Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (17 page)

Larson bit his lip, aware this situation with Bolverkr went beyond any previous challenge. Always before, hope, enthusiasm, and need had brought him through impossible tasks. And always before in the direst circumstances, he had clung to the knowledge that he was dead in Vietnam by all rights, that the time he had in Old Norway was borrowed. Now he had a wife and child to live for, friends whose company he wanted to enjoy for years to come. Yet Bolverkr chose his strategies well, destroying his enemies from within as well as without. All the wounds Larson had suffered seemed minimal, lost beneath a suffocating blanket of grief, fear, and impotent rage.
How can I fight an enemy I can’t see, one who can pop in with deadly guerrilla tactics, then disappear before I can strike? How can I protect my wife, child, and friends against a sorcerer of nearly unlimited power? How can I hope to kill a man who can heal lethal wounds?

Larson whirled, slamming his fist into an oak. The blow ached through his fingers, but he ignored the pain, pounding again and again until the bark scraped skin from his knuckles and he left bloody prints on the trunk. Turning, he headed back toward Silme, not bothering to see if his companions followed.

That morning, clouds pulsed a gray curtain across the sky. Once in place, they remained unmoving in a windless sky, as if they had come to stay forever. The trees formed black skeletons against the vast grayness of the heavens, their leaves and smaller branches fanning into an intertwining network.

Al Larson stared through the branches. His thoughts seemed as drab as the sky. The last of his rations sat like lead in his stomach, and he wished he had saved the food for a time when hunger might have made him less conscious of the stale rubberiness of the cheese. The meal had passed in silence. As they strapped on their packs and prepared to travel toward the nearest city, the only sound came from droplets pattering on colored clusters of leaves and needles. The rain seemed to have driven even the birds and insects to seek shelter.

As the day progressed, the rain pitched harder. Droplets slanted between gaps in the foliage, striking in icy pinpoints through Larson’s tunic and breeks. His elf form made him impervious to cold, but the dampness and ceaseless rattle and ooze irritated him to a scowling quiet that warned his friends to let him keep his own company. Finally, fully soaked, Larson no longer cared about the rain. Then, as if on cue, it dropped to a trickle and the wind rose, cutting like daggers beneath his cloak. Concerned for Silme, Larson paused beneath a shielding tangle of branches, opening his pack to offer dry clothing.

At that moment, the clouds heaved rain with redoubled fury. Above Larson, a basket of leaves succumbed to the assault, spewing a gallon of stored water onto Larson’s head. Water sloshed into his opened pack. Drenched, along with everything he owned, Larson swore until his voice cracked, then accidentally inhaled saliva and lapsed into a fit of coughing.

Larson caught his breath, glaring at his companions, daring any of them to laugh. But Silme had pressed ahead, apparently too preoccupied with her own worries to bother with Larson’s. Astryd waited politely but did not make a move to help. Only Taziar thought to address the obvious concern. As Larson’s last cough subsided, Taziar asked with sincere interest, “Can I help? Are you well?”

“Just ...” Larson took a rattling gasp. “... fucking fine.” Without bothering to check to see if any of his gear had escaped the soaking, he lashed the pack closed violently and headed after Silme.

Dark, rainy day became dark, rainy night. Images of Bolverkr chased Larson through his nightmares. Repeatedly, he awakened with his muscles so rigid they ached, and it took every relaxation technique he knew to settle back into restless, dream-haunted sleep. He spent his watch stiffly waiting, hearing enemies approaching in the rustle of the leaves and the constant pounding of the rain.

The storm continued into the next day and still showed no sign of abating. No one mentioned food. They all just hefted packs and headed deeper into the woodlands, brushing through branches that showered the next person in line. For a time, Taziar whistled a tune to the rhythm of the rain, but the condemning scowls of his companions silenced even the little Climber. Larson’s belly felt pinched and empty. Hoping to forget the pain, he drew up beside Silme and gave her a heartfelt and encouraging squeeze.

Silme caught Larson by the wrist. Spinning, she hurled his arm away. “I’m tired enough. Don’t hang on me.”

Stung by Silme’s rebuff, Larson opened his mouth to protest. Then, recalling the decision to humor Silme, he lowered his head. “I’m sorry.” As hard as he tried, he was unable to keep a twinge of defensiveness from entering his voice.

