Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (3 page)

For some time, Vidarr remained seated without moving. Then, dreading the inevitable, he maneuvered a probe into Larson’s mind.

This time, Vidarr met a diffuse grayness that revealed the tangled tapestry of Larson’s thoughts as vague sculptures in shadow. He thrust farther, drawing himself directly into Larson’s mind. Pain assailed him, wholly Larson’s, and the god focused instead on the ring of companions whose words wafted clearly to Larson.

Taziar was speaking, “Everything’s impossible until someone accomplishes it. They said no one could escape the baron’s dungeon, but I’ve done it. Twice ...”

The words droned on, reaching a crescendo, but Vidarr lost his thoughts in a different conversation. He recalled a time when the Fenris Wolf had penetrated Larson’s mind, intending to torture the elf with manipulation of his memories. Then, Vidarr’s sudden appearance in Larson’s mind had startled the Wolf into leaving.

Later, facing Larson’s anger rather than gratitude, Vidarr remembered his own words and the frustration that had suffused him at Larson’s stubbornness. “... And you seem to have forgotten that Freyr rescued you from death to bring you here, at no small risk to his own life ... Freyr pulled you from a hellish war ...”

Parts of Larson’s reply returned clearly. “... to place me into another hellish war. Into Hel itself even! I’m supposed to feel grateful that Freyr ripped me from a world of technological miracles and dumped me into the body of a ninety-eight pound weakling?”

“Technological miracles or not. You were dead.”

“Dead or not, I was free. I’m no slave. If I am to serve gods, I shall do so willingly or not at all. Otherwise, you can kill me right now.”

The memory slipped from Vidarr’s thoughts, driven away by the growing light of Larson’s mind as the dying elf responded to Taziar’s rallying speech.

Vidarr cursed, groping for the flaring glow of life before it could fill Larson’s being. He seized its stalk, aware he would need to retreat as he cut or else die along with Larson. Beneath his grip, he could feel Larson fighting aside the hovering numbness and peace that death offered. Some subconscious portion of Larson’s mind must have sensed Vidarr’s presence because his thoughts brought another memory vividly to life:

Larson lay, again near death, on the grounds of Geirmagnus’ estate, trying to keep Vidarr’s telepathic words in focus.

“... I always knew any or all of you might die, but I had no other choice ... I care for Baldur very deeply. I did not enjoy the deception any more than you, but I saw no other way. I plead the cause of brotherly love and hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”

Then, Larson had fallen unconscious before he could delve an answer. Now, Vidarr could see that Larson had added an addendum to the memory, a selfless acceptance of the apology and an offer of friendship.

Vidarr stared, not daring to believe what he saw. His fingers slipped from the stalk. Larson’s will flared, sparking thoughts throughout his mind, and Vidarr withdrew.

If Allerum is to die, let him do so honestly and by his own doing. I won’t have a hand in his murder.

In the vast meadow of Asgard, a songbird twittered in a minor key.

Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled;
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.

—Alexander Pope,
An Essay on Man

A sliver of moon hovered over the Barony of Cullinsberg, revealing the rows of buildings along Panogya Street as familiar blocks of shadow. Taziar Medakan, the Shadow Climber, had chosen the moon’s phase from habit; years of work beneath crescents that shed only enough light to etch landmarks had given him cause to call this phase the “thieves’ moon” and to consider it a friend. The cobbled roadway felt familiar through the thin, flexible soles of his boots. More times than he cared to remember, he had stalked the thoroughfares and alleyways of Cullinsberg dressed, as now, in tough, black linens. A comma of hair as dark as his clothing spilled from beneath his hood and into his eyes, a familiar annoyance he could not seem to avoid no matter how carefully he cut the straight, fine locks.

As a child, Taziar had memorized every corner of Cullinsberg in order to survive. Later, unable to pass up any task labeled impossible, he had learned the intricacies that came with detailed study of the city’s most magnificent defenses, most of which he had thwarted simply for the challenge. But tonight Taziar had no interest in Cullinsberg’s secrets and challenges. Beyond the imposing stone walls of the baron’s city, Taziar knew a Dragonrank sorcerer named Bolverkr plotted torture and cruel deaths for Taziar and his closest friends. And the Shadow Climber was determined to assess this enemy with his own eyes, to ascertain just how imminently the coming battle loomed.

Taziar caught handholds in the stone and mortar wall of the slaughterhouse and shinnied to its rooftop with the ease that had earned him his alias. He crouched, though even upright he stood half a head shorter than an average woman. Sounds wafted to him, a dull mixture of high-pitched insect shrills, a fox call, distantly answered, the rasp of garbage blowing through an alleyway, and the creak of wood in perfect rhythm with the wind. Taziar sifted through the routine medley of city night. Beneath it all, he heard the steady thump of footsteps, strong and competent, unlike the intermittent shuffle and halt of street people hunting food or the quiet caution of orphan gangs or thieves.

