Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (27 page)

The land of darkness and the shadow of death.

—Job 10:21

The last rays of sunlight slipped past the inn room window, leaving the chamber awash in the red glow of the fire. Half-sitting, half-crouched on his pack, Al Larson wondered what it would be like to be a father. The oldest of three children, he tried to recall his siblings’ infancies. His sister was scarcely two years younger, and his brother’s babyhood faded into a muddled remembrance of wet burps and diapers.
I doubt Silme and I will have plastic bottles and jars of mashed peas.
The thought made Larson smile. He glanced at Silme, perched on the logs by the hearth, eyelids half-closed as she rehearsed some meditative technique too softly for him to hear. The hearth fire accentuated rosy cheeks and unlined features. Hair swept around her shoulders in thick, golden waves. The firelight carved a spindly imitation of perfect curves in a shadow on the floor beside her.

Larson looked away. Memories swept down on him then; though they lacked the nightmarish reality of the flashbacks, they seemed every bit as cruel. He pictured Silme’s bumbling, raven-haired apprentice, Brendor, and recalled how he and Silme had planned to raise the boy as a son, until an enemy’s magic had turned Brendor into a soulless killing machine. Larson could still feel the pressure and warmth of the boy against him as Brendor wrenched him to the ground with the inhuman strength of the sorcerer who controlled him. The child’s grip seemed permanently impressed on Larson’s flesh, the knife the boy plunged for his throat a constant in his mind’s eye.

Remembrance of Silme’s magic tearing apart the body that had once housed Brendor’s spirit still brought tears to Larson’s eyes, and the image of the child’s glazed blue eyes and blood-splattered features drove him nearly to the madness that had engulfed him at the time. Then the incident had sent him flashing back to Ti Sun, a Vietnamese boy with whom he had shared conversation and chocolate. Now, it came to him in fragments: the hidden grenade in the boy’s hand that Larson had not seen, his buddy’s gun howling, bullets tearing through the child, one moment so alive, the next as empty as his stained and tattered clothes, the rage that had churned up inside Larson and spurred him to batter his companion in a wild, irrational frenzy.

Larson winced, gritting his teeth against a memory too deeply engraved to keep from sliding into his mind next. Again, he saw Silme, blood trickling from a corner of her mouth, driven to her knees by his blind and misdirected attack, out of time and place.
And all of it because we dared to subject a child to my insanity and our enemies.

One more boy entered Larson’s thoughts, his younger brother, Timmy. Larson had enlisted in the army to ease the hardships on his family after his father’s untimely death in an automobile accident with a drunken driver.
Timmy always felt betrayed, that Dad “abandoned” us. Eventually, he’ll be old enough to stop blaming Dad for his death. But I promised Timmy we’d always be together, then ran off to a foreign land ... and died there.
Guilt hammered Larson. When he had left for Vietnam, he was too concerned about grappling with his own mixture of fear and excitement to notice the expression of hostility and grief on Timmy’s face.
Then and there, I could have comforted him, put things right. But I didn’t. I was too goddamned worried about my own pain.
Only much later did the vision haunt Al Larson. And, by then, there was nothing left to say or do.
The same magical thinking that allows a child to believe his father died to punish him might force Timmy to think his bitterness killed his brother.
Remorse balled in Larson’s gut, making him feel ill.
What a burden for a child to have to live with.

Larson lowered his head.
Barely twenty, one semester of college, a war, and now I have a wife and almost a child.
Panic touched him. He glanced at Silme again, saw a woman more beautiful than any model or actress he could recall.
I’m not even old enough to drink yet. I never got to vote for a president, but I was old enough to die for him.
Larson stared at Silme until his vision blurred and her form went as hazy and unrecognizable as her shadow. Still, the sight of her filled him with joy, and the thought of losing her inspired a wild urge to sweep her into his arms.
I love her more than anything before in my life.
Doubts smothered devotion in a rush.
But I’m not fit to be a father. I’m too young. I’m too inexperienced. And I’ve lost decency, sanity, and all sense of fairness in a mindless war. What sort of warped morality could I give to a son or daughter? Silme and the baby deserve better than I can offer.

