Alerted to the possibility of an argument, Larson lowered his gaze. His belly felt hollow. His conscience ached with the burden of hundreds of blameless deaths, all the murders committed in the name of keeping him from obtaining food or weaponry. Larson could not banish searing guilt and sorrow over the shattering of Gaelinar’s sword, the “vehicle of the soul,” though once the displaced American would have dismissed such a feeling as superstitious nonsense.
Taziar’s staff crashed against an oak trunk used as a target.
“Why do you love me?” Silme’s commanding tone turned an innocent question into a demand.
Larson did not bother to raise his head. “Silme, please. I need to be alone for a while.”
Another crack sounded from Taziar’s direction.
Silme shuffled her feet, kicking up soggy pine needles. “And I need to know why you love me.”
Ire flashed through Larson. Easy, he cautioned himself. She’s going through a rough time, too. You promised to support her. He kept his voice level, resorting to monotone to keep himself from provoking conflict. “I went to Hel to retrieve you from death. I blackmailed a god into telling me the secret to raising you. I bartered and fought with Hel’s goddess and Hel’s hound. With Gaelinar’s help, I captured the Dragonrank sorceress who was Hel’s guardian.” Larson hesitated, mind suddenly filled with the battle. He and Kensei Gaelinar had fought the sorceress, Modgudr, on the bridge spanning the river, Gjoll. Modgudr had hidden behind a shielding spell, similar to the one Bolverkr had created in Willaperht’s cottage. She had used the shield to defend against Gaelinar’s strokes as well as to drive the Kensei toward Gjoll’s fatal currents. I struck her unexpectedly from behind, and my blow fell. Apparently, either the force field doesn’t completely surround the mage or he can only use it to protect against enemies he sees. A spark of hope flared, quickly dashed by Silme’s next affront.
“I didn’t ask if you love me. That’s clear enough. I want to know why.”
Taziar’s staff drummed repeatedly against the oak.
Larson met Silme’s gaze. The distance of his thoughts and the hostility in her expression unsettled him. He spoke from habit rather than his heart. “Because you’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I love you.” He reached for her, urging her to sit beside him.
Silme back-stepped beyond Larson’s reach. “So you love me just because of the way I look.”
Realizing his mistake, Larson clarified. “No, not just because of the way you look.”
“Then why?” Silme snapped. She folded her arms across her chest, glaring at Larson through narrowed eyes.
Frustration and the ludicrousness of Silme’s behavior ignited Larson’s anger again. “Cut it out, Silme. I know you’re in a weird emotional state. But this isn’t a goddamned quiz show, and I’m not in the mood. I’ve got more important things on my mind.”
The noise of Taziar’s striking staff disappeared.
The idea that he might have an audience further fueled Larson’s annoyance.
Silme’s cheeks flushed in scarlet contrast to the grim, white line of her lips. “There are things more important than our love? Is that what you’re saying?”
“For the moment, yes.” Larson leapt to his feet, control slipping. “Trying to keep my friends and family from starving to death or getting aced by some warped bastard of a warlock takes precedence over the exact reasons why I love my wife.” He added with unconcealed sarcasm, “Is that okey-dokey with you?”
“No. That’s not O-kee-doe-kee with me.” Silme struggled with the slang, apparently guessing its intention from previous conversations. “If you loved me for legitimate reasons, you’d know why.”
“That’s nonsense!” Larson was shouting now. “That’s not how love works....”
“And if you really loved me, you’d go back to your own world.”
The track of Larson’s thoughts collapsed beneath him, and he found himself scrabbling for ideas as well as words. Rage inspired him. “Damn it, Silme! We’re not talking about a subway ride here. I’ve crossed time once, and you’ve seen the results. Mythology as reality. Magic. We’re supposed to be in historical ninth or tenth century Germany, for Christ’s sake. You’re not supposed to have elves or wizards or talking wolf-gods. You’re not even supposed to have potatoes. Or a barony called Cullinsberg. And what the hell kind of a name is Tazz-ee-ar?”
“Hey!” Taziar edged closer to the argument, Astryd at his heels. He spoke with a soft gentleness designed to soothe. “It was my father’s name, okey-dokey? Now why don’t you two ...”
