One more boy entered Larson’s thoughts, his younger brother, Timmy. Larson had enlisted in the army to ease the hardships on his family after his father’s untimely death in an automobile accident with a drunken driver. Timmy always felt betrayed, that Dad “abandoned” us. Eventually, he’ll be old enough to stop blaming Dad for his death. But I promised Timmy we’d always be together, then ran off to a foreign land ... and died there. Guilt hammered Larson. When he had left for Vietnam, he was too concerned about grappling with his own mixture of fear and excitement to notice the expression of hostility and grief on Timmy’s face. Then and there, I could have comforted him, put things right. But I didn’t. I was too goddamned worried about my own pain. Only much later did the vision haunt Al Larson. And, by then, there was nothing left to say or do. The same magical thinking that allows a child to believe his father died to punish him might force Timmy to think his bitterness killed his brother. Remorse balled in Larson’s gut, making him feel ill. What a burden for a child to have to live with.
Larson lowered his head. Barely twenty, one semester of college, a war, and now I have a wife and almost a child. Panic touched him. He glanced at Silme again, saw a woman more beautiful than any model or actress he could recall. I’m not even old enough to drink yet. I never got to vote for a president, but I was old enough to die for him. Larson stared at Silme until his vision blurred and her form went as hazy and unrecognizable as her shadow. Still, the sight of her filled him with joy, and the thought of losing her inspired a wild urge to sweep her into his arms. I love her more than anything before in my life. Doubts smothered devotion in a rush. But I’m not fit to be a father. I’m too young. I’m too inexperienced. And I’ve lost decency, sanity, and all sense of fairness in a mindless war. What sort of warped morality could I give to a son or daughter? Silme and the baby deserve better than I can offer.
Seeking a replacement, Larson turned his attention to Taziar. The Climber had been pacing from door to window for the last hour. Now, Larson noticed a change in Taziar’s patter, and curiosity dove self-deprecation and fear from his thoughts. Taziar’s course was becoming shorter. He was turning farther from the door and pausing at the window with each pass. And Larson felt fairly certain Taziar had no idea what he was doing. But I know. Any second now, that little thief is going out the window.
Feigning indifference, Larson rose and stretched. He watched Taziar stare out the window at the grimy walls across the alleyway for some time before he whirled and started back toward the table. Quickly, Larson crossed the room to the window, not surprised to see Taziar spin back even before the Climber reached the center of the chamber. Casually, Larson placed a hand on each shutter and waited.
Five steps brought Taziar to the window again. He stopped there, palms pressed to the sill, blue eyes focused distantly, seemingly oblivious to Larson’s presence. He shifted his grip, leaving a sweaty print on the ledge. Suddenly, he tensed.
Larson slammed the shutters closed. Wood thunked against flesh, and the panels rebounded open. Taziar sprang backward with a startled cry. He nursed the fingers of his left hand, eyes wide and turned on Larson in shocked accusation. “Why did you do that?”
Larson caught the swinging shutters and nudged them closed more gently. “That’s ‘why the hell did I do that?’ Don’t you people know how to swear?”
Taziar rubbed his pinched fingers. “You jerk!” he said in stilted, heavily-accented English. “Why in Karana’s deepest, darkest, frozen pits of hell would you do something like that?“
Larson resisted the impulse to answer “sport.” “You were about to climb through that window, weren’t you?”
“No!” Taziar responded instantly, then paused in consideration.
“Admit it.”
“No,” Taziar repeated less forcefully. “But now that you raised the subject, Astryd’s been gone far too long.”
“I didn’t raise the subject, you just did.” Larson leaned against the shutters. “But you’re right. That’s why I’m going after her.”
“You?” Taziar and Silme spoke simultaneously, in the same incredulous tone.
“Me?” Larson mimicked. “Yes, me. Of course, me. I am, in fact, the only logical choice. Astryd can transport. If she’s not back, it’s because someone’s holding her. That someone has to be defeated. I may not be the best swordsman in the world, but I’d venture to guess I could beat either of you.”
“I can think of other reasons Astryd might not have returned yet,” Taziar shot back, his injured hand forgotten. “She may still be gathering information. She could have gotten lost. We can’t all go. Someone has to stay here in case she returns. Rescuing her may require stealth and knowledge of the city, so I’m the one to go.”
