Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (16 page)

“It’s a dangerous link, and not well understood. I think there’s some ... well ... residual.”

Taziar leaned forward, watching Astryd curiously. “What do you mean by residual?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Astryd kicked needles from one boot to the other. “It’s as if there’s an invisible, intangible thread tying her aura to mine. Every so often, a trickle of emotion slips through the contact.”

Larson blinked, gathering his thoughts. Magic made little enough sense without complicating it with links and contacts. “So you can read her mind? And you see something bad?”

“No. That’s not it at all.” Astryd fidgeted, apparently having difficulty finding the words needed to describe a process she did not fully understand herself. “I’m not getting thoughts, just occasional glimpses of emotion. And I’m not trying to read them, either. They just sort of, well, slip through now and again.” She sighed heavily, aware she still had not clarified the issue well enough. “I’ve tried tracing the thread to Silme by using a gentle probe. But she snapped closed the contact so violently, it hurt.” Astryd winced at the memory. “Maybe she thought I was Bolverkr.”

Taziar stepped behind Astryd and massaged her shoulders through the heavy fabric of her dress. “Don’t you think you should discuss this with Silme?”

Astryd nodded, still looking at Larson. “I will. I just haven’t had a chance. Her mood ...” She trailed off. “Her mood is why I wanted to talk with the two of you first.”

Larson raised his brows encouragingly.

“This may sound stupid.” Astryd spoke slowly, as if considering each word. “But she seems to feel as if she’s being invaded. From within.”

Larson froze, the expression sounding familiar in his ears. Then, finding the proper memory, he laughed. “You’ve never been pregnant, have you, Astryd?”

Taziar’s fingers stilled on Astryd’s shoulders.

“No,” Astryd confessed. She regarded Larson more directly. “And I’d venture to guess you haven’t either.”

Taziar smiled.

Larson conceded the point. “Do you have younger brothers and sisters?”

“Older,” Astryd admitted. “I’m the baby. Why?”

“I just remember when my mother was pregnant with my little brother. She used to call him ‘that little alien in my stomach’ and talk about how he danced on her bladder and sucked up artichokes.” Remote images of his mother standing before the kitchen window warmed Larson’s memory, sparking others. The details of his parents’ Bronx home seemed faded, another man’s life. Nearby, cranes banged and huffed, building city blocks of skyscrapers that would be called Co-op City. He remembered sneaking out at night with his best friend, Tom Jeffers, to clamber over the machinery and skeletal frames, while his brother collected sugar packets and near-empty paste tubes that the work crews had left behind.

Bitterness tinged the memory. Jeffers had died in Vietnam even before Larson had enlisted. Not wanting to contemplate his friend’s death, Larson tore himself from reminiscing just in time to hear Astryd’s question.

“Artichokes?”

Jarred back to the conversation, Larson nodded* “My mother craved artichokes, white chocolate, and kosher dills all through the pregnancy. And she never used to like pickles.”

Astryd swiveled her gaze toward Taziar, and they both shrugged in ignorance.

Larson got to the point. “I’m just saying pregnant women do feel like there’s an invader inside.” He recalled his mother’s temper flaring at the slightest provocation and his father cutting dinner table arguments short with a humble, “yes, dear.” “And some of them get snappy and irritable, too. It’s hormones.” Now, Larson felt pleased Astryd had drawn him away to talk. It gave a name and explanation to Silme’s raw-tempered, uncharacteristic behavior.

Several moments passed in silence before Larson noticed Astryd and Taziar were staring at him, apparently awaiting an explanation. He addressed the Shadow Climber. “You were a youngest child, too?”

“
Only
child.” Taziar resumed his massage. “I’ve seen enough women with child to know some do act strangely. But what, exactly, is a hormone?”

The question reminded Larson of an ancient gag: “How do you make a hormone? Don’t pay her.” Having spent weeks recovering in Shylar’s whorehouse, Larson found the joke appropriate, wishing the pun would translate into Old Scandinavian.
If it did, I could technically be the first person to ever tell it.
“Hormones are chemicals the body makes.” He searched for a comparison his companions might understand. “It’s like the excitement you have long after you’ve finished doing something stupid.” Staring at Taziar, he smiled, “I mean, something
dangerous.
”

“That’s funny,” Taziar said, though he did not smile.

