Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (28 page)

“Thief?” Larson repeated, his tone colored with genuine incredulity. “Don’t be absurd. Do I look like the type who would steal?” Realizing he very well might, Larson tried another tactic. “If I was a thief, I wouldn’t have lived this long by being inept. You never would have seen me, and you certainly wouldn’t have caught me.” Larson winced. Though unintentional, his comment could be taken as a backhanded insult to the guards’ abilities.
And the way things are going today, that’s exactly how he’s going to take it.

The leader balanced his spear with the hand he held the lantern in. Light disrupted shadow in crazed arcs. He caught a tighter one-handed grip on the shaft and raised the lantern again. “If you’re not a thief, why did you run?”

Blinded by the glare, Larson blinked. “I was attacked my first day here. I saw a gang of men in the dark and mistook you for criminals.” He fidgeted with impatience, and the arc of spears tightened. “Look, I didn’t take anything. You’re welcome to search me. Just do it quickly.”

The man standing behind the guards spoke. “He took something.” The voice was dry with contempt and familiar to Larson.

The idiot I decked outside the baron’s castle.
Larson’s skin prickled to gooseflesh. He dredged the man’s name from memory.
Haimfrid.

The leader responded without turning. “What did he take?”

“I don’t know.” Haimfrid shifted closer, and his features became discernible in the light. His dark hair had become even more frizzled, dried blood speckled the abrasions on his cheek and he sported a day’s growth of beard. The combination gave him the look of a madman. “I’ll think of something.” Purposefully, his hand clamped around his sword hilt.

Larson resisted the instinct to reach for his own weapon. He already knew he could best Haimfrid in a fair fight, but the six guards would tip those odds far into Haimfrid’s favor. “Haimfrid, please. What happened before was between you and me. You shouldn’t drag your friends into a personal matter they know nothing about. I don’t have time to fight with you.”

“Is this the man ...” the leader started. But Haimfrid’s attention was fully on Larson. “How appropriate. The worm’s on his knees begging for mercy.”

Anger rose in Larson, hot contrast to the damp chill of his soaked cloak. He reined his temper in easily, aware Astryd’s safety depended on his dispatching this matter peacefully and with haste. “If you insist, we’ll settle our differences later. Right now, a woman’s life is at stake.”

“What a coincidence.” Haimfrid’s sword jolted from its sheath with a rasp of metal. “Right now, a man’s life is at stake, too. Get up and draw your weapon!”

It took every bit of self-control for Larson to remain immobile. “No, Haimfrid. I won’t kill without good cause, and that incident outside the baron’s castle is not good cause.”
Threatening Silme was, but I can’t afford to let my temper get me into trouble now.

Haimfrid made a wild gesture with his sword, and the spearmen retreated slightly. “Get up!” he screamed.

Larson shook his head. Aware a certain amount of morality must go into the decision to become a guard and uphold the law, Larson appealed to what little sense of decency Haimfrid and his companions might harbor. “I’m not fighting. If you kill me, it’s going to have to be coldblooded murder.” Despite Larson’s bold pronouncement, his hand slipped unconsciously toward his hilt.

Haimfrid’s left cheek turned crimson; the right twitched, lost in shadow. “Just as well. I’ll butcher you like the pig you are.”

The guards stepped back, closing the circle around Haimfrid and Larson. Haimfrid raised his sword to strike.

Appalled again by the guards’ complete lack of respect for life and law, Larson reacted with the instinct of long practice. In a single motion, he wrenched his sword free and slashed for Haimfrid’s neck. Surprised, Haimfrid sprang backward. Larson seized the opening to surge to his feet. Haimfrid swept for Larson’s chest as Larson continued his maneuver with a downstroke. Haimfrid’s blow fell short, but Larson’s katana cleaved Haimfrid’s scalp. Larson ripped the sword free and finished the pattern. He flicked the blade in a loop and splattered the startled onlookers with blood, then slid it neatly back into its sheath. Haimfrid’s corpse flopped to the ground.

The lantern toppled to the dirt, splashing Larson and the guards with glass shards and burning oil. The six spears snapped into battle position in an awkward chaos of ones and twos. Though bothered by the senseless loss of life, Larson prepared to meet this new threat. He kept his hand clamped to his haft. “I’m sorry. He left me no choice. You all saw that it was self-defense. Give me some space, and we can all go in peace.”