Larson glanced past Taziar, saw Silme shaking her head in disagreement. “I can handle ‘stealth,’ and I know Cullinsberg as well as Astryd.” Though irrelevant, Larson made the latter statement sound as if it held some grand significance. “Besides, even lost, she could still transport. If she’s gathering information and you show up, everyone will try to kill you. Plus, they’ll know Astryd’s with you and try to kill her, too. But no one knows me.”
Taziar tossed a meaningful look at Silme who became suddenly engrossed in the fire.
Lacking the knowledge to make sense of the exchange, Larson dismissed it. “Then it’s settled. I go. You stay with Silme.” Larson hated to use guilt as a tool against Taziar, but he saw no other way to keep the Climber from taking off on his own. “If anything happens to her or my baby while I’m gone, I’m holding you responsible.” Larson winced, not liking the sound of his own threat. Ignoring Silme’s glare, he crossed the room, opened the door, and slipped into the hallway.
The panel clicked closed behind Larson. Through it, he heard Taziar’s muffled shout of protest and Silme’s curt reply distorted beyond understanding. Larson trotted down the corridor. Soon his companions’ voices faded into the obscurity of a dirty passage, its chipped, indigo paint revealing a previous layer of white. Blue flakes crunched beneath Larson’s boots, and he trod carefully across boards, warped by water, to the staircase at the farther end. In the center of the steps, the passage of countless feet had worn down its carpet to the planks. But at the corners, the dark brown wool appeared new. Larson passed no one as he shuffled down the three flights into a back room grimier than the halls. A door to his left led to the common room; a wild clamor of voices drifted from beneath it. Choosing the opposite door, he emerged into the alley beneath the chamber window.
The wind felt comfortably cool to Larson after hours sitting idle before the hearth fire. He had grown accustomed to the smoke; the crisp air made his eyes water and the night seemed unusually clear. Around the spires of the baron’s keep, he caught a vivid view of stars, like pinholes in black velvet, and picked out the constellation of Orion. Then his instincts took over. He discarded the beauty of the night sky as insignificant background. Alert for movement, he abandoned the alley for a cobbled main street and delved Taziar’s directions to Astryd from his memory.
The street stood deserted, the shops closed and dark, the sidewalk stands vacated for the night. The merchants had hauled away their wares, leaving wooden skeletons or empty wagons, some protected from the elements with tarps. Larson moved quickly and smoothly, keeping to the edges where the walkways met the streets and away from the yawning darkness of alleys and smaller thoroughfares. A noise snapped through the darkness. Larson flattened against a cart, eyes probing. Across the road, a gray sheet of canvas fluttered like a ghost in the breeze. Larson loosed a pent up breath and continued.
Thoughts of survival channeled aside Larson’s concerns and self-doubts. His abilities as a father paled before the more urgent matter of Astryd’s safety. Lacking information, he had made no plan, and Kensei Gaelinar’s words emerged from memory, equally as alarming as they were comforting: “A warrior makes his plans in the instant between sword strokes.” But Gaelinar had been capable of split second strategies and insta
ntaneous wisdom. As much as Larson tried to emulate the Kensei, he doubted he would ever learn such a skill. My mind doesn’t work that fast. But, this time, Larson knew his life and Astryd’s might depend on it.
Larson turned a corner onto another main street and immediately realized he was no longer alone. Half a dozen men stood in a cluster. Their breath emerged as white puffs in the cold. Their conversation wafted indistinctly to Larson. Darkness robbed him of his color vision, making them appear as caricatures in black and gray. Trained to mistrust groups in towns, Larson backpedaled. Before he could duck back around the turn, he saw an arm rise and a finger aimed in his direction. Every head turned toward him.
Something seemed vaguely familiar about the men, but Larson did not take time to ponder. He dodged around the corner and broke into a hunched run. The men gave chase. Their footfalls clattered along the empty streets. Larson quickened his pace. Realizing he was on a straightaway, he skittered into an alley, then sprinted around the first narrow branchway. His boot came down on something soft. A screech rent the air. A claw swished across leather, and a cat raced deeper into the shadows. Off-balanced, Larson careened into a rain barrel. Icy water sloshed on his chest and abdomen. He tried to compensate, but the barrel crashed into his hip with bruising force. He fought for equilibrium, lost it, tumbled and rolled. Heavy wood slammed against his foot, followed by the slap as the barrel struck the earthen floor of the alleyway.
