Now on Bolverkr’s territory, Taziar discovered a random array of protective wards. He moved slowly, twisting his head in all directions before each step, zigzagging his way toward the center of the circle where he expected to find Bolverkr’s citadel. Though abundant, the spells gave Taziar little difficulty. Wiry and agile, he slipped between magics that Bolverkr needed to place to accommodate his own larger frame and bolder gait. Certainly, no one ignorant of the ways of viewing magic could take more than a few steps without triggering one of the wards. But, as soon as Larson was taught the trick of indirect sighting, Taziar believed all of his companions would have the necessary training and dexterity to maneuver past Bolverkr’s obstacle course. So long as we don’t have to do it too fast.
When Taziar judged he had crossed half the radius of Bolverkr’s circle, he paused to climb a tree. The “thieves’ moon” drew a glittering line along Bolverkr’s catwalk. Leering gargoyles lined the outer wall of the keep, meticulously cleaned though the castle they protected lay in a state of disrepair. Jagged breaks gashed three corners, and crumbled piles of stone, once towers, lay at the base. The fourth tower pointed arrow-straight at the sky, though rubble on the ground below it revealed that it had once been destroyed as well. The design confused Taziar. It seemed odd that Bolverkr had taken the time to completely renovate one full tower while the others gaped open, admitting rain. Glancing at shattered stonework before the outer wall to the keep, Taziar realized Bolverkr had also chosen to repair the decorative masonry and statuettes before working on the major structures of the castle.
As Taziar stared, a figure emerged onto the wall. Moonlight revealed fine, white hair that had once been blond and a stale gray tunic and breeks covered by a darkly-colored cloak. Tall and slender to the point of frailness, the man paced the stones with a brash, solid tread that belied the apparent fragility of his frame.
Bolverkr? Taziar watched, intrigued, certain this could be no one else.
Yet, the way the man on the wall moved seemed somehow alien. On the streets, Taziar had obtained much of his food money through con games, pickpocketing, and entertaining the masses. His survival had depended upon his ability to read wealth, motivation, and intention through word and action. Bolverkr’s movements, though fluid, fit no human pattern Taziar could define. It inspired the same deep discomfort that he felt in the presence of the most unstable lunatics, from the type who might stand in a state of statuelike quiet and stillness one moment then lash out in violent frenzy the next, to those who slaughtered in the name of imaginary voices, or the kind who muttered half-interpretable nonsense while violating every social convention.
Suddenly, Bolverkr froze. He whirled to face a gargoyle that rose to the height of his knee and shouted a garbled word, unrecognizable to Taziar.
The gargoyle jumped, torn from its granite foundation, then shattered in a fountain of chips. Stone fragments rained into the courtyard.
Bolverkr resumed pacing as if nothing had happened.
Taziar stiffened, wrung through with chills. The sorcerer’s casual power shocked him, and he could not help imagining himself in the gargoyle’s place.
“Who am I?” Pain tainted Bolverkr’s shout, but it still rang with power.
Taziar was so caught up in the display that Bolverkr’s voice startled him. He stiffened, slipping sideways on the limb. An abrupt grab spared him a fall, and he clutched the branch tightly enough to gouge bark into his palms. Balance regained, he watched in awe as Bolverkr stilled, head tipped to catch the echoes, as though he expected them to give him an answer.
The Dragonrank mage lowered his head. His hands twitched, as if he carried on a conversation with himself, but Taziar’s perch was too far away for him to see if the sorcerer’s lips were moving.
Taziar gauged the distance between himself and the sorcerer, wondering if he could kill Bolverkr with a well-placed arrow. Assuming I had a bow. Or knew how to use it. Taziar had become a mediocre swordsman only because teaching Taz swordplay had seemed so important to his father. Pleased enough to get his tiny son practicing any weapon at all, the elder Medakan had never pressed him to learn to shoot, and the thought of doing so on his own had never occurred to Taziar. Bad enough killing a man who can defend himself. What need do I have to learn longdistance slaughter? Taziar shivered at the thought. Grief-mad after her husband’s hanging, Taziar’s mother had forced her only son to assist in her suicide. The experience had so crippled Taziar’s conscience that he had found himself unable to take a life, even to save his own. Circumstances had forced him to overcome this limitation enough to kill enemies in defense of innocents or friends, but only at times of grave necessity.
