Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (10 page)

Sword readied, Larson whipped around the final corner, taking in the situation at a glance. Bolverkr stood three quarters of the way to the opposite side of the rampart, his back to Larson. Beyond him, Taziar stood braced before Astryd, sword bared, while the sorceress shaped a spindle of orange light between her fingers.

Even as Astryd shaped her spell, a white starburst of magic flashed in Bolverkr’s hands, dwarfing Astryd’s power. She shouted. Her arm snapped out. Her sorceries arched toward Bolverkr.

The sorcerer hurled his own spell. Orange met white in a wild splash of sparks. The darker winked out, the white sputtering a savage backlash in the trail of Astryd’s spell. For an instant, the sorceress seemed bathed in milky light. Suddenly, she went limp, collapsing from the ramparts like a rag doll.

Taziar screamed in anguish and rage. Sword raised, he rushed Bolverkr.

Larson charged from behind.

A single laugh rumbled from Bolverkr’s throat, rich with ancient evil, a sound so primitive it raised the hair on the nape of Larson’s neck. The sorcerer flicked a hand. Lightning flashed from a cloudless sky, lancing toward Taziar like a blue-white arrow.

No!
Larson all but shrieked aloud.

Less than half a second elapsed between the time Bolverkr moved and his deadly bolt struck. Electricity crackled against stone. Light flared, wrung through with a thunderclap that set Larson’s ears ringing. Blinded and deafened, Larson did not pause to mourn his companions. The katana rose, then crashed down on the spot where Larson last recalled Bolverkr standing. The blade met resistance. Razor-honed, it bit into Bolverkr’s shoulder, sheared through his ribs and into his abdomen.

Bolverkr loosed a single cry, as eerie and high-pitched as the scream of a dying rabbit, then collapsed to the ramparts.

Larson tore his sword free, knowing with perfect certainty that the blow he had dealt was fatal. As his vision returned, he caught a glimpse of bone, lung, and heart through the cut; that sight and the odor of blood made his stomach heave. Stepping over Bolverkr, he dropped to his knees, vomiting into the courtyard. He staggered to his feet and threw up again, a thin bile. Horror and grief trembled through him. It required an effort of will to shuffle the last few steps to where he had last seen Taziar. Once there, he stared at Gaelinar’s katana, mesmerized, trying to gather the strength to see how little of the Climber remained.

Ozone gorged Larson’s nose, overpowering the stench of blood. Static sizzled the air. A circle of burnt stone met his glance. Beside it, something moved.

Larson shifted his gaze in shocked disbelief. Taziar lay prone on the ramparts, his head raised, eyes blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision.

Joy thrilled through Larson. Apparently, the little Climber’s quick reflexes had allowed him to backpedal before the lightning hit. Larson harbored no doubt a direct blast would have killed him.

“Shadow.” Larson caught Taziar by both arms and hefted the smaller man to his feet. “Are you all right?”

Taziar nodded, floundering as Larson allowed him to handle some of his own weight. The blue eyes flicked open, then widened in horror at some sight over Larson’s shoulder. “Allerum! Look out!”

Larson whirled, dropping Taziar, who fell to one knee.

Steeped in blood, Bolverkr again stood upon the ramparts. The unequivocally-lethal wound Larson had inflicted had disappeared as if it never existed.

Holy shit!
Shock froze Larson.
How?

Light blazed to life between Bolverkr’s hands.

Mobilized, Larson charged, katana raised for another death blow.
This time, I take off his fucking head!

Larson managed only a single step before Bolverkr’s magic burst in a spray of multicolored pinpoints. Larson crouched as he ran. Bits of magic rained across his back, every speck as hot as molten lead. Pain all but incapacitated him. Days in a sickbed had taken their toll on his endurance, but his will to survive remained strong. He sprang forward.

A blast of magic caught Larson squarely in the chest, dashing the breath from his lungs. He toppled over backward. The katana crashed against stone. Struck from the opposite side by sorceries as solid as the granite, the blade snapped. Its tip gashed Larson’s wrist. Stone sheered skin from his arms and side. A sideways view of grass filled his vision as he teetered on the edge of the catwalk. Rolling, he scrambled to his hands and knees, catching the katana’s hilt in his grip. A hand’s length of cleanly fractured blade jutted from it.

Horror tore through Larson with a violence that made him scream. The agony of his wounds faded beneath a savage avalanche of grief.
Gaelinar!

Bolverkr towered, regal as a king before a groveling subject, but Larson’s vision failed him. He saw only the aging, Oriental features of his teacher, dark eyes glazing in death. Larson felt the Kensei’s touch, the thrust of the katana’s hilt into his own scarred hand. The old man’s final, whispered words echoed in Larson’s ears, “It begins again. Carry on,” then faded to an ominous and permanent silence. Now, on Bolverkr’s ramparts, something died within Larson. He felt weak and flaccid, unprepared to face even the simplest of challenges. He clenched the hilt to his chest, feeling the leather-wrapped steel gouge painfully into his breastbone.
Astryd’s dead. In a moment, Taziar and I will join her. It’s over.

Bolverkr chuckled joyously, his triumph beyond that of simply winning a battle.

The Dragonrank sorcerer’s laughter stung Larson. Sorrow parted before a deep courage that had lain dormant since he had charged a circle of AK-47s, Freyr’s name on his lips and his buddies’ deaths haunting his mind.
If I’m going to die again, it won’t be crawling.
Determination spiraled through Larson. Lurching to his feet, he brandished the damaged sword and rushed down on Bolverkr.