The points remained, unmoving. Larson drew his sword again, his stance light as he tried to assess all his enemies at once. The sword had scarcely left the sheath when the leader jabbed for Larson’s chest. Larson parried, then ducked beneath the opening and spun past. He attempted a parting slash, but his blade skimmed across the linen covering the leader’s hamstring. Afraid to turn his back to run, he completed the maneuver with a pivot that brought him around to face the guards. A spear plunged for Larson’s abdomen. He deflected it with his sword, caught a glimpse of movement to his left and dodged. A spear tip tore his breeks, slashing a line of skin from his leg. Another guard thrust for him. An awkward lurch back to his left was all that saved Larson. Hard pressed by the three men before him, he was unable to guard his sides. The others slipped by him, hemming him into a circle once more.

Larson took the offensive. He sprang for the leader. A spear pierced the darkness to his left, and he redirected his strike to meet it. Steel crashed against wood. The spear retreated, and another pitched toward him from behind. Larson whirled to meet the attack. A spear butt cracked across the base of his neck. Pain shocked through him, then Larson’s world exploded into darkness.

Astryd dreamed of ocean surf. She sprawled, facedown, on the rocks of a beach familiar from her childhood. Waves splashed over her, strangely warm and soothing, the wash revitalizing her where it touched. A seagull shrilled, gliding zigzags through the darkness.

Astryd’s hand twitched, banging painfully against wood. She awoke with a suddenness that strained every sinew; her heart hammered in her chest. The shore became a hard, oaken floor, and the noises of the gull dissolved into Saerle’s steady snores, each ending with an exhaled whistle. A band of moonlight glazed the planks.

It has to be almost morning.
Astryd sprang to her feet.
I’ve got to get out of here before Harriman comes to check on me.
Her aura blazed around her, restored by the length and depth of her sleep. Despite concern for her companions, Astryd took some satisfaction from the strength of her life energy.
At least one good thing came out of this.
She raised a hand to cast a transport escape when a thought froze her.
Shadow’s friends are due to hang tonight. He’s going to need all the help I can give him, and a speck of life energy might mean the difference between life and death for all of us. I can’t afford to waste it on unnecessary spells.
She studied Saerle one more time. Spread-eagled beneath the bed covers like some warped god’s sacrifice, he looked as innocent as a child, and Astryd felt a pang of remorse.
I couldn’t possibly have hit him hard enough to keep him out this long; it has to be the wine.
At the time, need had made her too impatient to wait for the alcohol to do its job. Now, she thanked any god who would listen that Saerle had brought it and that she had managed to force it upon him.

Turning her head, Astryd glanced out the window. Wind plucked at a pile of scraps that had once been a child’s doll, unable to blow it completely away, but sending the tatters into a wild dance. Placing her fingers on the sill, she brushed aside the curtains and glanced down. A rain barrel sat by the gutter at the corner of the building. Another stood, upended, beneath the window, moss striping the cracks between closely-spaced planks.

The irony was not lost on Astryd.
Now Shadow’s got me climbing out windows. What’s next? Scaling buildings? Accepting every challenge anyone calls impossible?
Recognizing her contemplations as a delaying tactic, Astryd forced herself to stop thinking and start acting. She clambered onto the windowsill, hunching to keep from banging her head. Though accustomed to ascending riggings and balancing on timbers, slipping through a window was new to her.
At least ropes offer handholds.
She gripped the sill and swung her legs over it. Dangling, she looked down. The barrel lay farther below her than she had guessed it would, and an idea that seemed so natural before suddenly transformed into a crazed notion.
I should have gone out the front door. Caught by Harriman, I could always transport. If I kill myself, I’m just dead.

Astryd’s grip tightened, and she knew she could still change her mind. But the thought of dealing with Harriman and his beserks sent a shiver of dread through her.
It’s not as far down as it seems. Better to just get out as quickly and quietly as I can.
She edged along the sill until the barrel stood immediately beneath her. Whispering a word for luck, she released her hold.

