Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (12 page)

Stunned, Larson scarcely found his voice. He recalled how each of those successes had cost him months of harried persecution, injury, and plaguing flashbacks. The first had claimed Silme’s life, the second Gaelinar’s hand and his morale, and the third the Kensei’s life and nearly Taziar’s and Larson’s as well. “You were there the first time. I had help from one of the highest ranking sorceresses ...” He gestured at Silme. “... also the world’s best swordsman and at least one god.”

“I explain those things,” Taziar interrupted softly, “the same way I explain one sapphire-rank Dragonmage protecting the nine worlds from a diamond-rank master.” He referred to Silme’s dedication of her life and learning to shield innocents from her half-brother’s cruelties. “The same way I explain a single, tiny Climber breaking into the Dragonrank’s stronghold and bypassing its defenses alone. Careful planning, competent execution, and, in Allerum’s case, courageous fighting.”

Silme’s voice remained steady despite the tears. “No matter how you explain it, the fact remains. Until Allerum came to our world, the Balance simply was. We didn’t have trouble with huge shifts tipping the world toward destruction.”

Many thoughts converged on Larson. He wanted to scream in frustration, to remind Silme that he had not asked to come to her world. He wanted to tell her that the gods had dragged him from death because of a difficulty with the Balance, and the only solution had been to slide the Balance too far the opposite way. But his mind shifted to new and terrible thoughts. His love for Silme ached within him, tortured by a disapproval he dared not believe he had earned. His vision washed to the red blindness of a tracer round ignited too close. “This is crazy. There’s no way back to my world. Hell, Loki said my world doesn’t even exist any more!” Larson’s grip tightened on Silme’s arm. Receiving no answer, he finished his tirade. “Gary Mannix, the original Dragonrank Master, the one you call Geirmagnus. He came from a future even later than mine. He’s the one who started this whole mess with the Balance in the first place. He discovered the Dragonrank mages and created the gods hoping they could find a way to take him back to his own time. He failed, damn it! How do you expect me to do it?”

Silme blinked, splashing tears from her lashes, and wiped away another glistening on her cheek. “I know you can get back. You took me there once.”

Larson winced. In a time when Vidarr’s only link with the world outside his sword-prison was Larson’s thoughts, Silme had entered Larson’s mind in order to confer with Vidarr. In the process, sorceress and silent god had accidentally sparked flashbacks of Vietnam so vivid they had become reality. Another time, Vidarr and Silme’s half-brother had battled in Larson’s mind, instigating rapid-fire flashes of memory until, dizzied, sickened, and confused, Larson had clung to one, dashing the combatants into a wild, twentieth-century firefight. “This is crazy! I didn’t take you to ’Nam on purpose. I can’t help it if I don’t have mind barriers and the war drove me nuts. I didn’t ask Freyr for my life. I only asked him to let me take lots of V.C. with me when I died.”

Larson dropped logic for gut emotion. He slammed a fist into his palm. “Damn it, Silme. I served my time. I’m not going back to ’Nam. For God’s sake, I’m dead there.” Other thoughts converged on him, a chaotic jumble he had no way to interpret.
The future I once knew doesn’t exist. I destroyed it.
Yet events had proven otherwise; some of the sojourns into memory had occurred after Loki’s death.
I’ve been there. And, every time, I’ve brought others with me and back.
He recalled how Vidarr had taken a bullet from a V.C. rifle, and the wound had returned with him to Midgard.

The world of my future has to exist.
Another idea followed naturally.
But maybe only in my mind.
That sparked a new train of thought.
If so, can I control it? Does that make me God?
The possibilities seemed endless, yet they were unsupported by facts. The only control Larson could recall having over the trips into memory was the ability to block the exit in his mind, preventing his companions from going home without his permission. And, though he always popped into the memory exactly as he recalled it, any events transpiring from that point seemed random, related to the actions of himself, his companions, and anyone else in the scene, rather than the events that had taken place the first time he had lived the situation.

The scope became too awesome for Larson to ponder. He had no choice but to assume his world still existed in some form, and that he could go there. He tried a different tack, no longer able to hold back his tears. “I love you, Silme. I once swore worlds would never keep us apart, and I rescued you from Hel to prove that. How could you suggest we part now?”

Silme buried her face in her palms.

