Larson licked his lips, understanding the words but not quite able to form the conclusion. Are you trying to say Bolverkr might have kidnapped Silme and replaced her with someone who looks like her?
Amusement fluttered through Larson’s brain. Not a chance.
I didn’t think so.
Someone or something is intentionally driving a wedge between you and Silme. It seems only natural to blame Bolverkr. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’m willing to gamble my immortality that he’s doing something.
Larson suddenly felt cold. Like what? What might he be doing? Give me some possibilities or examples.
I can’t.
The short fuse on Larson’s temper flared again. You can’t? Or you won’t?
I can’t, Vidarr repeated. You know I’m not one of the gods who uses sorcery directly. I have to guess based on observation. From what I’ve seen, I can’t think of anything Bolverkr could use to change a personality. Her mind barriers would stop him. It just doesn’t make sense.
Gripping fear replaced Larson’s anger. He recalled Silme’s description of Bolverkr’s follower. Apparently, Harriman had been a diplomat before Bolverkr’s magic shattered his mind barriers, providing access for Bolverkr to manipulate Harriman’s thoughts. Larson tried to put his concern into words.
Vidarr responded to the idea, without waiting for a coherent question. No, Allerum. As far as I can tell, Silme’s mind barriers remain intact.
Relief rose, and hope followed. Maybe one of the gods who does use magic might understand what’s going on. Couldn’t you ask?
No. Vidarr fidgeted. His back struck a coil of thought, sparking the familiar and unique odor of damp, jungle clay.
Larson cringed, willing the god to remain still.
If the others knew I was here helping you, they’d chain me to a rock and beat me till I bled.
Larson found sympathy impossible. If it makes you feel any better, I’d be happy to tell them you were no help at all.
Very funny.
Larson picked up one of the hollowed thighbones and threaded the fuse through the tiny hole once served by a nutrient artery. Finished, he placed the bone aside and started on the next. Seriously, if you’re not allowed to help me because Bolverkr’s death might affect the gods, and if just talking to me might cause them to hurt you, why are you here wasting my time?
You want the truth?
It seems likely. I can make up my own lies.
The truth is, I don’t know.
Larson smiled, certain he knew the justification. Vidarr had reasons to feel indebted to the man who had broken Loki’s spell and freed Vidarr from a lengthy imprisonment in a sword. Vidarr’s repayment, an attempt to stabilize Larson’s mental state against reliving traumatic experiences in times of new stress, against wildly irrational startle responses, and against night terrors, had proven only partially successful. And Vidarr’s coercing Larson to complete a second task against his will had shifted the balance of favors in Larson’s direction.
Though Larson did not qualify in specific words, Vidarr caught the gist of his thoughts. I’m a god. I owe you nothing.
Larson struck home. If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be here.
Sullen silence.
Larson continued positioning his wick.
Vidarr’s brooding turned to thoughtful goodwill.
Refusing to acknowledge any nonverbal communication, Larson ignored the Silent God.
You’re ungrateful, Vidarr said at length.
Oh. So the pot’s calling the kettle black. Larson set aside the second bone. Fumbling the vial of sulfur from his pocket, he slid a pair of empty crocks toward him. I rescued you from imprisonment, and how did you thank me? You sent me on a task you knew was impossible, lying to me along the way.
I apologized.
Oh, well. That makes it okay, then. Angered anew by the memories, Larson dumped half of the yellow powder into each crock. He reached for the charcoal, bitterness oozing into his mental communication. Kensei Gaelinar died for your brother. Spare me the “I’m a god, you’re a measly mortal” speeches. I wielded you. That changes our relationship. Larson measured out the charcoal, turning his thoughts momentarily to his work. Four saltpeter to one charcoal to one sulfur. He poured, returning to the conversation. Don’t get me wrong. I’d appreciate your company. If you’ve come to help, I’m grateful. Really. In fact, it hurts to think about such a thing, but your aid against Bolverkr might even put me in your debt again.
Larson harvested the cooled crystals of saltpeter, mixing them into the two crocks in the proper proportion. He continued. But if you’ve only come to whine about how you can’t help me because Bolverkr’s death might affect the gods, you can leave now. Don’t waste my time with excuses.
