Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (38 page)

The woman twisted her head toward Taziar. She started to shake. Timmy opened his mouth, presumably to greet his brother.

Before he could speak, Taziar clamped a hand over Timmy’s lips. He spun the boy, gesturing him to silence before removing the restraining hand. Catching Timmy’s wrist, Taziar led the child to a position beside the window. Releasing his hold, the Climber picked up the gun.

“Please,” the social worker said soothingly, voice faltering, tears glazing her eyes and her face drained of color. “Don’t hurt the boy.”

“Just stay quiet and still, and we won’t hurt anyone.” Larson switched to the barony tongue to address Taziar. “Keep the thing pointed at her and pretend you know what you’re doing.”

Taziar positioned himself between Timmy and the social worker, the gun leveled in both hands, finger well back from the trigger, his posture a poor imitation of Larson’s earlier pose. He only succeeded in looking as if he wanted the Police Special as far away from himself as possible.

It’ll have to do.
Larson jammed the .45 back into his pocket, aware that, to a person on the wrong end of a gun, even a .22 seemed like a naval cannon, no matter how incompetent the wielder. He glanced at the policeman.
We have to work fast, before this guy wakes up.
Kneeling, he set to work stripping the man of shirt and undershirt.

Abruptly, the radio at the policeman’s belt crackled. A voice emerged, uninterpretable beneath the static.

Startled, Larson jumped, naturally bringing the .45 up to cover his only threat.

The woman shuddered back into the chair, biting off a scream midway through, then clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Timmy’s head flicked repeatedly from her to Taziar to Larson.

The policeman on the floor groaned.

Larson swore. Seeing that Taziar still held the woman captive, he returned his own gun to his pants and set to work knotting the clothing together. The need for speed made him feel slow and clumsy.
Can’t afford to hit this guy again. I don’t want to kill him.
Finishing the tie, he bounded across the room to Timmy’s side, hoping the other men in the precinct were too involved with the fires to hear or answer the broken scream.

“Go! Out!” Larson commanded Taziar in his language. Without waiting to see if the Climber obeyed, he turned to the social worker. “Give me your jacket.”

“W-what?”

“Give me the damn jacket now! Move!” Larson made a threatening gesture with a muscled arm, not wanting to waste the time to draw his gun again. The need for action so soon after his gunshot wound was making him nauseated and dizzy.

The woman removed her pants suit jacket in nervous, jerky motions that, to Larson’s heightened senses, seemed to progress in slow motion. She hurled the polyester jacket toward him.

The policeman stiffened, eyes fluttering open.

Larson snatched the garment from midair, the brisk gesture aching through his shoulder. Hastily attaching the jacket to the shirts, he grabbed Timmy and laced the string of clothing through the boy’s belt. Taziar was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey!” The cop scrambled to an awkward crouch. Then, apparently realizing Larson had a gun and he did not, he fast-crawled behind a chair.

Seizing both ends of his makeshift rope, Larson eased Timmy to the windowsill. “Careful,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “You’ll be all right. Shadow’ll be there to catch you.” He forced his thoughts away from Taziar’s slight stature.
A guy who climbs buildings with stolen objects and no support has to be strong, no matter how small.
Scrambling onto the ledge, he lowered the boy as far as possible before letting go. Whirling, Larson prepared to climb.

“Hey!” the policeman shouted again. “You! Freeze!” Footfalls thumped across the floor toward Larson. The social worker screamed, long, loud, and unstifled.

Larson skittered down the wall, the effort of supporting his weight tearing at the wound in his shoulder. Halfway down, his strength gave out. He plummeted, the penetrating, driving ache in his arm overwhelming his other senses. He did not feel Taziar’s steadying hands, helping him through an instinctive roll. The pain of impact brought tears to his eyes. The police cap tumbled from his head, revealing the bloody headband.

Timmy made a high-pitched noise of distress.

Al Larson managed to stagger to his feet. As he rose, he found himself staring into Taziar Medakan’s face. Timmy stood, watching in horror.

“Quick.” The Shadow Climber said. He crammed his Dodger’s cap on Larson’s head. Too tight, it squeezed the wound, but the pain seemed minimal compared with the deeper ache of his shoulder.

Bulling through agony with will alone, Larson grabbed Timmy with his good arm and swung the boy to his uninjured shoulder. “Hang on. We’re out of here.” He ran. Scarcely able to see through the darkness, Larson kept to the grass, tracing brightly lit sidewalks. Though he could not see or hear Taziar, he trusted that his companion sprinted along beside him.