Seeking a replacement, Larson turned his attention to Taziar. The Climber had been pacing from door to window for the last hour. Now, Larson noticed a change in Taziar’s patter, and curiosity dove self-deprecation and fear from his thoughts. Taziar’s course was becoming shorter. He was turning farther from the door and pausing at the window with each pass. And Larson felt fairly certain Taziar had no idea what he was doing.
But I know. Any second now, that little thief is going out the window.

Feigning indifference, Larson rose and stretched. He watched Taziar stare out the window at the grimy walls across the alleyway for some time before he whirled and started back toward the table. Quickly, Larson crossed the room to the window, not surprised to see Taziar spin back even before the Climber reached the center of the chamber. Casually, Larson placed a hand on each shutter and waited.

Five steps brought Taziar to the window again. He stopped there, palms pressed to the sill, blue eyes focused distantly, seemingly oblivious to Larson’s presence. He shifted his grip, leaving a sweaty print on the ledge. Suddenly, he tensed.

Larson slammed the shutters closed. Wood thunked against flesh, and the panels rebounded open. Taziar sprang backward with a startled cry. He nursed the fingers of his left hand, eyes wide and turned on Larson in shocked accusation. “Why did you do that?”

Larson caught the swinging shutters and nudged them closed more gently. “That’s ‘why the
hell
did I do that?’ Don’t you people know how to swear?”

Taziar rubbed his pinched fingers. “You
jerk!
” he said in stilted, heavily-accented English. “Why in
Karana’s deepest, darkest, frozen pits of hell
would you do something like that?“

Larson resisted the impulse to answer “sport.” “You were about to climb through that window, weren’t you?”

“No!” Taziar responded instantly, then paused in consideration.

“Admit it.”

“No,” Taziar repeated less forcefully. “But now that you raised the subject, Astryd’s been gone far too long.”

“I didn’t raise the subject, you just did.” Larson leaned against the shutters. “But you’re right. That’s why I’m going after her.”

“You?” Taziar and Silme spoke simultaneously, in the same incredulous tone.

“Me?” Larson mimicked. “Yes, me. Of course, me. I am, in fact, the only logical choice. Astryd can transport. If she’s not back, it’s because someone’s holding her. That someone has to be defeated. I may not be the best swordsman in the world, but I’d venture to guess I could beat either of you.”

“I can think of other reasons Astryd might not have returned yet,” Taziar shot back, his injured hand forgotten. “She may still be gathering information. She could have gotten lost. We can’t all go. Someone has to stay here in case she returns. Rescuing her may require stealth and knowledge of the city, so I’m the one to go.”

Larson glanced past Taziar, saw Silme shaking her head in disagreement. “I can handle ‘stealth,’ and I know Cullinsberg as well as Astryd.” Though irrelevant, Larson made the latter statement sound as if it held some grand significance. “Besides, even lost, she could still transport. If she’s gathering information and you show up, everyone will try to kill you. Plus, they’ll know Astryd’s with you and try to kill her, too. But no one knows me.”

Taziar tossed a meaningful look at Silme who became suddenly engrossed in the fire.

Lacking the knowledge to make sense of the exchange, Larson dismissed it. “Then it’s settled. I go. You stay with Silme.” Larson hated to use guilt as a tool against Taziar, but he saw no other way to keep the Climber from taking off on his own. “If anything happens to her or my baby while I’m gone, I’m holding you responsible.” Larson winced, not liking the sound of his own threat. Ignoring Silme’s glare, he crossed the room, opened the door, and slipped into the hallway.

The panel clicked closed behind Larson. Through it, he heard Taziar’s muffled shout of protest and Silme’s curt reply distorted beyond understanding. Larson trotted down the corridor. Soon his companions’ voices faded into the obscurity of a dirty passage, its chipped, indigo paint revealing a previous layer of white. Blue flakes crunched beneath Larson’s boots, and he trod carefully across boards, warped by water, to the staircase at the farther end. In the center of the steps, the passage of countless feet had worn down its carpet to the planks. But at the corners, the dark brown wool appeared new. Larson passed no one as he shuffled down the three flights into a back room grimier than the halls. A door to his left led to the common room; a wild clamor of voices drifted from beneath it. Choosing the opposite door, he emerged into the alley beneath the chamber window.