Guards.
Taziar verified his guess by a cautious peek into Panogya Street. A half dozen soldiers in the barony’s red and black uniforms paced toward the town’s central thoroughfare. During the fifteen and a half years that Taziar’s father had served as their captain, the patrols had filled young Taziar with pride. But that respect had withered to loathing the day the baron hanged Taziar’s father based on evidence contrived by a crooked politician. Taziar’s own capture and torture at the hands of sadistic, corrupt guardsmen had destroyed any vestige of deference toward Cullinsberg’s defenders.

Taziar lowered himself flat to the roof tiles, intent on the patrol. Usually, the guardsmen prowled in groups of twos and threes. The baron would only have doubled his night watches for a purpose. And, since Taziar had masterminded and commanded Cullinsberg’s only prison break just three days earlier, freeing the seven key leaders of the underground, he had every reason to believe the baron wanted him.

Concerned for Al Larson, barely rescued from the brink of death; for Larson’s pregnant, sorceress wife, Silme; and for his own girlfriend, Astryd, who spent her days draining her life energy casting spells to enhance and hasten Larson’s healing, Taziar had found his attention singularly focused on the Chaos-driven Dragonrank sorcerer who had sworn vengeance against them. In the shadow of Bolverkr’s power, Cullinsberg’s guard force had paled to an insignificant threat unworthy of Taziar’s worry. Yet, now Taziar realized that if he was run through by a guardsman’s spear, sword, or crossbow bolt, he would be as dead as if Bolverkr’s magics had done the deed.

Taziar smiled, intrigued by the mundane challenge offered by Cullinsberg’s guardsmen. Days without the rush of natural stimulants his body produced in times of stress had made him as twitchy as an addict. Sleep had become impossible. Restlessness had driven him to sneak away from his friends, where they hid and recovered in Shylar’s whorehouse, in the care of the best comforters and providers the underground could offer. Taziar knew Larson, Silme, and Astryd would chide him for not acting like what Larson called a “team player.” The twentieth-century English phrase seemed ridiculously out of place in Taziar’s thoughts. But to ignore an enemy as powerful and competent as Bolverkr, trusting luck to hold him at bay until they became strong enough to strike back was insanity, not a strategy.

Days ago, Bolverkr had captured Silme. Attempting to jettison some of the Chaos that warped him, he had tricked her into opening a link to the source of his Chaos-power. Silme had managed to break that contact, freeing the Chaos he had shared with her and causing it to backlash to its master. Silme seemed to believe the shock force of that rebound would keep Bolverkr busy rebuilding his sense of self and his keep, but Taziar felt less certain of Silme’s reassurance and more confident of Bolverkr’s strength.
I have to see for myself just how badly the Chaos injured Bolverkr and his fortress. And I have to delay his next attack a little longer if I can.

Taziar watched the gloom swallow the patrol as their footsteps receded to clicks, then disappeared.
But first, I have to get past the sentries.
Taziar rose to a crouch, skittered across the slaughterhouse roof and into a zigzagging series of alleyways.
Which means I need to get a feel for the new patterns of the watch.
Skirting scattered scraps of wood, cloth, and food, feasting rats and rotting crates, Taziar crossed the thready branchways without a sound. His keen, blue eyes measured the depth of every silhouette and shadow, guiding him always to the ones that hid him best. His walks and sprints were steady, sinuous as a cat’s, without the jerky impetuousness that draws the attention of predators: hunters, soldiers, and thieves.

Padding southward, Taziar came to Mardain’s temple, a towering, seven-story structure of mortared stone. Aside from the baron’s keep and Aga’arin’s church, both closely guarded even in the most peaceful times, Mardain’s temple stood taller than any building in Cullinsberg. Acutely aware of the lack of handholds in its smoothly-chinked lower story, Taziar sprinted down the byway, fingers scraping the temple’s masonry. Nearly at the far corner, he hurled himself toward the wall. Momentum carried him to the second story where he ferreted out the familiar handholds and clambered to the rooftop.

The sky spread above Taziar, stars gleaming silver like scales in a fisherman’s net. Below him stretched the familiar patterns of the city of Cullinsberg. Safe in his domain high above the citizenry, Taziar felt like a king surveying his realm. To the south, Cullinsberg’s gates lay open, as always. Though too distant to discern, Taziar knew guards paced the walls. Usually, people could enter and exit the town without challenge, but Taziar guessed the guards now questioned anyone passing out through the gates, especially at night.

The looming shape of the gallows in the town square unnerved Taziar, so he chose to look another way. To the west, a dozen guards huddled in conference on the main thoroughfare. As he watched, they split into three equal groups, one marching down Panogya Street and each of the others tramping a parallel route in the alleyways on either side.

Taziar held his breath, aware that a few moments earlier that maneuver might have seen him surrounded.
Of course, I still could have escaped by climbing.
He considered this flaw in the guards’ tactics. Taziar’s capture months ago had lost him the cover of his alias.
They know who I am and that I climb buildings.
The last was gross understatement. Taziar had scaled heights and surfaces that mountaineers would have dismissed as impossible. Though he had never been given the opportunity, he believed he could climb a vertical pane of ice, and those who had seen him in action never challenged the claim.