A snort escaped Bolverkr. He made an effortless gesture of contempt, and a stone from a shattered gargoyle rolled beneath Larson’s feet.

The granite caught Larson across the shins. He tripped, sailing over the boulder. Twisting, he landed on his side, suppressing the urge to roll before it sent him tumbling over the ramparts. His hand tightened on the haft violently; brocade scored his palm. Tears of frustration blurred his vision as Bolverkr stole his chance to at least die with dignity. Anger flared. Larson clambered to his feet, swearing, and raced toward Bolverkr once more.

Again, Bolverkr’s arm raised. A sliver of magic glittered in his palm. Suddenly, with a sound like thunder, it erupted to a blood-red ball that seemed to throb in Bolverkr’s hand. Back light washed the creased cheeks, making him seem like an evil parody of a grandfather. He tensed to throw.

Larson sprang forward, realizing as he did that he could never hope to beat Bolverkr’s spell.

From the grounds beyond the keep, a stone shot through the air. It crashed against Bolverkr’s ear, staggering him. Surprise crossed the pale features. His sorceries exploded in his fist. Sparks splattered to the granite, fizzling onto stone. Bolverkr whirled to face this new threat, just as a second stone whisked through air and slammed into his cheek.

Larson bounded forward, whipping the broken katana for Bolverkr’s neck. The sorcerer dodged, slipped, and toppled into his courtyard.

Larson’s blow cut air. Momentum sent him tumbling after Bolverkr.

“Allerum!” Taziar shouted in alarm, running to his friend’s aid.

Desperately, Larson twisted, flailing. One hand raked granite. He clamped his fist onto the ledge. His fall jarred to an abrupt halt that strained the muscles of his forearm and shot pain through a partially healed tear in his shoulder. Blood soaked his sleeve. He flexed against the agony, clawing for a grip with his other hand.

Taziar’s small fingers surrounded Larson’s wrist, supporting his mad scramble to the wall top. Once there, the elf glanced down at Bolverkr.

Apparently dazed and injured by the fall, the sorcerer had barely managed to stagger far enough to get beyond range of heavy objects shoved from the ramparts. Light flickered around the sorcerer.

Enraged, Larson flung the remains of Gaelinar’s katana at Bolverkr’s head. His aim was true, but, inches from its target, the haft bounced from an invisible shield and pitched into the grass. Larson swore, grabbing for Taziar’s sword. “Run. I’ll finish the bastard right now!”

But Taziar caught Larson’s hand, jamming the blade into its sheath instead. “He’s too strong. Let’s go. Fast!” Taziar bounded from the ramparts, hauling Larson with him.

Dragged into another fall, Larson was forced to concentrate on landing. He touched down feet first. Taziar jerked Larson’s arm then let go, sending the elf into a roll. Unhurt, Larson spun to his feet. He glanced first at the wall. Seeing no one on the ramparts, his attention shifted naturally to the direction from which the rocks had come. Silme stood partway up the hillside, another stone clasped in a hand white with strain.

Silme?
Larson took a protective step toward her. Then, concerned for Taziar and Astryd, he turned back toward the keep.

Taziar had hefted Astryd. She lay draped across his arms, her limbs dangling and her head lolling. Yet Taziar’s expression mingled relief with concern.

She’s alive
, Larson guessed.
Thank God.
Rushing to Taziar’s side, he grasped Astryd’s limp figure and hauled it over one shoulder.

Taziar hefted Astryd’s dragonstaff, looking distressed. Whether Taziar’s unhappiness came from fear for Astryd or disappointment that his slight stature made help necessary, Larson did not bother to consider.

“You lead.” Larson gestured at the ruins. “Get Silme away as fast as you can. I won’t have as much chance to locate magics, so I’ll try to follow in your steps.”

Taziar drew his sword and handed it to Larson. Without explanation, he ran toward Wilsberg, maneuvering the maze of wards with deft shifts in direction. Silme whirled and headed away from the keep, to Larson’s relief.

Larson followed more ponderously, tracing Taziar’s footsteps without wasting time identifying wards. The idea of leaving an enemy at his back pained him, yet Larson understood the necessity of a strategic retreat. His body felt as if it were on fire, every sinew tensed in anticipation of an exploding ward or a spell hurled from behind. Death hovered, drawing in on him, tightening until he scarcely dared to breathe. The feeling had grown familiar since the day his plane had touched down in Vietnam, and he had only managed to shake it a month ago. Now, it returned, a hyper-alertness that would preclude dreamless sleep, that made him certain an enemy hovered behind every rock and tree.

Memories pressed Larson, quick glimpses of a past he thought he had suppressed. Vivid as reality, he watched his friend, Bill Charnin, flip an NVA body, watched the “corpse” empty a pistol clip into the G.I.‘s face before Larson could think to shout a warning. He remembered how, forced to tend half a dozen NVA prisoners, Charnin had bound them using detonation cord. Again, the explosion rang through Larson’s ears along with Charnin’s growled explanation. “Now
that
is how you take prisoners.”

Larson continued dodging between the wards, memorizing Taziar’s path with meticulous devotion to detail.
Not now. Please, God, no flashbacks now.
He forced memory away using the control he had only recently learned with Vidarr’s aid. Remembrance faded, leaving only one set of words to haunt Larson as he ran: “It begins again.”