The wind felt comfortably cool to Larson after hours sitting idle before the hearth fire. He had grown accustomed to the smoke; the crisp air made his eyes water and the night seemed unusually clear. Around the spires of the baron’s keep, he caught a vivid view of stars, like pinholes in black velvet, and picked out the constellation of Orion. Then his instincts took over. He discarded the beauty of the night sky as insignificant background. Alert for movement, he abandoned the alley for a cobbled main street and delved Taziar’s directions to Astryd from his memory.

The street stood deserted, the shops closed and dark, the sidewalk stands vacated for the night. The merchants had hauled away their wares, leaving wooden skeletons or empty wagons, some protected from the elements with tarps. Larson moved quickly and smoothly, keeping to the edges where the walkways met the streets and away from the yawning darkness of alleys and smaller thoroughfares. A noise snapped through the darkness. Larson flattened against a cart, eyes probing. Across the road, a gray sheet of canvas fluttered like a ghost in the breeze. Larson loosed a pent up breath and continued.

Thoughts of survival channeled aside Larson’s concerns and self-doubts. His abilities as a father paled before the more urgent matter of Astryd’s safety. Lacking information, he had made no plan, and Kensei Gaelinar’s words emerged from memory, equally as alarming as they were comforting: “A warrior makes his plans in the instant between sword strokes.” But Gaelinar had been capable of split second strategies and instantaneous wisdom. As much as Larson tried to emulate the Kensei, he doubted he would ever learn such a skill.
My mind doesn’t work that fast.
But, this time, Larson knew his life and Astryd’s might depend on it.

Larson turned a corner onto another main street and immediately realized he was no longer alone. Half a dozen men stood in a cluster. Their breath emerged as white puffs in the cold. Their conversation wafted indistinctly to Larson. Darkness robbed him of his color vision, making them appear as caricatures in black and gray. Trained to mistrust groups in towns, Larson backpedaled. Before he could duck back around the turn, he saw an arm rise and a finger aimed in his direction. Every head turned toward him.

Something seemed vaguely familiar about the men, but Larson did not take time to ponder. He dodged around the corner and broke into a hunched run. The men gave chase. Their footfalls clattered along the empty streets. Larson quickened his pace. Realizing he was on a straightaway, he skittered into an alley, then sprinted around the first narrow branchway. His boot came down on something soft. A screech rent the air. A claw swished across leather, and a cat raced deeper into the shadows. Off-balanced, Larson careened into a rain barrel. Icy water sloshed on his chest and abdomen. He tried to compensate, but the barrel crashed into his hip with bruising force. He fought for equilibrium, lost it, tumbled and rolled. Heavy wood slammed against his foot, followed by the slap as the barrel struck the earthen floor of the alleyway.

Moisture penetrated to Larson’s skin. He tensed to rise, found himself staring into a semicircle of drawn spears, and sank back to his knees. Slowly, nonthreateningly, he raised his hands.
Who are these people? What do they want?
Suddenly realizing lifted hands might not serve as a gesture of surrender in this world, he lowered them to his thighs.

“Don’t move.” The man directly before Larson let his spear sag and hefted a lantern. Light played over the group, revealing an array of male faces and muscled torsos clothed in black and red linen. A seventh man stood behind the others, his face a dark blur. He wore a tunic, breeks, and cloak. He carried no spear, but a sword dangled at his hip.

Uniforms of red and black.
Larson relaxed and allowed himself a crooked smile.
Smart move. I just ran from the cops.

The man with the lantern wore a silver badge on his left breast; apparently he was their leader. “What are you doing out after curfew?”

Curfew? Shadow didn’t say anything about a curfew.
Larson looked into the leader’s round face, met eyes deep brown and demanding.
The curfew probably came as a result of the violence. Shadow wouldn’t even know about it.
Larson cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’m a foreigner, and I didn’t know about the curfew. A young woman friend went out this afternoon and hasn’t returned. I was worried and came looking for her.” Having spoken the truth, Larson had no difficulty adopting a sincere expression.

Spears bobbed as the guards shifted position. The leader seemed unimpressed. “What did you take,
thief?
” His inflection made the last term sound like the most repugnant word in Cullinsberg’s language.