Moisture penetrated to Larson’s skin. He tensed to rise, found himself staring into a semicircle of drawn spears, and sank back to his knees. Slowly, nonthreateningly, he raised his hands. Who are these people? What do they want? Suddenly realizing lifted hands might not serve as a gesture of surrender in this world, he lowered them to his thighs.
“Don’t move.” The man directly before Larson let his spear sag and hefted a lantern. Light played over the group, revealing an array of male faces and muscled torsos clothed in black and red linen. A seventh man stood behind the others, his face a dark blur. He wore a tunic, breeks, and cloak. He carried no spear, but a sword dangled at his hip.
Uniforms of red and black. Larson relaxed and allowed himself a crooked smile. Smart move. I just ran from the cops.
The man with the lantern wore a silver badge on his left breast; apparently he was their leader. “What are you doing out after curfew?”
Curfew? Shadow didn’t say anything about a curfew. Larson looked into the leader’s round face, met eyes deep brown and demanding. The curfew probably came as a result of the violence. Shadow wouldn’t even know about it. Larson cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’m a foreigner, and I didn’t know about the curfew. A young woman friend went out this afternoon and hasn’t returned. I was worried and came looking for her.” Having spoken the truth, Larson had no difficulty adopting a sincere expression.
Spears bobbed as the guards shifted position. The leader seemed unimpressed. “What did you take, thief?” His inflection made the last term sound like the most repugnant word in Cullinsberg’s language.
“Thief?” Larson repeated, his tone colored with genuine incredulity. “Don’t be absurd. Do I look like the type who would steal?” Realizing he very well might, Larson tried another tactic. “If I was a thief, I wouldn’t have lived this long by being inept. You never would have seen me, and you certainly wouldn’t have caught me.” Larson winced. Though unintentional, his comment could be taken as a backhanded insult to the guards’ abilities. And the way things are going today, that’s exactly how he’s going to take it.
The leader balanced his spear with the hand he held the lantern in. Light disrupted shadow in crazed arcs. He caught a tighter one-handed grip on the shaft and raised the lantern again. “If you’re not a thief, why did you run?”
Blinded by the glare, Larson blinked. “I was attacked my first day here. I saw a gang of men in the dark and mistook you for criminals.” He fidgeted with impatience, and the arc of spears tightened. “Look, I didn’t take anything. You’re welcome to search me. Just do it quickly.”
The man standing behind the guards spoke. “He took something.” The voice was dry with contempt and familiar to Larson.
The idiot I decked outside the baron’s castle. Larson’s skin prickled to gooseflesh. He dredged the man’s name from memory. Haimfrid.
The leader responded without turning. “What did he take?”
“I don’t know.” Haimfrid shifted closer, and his features became discernible in the light. His dark hair had become even more frizzled, dried blood speckled the abrasions on his cheek and he sported a day’s growth of beard. The combination gave him the look of a madman. “I’ll think of something.” Purposefully, his hand clamped around his sword hilt.
Larson resisted the instinct to reach for his own weapon. He already knew he could best Haimfrid in a fair fight, but the six guards would tip those odds far into Haimfrid’s favor. “Haimfrid, please. What happened before was between you and me. You shouldn’t drag your friends into a personal matter they know nothing about. I don’t have time to fight with you.”
“Is this the man ...” the leader started. But Haimfrid’s attention was fully on Larson. “How appropriate. The worm’s on his knees begging for mercy.”
Anger rose in Larson, hot contrast to the damp chill of his soaked cloak. He reined his temper in easily, aware Astryd’s safety depended on his dispatching this matter peacefully and with haste. “If you insist, we’ll settle our differences later. Right now, a woman’s life is at stake.”
“What a coincidence.” Haimfrid’s sword jolted from its sheath with a rasp of metal. “Right now, a man’s life is at stake, too. Get up and draw your weapon!”
It took every bit of self-control for Larson to remain immobile. “No, Haimfrid. I won’t kill without good cause, and that incident outside the baron’s castle is not good cause.” Threatening Silme was, but I can’t afford to let my temper get me into trouble now.
