Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (37 page)

As the movement of rotation and slippage became routine, thoughts invaded Taziar’s private world. He considered the many lives that now lay in his hands, a list far beyond the ragged band of friends trapped before the prison door. He considered the beggars, the aged, crazed, and orphaned who wandered Cullinsberg’s streets through no fault of their own. He would not wish their fate upon anyone, yet there was no one special enough, no one so favored by gods and men that he could not wind up in their position.
Not even the son of the baron’s loyal guard captain.
He turned the blade, felt the metal shift.
Perhaps not even the baron himself.

Taziar’s thoughts turned to the women in the whorehouse, loyal to Shylar’s final command despite Harriman’s brutality. He contemplated the violence and paranoia of the street gangs, inspired by Harriman’s greed, and the many innocent merchants who would pay with their lives.
The same citizens who would cheer the hangings of the underground leaders would suffer for their deaths.
Taziar imagined the city devoid of Shylar’s charity, Mandel’s payoffs, and the lotteries Amalric skewed toward families in need of food or shelter. Without fighters like Asril to champion them, the young and the old would succumb to the strong; muggers and assassins would replace children and beggars. Recalling his encounters in the alleyways, Taziar knew Cullinsberg had already changed.
And it’s going to get worse unless we stop it.
He wrestled with the jammed key, quickening his pace.

And then there’s Allerum.
One last picture filled Taziar’s mind. He saw Silme, stately and grimly capable. She had spent her childhood protecting her half-human half-brother, Bramin, from prejudice and then was forced to devote her youth to hunting him down and killing him. She had rescued innocents from vengeances as cruel and inappropriate as those of Harriman’s master, yet her best efforts could not keep Bramin from slaying her parents and siblings. Silme had suffered through too much; nothing seemed to daunt her anymore. Everything she did, she had learned to do with infallible skill and without external emotion.
But deep down, she cares. She dared open herself to the pain loving Allerum might cost her. Quick as she made it, the decision to save the baby rather than Allerum must have torn her apart. And there’s only one reason she could have made the choice she did: she believes in me. Silme’s more certain I can free Allerum than I am myself, and hers is a trust I won’t betray.

Odwulf’s alarm cut through Taziar’s self-imposed isolation. “He made it around the corner.”

Taziar spun the dagger hard, adding his curses to those of his friends. A click heralded the final movement of the wedged piece of key; though muffled, it came sweet as a shout of triumph to Taziar’s ears. He poked, and the metal twig slid to the granite floor with a clang that sounded loud in an abrupt and hopeful hush.

Taziar rose. The sudden rush of blood made his legs throb, and he hobbled painfully aside.

Asril hit the heavy door with his shoulder, and it swung open with a shrill of rusted hinges. “Got to get the guard,” the street fighter mumbled as he raced down the hallway brandishing a sentry’s long sword.

Taziar and Shylar scrambled after Asril, Larson and Fridurik on their heels. Taziar darted as fast as his awakening legs could allow. Behind him, the footsteps of Amalric, Waldhram, Odwulf, and Mandel wafted to him like drumbeats. His shoulder ached from the weight of the rope, and he wished he had thought to set it on the floor while he worked. Each running step jarred a pins and needles sensation through his thighs. Far ahead, Asril reached the ninety degree turn in the passage and skidded around the corner. Across from the corridor Asril had entered, the long, stone-framed window lay open, silken curtains dancing in the autumn breeze.

Almost there.
The scene was too familiar to Taziar. Memory overpowered him, and he felt himself stumbling down this same passageway, fighting for consciousness at the heels of a barbarian prince. Then, guards with swords and crossbows had filled the corridor.
The corridor Asril just entered.
Before Taziar could shout a warning, Asril reappeared.

“Guards!” Asril screamed, sliding to a halt at the window ledge. He glanced through the opening, staring wide-eyed at the seven-story drop to the baron’s moat. “Mardain’s mercy.”

Taziar ripped the coil from his shoulder as he overtook Asril. He threw only a casual glance at the guards, still some distance down the corridor, and hunted for some object on which to anchor the rope. Finding nothing, he tossed one end through the window and wrapped the other twice around his own middle. Bracing his feet against the wall beneath the window, he sat. “Climb!” he yelled to Shylar. “Fast. And keep everyone together down there. We’re going to need all their help to defeat Harriman.”

