Before Larson could question further, Taziar trotted off, rounding the opposite side of the keep. With a shrug of resignation, Larson approached the hiding prisoners. Locating Shylar, he repeated the plan, and, with her help, herded the others behind the brambles. Through a break in the vines, he watched the guards, standing stiff and solemn before the opened gates. Behind them, the drawbridge overpassed the moat. Larson saw no sign of Taziar, but he knew it would take time for the Climber to cover ground.
Clouds formed a thin, pewter layer over the morning sky, and the day smelled of damp. Larson studied his companions. Of the six survivors, only Shylar and the violet-eyed thief, Asril, appeared alert enough to run. The mad dash from the cells, the descent, and the swim across the moat had taxed the others to the limits of any vitality remaining after the guards’ tortures. Most trembled in the breezes, naked or clothed in soaking tatters. Though fully clad in her dress, Shylar kept her arms wrapped to her chest, her lips blue from cold. Odwulf shivered so hard, his teeth chattered.
Without a weapon, Larson felt as bare as his companions. Aside from Shylar, the other five prisoners clutched swords taken from the dead prison sentries, their blades half-raised or dragging in the dirt. Seeing a chance to arm himself, Larson removed his cloak and offered it to Odwulf. “Here. I’ll trade for your sword.”
Odwulf looked at the proffered cloak. Though wet, it would certainly offer more protection than uncovered skin, yet Odwulf did not reach for it.
Attributing the thief’s hesitation to mistrust, Larson explained. “I have to get out of here, too. I’m trained to fight. Harriman’s holding my pregnant wife prisoner, and I’m going to get her back.” Speaking the words aloud roused all the anger the need to escape had suppressed. Larson’s pain faded before growing desperation.
Odwulf stared at Larson’s face, as if to read the thought beyond the emotion. Wordlessly, he handed Larson his sword. Accepting the cloak, he wrapped it tightly over his bruised and sagging shoulders.
Larson slid the sword into the left side of his belt. He peered through the break in the brush just in time to see Taziar race toward the guards, his shout loud and urgent.
“Guards! Quick!” Taziar slid to a halt several yards from the gate and summoned the sentries with frantic waves. The Climber’s disheveled appearance made him look even more desperate. “It’s an emergency. Over here. We can’t be heard.”
The guards did not budge. “What’s your problem?” one hollered back.
Taziar jabbed an arm into the air. Sunlight struck gold highlights from an object in his fist. Larson gawked, taking several seconds to recognize the medallion the baron had worn in his courtroom. Now where the hell did Shadow get that?
Apparently, others recognized the sigil. “I knew Taz leagued with the baron,” Waldhram mumbled.
“Don’t be a fool,” Asril hissed back. “The Shadow Climber could steal teeth from a guard lion.”
“Hush,” Shylar insisted.
The guards seemed equally impressed. They shifted and exchanged words too softly for Larson to hear.
Taziar’s voice went harsh. “I need you.” He made a sharp motion with the medallion, allowing the guards to see it was real. “I command you in the baron’s name. Get over here. We haven’t time to waste.”
Caught up in Taziar’s exigency, a guard replied with the same rapid speech. “Wait. We don’t understand. We can’t leave our posts.”
“I don’t have time to deal with idiots!” Taziar’s tone threatened punishment, and even Larson cringed at the Climber’s ferocity. “Your incompetence may cost the baron his life.”
Taziar’s words mobilized the guards. Hesitantly, they approached him, and Larson had to strain to hear the exchange that followed.
Taziar shoved the sigil into a sentry’s hand. “Protect this with your lives. It’s more important than any of us. The ultimate fate of Cullinsberg is at stake. You must deliver it to the baron immediately.” Taziar shouted. “Now! Go!” He glanced toward the berry copse, raising his voice still further. “RUN!”
Suddenly realizing Taziar’s command was intended as much for him as for the guards, Larson rose. “Run!” he repeated. He hobbled toward the gate, the thieves swiftly outdistancing him.
The walls muffled Taziar’s words beyond Larson’s ability to decipher them. Unwilling to abandon his friend, Larson pressed his back to the wall and waited for the pain of movement to subside. The thieves had darted off so quickly he had not even seen which directions they had taken. Without Shadow, I might not even find the whorehouse.