Silme interrupted as if Taziar had not started. “That damage has already been done. I’m trying to protect my world from more of your interference.”
“My interference!” Larson balled his fists, looking for something safe to hit. “I’m sick and tired of getting blamed for Freyr’s magic. Despite what you think, shit happened before I arrived, and shit’s still going to happen if I leave. I’m not taking the blame for every crummy, stupid, insignificant thing that goes wrong in this whole fucking world.”
Taziar caught Larson’s forearm. “Allerum, calm down.”
Larson jerked his arm free, sending Taziar stumbling sideways. Whirling, Larson slammed his fist into a tree trunk. Pain lanced through his fingers, and water showered his already sodden figure. “I’m not going back to ’Nam.” He punched the oak. “I’m not going back to vicious enemies and ungrateful allies.” He struck again. “I’m not going to watch women and children dismembered in the name of peace.” He buried his face in his sleeve, the blows becoming less violent and directed. “I’m not going to live like a hunted animal, in constant fear.” The significance of his words seeped through the hot blanket of anger. What’s the difference between Bolverkr and NVA artillery? Why should I care less about the scattered corpses in tenth century Germany than the scattered corpses in Saigon? Madness descended upon him, stealing his vision and filling his ears with a wordless buzzing.
A comforting hand touched Larson’s shoulder blade.
Larson shrank away. “Leave me alone. Just leave me the hell alone.”
“Fine. I will.” Silme’s voice scarcely penetrated Larson’s fog. “And don’t try to follow me.”
As Silme’s looming presence disappeared, the air around Larson seemed to lighten.
Behind Larson, Astryd’s voice settled to an accusing growl. “You know the state she’s in. How could you upset her like that?”
Silence hovered. Larson kept his face hidden, his throbbing fist sagging at his side.
Astryd whirled, crashing through the brush, her steps rapidly growing more distant.
Larson waited, the persistent contact on his shoulder the only indication that Taziar had remained. Silent tears glided from Larson’s eyes, mingling with the dripping rainwater.
“Allerum.” Taziar’s composure sounded out of place after the savagery of the argument and the wild chaos of Larson’s emotions. “I’ll talk to Silme. Will you be all right alone?”
Larson nodded slightly, wanting nothing more than the solace of being by himself. He fingered his hilt. Aware he should say something, he turned, but Taziar was already gone.
Alone. Larson could not shake the crushing feeling of abandonment. Nothing left. The idea of death no longer bothered him. It beckoned, welcoming. But I’ll be damned if I’ll give that Dragonrank bastard the pleasure of becoming my executioner. Larson’s emotions flickered, flip-flopping him repeatedly from despair to rage. Finally, depression collapsed beneath wild, driving anger. Bolverkr, I’ve played your game. Now it’s time to use my baseball and my rules.
Aware Bolverkr could read his thoughts, Larson let the events of the last few days cycle through his mind, fanning his frenzy with each pass. His actions became automatic, lacking the motivations and experience Bolverkr would need to understand them.
Larson returned to the decimated town, steeling himself against the sight of corpses his mind’s defenses turned to statues
. He worked mechanically, recalling the location of every tool from his recent, minute search of the damaged town.
First, Larson gathered clay crockery and metal cooking pots. Next, he returned to the pastures, scooping up heaps of nitrogen-rich soil. Burned timbers abounded in the dragon-decimated town. Larson collected a hefty pile along with dried twigs, branches, and intact timbers for fuel. He filled several pots with water from the contaminated river. Digging through the ruins of the healer’s cottage, Larson uncovered his final ingredient, a single vial of yellow powder. Uncorked, it gave off the unmistakable, rotten egg odor of sulfur. He added a candle and some unraveled, linen thread to the pile.
Saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. Larson crowded his raw ingredients onto a space of ground on the boundary of what had once been a village. The formula was one Larson felt certain every man of his era learned as a toddler. Gunpowder. He surveyed the piled items, aware he needed one more thing. A solid container that will allow pressure to build before shattering. His gaze fell on a nearby corpse, and he hated the source that came naturally to his thoughts. Bone.
