Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

  An unexpected gust tapped the slight craft, and its sail brushed the surface of the lake. Quickly, Larson eased the canvas. The sailboat hovered momentarily, then capsized into cedar-colored waters, the sister sputtering, the brother and father laughing until their sides ached.

  Bolverkr disengaged from Larson’s memory. The scene confirmed his worst suspicions. Like Geirmagnus, Al Larson came from a future time and place. Bolverkr knew Larson’s family would have served as the perfect target for his vengeance, but, with ruined hope, he also realized they dwelt beyond the abilities of Dragonrank magic to harm them. He recoiled in dismay and felt Larson grow alarmed in response. Quickly, Bolverkr regained control, masking his emotions with necessary thoroughness. It’s not over yet. There are other things a man grows to love.

  Bolverkr renewed his search with a malice that knew no bounds. He pried information from Larson’s mind, discovered deep affection for Silme as well as concern for his other two companions. Bolverkr’s efforts also uncovered a pocket of bittersweet grief. He dug for its source to find the remembered image of a samurai named Kensei Gaelinar who had served as a ruthless swordmaster and a friend. Some teachings of this warrior had convinced Larson that a whisper of his mentor’s soul still resided in the finely-crafted steel of the Japanese long sword he had taken from the dead man’s hands and now wore at his side.

  Uncovering no other objects of comparable fondness, Bolverkr turned his attention to Larson’s fears and hatreds. These he prodded with meticulous care, not wanting to reveal his presence in a wild induction of rage. He found orange-red explosions of light, noises louder than the nearest thunder, a savage, crimson chaos of future war Larson called Vietnam. Gory corpses with eyes glazed in accusation intermingled freely with the memory of Larson’s own mortality. An oddly-shaped parcel of metal chattered like a squirrel grazed by a hunter’s arrow as Larson charged enemies with a final, desperate courage. Oblivion followed, a pause of indeterminate length before a rude awakening in a strange elven body and an ancient time.

  Larson stiffened. The recognition of an intruder’s presence flowed through his mind, and a conjured mental wall snapped over the exit. A tentative question followed. Vidarr? Is that you? Bolverkr froze. When no attack followed, he relaxed. For now, he harbored no desire to leave; he found the blockage of no significance. After the consideration of violating biological barriers, a wall manufactured from substance as ephemeral as thought seemed a pitiful substitute. Treading more lightly, he continued his search.

  Bolverkr skimmed through Larson’s memories, plucking tidbits with the graceful precision of an acrobat. He found divine allies. These he dismissed, aware gods’ vows would not allow them to meddle in the affairs of mortals. And among the deities, Bolverkr also discovered enemies. He watched the elf’s sword slice through the spine of Loki the Trickster, saw Larson hurl the god’s body into the permanent oblivion of Hvergelmir’s waterfall. The corpse toppled through the Helspring, destroyed, as all things, by the magical braid of rivers that plunged, roaring, from Midgard to Hel. No longer existent, even in Hel, Loki and the mass of Chaos he controlled were destroyed, tipping the world dangerously toward Order.

  Attempting to restore the balance and free another god from more than a century in Hel, Larson and Taziar had traveled to Geirmagnus’ ancient estate. Through Larson’s memory, Bolverkr saw the ancient, imprisoned Chaos-force released, its dragon-form towering to the heavens. In horror, the sorcerer stared as Larson, Taziar, and Kensei Gaelinar slashed and stabbed at the creature. Bolverkr saw the Japanese swordmaster dive through razor-honed wire, killed in a desperate self-sacrifice that incapacitated the Chaos-creature and bared its head to Larson’s sword. And Larson seized the opening, slaughtering the dragonform, apparently unaware that its now unbound Chaos must seek a living master.

  The personal tragedy of this finding burned anger through Bolverkr. Your stupidity destroyed me, and you’ll pay with everything you hold dear. He imagined a teacher’s long sword, its shattered pieces strewn across a meadow stained with Silme’s blood. Shards protruded from the scarlet haft Larson clutched to his chest, and his voice loosed the screams of a dying animal. Through the nightmare visions he created, Bolverkr relived his own grief. Yet, despite the temptation, he held his fantasy back from Larson’s perception. The Chaos-force and its seemingly limitless power goaded him to recklessness and uncontrolled fury, but it did not make him foolish. Even after a century and a half of peace, he recalled two important rules of a sorcerer’s war: never sacrifice surprise, and, when an enemy proves powerful, fight him on familiar territory.

