The father watched his son impassively, eyes gray in the twilight. Shadows played across wide features, and he ran a meaty hand through close-cropped hair.
Rounder of face, eyes half-hidden beneath a blond mop, Larson studied his father as if for the first time. Every tautened nerve in his body screamed of danger and distortion. Dad’s dead. He’s dead. The paradox unsettled Larson. He dove for reality, grounding his sanity on a flash of memory. Dragon! Taziar and Astryd need my help.
An image of the golden-scaled beast filled Larson’s mind. Still in his head, Silme shouted, pummeling his thoughts aside. The dragon shimmered and melted, replaced by a creature every bit as large. It stood on four legs, each one wide as a tree trunk. Plates rose rigidly from its back. But, unlike the graceful, slender-necked dragons, its triangular head jutted from a short bulbous neck, low to the ground. Larson recoiled, screaming. Around him, a crowd parted hurriedly, and a vast myriad of conversations and comments swallowed the noise. It’s just wax. A stegosaurus. ’64 World’s Fair.
Even as Larson identified his surroundings, he was hurled into a savage vortex of memories. Bombarded by images, he lost all sense of place and time. Perceptions passed, too quickly for him to anchor his reason: turgid, ghost-white bodies muted to tight couples flinging their arms and hair in wild dances. Then his sense overturned beneath a pile of young male day campers. Flowers spun past, followed by a coffin. Tom Jeffers’ coffin. Even as Larson identified it, his mind conjured its contents, though the closed casket ceremony had never forced him to recognize his friend. Soft, dark eyes bulged from a face half torn away, revealing bone streaked scarlet.
Grief struck Larson with a fullness that promised sanctuary. He lunged for its stability. Silme’s scream slammed through his mind. He felt himself falling, spiraling through madness, clawing desperately for any reality. The collage of the past shattered. He jarred to a sudden halt, blinking to get his bearings ...
A hearse zigzagged between tended plots, cars trailing it like links in a chain, distant but drawing closer. Al Larson leaned against a boulder in front of seemingly endless rows of headstones in lines as straight and proud as soldiers. Beside him, his younger brother, Timmy, huddled, clinging to Larson’s T-shirt. Sandy hair framed brown eyes and a freckled face above a too-thin body. Timmy. Larson went motionless and silent, trying not to get too involved with the scene in case insanity closed in on him again.
But Timmy’s grip felt warm through the cotton. Though quavering, his voice sounded near and real. “Why? Why did Daddy have to die? Why would he go to heaven and leave us?”
Larson forgot to breathe. The words he had meant to speak, that he had spoken the first time he lived this same incident vanished. Unable to gather the air needed for speech, Larson grabbed his brother in a crushing, welcoming embrace. “Timmy. God, Timmy.”
The boy’s arms looped around his brother, tightening.
Timmy’s closeness soothed Larson. The sound of the child’s heart remained a reassuring constant that precluded concern for groundings and other reality. Timmy. It’s really Timmy. If this is illusion, please, God, let it last.
Suddenly, Timmy’s grip went lax. He struggled. Bracing a hand on Larson’s arm, he tried to push away.
Surprised and distressed by the change, Larson released his brother.
“Ow!” Timmy brushed at wrinkles, straightening the New York University symbol on the shirt Larson had gotten during his single semester. “Al, cut it out! Don’t squish me.”
Scarcely daring to believe excitement had caused him to brutalize his brother, Larson stared at his own muscular forearms in shocked disbelief. Accustomed to the slender appendages that matched his elf form, his weight-trained, human limbs appeared massive, strong as an ox’s and nearly as awkward. His blue jeans felt comfortable compared to scratchy wool and homespun, the knees patched with sewn flowers. His black and white tennis shoes looked odd after months of leather boots. He raked back thick blond locks, missing the baby fine hair that had hung to his elven shoulders.
The funeral procession glided to a halt about two hundred yards to Larson’s left, another family’s problem on a neighboring plot.
