Larson stroked Silme’s long golden locks, trying to appease her. Usually, he respected Silme as the voice of reason, but apparently even he believed she had gone too far. “Shadow made a mistake. He’s apologized. No harm done. I think that dream’s got you upset. Maybe you should talk about it.”
Silme knocked away Larson’s caress with the back of her hand. “Don’t patronize me, Allerum. I’ve been fighting Chaos and sorcerers since long before you heard of either.” Her fists clenched, her memory gliding back over more than a decade spent protecting innocents from the cruelties of her half-brother, Bramin. Then she had required the aid and protection of the world’s greatest swordsman, Kensei Gaelinar. She missed the old ronin’s loyalty, his single-minded, predictable code of honor, and the seriousness with which he viewed the world and his role in it. Though crippling at times, Larson’s guileless morality had attracted Silme in the same way Taziar’s impetuous good intentions had charmed Astryd; but, faced with the most powerful enemy in her life, Silme would have traded man and elf for the Kensei’s humorless efficiency. “This isn’t the first time Shadow’s run off alone without thinking, but it’s damned well going to be the last. I’m not going to have my baby, husband, and apprentice endangered by ...”
Several rapid taps at the door interrupted Silme’s tirade.
Larson sighed in relief, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if to thank some unnamed god.
“Come in,” Taziar said, his voice a soft parody of his normal carefree tone and harsh Cullinsberg accent.
Unaccustomed to berating friends, Silme felt a pang of remorse.
The door swung ajar on silent hinges, and Asril the Procurer stood framed in the doorway, backlit by a candle in the hallway. A mop of mouse brown hair crowned knife-scarred cheeks, and his strange, violet gaze swept the room, taking in every sight from long habit. The son of a freelance prostitute, Asril had won his education and his wounds on the wildest streets of Cullinsberg. Of the seven leaders Taziar had broken out of prison, Asril was the only one who had weathered the guards’ tortures well enough to help Larson and Taziar battle Bolverkr’s henchman, Harriman, and his berserker bodyguards. “Ah, what a glorious morning and a joy to wake up to friends quibbling. Pressure getting too intense? I don’t suppose this means you’ll let me help against Bolverkr now?” He bowed with feigned deference. “Lords, ladies, my sword arm is at your service.” He winked at Taziar. “I owe you the favor, partner. Won’t you let me repay it?”
Silme knew Taziar’s caution with his friends’ lives would force him to refuse the offer, so it surprised her when he looked to her for guidance before answering. She tightened her lips to a blanched line, shaking her head vigorously. Our survival is tenuous enough. No need to involve anyone else in our affairs.
Apparently, Silme had given the response Taziar wanted because his features mellowed with relief. “Shylar and the underground need you here. Since when have I needed help to do anything?” Taziar winced. He had obviously meant the words to assuage Asril, then realized they might provoke Silme as well.
Asril the Procurer’s interruption had given Silme time to think, and guilt assailed her. I shouldn’t have scolded Shadow so hard. Stupid as his decision seemed to me, he meant well. Naturally calm and gentle by nature, as well as competent in her judgments, Silme rarely found herself in a position calling for apology. Now she tried to express her regret to Taziar, but the words seemed to die on her tongue. Emotion lumped within her, nameless irritation, smothered excitement, sorrow, and fear, their sources too vague for her to trace. She knew other feelings as well, a protectiveness toward her forming child and the friends she would give her own life to spare, and a distant, veiled realization that some of the sentiments she felt were not consistent with the self she knew.
Oblivious to Silme’s turmoil, Asril shrugged. “If you change your mind, my offer of help stands.” He closed long lashes over his violet eyes, then opened them slowly, his full attention on Taziar. “So, how did the enemy seem last night?”
Asril’s voice jarred Silme from the brink of an important revelation. The recognition of the alienness of her current mind-set slipped beyond her grasp, and she did not notice the insidious, almost nonexistent trickle of Chaos seeping through the contact with Bolverkr.
In response to Asril’s question, Taziar stiffened. He rolled his gaze toward Silme, awaiting reprimand. When none came, he replied softly. “How would I know that?” He made a brisk gesture to silence Asril.
The violet-eyed thief ignored Taziar’s apparent discomfort. “When I saw you trying to get over the walls, I just assumed you went to check on Bolverkr.”
