Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (15 page)

Finally, Silme threw up her arms in defeat. “We’ll just have to see him ourselves. I hate to use the power, but we have to know what we’re up against.” She stood, wandering toward the packed clothes and supplies. “Get some sleep. In the morning, Astryd can attempt a location triangle.”

Taziar contested Silme’s plan. “Who has time for sleep?”

“You do,” Silme insisted. “We’re of no use to your friends too tired to think or act quickly.”

“Which is why I can’t fathom why you’d want Astryd to cast a spell we know will drain her life energy nearly to nothing.” Larson usually avoided decisions involving magic, but strategy would require coordination of all available forces. “And you want her to do it first thing in the morning. She’ll be useless the rest of the day.”

“Useless?” Astryd protested feebly.

“What choice do we have?” Ignoring Astryd, Silme sat amidst the packs. The fire colored her cheeks an angry red. “If Harriman’s a sorcerer, we’d better know it. We can let Astryd sleep after the casting.”

Something about Silme’s explanation jarred Larson. “You have twice Astryd’s experience. Can’t you pitch this location spell triangle thing tonight before you sleep?” It suddenly occurred to him that more than a month had passed since he had seen Silme cast any spell, even one as simple as a ward.
Of course, things have gone relatively calmly until now. We haven’t had much need of magic.
Uninvited to Silme’s and Astryd’s practices, Larson had no idea how much sorcery they expended.
But Astryd has taken over our nightly protections, too.

Silme dodged the question. “Good night.”

“Wait.” Larson refused to let Silme off that easily. “Is something wrong? Did you lose your magic?” Sudden concern drew Larson to Silme’s side, and he realized his question must seem foolish. Dragonrank sorcery required only that its caster remain alive.
And well.
Terror gripped him at the thought. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Silme replied. “No to all your questions.”

Astryd spoke softly. “Better tell them.”

Silme hugged her pack to her chest. “No to that, too.”

Thoughts swirled through Larson’s mind, each worse than the one before.
She’s ill. That’s it. With all the diseases they had back then ... back now. And no penicillin. Shit. But can’t she cure herself? Cancer. My god, that’s it. She’s got cancer.
Abruptly racked with nausea, Larson swept Silme into a violent embrace.
I lost her once and spent Gaelinar’s life retrieving her. All the forces on heaven and earth would prevent me from doing it again.

Silme shuddered at the force of Larson’s hold. Grim-faced, she fought free. “Allerum, calm down. I’ll tell you. It can’t possibly be as bad as what you must be thinking.” She pressed wrinkles from her cloak with her hands. “I’m going to have a baby.”

The announcement struck Larson dumb.
A baby? A baby!
“M-mine?” he stammered stupidly.

Astryd snickered.

The twentieth century, adolescent college freshman who had been Al Larson reacted first. Panic swept his thoughts clean. “Didn’t you ... couldn’t you have
prevented
...” Then the combat-trained man returned, and sense seeped back into his numbed brain.
What did I expect her to do? Use the pill?

Silme accepted Larson’s reaction with her usual graceful composure. “Certainly, I could have prevented it. But why would I do that?”

Christ, the last thing we need now is a baby.
Larson glanced across the room. The growing expression of terror on Taziar’s features soothed him. He watched the Climber train a probing gaze on Astryd, saw her let him sweat before responding. “I don’t think we’re ready.” She added wickedly, “Yet.”

A host of emotions were descending on Larson. He knew pride at the accomplishment and shocked self-doubt that a woman of Silme’s strength and beauty would choose to carry his child. He knew fear for the unborn baby, for his abilities as a father, unable to control his memories and trained only to fight and kill. The impulse to protect nearly overwhelmed him before he recalled Silme had more than enough capabilities of her own. Confusion touched him. “It’s wonderful, of course,” he said, not yet ready to contemplate the significance or sincerity of his words. “But what does it have to do with your magic?”

Silme took Larson’s palm, tracing calluses with a fingertip. “Spells cost life energy. The baby is an integral part of me; I can’t separate its tiny aura from my own. I wouldn’t have to drain much to kill it.”

Larson closed his grip over Silme’s hand. “So you can’t cast anything without ...” He stopped, letting his observation hang.

Silme reached for her staff. “I stored just enough energy for a transport escape.” She tapped the sapphire to indicate its location. “That’s one of the first spells Dragonrank mages learn. It doesn’t take me much life force anymore. Essentially, I have enough to cast a single, simple spell without risk.”

Larson hesitated. The urge to keep Silme away from the conflict was strong, but he knew the suggestion would infuriate her.
She’d think I didn’t trust her judgment or abilities, both of which are beyond question. But it’s my baby, too. I have to say something.
Larson phrased his words delicately. Consequently, they emerged tediously slow. “I ... love you, Silme. And I’ll love the child, too. Don’t ...” He tried to keep from sounding patronizing. “If you must...” He gave up, tired of wrestling with parlance.

Silme smiled at his clumsy attempts at speech. “I won’t take unnecessary chances. But Shadow needs us all, and even we may not be enough. With or without spells, I’m hardly helpless. I traveled with the greatest warrior in the world for years before you joined us. Do you think he taught me nothing?”

