—Captain Taziar Medakan, senior
Trusting Asril and Taziar to control Harriman, Astryd thrust her consciousness into Larson’s mind. She entered a world as gray as tarnished silver. Dull and mostly spent, her life aura supplied no illumination. Eyes squinted, she stumbled through patterns of thought, tripped over a stray loop, and crashed into a tangled tapestry of memory. Astryd winced, awaiting the inevitable wild flashes of reaction.
But Larson’s mind lay still as a sea becalmed. Astryd disentangled, glad her clumsiness had not cost him the pain of sins or fears remembered. Abruptly, she realized his lack of response could only stem from the severity of his injuries, and relief gave way to a sorrow that warred with guilt. Maybe if I’d used magic in the prison, I might have spared Allerum some of that beating. She reviewed her reasoning, picking her way deeper into Larson’s mind. Weakened by two transports, I doubt I could have cast any spell strong enough to influence the fight. And I was so certain rescuing Silme would require magic, I didn’t dare waste it.
Astryd caught a glimpse of a faint glow in the distance and steered toward it. Despite her rationalization, she still felt responsible for Larson’s infirmity. I tried to heal him. The memory surfaced. She had channeled most of her remaining life energy into a spell to mend his injuries, but that had scarcely gained him the strength to open his eyes and verbally challenge Harriman. It wasn’t enough. And, now, I’m afraid Allerum is going to die. A lump filled her throat and tears burned her eyes. She banished them with resolve. If I’m not careful now, we’ll both die.
As Astryd approached, the illumination assumed the shape of walls, paper thin and translucent, unlike the unyielding steel of natural, mental barriers. The radiance shone from beyond them. Tentatively, Astryd extended a finger and poked Larson’s defenses. The substance yielded to her touch, fine as silk, then crumbled to dust. Light blazed through, its source a hovering speck.
Astryd sprang back in surprise. This went beyond the realm of her experience. The shimmering fragment seemed harmless, easily dismissed if not for the overwhelming gloom of Larson’s mind. “Silme?” Astryd tried.
“Allerum?” The reply touched Astryd’s ears, more like a presence than a sound. Despite the strangeness of its sending, the voice belonged, unmistakably, to Silme.
Astryd exhaled in relief, and only then realized she had been holding her breath. “Astryd,” she corrected. “Silme, I don’t understand. Are you here or not?”
“It’s a probe,” Silme explained. “A thought extension of me.”
Astryd shook her head to indicate ignorance.
Apparently, Silme misinterpreted Astryd’s silence. “Astryd, are you still there?” The odd form of communication relayed Silme’s concern as well as her words.
“You can’t see me?”
“No. Through a probe I can only read Allerum’s current concentration and send or receive mental messages. Nothing more.”
Many questions came to Astryd’s mind, but she knew most could wait. For now, she needed to know how to bring Silme back to the whorehouse. “You can’t leave with me?”
“No.” Sorrow touched Silme’s reply. “Unlike you, my actual presence is elsewhere. I would need to use a transport escape.”
Astryd considered. Realizing Silme could not read her silences, she explained, “I’m thinking.” Unable to suppress curiosity, she questioned. “While you were here, why didn’t you communicate with Allerum? It would have saved us all grief wondering where to look for you.”
“I tried. He walled me in. Usually, he can’t detect probes, but I was desperate. I brought all my life energy with me and the baby’s. I think I hit Allerum too fast and hard.”
“Walled you in?” Astryd stared at the scattered powder remaining from Larson’s conjured barriers. “That thing you call a wall fell apart when I touched it.”
“A probe has no physical form,” Silme reminded.
Larson’s mind dimmed as he slipped farther from awareness. If Allerum dies, I’ll lose contact with Silme. A more desperate thought gripped her. I’m in his mind. If he dies, I go with him. And Silme, too. Aware Silme could not know about Larson’s injuries, Astryd tried to keep alarm from her voice. “Silme, how do we get to you? Where do we find you?”
Apparently, Astryd’s distress trickled through, because Silme’s reply betrayed suspicion. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” Astryd did not want to burden Silme with additional concerns. If nothing else, urgency would increase the cost in life energy of any spell she might need to cast. “You’re in trouble, and I want to help. How do we get to you?”
