Dangerous Games (7 page)

The pudgy mage interjected gently, “Yes, this is Karsus, Arcanist Supreme, the greatest Inventive/Variator of all time.”

“Which means he waves his hands and conjures things,” replied Sunbright blandly. Karsus dropped back to the stone, sniffing it all over like a dog. “So what?”

“Um …” Candlemas was plainly embarrassed about something, and Sunbright wanted to throttle him now. He’d choke somebody soon if he didn’t get answers. “As I said, this is the city of Karsus and, uh, Karsus has been experimenting with a new form of magic called ‘heavy magic.’ He’s had some success, but needed a final ingredient to, ah, cement the process. And we’ve found it with this fallen star, because it’s so monstrously heavy. So when we, uh, uncovered it, Karsus brought it here to him. He brought us, too, so we could explain where it came from.” Candlemas sounded outwardly calm, but something in him trembled. With fear? Anticipation?

“So?” Sunbright’s great scarred, knotty hands clenched and unclenched. He cast about the dizzying workshop again, with its busy-bee apprentices stuck to floors all around. The place made his brain churn. He wanted to go outside. But something was distinctly wrong. “He’s got it! Collect your reward, and we’ll go home!”

“That’s just it,” hemmed Candlemas, until Sunbright took a dangerous step forward. “Wait. Karsus fetched the shooting star hither with a spell. Through space but, uh, time, as well.”

“Time? What in the name of—?”

Candlemas rubbed his beard. “Three hundred and fifty-eight years.”

“What?” Sunbright looked down. Karsus was rolling the star like a child’s ball. Apprentices came running like rabbits at his bawl. “Three hundred—”

“Fifty-eight years. It’s the year thirty-five twenty here.”

Sunbright shook his head. It had been the First Year of Owldark when he left his tribe, for they counted by the reign of clan chiefs. Or the Year of the Bright Snow, as some elders had named it.

“We’ve been drawn into the future, Sunbright, many generations past what we know.” Candlemas’s voice was urgent. “Everyone we knew in Castle Delia is dead dust. Back then, we would have disappeared, never been seen again. The castle itself was sold, Karsus assures me. Lady Polaris doesn’t own it anymore, if she’s even alive. He’s not sure she is. There’s nothing back there for us.”

“Nothing for you.” Sunbright’s face was blank as he tried to sift the information. His people told legends of heroes who traveled from Now to the Elder Days, and met heroes of ages past. Was he doing that now? Better to hear of adventures than live them….

“No. I had no friends in the castle, really, just servants. All I did was slave for Lady Polaris, and get precious little thanks for it.” The pudgy mage sounded excited, almost like Karsus. “But this is better. Karsus has invited me to help him work, experiment! And the man knows more magic than anyone, ever!”

Sunbright looked where Karsus kissed the lumpy star. “The man has bugs in his brain! He can’t even comb his hair.”

“He doesn’t need to. He’s got five hundred mages working under him, in this part of the city alone! He’s the most powerful arcanist the empire has ever seen.”

“An empire run by a madman? How long can that last? Are we in another damned floating city? What if Bug-brain here sneezes at the wrong time and loses his concentration—what little he has? You’d need to sprout wings damned quick!”

“You don’t understand genius.” Candlemas rubbed his bald head. “Anyway, I’m staying here to work under him. Six months’ study and I’ll know more than Lady Polaris ever hoped to!”

“What about your wheat rust? Weren’t you responsible for curing that?” Sunbright had so many objections and questions they just popped out of his mouth. It would take him weeks to sort out this madness.

“See? That’s solved!” The mage waved a hand at the ceiling/floor. “That problem’s three hundred years back in time! Someone else must have fixed it, or the empire wouldn’t be here. And look how rich it’s become! Look at the opulence of these work tables, look at the clothes on even the lowest ranked apprentice.”

“What about my tribe? I’ve got to get back—” Then he realized. All the people he’d known would now be dead: his mother, Owldark his enemy, Thornwing, Blinddrum, so many others. He felt his throat constrict. Could a man be more cut off from what he knew and yet still be of this world? Feebly, he croaked, “What about Greenwillow?”

Candlemas huffed. “She’s dead. We knew that already.”

Within seconds Candlemas was hoisted by his smock, feet dangling as Sunbright rammed him repeatedly against a wall of curlicued plaster. “This is how you honor bargains? Make it someone else’s problem?, People starved or didn’t, but it’s none of your concern? Greenwillow’s trapped in some hell and you slough it off? I’ll tear your heart out, if you have one!”

