Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed

by By Chaos Cursed (v1. 0)

  Larson shook Silme’s arm gently. “Silme?”

  Silme’s cheeks twisted. Her eyes closed deliberately, and she tightened the expression until creases ringed her nose. Then her lids flicked open, revealing turbulent, gray irises reflecting an internal struggle, a decision she could not quite reach.

  Larson could only guess that she still wrestled with the choice between friends and baby. Pained by her sorrow, he swept her into a reassuring hug.

  Silme did not return the embrace but neither did she pull away. She stood, stiff and silent in Larson’s arms.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Silme made no reply.

  Larson pulled away. “You stay here with Astryd and Shadow. I’m going to look for food and a weapon for Shadow. If I can’t find a sword this time, I’ll get him an ax, a pick, a shovel. It doesn’t matter.” Bolverkr’s ass is mine.

  Taziar looked up. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.” Larson rolled his gaze from Silme to Astryd, trying to indicate that they needed watching without offending them. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have chosen either sorceress to back him over any man he had ever met. But Astryd’s inexperience seemed to have finally caught up with her, and Silme had become as unpredictable as death.

  Apparently catching Larson’s hint, Taziar returned to comforting Astryd.

  Leaving his pack, Larson headed for the town proper. He discovered the first corpses at the edges of the village, a woman and three children, a bad beginning to a mission he would rather have forgotten. They lay half-buried beneath charred thatch and wood frame, eyes glazed, faces locked in terror. Steeling himself, Larson searched dispassionately, not allowing himself to speculate about their pasts or their shattered futures. They were dead and he was not. They no longer had need of food and weapons; his friends needed both.

  As Larson leaned over the bodies, the strange, subtle odor of flayed muscle appeared beneath the stronger smells of blood and fire. Too familiar, it no longer bothered him. The recognition of Caucasian features, blue and green irises among the staring, sightless eyes pained more. He had known several Oriental friends before the war, and he had respected his Japanese swordmaster more than any man in his life. Still, the war had taught him to notice the differences between himself and enemies. The ruins reminded him of a walk with his buddies toward a town in the Mekong Delta, the shrill whine of phantom jets overhead, and the almost instantaneous explosion. Tight to the ground before he could recall moving, he had watched grass huts and villagers dissolve into a raging column of flame.

  Now Larson wove quietly amidst tumbled stone, burning thatch, and twisted, leering corpses. Instead of the overwhelming gasoline reek of napalm, he knew the acrid smell of cleaner fires, damp earth, and death. In Vietnam, he could justify the devastation by concentrating on almond-shaped eyes, hair black as ink and sticky with blood, and olive-toned skin, ignoring the arms, legs, bodies, and heads, the hearts that once held hopes and dreams so like his own. Here in the eleventh century, in a part of Europe Larson could only guess was Germany, he could no longer ground his sanity on the racial differences between himself and his enemies. His imagination reconstructed the scorched faces. Every young boy bore the features of his little brother Timmy. Each teenaged girl became his sister Pam. The adults resembled so many friends and relatives from his past, an endless parade of memory that haunted him until he no longer knew who he was mourning.

  Overstimulated, Larson’s mind numbed the sea of corpses and rubble to a blur, and he checked the bodies with the same indifference as he did the broken remains of their dwellings. Bolverkr had done his job as thoroughly as before. Larson uncovered rakes and hoes, myriad scraps of clothing, dolls with stuffing strewn across the wreckage like the organs of their young owners. He found the ruins of a healer’s cottage, some of the vials of salve and powder still intact, useless to the dead. Yet Larson did not discover a single crust of bread. Stored foods had burnt to ash, along with their barrels. And though Larson found the remains of pastures, not one corpse belonged to an animal. Once again, Bolverkr had diverted the sewage into the fountain, but that seemed less of a problem. The constant rain provided a source of water. It held an odd, metallic taste Larson could not explain, but it quenched his thirst.