“You can’t. Bolverkr created an isolated location in Harriman’s memories and transported me to it. I’m displaced in space and time. You can’t transport somewhere you’ve never seen. Even if you could, you would have no way to get me out.” The dejection that slipped through Silme’s contact unnerved Astryd. She had never known Silme to surrender to a dilemma. “I’ll just have to cast a transport of my own.”
Raw fear edged Astryd’s voice. “That would kill the baby!”
“What choice do I have?” Silme’s grief and desperation wafted clearly to Astryd. “I’ve given this baby every chance I can, but it apparently wasn’t meant to be born. Allerum and I will just have to make another. It might be fun,” Silme quipped, but the probe betrayed her attempt at humor as false bravado.
Allerum. Terror crushed in on Astryd, and she had to fight for every breath. By the time Silme returns, that unborn baby may be the only thing left of the man she loves. I can’t let her destroy it. A million possible replies came to Astryd at once, but she forced herself to remain unspeaking until she had full control over her emotions. “Silme,” she said with admirable composure, “we’ll find another way.”
“What?” Silme said with surprise, rather than as a challenge.
Larson’s mind went black as he faded into unconsciousness. Astryd stiffened, and desperation jarred loose a memory of her own. The conversation had occurred only a day earlier, but it seemed like months ago. “Silme, I have an idea! Do you remember when we tried to figure out why a Dragonrank mage would want to kill Taziar, and we talked about spell mergers?”
“Vaguely.” Silme sounded guarded. “What are you thinking?”
Astryd was excited now. “Could you tap my life energy through your probe?”
A pause followed. Though short, it seemed interminable to Astryd. “Possibly,” Silme said. “I’ve never tried before. You’d have to be at full strength for me to risk it.”
Astryd cringed. The transports and Allerum’s healing had tapped her so low she did not hold enough power to transport herself. But Silme must use less life force than I do for a transport. I have enough for her, I think.
Silme continued. “There’s no way for me to feel how much life energy you have nor for you to guess how much I might tap. Once I start the spell, it’ll claim as much life force as it needs. If I tap you to nothing, you’ll die as surely as if you miscalculated yourself.”
Astryd realized that, soon enough, all three of them might die. She had moments to free Silme and less time to make her decision. Urgency made her curt. “I know that.”
“Your life is more important to me than any unborn baby. Even my own.”
Astryd hesitated. She could not afford to tell Silme about Larson; nervous energy would increase the amount of life force needed for any spell, and Astryd had little enough to spare. The decision is mine alone. “I’m at full strength.” The lie came with surprising ease. “Tap as much as you need, and come to Harriman’s bedroom.”
“Astryd ... ?” Silme started.
“Just do it!” Astryd snapped, aware they could not waste time for platitudes or good-byes. “Please,” she softened the command as if in afterthought.
To Astryd’s relief, Silme fell silent.
A moment later, Astryd’s strength drained from her, and her awareness plunged into nothingness.
Bolverkr awakened pinned beneath the shat
tered remnants of a fortress turret. Bruises hammered and throbbed through his body. He tensed to shift, but the blocks and chips of stone held him in place. Agony flashed along his spine, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He sank back into place, his ragged, gray aura flickering over the granite, like a living thing.
Bolverkr had long ago drained his own life force battling the very Chaos that kept feeding him the energy to continue a fight he could never hope to win. The cycle had seemed like endless nightmare to Bolverkr. Unwilling to surrender, he had had no choice but to draw on Chaos to battle Chaos until his citadel toppled into ruin, taking his consciousness and his identity with it. Then, the Chaos-force had done its job, battering the last of Bolverkr’s sense of self into oblivion, destroying even the deepest bindings of morality, leaving only a great and ancient intellect to direct its evil.
Now, Bolverkr channeled energy to himself, directing it into a spell that sent boulders sliding down his person and tumbling down the hilltop. Gingerly, aching, he rose to a sitting position, tapping a shred of Chaos to counter the pain of every injury. Chunks of stone, wood, and fabric littered the hilltop. A few jagged columns of wall clung stubbornly to existence, devoid of their protecting magics, the last remains of Bolverkr’s mighty fortress.
Not again! No sorrow accompanied Bolverkr’s thought, only a savage, crimson fury that sapped life force like a vortex. He sprang to his feet, clutching the remains of the Chaos-force to him, feeling the weakness of it and knowing its vast potential would return only with time and rest. A cry strangled in his throat, and he quenched rage with vengeful promises against the man, elf, and woman who had ruined him. To attack in anger is simply stupid. I’m too weak to deal with them now. I need to rebuild. Then I’ll lure them to me, force them to fight on my home ground.