Taziar claimed the argument, his voice calmly rational, unaffected by their recent battle, impending danger, and his concerns for Astryd. “Silme, I can’t imagine why you’d trust the words of an enemy. But let’s say Bolverkr spoke the truth, and Allerum has some mystical effect on the Balance. So what? That just means we need to be aware of it and use it well rather than foolishly.”

Larson stared at Taziar, glad his small companion had a habit of cutting through the bullshit and approaching problems head on.

Taziar’s features crinkled thoughtfully. “Allerum leaving can only make the rest of us that much weaker against Bolverkr. But you’ve given me another idea.”

Now Silme also regarded Taziar.

“You’ve already proven you can take people from this world to yours. In fact, from what you’ve told me, you may
only
be able to go back when you
do
take someone with you.”

Larson nodded encouragingly, eager to hear the rest of Taziar’s idea.

“And Geirmagnus has shown that even the most powerful Dragonrank mages can’t throw spells that bridge time. So, it follows that if you take us to your world, we’re completely safe from Bolverkr. We can plan, prepare, perhaps gather weapons, all in relative safety.”

Stunned by the idea, Larson took several seconds to discover its obvious flaws. “It won’t work.”

“Why not?” Silme asked.

Larson returned to the deadfall and sat. “A bunch of reasons. First, only sorcerers and gods can enter my mind. That means I can’t take Shadow.” He addressed Taziar directly. “You’d be stuck here to face Bolverkr alone.”

Taziar’s shoulders rose and fell in resigned acceptance.

“Second, the lapses into memory aren’t something I control. They just happen when I’m stressed. I usually return to some horrible, traumatic place and time, too. Third, there’s bombs, traps, V.C., and North Vietnam Army soldiers where I’d take you. Not to mention fire-breathing dragon-like things we call jets.” Larson recalled how Silme had attacked a phantom with magics that had sent it exploding in a rain of twisted metal and turned Larson’s own war buddies against them.

“Fourth, we have reason to believe my world has become nothing more than a figment of my imagination. And last, as far as I can tell, whenever I return to ‘Nam, I’m thrown back into my other body. This ...” He outlined his delicate elf form with both hands. “... stays here, unconscious. If it’s killed ...” He trailed off, lacking the knowledge to finish the sentence but naturally assuming the worst. The events in his memory seemed real enough, yet he could not discount the possibility that it all took place inside the brain of this elf body, that death for Allerum the elf meant death for Al Larson the man as well as anyone harbored in his thoughts. At best, he felt certain that death for his elf body meant he could never return to Midgard, trapped in the meaningless violence of the Vietnam conflict, forced to live in terror until the familiar death, riddled by V.C. assault rifles.
Or, perhaps Freyr will rescue me again, and I’ll get caught in some asinine, Twilight Zone-ish time loop.

Taziar’s hands went still on Astryd’s forehead while he considered Larson’s words. “I’m sure you didn’t spend your whole life in this ’Nam place. If you concentrate hard enough, I’m willing to bet you could take Silme and Astryd to a safe memory. It doesn’t have to really exist. You’ll be coming back eventually.”

Larson waited, thin brows arched, hoping Taziar had the answer to his other points.

Taziar sighed, as if in answer. “As to leaving me and your body. Naturally, I’d protect both as best as I can.” He hesitated, then, apparently seeing no way around the difficulties, he finished lamely. “Fine. So it wasn’t a perfect plan. At least keep it in mind if things get desperate.”

Larson banished the idea to the back of his thoughts.
I won’t abandon Taziar or experiment with Silme’s and Astryd’s lives. Besides, dwelling on the thought will only give Bolverkr access to it.
Larson knew that because of his lack of mind barriers, sorcerers could read his superficial thoughts without his knowledge. To delve more deeply, though, required the reader to physically enter his mind. Larson had learned to detect and defend against presences and deeper probes, and he doubted Bolverkr would attempt such a thing, except as a full-scale attack.

Astryd’s eyes fluttered open. Her body stiffened.

Taziar knelt, pressing a hand to her forehead to keep her from moving too quickly. “Lie still. You’re safe.”

Taziar’s reassurance sounded ridiculous to Larson, and he bit his cheeks to keep from laughing in hysteria.
Safe, that is, except for one lunatic, all-powerful wizard out for our blood who could be anywhere preparing our doom.
He did not speak aloud.