  As the chaos around Larson grew familiar, the odors faded into background, and the vision of death lost its sting. Even the patter of rain seemed to disappear into a dark, empty vacuum of silence and apathy. Larson had seen enough death that the bodies no longer interested him, even as morbid curiosities. He already knew human liver looked the same color and texture as the dinner table liver he had refused as a child, that kidneys were shaped like kidney beans, and that medical science had a reason for calling brains “gray matter.” Aside from checking for possessions and life signs, the bodies might have become mannequins for all they mattered to Larson; each funeral ground became just one more place to look for food and weaponry. The quiet grew peaceful beneath the rain’s drumbeat, a welcome relief from Silme’s nagging and the despondent, unnatural silences of his companions.

  Larson’s exploration did not go wholly unrewarded. He came away with a pocketful of copper coins, several crude knives, and scraps of cloth that could serve as bandages. A crevice in the road had gathered enough rain to allow him to fill a skin with muddy but untainted water. Pleased with these small gains, Larson pushed into a dwelling on the far edge of town that seemed to have been spared the worst of the dragon’s attack.

  A hole in the thatch roof supplied enough light for Larson to get a clear view of the furnishings. The loft had collapsed, filling the main room with splintered logs and mattress tickings. A table lay shattered beneath the rubble. In the corner, near the door, a body sprawled. Dark hair fell about shoulders well-muscled from a lifetime of farming. A thick back tapered to a narrow waist. A sword belt cinched crookedly around his girth, the empty, twisted leather of a sheath peeking from beneath one hip.

  A sword. Excited by his discovery, Larson bounded toward the figure. As he approached, he could see bone jutting from a bloody hole in the man’s thigh. A soft groan escaped the body.

  Larson froze. Alive? It seemed only natural that someone might survive the carnage. Yet, after several hundred pulse checks, Larson had developed a healthy respect for Bolverkr’s precision. He approached cautiously, not wanting to frighten the farmer. “I won’t hurt you. My name’s Al. I’m a friend.” He used the language of Cullinsberg’s barony.

  The stranger responded with a moan. He remained still.

  Larson approached and knelt at the man’s side. He pressed his finger to the corded neck, feeling a pulse thump solidly against his fingers. Good. He’s got a chance. He glanced upward. Must have taken a bad fall. “What’s your name?”

  A long pause followed. The stranger took a shuddering breath. “Will-a-” He took another shallow gasp, “-perht.” A thick dialect made it sound more like Wil-burt. “Leg broken. Hurts to breathe. Back ...” He paused. “Not sure.”

  A medic in Vietnam had once taught Larson to misname the injured to keep them oriented and focused on something other than the pain. “Listen, Wolfgang. Just lie still. I’m going to get some help moving you.”

  “Willaperht,” the man corrected.

  Larson headed for the door. Reminded of Bolverkr’s thoroughness, he paused. How many chances am I going to get to find a sword? Willaperht can’t use it for a while, and we’re all safer if Shadow’s armed as soon as possible. “Hey, Wildwood, do you mind if I borrow your sword?”

  “Willaperht. Don’t know where it is.”

  Larson smiled, shaking his head. “That’s all right. Don’t bother to get up. I’ll find it.”

  Willaperht moaned in anguish.

  Larson returned to Willaperht’s side, rubbing the man’s shoulder comfortingly as he began his search. Keep him distracted. “You a soldier, Willy?”

  This time, Willaperht did not bother to correct Larson. “Farmer. Taught myself sword to protect my fami
ly. My wife ... ?”

  Larson groped under the fallen rubble, seeing no sign of the sword. The sheath lay flaccid and empty on Willaperht’s belt.

  “My wife?” the farmer repeated.

  It took Larson several seconds to realize Willaperht was asking a question. This did not seem the proper time to tell the injured man he was the town’s only survivor. “I don’t know. There’re too many people, and they’re all strangers to me. For now, let’s just worry about you.” Larson scowled, trying to decide where to look next.

  Suddenly, from the opposite end of the cottage, light tore away the gloom. Fear slammed Larson. He dropped to his belly as if his legs had given out on him, then instantly realized that his trained reaction might cost him his life. He whirled, rising to a crouch. His sword whipped free.

  Bolverkr stood on the opposite side of the cottage, leaning casually against the wall, one foot propped on the splintered remnants of the loft. “Looking for this, Allerum?” He raised a long sword, clutched in one fist.