Bolverkr took a step forward. A triangular fragment of stone turned beneath his foot, and he staggered into a short stretch of wall that rose to the level of his chest. He grabbed it for support. I want them dead. And I want them to suffer NOW. Frustration speared through him, and he embraced the structure as tightly as a father would a crying child. Patience has won more wars than skill Another thought wound a crooked smile across his lips. There is still one thing I can do without endangering myself.
Gathering a mental probe, Bolverkr thrust for Harriman’s mind.
A brilliant starburst of light snapped open the darkness of Harriman’s bedroom. Shocked, Asril the Procurer leaped to his feet, the sword at Harriman’s throat fumbling from his grip. Astryd collapsed to the floor. Before Taziar Medakan could identify Silme in the dispersing radiance of her magics, a movement caught his eye. Back in Bolverkr’s control, Harriman dove for an object on the floor. Dazzled by the pulse of light, it took Taziar several seconds to recognize Harriman’s target.
Gaelinar’s sword! Taziar made a wild charge for Harriman. The nobleman dodged, left hand supporting the sheath, right clamped to the hilt. Taziar swept past Harriman. Swearing, the Climber whirled and dove. His outstretched hands slammed into the diplomat’s side as Harriman pulled to free the blade. Drawn crookedly, the katana sheared through the wooden scabbard, taking Harriman’s fingers with it.
With a scream of pain and outrage, Harriman caught at his mangled hand. Blood-splashed and nearly as shocked as Harriman, Taziar scarcely sprang out of the way before Asril’s sword stabbed through the nobleman’s chest. Harriman fell dead without a whimper. The katana bounced to the floor and spun toward the bed, stopping a hand’s breadth from Larson’s limp fingers.
It’s almost as if the sword knew Gaelinar wanted Allerum to wield it. Taziar knew Larson was Harriman’s likely target and momentum would logically draw the sword in that direction, but the coincidence still seemed eerie. Just a few months ago, I would have denied the existence of gods and magic, too. Taziar shifted the thought, aware he was dwelling on nonsense to avoid the reality of Astryd’s collapse. Unable to deny it any longer, Taziar approached Silme where she knelt at Astryd’s side.
“She lied to me.” Silme’s tone went beyond anger toward hysteria.
Clutched by sudden terror, Taziar dared not check life signs for himself. “Silme, is Astryd ... ?”
“Why would she do something this stupid?” Silme raged, ignoring Taziar’s unfinished question. “How could she defy her own teacher? Have I taught her nothing?”
“Silme!” Frantic with concern, Taziar gripped Silme’s shoulder in both hands. “No lectures. Just tell me if she’s ...” Words failed him. “If she’s ...”
Astryd rolled to her side with a groan of reluctance, as if awakened from deep sleep after a long and arduous day.
“If she’s what?” Silme prodded impatiently.
Joy displaced Taziar’s distress in a wild rush. Releasing his hold on Silme, he hunched beside her and gave Astryd’s ankle an affectionate squeeze. “Will she be all right?”
“This time,” Silme said, and Taziar recognized the same merciless attention to technique that Gaelinar had always displayed. “Next reckless act of stupidity the Fates might not prove so kind. I’m going to have to take her back to glass-rank lessons.”
Taziar smoothed Astryd’s rumpled skirt, amused by Silme’s anger. “I don’t know what Astryd did, and we haven’t the time to discuss it yet. But I have no doubt you would have done the same for her.” He borrowed Larson’s odd mixture of English and Norwegian. “Like one philosopher said, ‘Buddies do for each other.’ ”
Silme’s sharp gasp of horror warned Taziar his comment had been callous. He looked up as Silme scrambled to Larson’s side, apparently just noticing his limp form half-sprawled across the side of Harriman’s bed.
Taziar waited while Silme searched furiously for a pulse. Even from a distance, he could see Larson breathing with the strange, seesaw chest motions his broken ribs allowed. “Silme, did you incapacitate this Bolverkr in some way?”
Silme tucked her hands beneath Larson’s armpits and inclined her head toward his legs. “Not exactly. Why?”
Taziar trotted over to help. “Do you think he’ll follow you here?” He grasped Larson’s ankles.