Bolverkr raised his face heavenward. The wind whipped his locks to an ivory tangle. “Who ... am ... I?”
Each syllable shocked dread through Taziar. There was something eerily inhuman about the call, though the words emerged plainly enough in the language of Cullinsberg’s barony and colored by a clipped Wilsberg accent. The urge to leave as quickly as possible seized Taziar. Studying the ground for glints of magic, he descended with caution, creeping silently back toward the northern forest.
Bolverkr’s laughter shuddered between the trunks.
* * *
CHAPTER 2
Chaos Dreams
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
—Edgar Allen Poe The Raven
The dream assailed Silme in the deepest part of her sleeping cycle; yet it seemed distant, the trickling backwash of another’s nightmare borne on a thread of shared Chaos. Sated with health and life power, she paced the walled defenses of a fortress. But the life aura she had always known as a friend, an integral part of herself, had became a stranger, an enemy crushing, tearing, and stripping her of identity. A scream cycled through her mind: “Who am I?” No answer came but echoes. Still, the reverberation of her familiar voice soothed, bringing snatches of memory. She knew a humble childhood as the third son of a farmer, the dusty, green perfume of new-mown hay, the milk-breath of spotted cows, and the tickle of piled straw while roughhous-ing in the barn before the cows trooped inside. A brother’s laughter rang in her ears.
As each remembrance blossomed, Chaos rose to meet it, battering it to pale outline. Anguish hammered Silme, and she twisted in her sleep, unable to comprehend life energy revolting against its master nor why she would fight the chaos denning her own life. Again, the cry cut above the struggle: “Who am I?” New memories whisked by, veiled in white, now of Dragonrank training beneath the original master, Geirmagnus. She remembered, too, a wife named Magan and a fetus destroyed in the Chaos-storm. She felt the cold bite of winds carrying thatch, stone, and corpses, its swish as cruel and mocking as laughter.
A fetus. Silme anchored her reason on her own growing baby. Always before, she had received only a hint of its presence; its tiny life aura became blended and lost in the vastness of her own chaos. Now, she felt a strong sense of its aliveness within her. It seemed to have tripled in power overnight. Its energy wove intimately into her own: vital, hovering, wailing. Conscious of the changes within her, Silme slid toward waking far enough to realize that the remembrances of farm and storm and training were never her own. Now removed from the struggle between lord and Chaos, she explored both sides with a clarity of thought that could only come with impartiality.
Still ensconced in sleep, Silme saw only a man battling his own life aura, a war he could never win. Without knowledge of the vision’s source, she somehow understand that if it bested him, he would lose whatever identity he still clung to, the snatches of memory Silme had just shared in dream. But to destroy his own life aura, the stuff of life itself, could bring only death.
Silme had dedicated her life to helping the innocent. Sleep stole logic and caution in the same manner as drink. The oddity of their link obscured any recognition of the man, and Silme’s dream-state did not leave room for
suspicion or questioning. Concerned for this stranger, Silme did not know him as Bolverkr, a sorcerer more than two centuries old, the man who had ordered her friends and husband killed and nearly succeeded at both. She did not identify the Dragonrank mage who had declared vengeance against Larson and promised to share reams of Chaos with Silme through a contact she had created in ignorance. She saw only a creature in agony, trapped and aching from a battle with a Chaos it did not yet recognize as self. And she tended him like a mother with an injured child.
Silme reached out to help, certain she would meet a physical or mental barrier. But her words slipped effortlessly through the contact. Gently, she reassured him that the Chaos was a part of himself, that he should welcome it without fighting and let it serve him as a life aura must. She felt him soften at her words. The fiery rage within him died, and the Chaos, too, gave up its struggles, settling within him, gradually poisoning Bolverkr’s last vestiges of self with its presence. Complacency seeped through the contact, drawing Silme deeper into her slumber. At first, she followed it, every muscle falling into perfect laxity, a comfort beyond any she had ever known. Then, a more primitive portion of her mind kicked in, warning of imminent danger. Suddenly fully awake, Silme sprang to her feet, bashing her head on the shelves above the headboard.
