Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

  It was the first time Bolverkr dared to ask the question, yet the answer came without need for thought. The Chaos-force would have gone to the next most powerful sorcerer. Silme perhaps? Or some master at the Dragonrank School? He recalled the blissful agony of Chaos’ arrival, the power it promised that he could not have resisted, the transfer that would have killed a lesser man. I’m of the original Dragonrank. No other mage could have survived it. He imagined the Chaos-force seeking a master, tearing through cities, claiming lives with the unthinking nonchalance of a child picking wildflowers. Every slaughtered servant of Law would weaken the Chaos-force as part of the natural balance. Every Chaos death would strengthen it.

  Bolverkr’s vision filled with lines of corpses, and a nameless joy welled within him. He raised his head, howling his laughter, and the sight of the turreted towers, built in memoriam to his beloved, jarred him into silence. Magan. The image of his sweet, unassuming wife wound a crack through Chaos’ control that admitted a ray of the Dragon-mage that had once been Bolverkr, a sorcerer who had sought and found the quiet solace and anonymity of a farm town. He recoiled from the same death-visions he had welcomed moments earlier.

  I thought I could handle Chaos, but I was wrong. There’s too much here for one sorcerer. I have to share it with someone strong enough to wield it. Bolverkr gazed at his citadel. Pictures of Magan made him realize how much he missed her beauty, her calm steadiness and logic and the way she supported him no matter how gloomy or ugly his mood. Then, he remembered his first sight of Silme, the way her radiance had driven him to breathlessness, the lust a single glimpse had raised in him. Allerum took my woman from me. It’s only fair that he should pay with his.

  Chaos seeped slowly back into Bolverkr’s wasted sinews as he started down the steps.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 9 : Shadows of Justice

  So long as governments set the example of killing their enemies, private individuals will occasionally kill theirs.

  —Elbert Hubbard Contemplations

  By the time Taziar Medakan returned to the inn, dawn was tracing streaks of yellow and pink across the horizon, etching the Cullinsberg skyline dark against the rising sun. The scene was familiar to Taziar; he knew every ledge, angle, and distant spire. But now his concern and fatigue gave the city an alien cast, like the first stirrings of dementia in a loved one or a favorite recipe with an ingredient missing. A week of restless nights followed by a full day of plotting and a run through the roadways had tired him. His thoughts stirred through an encumbering blanket of exhaustion, and he felt certain his movements were equally dulled.

  Harriman’s master has what he wanted. Anger pierced Taziar’s mental haze. He’s got me in pain and torn with guilt, desperate to save my friends from the gallows, and aware I might fail despite my best efforts. Taziar delved for resolve, shouldering aside fatigue and the heavy burden of mixed and mangled emotions. Like Silme said, Allerum knows me too well, and through him, so does Harriman’s master. I’ve walked into every trap he’s set for me, delivered myself, the children, and Astryd into his hands. He’s even forced me to kill. An image of the corpses in the inn room filled Taziar’s mind, but he banished it with rising will. I’m not going to mourn them. I won’t take blame for the deaths of vicious men who lived and, appropriately, died by violence. Despite his decision, guilt swam down on Taziar, his conscience an accuser too terrible to ignore. This must be what it’s like to be a soldier: killing out of necessity, at first forcing oneself to forget, until each corpse blends into the nameless infinity of murder.

  Taziar poised against the cold granite of the inn wall while he fought a battle inside himself. Harriman’s preying on my weaknesses: my loves and loyalties, the ethics that my father had no right to embrace as a guard captain nor to teach to his only son. Again and again, Harriman has used my emotions as a weapon against me. The only way I can escape Harriman’s master is to become someone else. The idea rankled. The thought of abandoning the tenets he had held since childhood pained Taziar to the core of his being, and the words of his father’s underling came unbidden. “You have none of your father’s size nor strength, yet you inherited the very things that killed him: his insane sense of morality and his damnable courage.” The time has come to dump the morality and focus on the courage. The urchins are dead; nothing I can do will bring them back. I’ve killed three times, but men have done worse for baser reasons. If Astryd lives, I’ll rescue her; if she’s dead, there’s nothing I can do for her. I can’t be driven to carelessness by sentiment. My cause is to free my friends with as few casualties as possible. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Grimly, Taziar channeled to a single goal, building a wall of determination to hold guilt and sorrow at bay. Weariness retreated, but deep within him, something mourned the price. Taziar started toward the back entry.

