Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (23 page)

Again, Silme paused.

Behind her, three guns roared simultaneously, the first shot of the triple salute. Silme stiffened, spinning to face this new danger.

Now!
Larson seized the opening. Shoving Timmy toward the procession, he sprang for Silme. He covered the distance between them in three running strides, raising his clasped hands to strike.

Silme whirled, back-stepping.

Larson tried to redirect his charge but momentum overbalanced him, and he sprawled to the ground at her feet. Scuttling backward, he tried to stand.

The toe of Silme’s boot caught Larson square in the ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. She muttered the first harsh syllable of a spell word.

The second gunshot rang through the graveyard.

No!
Ignoring his pain, Larson lunged, catching her foot as it retreated. He wrenched.

Silme’s incantation broke to a gasp of enraged frustration. No light or sparks accompanied the change, no evidence that she had delved life energy for sorcery. She twisted, falling to her hands and knees. She fumbled for something in her cloak.

The third shot split the air. In its wake, Timmy called frantically, “Al! Al!”

Larson launched himself at Silme, wishing she had spent less time with his ronin swordmaster. “Run, Timmy. Get out of here. Go!”

Silme leapt for Larson at the same time. A glint of sunlight off metal in her fist warned him. Larson lurched sideways, grabbing for her wrist. His attack fell short, but the movement saved him. The knife sliced open a belt loop on his jeans, sparing his flesh. Her knee plunged into his thigh, missing his groin by inches.

Shit.
Stunned by the ferocity of Silme’s attack, Larson crouched. His fingers knotted, burrowing up handfuls of dirt. He could no longer doubt that she intended to kill him. Still, the idea of harming Silme seemed baser than the vilest evil.
But I don’t need to hurt her. I only need time to run. And to think.

Silme charged again, jabbing the knife expertly. Kensei Gaelinar had taught his lessons well.

Larson dodged, dropping his training for crude, street-fighting techniques. He ducked beneath Silme’s guard, hurling both fistfuls of sand into her eyes.

Silme’s aim went wild. She skittered backward, avoiding a blow that never came.

Larson did not press the attack, instead using the time gained to cover as much ground as possible.
She can’t cast if she can’t see.
He darted toward the funeral, and the exit, catching Timmy within four strides. He grabbed the child in mid-run.

Suddenly upended, Timmy yelped, then settled into Larson’s arms like a giant rag doll.

Silme made a muffled noise of rage and pain.

Larson sprinted over tended grounds, skirting the funeral at the barest fringes of polite distance before using it as a shield. For now, all he could think about was rescuing Timmy and the baby, though other needs gnawed at the back of his mind.

Once Larson passed the funeral, the wrought iron fencing looked like black thread against the afternoon’s silver; it funneled toward the central gate. Larson gained some solace from the realization that most of Silme’s spells were defenses learned against Bramin’s magic. Although Dragonrank mages could cast any spell, attempting one she had never tried before would cost vast quantities of life energy. And it would take longer and more acute concentration, not the sort of thing she would hurl in a wild situation or blindly.
I hope.
Larson repositioned Timmy over his shoulder, barely noticing the weight but needing to free his hands.

The gate loomed in Larson’s vision. He charged for the opening and barreled through it. Setting Timmy down, he whirled, wasting time pulling the gates shut, hoping the technology of its latching would foil Silme, at least temporarily. As the gates creaked closed, too slowly, Larson slammed the bolt home.

“Who is she? What’s going on? Why does she want to hurt us?” Timmy barraged his brother with questions.

“Later.” Larson grabbed Timmy’s hand, breaking back into a run that half-dragged his brother down the sidewalk.
If I stand still and look around, Silme can access my thoughts, locate us, and transport. We’ve got to keep moving.
Flipping Timmy back into his grip, Larson sprinted around smaller blocks toward the main highway and the hotel district. Cars whizzed along the roadways, seeming absurdly fast after more than a year spent among ox carts and horses.

Larson waited until a break appeared in the traffic, then darted into the street.

A canary yellow taxi careened around the corner, honking a continuous blast at Larsen.

Larsen came to an abrupt stop. Still in the car’s path, he swung Timmy to safety.

The cab screeched to a halt inches away from Larson, horn blaring. The driver poked a darkly-bearded head through the window. “Are you deaf and blind or just stupid? I could have killed you!”

“I need a cab.”

The driver glanced at the lit sign on the roof of his vehicle. “Well, surprise. You found one.” He made a circular gesture, his smile softening his sarcasm. “Most of my fares come in by the door instead of the windshield.”

A driver in a powder blue Dart behind the taxi leaned on his horn.

The cabby made an abrupt, obscene gesture through the window, and a line of vehicles squeezed around his taxi.

Seizing Timmy’s hand, Larson sidled to the door, wrenched it open, and slid inside. Timmy took the seat beside him, then pulled the panel shut.

The cab threaded back into traffic.

Larson sank into a vinyl seat rank with cigarette smoke. He gasped for breath, only now realizing how much his lungs ached. His heart pained him, too.
I love Silme so much. How could I let this happen?
A worse thought filled his mind.
What if I have to hurt her?
Horror tightened its hold.
What if I have to kill her? Or she kills Timmy?

