and beasts. Soon, nothing remained but the diminishing blaze, unrecognizable, charred shapes, and the dragon circling the rubble, awaiting Bolverkr’s next command.

  Though no less potent, Bolverkr’s Chaos-inspired rage became more directed. The identities of the men in his vision, the men responsible for his terrible loss, became as tantalizing as forbidden fruit. He dispelled the dragon with a casual wave. Turning on his heel, he left the fire to burn itself out on the forest trail.

  Something stirred at the corner of Bolverkr’s vision, and he went still with curiosity. His hard, blue eyes probed the brush, finding nothing unusual. The movement did not recur. Unused to the amount of power he now wielded, Bolverkr approached with the caution of a commoner. Raising a hand, he brushed aside hollow fronds. Stems rattled, parting to reveal Harriman, protected by distance from the dragon’s flames. Blood splashed his short-cropped hair. The dust-rimed, blue silk of his tunic rose and fell with each shallow breath. Just beyond his clutched hand, his sword reflected highlights from the dying fire.

  Bolverkr scowled. He hooked his fingers beneath Harriman’s inert form and flipped the diplomat to his back.

  Harriman loosed a low moan of protest, then went still.

  Bolverkr’s hand curled around Harriman’s throat. A pulse drummed steady beats against his thumb, and he paused, uncertain. Despite his bold rampage against the trading party, Bolverkr was a stranger to murder. He explored the firm ridge of cartilage with his fingers, and the wild storm of Chaos eased enough to give him a chance to consider. Surely I can find a use for a diplomat trusted by the highest leaders of our lands. Wilsberg was Harriman’s home, too. No doubt, he will aid my vengeance. Still influenced by the Chaos-force that had claimed him, Bolverkr did not deliberate over the unlikeliness of their association. Drawing on his new-found power, he wove enchantments over Harriman to dull pain and enrich sleep. Kneeling, he slung the nobleman’s limp form over his bony shoulder, using Chaos magic to enhance his own strength and balance. As an afterthought, he retrieved the sword and jammed it, unsheathed, through his own belt.

  Harriman’s body thumped against Bolverkr’s chest, and the sword slapped his leg painfully with every step. His journey along the pathway became a taxing hop-step that transformed blood-lust into annoyance and calculation. Plans spun through Bolverkr’s mind. Absorbed with his task, he’d nearly reached the edge of the forest before he realized he had no destination. Wilsberg lay ahead, strewn with the bodies of relatives and friends. Carrying Harriman to any other village would invite interference from healers and noblemen, and the woods held no attraction for Bolverkr. He realized he had unconsciously chosen the most appropriate home base. Despite its ghosts, Wilsberg was his town, molded through centuries of effort, and now it would become his fortress. Enemies who could raise a Chaos-force as fierce as the one that had claimed him would need to be studied, their flaws and weaknesses discovered and made to work against them.

  The sight of corpses littering the shattered cobbles of Wilsberg’s streets set Bolverkr’s teeth on edge. Gone was the gentle compassion of Wilsberg’s aged Dragonmage; the soft-spoken patriarch who protected the village of his children’s children had died with his people. No mercy remained in the heart of this sorcerer forced to view the destruction of the world and loves he had created and nurtured through a century and a half of mistrust. Chaos transformed from intruder to friend; its threats became promises. Their relationship was that of lord and vassal, though a friend who had known Bolverkr in happier times might not have been able to tell which was master and which slave.

  Bolverkr shuffled toward the wreckage of his mansion. The familiar features of every dead face became another murder attributed to the men the Chaos-force had revealed in distant images. Bolverkr judged each crime, found every verdict guilty. And he fretted for the time when he might serve as executioner as well.

  Once atop the hill, Bolverkr dumped Harriman down on a dirt floor polished by the unnatural winds. Beyond sight of Magan’s corpse, he crouched and traced a triangle on the ground with the point of a jagged rock. Despite the expenditure of massive amounts of his own life energy, Bolverkr’s aura still gleamed, nourished by the Chaos. Power surged through him, vibrant as a tiger and every bit as deadly. He channeled a fraction to the shape cut in the soil. Red haze warped its form. Gradually, it muted to a pattern of alternating stripes of green and gray, resolving, at length, into a clear picture of Bolverkr’s enemies.

  A forest of pine filled the frame, every needle etched in vivid detail. Branches sagged beneath white blankets of snow. Stiff crests of undergrowth poked stubbornly through layers of powder, not quite ready to succumb to autumn gales. Four people tromped across the openings left by dying weeds. One towered over the others. A bitter, Northern wind lashed his white-blond locks into tangles, revealing angular features. Bolverkr stared, uncertain whether to believe what his magics displayed. Pale brows arched over eyes the stormy blue of the ocean. An ovoid face with high cheekbones drew attention from ears tapering to delicate points.