Larson remembered Silme’s maneuver against the mugger in the alleyway. When he had happened upon Silme and Kensei Gaelinar as a misplaced stranger in the forests of eleventh century Norway, Silme had rebuffed Larson’s initial advance with admirable martial skill. He recalled the sharp sting of Silme’s blow and the glib death threat that had followed it. “Gaelinar surrender an opportunity to teach?” He tapped the hilt of the Kensei’s katana. “Not a chance in hell.”

Despite his casual response, Larson could not dispel the fear that gripped him as tightly as a vise. Concern for Silme allowed him to postpone his many worries and doubts about fatherhood. He knew any lessons Silme had received from Gaelinar had been informal. The focus of her strength lay in magic so advanced as to make her one of the most powerful beings in the universe.
Without it, she might be capable of handling street kids and my romantic advances. But berserks?
Larson glanced at Taziar, the image of bruises and abrasions still vivid in his mind despite Astryd’s sorceries.
Shadow’s river or not, only one of us has the fighting skills to handle this.
He clutched at the hilt of Gaeli-nar’s katana.
I can’t sit back while enemies threaten Silme and Astryd, and Shadow risks his life, alone, on the streets.

Larson watched his companions prepare for bed, resigned to the fact that, as badly as he needed sleep, it would elude him for much of the night.

The Dragonmage, Bolverkr, had buried his neighbors and loved ones, each in his or her own marked grave, and, for every one of them he’d made a grisly promise of vengeance. Now, perched on the ruins of the fountain in Wilsberg, he frowned as he surveyed his partially-completed fortress. Much of the rubble still remained. But on the hill, at the site of his demolished home, now stood a castle of magnificent proportions. The curtain wall towered, shimmering with the protective magics Chaos had inspired him to create. He alone knew the winding sequence of pathways that would lead a man safely between the clustered spells. Even sorcerers versed in viewing magic would find themselves hard-pressed not to blunder into the jagged arrangement of alarms and wards. No guards would patrol Bolverkr’s stronghold; he had no need of armies or mundane defenses. Yet the memory of his dead wife, Magan, staring in awe at the gaudy masonry of the baron of Cullinsberg’s keep goaded Bolverkr to decorate his catwalk with magically-crafted gargoyles and crenellated spires.

Bolverkr rose, his tread as hard and unforgiving as it had been ever since the tragedy. His path to the fortress was arrow-straight, and, within a few paces, a boulder blocked his way. The Chaos-force seethed, creeping into the soul-focus that was Bolverkr, some mingling inseparably with the gentler chaos of his life aura. Its rage boiled up within him. For an instant, Bolverkr’s mind etched Larson’s face on the lump of granite that dared stand between him and the world he had built with his own hands and magic. Hungrily, he dredged up the power of Chaos as if it was wholly his own. He shouted a magical syllable, and a stab of his fingers lanced a sun-bright beam of sorceries into the stone.

The boulder shuddered backward. It shattered, flinging fragments in crazed arcs. A chip gashed Bolverkr’s arm, and pain dulled Chaos-fueled anger. Confusion wracked him, admitting a pale glimmer of self.
Who am I?
Nameless fear welled up within him, sharpening to panic. The shy, young Dragonmage discovered and trained by Geirmagnus, the years of learning to focus his skills, the decades of gaining peasants’ trust all seemed unimportant and distant to Bolverkr. Even his memories of Magan had faded to obscure descriptions of a stranger’s life.

Bolverkr’s fists clenched. He dropped to his haunches, arms clamped to his chest, calling forth an anger of his own to combat his undirected terror. He threw back his head, howling at the heavens. “Who am I?”

Chaos retreated across the contact, unable to comprehend, but naturally in tune with Bolverkr’s need for self-identity. His fear died, replaced by understanding.
It’s the Chaos.
Thoughts flashed through his mind in rapid succession, small things deftly underscored by his battle for identity. Again, he became aware of the poisoning that must accompany the near-infinite power Chaos promised. And as his underlying personality emerged, he realized something else.
I have to jettison some of this Chaos before I become nothing but a vehicle for its power.

Now Chaos struck back, calmly, insidiously using Bolverkr’s own natural, life aura Chaos against him. It probed his weakness, and finding it, incited Bolverkr’s need for vengeance, drawing the image of Taziar Medakan, a shattered child curled at Bolverkr’s feet and begging for the quiet mercy of death. He saw Al Larson driven to a reckless, destructive madness as ugly and chaotic as the war that spawned him. The Chaos-force sparked Bolverkr to remember that his enemies were far from helpless. The men had bested the same Chaos Bolverkr now possessed; as Dragonrank mages, the women should wield more and different power than their consorts. And Bolverkr came to a conclusion he wrongly believed was his own.
I need the power to destroy my enemies. The Chaos storm came to me because I am the strongest being in existence. I can handle this power. I can shape it to my will. I am the Master!

And Chaos seeped inward with the patience of eternity.

Respect was mingled with surprise,
And the stern joy which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel.