Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (29 page)

Silme reacted first. Without bothering to stand, she whipped her staff sideways. Wood cracked against the leading man’s shins. Tripped, he staggered forward. Taziar’s harried sword slash tore open the stranger’s abdomen. Taziar curled the sword back into a defensive position.

Caught off-guard by Taziar and Slime’s closeness to the door, the injured man’s partner attempted to backpedal. But momentum from the companions behind him drove the man onto Taziar’s blade. Impact jarred Taziar over backward. His spine struck the floor with a force that dashed the breath from his lungs. His head thunked against wood, and the corpse landed atop him, pinning him to the planks.

Through the ringing in his ears, Taziar scarcely heard the door slap closed and the bolt jarred hurriedly into place. Abandoning his sword, he wriggled from beneath the dead stranger, blood warm and sticky on his hands and face. The groans of the gut-slit bandit and the thick odor of bowel and blood made Taziar’s stomach churn. He tasted bile. Fighting nausea with desperation, he took in the scene at a dizzy glance. Silme stood with her back pressed to the door, adding her meager weight to support the panel that shivered under the force of a battering from the opposite side. Apparently, the sorceress’ quick reflexes had allowed her to latch the door against the last two assailants.
But for how long?

Urgency allowed Taziar to gain control of his impulse to be sick. “Stay there,” he whispered. “Don’t move.” Scampering across the room, he wrenched open the shutters. In the darkened alley below, two men looked up, returning his stare. Both wore swords, and one clutched a crossbow, a quarrel readied against the string. He recognized them now, strong-arm men on the fringes of the underground.
Harriman’s men.
Taziar swore, aware he would have to act quickly. He shot Silme a look intended to reinforce his command, then shouted for the benefit of the men pounding on the door. “Quick! He’s going out the window!” He hesitated just long enough to ascertain that the would-be assassins had abandoned their attack on the door. “I’ll be back,” he reassured Silme and climbed out on the sill.

Beneath him in the alleyway, Taziar heard a wordless shout of recognition. Hurriedly, he hooked his fingers in irregularities in the wall stones and scurried upward. A finger’s breadth from his hand, a quarrel glanced off the granite. Reflexively, he jerked away. The sudden movement lost him his toe hold. Dislodged mud chinking pattered to the dirt. Taziar shifted his weight and clung with one hand, pawing blindly for a new grip. Mentally, he counted the moments it would take to reload the crossbow. Then his fingers looped over the edge of the roof. He dragged his body upward, hearing the twang of the bowstring through heightened senses. The arrowhead smacked into hardened mud. He felt no pain, but, as he made a dive to the rooftop, something jolted him so hard he nearly fell. The arrow had pierced his boot, pinning it to the wall but missing his foot with an uncanny stroke of luck. Ripping his leg free of the boot, he rolled to the rooftop.

Once there, Taziar wasted a moment pulling off his other boot while he gazed out over the city. Below him, the men scattered, ready to catch him no matter which wall he chose to descend. To the south, Mardain’s temple rose over the inn. To the north, a cobbled roadway gaped between Taziar and a single story dwelling. Some distance beyond it, lantern lights glimmered like stars in the windows of the baron’s towers. To the east, Taziar knew he would find another wide street separating him from a cottage. Westward, across a narrower thoroughfare, the roof tiles of the silversmith’s combination of shop and home beckoned, one story beneath Taziar. Beyond it, moonlight revealed the irregular stonework of a building roof under repair.

Fearing the strangers might attack Silme if he waited too long, Taziar made his decision quickly. He hurled his boot at the crossbowman in the eastern alley. It struck the ground, a distant miss from its target. But the bowman’s shout drew his companions, and Taziar seized the precious seconds this gained him. He sprinted toward the western lip of the rooftop. Doubts poured forth as he reached the edge. The roadway was wider then he had estimated; even a running start might not provide the momentum needed to clear it. For an instant, he imagined himself falling, air hissing through his tunic, until he crashed, broken and bleeding, on the cobbles below. Committed to action, he turned a jump into a reckless dive for the silversmith’s roof.

