Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (43 page)

Bolverkr took a step forward. A triangular fragment of stone turned beneath his foot, and he staggered into a short stretch of wall that rose to the level of his chest. He grabbed it for support.
I want them dead. And I want them to suffer NOW.
Frustration speared through him, and he embraced the structure as tightly as a father would a crying child.
Patience has won more wars than skill
Another thought wound a crooked smile across his lips.
There is still one thing I can do without endangering myself.

Gathering a mental probe, Bolverkr thrust for Harriman’s mind.

A brilliant starburst of light snapped open the darkness of Harriman’s bedroom. Shocked, Asril the Procurer leaped to his feet, the sword at Harriman’s throat fumbling from his grip. Astryd collapsed to the floor. Before Taziar Medakan could identify Silme in the dispersing radiance of her magics, a movement caught his eye. Back in Bolverkr’s control, Harriman dove for an object on the floor. Dazzled by the pulse of light, it took Taziar several seconds to recognize Harriman’s target.

Gaelinar’s sword!
Taziar made a wild charge for Harriman. The nobleman dodged, left hand supporting the sheath, right clamped to the hilt. Taziar swept past Harriman. Swearing, the Climber whirled and dove. His outstretched hands slammed into the diplomat’s side as Harriman pulled to free the blade. Drawn crookedly, the katana sheared through the wooden scabbard, taking Harriman’s fingers with it.

With a scream of pain and outrage, Harriman caught at his mangled hand. Blood-splashed and nearly as shocked as Harriman, Taziar scarcely sprang out of the way before Asril’s sword stabbed through the nobleman’s chest. Harriman fell dead without a whimper. The katana bounced to the floor and spun toward the bed, stopping a hand’s breadth from Larson’s limp fingers.

It’s almost as if the sword knew Gaelinar wanted Allerum to wield it.
Taziar knew Larson was Harriman’s likely target and momentum would logically draw the sword in that direction, but the coincidence still seemed eerie.
Just a few months ago, I would have denied the existence of gods and magic, too.
Taziar shifted the thought, aware he was dwelling on nonsense to avoid the reality of Astryd’s collapse. Unable to deny it any longer, Taziar approached Silme where she knelt at Astryd’s side.

“She lied to me.” Silme’s tone went beyond anger toward hysteria.

Clutched by sudden terror, Taziar dared not check life signs for himself. “Silme, is Astryd ... ?”

“Why would she do something this stupid?” Silme raged, ignoring Taziar’s unfinished question. “How could she defy her own teacher? Have I taught her nothing?”

“Silme!” Frantic with concern, Taziar gripped Silme’s shoulder in both hands. “No lectures. Just tell me if she’s ...” Words failed him. “If she’s ...”

Astryd rolled to her side with a groan of reluctance, as if awakened from deep sleep after a long and arduous day.

“If she’s what?” Silme prodded impatiently.

Joy displaced Taziar’s distress in a wild rush. Releasing his hold on Silme, he hunched beside her and gave Astryd’s ankle an affectionate squeeze. “Will she be all right?”

“This time,” Silme said, and Taziar recognized the same merciless attention to technique that Gaelinar had always displayed. “Next reckless act of stupidity the Fates might not prove so kind. I’m going to have to take her back to glass-rank lessons.”

Taziar smoothed Astryd’s rumpled skirt, amused by Silme’s anger. “I don’t know what Astryd did, and we haven’t the time to discuss it yet. But I have no doubt you would have done the same for her.” He borrowed Larson’s odd mixture of English and Norwegian. “Like one philosopher said, ‘Buddies do for each other.’ ”

Silme’s sharp gasp of horror warned Taziar his comment had been callous. He looked up as Silme scrambled to Larson’s side, apparently just noticing his limp form half-sprawled across the side of Harriman’s bed.

Taziar waited while Silme searched furiously for a pulse. Even from a distance, he could see Larson breathing with the strange, seesaw chest motions his broken ribs allowed. “Silme, did you incapacitate this Bolverkr in some way?”

Silme tucked her hands beneath Larson’s armpits and inclined her head toward his legs. “Not exactly. Why?”

Taziar trotted over to help. “Do you think he’ll follow you here?” He grasped Larson’s ankles.

Together, Taziar and Silme hoisted Larson into Harriman’s bed. The elf lolled, unresponsive even to the pain of movement. Silme yanked at the coverlet. Though tears brimmed in her eyes, she kept enough presence to answer Taziar’s query completely and without faltering. “Not likely. Right now, he has his own problems to deal with.” She jerked the coverlet free of Larson’s weight, then spread it neatly over him. “Besides, Bolverkr made a mistake. He opened me a channel to his own power. I tapped it once, and I can do so again.” Her gaze never left Larson, and she stroked his arm through the blanket as gently as she would a newborn kitten. “Bolverkr will have to spend some time second-guessing me and plotting strategy. A person as old as he is learns patience. He won’t attack a group as dangerous as us in a hurry.”

Behind Silme, Asril made a gesture to indicate he was leaving. Reminded of other responsibilities, Taziar stayed him with a raised hand. “Silme, do whatever you can for Allerum. He’ll need more comforting than I can supply.” He smiled, trying to downplay the severity of Larson’s condition. “Maybe you can slip into his brain and remind the
jerk
we need him.” Taziar headed toward the door, and Asril met him halfway. “Asril and I will let the others downstairs know what’s happened here.”