Astryd plummeted, her muscles knotting in anticipation. Her feet struck the barrel with a hollow thud, her bent knees absorbing the impact. For an instant, she basked in triumph. Then the barrel teetered dangerously on one edge. Instinctively, she threw her weight in the other direction to counter, too hard. The barrel overbalanced. Astryd tumbled, headfirst, twisting as she fell. She landed on her shoulder and rolled. Pain shot through her back, and the barrel slammed against her shin.

For a moment, pain immobilized Astryd.
Too much noise. I have to get out of here.
She staggered to her feet, limping into a side street, down the darkened pathway and into another alley. Youthful voices wafted to her from a cross path, soft but growing louder. She ducked back into the side street, massaging her bruised ankle. And she listened.

For Taziar Medakan, every second of Larson’s absence passed like an eternity. Early on, he had tried to converse with Silme, but his thoughts strayed continuously to Astryd and Larson. The need to concentrate on each word stilted his speech, and even simple discussion became a chore. Now they waited in silent contemplation, Silme seated on the stack of logs between the hearth and the door, Taziar on the floor beneath the shuttered window.

Suddenly, Silme snapped to attention with a gasp of horror. “No. By Thor, no!”

Silme’s distress drove Taziar to his feet, every muscle coiled for action. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Silme glanced at Taziar. She kept a hand clamped over her mouth, making her reply sound distant. “They got Allerum.”

Taziar crossed the room to Silme and grasped her other hand, where it wrapped around her dragonstaff. “Who’s got Allerum? How?”

“The guards.” Silme’s voice was pained.

“The guards? Why would the guards ... ?” Confusion beat aside urgency, and Taziar dropped to his haunches. “Silme, I don’t understand. What happened? How do you know? What can we do to help him?”

“I probed his mind,” Silme confessed.

Taziar nodded, careful to pass no judgments on her decision. Tortured by enemies twisting his thoughts and accessing intimate and painful memories, Larson tolerated no intruders in his mind. Taziar knew Silme had long ago promised never to take advantage of Larson’s lack of mind barriers; until now, she had respected his privacy. Now, Taziar realized her concern had driven her to forsake her vow, just as his had goaded him to sneak through the window and try to aid Shylar without risking his new friends. “And ...” he prodded.

“I found nothing. No thoughts, only darkness.”

Taziar removed his hand from Silme’s clenched knuckles. “Nothing?” The word strangled in his throat.
By the gods, no. He can’t be dead. I should never have let him go. I should have protested harder.
“He’s not... ?” Taziar found himself unable to speak the last word.

“Dead?” Silme finished for him. “No. I dug deeper and found images of men in red and black harassing him with spears. Dead, he would have no memories at all.”

The fire felt uncomfortably warm on Taziar’s back. The flickering, scarlet glow splashing the walls reminded him of the blood spilled, and a shiver wrung through him.
How many more must die?
“Why would the guards want Allerum?”

Silme flipped her staff so that it rested across her knees. Though understandably pained and concerned, she apparently realized the need to inform Taziar. “One held a grudge from an incident near the baron’s keep. According to Allerum’s memories, he killed that guard but couldn’t fathom why the others allowed the fight nor why they banded against him once the fight was finished.” She glanced down to meet Taziar’s gaze.

“I can.” Taziar rose, reminded of the angry ramblings of an old soldier who had served under his father: “Most of the guards live off the so-called glory of the previous generation. They wear their free uniforms like medals of courage. They hold themselves above their families and display their competence against the helpless: prisoners, beggars, and street orphans.”
In the wake of Harriman’s violence, the baron has probably given his men free rein to prey on the innocent. No matter the cause, if Allerum killed one, the others would take vengeance against him.
Taziar explained simply. “Harassment is their idea of sport.”
What now?
The thoughts that answered his own question seemed foreign and unreal.
They might torture him to death in the streets. More likely, they’ll drag him back to the dungeon where they can shackle and control him.
Taziar kept his thoughts from Silme, but hysteria edged his voice. “We’re wasting time. Do you know where the incident took place? How long ago?”

“I have no way to judge time. He’s unconscious and—” Something heavy crashed against the door with a groan of timbers. Taziar scarcely found time to rip his sword from its sheath before the panel slammed open. Two pairs of men rushed to the threshold, their drawn swords scattering red highlights through the chamber.