A distant shout wafted from below. Wind whipped the hair back from Taziar’s eyes, revealing the ledge silhouetted by starlight.
I’m going to miss that roof by a full arm’s length.
The realization upended Taziar’s senses, but he clung to life with stubborn determination. The arc of his descent straightened. He slashed crazily through air. The knuckles of his left hand banged painfully against wood. Redirecting instantly, he caught the rim with the fingers of his right hand. He jerked to an abrupt halt, wrenching every tendon in his forearm. Ignoring the shrill ache of his muscles, he clawed his way to the rooftop.

Taziar lay on the tiles, trembling. In spite of bare feet and biting autumn cold, sweat plastered the Climber’s tunic to his skin. He climbed to his feet, aware delay would sacrifice the time his maneuver had gained him. He dashed across the rooftop, the tiles chill and coarse against his soles. The shouted exchanges of his pursuers wafted to him, distant, incomprehensible echoes in the night. As Taziar ran, he studied the building ahead. A wind or rainstorm had toppled the chimney near its base, leaving a jagged edging of flagstone. Stone blocks and dirty tiles littered the roadway between it and the silversmith’s shop. Boulders stood neatly arrayed on the rooftop in preparation for restoration. Nearby lay stacks of tiles. A ladder angled from the alleyway to the roof, and Taziar could just make out the top of a second ladder on the opposite side.

At the end of the silversmith’s roof, Taziar spun and lowered his feet over the side. He wedged his toes into mossy clefts, caught handholds on the ledge, and clambered down the wall with the ease of long practice. Still, his movements seemed clumsy to him. His muscles quivered, and each hold required concentration. He jumped the last half story, careful to avoid the shattered pieces of chimney scattered across the walkway. The footsteps of his pursuers rang through the streets. Taziar forced himself to remain still, sifting and interpreting the sounds. His crazed dive had placed Harriman’s men behind him. They rushed toward him from opposite sides of the silversmith’s shop.

The instinct to run nearly overpowered Taziar, but he held his ground.
I have to make them think they have me. I can’t give them time to think. Otherwise, they’ll surround me.
The first pair of ruffians appeared around the corner to Taziar’s left. Too restless to wait any longer, Taziar started toward the ladder, feigning the choppy desperation of panic. A contrived limp slowed his escape. Harriman’s men rapidly closed in on him. By the time Taziar reached the base of the ladder, they had narrowed the distance to two arms’ lengths.
I can’t let them get too close, either, or they’ll just knock the ladder down with me on it.

Taziar scurried up the ladder, his quicker reflexes enabling him to regain several steps of his lead. At the top, he whirled, pleased to find that all four of the men had followed him.
Child’s play.
Taziar’s overtaxed muscles belied his thought. Despite the need for fast action and strategy, his mind groped through a fog of fatigue, and the ache of his injuries could not be ignored. Avoiding the holes and alert for loose tiles, he skittered across the roof to the opposite side. Behind him, the heavier, shod feet of his pursuers sounded thunderous. Apparently unused to rooftops, the rhythm of their movements was broken and uncertain.

Taziar never hesitated. He caught the top of the ladder, scrambled halfway down it, then kicked it loose from the wall. It fell, carrying him in a shallow curve. As he neared the roadway, he leaped free. He struck the ground, cobbles jabbing his bare feet, dropped, and rolled. Pain speared through his legs, and stone bruised his side. The ladder crashed to the stone behind him.

Taziar sprang to his feet and ran, aware he had turned the hunt into a race for the remaining ladder. Taziar knew his jump from the ladder must have seemed madness to Harriman’s men.
A leap from the rooftop would be sure suicide.
Necessity lent him speed. He circled the building, not daring to waste a second looking up.
They might shoot quarrels or throw rocks, but I doubt it. They’ll be more concerned with their own escape. They know as well as I do they’re trapped if they don’t reach that ladder first.

