Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

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  CONTENTS

  Prolugue

  CHAPTER 1 : Shadows of Death

  CHAPTER 2 : Shadows in the City

  CHAPTER 3 : Shadows of the Truth

  CHAPTER 4 : Shadows of Magic

  CHAPTER 5 : Shadows on the Temple Wall

  CHAPTER 6 : Shadowed Alleys

  CHAPTER 7 : Ladies of the Shadows

  CHAPTER 8 : Dim Shadows of Vengeance

  CHAPTER 9 : Shadows of Justice

  CHAPTER 10 : Dust and Shadows

  CHAPTER 11 : Shadows of the Gallows

  CHAPTER 12 : Shadows of Doubt

  CHAPTER 13 : Shadowed Corners of the Mind

  Epilogue

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  SHADOW’S REALM Copyright © 1990 by Miriam S. Zucker

  Shadow’s Realm

  For Dwight V. Swain

  Who taught so many. So well.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Dave Hartlage, Sheila Gilbert, Jonathan Matson, Richard Hescox, D. Allan Drummond, Joe Schaumburger, our parents, and SFLIS for their own special contributions.

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  Prologue

  The sun rose over the eastern horizon, casting red highlights across the pastures and grain fields of Wilsberg until the land seemed crusted with rubies. Atop a grassy hillock overlooking the village, the Dragonmage, Bolverkr, sprawled casually across the doorstep of his mansion. A breeze ruffled hair white as bleached bone, carrying the mingled smells of clover and new-mown hay. Clouds bunched to towering shapes or drifted to lace in the mid-autumn sky.

  Bolverkr stretched, attuned to the familiar noise of the town he had considered home for his last century and a half: the splash of clay pots dipped into the central fountain, the playful shrill of children chasing one another through narrow, cobbled lanes, the metallic rattle of pans at the hearth behind him. The latter sound brought a smile to his lips. He twisted his head, peering down the squat hallway of his home to its kitchen. His young wife, Magan, whisked from table to fireplace, black hair swirling around,sturdy curves marred by the bulge of a womb heavy with child. She was dark in every way Bolverkr’s Norse heritage made him light. Beautiful. Sensitive to my needs as I am to hers. I picked a good one this time. Bolverkr chuckled. Two hundred seventeen years old, and I’ve finally learned how to select the right woman.

  The throaty low of a cow drew Bolverkr’s attention to the southern paddock. A ribby herd of Cullinsbergen cattle chewed mouthfuls of alfalfa hay, browsing through the stacks with wide, wet noses. Chickens scurried to peck up dislodged seeds, muddied feathers matted to their breasts. Children, shirking chores, alternately tossed bread crumbs and pebbles to a flock of pullets, giggling whenever the birds flapped and fought over the rocks. From his world on the hill, Bolverkr studied the children’s wrinkled homespun and their dirt-streaked faces, aware nearly all of them carried his blood at some near or distant point in their heritage. Seasons come and go. Cottages crumble and are rebuilt. My grandchildren have spawned grandchildren. And the only constant feature of the farming town of Wilsberg is an old sorcerer named Bolverkr. Contented by his musings and cheered by the promise of a clear day, Bolverkr eased his back against the doorjamb.

  The Chaos-storm struck with crazed and sudden violence. Without warning, the clouds wilted to black, smothering the autumn sky beneath a dark, unnatural curtain of threat. A half-grown calf bellowed in terror. A startled woman flung her jar into the fountain, throwing up her arms in a gesture to ward away evil. The clay smacked the basin stones, shattering into chips that swirled to the muddy bottom. Frightened children fled for shelter. Before Bolverkr could raise his withered frame from the doorway, Northern winds knifed through the town of Wilsberg.

  Bolverkr gaped, horror-struck, as the force raged through threadlike walkways, scooped up a handful of children, and hurled their mangled bodies like flotsam on a beach. One crashed into the fountain, slamming a gale-lashed wave of water over the peasant woman. A wall tumbled into wreckage, and the squall tore through Wilsberg like a hungry demon. It shattered cottages to rubble, whirled stone and thatch into a tornado force of wind. The fountain tore free of its foundation; the gale scattered its boulders through homes, fields, and paddocks.