“Wait, wait!” Candlemas fought to regain his feet, to loosen the stranglehold, to breathe. “I can’t get you back! Neither of us can go—” His wind cut off.

“Is he distressing you?” came a voice from Sunbright’s left. “Here. Let me….”

Sunbright found himself standing in a street. Night was falling. Gasglobes were just igniting, blotting out the thousand stars.

“Mages! Hand-wavers! Sorcerers! Wizards! Bastards, all of them! I’d like to pitch them off their own floating cities, and hear their bones crunch when they strike the villages and fields they so dearly love to dump on!”

Sunbright groused as he tramped the darksome city. Needing to walk off his anger, he’d stomped for miles in his moosehide boots. Harvester patted his back in a companionable way, but nothing assuaged his black mood. Once again he had no idea where he was, no idea where Candlemas was, had no idea even if he were still in the floating city of Karsus or even in the same century, for that matter. But the K sigil for Karsus was everywhere, so he supposed he hadn’t been shifted far: just out of harm’s reach.

Walking should have spent his energy, but instead it stoked his anger like a bellows. He cursed freely and often, and stamped so hard his iron-ringed boots set off a metallic ching ching ching. Unusual for a barbarian on foreign soil, he didn’t notice much around him, for his mind churned with outrage.

Thus he stumbled on a crime.

Whirling around a corner, he almost bounced off the back of a man vigorously kicking something. Three men, in fact, holding mugs of ale to one side so as to not spill. They grunted with the effort of kicking a tiny something—a child?—with their heavy boots or wooden clogs. They’d have done more damage if they weren’t so drunk, but as it was, Sunbright’s bellow froze them in mid-kick.

“Halt, you blackhearted swine! Else I split your heads and suck your brains!”

They turned to see Harvester, the hooked tip glistening like a crescent moon. The “child” they’d been kicking sprang up and sped off. Seeing the tiny form run man-fashion, Sunbright wasn’t sure it was a child.

“Hoy, help us!” A shrill whistle, and the door to a bar split open to spill light, pub noise, and more assailants.

“He’s let our gnome escape!” called one of the kickers.

“Let’s get ‘im then!” came a roar.

Sunbright looked at a dozen angry attackers. He just had time to wonder what a gnome was before they swamped him.

Three assailants or nine didn’t matter to Sunbright, as long as he had Harvester in his hand. He’d killed more than that in one bad day in the underworld.

Briefly, he wondered if he should kill this lot. Cities were fussy about brawling and fighting with blades, and apt to throw everyone in a jail cell. And since the gnome (whatever that was) had fled, perhaps Sunbright should just flit around the corner and disappear too.

Then someone grabbed his sword arm from behind, another man stabbed a knife at his face, and a woman tried to kick his shins or groin. Smart or not, the fight was on.

His brawny sword arm was trapped above his shoulder so he tensed it to keep it from being twisted, then dealt with the kicker by lashing out with his own foot, blocking her kick and knocking the knife-wielder’s arm away.

The narrow street was dark, the only light was the glow from a rose-colored lamp above the tavern door. Painted by the blood-red light, it was hard to distinguish his opponents, but the man looked rawhide tough, scarred, and knotty-jawed; while the woman looked young—still wrapped in baby fat. All three were drunk, which helped. Sunbright would have to test how strong they were.

Stamping his broad, heavy boot on the woman’s toes, he pushed straight back to slam his rearmost opponent against the wall. The man, young and perfumed, grunted when he hit the wall, then again when Sunbright added to his grief by smashing his left elbow deep into the dandy’s soft belly. When the lad doubled, Sunbright crashed an elbow upward into his teeth. Though the barbarian cut his own bicep, he managed to get his other hand free.

The closest attacker now was the woman, who was wailing about her injured foot. Sunbright distracted her by kicking her jaw out of shape. She whirled and slammed the cobblestones, moaning.

The tough man before him, coarse and smelling of onions, had stepped back when he lost his knife. Evidently he hadn’t much stomach for fighting, or else waited for the reinforcements that were spilling from the tavern. They milled drunkenly, yelling, yet Sunbright saw a knife blade, a broken bottle, two or three clubs, even a trio of slim swords. Since he was free, the barbarian thought, now was a good time to disappear around a corner. Someone might get lucky with a quick jab, but Sunbright Steelshanks could run down a deer. He could certainly outrun this lot. He cast behind and left to see if the coast was clear.

