Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

  Through a curtain of waving patterns, Astryd noticed the red mark on Skereye’s cheek and realized the berserk had taken the blow she heard. Harriman’s reprimand blurred beneath the ringing in Astryd’s ears. “Damn you, Skereye! Don’t hit the girls, or you’ll be nursing worse than bruised privates.”

  Recalling Mat-hilde’s ordeal in the whorehouse, Astryd found Harriman’s warning ludicrous. Skereye scowled at his master, fists doubled, and coiled to fight. Light-headed, Astryd struggled to one knee. Gods, I hope Harriman can control that brute. Though the thought of praying for Harriman’s welfare rankled, Astryd knew if Skereye killed his master, she would become the berserk’s next victim. She glanced at Silme, saw her standing, regally dangerous despite Halden’s grasp on her arms. Regardless of the awkwardness of Halden’s presence, Silme managed to keep the packs balanced on her shoulders, though both dragonstaves lay on the cobbles. That, and the wild disarray of her hair made it clear that she had struggled and lost as well.

  Skereye grumbled something unintelligible, seized Astryd’s wrist, and hauled her to her feet. He lowered his face to hers. His left eye was tearing from her attack, and a scarlet arc marred the white. He spoke in the Scandinavian tongue, his voice as grating as fingernails scratched across stone. “You little bitch, this isn’t over yet. I’ll kill you.”

  Still staggering from Skereye’s blow, Astryd managed no reply.

  Harriman paid the threat no notice; either he lacked command of the language, or he feigned ignorance. “Take them home.” He gestured his guards and their prisoners into the alleyway, stooped to gather the dragonstaves, and followed.

  Gradually, Astryd’s mind cleared as she traversed deserted back streets. Skereye’s tightly-wrapped fingers cut off the circulation to her hands, but she made no mention of the dull throb. She tried to keep her gait as normal as possible, concentrating on the pain in her hands to offset the discomfort of a dozen concealed daggers. Though vin-dictiveness was not a normal part of Astryd’s nature, the vision of all twelve blades buried in Skereye’s heart soothed her. The realization that she could summon a dragon and destroy Harriman, the berserks, and a quarter of the city only added to her frustration. I can’t slay innocent townsfolk out of anger, and if I deplete my life energy on vengeance, the guards will kill Shadow and Allerum. She sighed, enduring the indignity of Skereye’s harsh tugs as the price of obligatory patience.

  The sun had half-crested the horizon when Harriman and his captives arrived at Shylar’s whorehouse. They passed through the double set of doors in a tense hush. The early hour and the religious fervor of the holiday left most of the girls free to lounge and talk. As Harriman entered the chamber, the hum of conversation died. He pointed to the stairway. “Take them to my room.” He clarified. “The bedroom. The study has windows. Lock them in and stand guard. I’ll join you shortly.” He handed the dragonstaves to Halden.

  Astryd sought Mat-hilde in the crowd, passed over a myriad of concerned expressions before she discovered the prostitute’s familiar features. Skereye met Astryd’s hesitation with a vicious jab in the spine. “Get moving.”

  Astryd trotted toward the stairway. Methodically, she climbed to the landing and into the room Skereye indicated. A moment later, Silme joined her, and the door clacked closed behind them.

  To Astryd’s relief, Halden and Skereye waited outside the chamber. She threw a quick glance at the Spartan effects of a warrior unused to wealth. The pallet she had seen in her location spell graced one corner, encompassing a quarter of the room, its covers and pillow crisply neat. An unadorned, straight-backed chair slanted against it, and a chest lay at the foot of the bed. A simple table held a lantern full of fat, its wick alight, its illumination broad and gray. A potential weapon, Astryd noted, but she realized the two swords and twelve daggers on her person would serve at least as well. From her personal link with her rank-stone, she knew Harriman had placed the dragonstaves in a nearby room, but that was the least of her worries. She had little enough life energy stored in the garnet stone, and, should it become necessary, she could retrieve that magic instantly, even from a distance.

  “What do we do?” Astryd questioned Silme to discover whether her companion had considered a less formidable plan than her own.

  “We have no choice.” Silme twisted her head and rolled her eyes in all directions, examining Harriman’s chamber in her usual calm manner. “The way Harriman stared, he has no intention of killing me. I can handle myself, but Allerum and Shadow need you.”