An avalanche of books and fruit thundered to the floor. A bowl shattered, and shards of pottery skittered across the wood.
Startled from his sickbed, Al Larson dove beneath the frame in a tangle of blankets. “Incoming!” he screamed.
Then the room fell silent.
Silme reoriented quickly. She sat on a straw-ticked mattress mounted on a metal frame. A half dozen books lay scattered at her feet amid bruised fruit that had once sat in a bowl whose pieces decorated the floorboards in colored triangles. Across the room and nearer the door, Astryd slept despite the noise, alone in the bed she normally shared with Taziar. Propped against the footboard leaned the familiar dragonstaff that identified Astryd as garnet-rank, a smoothly-sanded pole tipped with a faceted, red stone clamped between four black-nailed, wooden claws. Between her and Silme, the room’s single window stood ajar. Autumn breezes stirred the gauzy blue curtains. Beneath it, a dresser held their belongings.
Larson’s angular, elf face peered from beneath his bed. His pale eyes swept the room, and he seemed to take time to get his bearing.
“I’m sorry,” Silme said, her voice loud in the silence.
Astryd continued to sleep.
Larson hauled himself from beneath the bed. “What happened?”
“Bad dream.” It sounded like understatement to Silme, so she qualified. “Very bad dream.”
Larson frowned, apparently thinking about the nightmares that had beset him since Freyr had dragged him to a Norway centuries before his birth and into the guise of an elf. It had turned out his were not dreams at all but sorcerers and gods entering his thoughts through the openings left by his lack of mind barriers. But they both knew no one could penetrate Silme’s mental barriers.
Or could they? Doubt trickled through Silme’s thoughts. I opened my mind barriers to Bolverkr’s Chaos before. Could he have manipulated that weakness? Silme grimaced. She had walled off that contact with defenses Chaos should not have been able to breach. Yet, it seemed to have done so with an ease that could only come of an invitation. As if some part of me accepted Chaos willingly.
The idea frightened Silme, suggesting that, deep down, she supported Chaos’ evil or, worse, coveted the power it promised. Again, she clutched the baby’s aura to her absently, felt the fullness of life energy that had seemed trivial days ago. And the answer accompanied that touch. The baby is taking the Chaos-energy offered by Bolverkr. Fear shuddered through Silme at the realization. She knew the child was not capable of thought, that it was simply being a normal fetus, taking whatever nourishment it could, oblivious to the source. It needs to grow. Yet, the volume of Chaos-energy to which it’s become exposed is immeasurable. The possible consequences seemed so staggering, Silme dared not consider them yet. She buried her face in her hands.
Apparently attributing Silme’s discomfort to her dream, Larson limped to her side and caught her into an embrace. “What happened? Tell me about this nightmare.”
Silme wrapped her arms around Larson, feeling him wince as the pressure ignited healing bruises and scars. “It’s nothing to worry about.” She tried to soothe, but her uncertainty sabotaged the effort. “It’s not the dream itself. There’s something we need to discuss as a group. Why don’t I wake up Astryd and ...” She trailed off as the realization of what she had seen earlier finally seeped into her consciousness.
Larson’s gaze went naturally to his friends’ bed where Astryd sprawled alone, a petite, curly-haired blonde nearly lost in a twist of blankets.
“Shadow’s gone.” Silme stated the obvious needlessly. Larson’s attention had already shifted to the open window.
“That stupid, little ...”
Taziar’s head and shoulders appeared over the ledge. “... son-of-a-bitch,” he finished in English, simulating Larson’s Bronx accent. He scurried inside, closing the window behind him.
Larson had unconsciously grasped the finely-crafted Japanese longsword that had belonged to Kensei Gaelinar. He glared. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Taziar made a vague gesture to indicate Larson should speak freely.