“Anyway,” Larson finished, “this hormone floats around in your blood, making you feel good. Pregnancy hormones make women weepy and testy.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Astryd said.

Larson shrugged, not fully certain he had his facts correct, but aware it did not matter. “It evens out. Women make adrenaline, too. And men get violent and flaky around too much male hormones. They just don’t get pregnant.”

Taziar fingered his cut cheek.

Astryd nodded. Her tension faded, and she seemed satisfied with Larson’s explanation of Silme’s behavior. “Imagine how she must feel. All this hormony stuff poisoning her blood. Then she’s got the baby to worry about. And every time we run into Bolverkr, she has to decide between killing her child and possibly letting her friends die.” Astryd winced. “Oh, poor Silme.”

Larson frowned, concerned with pressures of his own. The battle at Bolverkr’s keep had left him feeling helpless and trivial, a man exposed to a thousand years of science yet unable to stand against a single, primitive man.
Gaelinar gave me his sword, the vehicle of his soul, because he believed I would take care of it. I failed him. I failed myself. And, now, my failure will kill my wife and child as well as my friends.
The image of Bolverkr collapsing, half-cleaved, to the ramparts filled Larson’s memory. He swore.
I should never have turned my back on an enemy until I knew he was dead.
For now, Larson conveniently forgot that he had seen heart and lungs through a wound no man could have survived longer than a few seconds.
I can’t believe I didn’t lop off his head while I had the chance. That mistake may cost all our lives.

Astryd rose. “We need to let Silme know without doubt that we want her to save the baby over any of us. We need to rescue her from the choice.”

Taziar took Astryd’s hand, his gaze on Larson. “Good idea, but I think the approach is wrong. No matter what we say, Silme will put our lives before the unborn baby’s. Our protests to the contrary would only make our sacrifice seem more noble; it would look as if we were more dedicated to her than she to us.”

Taziar’s words confused Larson. Not wanting to sit through the justification again, he pressed for the solution. “What do you think we should do?”

An updraft whipped through the pines, dropping a shower of needles onto Taziar and Astryd. Absently, Taziar brushed needles from Astryd’s hair. “We need to show Silme some confidence, to make her truly believe we’re capable of handling Bolverkr.”

Larson snorted.

Taziar raised his hand. “Let me finish.”

Larson nodded grudgingly.

“If Silme thinks we can kill Bolverkr, she can stop worrying about us and focus on the baby. If one of us is slain then, it will seem like an error in logic. She’ll have misjudged our competence rather than made a conscious choice to save the baby and let us die.”

Astryd shivered.

Larson had become accustomed to discussing his own death. Taziar seemed to speak of it openly enough, but Larson did not feel certain the Shadow Climber had fully considered the implications of his words. Astryd seemed all too aware of her mortality, enough to make her unpredictable in combat. Inwardly, Larson groaned.
We’re facing the most dangerous enemy in the world, and our army consists of an incompetent twentieth-century soldier, a witch in a hormonal storm, a midget adrenaline addict with few combat skills, and a sorceress’ apprentice.
Despair winched tighter. “You know, there is something else to consider.”

Apparently cued by an atypical soberness in Larson’s tone, Astryd and Taziar regarded their companion intently.

“It’s one thing for me to decide my baby takes precedence over my life. It’s another for my friends to make the same sacrifice. Neither Silme nor I expect either of you to put the baby’s life over your own. That would be unreasonable.” Larson considered the situation from another perspective. “Given a choice between rescuing Silme or the baby, I’d have to save Silme. I can hardly blame either of you for making the same decision about the one you love.”

Taziar neatly skirted the issue. “No one has to die.”

Larson heaved a sigh. Taziar’s eternal optimism in the face of hopeless odds had become familiar and annoying. “And the world’s oceans could dry up in seconds, leaving us an endless supply of fish. Bolverkr’s not going to quit until he or we are dead.”

Taziar shook his head, tossing the needles from his hair and sending the sliding comma into his eyes. “I know you’re the soldier, and I’m just street scum.” He used an English insult Larson had once hurled in anger. “So correct me if I say something wrong.” He combed black strands into place with his fingers. “It seems to me that in battle there’s rarely a clear-cut choice between one companion’s life and another’s. You attack the enemy and assist whoever needs help at the moment. I’m not planning to let Bolverkr place me in a situation where I have to choose between helping Astryd rather than Silme, or the baby rather than you. If it happens, there’s likely to be too many extenuating circumstances for me to have made the decision in advance anyway.”