  A movement froze Taziar in mid-stride. He pressed back into the shadows of the wall as a slight figure flitted toward the door. The first rays of morning sun sparked gold highlights through feathered locks the yellow of new flames. Astryd? Joy flooded Taziar, but for the sake of his vow, he crushed passion ruthlessly. Instead, he scanned the dwindling darkness for evidence of someone watching or trailing Astryd. Discovering no one, he caught her arm as he reached out to trip the latch.

  Astryd whirled with a gasp of startled rage. Only a reflexive leap backward saved Taziar from an elbow in his gut and a knee in his groin. “It’s me,” he whispered.

  Astryd’s expression softened as she recognized Taziar. “Shadow. Thor’s justice, it’s you.” She enwrapped him in an exuberant embrace.

  Relief and elation chipped at Taziar’s self-erected barriers. Unwilling to abandon the persona thwarting Harriman would require, he hugged Astryd briskly. Pulling the panel open, he found the entry chamber empty; this early, no sound drifted through the cross door from the common room. Gesturing Astryd to the stairs, Taziar yanked the outer door closed. “What happened? Are you well?” He kept his tone businesslike.

  Astryd hesitated, struck by Taziar’s manner. When she spoke, her voice was frenzied. “I think Allerum’s in the dungeon. And Harriman knows you’re here. He paid men to capture you!”

  Capture? Taziar started up the stairs, taking note of Astryd’s choice of words. So Harriman’s not ready to kill me yet. His delay can only work to my advantage. “Silme and I handled Harriman’s men, and we knew about Allerum. What detained you? Did Harriman recognize you?”

  Astryd followed. “I don’t know if Harriman recognized me or not. He gave no indication that he did, but he certainly made things hard for me.”

  Subtlety is Harriman’s style. Taziar kept the thought to himself as he rounded the second story landing and climbed toward the third, cautious and alert for movement.

  “I drained my life energy on a lot of small but necessary spells,” Astryd continued. “Then Harriman locked me in a room overnight with a client and a guard at the door.”

  A client? Not wishing to contend with his emotions, Taziar did not request further information and was pleased when Astryd offered none. “How did you get free?”

  Astryd’s shod footfalls made no more sound on the stairs than Taziar’s bare feet. “The same way you would have. Out the window.” She smiled up at him, apparently expecting shock or at least a glimmer of curiosity. When Taziar did not question her, she finished in a disappointed mumble. “So here I am, well-rested, untapped, and ready to assist in any way I can.”

  Resourceful. Astryd’s attitude is precisely what we need to defeat Harriman. Taziar did not voice the praise aloud. Well, I can be resourceful, too. He crested the steps and headed down the hallway toward their room. “Did you find out anything?”

  “I got the information you wanted.” Astryd trotted around Taziar, then stopped to stare at the twisted piece of painted black metal that had served as the latch to the inn room door. “Harriman’s men?”

  Taziar nodded, not bothering to clarify. An explanation would only waste time. “Silme?” h
e whispered.

  Silme’s voice wafted through the crack in answer. “It’s safe.”

  Taziar pushed open the door, escorted Astryd through it, and closed it behind them. Apparently, Silme had cleaned up in his absence. She had bolted the shutters against the wind. The corpses were gone. Out the window, Taziar surmised, but he did not bother to ask. Silme had stuffed the jumble of traveling gear and blankets back into the packs which lay in a neat stack, ready for travel.

  At the sight of Astryd, Silme smiled. She pressed forward, but Taziar interrupted before she could question her friend. “We need to make some fast plans and get out of this inn. First, Astryd, what did you find out?”

  Startled by Taziar’s brusqueness, Silme abandoned her greeting. Her smile wilted.