Larson opened his mouth, but no words emerged. He had no idea where to start. I’ve got Timmy back. He recalled telling his brother about going to war, Vietnam’s distant challenge as enticing as it was frightening, his optimism and youthful confidence not yet poisoned by reality. He remembered, too, the hollow glare of hatred in Timmy’s eyes, the boy’s refusal to say “good-bye” to his only brother. When Larson had stepped onto the bus that took him to his first army base, he left that silence unbroken, haunted by his brother’s betrayal and hostility, feeling sorry for himself. Only much later did he come to realize the hurt he had inflicted on Timmy.
First Dad, then me. One by one, the child’s loved ones abandoned him. I have a chance to say something here and now, to make everything right for Timmy. How often in life do we get a second chance? Caught up in the moment, other realities slipped from Larson’s thoughts. For now, he forgot that he stood in a future he was destined to obliterate from existence, forgot that a semipermanent anchoring in the past meant that he had to have dragged a sorcerer with him to St. Raymond’s Cemetery.
“Timmy.” Larson put a hand on his brother’s wrist, using the other to tousle the sandy hair. “Dad’s death was a horrible accident. He didn’t want to leave us. He didn’t mean to leave us. He loved us dearly, the same way we loved him, and the same way I love you.” The words would have been impossible for the nineteen-year-old Al Larson whose body huddled against a boulder in a graveyard. But the mentality that filled it now knew death as a personal enemy. He had tasted fear, been stung to action by desperation, and had slaughtered with his own hands. Still, the words came only with great difficulty. He agonized over each one, certain he could have chosen better ones, yet calmed by the realization that just talking was better than the way he had left Timmy the last time. Al Larson pressed his back against the boulder, now facing the funeral, his attention partially diverted by the procession.
The car doors opened. A couple emerged from the second vehicle, clinging to one another like lost children. Even from a distance, Larson guessed they were in their early forties, about his mother’s age. And while he and Timmy mourned a father, these strangers were, undoubtedly, burying a son.
Timmy shifted closer to his brother.
“With Dad gone, Mom can’t afford to take care of us all. I’m going to have to go to the war.” The explanation pained Larson, trebling in difficulty as a huddled group of pallbearers hefted a flag-draped coffin. Muffled noises drifted to Larson’s ears, the words a distorted mosaic of grief.
Larson wiped his palms on his jeans, fighting the denial that rose within him. What if I’m here to stay? I’m not going back to war. They can’t make me serve twice. “It’s not something I want to do. It’s something I have to do. We don’t have the money for me to go back to college. If I don’t go voluntarily, the Army will drag me there. Understand, I want to stay with you. If it’s at all possible, I’ll be back in a year.” Larson felt Timmy trembling against him and realized he was shaking at least as much. Unable to look at his brother, he watched as five men in army uniforms emerged from the next car in the procession, three carrying rifles. Mourners exited the remaining vehicles from both sides, forming a growing, dark cloud of suits and dresses.
Larson shivered, his thoughts sliding naturally to his own death in Vietnam. Is this where they buried me? Recalling his placement in time meant his human persona had another year to live, he amended. Is this where they will bury me? Memories surfaced, of the other members of his patrol killed, one by one, in the jungle depths, of his own crazed suicide run amid the blatter of enemy guns. Missing in action, no doubt. Likely, they never found ... will never find ... the body. This body. My body. Larson studied his jeans and sneaker clad form protectively. Suddenly fear nearly crippled him. I’m going to die. I even know when. And how. He clutched at the
boulder, forcing aside the savage maelstrom of thought for Timmy’s benefit. “I love you.” He reached for the boy.
Timmy dodged so abruptly, he nearly fell from the boulder. “You’re lying! Why are you lying?” he screamed in tearful hysteria.
Larson had never seen his brother so unhinged. “Timmy?”
Crying coarsened Timmy’s voice. Sudden frenzied rage and fear turned it into a shrill parody. “You’re going to die there! You’re going to die in Vietnam, and you know it! You’re lying! You already know you’re going to die!”