Timmy touched his brother’s hand in question.

The cabby cleared his throat. “You want to go any place in particular or just ride in circles?”

“Manhattan,” Larson said at random. Shaken back to reality, it occurred to him that he might have no money except rude gold and silver coins. He reached into his back pocket, reassured by the bulge of a wallet. Removing it, he flipped it open, discovering more than enough bills to afford the trip from the Bronx to anywhere in Manhattan. His driver’s license met his gaze, and he thumbed it free. The smudged photo seemed familiar yet distantly alien, the man he used to be.

“You from I-o-way, kid?”

“What?” Drawn from his reverie, Larson looked up.

“Manhattan’s a big town. You want to go any place in particular?”

Larson knew only that he had to keep moving, had to lead Silme away from his family’s home in the Bronx village of Baychester.
She can read my thoughts. I can’t even think about home or she’ll find Mom and Pam. She might hurt them or use them to lure me into a trap.
“Broadway Theater.” Feeling a strange need to explain his choice, he continued, “Every time one of my out of state relatives calls, they always tell me to give their regards to Broadway. This seems like as good a time as any.” Hoping to confuse Silme, he filled his mind with images of Claremont Park, a broad square of Bronx greenery where he used to take Timmy when his brother was an infant while his mother and sister shopped at Sears.

“Yeah. Right.” The cabby shrugged, and in the rearview mirror, Larson could see the man shaking his head.

Larson considered Claremont Park in rapt detail, purposefully diverting his thoughts from his family. Experience told him that sorcerers could only magically transport to places they had studied personally, but Astryd had once entered a prison she had seen only by accessing Larson’s thoughts and looking through his eyes. Uncertain whether Silme could transport to a place Larson saw only in his memory, he repeatedly detailed the route from St. Raymond’s Cemetery to Claremont Park.
Silme doesn’t know about cars. She’ll have to assume I walked. If I can get her to walk, too, it’ll keep the baby alive a little longer.

“Al, what’s going on?” Timmy sounded frightened. “Why aren’t we going home? How come I know you’re going to die?” He huddled closer, his tears warm and wet on Larson’s arm.

“Just a second, Timmy.” Larson put his brother off a little longer, as a new idea disturbed him.
What if this is an alternate reality? The park I remember may not exist.
He addressed the cabby. “Driver, you familiar with Claremont Park?”

“Yeah, just took a couple of kids there this morning, in fact. Boy carrying this duct tape sword with a girl dressed like she come out of a fairy tale.” The cabby shook his head at the memory. “There’s some sort of group meeting there. Society for Creating Anarchy-ism or some such.” He glanced back. “Why? You want to go there instead?”

“No,” Larson said quickly, hoping he had not inflicted a Chaos-cursed sorceress on a crowd of college students.
I can’t change focus now, or she’ll know I’m diverting her. It’s a big park. And I don’t think she’ll harm anyone if she doesn’t find me there.
He turned his thoughts back to the route, keeping it always in a conscious pocket of memory.

“Al,” Timmy whined.

Larson sighed heavily, aware his tale might better pass for an episode of Star Trek, yet knowing he had to tell the boy something. He wrapped his arm around the child. “Timmy, favorite brother of mine, you’re not going to believe this. ...”

Nothing, I am sure, calls forth the
faculties so much as the being obliged
to struggle with the world.

—Mary Wollstonecraft
Thoughts on the Education of Daughters

Taziar Medakan jolted awake. He kept his eyes closed and, for a moment, he heard and felt nothing. Unable to remember where he was nor how he might have gotten there, he tried to orient in his mind. Instantly, agony hammered and squeezed him. His legs throbbed with bruises, his back stung from burns, and his wrists and ankles felt raw. A soft, unfamiliar cloak touched the damaged skin on his back through holes charred in the cloth of his climbing shirt. He discovered he was kneeling on stone, head sagged to his chest. It seemed an odd position for sleeping, but pain forestalled curiosity.

A voice tore open Taziar’s dark void of pain. “Answer me, bitch, or Til tear open your throat and watch you bleed.”

A choked whimper followed, then Astryd replied, her tone weak and fearful but still vividly conveying frustration. “I told you I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Taziar’s eyes snapped open. In the center of an unfamiliar room, Bolverkr supported Astryd with an arm wrapped across her abdomen. Her hands and feet were bound. The sorcerer’s other arm looped around her neck, a dagger pressed tightly to her throat. Taziar knelt in a corner, opposite a heavy oak and brass door. Otherwise, the room stood empty.

Taziar lunged at Bolverkr, but his numbed legs did not obey him. The abrupt movement tore pain through his hands, and resistance jarred him backward. Only then did he realize ropes lashed his wrists so tightly that the hemp had abraded them raw. More rope encircled his ankles, tight enough to leave impressions in his boots, though the leather protected his skin. He howled. “Leave Astryd alone! Let her go!” He struggled madly. His efforts sprawled him to his side. He fought the ropes, pain flashing through him until it overcame vision and thought.