From his perch, Timmy prattled excitedly. “He is Robin Hood. Shadow really
is
Robin Hood. You should have seen him crawl all over the wall. Outta sight! Did you really point a gun at that lady? I can’t believe the way you decked out that cop.” He made several sound effects to mimic punches.

Larson let Timmy ramble on, afraid to let his last words to his brother become “shut up.”
Silme and Bolverkr will return and soon. There’s nothing left but to make a stand, someplace where no more innocents can get injured.
Larson gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt nearly as much as his arm.
We’re going to need food. And ammunition.
He channeled his mind to practical issues, aware he could never hope to defeat two high-ranking Dragonrank sorcerers.
God, I hope Shadow’s swiped some cash from somewhere. What a time for shopping.
If he had felt any less battered and harried, he might have found the observation funny. He clutched Taziar’s cap to his head with his free hand.
Can’t afford to lose the hat. Dirt won’t bother anyone, and half the young adult population in New York wears clothing as tattered as mine. But blood’s gonna draw attention.

Larson shifted to a more sobering thought.
There’s got to be a way to keep Timmy safe.
He drew a blank, and his attempts tore memory to the forefront. He could not help but recall the last time he had dealt with a loved one Timmy’s age, a half-breed, bumbling boy named Brendor who had served as Silme’s apprentice. He recalled leaving the child with Silme’s friends in a village, hoping to keep Brendor secure until they defeated Bramin and returned for the child.

The remembrances came, rapid-fire, between each of Larson’s running steps and panting breaths. Vivid as yesterday, he saw Brendor’s savage rush, felt the boy crush him to the ground with magically enhanced strength. He relived the brilliant yellow spears of Silme’s sorcery as they tore through the last remnants of Brendor, a corpse killed and animated by Bramin.

Silme can track Timmy through his mind. As dangerous as it seems, Timmy is safer with me.
Larson put the thought of his mother heading toward the station from his mind.
We’ll just have to start the battle before Mom arrives. And hope Silme and Bolverkr take the bait.

Larson and Taziar ran on.

Cobwebs choked the abandoned warehouse on 6th Street, dividing its single room into triangles with gossamer walls. Al Larson crouched on a floor thick with dust and the scattered, unidentifiable shards that had fallen from objects long ago moved. Timmy huddled in a corner, his grime-smeared features angelic in sleep. Taziar sat beside a fire extinguisher and behind the bags of rations they had bought with what little of his money remained. He chewed on a ham and cheese sandwich, pausing after every bite to stare at the unfamiliar arrangement of meat and bread. He offered the next taste to Larson.

Larson shook his head, frowning. He knew he should eat, yet he dared not do so. Anxiety kept hunger at bay, and he felt certain he could not keep food down for long. Images of Silme paraded through his mind: the smile that seemed to touch deep into his soul, her warm, silky skin pressed up against him in desire, the soft look in her gray eyes when he made a comment only she could understand. His mind seemed incapable of capturing her beauty; every glance he took showed facets he had forgotten, the perfect shape of her features, the cascade of golden hair, the firm, slender curves he could never tire of seeing. Thoughts of her brought a whirlwind of grief and hope.
We can get her back. We have to be able to free her from Chaos.
He could not abandon that hope, yet reality intruded.
I have to fight against her. I might have to kill her.
His hand fell on the .45. It felt heavy and dragging, out of place at his side. “I can’t do it.”

Taziar looked up. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t hurt Silme. I just can’t.”

Taziar set his sandwich on the bag of canned goods and jerky sticks. “I know. That’s why you need to focus your attention on Bolverkr. I’ll handle Silme.”

Doubt assailed Larson. “Handle her? What does that mean, handle her? Kill her?”

Taziar scooted around to face Larson, sitting cross-legged, the fire extinguisher against his knee. “If that’s what it takes, yes.” He brushed away the comma of hair that continually slipped down his forehead. Though routine, the gesture seemed contrived, not quite hiding his nervousness.

Larson knew just the idea of killing anyone sickened Taziar, that the little Climber tended to freeze in combat, even when his life or his friends’ lives lay in the balance. Still, Larson’s love for Silme drove him to discard this knowledge and assume the worst. “I know she may have to die. I’ve accepted that. But you won’t kill her if you see another way?”

Taziar said nothing.