Taziar and Asril trotted down the corridor. At the top of the staircase, an unruly clamor of conversation wafted to them. Men clogged the base of the stairwell and the area just inside the front door. The prostitutes clustered around Shylar on the benches and chairs of the holding area. Taziar saw no sign of Harriman’s strong-arm men, but splashes of blood on walls and some of the men’s clothing made it clear the matter had been dispatched. The other rescued prisoners were nowhere in sight; apparently they had gone to some sanctuary to rest and recover.

The discussions died to a buzz as Taziar and Asril descended. The crowd pressed forward. Taziar paused on the last step and announced, “Harriman and his berserks are dead.”

Shouts of joy emanated from the women. The men took the news in silence. Suddenly, a hand seized Taziar’s arm and ripped him from the step. Taziar stumbled into the masses. Someone gave him a violent shove, and another set of fingers crushed his opposite forearm. He found himself staring into a snarl of chest hair through the lacing of a linen shirt and followed the shoulders and neck up to see Gerwalt, an aging street tough. Hemmed in by a towering forest of men, Taziar’s mind raced as he tried to devise an escape, aware he might die at the hands of the very men he had come to help.
Astryd warned me they all still believe I’m the traitor, but I walked right into them.
He cringed, recalling how he had even confessed to the crime while mobilizing leaders in the baron’s dungeon.
What in Karana’s hell was I thinking?

“Good. Don’t let the little worm get away.” Gerwalt ordered. The hold on Taziar’s arms tightened, pinning them behind him.

“Hanging’s too good for him,” someone shouted.

“You can’t possibly really believe I ...” Taziar started, but he stopped, realizing his words were lost beneath the hubbub.

Shylar leaped to a stool. Her voice cut above the noise. “What are you doing? Let Shadow go! He’s—”

Gerwalt interrupted, even more commanding. “Listen, you mother of harlots!”

Angered gasps erupted from the women. Some of the men shifted nervously, and the grip on Taziar eased slightly.

Gerwalt continued inciting. “You’ve had a soft spot in your heart for this little weasel the whole time. He might have confused you and deceived you, but I’m smart enough to see through his lies. I’m not going to let you let us make the same mistake again.” His gesture encompassed everyone in the whorehouse.

Taziar had never seen Shylar so furious. Her fists clutched whitely at the fabric of her dress, and her words confirmed that she had abandoned all restraint. “You stupid, worthless, arrogant bastard!”

Asril sprang from the stairs, brushing aside men like furniture. At Gerwalt’s side, he stopped, adopting an indisputable fighting pose, his weight spread evenly, his hand prominent on his sword hilt. He spoke in a low growl, but in the tense hush that fell over the room his threat emerged loud enough. “She may have a soft spot in her heart, but you have one in your brain. I don’t know who you think you are. I don’t know what authority you mistakenly believe you have, and I don’t know how much of Harriman’s violent idiocy has worn off on you all. First, no one speaks to Shylar that way. And anyone stupid enough to think Taziar is the informant after all that’s happened deserves to be hanged himself. Taz freed us from the dungeon after you left us for dead. And do you know why?”

No one hazarded an answer. The grip on Taziar’s arms went warm as sweat leeched through the sleeves.

“He did it to help a friend. Do you really think he’d risk his life and everything he has to help one friend after informing on the others? Just how stupid are you?”

“Taz has confused you, too.” Gerwalt went taut, his hand sliding to his own hilt. “I hate Harriman as much as anyone. I’m loyal to the underground and its leaders. The other leaders told me Taz admitted turning them in, and that he helped Harriman take control.”

“Gerwalt, you’re an idiot.” The crowd fidgeted, the buzz of their exchanges soft beneath Asril’s insult. “None of the other leaders really feels that way. Do you see any of them here clamoring for Taziar’s blood? The only two prisoners here now are me and Shylar, and both of us are calling you stupid. Consider this a friendly warning. Before I let you do anything to Taziar, I’ll slit your ugly throat.”

The group thinned as men slipped quietly beyond sword range. Gerwalt went defensive, his tone losing some of its brash confidence. “Asril, why are you bullying me?”

“Because you’re dangerous.”

“
I’m
dangerous?” Gerwalt glanced about the room, belittling Asril’s comment. “Taz is the traitor.”

Asril’s sword left its sheath, as soundless and quick as a springing cat. “Taz is not a traitor. He’s honest and loyal to his friends, exactly the kind of person we need to keep the underground alive. You’re swayed by every slick-talking animal with enough connections to back up his lies. You act without knowledge. You’re dangerous. If there’s any threat to us here, it’s you, not him.”

Guiltily, the hands fell away from Taziar’s arms. Gerwalt’s gaze jumped from man to man, seeking support. Apparently finding none, he moved his hands away from his sword to indicate surrender. When Asril lowered his blade, Gerwalt whirled and ran for the door. Mercifully, everyone stood aside and let him leave.

Shylar hopped to the floor, the flush fading from her cheeks, but her voice still tense with annoyance. “Nicely spoken, Asril. You had me worried back there in the prison. You sounded as bad there as this idiot here.” She pointed at the door slamming closed behind Gerwalt.

Asril sheathed his weapon mechanically. “Stupidity strikes the best of us. But the way Taziar and Allerum stuck together convinced me. They were both willing to fight and die for each other. Someone who treats his friends that way doesn’t change.” He slapped Taziar across the back. The force drove the Climber forward a step. “It took me a while, but I remembered how good a liar Taz was.”

“Thanks,” Taziar said sarcastically. He stared at Asril, as impressed by the street fighter’s loyalty as Asril was by his. “Just to satisfy my curiosity, tell me. Would you really have killed Gerwalt for me?”

Asril whipped a knife from his pocket and picked idly at his thumbnail. “I guess we’ll never find out.”