“Bolverkr,” Astryd managed.

“We ran,” Taziar admitted. “Silme ...”

Larson tuned out the conversation, not wanting to be reminded of the rout and its consequences. Rising, he approached Silme, catching her in an embrace.

At first, Silme went rigid. Then, slowly, her arms circled him, and she pulled him closer.

“I’m sorry,” Larson whispered into Silme’s hair. “I don’t want to fight. I love you so much.”

Silme tilted her face toward his. Something flashed in the depths of her eyes, and Larson felt certain she would impart a message or distant thought of ultimate importance. “I ...” she started and stopped. “I ...” The look faded into the vast grayness of her eyes. “... love you, too,” she finished.

And though it did not seem like the urgent message she had needed to convey, right now, for Al Larson, it was enough.

That night, Silme awakened to the shrill of night insects and the unhurried, regular breaths of her companions. She was uncertain what had awakened her, aware only that it had happened abruptly, like a poke in the ribs by a sleeping companion. But Larson had rolled beyond reach, one hand clamped to the hilt of Taziar’s sword, the other arm draped across his face. Taziar and Astryd lay further away, curled together in slumber. The circle of wards Astryd had placed had dwindled to a pale ghost in the night. Moonlight flittered through the branches, diffusing night’s ink to gray.

Needing to relieve her bladder, Silme rose with silent grace and pushed through Astryd’s fading magic, suffering only a mild sting for her recklessness. Not wanting to wander too far from her friends, she wove between a clump of tightly-packed oaks to a narrow clearing. She fumbled with her dress.

Suddenly, light shattered the darkness.

Silme gasped, straggling backward. She crashed against the line of oaks hard enough to shoot pain along her spine.

A dark figure took shape, clearly outlined in brilliant white. She recognized Bolverkr at once, his eternal features becoming familiar beneath soft, blue-gray eyes. He kept his hands outstretched in a gesture of peace and parlay. His sorceries dispersed around him, plunging the woods back into night’s gloom.

Blinded, Silme blinked aside afterimages, drawing breath to scream.

“Please, don’t call out.” Bolverkr’s voice sounded gentle as wind. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. We just need to talk.”

Silme hesitated, lips still parted but no sound emerging. Usually, emotion tempered her logic only slightly, but now she found herself lost, unable to differentiate the two. She knew Bolverkr had drawn most of his images of her through his searches of Larson’s emotions: a young, intense love blind to her flaws. Bolverkr had had the opportunity to kill her before and had chosen only to talk.
I’m in no danger, but if I draw my companions, Bolverkr may kill them. Maybe I can calm him, talk him out of this mindless vengeance.

Silme stared at the tall, slender wizard, watched the wind feather his milk-white hair and send his brown cloak into a serene dance. His life aura hovered in a glow that dwarfed her own, though hers was vital and untapped and his still tarnished by the battle. Her mouth closed. Her thoughts drifted to a curiosity and hunger she could not deny. The Dragonrank school had taught her that mages were born with all the life energy they would ever possess, that strength came of honing skills until it took less internal chaos to cast any particular spell. Yet Bolverkr’s power beckoned, teased her imagination until she needed to understand. Before she knew it, she had taken a step toward him.

Bolverkr smiled, revealing straight teeth. “Come with me. I told you before, there’s enough for us both, and I’m willing to share.”

Silme paused. It seemed so simple to follow, to forget the cares she had just left behind in the clearing. Yet something jarred.

“Come.” Bolverkr stretched his hand toward her. “I offer power beyond anything you’ve known, mastery over wind, wave, and fire, the beauty of nature and her art. Why should one of your potential stay with companions so insignificant their presence or absence takes no accounting on the world’s balance?”

Silme listened without trying to formulate a reply. She knew Bolverkr spoke the truth. Only Dragonrank sorcerers and gods wielded enough significance, whether for Law or Chaos, to seriously affect the Balance. Of her companions, only Astryd’s demise would require compensation in the guise of equal deaths on the side of Chaos. And, at garnet rank, her life could be easily repaid. Still, Silme realized that, though accurate, Bolverkr’s point carried no importance. “I’ve dedicated my life to protecting the innocent. Their effect on the Balance doesn’t matter.”