  An elf? Have creatures of Faery returned to Midgard? Bolverkr tossed his head and answered his own question. Not likely. The townsfolk of Wilsberg knew nothing more of elves than they did of sorcerers. If either had become commonplace, rumors would surely have reached us from the North. Guarded disbelief goaded Bolverkr to take a closer look. The countenance appeared undeniably elven, but their owner paced with the stolid tread of a man. His simple features seemed incongruously careworn, stark contrast to the lighthearted play of elves in Alfh
eim.

  Uncertain what to make of the paradox, Bolverkr turned his attention to the other enemy within the vision of his spell. The elf’s only male companion stood a full head shorter. A black snarl of hair fringed pale eyes alive with mischief. Calluses scarred his small hands, positioned on fingerpads rather than the palms the way a warrior’s would be. Despite this oddity, both he and the elf wore swords at their hips.

  In silence, Bolverkr studied the reflections of enemies brought strangely close by his magic. His concentration grew fanatical, and he stared until his vision blurred. Every detail of appearance and movement etched indelibly upon his memory until hatred drove him to a frenzy. A fit of venomous passion nearly broke the link between Bolverkr and his spell. The scene wavered, like heat haze quivering from darkly-painted stone. He hissed, reclaiming control. The image grew more distinct.

  For the first time, Bolverkr turned his attention to the woman at the elf’s side. Once focused, he found himself unable to turn away. A heavy robe hugged curves as perfect as an artist’s daydream. She sported the fair skin and features of most Scandinavian women. But, where years of labor normally turned them harsh and stout, this woman appeared slim, almost frail. A gust swirled strands of yellow hair around her shoulders. Bolverkr had always preferred the darker, healthier hue of Southerners, but the beauty of this woman held him spellbound.

  The elf hooked an arm around the woman’s back with casual affection. Bolverkr’s hatred rose again, this time with a knifelike, jealous edge. He forced it away. Beyond the conscious portion of his mind, a plan was taking form, a means to cause these enemies the same torment they had inflicted upon him. Though not yet certain of the reason, Bolverkr knew this woman must die. And, with dispassionate efficiency, he rejected his own desire. Only then did he notice the staff she held in a carelessly loose grip. A meticulous artisan had gravel-sanded it smooth as timeworn driftwood. Darkly-stained, it tapered to a wooden replica of a four-toed dragon’s claw. A sapphire gleamed between black nails.

  Dragonrank. Bolverkr leaned closer until his nose nearly touched his magics. His image reproduced reality with flawless definition. There was no mistaking the gemstone for one of lesser value. Bolverkr had followed the founding of the Dragonrank school closely enough to know the clawstones symbolized rank, the more costly the gem, the more skilled the sorcerer. A sapphire placed this woman just below master. Power even distantly approaching hers was almost singularly rare, but it did not surprise Bolverkr. Behind any unnatural act of mass murder must stand a Dragonrank mage.

  Despite reckless squanderings of life energy, enough to have killed Bolverkr twice over without the added power of the Chaos-force, the edges of his aura scarcely felt dulled. He studied the woman more carefully. No longer fully absorbed by her beauty, he recognized the fierce glare of a vital, untapped life aura surrounding her. Nearby, a more sallow glow hugged the fourth member of this odd group. Though young and vibrant, her simple attractiveness paled beside her sapphire-rank companion. She stood shorter than any adult Bolverkr had ever seen, slighter even than her dark-haired consort. Her fine features swept into high, dimpled cheeks, and her mane of golden ringlets revealed a Northern heritage. She, too, held a dragonstaff, its ornament a garnet.

  Bolverkr hesitated, his next course of action uncertain. Without the advance glimpse the Chaos-force had provided, he could not have centered his location spell on strangers. Even so, he could only visualize a limited range around them. A village sign within the area of his spell might have pinpointed their locale, but it would have been an improbable stroke of luck. Mid-autumn snow suggested Scandinavia. However, endless miles of pine forest covered Norway, far too much for Bolverkr to explore. And I don’t even know their names.

  For several seconds, Bolverkr wrestled with his quandary, the sustained sorcery draining Chaos energy like the endless trickle of water down a gutter spout. His gaze strayed to the wreckage of Wilsberg, and the sight of corpses piled where his own wards had trapped them against the hillock stirred guilt that raged to anger. He knew where to obtain the information he needed. Somehow, I must enter one of their minds. He pondered the idea, aware this plan must fail, but goaded by frustration. He knew that nature endowed every man of Midgard’s era with mind barriers to protect them from sorcerers’ intrusions. Only the minority of humans had enough cognizance of their own barricades to lower them for a dreamreader or mage to interpret nightmares or thought obsessions. But one of my enemies is not a man. Bolverkr explored this loophole with eager intent. I’ve never heard of any mage breaking into or destroying mind barriers, but I’ve more power now than anyone before me. Sorcery always works best against other users and conceptions of its art, and the creatures of Faery are products of Dragonrank magic.