  Larson sprang. He covered the intervening space in a single leap and cut for Bolverkr’s neck with all the power he could force into the stroke.

  A hand’s breadth in front of Bolverkr, Larson’s blade rang against an invisible barrier. The unexpected impact staggered Larson. His fingers throbbed. The wound in his shoulder tore open, spilling blood.

  Bolverkr remained calmly still, smiling.

  Larson’s pain transformed to rage. Howling, he slashed at the sorcerer again and again, his sword crashing repeatedly against defenses solid as a mountain.

  Bolverkr waited with amused patience.

  Larson’s arms ached. He retreated, panting, studying Bolverkr with a glare of hatred. “Coward! I’m sick to death of your hit and run tactics. If you want a fight, let’s fight. You and I. Right now. Weapon to weapon.” He goaded Bolverkr, circling on the balls of his feet, anticipating a strike in anger.

  Bolverkr watched Larson, a slight smile on his lips, like an adult watching someone else’s child throw a tantrum. Abruptly, he lunged from the rubble.

  Larson rushed forward to meet the attack. The invisible barrier caught him in the face. Pain flashed through his nose. The combined force of their charges sent him reeling. His foot came down on a broken table leg. He fell backward, twisting to avoid Willaperht, and came down hard on the farmer’s wounded leg.

  Willaperht screamed.

  Larson cursed into the stone, cheeks stinging and ankle throbbing. Fist still tight around his sword hilt, he scurried to his feet, braced for Bolverkr’s magic.

  Larson expected a physical attack, so the probe Bolverkr jabbed into his mind caught him completely off guard. White hot agony speared his thoughts, scattering them, and bounced like echoes through his head. He heard himself scream as if from a great distance. Consciousness hovered, blackness pressing in from all sides.

  “No!” Larson’s voice emerged as a dull croak. Spots prickled and rang through his head, and it ached as if it might explode. Wall. Got to build a wall. The world faded around Larson as he threw his full concentration into the vision of a brick tower enclosing the intruder in his thoughts.

  The pain subsided. Larson caught a bleary glance of the place where Bolverkr had stood, now empty. The distraction caused the walls to blur.

  In Larson’s mind, Bolverkr’s laughter rang hollowly through the imagined tower.

  Dizzied and sickened, Larson clawed through his pain for a coherent strategy. He knew from experience that Bolverkr could spark any memory Larson had inadvertently enclosed within the walls to a vividness that could incapacitate him. He steadied his consciousness, prepared for the inevitable cruel stab of remembrance, the waves of physical or emotional pain, the complete disruption of time, place, and person. Only one thing to try. Larson did not consider the tactic too carefully, aware he might falter. Bravely, he waited for his first flashing image of the Vietnam War, prepared to hurl every ounce of his concentration onto that moment, hoping to throw himself into flashback and drag Bolverkr with him. The other two times he had fallen through breeches in his memory, it had happened accidentally. Now, bolstered by Taziar’s suggestions to try to enter his own world, he prepared to ground his reason on the hellish war that had driven him to madness. All right, Bolverkr, let’s see how you fare against AK-47s.

  “I’ve shattered real mind barriers.” Though enmeshed in looping coils of Larson’s thoughts and memories, Bolverkr fixed his attention on Larson’s conjured walls. “Do you think your makeshift defenses can hold me?”

  Cued by Bolverkr’s words, Larson abandoned his idea. Even the diamond-rank master, Bramin, and the god, Vidarr, had found Larson’s created walls too difficult to battle. Both had chosen to assault his memories instead, aware the walls came of Larson’s thoughts, and a loss of concentration would cause his barriers to crumble.

  Bolverkr snapped a wrist. Fire splashed the tower’s wall, flinging burning sparks through Larson’s mind. The brick shattered. Chunks of rock pounded Larson’s thoughts like physical pain. He started to scream. Anguish pounded him to oblivion, cutting the sound midway. Larson collapsed into darkness.

  Bolverkr extracted himself from the dark void of Larson’s mind. The elf sprawled on a floor littered with chaotic jumbles of singed thatch, smashed beams and furniture, and fragmented stone. Still clutching Willaperht’s sword, Bolverkr studied the base of Larson’s skull. So easy. He raised the blade. But instead of Larson’s neck, Bolverkr shoved it through Willaperht’s.