The idea of disarticulating human femurs made Larson queasy, dispelling some of the anger that had driven him for the past several minutes. The realization of what he planned to do struck him as hard as a physical blow. Gunpowder. Memory flooded his mind, of an early autumn day in tenth-century Norway. Bramin crouched before Larson and Taziar, a rifle clutched in his grip. The gun had come from America in the late 1980s, brought by a one-way time traveler named Gary Mannix and called Geirmagnus, the first Dragonrank Master. But it was Larson’s war memories that had taught Silme’s half-brother to wield the gun.
Larson’s remembrance brought a vivid image of Taziar, sprawled on the grass, gaping at a ragged hole in his thigh. The Climber’s shocky-white face made a striking contrast to Bramin’s inky skin and half dark elven features. The rifle barrel hovered, aimed at Larson’s chest, and his own admonishment rang in his ears, bringing a measure of guilt. Bramin, if you put guns into your world, you open the way for any weak coward to kill you before you see him coming.... Once you bring guns into your world, there is no more glory in war.
The memory faded, leaving Larson awash in questions. He had intended his argument simply to distract Bramin, but the morality had seeped far deeper. Once having won the conflict, Larson had carried that rifle miles to Hvergelmir, the Helspring waterfall that destroys all things in its cascade. He had tossed the gun into the wild braid of waters, hoping to delay the invention to its appropriate time or later, symbolically annihilating his year in the Vietnam War as well.
Doubt assailed Larson. He thought of Silme and how pregnancy and the pressures of combat had wrung her to a cruel, sullen core. He considered Astryd. The less experienced sorceress had withdrawn into her loyalty to Silme, forgetting the debts she owed Taziar and Larson as well. Only the little Climber seemed unaffected by Bolverkr’s constant threat. Taziar appeared more distressed by his companions’ bickering than the fear of death.
Larson’s fall from Bolverkr’s wall filled his mind again. Repeatedly, he relived the crash of magics into his chest, the twisting stumble that had driven Gaelinar’s blade into the granite, the resisting, reversed-direction force of Bolverkr’s next spell striking the steel simultaneously. Then Larson’s mind leapt forward to his mental battle in the farm town. Fresh rage burned through him. It’s time I started playing smart, not fair. Magic was discovered by a twentieth-century parapsychologist named Gary Mannix. If Bolverkr can use post-modern technology, then, damn it, so can I.
Al Larson cast aside guilt and indecision almost as quickly as they arose. To use anything less than all the weapons I can create would be stupid. Bolverkr, let me introduce you to grenades. Larson headed off to find suitable thighbones.
The sun swung westward, casting stripes through gaps in the clouds. Rain-smeared light settled over Al Larson where he hunched amid covered crocks, vials, and bones, extracting his third filtered crystallization of saltpeter. Firelight glazed the clearing to a hazy red. A pot dangled over the flames, heat waves dancing over a mixture of powder and boiling water. Larson’s limbs had cramped hours ago, but, intent on his work, he did not notice the pain. Winding strips of cloth about his hands to protect them from the heat, he removed the pot from the fire, strained the contents through finely-woven cloth and divided the remaining saltpeter into crocks to cool and crystallize. He shook off the pot holders. Gathering thread and candle, he lit the wick from the flames, sat, and set to interweaving linen with wax.
A presence glided into Larson’s brain.
Bolverkr. Larson went rigid, dropping the makeshift wick in order to channel his concentration to this new threat. Mental walls slammed into place, surrounding the intruder. Damn! Just a few more minutes and I would have had a real weapon. Frustrated and enraged by the interruption, Larson blasted notions at the being who had invaded his mind. Bolverkr, you fucking, cheating coward! You want to fight, come on out and fight like a man. Sword to sword! Fist to fist! I’m sick of this mind game shit!
No verbal answer followed, but the intruder radiated an aura of promised peace and friendship.
“Fuck it, Bolverkr.” Larson sprang to his feet, dumping the partially melted candle from his lap. “How stupid do you think I am?” He tightened the conjured barriers. “I’m not going to fall for some ridiculous promise of parlay. Get the hell out here, or I’m coming in after you.”