  Bolverkr grinned with morbid glee. He could not fathom the effect his attempt might have upon the elf. He had no previous experience to consider. He suspected it might plunge his victim into madness, perhaps kill him. At the very least, it would open his thoughts and memory to cruel manipulation. And the later possibility caused Bolverkr to smile. He harbored no wish to take his enemies’ lives. Not yet. He wanted to return the anguish they had directed upon him, if possible, ten times over.

  Bolverkr gathered vitality to him, unable to guess how much energy this spell would require, but certain it would demand more than any other spell he had ever known or used. Supplying too little would cause the spell to fail; too much would cost Bolverkr his life. Once properly cast, the spell would claim as much of the Chaos-force and of Bolverkr’s life aura as it needed, draining power too fast for him to control. Like any untried magic, it held the risk of requiring more stamina than he could feed it, of sapping him to an empty, soulless core. But Bolverkr never doubted. The Chaos-force seemed infinite, and its vows of service drove him to impulsive courage.

  The location triangle faded as Bolverkr reared to strike. Braced for pain, he smashed into the presumed area of the elf’s mental barriers. His attack met no resistance. Alien surprise flowed around him as he skidded through a human tangle of thought processes and crashed into the side of an unwarded brain. The elf’s involuntary cry of pain reverberated in his own mind. Bolverkr’s confusion mimicked the elf’s in perfect detail. No mind barriers? Thor’s blood, no mind barriers!

  Bolverkr actually heard the sorceress’ words with the elf. “Allerum, are you well?”

  Ideas tumbled through the elfs mind, some leaking through Bolverkr’s contact, others fully his own. Did some god or sorcerer invade my mind again? Or did I burst a goddamned blood vessel? Bolverkr went still, holding his emotions in check. He watched in fascination as the elf probed his own mind, ungainly and haphazard as a hen in flight. My enemies are dead, and I’ve gone paranoid. No need to worry Silme. The elf shaped his reply. “I’m fine. Just a headache.”

  No mind barriers. Bolverkr kept the realization to himself, careful not to allow his surprise to slip into the elf’s thoughts. Alert to the elf’s defenses, he began a cautious exploration of the dense spirals of thought. Only one other person in Bolverkr’s experience had lacked the natural, mental protections. Geirmagnus, the man who unlocked the secrets of Dragonrank magic, had come to Midgard from a future without sorcery or the necessity for defenses against it. Bolverkr held his breath. Already, he detected incongruities. The elf’s mind was decidedly human and flawed as well. Trailing along thought pathways thick as the deepest strings of a harp, Bolverkr found evidence of tampering. Someone had cut and patched blind loops and inappropriate connections. Others remained, frayed and easily sparked by stress.

  With effort, Bolverkr resisted the urge to incite painful memories to torture the elf. Instead, he tiptoed through the intricacies of thought, collecting the information he needed for a full-scale attack. Through the elf’s perceptions, Bolverkr learned the identities of his enemies. The elf knew himself as Al Larson, though his companions called him Allerum. The sapphire-rank Dragonmage was Silme, and Larson’s love for her rivaled Bolverkr’s for his slaughtered wife.
The garnet-rank sorceress, Astryd, served as Silme’s apprentice. Larson knew his little accomplice by the alias “Shadow.” Further probing revealed his true name as Taziar Medakan.

  Uncertain of Larson’s abilities to police his mind, Bolverkr delved deeper with guarded enthusiasm. He focused on the ideas that brought Larson pleasure. Should Bolverkr accidentally trigger a memory, he hoped Larson would pass it off as fancy, and discovery of the elf’s devotions would supply Bolverkr targets for attack. Eagerly, Bolverkr selected a childhood remembrance:

  Thirteen years old, Al Larson perched on the ledge of a tiny sailboat beside a girl he knew as his sister. His bare feet dangled into a square-cut hold, and brackish water swirled about his ankles. A triangle of gaily-colored canvas spilled summer winds. The seal-smooth construction of the boat’s hull looked like no material Bolverkr had ever seen. The gauzy fabric of Larson’s swimsuit and the violently brash colors of the sister’s bikini seemed similarly alien.

  Suddenly, another craft whipped by Larson’s, sail drawn tight to the mast. A middle-aged man with close-cropped yellow hair waved as he passed, and Bolverkr knew him as Larson’s father. Behind the father. Larson’s younger brother flung sunburned arms into the air with an excitement that caused the boat to rock dangerously. “Slowpokes!” he screamed.

  Larson accepted the challenge. He hauled in the sheet, hugging winds into the shortened sail. The boat rocked to leeward as it sprang forward. The tip of the mast scraped the lake, then bounced upward, and icy water surged over the sides. With a short shriek of outrage, Larson’s sister thumped to the opposite ledge to balance weight. The line bit into Larson’s palms. Using his toes to anchor its knot, he hardened the sail to the mast. His boat caught and inched ahead of his father’s heeling almost parallel to the water. Spray drenched Larson. He laughed at his sister’s shrill admonishments to free the winds.