Silme did not seem to notice. She whirled with an aloof briskness that sent her hair whipping into Larson’s face, then stomped off toward a break in the foliage.

Grumbling epithets about women and hormones, Larson followed. A hand clasped his shoulder.

Alert to the edge of paranoia, Larson spun, crouching, his sword half free before he identified the touch as Taziar’s.

Taziar leapt backward, a look of surprise on his face and his hands hovering before him in a gesture of surrender.

Larson sheathed the sword. “Sorry. I’m a bit tense.”

Taziar smiled, the expression misplaced in the gloom of the forest. “A bit tense?” He laughed. “A bit tense would be the fabric of Astryd’s dress with a tall, fat man stuffed into it. You would qualify as a ...” He borrowed an English idiom. “... coiled spring.” He dropped to a rigid hunch, imitating Larson’s startled defense.

Larson chuckled, the noise sounding eerily out of place in the crushing grayness and lingering silence. The need for a snappy comeback cracked the tension. “Yeah, well, you moved pretty quick yourself.” He flexed to copy Taziar’s harried retreat.

But before Larson could move, Silme reappeared through the brush. Her eyes were slitted and shadowed beneath drawn brows. Larson had seen that expression only once, on the face of a Cullinsbergen guardsman just before he and his companions had pounded Larson to oblivion.

“Don’t start with the jokes,” Silme’s tone precluded argument. “This isn’t the time or place, and I’m not in the mood. Now, Shadow, there’s a road up ahead. You’re the only one who knows the way. Will it take us to a town?”

Taziar darted past Larson, delivering a painless kick to the elf’s shin as he passed.

Aware Taziar moved too gracefully for the kick to have been an accident, Larson made a playful grab for his companion.
You bastard.
His lunge fell short, but not far enough to escape Silme’s notice.

Silme glared at the antics. Saying nothing, she stomped after Taziar.

Larson trailed them both. Taziar’s banter had lifted the veil of depression briefly, but Silme’s condemnation slammed it back into place. He could not recall pregnancy affecting his mother so early or so severely, though he had only been a child at the time.
And Mom didn’t have death, Chaos, and starvation stalking her across the continent.
Still, one thing seemed clear.
I can’t take seven months of this.

A short brush through the foliage brought Larson to the packed earth pathway Silme had called a road. Exposed to two straight days of rain, the trail should have mired to mud. But the ground only looked damp, packed to stony hardness by years of foot, horse, and cart traffic. He was about to remark on his unusual finding when Taziar spoke, interrupting Larson’s train of thought.

“This is the way,” Taziar said with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Larson snorted, fairly sure Taziar had no more idea where he was going than anyone else. It only made sense that a well-traveled road would lead to civilization, and if Taziar knew the route, Larson doubted Silme would have needed to stumble upon the pathway. Larson kept these thoughts to himself, aware Taziar was doing his best to lift their spirits, a noble cause that Larson had already dismissed as hopeless. They all headed in the indicated direction.
Eastward
, Larson guessed, though two days without sun or starlight made navigation uncertain.

Taziar, Astryd, and Silme walked near the forested edges of the pathway, partially protected by an umbrella of interwoven branches. Already sodden and oblivious to cold, Larson varied his position, feeling most secure when slinking through the shadows of the trunks. As his companions again sank into the quagmire of their own personal contemplations, Larson fell prey to an oppressive paranoia. He saw flashes of Bolverkr behind every tree, heard the sorcerer’s footfalls between the patter of each raindrop, and nearly attacked a deer when it fled into his path, apparently spooked from sleep by something ahead. His sword wound up in his hand so often, he took to carrying it unsheathed. Oddities seized his attention. Though the rain never slackened, the roadway did not seem to absorb the water. Each new step brought Larson over earth scarcely damp, as if they traveled always in the rain’s leading edge. The storm never passed them, and they seemed unable to move ahead of it.

Over time, the trees again thinned to first growth. Ropy brown vines and berryless copses strung between the trunks. Larson hacked through the brush with more force than necessary, gaining a perverse satisfaction from the slivers flying around his blade. Channeling his frustration into action felt good, easing cramps from his muscles and diverting tension from an unconscious tooth grinding that left his jaw aching.