Taziar spoke hesitantly, as if trying to hide his surprise. “You ... saw ... me?”
Larson frowned, Astryd stared at Taziar, and Silme glowered at the realization that the Climber had not only run off alone but had done so sloppily enough to get noticed by friends and potentially by enemies as well.
Asril closed the door and draped his frame casually against it. “Didn’t actually see you, but it’s hard to miss a hundred clomping guardsmen. And what purpose would they have on the rooftops besides chasing the Shadow Climber?”
Taziar cringed.
Asril grinned, revealing straight rows of yellowed teeth. “I’d have thought the Climber more careful, though that was before I knew he was reckless Taz.”
Taziar made an abrupt quieting gesture, far less subtle than the first.
Silme bit her lip, reminding herself that the reprimands had already been spoken. Compared to the risk of facing Bolverkr alone, Taziar’s confrontation with Cullinsberg’s town guardsmen seemed trivial.
Asril laughed. Pushing off the door with a foot, he approached Taziar, his voice softer but still discernible to Silme. “Clever ruse, whatever it was you did on the baker’s roof. I’m relieved to realize you didn’t know you put the whole pack of wolves on my tail.”
Taziar looked stricken. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
Asril shrugged off the apology. “It worked out fine. Gave you time to get away. The guards were so busy worrying about you, they didn’t even recognize me. Snarled a few words about being out after curfew, then went back after you.” He chuckled. “By then, you were long gone, of course.”
“Of course,” Larson repeated thoughtfully. Having failed to silence his friend, Taziar tried changing the subject. “I did discover something important about Bolverkr, though. I think he’s gone completely insane.”
Larson lay back on the mattress, supported by his elbows with his body curled around Silme’s stiffly-seated figure. “What do you mean? Chasing down strangers to torture and kill them never seemed all that sane to me to begin with.”
Taziar drew his knees to his chest. “He’s not just irrationally vengeful anymore. I found him pacing his wall, wasting his magic on statues and rocks, jabbering about not knowing who he is.”
The similarity to her dream struck Silme. No longer able to deny the reality of her connection with Bolverkr, she fidgeted.
No one seemed to notice Silme’s new uneasiness. Taziar continued. “Mind you, I don’t have any experience with Chaos-madness. I don’t know how long it’ll last.” Taziar squirmed, obviously concerned about the suggestion he was about to make. “So far, we’ve let Bolverkr do all the attacking while we handled his minions and tried to get a feel for his power. Based on the information Silme and I gathered, I think it’s time we took the initiative. We need to strike while he’s alone and too crazed to think clearly.”
Larson nodded soberly. “Good battle strategy. I think I’m feeling up to ...”
Realizing she might have accidentally helped stabilize Bolverkr in her sleep, Silme blurted, “We’ll need to move as quickly as possible.”
The impulsive interruption seemed so unlike Silme that her companions went silent and stared in surprise.
Feeling obligated to clarify, the sorceress continued. “Chaos or power generally comes to people in tiny doses based on the balance of the world an
d life events. For them, the corruption of personality comes gradually. Bolverkr was forced to contain, in seconds, enough Chaos to help offset Loki’s destruction and the resurrection of a god.” Absorbed in her narration, Silme sat ramrod straight, her hands clenched in her lap. Though Bolverkr had proved himself a bitter and dangerous enemy, she could not help feeling a twinge of sorrow for him. The Bolverkr whose memories she had shared was a sweet-tempered and gentle victim of circumstance. “Forced to cope with a sudden, drastic change in character, Bolverkr’s fighting the Chaos, trying to find the self he used to be.”
Larson traced a wrinkle in Silme’s gown with his finger. “You mean he might be able to shake this Chaos? Deep down, the dirty scum who ordered Shadow’s friends killed, me tortured, the baby destroyed, and you raped is really a nice guy? Forgive me while I laugh hysterically. I find that a bit hard to swallow.”
Larson’s effortless interplay between English slang and the barony’s tongue made his words difficult to understand, but Silme managed to follow his main point. “Essentially.” More attentive to Larson’s native language, Taziar deciphered and replied more directly. “Are you suggesting Bolverkr might overcome this Chaos? We might not have to kill him?”