  The dragonmark scar on Bolverkr’s hand throbbed like a fresh wound. Desperately, he tapped his life energy, twining a shield of magic over a huddled cluster of frightened townsfolk. But his power was a mellow whisper against a raging torrent of Chaos-force. It shattered his ward, claiming sorcery, stone, and life with equal abandon. It swallowed friends, cows, and cobbles, the mayor’s mansion and the basest hovel, leaving a sour trail of twisted corpses and crimson-splashed pebbles.

  Bolverkr tossed an urgent command over his shoulder. “Magan, run!” Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, he delved into the depths of his being, gathering life energy as another man might tap resolve. Holding back just enough to sustain consciousness, he fashioned a transparent, magical barrier of peerless thickness and strength. His spell snapped to existence, penning scores of townsfolk against the base of his hill. The effort cost all but a ragged shred of Bolverkr’s stamina. Too weak to stand, he sank to one knee; a dancing curtain of black and white pressed his vision. Sick with frustration, he focused on shadows as panicked men and women bashed into the unseen shield, unaware they were safe from the onrushing winds.

  Suddenly, sound thundered, pulsing through the village as if some wrathful god had ripped open the heavens. The gale-force burst through Bolverkr’s shield. Once protected, the farmers now became prisoners of the spell. They ran for freedom, only to crash into its encumbering sides. Gusts heaved bodies against the solid remnants of Bolverkr’s magic, smashing townsmen into gashed and battered corpses.

  Bolverkr staggered to his feet, too weak to curse in outrage. Only one course remained to him, one power left to tap; but he knew it might claim a price equal to the other-world storm he faced. He felt Magan’s touch through the bunched cloth of his tunic. Ignoring his command to flee, she caught his arm, steadying him against the door frame with trembling hands. Raven-hued hair touched his cheek. Magan’s abdomen brushed his hip, and he felt the baby’s kick. In Bolverkr’s mind, there was no longer any question. “Run,” he whispered. “Please.” He gouged his fingernails against the ledge for support, oblivious to wood slivering painfully into flesh. Head bowed, he fought down the natural barriers that shielded men’s minds from the manipulations of sorcerers and began the sequence of mental exercises that would call unbridled Chaos to him.

  Bolverkr knew nearly two hundred years had passed since any Dragonrank mage dared to draw power from a Chaos-source other than his own life energy. But, pressed to recklessness, Bolverkr drew the procedure from the cob-webbed depths of memory. His invocation began as a half-forgotten, disjointed mumble of spell words.

  And Chaos answered Bolverkr. It seeped into his wasted sinews, restoring vigor and clarity of thought. The method of its summoning returned like remembrance of a lost love. His conjuration grew from a mental glimmer, to a verbal whisper, to a shout. Golden waves of chaos filled him, exultant and suffocating in their richness. Gorged with new power, Bolverkr laughed and raised his hand against the force that blasted grass from the hillside as it raced toward him like a living thing.

  The storm, too, seemed to have gained intensity. It howled a song luxuriant with ancient evil, feeding off the same Chaos Bolverkr had mustered. Too late, the Dragon-mage realized the reason, and he shouted his defeat to winds that hurled the cry back into his face. At last, he knew his enemy as a renegade mass of Chaos-force. His rally had accomplished nothing more than luring the tempest to his person and opening his pro
tections to its mercy.

  The Chaos-force speared through Bolverkr, cold as Hel-frost. He staggered, catching his balance against the door frame as the storm pierced him, seeking the soul-focus of his very being, itself the primal essence of the elements. Fire and ice, wind and wave, earth and sky swirled through his blood, beyond his ability to divine an understanding. It entered every nerve, every thought, every fiber, and seemed to rack Bolverkr’s soul apart. It promised ultimate power, the mastery of time and eternity, control of creation and destruction, of life and death. It played him without pity, no more trustworthy than the Northern winds whose form it took. It suffused him with pleasure, drove him to the peak of elation and held him there, tied to a blissful swell of power.

  For all its thrill, the tension grew unbearable. Bolverkr felt as fragile as crystal, as if his spirit might shatter from the power which had become his. Ecstasy strengthened to pain. He screamed in agony, and the Chaos-force transformed his cry into a bellow of wild triumph. Sound echoed through the wreckage of Wilsberg. Then Bolverkr exchanged torment for oblivion.

