Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (40 page)

Now, the anger Larson had needed for action became a curse. He slammed the gun down on the remains of Bolverkr’s head. Bone gashed his palm, and impact resonated through his fingers. Torn from his hands by force, the gun bounced into the darkness.

Chaos.
Larson staggered to his feet, nudging through anger for a semblance of sanity and self.
Silme has it all. It’ll warp her like Bolverkr. There’s no choice any longer. I have to kill her.
Rationality seeped through, bringing an important memory.
The .45. There’s still one bullet left.

Dropping back to his hands and knees, Larson fished through the darkness, scarcely noticing that the blackness had died back to an opaque haze and he could breathe more freely. A glint of metal met his gaze, and he crept toward it. His hand closed over the .45.

Larson could again discern shapes through the haze of Chaos. All four bodies lay still, Timmy at one end of the room, Taziar at the other, Silme and Bolverkr between them. Larson crept to Silme’s side. The Chaos smoke grew progressively lighter, and it seemed to take Larson’s fury with it. The emotion unraveled, leaving nothing in its place.

Now beside Silme, Larson crouched at her head. Tentatively, he extended a finger, tracing a winding highlight through the gold of her hair. Even sweat-slicked and clammy, she seemed the epitome of beauty, her warmth so real and alive. “I love you, Silme,” he said, the words deafening in the silence. “I love you so much. And I’m sorry.” He pressed the gun against her temple, wishing he had just one more bullet. One more bullet. For himself.

A perception touched Larson’s consciousness, an alien idea that took the form of concept rather than words.
*Don’t do it, Allerum. It’s not necessary.*
The presence did not actually call him by a name. Rather, it seemed to appeal to the portion of his being that had been an elf in Midgard.

Startled, Larson glanced around. The darkness had faded to a maddeningly shifting gray. All the bodies lay where he had left them, but a new figure stood near the door. He towered over Larson, easily eight feet tall. White hair hung around comely features, and the gray eyes held the color and timelessness of mountains. Divinity fairly radiated from the being, a depth of sensation Larson had not known, even in the presence of Norway’s gods.

Larson blinked.
I’ve finally gone irreversibly over the edge.
He drew some comfort from the thought.
At least the pain will be gone. Thank God for small favors.

*You’re welcome,*
the other sent, again in concepts. Though voiceless, Larson discovered something familiar in the tone.

“Vidarr?” Larson shook his head, knowing he must be mistaken. If this was Vidarr, he had aged a thousand years.
Aged a thousand years? Christ, could this be a future Vidarr?

Vidarr confirmed the identification.

“But you’re ...” Larson started. “How could ...” The theological implications because too staggering, and philosophy seemed far too secondary to discuss when Silme’s life hung in the balance. “What did you mean when you implied Silme’s death wasn’t necessary?”

Vidarr responded in the same complex, nonverbal manner.
*Chaos doesn’t bind or assimilate in your world. It only goads.*
He waved a hand through the air, as if gathering something, and the room brightened again.
*When Silme cast the spell that paralyzed Taziar, she lost enough of her bound Chaos to release her from its influence. She went after Bolverkr’s power not because she wanted it, but to save you from his spells.*

“Oh, no.” Larson dropped the gun and hugged Silme to him, stroking the damp locks. “Is she going to be okay?”

*She was knocked unconscious by the sheer volume of Chaos she pulled to herself. She’s starting to come around now.*

Larson drew Silme closer. “What about Timmy? Is he... ?” He let the question hang.

*He’s alive.*
The concept of a tenuous link to life came clearly with the words.
*For now. So is Taziar. But say good-bye. Neither will survive more than a few minutes longer. *

Silme
trembled in Larson’s arms, her lids flickering.

“Can’t you do something for them? You must be able to do something?”

*
I could, *
Vidarr admitted.
*But I won’t. If I’ve learned nothing else over the last ten centuries, it’s not to interfere. You mortals make your own histories and cause your own ends.*

“Cut it out!” Frustration drove Larson to shout. “Don’t give me that Silent God and noninterference bullshit! I know you too well.”

*You don’t know me at all. Not anymore.*

“Damn it!” Larson could almost feel the seconds ticking away, stealing his brother’s final breath. “I don’t have time for this. You want me to beg. Fine, I’ll beg. Please, Vidarr, save my brother and my friend. We’ll discuss the implications later. You can always change your mind and kill them again. I’ll do anything! Anything, Vidarr.”

*I’m sorry. *
There was no trace of compromise.

You bastard!
Hot tears entered Larson’s eyes, and it was all he could do to keep from rushing Vidarr. “You have to do something!”

*On the contrary. I don’t have to do anything at all. Except return this Chaos.*
Vidarr arched his arm once more.
*And take Bolverkr’s body and Silme back where they belong.*

“Take Silme? You’re going to take Silme, too?” Terror battered at Larson’s remaining reason. “You’re going to leave me with nothing?” Another thought surfaced, without Vidarr’s input. “Or will I simply die in Vietnam, never rescued by Freyr?”

