Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (36 page)

Gradually, the tug and jostle of Silme freeing hidden daggers became familiar to Astryd, and the smaller sorceress directed her full concentration to Larson’s mind. Mired in darkness, she dodged and crawled through loops of thought as chaotic as a bramble copse. Harriman’s bedroom disappeared from her awareness; Astryd did not know she still lay, limp and silent, in the corner. She kept her mind focused, all too aware that she could die as easily from another presence in Larson’s mind as from a slash of Harriman’s sword.

Uncertain how much stress threads of thought could stand, Astryd brushed them aside with a gentle caution. She wondered how much of what she found constituted actual anatomy and how much was her magical perception of memory. As the intensity of her search absorbed her completely, the question faded into the infinity of insignificant facts. Catching sight of a spark of light, she ran to it with the fatal devotion of a moth to a flame. She skidded to a stop before it, felt Larson’s annoyance as though it were her own.
If
...

The idea sputtered feebly, and died. In frustration, Astryd kicked the pathway that had initiated the thought, watched it flare and grow.
If that sonofabitch doesn’t stop shaking me, I’m going to kill him!
Several nearby avenues flashed as confusion pervaded Larson’s mind. A survival instinct blossomed. She felt Larson tense and crouch, even before he opened his eyes. Then his lids fluttered, and Astryd caught a close up view of Taziar’s worried features. “Allerum! Can you hear me?”

Rows of cages slashed across Larson’s vision, and Astryd saw guards with swords rushing toward emaciated, scarred men cowering at the barred doors. Without waiting for Larson to interpret the reality of the dungeon, Astryd withdrew. She found herself back in the corner of Harriman’s room.

Harriman’s heavy bootfalls sounded in the outside corridor.

Too concerned about the men to consider Silme’s plight, Astryd hugged the piled daggers and triggered her escape transport. Golden light erupted in a blinding flash.

When Harriman opened the door, all that remained of Astryd was a rolling pulse of oily smoke.

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

—Fredrich Nietzsche
Beyond Good and Evil

Light exploded in the baron’s dungeon, shattering Taziar’s vision before he could think to shield his eyes. Larson stiffened, and his sudden movement staggered Taziar into the cell door. Half-blinded, the Climber clawed for support, barking his knuckles on iron clotted with rust. The click of opening locks and the pounding of guards’ footfalls gave way to a shocked silence that seemed to amplify Astryd’s plea. “Shadow, hurry. Harriman has Silme trapped in the whorehouse!”

Back pressed to the bars and supporting much of Larson’s weight, Taziar twisted awkwardly toward the walkway. Through a web of shadowed afterimages, he recognized Astryd. A coil of rope lay slung across her shoulder. Two swords dangled at her side, and she balanced an armload of daggers against her chest. Her beauty seemed so misplaced amidst the filth and gloom of the baron’s dungeon, it took Taziar a moment to believe she was real.

Larson’s bulk eased off Taziar as the elf came fully awake. Seizing the rope from Astryd, Taziar guided Larson’s hand to the swords. “Allerum, keep one and take the other to the redhead.” He gestured to the left pathway where Fridurik crouched in the cage closest to the exit and the guards. “Go!”

Accepting the swords, Larson tottered off in the indicated direction.

Sound echoed as sentries and prisoners broke free of the surprise inspired by Astryd’s grand entrance. Desperately, Taziar caught Astryd’s arm. “Distribute those knives as quickly and quietly as you can. Then transport out and wait. We’ll need your help against Harriman far more than we do here.” He released her with a mild push toward the prisoners and wished he could spare a second for comforting.

The central pens split the baron’s dungeon into two lanes with Larson’s cell along the back wall. Shylar had chosen to unlock the doors from the left pathway. Hoping for a clear passage to the outer door, Taziar sprinted to the right. “This way!”

Within three running strides, Asril the Procurer darted alongside Taziar. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that only Shylar and Mandel had followed them. Apparently, the others had taken the parallel walkway.
Including both swordsmen
, Taziar realized in sudden alarm. He tried to decipher the blur of color and movement through the central cells, obscured by the yellow backwash of Astryd’s magical departure.
Thank the gods, at least she got out safely.

A warning touch from Asril slowed Taziar’s reckless pace and brought his attention to a pair of guards with drawn swords blocking the pathway. A third tensed behind them.

Taziar cursed silently as he realized the guards had separated to prevent escape down either pathway. Well within sword range, Taziar and Asril skidded to a halt in front of the guards; Shylar and Mandel backpedaled, avoiding a collision.

The sentry before Asril waved his sword threateningly. “Get back to your cells.”

Taziar met the guard’s gaze, his hand sliding, unobtrusively, for his own dagger. From the corner of his vision, he realized Asril held a knife, expertly couched against his wrist so the guards could not see it. Taziar’s heart raced.
The cage row would have blocked Astryd from the guards’ view. Depending on her caution and when these guards split off from the others, they may not know we have weapons.
Only then did Taziar recall that Asril was a street fighter, born to a freelance prostitute barely into her teens.