  Bolverkr awoke with numbed wits and a pounding headache. From habit, he tapped a trifle of life energy to counteract the pain. The throbbing ceased. His thoughts sharpened to faithful clarity, bringing memory of the previous morning, and realization drove him to his feet. The sun shone high over the ruins of the farm town that had been his home. Straw and boulders littered the ground. Bodies lay, smashed beneath the wreckage, half-buried in mud, or hanging from shattered foundations of stone like the broken puppets of an angered child.

  Tears filled Bolverkr’s eyes, blurring the carnage to vague patterns of light and dark. Grief dampened his spirit, leaving him feeling awkward and heavy. Faces paraded through his mind: Othomann, the old tailor who had spent more time weaving children’s stories than cloth; Sigil, a plain-appearing woman whose gentleness and humor won her more suitors than the town beauties. One by one, Bolverkr pictured the townsfolk, and one by one he mourned them. The shadows slanted toward sunset before he gained the will to move. Only then did he realize he still clutched a piece of his door frame in fingers gone chalky white. Slowly, he turned toward his mansion, heart pounding, deathly afraid of what he might find.

  Through water-glazed vision, Bolverkr stared at the rubble of the mansion. Magically warded rock and mortar had crumbled as completely as the mundane constructions of peasant cottages. Half the southern and western walls remained, clinging to a jagged corner of roof. Gray fragments covered the hillock, interspersed with the occasional glimmer of metal coins and gemstones. Only splinters and shards of wood remained of Bolverkr’s furniture, much of which he had proudly carved with his own hands.

  A pile of rubble blocked Bolverkr’s view of the single standing corner. He sidled around it, suddenly confronted by Magan’s corpse. She lay in an unnatural pose, mottled white and purple-red. Flying debris had flayed her, chest to abdomen, and blackflies feasted on piled organs. Bolverkr felt as if he had been suddenly plunged in ice water. Horror gripped him. Mesmerized, he shuffled forward. His foot slipped in a smear of blood and flesh, and he stumbled. Flies rose around him in a buzzing crowd. Bolverkr twisted to see what had tripped him. It was another corpse, no larger than his hands and still connected to its mother by a bloodless umbilical cord.

  With a frenzied sob, Bolverkr turned and fled. After three running strides, his heel came down on a craggy hunk of granite. His leg bowed sideways. Pain shot through his ankle. He fell, arching to avoid sharp fragments of stone jutting from the grass. Off-balance, he crashed to the ground and rolled over the side of the hillock.

  Bolverkr tumbled. Rock, wood, and bone bruised his skin. He clawed for a grounded rock or plant. Debris loosened by his attempts skidded toward the ground for him to bounce over a second time. Three quarters of the way down the side, his hand looped over a root. It cut into the joints of his fingers. Quickly, he released it, using the moment of stability to turn his crazed fall into a controlled slide. He jarred to a halt, facedown, by a pile of bodies. The air hung heavy with the salt reek of blood and death.

  Bolverkr swept to a sitting position. His gaze flicked over the ruins of Wilsberg, and his tears turned from the cold sting of grief to the hot fury of anger. It had taken him fifty years to find the peace of a lifetime. Half a century of peasant distrust had elapsed in misery until one generation passed to the next and the children accepted Bolverkr as a kindly old man, a fixture on the hillock over their village. The term “Dragonrank” meant nothing to them; they were too far removed from the sorcerers’ school in Norway to have heard of its existence. To them, I served as a timeless oddity. Bolverkr watched blood trickle across his palm, and though it was his own, it seemed to him more like that of the entire town. So long to create the dream, and so quickly shattered.

  Thoughts raced through Bolverkr’s mind, age-old memories of the crimes of his peers. He recalled how Geirmagnus, a man from the future with no magical abilities of his own, had discovered and taught the first Dragonrank mages to channel Chaos-force into spell energy. Then, the sorcerers had called volumes of Chaos from external sources, blithely ignorant of its cost. He remembered how the excess Chaos had massed, taking the dragon-form that gave the Dragonrank sorcerers their name, steadily growing, feeding off the Chaos they summoned for spells more powerful than any known before or since. One such feat gave Bolverkr and his peers the ability to age at a fraction of the rate of normal men. Too late, they realized their mistake. As the chaos-creature grew more powerful, nothing could slay it but the strongest Dragonrank magic. And the calling of Chaos for that magic served only to further strengthen the beast until its presence threatened to disrupt the very balance of the world.