The simple logic of Taziar’s statement struck Larson dumb.
He’s absolutely right, and I should have thought of it first.
Despondency had colored his thoughts until they seemed a hopeless blur.
Bolverkr’s got me shaken. I’m not thinking clearly.

Astryd scratched a pine needle free of her collar. “Silme might still have to make the decision to use magic to rescue one of us. For her, that’s a likely and constant dilemma.”

Taziar turned the conversation full circle. “Which is why we have to reassure and remind her of our competence. If she killed the baby out of necessity, to save one or all of us, it would be sad. If she killed the baby needlessly, out of doubt over our abilities, it would be a senseless tragedy.”

Now Taziar’s explanation became perfectly obvious to Larson. “Agreed. And as long as we’re gathered here, we’ve got another problem to discuss.”

“Food,” Astryd guessed.

Al Larson winced. He had hoped he would turn out to be the only one who had carried less than a day’s provisions to Bolverkr’s keep. “I figured that, if we survived the fight, we’d go back to Cullinsberg to get Silme, and we’d have a chance to pack rations then. I didn’t expect her to follow us.”

Taziar bobbed his head in understanding. “And why weigh ourselves down with gear when we had wards to avoid and a battle to win? I brought nothing but weapons and a change of clothes. Had to share Astryd’s dinner tonight. At worst, I figured we’d buy food in Mittlerstadt.”

“Shit.” Larson’s head began a dull, painful throb. “It’s too cold for berries, and there’s not a bow between us.” He glanced at the sorceress. “Wait a second. Astryd, you’ve got to be able to make food or zap little animals or something.”

“Make food?” Astryd stared, eyes wide with incredulity. “Dragonrank mages haven’t been able to make objects out of nothing since they started tapping internal chaos sources. That was long before my birth.”

Larson clamped the heel of one hand to his temple, trying to think through the headache. “For God’s sake! You can make dragons out of nothing.”

Astryd snorted in exasperation. “I’ve told you before. Dragons are the natural, material form of Chaos. All I have to do to summon a dragon is release some life energy. The hard part is controlling it.”

“Damn it!” Frustration and pain made Larson curt. Suddenly, every wound he had taken seemed to spring to the forefront of his attention simultaneously. The burn from Bolverkr’s ward stung. The impact of the sorcerer’s spell had left a pounding bruise across Larson’s chest, and his shoulder ached. “What about magical hunting?”

Astryd shook her head sadly. “If I could cast slaying spells, do you think Bolverkr would still be alive? I paralyzed someone once. It just about drained out my life energy, and that would kill me. At the least, I’d be unconscious and no use against Bolverkr. It’s not worth the price for one rabbit.”

Larson threw up his hands in frustration, and the abrupt gesture sparked pain through his injured shoulder. “Shit!” he cried again, this time in agony. “What the hell good is it to have a sorceress who can’t cast spells?”

Taziar cut in. “Allerum, back off. She knows what she’s doing, and she’s doing it the best she can. Don’t blame Astryd for the laws of magic.”

Astryd closed her eyes but not quickly enough to hide the brimming tears.

Taziar caught Astryd to him, stroking her hair, her face buried in his tough, linen climbing skirt.

Remorse assailed Larson, compounding his irritation. “Look, I’m sorry,” he apologized with inappropriate gruff-ness. “I’m just frustrated and upset. I didn’t mean to take it out on Astryd.”

Astryd’s back quivered.

Despite its seeming insincerity, Taziar accepted Larson’s explanation. “We’re all on edge. But finding food is no big deal. There’s another town about two days’ travel from here. I’ve got money.”

“I’m sorry,” Larson repeated, this time managing to soften his tone a bit. He knew he was acting viciously toward friends he had come to love like family. Al Larson realized the pressure had touched them all in ways it never had before. Despite her relative inexperience, Astryd had always proven strong and capable under fire; her crying seemed incongruous. Silme had turned into a creature Larson would just as soon avoid. Even Taziar, usually the honey-tongued arbitrator, had snapped at Larson’s verbal attack on Astryd, compounding the offense.
Not that I blame him. It’s just not like him.