“No. I don’t meant that at all.” Silme’s back muscles began to cramp in protest of Silme’s sitting “at attention” for far too long. She sagged, absently massaging her lower spine with a fist. “The Chaos is far too great and strong for Bolverkr to fight. His only choice is to give in to it, to incorporate it into himself as part of his life energy. Any other decision would be folly.”
Taziar and Astryd both raised their brows, though neither spoke aloud.
Silme answered the unspoken question. “Because even Bolverkr isn’t powerful enough to win a battle against renegade Chaos of that magnitude. Remember, embodied Chaos, the chaos inside of a person, is his life force; it dies when its master is killed. But if a host to renegade Chaos is destroyed, that Chaos would be free to hunt for another host. Along the way, it would destroy anything in its path: people, animals, forests, entire cities.” Silme repositioned herself, crossing her legs on the pallet. “Since this particular massing of Chaos chose to go to Bolverkr first, it’s probable he was the most likely to survive its linking. If Bolverkr was killed before he merged with his new Chaos, it would try to find another lord. Most probably, no one else could survive the merger. It would kill its next host, and each subsequent attempt would bring it against weaker and weaker hosts. It wouldn’t quit until every sentient creature in the world was killed.” Silme shivered at the impact of her own words.
Taziar twisted his fine features in thought, brushing the hair from his forehead. “So we have to time this carefully. The only way to destroy this Chaos is to wait for Bolverkr to completely assimilate it, taking it as his life force. Then we kill him.” Taziar shook his head, obviously displeased with the concept.
Silme knew Taziar well enough to understand that he cared little for killing, especially pawns. The method did not appeal to her either, but she could see beyond murder to the practical necessity. Bolverkr was too dangerous to everyone to live. “The timing doesn’t matter any more. If Bolverkr’s still alive when we reach his keep, he’ll have certainly surrendered to Chaos. He’s at too critical a juncture not to have made the decision last night. We should strike as soon as possible, before he gets a firm grasp on what he can do with his new-found power.”
Larson rubbed at the sore spot on Silme’s back. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said, irritability rising from a source she did not bother to name. She wanted to detail her dream, to explain that she knew Bolverkr’s struggle had reached its climax because she had shared it with him, knew he had surrendered to Chaos because she had pressed him to the concession. But a part of her understood the wrongness of admitting to such a thing. It led her to believe detailing her dream would accomplish nothing except to undermine her companions’ morale, and, though her silence seemed as wrong as Taziar’s impetuous spying, she clung to it. “Shadow described the situation accurately. Are you well enough to fight today?”
“I’m not at my best,” Larson admitted honestly. “But if it’s urgent, what choice do I have?” His hand fell away from Silme and to the brocaded hilt of Gaelinar’s katana. He smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
Silme knew Larson gained courage from touching his teacher’s katana. In the way of the samurai, the Kensei had always considered his swords an extension of his spirit. As such, he had treated them with more respect than any person, letting his own wounds gape and bleed until he had cleaned, sheathed, and accorded the blades their proper respect. Composed of joined layers of hard and soft steel folded hundreds of times, the katana could cut through armor as if it did not exist or cleanly decapitate a man with a single stroke.
Astryd raised a practical issue in her usual soft-spoken, deferential manner. “I’m years and multiple ranks below you in training, Silme, so you know things I don’t. But doesn’t the death of a powerful creature of Chaos have to be balanced by one of Law?”
Taziar seized on Astryd’s question. “Like Fenrir?”
The reference confused Silme. “Fenrir? The Great Wolf?”
“Right.” Taziar went on excitedly, his gaze probing Larson. “Remember back before we fought the Chaos dragon, when Fenrir was our most dangerous enemy. He said we couldn’t possibly kill him because it would upset the balance of the world.”
Larson remembered. “We never did kill him, either. We captured him.” He stroked his hairless, elven chin, following the conversation to its natural, if unnerving, conclusion. “Are you saying it might be literally impossible to kill Bolverkr?”
Astryd shrugged, and Larson touched Silme’s thigh to turn the question back to the more experienced, sapphire-rank sorceress.
