Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (5 page)

Taziar knew the latter would prove simple enough. Once the guards realized he had outwitted them, they would believe he had escaped the city. There was no reason to expect him to return, so the patrols would likely become lax. The last time the baron had sent soldiers beyond the city limits in pursuit of Taziar, he had lost a strong faction of his army, a captain, and a prime minister in a fiasco that nearly reignited the Barbarian Wars. Taziar doubted the baron would risk his men that way again.

Taziar darted across the open stretch of ground to the woodlands that enclosed most of northern Europe. Born and raised a city boy, Taziar had not cared much for forests with their lack of roads, sudden dead ends, and crisp leaves and sticks that revealed his location with every step. But during his several months’ stay among Moonbear’s barbarian tribe in Sweden, Taziar had learned to anticipate and circle deadfalls and areas of thickest brush. They had taught him to sweep through copses and branches and over the natural carpeting with almost as little noise as on cobbled roadways or tiled rooftops.

Hidden among the trees, Taziar turned southward. Silme had told him that Bolverkr’s fortress perched on a hill in the ruins of the town of Wilsberg. The Shadow Climber moved quickly, needing to return to Cullinsberg before daylight. Without the “thieves’ moon” to hide him, his black climbing outfit would look conspicuous amid the brighter colors worn by Cullinsberg’s townsfolk.

Once encased in forest, Taziar fell into a pattern of cautious movement. No matter how seriously injured Bolverkr was, he still wielded enough Chaos-energy to keep his defenses raised against enemies. Taziar recalled the teachings of a Dragonrank sorcerer who had mistaken him for a low level mage the day Taziar sneaked into the Dragonrank school, defying its “impenetrable” defenses: “The wards become visible if you don’t look directly at them.” Taziar had gotten his share of practice at finding wards that day, including the one he had accidentally triggered to an explosion that seared his arm and chest, sapping him of consciousness. Now, in the forests south of Cullinsberg, Taziar winced at the memory, focusing on Astryd’s explanation: “Magic, by its nature, functions best against creations and users of magic. The ward which harmed you might have killed a low rank Dragonmage. And most of our spells work only when used for or against sorcerers.”

I’m the best one to spy on Bolverkr’s fortifications. Any defenses Bolverkr created will prove far more dangerous to Silme and Astryd, and possibly to Allerum, too, since elves might be considered creations of magic.
Taziar considered this new thought, wondering why he was rationalizing a scouting mission that needed no justification.
Because I know my friends will be furious when they find out I left without telling them.
He continued through the woodlands.
And they’ll be right. I’d be mad if one of them went off alone, too.
Taziar shook the black strands from his eyes.
This is stupid. Of course I’d be mad at them. I’m the only one who knows Cullinsberg, and scouting is what I do.

Still, Taziar could not banish guilt. In his days as the Shadow Climber, his feats had put no one but himself in danger. Since he had climbed the Bifrost Bridge on a dare and accidentally loosed the Fenrir Wolf on a world unequipped to handle it, his love for impossible tasks had placed others in jeopardy as well.
Mostly Allerum, Astryd, and Silme, the people I care about.
He considered how Bolverkr had drawn him and his companions to Cullinsberg by threatening to destroy Shylar, the underground, the street orphans and beggars, the men and women Taziar had helped establish and learned to love.
Maybe it’s time to stop accepting every impossible task for the challenge and start considering consequences. I am, after all, a “team player” now.

Taziar’s first warning that something might be amiss came in the form of three dead rabbits and a sparrow. He stopped, head cocked, gaze perpendicular to the line created by the corpses. His off-center glance gave him a perfect view of magics twisted into shimmering, parallel bands that arched into the woods as far as he could see. The lowest braid hovered at ankle level. Nine higher ones rose in increments, the upper one at twice Taziar’s meager height. They were spaced widely enough that Taziar considered trying to slip between them. He traced the lines with his vision, suspecting each made a perfect ring. A walk around the perimeter confirmed his guess.

Whether or not I can slip through here, I know Silme and Allerum don’t have a chance.
Silme was tall for a woman and, though still slim this early in her pregnancy, carried a third again Taziar’s weight. Larson stood a half head taller than his wife, and Astryd, though a bit smaller than Taziar, had little experience wriggling through tight spaces. No matter how lightly, touching the wards meant triggering them, and Bolverkr wielded more than enough power to make his sorceries fatal.

Choosing a sturdy oak with branches that overhung Bolverkr’s defense, Taziar climbed. Seated in the V formed by trunk and branch, he examined the magics again. His aerial view allowed him to see something missed on first inspection, a second row of wards circling within the first. He nodded at the genius of Bolverkr’s arrangement. Had Taziar used any less caution, he might have slipped through or over the outer wards and skidded or fallen into the inner ones. Cued, Taziar scanned for a third ring of magics. Seeing none, he edged out onto the branch. Passing over and beyond the wards, he sprang to the ground, thoughts on his companions. He imagined they could all jump from the tree without injury, though he made a mental note to bring rope just in case.