A moment later, Taziar sprinted through the gate, caught sight of Larson, and ground to a halt beside him. He yanked at Larson’s sleeve. “Are you well? Can you walk?”
Larson studied Taziar’s small form, thinking his fragile elf frame looked gigantic in comparison. And if I can’t, will you carry me? Pain made Larson irritable, but he realized with alarm this was not the time for sarcasm. “Come on.” Seizing Taziar’s arm, he shared the weight of his inured side with the Climber. Together, they managed an awkward lope across the cleared ground and into the town proper.
As Taziar had predicted, Aga’arin’s High Holy Day kept the streets empty. Larson felt as if he ran through a crude, western ghost town. Dodging a guard’s patrol, they rounded a cottage, sending an old cart horse skittering and bucking like a colt around its pasture. A faltering sprint through Panogya Street frightened a flock of doves into flight, their wing beats thunderous between the buildings. A few steps farther, a stalking cat lashed its tail in anger at their interference. Oblivious, Larson and Taziar skidded around the corner and found that every escaped prisoner had beaten them to the door.
Astryd pushed through the battered leaders of the underground and embraced Taziar. Loosed from the Climber’s support, Larson came down hard on his wounded leg. Gasping, he gripped the wall stones, noticing for the first time that blood soaked the bandages.
Astryd explained quickly. “I transported back here to warn Mat-hilde. She called up as many loyal men as she could in such a short time. We think we have enough to fight off any of Harriman’s followers who try to get up the stairs.” Her tone went apologetic as she addressed Taziar. “It was difficult enough convincing them the prisoners would be freed. We couldn’t tell them about you.”
“That’s all right.” Astryd’s cloak muffled Taziar’s reply. “So long as the leaders don’t attack me, I doubt any pf the others will.”
The sensitive tone of Taziar’s words made it clear that he was lying to comfort Astryd, but a more urgent matter pushed aside all of Larson’s concern for the Climber. “Silme,” he managed through his pain.
“Trapped upstairs.” Astryd let go of Taziar. “After two transports, I didn’t dare try to confront Harriman and his berserks alone.”
Rage snapped Larson’s control. The thought of Harriman touching Silme made him crazy with hatred. He ripped the sword from its sheath so abruptly, the leaders skittered from his path. “Let’s go!”
“Wait!” Taziar dodged beneath Larson’s blade. “You can’t take Harriman and his berserks by yourself. You’ll need my help, at least. Someone give me a weapon.” He reached out a hand.
No one responded.
Larson knew even the leaders still did not trust Taziar. Every second Silme remained in Harriman’s hands tore at Larson’s sensibilities, and he could not spare the time convincing them of Taziar’s innocence might take. “I don’t need your help! You fight like a girl.” He shoved past. “Get the hell out of my way.”
Astryd gave a light rap on the door, and it swung open. Without hesitation, Larson charged through the gap into a sparse crowd of prostitutes and armed men. He raised his sword, prepared to fight anyone who challenged him.
Behind him, Astryd and Shylar warned the crowd. “Stand aside! He’s with us!”
To Larson’s relief, the people scampered from his path, leaving him a clear trail through another heavy door, across the kitchen, to the stairway. Larson hurtled up the
wooden steps to the landing, and only a few scattered footfalls followed him. His hatred for Harriman grew beyond all boundaries. This close, a fortress could not keep him from championing Silme, and outrage inspired adrenaline that masked his pain.
Larson pounded down the hallway. Only one door was closed. Catching the knob, he wrenched and kicked. The panel flew open. Larson caught a glimpse of a single figure, hunched on the bed. Against the walls, on either side of a corner, the berserks crouched. They started to their feet as Larson raced forward and struck with an animal cry of rage.
Larson’s blade caught Halden across the ear and cleaved halfway through his head. The berserk fell dead before he realized his danger. Skereye leaped to his feet, catching Larson’s sword arm with his left hand. His right slammed into Larson’s chin. The berserk’s fingernails raked Larson’s face, and the force of the blow sprawled him over backward. Still buried in Halden’s skull, the sword was wrenched from Larson’s grip. Larson crashed to the floor, pain flashing along his spine.