Together, Taziar and Silme hoisted Larson into Harriman’s bed. The elf lolled, unresponsive even to the pain of movement. Silme yanked at the coverlet. Though tears brimmed in her eyes, she kept enough presence to answer Taziar’s query completely and without faltering. “Not likely. Right now, he has his own problems to deal with.” She jerked the coverlet free of Larson’s weight, then spread it neatly over him. “Besides, Bolverkr made a mistake. He opened me a channel to his own power. I tapped it once, and I can do so again.” Her gaze never left Larson, and she stroked his arm through the blanket as gently as she would a newborn kitten. “Bolverkr will have to spend some time second-guessing me and plotting strategy. A person as old as he is learns patience. He won’t attack a group as dangerous as us in a hurry.”
Behind Silme, Asril made a gesture to indicate he was leaving. Reminded of other responsibilities, Taziar stayed him with a raised hand. “Silme, do whatever you can for Allerum. He’ll need more comforting than I can supply.” He smiled, trying to downplay the severity of Larson’s condition. “Maybe you can slip into his brain and remind the jerk we need him.” Taziar headed toward the door, and Asril met him halfway. “Asril and I will let the others downstairs know what’s happened here.”
Taziar and Asril trotted down the corridor. At the top of the staircase, an unruly clamor of conversation wafted to them. Men clogged the base of the stairwell and the area just inside the front door. The prostitutes clustered around Shylar on the benches and chairs of the holding area. Taziar saw no sign of Harriman’s strong-arm men, but splashes of blood on walls and some of the men’s clothing made it clear the matter had been dispatched. The other rescued prisoners were nowhere in sight; apparently they had gone to some sanctuary to rest and recover.
The discussions died to a buzz as Taziar and Asril descended. The crowd pressed forward. Taziar paused on the last step and announced, “Harriman
and his berserks are dead.”
Shouts of joy emanated from the women. The men took the news in silence. Suddenly, a hand seized Taziar’s arm and ripped him from the step. Taziar stumbled into the masses. Someone gave him a violent shove, and another set of fingers crushed his opposite forearm. He found himself staring into a snarl of chest hair through the lacing of a linen shirt and followed the shoulders and neck up to see Gerwalt, an aging street tough. Hemmed in by a towering forest of men, Taziar’s mind raced as he tried to devise an escape, aware he might die at the hands of the very men he had come to help. Astryd warned me they all still believe I’m the traitor, but I walked right into them. He cringed, recalling how he had even confessed to the crime while mobilizing leaders in the baron’s dungeon. What in Karana’s hell was I thinking?
“Good. Don’t let the little worm get away.” Gerwalt ordered. The hold on Taziar’s arms tightened, pinning them behind him.
“Hanging’s too good for him,” someone shouted.
“You can’t possibly really believe I ...” Taziar started, but he stopped, realizing his words were lost beneath the hubbub.
Shylar leaped to a stool. Her voice cut above the noise. “What are you doing? Let Shadow go! He’s—”
Gerwalt interrupted, even more commanding. “Listen, you mother of harlots!”
Angered gasps erupted from the women. Some of the men shifted nervously, and the grip on Taziar eased slightly.
Gerwalt continued inciting. “You’ve had a soft spot in your heart for this little weasel the whole time. He might have confused you and deceived you, but I’m smart enough to see through his lies. I’m not going to let you let us make the same mistake again.” His gesture encompassed everyone in the whorehouse.
Taziar had never seen Shylar so furious. Her fists clutched whitely at the fabric of her dress, and her words confirmed that she had abandoned all restraint. “You stupid, worthless, arrogant bastard!”
Asril sprang from the stairs, brushing aside men like furniture. At Gerwalt’s side, he stopped, adopting an indisputable fighting pose, his weight spread evenly, his hand prominent on his sword hilt. He spoke in a low growl, but in the tense hush that fell over the room his threat emerged loud enough. “She may have a soft spot in her heart, but you have one in your brain. I don’t know who you think you are. I don’t know what authority you mistakenly believe you have, and I don’t know how much of Harriman’s violent idiocy has worn off on you all. First, no one speaks to Shylar that way. And anyone stupid enough to think Taziar is the informant after all that’s happened deserves to be hanged himself. Taz freed us from the dungeon after you left us for dead. And do you know why?”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 31