*All that has gone before has gone before. Your history from this moment is open. You have to chart your own waters.*

This time, the concepts seemed more vague. “Chart my own waters? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re starting to sound like Gaelinar.” Larson imitated his swordmaster; hysteria allowed him to joke about the Kensei for the first time since his death. “Ah so, hero. It’s not the weapon that cuts, it’s the intention of the wielder.” He returned to his normal voice. “I’m having enough trouble keeping my sanity. Damn it, use a language I can understand!”

Vidarr remained patient.
*Just as alternate events have occurred since you returned to the graveyard, so will they continue. No mortal should know when he’s going to die. From now on, whatever happens happens, unrelated to the future you remember.*

Silme sat up, clutching at Larson’s hand.

Larson glanced at her, and her smile sparked hope. “You’re saying I can make my own choices.”

*Correct.*

“Then I choose to return to Midgard with Silme.”

*You can’t.*

“Why not?”

*I destroyed your elf body.*

“What!” Larson’s voice roared through the room. He leapt to his feet. “You promised to protect it! You lied! You fucking traitor! How could you swear to protect it then destroy it? I thought gods didn’t lie.”

*I didn’t lie. I promised only to take care of the body as I saw fit.*
Vidarr ignored the advancing human.
*I saw fit to destroy it.*

“You arrogant son-of-a....”

God
, Vidarr finished, this time in straight words.
I’m a god. And the son of a god. Don’t ever forget that.
He switched back to instant conceptualizations.
*Now let me explain. *

Silme drifted toward Taziar’s still form, as if in a trance.

Vidarr continued,
*When Bolverkr left our world, it was instantly hurled too far in the direction of Law. Only one of two things could happen: either the world could shatter into nothingness, or we had to kill several powerful, Lawful creatures quickly. Our world had only one group of beings powerful enough to balance Bolverkr’s disappearance.*

“Gods,” Larson said, the word as much an expletive as an answer.

*Ragnarok. The fated war that destroyed the gods. All but one god. Me. One God. Your God, Allerum.*

“No.” Larson rallied for a last, desperate protest. “No. My God is merciful. You’re mean, spiteful, and deceitful. Like Bolverkr, you would take everything I love from me. But, in one way, you’re worse. Bolverkr had the decency to claim my life as well, but you’re stupid enough to believe I would draw solace from living on, haunted by my brother’s slaying, and the loss of my best friend, my baby, and my wife.”

*Check the Bible, Allerum. Your God is no stranger to meanness or spite.*

Larson fell into a deep, mournful silence. There was nothing left to live for, and nothing left to say.

Silme cleared her throat. “My Lord, may I speak?”

*Of course.*

Silme used the edge of her skirt to wipe the blood from Taziar’s cheek. The expression on her face mixed grief and guilt. “There’s no Balance in this world of Allerum’s. Is that correct?”

*Correct.*

“Well, since this is supposedly a future time from mine, I have to assume my absence hasn’t caused Midgard to collapse.”

*Actually, even after Ragnarok, the world remains dangerously tipped toward Law. It is only because I return this mass of Chaos to the past that the world still exists.*

Silme rolled the fire extinguisher from Taziar, her voice level. “Since you’ve gathered the dispersed Chaos, can I assume the Chaos you take back doesn’t necessarily need to be bound to any individual?”

*Correct. You’re asking if I can take the Chaos you wield and leave you behind.*
Silme nodded.

Larson held his breath. His heart pounded, but he dared not raise too much hope for fear it would come crashing down around him again.

*That would require you to cast out every bit of Chaos you hold. You would no longer be a sorceress, Silme. You would be trapped in a world whose language you don’t speak and whose technology you don’t understand. Is that what you want?*

“No,” Silme admitted.

Larson lowered his head.

“I want Allerum. I love him. He’s made sacrifices for me, and now it’s time for me to make a few for him. I have no reason to return to Midgard. My family’s dead. My loved ones are here. And I’m not stupid. If I return to Midgard with as much Chaos as I carry now, I’ll become as corrupted and terrible as my brother ever was. But if you take my Chaos unbound, you can distribute it more evenly. No individual needs to be wholly evil.”

A silence followed Silme’s speech. To Larson, it seemed to last an eternity.

At last, Vidarr replied.
*Very well. You can stay, on the condition that you drain yourself of all Chaos before leaving this room. Once I gather that Chaos, you will never see or hear from me again. You must accept the consequences of your decision and your actions, and they are yours to suffer.*

“I do,” Silme said, certainly unaware of the irony in her choice of phrase. She glanced from Taziar to Timmy, a worried frown creasing her features. “And I think I know exactly what to do with all this magic.”

Larson recalled how Bolverkr had used his sorcery to heal his own fatal wound. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Al Larson smiled.

Al Larson perched on the edge of his hotel bed, staring at the clock’s hash marks of hands and numbers glowing through the darkness.
One in the afternoon.
Larson estimated he had been awake for thirty hours.