  Silme’s composure unnerved Astryd. “The way Harriman stared, he has no intention of ignoring you, either.”

  Silme met Astryd’s gaze. “There’s nothing Harriman can do to me worse than allowing Allerum and Shadow to die on the gallows. Now sit there.” She stabbed a hand toward the farthest corner. “Keep trying to contact Allerum. Don’t stop for anything. If you can’t catch him awake, you’re just going to have to try to arouse him yourself.”

  “Arouse him myself?” Astryd repeated, confused. “How?”

  “Instead of using a mental probe, you’ll have to actually place your presence into his mind. Dig for some sort of sleep-wake trigger, and prod until he responds.”

  Silme’s words shocked Astryd; the task sounded years beyond her abilities. “I’ve never done anything like that.”

  Silme shrugged. “Of course, you haven’t. How could you? Allerum’s the only person I know without mind barriers ... except Harriman.” Silme paused, as if considering her own words. “Since thought intrusions don’t cost life energy, you risk nothing other than annoying Allerum.” Silme added belatedly, “And one other, more important thing.”

  Astryd fidgeted, uncomfortable with the prospect. “And that is?”

  Silme sat on the chest. “By placing a part of yourself into Allerum’s mind, you make yourself vulnerable to any sorcerer who tries the same tactic, also to Allerum’s defenses. Once, Vidarr and I entered Allerum’s mind, and he accidentally pulled us all into his world, a land of fire and madness.” She shivered at the memory of Vietnam. “Apparently, the god, Vidarr, and the great wolf, Fenrir, held an actual battle in Allerum’s brain. Just remember, you’ll be inside his thoughts, displaced in time, not actually physically with him. You’ll need to pull out of his mind before you can transport.” Silme leaned closer. “And be careful. If you sense another presence, get out as fast as you can.”

  Though Silme never specified, Astryd knew the only foreign obstacle she could meet was Harriman’s master. My choosing to stand against a sorcerer of his power would be as absurd as a wounded sparrow challenging a hawk. She pressed into the indicated corner. “I’ll do the best I can.” Lowering her head, she thrust her consciousness toward Larson, trusting Silme to keep Harriman and his guards occupied.

  Astryd’s probe met darkness.

  Harriman slipped into his workroom and quietly closed the door behind him, leaning the dragonstaves in the corner by the panel. Dawn light snaked through the misshapen glass of the window, blurring the desktop and a few curled strips of parchment in glare. Harriman extracted a quill pen from the disarray, idly twirling it in loops between his fingers. Knowing better than to further delay the inevitable contact, he sat in the hard, wooden chair, dropped the pen, and drained his consciousness to a single name. Bolverkr?

  The sorcerer’s probe entered Harriman’s mind, its touch chilling. Did you capture him?

  Harriman hesitated, forcing emotion from his surface thoughts with the same ease as he controlled outward expressions. Taziar?

  Yes.

  No, Harriman admitted. He got away.

  Tangible anger pervaded Bolverkr’s silence.

  Harriman waited, not allowing the slightest memory or sentiment to come to the fore.

  I told you precisely where to find him.

  Indeed, lord. And you were right, as always. Harriman stroked, believing his existence was worth less to Bolverkr than the four men Taziar had stranded on the rooftop. My underlings failed and paid with their li
ves for the mistake. Next time, I’ll catch Taziar myself.

  Next time? Bolverkr’s question emerged passionlessly, but Harriman detected guarded hope. You know where Taziar is?

  Harriman’s surprise leaked through his facade. Lord, I’d hoped to get that information from you.

  Bolverkr’s annoyance pounded at Harriman’s mind, and the diplomat knew he had struck a sore point. I’ve lost my source. Loki’s children, you’re leader of the underground! Use your own spies. Get every man and child at your command out on those streets and find Taziar Medakan! No excuses. Every moment that little murderer evades us, he could find a way to undo the fate we’ve designed for him. Force him to watch his friends die. And when that’s finished, I want Taziar hanged as well. Do you understand?