  Bolverkr retreated. He turned to the exit from Larson’s mind, pleased to see the wall had already faded. Patiently, he waited until it disappeared completely. Stepping out, he immediately attempted to gain access to the minds of Larson’s companions. Each effort flung him against natural mind barriers solid as stone. Briefly, he considered. To assault Taziar’s mind here would violate both of the battle tenets he had just uncovered from memory. Instead, he slipped back into Larson’s thoughts, digging for information about the elf/man’s small companion.

  Bolverkr’s toil exposed a stormy childhood in the city of Cullinsberg. With effort, he dug out revealing shreds of information, most lodged in the deeper, subconscious portion of Larson’s mind. Here, Bolverkr uncovered a name. There, he found an incident. In the end, he pieced together a patchwork history of the only son of an honorable and heroic guard captain, a son too slight in build to follow in his father’s footsteps. A prime minister’s treason against the elder Medakan had cost the captain his life and his honor, turning Taziar’s carefree youth into a life of running, hiding, and living on the edges of society. It was this dishonorable stage of Taziar’s life that gained him his closest friendships. Bolverkr seized every name he could glean from Taziar’s revelations to Larson. And here, too, Bolverkr decided his plan of attack. If I begin with the little thief’s allies in Cullinsberg, I lure my enemies to the south. I have no measure of their true power, but it encompasses at least enough to challenge gods. Best to start my vengeance with something not currently in their possession.

  Something tugged at Bolverkr’s hip. Engrossed in the mind-link, he slapped at it idly. To his surprise, a sharpened edge sliced his palm. Pain and the warm trickle of blood hurled him back into his own body on the hill over Wilsberg. Harriman stood before him, clutching the sword he had torn free from the belt lying, halved, at Bolverkr’s ankles. The sorcerer rolled more from instinct than intent. The blade swept the ground, rasping off a rock shard. Bolverkr managed to work his way to one knee before Harriman lunged for another attack.

  Bolverkr ducked, mouthing spell words with furious intensity. The blade whistled over his head, and Harriman’s foot lanced toward his chest. Desperation made Bolverkr sloppy. His spell cost him more energy than necessary. But a shield snapped to life before him. Harriman’s boot struck magics as firm and clear as glass. Impact jarred the nobleman to the ground. Surprise crossed his features, then they warped to murderous outrage. He sprang to his feet and charged the shielded Dragonmage.

  Harriman’s sword crashed against the unseen barrier. Bolverkr saw pain tighten the diplomat’s mouth to a line. Undeterred, Harriman smashed at the magics again and again until his strokes became frenzied and undirected. “Why!” he screamed with every wasted blow.

  Bolverkr waited with a stalking cat’s patience.

  At length, Harriman sheathed his sword, apparently tired of battering his frustration against a barrier he could not broach. “Why?” he shouted. His tone implied accusation rather than question.

  Bolverkr rose, his sorceries still firmly in place. “Why what?” he demanded.

  Harriman gripped his hilt in a bloodless fist, but did not waste the effort of drawing the blade again. “Why did you ... ?” He trailed off and started again. “Why would you ... ?“ His broad gesture encompassed the wreckage of the fanning town of Wilsberg.

  Suddenly, Harriman’s misconception became clear. By
the gods, the fool thinks I destroyed the town. Bolverkr shook his head in aggravation. “Don’t be an idiot, Harriman. I didn’t do anything, but I know who did. I need your help ...”

  “No!” Harriman shuffled backward. “You’re lying! I saw you laughing when your winged beast attacked me. What have you done with my friends? Did you kill them, too?”

  “Stop!” Bolverkr hollered in defense. “I attacked you in the same grief-frenzy you just displayed. I apologize for your companions; they died without fair cause. But I want your help against the murderers who slaughtered our kin.”

  Harriman shrank away. His dark eyes gleamed with disbelief, and behind Harriman’s expressionless pall, Bolverkr suspected fear warred with anger. His voice went comfortably soft, soothing without a trace of patronage. “We’re not barbarians, Bolverkr. Justice will be done, but it’s for the baron of Cullinsberg to decide guilt and punishment. Come with me. I’m certain he’ll listen to your story.”

