Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (19 page)

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.

—Sir Walter Scott
The Lady of the Lake

Al Larson sat beneath a patchwork canopy of branches, ignoring the ceaseless drip of rain, though a stream of droplets pattered on his head. Water plastered long, white-blond hair to his high-set cheekbones, revealing the delicate points of his ears. Yet despite the annoyance of rivulets running from his bangs into his eyes, he did not bother to find a drier seat. Despair rode him, familiar as a childhood playmate. And though his companions were around him, Larson might just as well have been alone. His thoughts carried him beyond the incomplete sanctity of the forest clearing to the tattered, charred corpses of innocents killed in his name, to the body of a young man named Willaperht who might still live if Larson had gone for help immediately rather than wasting time searching for a sword.

Larson buried his chin in his palms, swiveling his gaze to the right where Taziar practiced fighting maneuvers with a branch carved into a shaft. Astryd stood nearby, leaning against her garnet-tipped staff, calling inane suggestions that seemed to have little effect on Taziar’s style. Though quick and graceful, Taziar’s strokes lacked power. Accustomed to swords, he occasionally used thrusting gestures that, in combat, would accomplish nothing more than giving his enemy a chance to seize the weapon and disarm him. He also tended to lead with one side, as if the staff held an edge.

Larson turned away, discouraged by Taziar’s lack of combat skill but unable to gather the momentum needed to teach. He had little enough training with any weapon other than single-edged sword, deer rifle, pistol, and M-16, just a natural eye for technique. And it was obvious Taziar had no technique at all.

Wind rattled through the trees, revealing endlessly gray sky through shifting gaps. A shower of leaf-held rain splashed down on Larson, unnoticed. In Vietnam, he had been told to befriend every companion, yet to hold each at a distance. Though his life might depend on any one of them, he could not afford to let their deaths cripple him. Then, he had tried this method with little success. Now, he found it even more difficult. Never before had his enemies slaughtered women and children as a personal affront to him. Never before did he have to weigh the lives of his beloved wife and forming child in the balance. The animal-like cunning and stealth of the Viet Cong had turned his nights into frenzied firefights or left him curled, shivering despite the heat, sleeping on the heart-pounding, razor’s edge of waking. Yet never before had Al Larson felt so helpless and openly flayed before an enemy. In ‘Nam, youth, inexperience, and lack of responsibilities made him certain of his permanence. But now he was all too aware of his mortality. Silme and the baby gave that mortality meaning even as Bolverkr’s easy victories tainted its significance.

A shadow fell over Larson. Chin sunk into his palms, he glanced up at Silme. The sorceress towered over him, her golden hair shimmering and her cheeks rosy despite the rain. Her pregnancy enhanced beauty Larson had already used as his definition for perfection. But the coldness in her gray eyes marred the effect.

Alerted to the possibility of an argument, Larson lowered his gaze. His belly felt hollow. His conscience ached with the burden of hundreds of blameless deaths, all the murders committed in the name of keeping him from obtaining food or weaponry. Larson could not banish searing guilt and sorrow over the shattering of Gaelinar’s sword, the “vehicle of the soul,” though once the displaced American would have dismissed such a feeling as superstitious nonsense.

Taziar’s staff crashed against an oak trunk used as a target.

“Why do you love me?” Silme’s commanding tone turned an innocent question into a demand.

Larson did not bother to raise his head. “Silme, please. I need to be alone for a while.”

Another crack sounded from Taziar’s direction.

Silme shuffled her feet, kicking up soggy pine needles. “And I need to know why you love me.”

Ire flashed through Larson.
Easy
, he cautioned himself.
She’s going through a rough time, too. You promised to support her.
He kept his voice level, resorting to monotone to keep himself from provoking conflict. “I went to Hel to retrieve you from death. I blackmailed a god into telling me the secret to raising you. I bartered and fought with Hel’s goddess and Hel’s hound. With Gaelinar’s help, I captured the Dragonrank sorceress who was Hel’s guardian.” Larson hesitated, mind suddenly filled with the battle. He and Kensei Gaelinar had fought the sorceress, Modgudr, on the bridge spanning the river, Gjoll. Modgudr had hidden behind a shielding spell, similar to the one Bolverkr had created in Willaperht’s cottage. She had used the shield to defend against Gaelinar’s strokes as well as to drive the Kensei toward Gjoll’s fatal currents.
I struck her unexpectedly from behind, and my blow fell. Apparently, either the force field doesn’t completely surround the mage or he can only use it to protect against enemies he sees.
A spark of hope flared, quickly dashed by Silme’s next affront.