  Completely. Harriman picked up on Bolverkr’s frustration, and it confused him. Not since the destruction of Wils-berg had any plan of Bolverkr’s gone awry. Accustomed to the ever-changing tides of politics, Harriman accepted the unanticipated easily, and the sorcerer’s loss of his arrogant self-control appalled him.

  Apparently, Bolverkr noticed Harriman’s discomfort. Shortly, Harriman felt the heat of Bolverkr’s hatred as his own, and it sparked him to the same reckless fury. Lord, what would you have me do with the women?

  Women? Bolverkr’s composure returned in a rush. What women?

  Taziar’s companions. The sorceresses. I have them locked in my bedroom.

  Indeed. Bolverkr hesitated, his manner fully calculating. I doubt you’ll be able to hold Astryd long. The one thing all Dragonrank mages learn to do early and well is escape. The other ...

  Bolverkr’s presence trailed away, and only a faint tingle of pleasure alerted Harriman that his master had not yet broken contact. Lord? He concentrated on the link so as not to miss Bolverkr’s reply.

  Bolverkr’s words crashed into Harriman’s heightened consciousness. Force Silme to use her magic. Humiliate her any way you can, and don’t quit until she’s killed that child. His message softened. And Harriman ...

  Master? Harriman prompted cautiously, unable to recall the last time the sorcerer had called him by name.

  ... have fun doing it. The probe disappeared from Harriman’s mind.

  Harriman pictured Silme’s delicate arcs, firm breasts, and the timeless beauty of her golden features. I wonder how long it will take to destroy the haughty tilt to her chin and the fierce gleam in those ice blue eyes? A smile pinched Harriman’s face as he accepted Bolverkr’s task with glee.

  Gradually, the tug and jostle of Silme freeing hidden daggers became familiar to Astryd, and the smaller sorceress directed her full concentration to Larson’s mind. Mired in darkness, she dodged and crawled through loops of thought as chaotic as a bramble copse. Harriman’s bedroom disappeared from her awareness; Astryd did not know she still lay, limp and silent, in the corner. She kept her mind focused, all too aware that she could die as easily from another presence in Larson’s mind as from a slash of Harriman’s sword.

  Uncertain how much stress threads of thought could stand, Astryd brushed them aside with a gentle caution. She wondered how much of what she found constituted actual anatomy and how much was her magical perception of memory. As the intensity of her search absorbed her completely, the question faded into the infinity of insignificant facts. Catching sight of a spark of light, she ran to it with the fatal devotion of a moth to a flame. She skidded to a stop before it, felt Larson’s annoyance as though it were her own. If...

  The idea sputtered feebly, and died. In frustration, Astryd kicked the pathway that had initiated the thought, watched it flare and grow. If that sonofabitch doesn’t stop shaking me, I’m going to kill him! Several nearby avenues flashed as confusion pervaded Larson’s mind. A survival instinct blossomed. She felt Larson tense and crouch, even before he opened his eyes. Then his lids fluttered, and Astryd caught a close up view of Taziar’s worried features. “Allerum! Can you hear me?”

  Rows of cages slashed across Larson’s vision, and Astryd saw guards with swords rushing toward emaciated, scarred men cowering at the barred doors. Without waiting for Larson to interpret the reality of the dungeon, Astryd withdrew. She found herself back in the corner of Harriman’s room.

  Harriman’s heavy bootfalls sounded in the outside corridor.

  Too concerned about the men to consider Silme’s plight, Astryd hugged the piled daggers and triggered her escape transport. Golden light erupted in a blinding flash.

  When Harriman opened the door, all that remained of Astryd was a rolling pulse of oily smoke.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11 : Shadows of the Gallows

  Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

  —Fredrich Nietzsche Beyond Good and Evil

  Light exploded in the baron’s dungeon, shattering Taziar’s vision before he could think to shield his eyes. Larson stiffened, and his sudden movement staggered Taziar into the cell door. Half-blinded, the Climber clawed for support, barking his knuckles on iron clotted with rust. The click of opening locks and the pounding of guards’ footfalls gave way to a shocked silence that seemed to amplify Astryd’s plea. “Shadow, hurry. Harriman has Silme trapped in the whorehouse!”