  Harriman slipped into the role of diplomat with ease, but Bolverkr was too cagey to be taken in by platitudes. He realized his displays of sorcery would work against him. South of the Kattegat, men knew nothing of magic beyond a few mother’s stories that sifted to them from Scandinavia. Common men revile what they cannot understand. No one in Cullinsberg would question my guilt. “Don’t trifle with me, Harriman. Look around you. All our friends have died, massacred by strangers. My wife and child were not spared, but you were. What possible reason could I have for working such evil? If I caused this, why would I slay Magan and leave you alive?”

  “I believe you,” Harriman said. Though his tone sounded convincing, his sudden change in loyalty did not. “Please. Talk to the baron. He’ll believe you, too.”

  Harriman’s deceit angered Bolverkr. “Damn it,” he raged. “Listen to what I’m saying! Think, Harriman. I didn’t ravage the town. I fought to the last shred of my life to save it.”

  Harriman opened his mouth to affirm his sincerity.

  But Bolverkr made a curt gesture of dismissal. “Save your sweet deceptions for the baron. I can call dragons from the bowels of the earth and shields from midair. Don’t you think I can read your intentions?“ Bolverkr glared to emphasize his lie. The mind barriers rendered emotions as impossible to tap as thoughts, but Bolverkr doubted that Harriman knew that fact.

  Apparently fooled, Harriman dropped all pretenses. His cheeks flushed scarlet, and his expression went hard as chiseled stone. “Of course, I think you killed them. What else could I believe? You’re no man; you’re some sort of ... of demon. You were old when my great-grandfather was born. You never caused us any harm before, so we learned to trust you, even love you. But nothing else could have done this.” He gestured angrily at the ruins.

  Harriman’s words stung Bolverkr. In his rage, he forgot that his own insistence had inspired the nobleman to speak against him. “How dare you! I built this village, stone by precious stone. I lent my efforts to every labor, nursed the sick, brought prosperity to an insignificant dot on the landscape.” He took a threatening step toward Harriman. “My wife and child lie dead! I’m pledged to avenge myself against their slayers. Are you with me or against me?”

  Harriman cowered. He seemed about to speak, then went silent. He started again, and stopped. The inability to act as a negotiator seemed to unman him. Suddenly, he fled.

  Caught off-guard by Harriman’s unexpected flight, Bolverkr stood motionless for a startled moment. Dropping his shield, he followed the nobleman’s course as he bounced and leaped over standing stones and corpses. “Stop!” Bolverkr shouted. “Harriman, stop. Don’t force me to use magic.” If he reaches Cullinsberg, he’ll turn the barony against me. He’ll foil my vengeance! The realization goaded Bolverkr to prompt action. And, though a more subtle spell might have sufficed, because of his success with Larson, an attack on mental protections came first to Bolverkr’s mind. Gathering a spear of Chaos-power, he crashed into Harriman’s mind barriers.

  Bolverkr’s probe met abrupt resistance. For a maddening second, nothing happened. Then Harriman’s barrier shattered like an empty eggshell. The nobleman collapsed, face plowing into the dirt. Pain and surprise assailed Bolverkr. His screams matched Harriman’s in timing and volume. He floundered in the fog of agony smothering Harriman’s thoughts, shocked to inactivity by his own success. The nobleman’s shrieks turned solo, but still Bolverkr stared in silent wonder. How? “How!” he shouted aloud. He had acted on a Chaos-stimulated impulse. In his centuries of life, he had never heard of anyone powerful enough to break through mind barriers, not even in the days when Dragonmages called on external Chaos sources.

  Nonsentient, the Chaos-force did not speak in words. Instead, it drew upon the basest instincts of its master, allowing him to understand. I wield more power, more Chaos, then any sorcerer or god before me. It’s mine to tap freely, restored by the same rest that replenishes my own life aura vitality. Bolverkr struggled with the concept, at once awed, excited, and frightened by it, irrevocably lusting for the same Chaos power that must ultimately corrupt him with its evil. Pain awoke when he attempted to contemplate the immensity of his newfound strength, and, in self-defense, Bolverkr held his goals to a comprehensible level. Before I battle my enemies directly, I have to learn to handle my own power, to gain full mastery over this Chaos that has become my own. And I have to draw those enemies to me.

  Bolverkr surveyed the coils of memory composing Harriman’s mind, now fully opened to him. Quietly, without further preamble, he set to his task.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1 : Shadows of Death

  Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave.