A whisper from the dark alerted him. A metallic ching pinged by his ear. He had no clue what that portended, or how to defend against it. Suddenly, a weighted chain hissed around his sword arm. Before the cold steel had even wrapped fully, the man in the street hauled. Twisted links bit the barbarian’s arm, and he was yanked forward.

He crashed on one hand and knees on the cobblestones.

“Kill ‘im!”

“Kick his lights out!”

“He hurt Magda!”

“I’ll pay for his hands! Cut ‘em off!”

“And ‘is eyes! Gouge ‘em out!”

Boots, clogs, and soft shoes alike thudded into Sunbright’s ribs, shoulders, and rump. Two clubs batted at his head, but the attackers were getting in each others’ way. Sunbright didn’t stay down long. Since they expected him to roll away, he went the opposite direction, charging them in a half-crouch, one hand guarding the back of his head.

Yet even in this desperate situation he was appraising his enemy and coming up blank. This mix of villains made no sense. There were perfumed fops with fine clothes and soft hands, men and women, and coarse working folk in near-rags. Sunbright knew enough about the classes to distinguish them by their voices and slang alone. Why were so-called gentlefolk associating with riffraff? Was everyone in this city as mad as the man it was named after?

Then he crashed among them, and left off questioning their motives.

One strong man still hauled on the weighted chain that ripped skin from Sunbright’s arm. The man leaned back on his heels and hauled to keep the barbarian down and tamed, like a rebellious horse. The “horse” fought back. Since the chain-wielder was the greatest danger, Sunbright charged him. The man fell back, still hauling, but the barbarian was faster. As soon as he got slack in the chain, Sunbright dragged back Harvester and stabbed the blade straight as an arrow. The man dodged quickly to save his throat, but not quickly enough. Harvester’s barbed tip seared his neck. He yowled once and dropped to one side, and Sunbright smelled blood like sheared copper and knew he’d delivered a killing blow.

Shaking off the coils of chain, the barbarian whirled on the rest—

And was smashed on his sword wrist by an iron-wrapped club.

The blow was perfect, completely stunning Sunbright. Harvester clanged on cobblestones. Others had fallen back. One young fop doubled over, vomiting stale beer at the smell of blood. But someone yelled to rush him and surged in. More than one would die in this street, the barbarian knew. It mustn’t be him, lamed hand or not.

Scanning the red-splintered darkness, he inventoried his opponents’ weapons. His right hand was numbed, perhaps broken, and pain flashed up and down his arm like a forest fire. He couldn’t make a fist, but he could slap with it. His left hand snatched up the dwarven warhammer, almost forgotten in its belt holster, in time to block a jab at his gut. He batted a club aside with a clack, stepped back, kicked, and forced his opponent back temporarily. He stooped to retrieve his sword left-handed, but someone hurled a bottle at his head and he fell over in a squat. The hurler laughed and jumped to kick, then yelped when she sliced her soft shoe on Harvester’s keen edge. Sunbright kicked to his feet.

A shadow crowded him, thrusting awkwardly with a long sword. He turned into the thrust, let the slim blade pass under his right arm, and clamped down on it. The wielder, an incompetent who shouldn’t even carry a sword, tugged to free the blade. Sunbright snapped the warhammer at his face, felt a satisfying chunk of iron on bone, and the swordsman staggered. Sunbright ducked behind him as the crowd half-rushed, half-hung back. The woman in the silken cape who’d cut her foot thrust angrily with her sword, and skewered her broken-nosed drinking buddy.

She yelped, “Sorry, Jules!” but Sunbright heard the sob of a sucking wound: a lung puncture. He propelled the stricken man against the swordswoman. They tangled with each other and fell.

He still had to retrieve his sword, but still had to watch his back, so he angled for the stone wall. Stooping his great height—he was half a head taller than all of them—confused them long enough for him to move. Along the way, he smashed the warhammer on a thug’s hand and club, downward so the man beat his own knee. Sunbright shouldered him into the crowd too. It helped that the fops panicked and milled, and the thugs cursed. As he thumped against the wall, someone whisked a knife at him, but he sidestepped and the blade snapped on stone. He punched awkwardly, left-handed, skinned his knuckles on a brow ridge, then punched higher and bowled the man over.