Taziar rounded the final corner at a run and hit the ladder with his shoulder. Momentarily, he met resistance. Then the ladder overbalanced. He heard a short scream of fright followed by the rapid scramble of fingernails against stone as a man who had started down the ladder pawed and caught a hold on the ledge. A frustrated blasphemy rebounded through the roadway. Taziar ducked into a shadowed alley. Angry curses chased him as he raced through the maze of thoroughfares, but they soon faded beneath the mingled cries of night birds and foxes.

When he could no longer hear the men, Taziar paused to catch his breath. For the first time in days, he allowed himself a laugh.

The predawn found Bolverkr astride the curtain wall of his fortress, his legs dangling inches from the glitters of sorcery as if to challenge his own magic. The constant construction, the movement of stone and the setting of complicated defenses had drained his life aura to a wisp of gray. He felt weak, more tired than he had in years, but it was the comfortable, sated exhaustion that comes of honest labor. Ordinarily, fatigue would have frustrated him, but now he gained a strange satisfaction from the knowledge that even his mass of borrowed Chaos-force had its limits. Secure in the knowledge that Harriman would continue his vengeance, at least against Taziar, Bolverkr rose and headed for the steps cut into the stone.

Thoughts of Harriman made Bolverkr grin. The arrangement had become more convenient than he’d ever hoped, freeing him to build until exhaustion while his enemies tangled with his marionette. Bolverkr’s contacts with Al Larson’s thoughts confirmed that his enemies were blithely unaware of the master pulling Harriman’s strings.
Practical, simple, a fine arrangement.
Bolverkr’s smile widened.
Once I’ve killed Taziar, I’ll need to make another puppet for the elf.
Even perilously low on Chaos energy, Bolverkr felt the permanent effects of its poisoning.
Or perhaps Taziar could serve that purpose. Who would know better how to torture Allerum?
The answer came in an instant.
Silme.

Having reached the steps, Bolverkr hesitated before descending into his partially-enclosed courtyard. He turned, looking out over the wreckage of Wilsberg. Mentally, he replaced each buried corpse, unable to keep from seeing beauty in the natural asymmetry of Chaos’ flagrant denial of pattern. Again, he relived the scattered panic of the townsfolk he had loved, watched his protecting magics wall them into a cage of death. Always before, the memory had faded to grief before blossoming into anger. But this time his emotions skipped the pivotal step. Rage warmed him, but it drained life aura, too, and he quickly quelled the mood.
What if I had died with my people?

It was the first time Bolverkr dared to ask the question, yet the answer came without need for thought.
The Chaos-force would have gone to the next most powerful sorcerer. Silme perhaps? Or some master at the Dragonrank School?
He recalled the blissful agony of Chaos’ arrival, the power it promised that he could not have resisted, the transfer that would have killed a lesser man.
I’m of the original Dragonrank. No other mage could have survived it.
He imagined the Chaos-force seeking a master, tearing through cities, claiming lives with the unthinking nonchalance of a child picking wildflowers. Every slaughtered servant of Law would weaken the Chaos-force as part of the natural balance. Every Chaos death would strengthen it.

Bolverkr’s vision filled with lines of corpses, and a nameless joy welled within him. He raised his head, howling his laughter, and the sight of the turreted towers, built in memoriam to his beloved, jarred him into silence.
Magan.
The image of his sweet, unassuming wife wound a crack through Chaos’ control that admitted a ray of the Dragon-mage that had once been Bolverkr, a sorcerer who had sought and found the quiet solace and anonymity of a farm town. He recoiled from the same death-visions he had welcomed moments earlier.

I thought I could handle Chaos, but I was wrong. There’s too much here for one sorcerer. I have to share it with someone strong enough to wield it.
Bolverkr gazed at his citadel. Pictures of Magan made him realize how much he missed her beauty, her calm steadiness and logic and the way she supported him no matter how gloomy or ugly his mood. Then, he remembered his first sight of Silme, the way her radiance had driven him to breathlessness, the lust a single glimpse had raised in him.
Allerum took my woman from me. It’s only fair that he should pay with his.

Chaos seeped slowly back into Bolverkr’s wasted sinews as he started down the steps.