Vidarr sighed, the sound echoing through Larson’s head. You don’t understand. Bolverkr is ultrapowerful. The other gods have the right to kill me for interfering.
Vidarr’s words sparked an idea too intriguing for Larson to suppress. Aware Vidarr could read his motivations and not wanting to seem as if he were plotting, he sent the message in direct words. You’re a powerful being of Law. Perhaps your death could balance Bolverkr’s?
Stunned rage radiated from Vidarr. Is that a threat?
Just an observation. Larson turned his full concentration on Vidarr, alert for evidence of attack. If I was scheming against you, why would I warn you? On the other hand, if the gods did kill you, I can’t deny I’d use the opening in the Balance to slaughter Bolverkr.
Vidarr’s fury turned to calculated understanding. Don’t get too hooked on the idea. My death wouldn’t open the Balance nearly enough to compensate for Bolverkr’s death.
The confession startled Larson. You’re saying Bolverkr’s more powerful than you?
Far more.
“Shit.” Larson stirred his concoction methodically. No wonder Bolverkr seems invincible. What would it take to balance him? Every god on Olympus?
Olympus?
Larson scooped powder into one of the thighbones, packing it tightly. Oops, wrong pantheon. Sorry. What’s the name of the gods’ world again?
Asgard.
Yeah. That’s it.
I can usually get that right.
Once powder filled the bone, Larson jammed a stone into the opening, maneuvering until he felt certain he had a seal. Sarcasm doesn’t become you.
Nor you, Vidarr replied. But I’ve been putting up with yours since you got here.
Touche.
What?
Never mind. Larson set to work on the second thighbone, mind racing. Vidarr, I have an idea. You can’t help me fight Bolverkr directly, right? He did not wait for an answer. Could you do something for me that wouldn’t affect Bolverkr at all?
Possibly. Guarded interest slipped from Vidarr.
Larson struggled with a second stone. I’m hoping it won’t happen. But if things get desperate, I promised Shadow I’d take Silme and Astryd to my world. If it comes to that, would you take care of my elf body here?
A long silence followed. Not a trace of emotion tainted the pause.
Larson finished setting the second stone. He considered asking Vidarr the myriad questions that plagued him about reality and the existence of the world he once knew as the future. However, from past experience, he felt certain Vidarr would not have the answers. Or if he does, I won’t need to ask; he’ll tell me. Carefully, Larson rose, checking his pockets for a block of flint and his dagger. His heart pounded, revealing the trepidations he kept out of his thoughts.
Just as it seemed as if Vidarr had left without answering, the god’s soft voice recurred. Yes. I’ll do this for you. I’ll take care of your elf body if it becomes necessary.
Larson read something discomforting beneath the god’s promise. Before he could press the issue, Vidarr changed the subject.
What are those things you’re working on? Lamps?
Just evening the odds a bit. Larson retrieved the bones from the ground. Bolver
kr’s got magic I don’t understand, and now I’ve got magic he won’t understand. He could not help adding to himself, If we’re going to play without rules, we’ll just see who fucking loses.
Vidarr’s presence faded, leaving a final warning so gently distant, Larson was uncertain it was intended for him at all. Let’s just try to see to it we don’t all lose.
* * *
CHAPTER 8
Chaos-Controlled
Nature, with equal mind,
Sees all her sons at play;
Sees man control the wind,
The wind sweep man away.
—Matthew Arnold Empedocles on Etna
The rain ceased with the same unnatural abruptness with which it had begun, settling the world into a deep silence that set Larson’s every nerve jangling. Sitting in the gutted town, amid his gathered crocks and powders, he saw nothing move. No sound touched his senses, only a quiet, horrible certainty that something was about to happen. He crouched, clutching his makeshift bombs, feeling the drumming solo of his heartbeat against an otherwise overpowering stillness.
Suddenly, light snapped open the evening haze, silhouetting the ruins black against startling brilliance. A distant scream followed, mixing fear and rage.
Larson recognized the voice. Astryd! His breath seemed to freeze in his chest. He staggered to his feet, galloping from the village before he even realized he had moved. The clouds unraveled with abnormal speed. Twilight glared through, its grayness bright after days of veiled sun. The magical flash faded. As if it were a signal, a grotesque shadow blotted out his glimpse of sunlight.