“I didn’t ask
if
you love me. That’s clear enough. I want to know why.”

Taziar’s staff drummed repeatedly against the oak.

Larson met Silme’s gaze. The distance of his thoughts and the hostility in her expression unsettled him. He spoke from habit rather than his heart. “Because you’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I love you.” He reached for her, urging her to sit beside him.

Silme back-stepped beyond Larson’s reach. “So you love me just because of the way I look.”

Realizing his mistake, Larson clarified. “No, not just because of the way you look.”

“Then why?” Silme snapped. She folded her arms across her chest, glaring at Larson through narrowed eyes.

Frustration and the ludicrousness of Silme’s behavior ignited Larson’s anger again. “Cut it out, Silme. I know you’re in a weird emotional state. But this isn’t a goddamned quiz show, and I’m not in the mood. I’ve got more important things on my mind.”

The noise of Taziar’s striking staff disappeared.

The idea that he might have an audience further fueled Larson’s annoyance.

Silme’s cheeks flushed in scarlet contrast to the grim, white line of her lips. “There are things more important than our love? Is that what you’re saying?”

“For the moment, yes.” Larson leapt to his feet, control slipping. “Trying to keep my friends and family from starving to death or getting aced by some warped bastard of a warlock takes precedence over the exact reasons why I love my wife.” He added with unconcealed sarcasm, “Is that okey-dokey with you?”

“No. That’s not O-kee-doe-kee with me.” Silme struggled with the slang, apparently guessing its intention from previous conversations. “If you loved me for legitimate reasons, you’d know why.”

“That’s nonsense!” Larson was shouting now. “That’s not how love works....”

“And if you really loved me, you’d go back to your own world.”

The track of Larson’s thoughts collapsed beneath him, and he found himself scrabbling for ideas as well as words. Rage inspired him. “Damn it, Silme! We’re not talking about a subway ride here. I’ve crossed time once, and you’ve seen the results. Mythology as reality. Magic. We’re supposed to be in historical ninth or tenth century Germany, for Christ’s sake. You’re not supposed to have elves or wizards or talking wolf-gods. You’re not even supposed to have potatoes. Or a barony called Cullinsberg. And what the hell kind of a name is Tazz-ee-ar?”

“Hey!” Taziar edged closer to the argument, Astryd at his heels. He spoke with a soft gentleness designed to soothe. “It was my father’s name, okey-dokey? Now why don’t you two ...”

Silme interrupted as if Taziar had not started. “That damage has already been done. I’m trying to protect my world from more of your interference.”

“
My
interference!” Larson balled his fists, looking for something safe to hit. “I’m sick and tired of getting blamed for Freyr’s magic. Despite what you think, shit happened before I arrived, and shit’s still going to happen if I leave. I’m not taking the blame for every crummy, stupid, insignificant thing that goes wrong in this whole fucking world.”

Taziar caught Larson’s forearm. “Allerum, calm down.”

Larson jerked his arm free, sending Taziar stumbling sideways. Whirling, Larson slammed his fist into a tree trunk. Pain lanced through his fingers, and water showered his already sodden figure. “I’m not going back to ’Nam.” He punched the oak. “I’m not going back to vicious enemies and ungrateful allies.” He struck again. “I’m not going to watch women and children dismembered in the name of peace.” He buried his face in his sleeve, the blows becoming less violent and directed. “I’m not going to live like a hunted animal, in constant fear.” The significance of his words seeped through the hot blanket of anger.
What’s the difference between Bolverkr and NVA artillery? Why should I care less about the scattered corpses in tenth century Germany than the scattered corpses in Saigon?
Madness descended upon him, stealing his vision and filling his ears with a wordless buzzing.

A comforting hand touched Larson’s shoulder blade.

Larson shrank away. “Leave me alone. Just leave me the hell alone.”

“Fine. I will.” Silme’s voice scarcely penetrated Larson’s fog. “And don’t try to follow me.”

As Silme’s looming presence disappeared, the air around Larson seemed to lighten.