“Timmy, quiet. Please.” Larson glanced toward the funeral, relieved to find no one looking their way. Apparently, distance had obliterated Timmy’s tirade. Still, Larson knew his brother well. This was not a simple childish outburst, grounded only on fear. The certainty of Timmy’s voice was unmistakable. He knows. How could he possibly know? Only one source presented itself. Someone entered his mind and told him. Some Dragonrank sorcerer. But who? And why? Larson whirled. His father’s headstone caught his eye, skewing his attention from his search just long enough for the words and dates to register:
R.I.P.
Carl Larson
Born: February 12, 1926
Died: May 5, 1968
Silme’s voice broke the stillness, her presence confirming what Larson had already divined. “Allerum! You killed them!” She spoke in ancient Scandinavian, her tone combining fury and hatred, the accusation etched with venom.
Larson dropped to a crouch, scanning the rows of graves. Silme stared with narrowed eyes, one booted foot propped against a headstone. She wore the same red and gold robes as in tenth-century Europe. Casually, she glanced at the funeral group behind her. Then, apparently finding them occupied and nonthreatening, she turned her full attention to Al and Tim Larson.
Timmy’s fingers gouged Larson’s shoulder, trembling.
Larson wanted to comfort his little brother but could not tear his gaze from Silme’s aggressive stance. He used the same language. “What did you tell Timmy? Why would you torture a child?” Then, as Silme’s words penetrated past his alarm for Timmy, he asked, “Killed who? What are you talking about?”
“Taz and Astryd,” Silme hissed. “You killed them.”
“No.” Uncertainly took all vigor from Larson’s denial. If his bone bomb had not killed Taziar and Astryd, it might have prevented them from escaping the dragon’s flames. Urgency whipped through him. “Silme, we have to get back. We may still be able to save them.” He glanced at Timmy, saw confusion and horror on the child’s features. Yet Larson knew his responsibilities waited in tenth-century Germany where his friends lay at the mercy of a Chaos-crazed sorcerer. What’s happened has happened. I can’t change the past. Realization struck. Or can I?
“You killed them.” Silme lowered her foot. “And now I’m going to kill you.”
“Kill me? Have you gone mad?” Ideas crawled through Larson’s mind. He tried to stall, fighting a paralyzing wave of emotions. “Vidarr was right.”
“Right about what?” Silme asked sullenly, despite herself. She had served the god faithfully for years, and, even now, paused long enough to hear him out.
Larson kept his gaze fixed on Silme, trying to read changes in her disposition. “He said you’d succumbed to Chaos. That Bolverkr had done something terrible to you.”
Silme’s expression became one of cruel amusement. “Bolverkr did nothing but open my eyes to the truth. He made me realize our marriage was based on desperation and convenience. And that you and Vidarr aren’t worthy of my time.”
Silme’s words fell like a slap. I can’t believe I attributed her mood swings to the pregnancy. How stupid could I be? Silme’s loyalty to innocents and her religion had never fallen into question before. “Silme, what are you saying? Now you abuse children? You no longer believe in the god you’ve served for years. And you’re going to kill your own husband and your baby? Can’t you see how strange and ridiculous this is? Bolverkr’s influenced you somehow. For God’s sake, fight him! Remember who you were.”
The military men sorted themselves out from the cluster of relatives and friends. Larson envied their rifles, though surely they carried only blanks.
“I was a fool.” Silme raised a hand in sudden threat. “You’re an anachronism and a menace to the Balance. And now, I destroy you.”
Larson shrank back against the stone, shielding Timmy. “Wait, Silme! You can’t cast spells. You’ll kill the baby. It’s your own flesh and blood.” Larson groped around the boulder for a weapon, finding nothing. Once Silme called upon her life chaos, the baby would be killed; and, unless Larson moved quickly, he would die with it.
Timmy clutched at Larson.
Silme hesitated, but she did not lower her arm.
Larson measured the distance to her, saw the huge amount of ground he would need to cover faster than her spell, and knew despair. “Silme, if you kill me, you have no way to get back to your own world.” He mentally traced the route to the cemetery entrance, beyond the funeral party. If I can get the bystanders between me and her, surely she won’t cast. He had to hope her long dedication to innocents would keep her from endangering them, even if her morality no longer did. But how can I buy the time to run that far? He continued, trying to distract her with speech until a coherent strategy formed. “You’re as much an anachronism here as I am there.” Larson looped an arm around his brother, drawing the child closer. “Will you have to destroy yourself?” He lifted his pain-filled gaze to her eyes, seeing the perfect beauty that had stolen his love.