  Astryd smoothed her skirt with her hands, ignoring Taziar’s intent stare. “Harriman’s followers include the berserks and twelve to fourteen warriors Mat-hilde claimed you would know.” She glanced sharply at Taziar as if to confirm this, but he was deep in thought. “She called them the ‘fringe guard.’ If I can give her some idea of when we’re going to free the leaders, she promised to fill the whorehouse with men who would take their side.” She winced, studying Taziar as if to look deep enough into him to understand the change in his usually gentle and caring manner. “Mat-hilde warned, though, that those same men who would help the leaders might kill you.”

  Taziar ignored Astryd’s final statement. Right now, his friends’ lives mattered more than his own. “Good. Then we can concentrate on the jailbreak and worry about defeating Harriman afterward.” Taziar skirted the women and knelt before his pack. “This is my plan.” He emulated Silme’s no-nonsense manner, aware his idea would meet with strenuous objections. Yesterday, I rejected it myself. “I’ll have to get into the prison and work with my friends from the inside.”

  Silme settled back on the wood pile near the fire. “A breakout from inside the dungeon. Ingenious,” she said with a trace of sarcasm. “How do you propose to do such a thing?”

  Avoiding Astryd’s gaze, Taziar rummaged through his gear. He tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I’ll get myself arrested, and—”

  “No!” Astryd denied the possibility, achieving the no-nonsense delivery with far more success than Taziar. “The guards might kill you.”

  “They might,” Taziar admitted, keeping his tone level. “But I doubt it. You said Harriman sent those men to capture me. He still wants me alive, for a while at least. Harriman apparently has some influence over the baron on the matter of the underground and its members.” Taziar felt leather beneath his fingers and jerked his boots free with a suddenness that sent his spare breeks sliding across the floor. “Besides, there’s a mass criminal hanging today. No doubt, the baron would want to make a public example out of the man who robbed Aga’arin’s temple and escaped the dungeons. What better way than a hanging on Aga’arin’s own High Holy Day?”

  “No,” Astryd repeated. “What possible good can it do to make you one more person we have to free from the baron’s prison?”

  Taziar indulged in a smile, pleased Astryd would give him a chance to explain rather than dismissing his plan out of hand. “I’ve been jailed before. I know the kind of locks the dungeon has and what supplies I’d need to trip them. I can free Shylar and the others from their cells and rally them against the guards. A rope will get us all out the window to safety.” He pulled the boots onto his feet, awaiting the inevitable question.

  “Rope? A locksmith’s tools?” Silme sat and drew her knees to her chest. “After they catch you, the guards will let you keep such things? And I suppose the underground leaders will battle swords and crossbows with their fists.”

  “I suspect the guards will take everything I have.” Taziar recalled his previous arrest. Then, blood loss from an arrow wound had drained him to unconsciousness, and he had no remembrance of being searched. Still, when he had awakened in his cell, he had nothing except his clothes. “But they can’t stop Astryd from bringing anything I need.”

  Surprise creased Astryd’s features.

  Taziar grasped the opportunity to elaborate. “While I’m getting myself in trouble, the two of you can purchase the tools I’ll describe, the longest piece of rope you can find, and as many knives and swords as Astryd can handle. Once I’m imprisoned, Astryd can transport in with supplies.” Taziar glanced at his companions in triumph, the comfort of a plausible plan tempered by his new attitude and the growing look of skepticism on Silme’s face.

  Silme cleared her throat. “It won’t work.”

  The certainty in Silme’s voice mangled Taziar’s hopes. “Why not?” he challenged her.

  “Because Astryd can only transport to a place she’s seen before.”

  The revelation stunned Taziar. “Really?”

  “Really,” Astryd confirmed.

  Taziar recalled an incident that had occurred soon after he’d met Astryd. “But when Mordath held me prisoner on a dinghy, you transported onto it. You couldn’t have boarded his boat before.”

  “No.” Astryd shuffled from foot to foot. “But I could see it from the rail of the ship I was on. I knew exactly where to go. Even so, it was my clumsiest transport since glass-rank. I nearly capsized the boat.”

  Still clinging to his idea, Taziar pressed. “What if I describe the interior of the prison for you? In detail.”

  The women shook their heads. “Not good enough,” Silme said. “She’d have to actually see it, with magic at least.”

  Silme’s clarification raised another possibility. “A location ...” Taziar started.