Haimfrid made a wild gesture with his sword, and the spearmen retreated slightly. “Get up!” he screamed.
Larson shook his head. Aware a certain amount of morality must go into the decision to become a guard and uphold the law, Larson appealed to what little sense of decency Haimfrid and his companions might harbor. “I’m not fighting. If you kill me, it’s going to have to be coldblooded murder.” Despite Larson’s bold pronouncement, his hand slipped unconsciously toward his hilt.
Haimfrid’s left cheek turned crimson; the right twitched, lost in shadow. “Just as well. I’ll butcher you like the pig you are.”
The guards stepped back, closing the circle around Haimfrid and Larson. Haimfrid raised his sword to strike.
Appalled again by the guards’ complete lack of respect for life and law, Larson reacted with the instinct of long practice. In a single motion, he wrenched his sword free and slashed for Haimfrid’s neck. Surprised, Haimfrid sprang backward. Larson seized the opening to surge to his feet. Haimfrid swept for Larson’s chest as Larson continued his maneuver with a downstroke. Haimfrid’s blow fell short, but Larson’s katana cleaved Haimfrid’s scalp. Larson ripped the sword free and finished the pattern. He flicked the blade in a loop and splattered the startled onlookers with blood, then slid it neatly back into its sheath. Haimfrid’s corpse flopped to the ground.
The lantern toppled to the dirt, splashing Larson and the guards with glass shards and burning oil. The six spears snapped into battle position in an awkward chaos of ones and twos. Though bothered by the senseless loss of life, Larson prepared to meet this new threat. He kept his hand clamped to his haft. “I’m sorry. He left me no choice. You all saw that it was self-defense. Give me some space, and we can all go in peace.”
The points remained, unmoving. Larson drew his sword again, his stance light as he tried to assess all his enemies at once. The sword had scarcely left the sheath when the leader jabbed for Larson’s chest. Larson parried, then ducked beneath the opening and spun past. He attempted a parting slash, but his blade skimmed across the linen coveri
ng the leader’s hamstring. Afraid to turn his back to run, he completed the maneuver with a pivot that brought him around to face the guards. A spear plunged for Larson’s abdomen. He deflected it with his sword, caught a glimpse of movement to his left and dodged. A spear tip tore his breeks, slashing a line of skin from his leg. Another guard thrust for him. An awkward lurch back to his left was all that saved Larson. Hard pressed by the three men before him, he was unable to guard his sides. The others slipped by him, hemming him into a circle once more.
Larson took the offensive. He sprang for the leader. A spear pierced the darkness to his left, and he redirected his strike to meet it. Steel crashed against wood. The spear retreated, and another pitched toward him from behind. Larson whirled to meet the attack. A spear butt cracked across the base of his neck. Pain shocked through him, then Larson’s world exploded into darkness.
Astryd dreamed of ocean surf. She sprawled, facedown, on the rocks of a beach familiar from her childhood. Waves splashed over her, strangely warm and soothing, the wash revitalizing her where it touched. A seagull shrilled, gliding zigzags through the darkness.
Astryd’s hand twitched, banging painfully against wood. She awoke with a suddenness that strained every sinew; her heart hammered in her chest. The shore became a hard, oaken floor, and the noises of the gull dissolved into Saerle’s steady snores, each ending with an exhaled whistle. A band of moonlight glazed the planks.
It has to be almost morning. Astryd sprang to her feet. I’ve got to get out of here before Harriman comes to check on me. Her aura blazed around her, restored by the length and depth of her sleep. Despite concern for her companions, Astryd took some satisfaction from the strength of her life energy. At least one good thing came out of this. She raised a hand to cast a transport escape when a thought froze her. Shadow’s friends are due to hang tonight. He’s going to need all the help I can give him, and a speck of life energy might mean the difference between life and death for all of us. I can’t afford to waste it on unnecessary spells. She studied Saerle one more time. Spread-eagled beneath the bed covers like some warped god’s sacrifice, he looked as innocent as a child, and Astryd felt a pang of remorse. I couldn’t possibly have hit him hard enough to keep him out this long; it has to be the wine. At the time, need had made her too impatient to wait for the alcohol to do its job. Now, she thanked any god who would listen that Saerle had brought it and that she had managed to force it upon him.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 20