Larson glanced upward as he ran, anguish clawing at him like a living thing. A dragon knifed through the air, its wings flapping whirlwinds through muddy fields. Its scales glinted gold in the sparse light of evening. Ignoring Larson, it speared over his head, veering south at a downward angle.
My friends are in trouble, forced to fight Bolverkr without me. How could I let that happen? Larson quickened his pace. Using the dragon as a guide, he sprinted, his momentum thrown so far forward he all but sprawled in the dirt. His hands clenched whitely about the gunpowder-filled bones.
The slap of the dragon’s wings beat against Larson’s ears. Beneath it, he heard Astryd’s cry of outrage. Bolverkr’s answer blurred to incomprehensibility, growing louder and clearer as Larson approached. “... helpless ... to ... dragon ... down on me....”
Larson darted over a rise, suddenly gaining a distant but perfect view of the battle. Near the forest’s edge, Bolverkr stood on a ridge hedged by piled stones, his stance regally upright and unconcerned. Taziar hammered at the sorcerer with his staff; each blow fell short of its target. Behind Taziar, Astryd kept her gaze glued to the dragon. She made a stabbing gesture toward Bolverkr. Silme waited in a silent stillness, her lip blanched between her teeth, her features crinkled in confusion.
Silme! What has he done to Silme? Larson’s instincts drove him to rush recklessly to Silme’s defense. But common sense stopped him cold. We’ll win this by careful strategy or not at all. Larson ducked behind a row of stones, forcing himself to think. Bolverkr’s shielded. I need to approach unseen or from behind to get through his magic barrier.
Calm as a giant playing with children, Bolverkr ignored Taziar’s attacks. The dragon screamed toward the sorcerer, obviously in Astryd’s control.
Quietly, Larson crawled around a circling ledge of stone and brush, catching shifting glimpses of the combatants.
The dragon plummeted toward Bolverkr.
The sorcerer laughed. He made an abrupt chopping motion. Sparks sprayed from his fingertips, forming a gentle arc. The magics coalesced, exploding into a ball of white that streamed toward Astryd with all the inhuman speed of her dragon.
“No!” Too late, Taziar dove into the path of the spell. The magics shrieked over his head, slamming into Astryd’s face. His staff crashed down on Bolverkr’s invisible shield. The wood cracked, hurling splinters.
Astryd staggered and fell to one knee.
No longer controlled, the dragon spun crazily. Its form blurred to a pale outline, wavered as if to disappear. Then, gradually, it resolidified. Suddenly, it whirled toward Taziar.
Silme remained still, watching impassively.
Though driven to action, Larson forced himself to stay hidden. No way to know if Bolverkr’s shield can repel explosives. I can’t attack until I’m behind him. He quickened his crawl.
“See, Silme, I can kill your friends any time. Watch!” Bolverkr’s words flowed past Larson unheard. Larson stared in horror as the great, golden beast dipped toward Taziar. The Climber ran in sharp patterns, but the dragon maneuvered with hawklike finesse. It sped downward. One black-nailed claw clouted Taziar’s scalp, bowling him across stone and grass. The dragon backpedaled, leaping into the sky.
Bolverkr laughed again. “Still, I’ve got no reason to kill them. They’re nothing to me. They can’t hurt us. But Allerum is an anachronism. His influence will destroy our worlds! Will you pay for your love with the lives of gods and innocents?”
“But you destroy innocents, too.” Silme’s voice sounded strange, faltering.
Concerned for Taziar and intent on his own emplacement, Larson scarcely heard the exchange.
The dragon circled, swooping down on Astryd. Taziar screamed, darting toward the Dragonrank sorceress, the splayed remains of his staff still clamped in his fist.
“I destroyed two villages,” Bolverkr confessed. “I killed those townsfolk so you might understand, so we might save the nine worlds. I killed two villages. Allerum’s technology will kill thousands!”
The dragon hovered over Astryd. Her eyes went wide, wild, blue orbs of fear and desperation.