  The farmer tensed, shuddered once, then went still.

  “You’re spared this time,” he told Larson’s unconscious body. Bracing his foot on Willaperht’s spine, Bolverkr withdrew the blade. “For Silme. Once she becomes mine, I’ll kill your child. And when you have nothing left but your life, I’ll take that, too.”

  Bolverkr turned, raising the sword. Willaperht’s blood trickled down the steel onto the crossguard, striping Bolverkr’s knuckles. He watched the scarlet rivulets fill irregularities in the knurling, a bright, beautiful contrast to the brown leather and silvered steel. “And you might as well have this.” Bolverkr jammed the point between piled stones and twisted until the steel gave. The broken blade rattled into the crevice.

  Bolverkr hurled the hilt at Larson’s back. It struck a shoulder blade, sliding into a fold of the elf’s cloak. Blood washed from Willaperht’s wound, staining Larson’s sleeve.

  Tapping an insignificant amount of life chaos, Bolverkr triggered an escape transport. White light filled the tiny cottage, then winked out, plummeting the two still forms into a wash of gray smoke.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  Chaos of Thought and Passion

  Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,

  Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking

  Dream of battled fields no more,

  Days of danger, nights of waking.

  —Sir Walter Scott The Lady of the Lake

  Al Larson sat beneath a patchwork canopy of branches, ignoring the ceaseless drip of rain, though a stream of droplets pattered on his head. Water plastered long, white-blond hair to his high-set cheekbones, revealing the delicate points of his ears. Yet despite the annoyance of rivulets running from his bangs into his eyes, he did not bother to find a drier seat. Despair rode him, familiar as a childhood playmate. And though his companions were around him, Larson might just as well have been alone. His thoughts carried him beyond the incomplete sanctity of the forest clearing to the tattered, charred corpses of innocents killed in his name, to the body of a young man named Willaperht who might still live if Larson had gone for help immediately rather than wasting time searching for a sword.

  Larson buried his chin in his palms, swiveling his gaze to the right where Taziar practiced fighting maneuvers with a branch carved into a shaft. Astryd stood nearby, leaning against her garnet-tipped staff, calling inane suggestions that seemed to have little effect on Taziar’s style. Though quick and graceful, Taziar’s strokes lacked power. Accustomed to swords, h
e occasionally used thrusting gestures that, in combat, would accomplish nothing more than giving his enemy a chance to seize the weapon and disarm him. He also tended to lead with one side, as if the staff held an edge.

  Larson turned away, discouraged by Taziar’s lack of combat skill but unable to gather the momentum needed to teach. He had little enough training with any weapon other than single-edged sword, deer rifle, pistol, and M-16, just a natural eye for technique. And it was obvious Taziar had no technique at all.

  Wind rattled through the trees, revealing endlessly gray sky through shifting gaps. A shower of leaf-held rain splashed down on Larson, unnoticed. In Vietnam, he had been told to befriend every companion, yet to hold each at a distance. Though his life might depend on any one of them, he could not afford to let their deaths cripple him. Then, he had tried this method with little success. Now, he found it even more difficult. Never before had his enemies slaughtered women and children as a personal affront to him. Never before did he have to weigh the lives of his beloved wife and forming child in the balance. The animal-like cunning and stealth of the Viet Cong had turned his nights into frenzied firefights or left him curled, shivering despite the heat, sleeping on the heart-pounding, razor’s edge of waking. Yet never before had Al Larson felt so helpless and openly flayed before an enemy. In ‘Nam, youth, inexperience, and lack of responsibilities made him certain of his permanence. But now he was all too aware of his mortality. Silme and the baby gave that mortality meaning even as Bolverkr’s easy victories tainted its significance.

  A shadow fell over Larson. Chin sunk into his palms, he glanced up at Silme. The sorceress towered over him, her golden hair shimmering and her cheeks rosy despite the rain. Her pregnancy enhanced beauty Larson had already used as his definition for perfection. But the coldness in her gray eyes marred the effect.