Suddenly, Astryd screamed. “Look out! Look out! Look out!” Each repetition emerged at a higher pitch.

Confused by the vagueness of her warning, Larson dove forward and down. Astryd’s shoulder crashed into his side, knocking him askew. He rolled to his feet awkwardly, sword readied, scanning the woodlands for danger like a cornered animal. “What is it? Where?”

Rising to one knee, Astryd pointed directly to the place Larson had nearly cleared.

Larson followed the direction of her finger, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

“Spell,” Astryd explained.

Clued, Larson stared beyond the spot. He could make out a colored pattern of interlocking glitters, silvered with clinging raindrops. “Bolverkr’s?” The answer seemed so obvious as to make the question stupid. Larson did not await a reply before asking, “But how could he know I’d step right there?” He inclined his head toward the ward.

“Hmmm.” Taziar scratched his head in a gesture mocking deep thought. “How could Bolverkr know we’d take the natural extension of a road to the village. Hmmm.” He looked up suddenly. “Maybe he read your—” He broke off abruptly, though not quickly enough to keep anyone from mentally finishing his sentence with the word “mind.” “I didn’t mean ...” he started.

Larson waved Taziar silent, understanding that the Climber had intended his words as a joke, not to remind Larson of his inadequacy. Still, Larson could not keep bleak frustration from accompanying the thought. “You may think he’s psychic. But I think he’s fucking psycho.”

“Bolverkr didn’t need to know where you’d be walking. Look around.” Astryd waved in a semicircle around the boundary where the woodland path met farm fields.

Larson examined the area from the corner of his eye. Now, he could discern several glints of magic in a random arrangement. Hunger goaded him to wonder why no forest animals had fallen prey to the trap.
More likely, Bolverkr cleared the bodies hoping we’d starve.

“Look!” Taziar jabbed a finger toward the center of the field.

Larson obeyed. At the distant border of his vision, red and orange flickered through the dullness, and smoke wreathed upward. “The village?”

Astryd made a pained noise. “Thor! Not again.”

As one, they sprinted toward the fire. Larson remained alert for glimpses of magic, harvested stalks rattling against his ankles and crunching beneath his boots. A mad dash brought them across the farmer’s fields. There, a village smaller than Mittlerstadt lay in ruins. Burned and bloated bodies were scattered amid cottages pounded to rubble. Raindrops sizzled against dying clumps of flame.

Taziar froze. Astryd slammed the base of her staff into the mud. Slowly, she slid down its length, collapsing in a heap at its base, her body racked with sobs. Taziar curled protectively around her, rocking soothingly, his own anguish clearly etched on his features.

Sadness enfolded Larson. But, more accustomed to senseless, wholesale slaughter, he maintained his composure.

Silme simply stared as if rooted. No emotion scored her expression. She might have been examining a Picasso in the New York Museum of Modern Art, studying lines and symmetry, seeking subtleties in tone and pattern.

“Silme?” Alarmed, Larson touched Silme’s arm. She had always seemed so strong, he could not imagine her shattered by one setback. Still, they had all weathered so much in such a short space.
Everyone has a breaking point.

Larson shook Silme’s arm gently. “Silme?”

Silme’s cheeks twisted. Her eyes closed deliberately, and she tightened the expression until creases ringed her nose. Then her lids flicked open, revealing turbulent, gray irises reflecting an internal struggle, a decision she could not quite reach.

Larson could only guess that she still wrestled with the choice between friends and baby. Pained by her sorrow, he swept her into a reassuring hug.

Silme did not return the embrace but neither did she pull away. She stood, stiff and silent in Larson’s arms.

“I love you,” he said.

Silme made no reply.

Larson pulled away. “You stay here with Astryd and Shadow. I’m going to look for food and a weapon for Shadow. If I can’t find a sword this time, I’ll get him an ax, a pick, a shovel. It doesn’t matter.”
Bolverkr’s ass is mine.

Taziar looked up. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.” Larson rolled his gaze from Silme to Astryd, trying to indicate that they needed watching without offending them. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have chosen either sorceress to back him over any man he had ever met. But Astryd’s inexperience seemed to have finally caught up with her, and Silme had become as unpredictable as death.