Skereye dove on Larson. A huge arm snaked around Larson’s neck. Larson reacted with the training of his high school wrestling coach. Got to get off my back. Seizing Skereye’s elbow, Larson drew up his knees and dropped his chest. Skereye barrel-rolled over Larson’s shoulder. His choke hold twisted free, and Larson spun away.
The fall had reopened Larson’s wounds. Blood drenched the bandages, seeping through the frayed arrow holes in his britches and shirt and trickling into his boot. He fought to stand, but his injured leg buckled. He slid back to the ground for another effort as Skereye gained his feet.
Desperate, Larson gritted his teeth, forcing himself beyond pain. His head buzzed as he clambered up. Through blurred vision, he saw Taziar rush Skereye’s back, watched in horror as the berserk turned to meet the attack. Skereye hit Taziar’s right wrist hard enough to send the dagger skittering across the floorboards. An uppercut caught Taziar in the chin, hurling him into the air. He struck the wall and slid, awkwardly, to the floor. Skereye whirled to face Larson. The berserk’s sword whisked free of its sheath as he charged.
Larson cursed. Taziar’s offensive had gained Larson the time he needed to stand yet might have cost the little thief his life. Larson wanted to watch for some sign of movement from his friend, but he was forced to tend the more immediate danger of Skereye’s sword. The blade whipped for Larson’s head. Larson ducked and backstepped. The stroke whistled over his head, the backcut inches before his face. Dizziness crushed in on Larson, and he realized he needed to change tactics before dodging sword blows drove him to exhaustion.
This time, Skereye slammed a downstroke for Larson’s head. Twisting, Larson blocked the sword at its hilt. The impact hammered his left arm to the shoulder, further tearing his wound. Blood ran freely. He screamed in anguish, completing his defense purely from habit. His right fist jolted into Skereye’s face.
Pain had sapped Larson’s anger, but it fueled Skereye’s. His muscled arms shook with fury, and he lunged for Larson with redoubled vigor. Now, Skereye kept his off-hand before him as if to seize Larson and hold him in place for the sword stroke. The first grab fell short. The sword sliced air, gashing the fingers Larson threw up in defense.
Dizzied by blood loss and pain, Larson retreated blindly. He locked his gaze on Skereye’s leading hand. Skereye swept forward. Larson caught Skereye’s wrist and wrenched it in a drag that spun the berserk toward him. Larson’s open right hand slammed Skereye’s hilt hard enough to break the berserk’s thumb. The sword thumped to the floor.
Larson staggered, too dazed to veer aside. Skereye bellowed in rage. His arms encircled Larson’s chest and tensed, crushing. Larson’s breath broke, dashed from his lungs. He shuddered, gasping for air, but managed to inhale only a whistling trickle. He felt his consciousness slipping. Panicked, Larson struggled. His fists pounded Skereye’s back. His knee slammed into the berserk’s groin.
But pain only angered Skereye more. His grip tightened convulsively. Ribs snapped, the sound sharp beneath the ringing in Larson’s ears. Bone stabbed Larson’s lungs. A growing numbness dulled the pain. Unconsciousness beckoned, promising respite from the agony of his injuries, and Larson had to force his thoughts to the fight. He’s got his balance forward now. Use it! Larson slid his right leg forward, pushing against Skereye, then let his injured leg collapse beneath him.
Skereye’s weight and pressure took them both down. Larson had intended to curl and let Skereye roll over his head, but the injuries made Larson clumsy. He landed flat on his back, Skereye atop him. A deep breath filled his lungs but jabbed agony through his chest. Again, Larson worked to his stomach, wrestling mechanically. Skereye clung, driving his fist repeatedly into the back of Larson’s head. A sharp twist knocked Skereye to his back and tore Larson from the hold. He staggered to his feet and tensed to run, his only thought for escape.
Skereye sprang to his feet. Larson’s retreat gained the berserk the opportunity to scoop his fallen sword form the floor.
“Allerum!” Astryd screamed in warning.
Larson spun as the blade sped for his head. He blocked, catching Skereye’s sword hand in both of his own. Aware he could not hope to overpower the berserk, Larson used the leverage of his entire body against Skereye’s grip. He stepped to Skereye’s side, pivoted with his arms circling over his head, and leaned back toward the berserk. The maneuver whipped the sword to Skereye’s back, his arms raised clumsily above his head. And, suddenly, Larson had control of the sword in his left hand, his right still locked to the berserk’s wrist. Larson sliced, the blade skimming across Skereye’s gut. Larson sprang aside.