  —James Thomson The Seasons. Winter

  The tavernmaster of Kveldemar hurled wood, glossed with ice, onto the hearth fire. It struck with a hiss, and smoke swirled through the common room, shredded to lace by beer-stained tables. Taziar Medakan blinked, trying to clear the mist from his eyes. His three companions seemed content to sit, sharing wine-loosened conversation, but restlessness drove Taziar until he fidgeted like a child during a priest’s belabored liturgy. His darting, blue eyes missed nothing. He watched the tavernmaster whisk across the room, pausing to collect bowls from a recently vacated table. Flipping a dirty rag across its surface, the tavernmaster ducked around the bar with the efficiency of a man accustomed to tending customers alone. Not a single movement was wasted.

  Taziar turned his attention to the only other patrons; a giggling couple huddled in the farthest corner, their chairs touching as they shared bowls of ale and silent kisses. Larson launched into a tale about two-man sailboats and a red-water lake, just as the outer door creaked open. Evening light streamed through the gap, glazing the eddying smoke. A middle-aged man stepped across the threshold. Dark-haired and clean-shaven, he seemed a welcome change from Norway’s endless sea of blonds. Blinded by the glare, the stranger squinted, sidling around a chair. His soiled, leather tunic scraped against Taziar’s seat with a high-pitched sheeting sound. A broadsword balanced in a scabbard at his waist, its trappings time-worn like a weapon which had been passed down by at least one generation. Depressions pocked its surface where jewels had once been set in fine adornment.

  Taziar had long ago abandoned petty thievery, but boredom drove him to accept the challenge. With practiced dexterity, he flicked his fingers into the stranger’s pocket. Rewarded by the frayed tickle of purse strings and a rush of exhilaration, he pulled his prize free. A subtle gesture masked the movement of placing it into a lap fold of his cloak. Taziar’s gaze never left his companions. He saw no glimmer of horror or recognition on their faces, no indication that anyone had observed his heist. Apparently oblivious, the stranger marched deeper into the common room and took a seat at a table before the bar. The tavernmaster wandered over to attend to his new patron.

  Taziar frowned in consideration. The stranger’s money held no interest for him; having developed more than enough skill to supply necessities for his friends, he had lost all respect for gold. Only the
thrill remained, and much of his enjoyment would, in this case, come from devising a clever plan to return the purse to its owner. Taziar regarded his companions. Larson’s words had passed him, unheard. Patiently, Taziar waited until his friend finished. Taking a cue from Silme’s and Astryd’s laughter, Taziar chuckled and then claimed the conversation. “Allerum, do you see that man over there?” He inclined his head slightly.

  Larson nodded without looking. Aside from the engrossed couple, the tavernmaster, and themselves, there was only one man in the barroom. “Sure. What about him?”

  Taziar raked a perpetually sliding comma of hair from his eyes. “When I was a child, my friends and I used to play a game where we’d guess how much money some stranger was carrying.”

  “Yeah?” Larson met Taziar’s gaze with mistrust. “Sounds pretty seedy. What’s it got to do with that man?”

  Taziar clasped his hands behind his head. “I’ll bet you our bar tab I can guess how much he has within ...” Unobtrusively, he massaged coins through the fabric of the stranger’s purse. Some felt thinner, more defined than Scandinavian monies, unmistakably southern coinage. Having discovered familiar territory, Taziar suppressed a smile. “... within three coppers.”

  Larson’s eyes narrowed until his thin brows nearly met. He shot a glance at the stranger. “From here?”

  Taziar turned his head as if studying the common room. Ice melted, the hearth fire blazed, now drafting its smoke up the chimney. “Why not? I can see him well enough.”

  Still, Larson hesitated. Though accustomed to idle barroom boasts, he was also all too familiar with Taziar’s love of impossible challenges. “All right,” he said at length. “Make it within one copper, and I’ll handle every beer between here and Forste-Mar.”

  Taziar stroked his chin with mock seriousness. “Agreed.” He studied the olive-skinned stranger in the firelight. The man ate with methodical disinterest, occasionally pausing to look toward the door. “Hmmm. I’d say ...” Taziar paused dramatically, defining coins with callused fingertips. “Four gold, seven silver, two copper. And the gold’ll be barony ducats.”