Behind Larson, Astryd’s voice settled to an accusing growl. “You know the state she’s in. How could you upset her like that?”

Silence hovered. Larson kept his face hidden, his throbbing fist sagging at his side.

Astryd whirled, crashing through the brush, her steps rapidly growing more distant.

Larson waited, the persistent contact on his shoulder the only indication that Taziar had remained. Silent tears glided from Larson’s eyes, mingling with the dripping rainwater.

“Allerum.” Taziar’s composure sounded out of place after the savagery of the argument and the wild chaos of Larson’s emotions. “I’ll talk to Silme. Will you be all right alone?”

Larson nodded slightly, wanting nothing more than the solace of being by himself. He fingered his hilt. Aware he should say something, he turned, but Taziar was already gone.

Alone.
Larson could not shake the crushing feeling of abandonment.
Nothing left.
The idea of death no longer bothered him. It beckoned, welcoming.
But I’ll be damned if I’ll give that Dragonrank bastard the pleasure of becoming my executioner.
Larson’s emotions flickered, flip-flopping him repeatedly from despair to rage. Finally, depression collapsed beneath wild, driving anger.
Bolverkr, I’ve played your game. Now it’s time to use my baseball and my rules.

Aware Bolverkr could read his thoughts, Larson let the events of the last few days cycle through his mind, fanning his frenzy with each pass. His actions became automatic, lacking the motivations and experience Bolverkr would need to understand them.

Larson returned to the decimated town, steeling himself against the sight of corpses his mind’s defenses turned to statues. He worked mechanically, recalling the location of every tool from his recent, minute search of the damaged town.

First, Larson gathered clay crockery and metal cooking pots. Next, he returned to the pastures, scooping up heaps of nitrogen-rich soil. Burned timbers abounded in the dragon-decimated town. Larson collected a hefty pile along with dried twigs, branches, and intact timbers for fuel. He filled several pots with water from the contaminated river. Digging through the ruins of the healer’s cottage, Larson uncovered his final ingredient, a single vial of yellow powder. Uncorked, it gave off the unmistakable, rotten egg odor of sulfur. He added a candle and some unraveled, linen thread to the pile.

Saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur.
Larson crowded his raw ingredients onto a space of ground on the boundary of what had once been a village. The formula was one Larson felt certain every man of his era learned as a toddler.
Gunpowder.
He surveyed the piled items, aware he needed one more thing.
A solid container that will allow pressure to build before shattering.
His gaze fell on a nearby corpse, and he hated the source that came naturally to his thoughts.
Bone.

The idea of disarticulating human femurs made Larson queasy, dispelling some of the anger that had driven him for the past several minutes. The realization of what he planned to do struck him as hard as a physical blow.
Gunpowder.
Memory flooded his mind, of an early autumn day in tenth-century Norway. Bramin crouched before Larson and Taziar, a rifle clutched in his grip. The gun had come from America in the late 1980s, brought by a one-way time traveler named Gary Mannix and called Geirmagnus, the first Dragonrank Master. But it was Larson’s war memories that had taught Silme’s half-brother to wield the gun.

Larson’s remembrance brought a vivid image of Taziar, sprawled on the grass, gaping at a ragged hole in his thigh. The Climber’s shocky-white face made a striking contrast to Bramin’s inky skin and half dark elven features. The rifle barrel hovered, aimed at Larson’s chest, and his own admonishment rang in his ears, bringing a measure of guilt.
Bramin, if you put guns into your world, you open the way for any weak coward to kill you before you see him coming.... Once you bring guns into your world, there is no more glory in war.

The memory faded, leaving Larson awash in questions. He had intended his argument simply to distract Bramin, but the morality had seeped far deeper. Once having won the conflict, Larson had carried that rifle miles to Hvergelmir, the Helspring waterfall that destroys all things in its cascade. He had tossed the gun into the wild braid of waters, hoping to delay the invention to its appropriate time or later, symbolically annihilating his year in the Vietnam War as well.

Doubt assailed Larson. He thought of Silme and how pregnancy and the pressures of combat had wrung her to a cruel, sullen core. He considered Astryd. The less experienced sorceress had withdrawn into her loyalty to Silme, forgetting the debts she owed Taziar and Larson as well. Only the little Climber seemed unaffected by Bolverkr’s constant threat. Taziar appeared more distressed by his companions’ bickering than the fear of death.