Silme rallied against Bolverkr. “You’re wrong,” she shouted. “Allerum doesn’t want to harm anyone. He wouldn’t use his knowledge to ...”
Silme’s defense was suffocated beneath Astryd’s screeched spell words. Yellow light grew, outlining her tiny form. The dragon’s mouth hinged open as it prepared to breathe its fire.
Too late! Though not yet behind Bolverkr, Larson lit the first wick, knowing the attack would reveal him, yet unwilling to let the dragon kill Astryd as the price for his positioning.
Taziar lunged. His wiry form arched through the air and thumped to a landing beside Astryd. He scrambled over her, shielding her with his body.
Caught by surprise, Astryd gasped. Her spell shattered, collapsing to harmless, fizzling pinpoints. The first tongue of flame issued from the dragon’s mouth.
Larson hurled his makeshift bomb. The bone thudded against the scaled side. The dragon twisted as it gouted flame, its fires splashing slightly off target. “Get out of the way!” Larson warned his companions. “Now!”
Taziar staggered a few steps, dragging Astryd, his clothes alight.
The Climber’s movements seemed ponderous. Larson willed his friend to move faster.
The dragon hesitated.
The wick flame flickered, then seemed to disappear. Larson cursed his failure just as the bone exploded. Brown-white fragments pierced the reptilian hide. The beast roared, then winked out as if it had never existed. The blast’s concussion slammed Taziar to the ground. He and Astryd lay still, flaccid as death, oblivious to the flames licking at their clothing.
Bolverkr whirled toward Larson, composure lost, shock and urgency etched clearly on his face. A blinding ball of light snapped to life in his fingers.
Larson fumbled with flint and steel, awkwardly igniting the other wick. God, please let this penetrate his shield. He drew back to throw even as Bolverkr’s magics left his fingers, blazing a screaming, silver trail.
“No!” Silme did not move, yet a tendril of her consciousness stabbed into Larson’s thoughts with enough force to incapacitate him. He collapsed, writhing in pain, blind to the spell that whizzed over his head. The bone tumbled from his grip, clicking against the flint and dagger as it fell. The clearing disappeared, replaced by another, more familiar battleground ...<
br />
“Incoming!” The cry rang around Larson in a dozen different voices. “Incoming!” He woke in a cold sweat, rolling from bed to floor, painfully rigid and alert. Grabbing his M-16, he clutched it like a favorite doll, half-running, half-crawling for the exit of his wood-framed, bamboo hooch. One of his companions made a dive for the door at the same time. Struck in the ear by a flailing elbow, Larson tumbled into the oppressive, damp heat and darkness of the jungle night. Footsteps pounded around him. Guns coughed and chattered, muzzle flashes cutting the blackness in random spots, densest near the perimeter.
Tracers streaked the night red, and a mortar round thudded to earth, loud despite distance. Gunfire churned dirt that rattled from the tin-roofed shelters. Fear threatened to overwhelm Al Larson. The instinct to run nearly overpowered him, balanced only by the terrible realization that there was nowhere safe to go. He froze, watching illumination rounds glaring whitely, seeing dark forms running, rolling, and low-crawling on both sides of the coiled concertina wire perimeter.
“Mommy!” someone screamed in frantic, mindless agony. “Oh, Mommy, Mommy.”
An explosion stifled the sound, close enough to rain dirt over Larson....
... A curse reverberated through Larson’s head in a foreign tongue he could not quite place, Silme’s voice wildly out of place.
The fire support base wavered, smothered suddenly in darkness. The wet, closed heat snapped open to admit New Hampshire breezes. The gun clenched to his chest became a .30/30 rifle; the white slashes across his vision transformed to the pond-reflected glimmer of dawn light through pine. The chaotic scramble of men vanished as abruptly as a cleaver cut, leaving a peace so complete Larson felt certain he had died.
Carl Larson’s whisper rattled in his son’s ear. “Al, ease up. Don’t strangle the gun.”
The voice seemed so familiar yet so wrong. Dad’s dead. The thought intruded from a later, less innocent age. Panic descended upon Larson. He whirled, needing to see the father who had taught him to hunt deer, scarcely remembering to keep the barrel aimed at the ground.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 15