  Back pressed to the bars and supporting much of Larson’s weight, Taziar twisted awkwardly toward the walkway. Through a web of shadowed afterimages, he recognized Astryd. A coil of rope lay slung across her shoulder. Two swords dangled at her side, and she balanced an armload of daggers against her chest. Her beauty seemed so misplaced amidst the filth and gloom of the baron’s dungeon, it took Taziar a moment to believe she was real.

  Larson’s bulk eased off Taziar as the elf came fully awake. Seizing the rope from Astryd, Taziar guided Larson’s hand to the swords. “Allerum, keep one and take the other to the redhead.” He gestured to the left pathway where Fridurik crouched in the cage closest to the exit and the guards. “Go!”

  Accepting the swords, Larson tottered off in the indicated direction.

  Sound echoed as sentries and prisoners broke free of the surprise inspired by Astryd’s grand entrance. Desperately, Taziar caught Astryd’s arm. “Distribute those knives as quickly and quietly as you can. Then transport out and wait. We’ll need your help against Harriman far more than we do here.” He released her with a mild push toward the prisoners and wished he could spare a second for comforting.

  The central pens split the baron’s dungeon into two lanes with Larson’s cell along the back wall. Shylar had chosen to unlock the doors from the left pathway. Hoping for a clear passage to the outer door, Taziar sprinted to the right. “This way!”

  Within three running strides, Asril the Procurer darted alongside Taziar. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that only Shylar and Mandel had followed them. Apparently, the others had taken the parallel walkway. Including both swordsmen, Taziar realized in sudden alarm. He tried to decipher the blur of color and movement through the central cells, obscured by the yellow backwash of Astryd’s magical departure. Thank the gods, at least she got out safely.

  A warning touch from Asril slowed Taziar’s reckless pace and brought his attention to a pair of guards with drawn swords blocking the pathway. A third tensed behind them.

  Taziar cursed silently as he realized the guards had separated to prevent escape down either pathway. Well within sword range, Taziar and Asril skidded to a halt in front of the guards; Shylar and Mandel backpedaled, avoiding a collision.

  The sentry before Asril waved his sword threateningly. “Get back to your cells.”

  Taziar met the guard’s gaze, his hand sliding, unobtrusively, for his own dagger. From the corner of his vision, he realized Asril held a knife, expertly couched against his wrist so the guards could not see it. Taziar’s heart raced. The cage row would have blocked Astryd from the guards’ view. Depending on her caution and when these guards split off from the others, they may not know we hav
e weapons. Only then did Taziar recall that Asril was a street fighter, born to a freelance prostitute barely into her teens.

  Knife still hidden, Asril made a gesture of surrender. “All right. Don’t hurt us.” A nervous spring entered his step, and he shuffled backward with a commitment that fooled even Taziar. Suddenly, Asril sprang at the guard. The dagger flashed, then disappeared, buried in the sentry’s upper abdomen and angled beneath the breastbone.

  The guard gasped in shock and pain. The sword fell from his hands and crashed to the floor. From the parallel pathway, steel chimed repeatedly, as if in echo. Asril shoved the dying guard backward as he ripped his blade free, but the sentry before Taziar responded more swiftly. His sword whipped for Asril’s head.

  No time to draw a weapon! Taziar dove with desperate courage. His shoulder crashed into the sentry’s gut, driving him over backward. The guard twisted as he fell. His left arm encircled Taziar, wrenching. Taziar struck the ground sideways, breath dashed from him in a gasp. Recognizing the helplessness of his position, he grabbed wildly for the guard’s sword hilt. His fingers closed over a fleshy hand. But with superior strength and leverage, the guard tore free and jammed his elbows into Taziar’s face.

  Pain shot through Taziar’s nose. The force of the blow smashed his head against stone, and blood coursed, warm and salty, on his lips. He saw the sword blade speeding toward him and knew with grim certainty that he could not roll in time.

  Asril’s lithe form sailed over Taziar and plowed into the guard. Taziar scuttled clear as Asril and the guard tumbled. This time, Asril landed on top, his arm wrapped around the sentry’s throat. A flick of his wrist drew the blade of his dagger across the guard’s muscled neck. Blood spurted, splashing Mandel as he darted past Taziar in pursuit of the third guard who had made a dash for the outer door amidst the crash and bell of swordplay in the other lane.