“I was going to say ‘obnoxious, fucking asshole son-of-a-bitch.’ ”
Taziar bowed his head. “I stand corrected,” he said with mock seriousness.
“And,” Larson pulled free of Silme, slipping easily into the facetious manner of his companion. “I speak your language fluently. How come the only things you’ve bothered to learn in mine are swear words?”
It was an unfair question. Some effect of Freyr’s transporting magic had given Larson the ability to speak the period languages naturally, while Taziar could only glean English phrases from the rare times Larson used them, usually in annoyance or anger. Still, the Shadow Climber found an answer. “Swear words, are they? I was starting to wonder why the only things with names in your language were excrement, sex, and animal relatives.”
Larson chuckled.
“Actually, though, I have learned a few other words.” Taziar sat on the edge of the bed, turning his head to watch Astryd roll to a sitting position, the blankets clutched to her chest.
Silme frowned, recognizing Taziar’s attempt to turn the conversation away from his recent absence.
“ ‘Jerk’ and ‘creep’ are mild insults.”
“Terms of endearment,” Larson interrupted with a smile.
“Right.” Taziar placed a hand on Astryd’s covered knee. “ ‘Mac’ is a casual thing you call a stranger, ‘sir’ a more formal one.” Taziar rolled his eyes in consideration. “There’s places: ‘New York,’ ‘America,’ ‘Vietnam.’ Then, I know ‘excuse me’ and ‘team player.’ ‘Buddy’ means a trusted friend who holds your life in his hands. ‘Gun’ describes an object I’ve seen once and never want to come up against again. A ‘Buick’ is an object large things are compared to in size.” He paused. “Oh, and I’ve heard ‘follow that car.’”
“Great.” Larson winked at Silme, apparently oblivious to her displeasure, and stretched his legs in front of him. “You’re all set if you ever want to take a transcontinental cab ride in an American-made car.”
“Enough!” Silme said, bothered by the men’s playful banter. “Stop it, both of you!”
All eyes flicked suddenly to Silme, the expression on every face one of befuddled surprise. Never before had the sorceress become angered by a harmless exchange of gibes.
Silme addressed Larson directly. “I understand that you sometimes use humor to release tension, but this isn’t the time.”
Larson stared, looking hurt. “I was only ...”
Silme cut him off, fixing her hard, gray eyes on Taziar. “Where were you, Shadow?”
Taziar shifted uncomfortably. His lips framed
a feeble smile. “Would you believe enjoying the night air?” He used a small voice that made it clear he was stalling.
Silme’s glower deepened, etching wrinkles into her artistically-perfect features. She realized she was acting harsh beyond her nature, perhaps due to the concerns her dream had raised, yet the brusqueness seemed justified. “I’m not kidding, Shadow. Where were you?”
Taziar stared at his feet. “I couldn’t sleep. I went scouting.”
“You went to Bolverkr’s fortress.” Silme knew Taziar well enough to guess. “Didn’t you?”
Astryd’s and Larson’s attention whipped to the Shadow Climber.
Taziar nodded grimly. “I found out some information that ...”
Silme did not allow him to change the subject. “This is all a big game to you, isn’t it?”
Taziar went silent. The comma of black hair sagged into his eyes, giving him the look of an unruly child.
“This isn’t some interesting challenge someone handed you for fun. Bolverkr commands the largest volume of Chaos-force ever assembled. He’s the most powerful creature in existence. Ever. And he wants us dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Taziar sounded sincere. “I wasn’t trying to belittle Bolverkr’s power. I was trying to assess it. Know the enemy. It’s just good strategy.”
Taziar’s defensive reply fueled Silme’s rage. “You don’t even understand what you did wrong! How could you go off alone in the night without telling anyone? If we can stand against Bolverkr, and I’m not at all certain we can, it’s going to take all of us working together and at our best. Did it occur to you that you might disturb Bolverkr? Alone, you don’t have a chance against him. He could have killed you without bothering to stand. Then, enraged by your interference, he might have come after us. He’d have found us asleep because we had no idea one of our companions had run off recklessly, stupidly, into a lion’s den.”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 4