Larson naturally passed the hilt to his right hand, certain the blow he’d just dealt was fatal. The incision in Skereye’s abdomen gaped open, spilling blood, and pink loops of intestine poked through. Yet, somehow, Skereye remained standing. He stared at the wound, threw back his head in a howl that echoed through the hallway, and charged Larson like an angered bull. Shocked and sickened, Larson scarcely had time to react. He swung the sword for Skereye’s neck. The blade slashed flesh and through bone, neatly decapitating Skereye. And this time the berserk collapsed.
It’s over. The realization clouded Larson’s mind, freeing him from the desperation that had allowed him to fight beyond his endurance. He sank to the floor beside the corpse, feeling no pain. Far below him, the battle between Shylar’s faithful masses and Harriman’s strongarm men faded to indecipherable noise. Larson’s body had gone numb. He could feel Taziar tugging at his calf as the Climber wrapped another pressure bandage. But the efforts seemed remote, a distant glimpse of someone else’s leg. I’m going to die now. The thought came, unaccompanied by emotion. Larson closed his eyes, surrendering to an inner peace.
Something shook Larson’s shoulders. Serenity fled before a nagging tingle of pain, and the tiny measure of strength that touched him seemed foreign. He opened his lids, met Astryd’s eyes, the color of faded jeans, her whites marred by crisscrossing lines of red. “Silme,” she said.
The single word lanced concern through Larson. He rolled to his hands and knees, the movement ripping his arm from Taziar’s grip. Seizing Larson’s wrist, Taziar finished his bandage. “Will he ...” Taziar started, but an unseen gesture from Astryd silenced him.
“Silme,” Astryd repeated. “Where’s Silme?”
Silme. Larson picked up the urgency of Astryd’s question. His gaze swung to the bed. Harriman sat, watching Larson with dull, disinterested eyes. Asril’s blade hovered at the nobleman’s throat. “Silme.” Larson staggered toward Harriman but managed only to sag to his knees at the bedside, one hand looped over the coverlet. “Where’s Silme?” Though hoarse and tremulous, his tone conveyed threat.
Harriman blinked in silence. His eyes rolled downward to stare at Larson.
“Where ... is ... Silme?” Larson wanted to hit Harriman, to beat the answer from him. But he had to satisfy himself with imagining the blow.
Harriman’s voice emerged as broken as Larson’
s own. “Bolverkr has her. Ripped from my mind.”
The explanation made no sense to Larson. He let the words swirl through his thoughts, trying to concentrate on each individual syllable.
Astryd pressed. “Bolverkr’s your mast ...” She amended. “A sorcerer?”
Larson guessed that Astryd received some confirmation from Harriman because she abandoned her inquiry and sat, cross-legged, on the floor. Harriman quivered as she searched his thoughts. A moment later, Astryd leaped to her feet. “They’re gone from his mind,” she said sorrowfully. “Someone used magic. I still find traces of it. Silme could be anywhere.”
Larson struggled for awareness. Deep inside, he knew he held an answer, but he could not quite grasp the question. Sorcerer. Mind. Ripped. Abruptly, everything fell together. “Astryd. I think I may know where Bolverkr is.”
Astryd whirled toward Larson.
Painfully, word by word, Larson described the presence that had assailed his mind in the seventh-story tower of the baron’s keep. “I think it’s still there.”
Gently, Astryd knelt at Larson’s side. She stroked his hair, brushing tangled strands from his face. Stripped of sensation, Larson could not feel Astryd’s touch nor the caring she intended to convey. “Allerum, I don’t think you trapped Bolverkr, but I do believe we may have found Silme. With your permission, I’m going to enter your mind and check.”
Anything for Silme. Larson nodded his consent, but Astryd braced her hand against his head to stop the movement.
“I want you to understand what you’re agreeing to. It could be a trap. It may not be Silme. If I encounter Bolverkr, he’ll certainly kill us both.”
Death no longer frightened Larson. “Try.”
This time, it was Taziar who looked stricken.
* * *
CHAPTER 13 : Shadowed Corners of the Mind
If you love your friends, you must hate the enemies who seek to destroy them.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 30