“I don’t know. Nothing like this has ever happened before, as far as I’m aware.” Silme inclined her head toward Taziar. “Since I met Shadow, impossible doesn’t have a lot of meaning for me anymore. If someone had asked a year ago, I would have said destroying Loki was impossible. Certainly, killing Bolverkr will be the most difficult challenge any of us has ever faced. Impossible? Maybe. I don’t know.”
Taziar still clung to the chance of a peaceful solution. “Silme, is there any way to siphon off Chaos from Bolverkr and distribute it around in small, harmless parcels?”
Silme considered. Taziar’s idea had not occurred to her before. “By reopening the connection Bolverkr allowed me to create between us, theoretically, yes. I could take Chaos from him. In practice, I don’t see how it could work. First, Bolverkr might oppose me. Then we’d have to fight under less than ideal circumstances, on his terms. Second, there’s a near certain possibility that I might misjudge and become corrupted myself. Third, in order to spread the Chaos thin enough not to seriously poison each new host, I’d need hundreds or, more likely, thousands of willing volunteers. Each one would need to fight down his mind barriers for me to make the transfer.”
Larson finished sarcastically. “By the time you finished, Bolverkr would have died of old age.”
Silme shrugged. The only survivor of the original Dragonrank sorcerers, Bolverkr had had access to the earlier, more powerful spells, before the mages had learned the danger of summoning renegade Chaos. Already two hundred and seventeen years old, Bolverkr still seemed spry and agile to Silme, and she had no way to judge his potential life span. Still, Larson’s point regarding time seemed valid. “Bolverkr’s certain to confront us long before I could muster the necessary volunteers, assuming I could even find people inclined to let me infuse them with Chaos. Having dedicated my life to protecting innocents from Chaos, I don’t feel comfortable with the idea, either.”
Asril the Procurer rested a sandaled foot on the edge of Astryd’s bed, near the garnet-tipped dragonstaff. “So it’s settled. You have to kill Bolverkr, and the sooner the better.”
“One other thing.” Larson glanced at Astryd and Taziar for supp
ort, raising a topic they had apparently already discussed in Silme’s absence. “You’re not coming with us.” He caressed Silme’s side as he spoke.
Silme twisted toward Larson in disbelief. “You’d better be talking to Asril.”
“I’m talking,” Larson said firmly, “to you.”
Outrage welled within Silme, quickly snuffed by knowledge. It’s not me they’re overprotecting, it’s the baby. Instinctively, she clutched the tiny aura to her, felt the edges of its life energy blur into her own. She could not separate the two. Any spell she threw would sap its life force as well as hers, and, once emptied of chaos, the child would die. Thoughts of the coming battle and the risks to the baby had haunted Silme throughout Larson’s recovery. When the war against Bolverkr had seemed a distant threat, the decision had come easily. Now, the lives of her friends and husband had to take precedence over that of an unborn child. “That’s nonsense, Allerum. You won’t have a chance against Bolverkr without a Dragonrank mage.” As she spoke, memories tortured Silme. She recalled the hands of Bolverkr’s minion tearing at her clothes and person while she wrestled with the realization that Larson, Taziar, and Astryd battled dozens of prison guards, though a few simple spells and a dead fetus could rescue them all from humiliation and death.
“We’ll have Astryd.” Taziar gave Larson his full support, unaware Silme’s thoughts had wandered far beyond her protest. “With you or not, we’re not going to be able to best Bolverkr with magic. He’s too powerful. It’s going to have to be by surprise and luck.”
Astryd spoke next, as if to demonstrate that she had thought the subject through as well. “Of us all, you’re the only one Bolverkr won’t hunt down. We have nothing to lose by fighting him. If we don’t, he’ll kill us anyway, But you, he’ll let live. And the baby.” Astryd’s loyalty to and excitement about the baby had been unwavering since its conception. Though a mediocre sorceress compared with Silme, she had taken over the magical needs of the group. When Bolverkr’s sorcery had trapped Silme in an alternate dimension, escapable only by magic, Astryd had allowed Silme to tap her life aura, a rare process that had nearly resulted in Astryd’s death. “By killing Loki, Allerum assured that our Norse gods would endure through eternity. The White Christ will never come, and Allerum’s friends and family, his entire world, will never come about. This baby is the only proof that the nine worlds will ever have that Lord Allerum the Godslayer ever existed.”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 5