  Astryd kicked at a loose nail in the floorboards. “A location triangle has to be centered on a familiar person. Background is revealed incidentally. If I centered the spell on Allerum, I could only see the inside of his cell, and my transporting into a locked cage won’t help you. If the dungeon is dark, I wouldn’t even see that much.”

  Sarcasm returned to Silme’s voice. “Despite the practice Astryd’s been getting the last few days ...” She continued in her normal tone. “... she still expends too much energy casting location triangles. After a location and a transport into the prison, she might not have enough life force to transport back out. She certainly won’t have enough to help you and your friends escape.“

  It finally occurred to Taziar to question Astryd’s knowledge. “How did you know about Allerum’s capture?”

  “I heard some children talking about it in an alley. Apparently, a street gang saw the guards’ attack and watched them drag their victim off toward the baron’s keep. The description fit Allerum. Then I heard Harriman paid the guards well for the victim’s sword, and there was no longer any doubt in my mind.”

  Silme spoke, her voice painfully calm. “Shadow, your plan may still work.”

  Taziar swung his head toward Silme in expectation; his discussion with Astryd became dim background.

  Silme rose. “Anything Allerum knows, Astryd or I can access. Apparently, the guards dragged Allerum into the dungeon while he was unconscious. Once he wakes up and looks around, Astryd can get her visual image of the prison and transport inside.”

  “Perfect.” Taziar quelled rising excitement. “Allerum has to wake up eventually. Once I get in, I can tell him the plan. By following his thoughts, you’ll know the best time to transport, and it won’t even cost a significant amount of life energy.” Taziar straightened. “No need to delay any longer. You’ll have to carry our packs. The guards will only take them from me. There’s another inn at the other end of town run by a woman named Leute. Get a room on the second floor. The north side, if possible. It’ll give Silme a place to stay, Astryd a place to transport to, and all of us a place to regroup if something goes wrong.”

  Astryd and Silme had gathered up the packs before Taziar finished speaking. Briefly, he described the required locksmith’s instruments in layman’s terms. “After you get the supplies, try to find time to give Mat-hilde some idea of when the prison break will happen.” Taziar tensed,
awaiting more criticisms of his plot. When none came, he rose, crossed the room and peered out the window. Dawn light drew familiar shadows on the walls of Mardain’s temple, but, mired in his forced emotionlessness, Taziar did not allow himself to study them. Instead, he stared at the alleyway below. Finding it empty, he climbed to the sill. “Best if you’re not seen with me, if possible. We’ll be back together soon.” He did not allow the vaguest trace of doubt to enter his voice, but an image of Astryd’s ashen features haunted him as he shinnied down the wall into the alley.

  Once solidly on the dirt pathway, concerns, fears, and fatigue closed in on Taziar. He held his worries at bay, turning the thought and energy they might cost him to the matter at hand. Brushing dust from his cloak, he headed from the back street onto the main market roadway leading to Cullinsberg’s entrance.

  The bang and clatter of opening shops and stands assailed Taziar. Merchants and their apprentices scurried through the city in huddled knots, some guiding cart horses down the cobbled streets. Attentive to their wares, the merchants seemed to take no notice of Taziar threading cautiously around them. Unchallenged, he kept to the sidewalks, moving into the roadway whenever displayed wares made the walkways impassable. At length, he discovered a guard in the familiar black and red uniform stationed on the opposite side of the road at the mouth of an alleyway. He seemed to Taz to be the type who would respond with reasoning before threat and threat before violence. He was lean and tall and held a spear in a lax grip as he watched the flow of traffic through slitted eyes.

  He’ll do fine. With exaggerated casualness, Taziar turned his back to the wall of a butcher’s shop and rested his shoulder blades against the granite. Bending his knee, he propped a foot against the wall behind him. The position placed him directly across from the guard.

  A cart brimming with hearth logs creaked along the roadway, pulled by a burly chestnut gelding. The topmost layer of wood rocked with each movement, threatening to crash to the street at any moment. Taziar waited until it passed and the lane between him and the guard had cleared once again. The guard visually followed the wagon until it rounded a corner. Then his dark gaze flicked forward. Briefly, the guard inspected Taziar and, apparently finding nothing of interest, he moved on to a middle-aged couple ambling toward the Climber.