Now on Bolverkr’s territory, Taziar discovered a random array of protective wards. He moved slowly, twisting his head in all directions before each step, zigzagging his way toward the center of the circle where he expected to find Bolverkr’s citadel. Though abundant, the spells gave Taziar little difficulty. Wiry and agile, he slipped between magics that Bolverkr needed to place to accommodate his own larger frame and bolder gait. Certainly, no one ignorant of the ways of viewing magic could take more than a few steps without triggering one of the wards. But, as soon as Larson was taught the trick of indirect sighting, Taziar believed all of his companions would have the necessary training and dexterity to maneuver past Bolverkr’s obstacle course.
So long as we don’t have to do it too fast.

When Taziar judged he had crossed half the radius of Bolverkr’s circle, he paused to climb a tree. The “thieves’ moon” drew a glittering line along Bolverkr’s catwalk. Leering gargoyles lined the outer wall of the keep, meticulously cleaned though the castle they protected lay in a state of disrepair. Jagged breaks gashed three corners, and crumbled piles of stone, once towers, lay at the base. The fourth tower pointed arrow-straight at the sky, though rubble on the ground below it revealed that it had once been destroyed as well. The design confused Taziar. It seemed odd that Bolverkr had taken the time to completely renovate one full tower while the others gaped open, admitting rain. Glancing at shattered stonework before the outer wall to the keep, Taziar realized Bolverkr had also chosen to repair the decorative masonry and statuettes before working on the major structures of the castle.

As Taziar stared, a figure emerged onto the wall. Moonlight revealed fine, white hair that had once been blond and a stale gray tunic and breeks covered by a darkly-colored cloak. Tall and slender to the point of frailness, the man paced the stones with a brash, solid tread that belied the apparent fragility of his frame.

Bolverkr?
Taziar watched, intrigued, certain this could be no one else.

Yet, the way the man on the wall moved seemed somehow alien. On the streets, Taziar had obtained much of his food money through con games, pickpocketing, and entertaining the masses. His survival had depended upon his ability to read wealth, motivation, and intention through word and action. Bolverkr’s movements, though fluid, fit no human pattern Taziar could define. It inspired the same deep discomfort that he felt in the presence of the most unstable lunatics, from the type who might stand in a state of statuelike quiet and stillness one moment then lash out in violent frenzy the next, to those who slaughtered in the name of imaginary voices, or the kind who muttered half-interpretable nonsense while violating every social convention.

Suddenly, Bolverkr froze. He whirled to face a gargoyle that rose to the height of his knee and shouted a garbled word, unrecognizable to Taziar.

The gargoyle jumped, torn from its granite foundation, then shattered in a fountain of chips. Stone fragments rained into the courtyard.

Bolverkr resumed pacing as if nothing had happened.

Taziar stiffened, wrung through with chills. The sorcerer’s casual power shocked him, and he could not help imagining himself in the gargoyle’s place.

“Who am I?” Pain tainted Bolverkr’s shout, but it still rang with power.

Taziar was so caught up in the display that Bolverkr’s voice startled him. He stiffened, slipping sideways on the limb. An abrupt grab spared him a fall, and he clutched the branch tightly enough to gouge bark into his palms. Balance regained, he watched in awe as Bolverkr stilled, head tipped to catch the echoes, as though he expected them to give him an answer.

The Dragonrank mage lowered his head. His hands twitched, as if he carried on a conversation with himself, but Taziar’s perch was too far away for him to see if the sorcerer’s lips were moving.

Taziar gauged the distance between himself and the sorcerer, wondering if he could kill Bolverkr with a well-placed arrow.
Assuming I had a bow. Or knew how to use it.
Taziar had become a mediocre swordsman only because teaching Taz swordplay had seemed so important to his father. Pleased enough to get his tiny son practicing any weapon at all, the elder Medakan had never pressed him to learn to shoot, and the thought of doing so on his own had never occurred to Taziar.
Bad enough killing a man who can defend himself. What need do I have to learn longdistance slaughter?
Taziar shivered at the thought. Grief-mad after her husband’s hanging, Taziar’s mother had forced her only son to assist in her suicide. The experience had so crippled Taziar’s conscience that he had found himself unable to take a life, even to save his own. Circumstances had forced him to overcome this limitation enough to kill enemies in defense of innocents or friends, but only at times of grave necessity.

Bolverkr raised his face heavenward. The wind whipped his locks to an ivory tangle. “Who ... am ... I?”

Each syllable shocked dread through Taziar. There was something eerily inhuman about the call, though the words emerged plainly enough in the language of Cullinsberg’s barony and colored by a clipped Wilsberg accent. The urge to leave as quickly as possible seized Taziar. Studying the ground for glints of magic, he descended with caution, creeping silently back toward the northern forest.

Bolverkr’s laughter shuddered between the trunks.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.