Again, Silme paused.
Behind her, three guns roared simultaneously, the first shot of the triple salute. Silme stiffened, spinning to face this new danger.
Now! Larson seized the opening. Shoving Timmy toward the procession, he sprang for Silme. He covered the distance between them in three running strides, raising his clasped hands to strike.
Silme whirled, back-stepping.
Larson tried to redirect his charge but momentum overbalanced him, and he sprawled to the ground at her feet. Scuttling backward, he tried to stand.
The toe of Silme’s boot caught Larson square in the ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. She muttered the first harsh syllable of a spell word.
The second gunshot rang through the graveyard.
No! Ignoring his pain, Larson lunged, catching her foot as it retreated. He wrenched.
Silme’s incantation broke to a gasp of enraged frustration. No light or sparks accompanied the change, no evidence that she had delved life energy for sorcery. She twisted, falling to her hands and knees. She fumbled for something in her cloak.
The third shot split the air. In its wake, Timmy called frantically, “Al! Al!”
Larson launched himself at Silme, wishing she had spent less time with his ronin swordmaster. “Run, Timmy. Get out of here. Go!”
Silme leapt for Larson at the same time. A glint of sunlight off metal in her fist warned him. Larson lurched sideways, grabbing for her wrist. His attack fell short, but the movement saved him. The knife sliced open a belt loop on his jeans, sparing his flesh. Her knee plunged into his thigh, missing his groin by inches.
Shit. Stunned by the ferocity of Silme’s attack, Larson crouched. His fingers knotted, burrowing up handfuls of dirt. He could no longer doubt that she intended to kill him. Still, the idea of harming Silme seemed baser than the vilest evil. But I don’t need to hurt her. I only need time to run. And to think.
Silme charged again, jabbing the knife expertly. Kensei Gaelinar had taught his lessons well.
Larson dodged, dropping his training for crude, street-fighting techniques. He ducked beneath Silme’s guard, hurling both fistfuls of sand into her eyes.
Silme’s aim went wild. She skittered backward, avoiding a blow that never came.
Larson did not press the attack, instead using the time gained to cover as much ground as possible. She can’t cast if she can’t see. He darted toward the funeral, and the exit, catching Timmy within
four strides. He grabbed the child in mid-run.
Suddenly upended, Timmy yelped, then settled into Larson’s arms like a giant rag doll.
Silme made a muffled noise of rage and pain.
Larson sprinted over tended grounds, skirting the funeral at the barest fringes of polite distance before using it as a shield. For now, all he could think about was rescuing Timmy and the baby, though other needs gnawed at the back of his mind.
Once Larson passed the funeral, the wrought iron fencing looked like black thread against the afternoon’s silver; it funneled toward the central gate. Larson gained some solace from the realization that most of Silme’s spells were defenses learned against Bramin’s magic. Although Dragonrank mages could cast any spell, attempting one she had never tried before would cost vast quantities of life energy. And it would take longer and more acute concentration, not the sort of thing she would hurl in a wild situation or blindly. I hope. Larson repositioned Timmy over his shoulder, barely noticing the weight but needing to free his hands.
The gate loomed in Larson’s vision. He charged for the opening and barreled through it. Setting Timmy down, he whirled, wasting time pulling the gates shut, hoping the technology of its latching would foil Silme, at least temporarily. As the gates creaked closed, too slowly, Larson slammed the bolt home.
“Who is she? What’s going on? Why does she want to hurt us?” Timmy barraged his brother with questions.
“Later.” Larson grabbed Timmy’s hand, breaking back into a run that half-dragged his brother down the sidewalk. If I stand still and look around, Silme can access my thoughts, locate us, and transport. We’ve got to keep moving. Flipping Timmy back into his grip, Larson sprinted around smaller blocks toward the main highway and the hotel district. Cars whizzed along the roadways, seeming absurdly fast after more than a year spent among ox carts and horses.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 16