  Cruel remembrances fueled Bolverkr’s rage. He blinked away the beads of water clinging to his lashes. The mad blur of corpses transformed in his mind to the faces of his ancient friends. He recalled how, in desperation, the mages had forsaken external Chaos sources for their own life energies. The younger sorcerers never learned the techniques of mustering Chaos. Their elders tried to resist marshaling the great volumes of entropy they had used in earlier days; but, having tasted of ultimate power, they slipped back into the old ways. All except Bolverkr. He alone remained true to his promise, and he alone the dragon spared. Singly and in groups, he watched his friends die, clawed to death by the chaos-creature’s fury until Geirmagnus trapped it, though he was mortally wounded by Chaos in the struggle. The quest for peace brought Bolverkr to Wilsberg while the pursuit of knowledge drove the younger mages to found the Dragonrank school that Bolverkr had never seen. As generations of sorcerers came and went, he was forgotten or presumed dead.

  That storm was no work of nature. Bolverkr’s hands clenched to fists, and he stared at the blood striping his knuckles scarlet. Tendrils of Chaos-force probed through the breach he had opened in his mental barriers; where it touched, its power corrupted. Rage boiled up inside the sorcerer, fueled and twisted by the Chaos that had ravaged Wilsberg and, now, found its master. The seam blurred between the meager remnants of Bolverkr’s natural life aura and the seeming infinity of Chaos, and it quietly goaded him as if it was the master and he the source of its power. It twisted his thoughts, filling gaps in information, leading to one conclusion: Someone loosed Chaos against me, and that someone is going to pay!

  Bolverkr leaped to his feet, bruises and aches forgotten. He waded through the wreckage of Wilsberg, the sight of each familiar corpse invoking his ire like physical pain. By the time he reached the town border, Chaos roiled through his veins. A small voice cried out from within him, Why me? Why me? Why me? Then, the last vestiges of Bolverkr’s grief were crushed, replaced by a blind, howling fury more savage than any he had known. Once a separate entity, the Chaos-force remained, poisoning his life aura, all but merged with it. Chaos promised spell-energy to rival the gods: death, destruction, and vengeances beyond human comprehension. It showed him shattered human skeletons on a shore red with blood, skies dense with tarry smoke, it
s breath lethal to the men of Midgard.

  Not yet fully swayed to Chaos’ influence, Bolverkr shuddered at the image, and horror sapped his anger.

  Quickly, the Chaos-force amended its simulation, instead showing Bolverkr a clear night speckled with stars. Two men lay chained to a block of granite, their faces twisted by fierce grimaces of evil. Prompted by the Chaos-force, Bolverkr knew these as the men responsible for the destruction of Wilsberg. Understanding whipped him to murderous frenzy. He struggled for a closer look, but the Chaos-force teased him, holding the perception just beyond his vision. Bolverkr shouted in frustration, forgetting, in his rage, that a simple spell could obtain the same information. Instead, he raced without goal into the afternoon, seeking a target for his fury.

  Once beyond the borders of the town, Bolverkr ran along a well-traveled forest trail; wheel ruts and boot tracks from the spring thaw dimpled its surface. Branches of oak and maple rattled in a light, autumn breeze, its gentleness a mockery after the tempest that had gutted Wilsberg. Shortly, the creak of timbers and the clop of hooves on packed earth replaced the rasp of air through Bolverkr’s lungs. He paused, breathless, as a half-dozen wooden horse carts appeared from around a bend in the pathway. A man marched at the fore of the procession, his chin encased in a crisp, golden beard and his face locked in an expression radiating kindness and demanding trust. The horses appeared gaunt. A layer of grime stained their coats, but their triangular heads remained proudly aloft, ears flicked forward in interest.

  Bolverkr knew the commander as Harriman, Wilsberg’s only diplomat. He wore briar-scratched leather leggings beneath the blue and white silks that proclaimed his title. Returning from their quarterly trading mission to the baron’s city of Cullinsberg, the men aboard the wagons laughed and joked, glad to be nearing their journey’s end. The odor of alcohol tinged the air around them.