Larson’s concern quadrupled in an instant. “Right?”

Taziar brushed crumbs from his lap.

“Answer me, damn it!”

Larson’s shout awakened Timmy. The boy opened one eye, then rolled over and relaxed again.

“Allerum,” Taziar said mildly. “It is fair to assume I have a plan. Silme and Bolverkr can read your mind. Therefore, if I told you anything, I’d be an idiot.” He shrugged. “Despite Bolverkr’s opinion, I’m not an idiot.”

“But ...” Larson started. He stopped, uncertain what to say. If he needed to steal an elephant from seven hundred armed guards on the topmost floor of the Empire State Building, he would consult Taziar. But for combat strategy, Taziar’s eye for guesswork and detail had proven worse than blind in the past. Still, Taziar had made an effective point. The best plot in the world became far more dangerous than the lousiest once it fell into enemy hands. “At least tell me what you want with that?” He pointed to the fire extinguisher that Taziar had pilfered on the way out of the grocery store.

“Sure.” Taziar patted the canister, his fingers thudding hollowly against it. “You told me it fights fires.”

“Right,” Larson agreed.

“And you told me Bolverkr has a spectacular fire spell that we should prepare against.”

“Ri-ight.” Larson blinked, the pieces falling together slowly. “You brought it to put out Bolverkr’s fire spell?”

“Ri-ight,” Taziar imitated Larson’s thoughtful stretching of the syllable.

Larson closed his eyes, his fingers on the blood-smeared headband, shaking his head at the craziness of the idea. “Shadow, if Bolverkr hits us with that spell, we’ll be cooked before you could even think to use the extinguisher.”

“Maybe.” Taziar shrugged. “Maybe not. No one’s supposed to be able to dodge those magical lightning flashes either, but I’ve done it several times.”

Larson pursed his lips in consideration. He recognized his challenging and irritation as a reaction to fear for Silme. Once identified, he could not disperse it, but he did find it easier to think around the concern. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. From what I remember from Silme and Astryd talking, Dragonrank magic doesn’t work all that well against nonmagical objects and beings, like us. If there was a spell that could shatter a man’s heart instantly or could heat the air around us all to a bazillion degrees or could create a giant blend-o-matic, I’m sure Bolverkr would have used it against us already. I’ve seen single spells destroy dragons and ‘living corpses,’ but the worst I’ve experienced is a spell that paralyzed me and the lightning that missed you.”

Taziar retrieved his sandwich, not bothering to voice the obvious. They both remembered how Bramin’s paralyzing spell had once left Larson helpless, that Bramin would have stabbed Larson to death if not for Taziar’s unexpected interference. Both knew Taziar had dodged the lightning with a skill and speed Larson could never hope to match. Even then, the concussion had left the little Climber unconscious on Bolverkr’s ramparts.

Larson’s words died to hopeless silence.

“We can handle this,” Taziar said with cheerful certainty. “Remember, as powerful as he seems, Bolverkr’s Chaos isn’t infinite. If it was, he could make up any spell he wanted, even that blend-b-whatever-you said. The bulk of Silme’s power comes from him, so, in that respect, her presence weakens him. They can throw twice as many spells against us at once, but with Bolverkr’s Chaos-energy curtailed by the sharing and by whatever he’s lost permanently in your world, he’s not likely to try some newly invented, complicated, mass-slaughtering spell.”

Larson considered, but took little comfort from Taziar’s explanation.
Right. So all we have to worry about is being burned, electrocuted, mentally tortured, chased by a dragon, or paralyzed, unable to move but fully aware of our defenselessness. Great. How comforting.

Taziar took another bite of sandwich, ignoring Larson’s turmoil. He chewed carefully, then swallowed before speaking. “I was thinking. Since I didn’t save enough money to buy more bullets, would it help if you kept this?” He held out the policeman’s gun, casually pointing the barrel toward Larson.

Having been taught since childhood to treat every gun as if it were loaded and lacking a safety, Larson cringed out of the line of fire. “Careful with that!”

Taziar lowered the weapon.

“You want me to hold both guns?” Larson knew it made more sense to spread their fire, yet he had no time for a crash course in marksmanship. He realized a quick and dirty “aim and shoot” technique would only take a few minutes to explain to Taziar; but, with himself, Silme, and Timmy in the room, wild shooting would prove far more dangerous than none at all. “All right.” Larson took the second gun. “But what will you use for a weapon?”