I’m afraid that would be impossible. The soft reply whispered in Larson’s mind.
Larson hesitated, recognizing the voice, yet not quite placing it, knowing for certain the intruder was not Bolverkr.
The other fell equally silent.
Expecting further explanation and a chance to identify the presence, Larson found the quiet unnerving. Still, the decision to speak as little as possible identified the being in a way his voice had not. Vidarr?
The presence strengthened, then returned to normal.
Driven to impatience by the morning’s events and the effort of holding his mental barriers, Larson sighed loudly. “Can the crap, Vidarr. That emotion stuff may work for your god friends, but I’m just a regular guy. I need words. Okay?”
Vidarr’s presence tingled with warning.
Larson granted no quarter. “What are you going to do? Kill me for asking you to communicate like a normal human being?”
I’ve told you before, just think what you wish to say. And I’m not a normal human being.
So I’ve noticed. Larson tried to keep insult and sarcasm from sweeping to the forefront of his consciousness along with the words. He dropped the mental walls. Look, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but...
... you are, Vidarr finished.
I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Larson started again, but I’m trying to fight Bolverkr, and I don’t have time to waste discussing my bad attitude with a mute god. If you’ve come to help, I’m grateful. If not, I haven’t got time for one-way chatter.
I can’t help you.
Then go away. Realizing that antagonizing a god, even one so familiar, might have consequences, Larson softened the command. Please. No longer needing to concentrate on holding walls, he sat, gathering the thread and wax.
Apology wove through Vidarr’s words. You have to understand. Bolverkr is the prime source of Chaos in this world. His death would affect the gods.
Affect the gods? Affect the gods! Galled, Larson abandoned caution. He inhaled a sharp breath in a mock noise of horror, no longer trying to hold back the sarcasm. Well, excuse me if my self-defense interferes with your comfort. Bolverkr’s death may inconvenience the gods. My death would inconvenience me. As would the rape of my wife, the slaughter of my child, and the torture of my friends.
It’s not that simple.
No. Larson’s fingers clenched around the wick. I can see where a life of omnipotent idleness could get rough.
Stop this nonsense, Allerum! Annoyance flowed freely from Vidarr. I came to help. Don’t incite me. You w
on’t like the results.
Anger churned inside Larson, driving him beyond fear of consequences or vague threats. Wake up, Vidarr. You’re a god of Law. There’s nothing you can do to me that Bolverkr hasn’t already considered. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
Except Silme.
Suddenly attentive, Larson turned his focus fully inward. What do you mean?
Wake up, Allerum. Vidarr borrowed Larson’s idiom. Don’t you see what Bolverkr’s doing?
If I could see Bolverkr, one of us would be dead by now. Now wanting to banter words, Larson clung to the point. What does Bolverkr have to do with Silme?
Vidarr’s presence hovered, no emotion radiating from him. I don’t know for certain. You’re the only one without mind barriers. I can’t read anyone else’s thoughts.
THE POINT, VIDARR!
Vidarr cringed at the intensity and volume of Larson’s mental reply. Silme’s acting wrong.
Larson snorted. Tell me something I don’t know. This pregnancy’s got her hormones in an upheaval.
Her hor—, what?
The proximity of the name Silme and the syllable “hor” bothered Larson. He made a gesture of dismissal, though Vidarr could not see it from within his mind. Never mind. This pregnancy and the pressure’s made her crazy.
Is that what you think?
Obviously. The implications of the question struck Larson. Are you saying there’s something else going on?
You mean besides the fact that you’re all acting bizarre and irritable?
Yeah. Besides that.
I recognize the influence of Chaos when I see it.
Frustration rattled through Larson. You’re not making any sense.
I know Silme as well as I know my brothers. That woman you were traveling with may have looked like Silme and talked like Silme. But she’s not acting like Silme. Vidarr shifted, carefully avoiding the tangled tapestry of Larson’s memories. Carrying a baby isn’t enough to explain a drastic change in personality. I’ve seen Silme pressured before. I’ve known only a few, gods included, as graceful when stressed.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 14