Knife still hidden, Asril made a gesture of surrender. “All right. Don’t hurt us.” A nervous spring entered his step, and he shuffled backward with a commitment that fooled even Taziar. Suddenly, Asril sprang at the guard. The dagger flashed, then disappeared, buried in the sentry’s upper abdomen and angled beneath the breastbone.

The guard gasped in shock and pain. The sword fell from his hands and crashed to the floor. From the parallel pathway, steel chimed repeatedly, as if in echo. Asril shoved the dying guard backward as he ripped his blade free, but the sentry before Taziar responded more swiftly. His sword whipped for Asril’s head.

No time to draw a weapon!
Taziar dove with desperate courage. His shoulder crashed into the sentry’s gut, driving him over backward. The guard twisted as he fell. His left arm encircled Taziar, wrenching. Taziar struck the ground sideways, breath dashed from him in a gasp. Recognizing the helplessness of his position, he grabbed wildly for the guard’s sword hilt. His fingers closed over a fleshy hand. But with superior strength and leverage, the guard tore free and jammed his elbows into Taziar’s face.

Pain shot through Taziar’s nose. The force of the blow smashed his head against stone, and blood coursed, warm and salty, on his lips. He saw the sword blade speeding toward him and knew with grim certainty that he could not roll in time.

Asril’s lithe form sailed over Taziar and plowed into the guard. Taziar scuttled clear as Asril and the guard tumbled. This time, Asril landed on top, his arm wrapped around the sentry’s throat. A flick of his wrist drew the blade of his dagger across the guard’s muscled neck. Blood spurted, splashing Mandel as he darted past Taziar in pursuit of the third guard who had made a dash for the outer door amidst the crash and bell of swordplay in the other lane.

Taziar staggered after Mandel. “Stop him!”
We can’t let that guard get around the corner to warn the others.
Taziar watched in frustration as the sentry outdistanced the weakened Mandel, sprinted through the outer, barred door, and slammed it behind him. The sentry fumbled with his keys. Jamming one into the hole, he spun it to the locked position then raised his sword and brought it down, hard, against the stem. Metal snapped with the sickening finality of bone. The base of the key clattered to the floor, the remainder wedged in the lock. The guard raced down the passageway.

Mandel hit the door with a force that rattled the steel. Grasping the bars, he shook them viciously. The panel resisted his efforts. Muttering a bitter blasphemy, he snaked an arm through the bars and hurled his dagger at the guard’s retreating back.

Taziar cringed, aware only deep urgency could have goaded Mandel to disarm himself. To Taziar’s surprise, Mandel’s aim was true. He heard the thud of the guard’s body striking the floor, followed by the soft and haunting moans of the dying.

When Taziar reached the outer door, he peered through the bars. The guard lay on the floor of the passageway, Mandel’s dagger protruding from his lower back. Blood soaked the hem of his uniform, and Taziar guessed the blade had nicked a kidney. Apparently too weak to gather breath for a scream, the guard was inching toward his companions.

A glance down the dungeon’s parallel lane revealed the other three guards had fallen to the swordsmen, though only Larson’s blade was blooded. Fridurik panted; weeks of torture had taken a toll on his endurance, but Taziar was just glad to see the red-haired giant on his feet.

Shylar stabbed the key into the lock. It sank in only partway despite maneuvering, and she shook her head in defeat. “It won’t go.”

Mandel copied her gesture, his arm limp between the bars. “I can’t get it from the other side either.”

Slipping his thinner, more finely crafted knife from his pocket, Taziar knelt before the lock. Before he could insert the tip, a sudden, sharp movement caught his attention. He ducked, scuttling aside as Larson’s sword smacked into the door, jolting the metal to its hinges. Larson drew back for another blow.

“Allerum, stop,” Taziar hissed.

The sword paused.

“I think I can get us out faster and quieter. Let me try.”

Larson nodded once and lowered his sword.

Taziar wiped moisture from his eyes with his forearm, and the red stain it left on his sleeve revealed blood, not sweat, marred his vision.
Not again.
Suddenly it struck Taziar how badly his shattered nose throbbed and his head ached.
The others are hurt worse
, he reminded himself, forcing his concentration to his task.
I have no right to complain.
He eased the tip of the blade into the hole and met the resistance of the broken key trapped in the mechanism. He applied gentle pressure, but in the locked position the key would not budge.

Pain faded before the intensity of Taziar’s thoughts. He could hear the prisoners shifting around him, the clink of steel as they gathered swords from the dead guards, and their bleak whispers about the steady progress of the injured sentry in the hallway. Knife point tight to the base of the broken key, Taziar banished the noises around him and twisted the blade in a fabricated silence. He felt the key give ever so slightly.
It’s going to work.
Hope flared, tempered by the urgency of time dwindling. He rotated the dagger again, felt the impasse barely budge.
But it’s not going to happen fast. Still, it’s quicker than Allerum beating on solid steel and a lot less likely to draw the other nine guards.