Shylar tossed a meaningful glance of confirmation at Taziar, then obeyed. He felt the tugs as she descended. Taziar gritted his teeth, adding to himself.
And by the gods Shylar, convince them I’m not the traitor.
He looked up to see Asril gawking at the guards. “Go!” Taziar commanded.

“You can’t stay there.” Asril glanced rapidly from Taziar to the guard-filled corridor behind him. “You’re a target.”

“Damn it, go!” Frustration and rising anger added volume to Taziar’s voice. “Climb down or get the hell out of everyone else’s way!” Taziar pulled the rope more securely around him, aware that if the guards killed him, his corpse would still weigh the rope in place to let the others escape.

Sword bared, Larson sprang between Taziar and the guards. Fridurik took a stance at Larson’s side. To Taziar’s relief, Asril leaped to the windowsill and clambered down the rope.
Good. Shylar will need a fighter like Asril, and at least some of them will make it back to face Harriman.

Behind Taziar, steel jammed against steel. He did not bother to turn. Any man who could fight through Larson would prove more than a match for Taziar, especially weaponless and tangled in the rope.
But not all of us will survive.
Taziar lowered his head. There was no doubt in his mind that he and Larson would be among the casualties.

Silme stood to face Harriman, her posture projecting dangerous competence. But beneath a calm and imposing exterior, fear coiled in her gut. The feeling seemed alien, from a distant past before the Dragonrank school trained her to a craft few men could stand against.
With magic, I could best him in my sleep. But the handful of tricks I learned from Gaelinar will scarcely delay a soldier who controls a berserk who already overpowered me.

To Silme’s surprise, Harriman seemed unimpressed by Astryd’s disappearance.
A sure sign he knows exactly who and what we are.
The thought grated, intensifying her uneasiness until she felt queasy. She took a step back, never losing her quiet dignity and grace.

A smile creased Harriman’s handsome features. His dark eyes seemed as flat and emotionless as his expression, but Silme saw madness lurking in their depths. “Well, Silme. I think we’re going to become close friends.” His voice lingered on the word “close.” He approached, regal as a king in his own castle.

He smelled of sword oil, sweat, and perfume. The combination intensified Silme’s nausea. Her stomach heaved, and, for a moment, she lost all pretense and sat on the edge of the bed. She regathered her composure, wondering how much of her illness stemmed from the pregnancy. “I think not.” Silme managed to keep her voice steady and even added an edge of threat.

Undeterred, Harriman took a seat close behind Silme. Quick as a striking snake, he placed a hand on her head and smoothed the thick, golden waves.

Revulsion turned to rage. Silme caught Harriman’s hand before it slid to her breast. She seized it the way Gaelinar had taught her, with her thumb on Harriman’s smallest knuckle.

No grimace of pain or surprise flashed across Harriman’s face. With a warrior’s training, he latched his free hand onto her grip, yanking with a strength that lanced pain through her arm.

It required Silme’s full self-control not to gasp. She released his hand, the image of Harriman writhing in magical flames giving substance to her hatred. Still clinging to her hand, he flung her violently to the coverlet. She twisted, clawing for his face with her opposite hand. Batting the attack aside, Harriman wrenched Silme’s trapped arm so suddenly she thought it might break. She rolled back to escape the pain as Harriman pinned her other arm beneath his knee.

Silme felt her bravado slipping. Hot with anger, she was almost overwhelmed by another emotion, one she could not name that scattered her wits and goaded her to fight without direction. “Is it death you seek, Harriman? I can make it cruel.” She realized a single gesture and a major expenditure of energy could send him into agonized spasms. Then she could shield or transport away, perhaps create an opening to kill him. The idea of murder soothed Silme, smothering her panic. She fought to free her left hand, but Harriman’s knee crushed her wrist.

Harriman laughed, the sound light with calculation and eagerness. “Be cruel, then. I’ve faced death before, and it doesn’t frighten me. I’ve subdued those two berserks.” He said it “bair-sair,” the musical, Norse pronunciation sounding out of place amidst his southern accent and clipped, Wilsberg dialect. “I doubt you could do worse, but you’re welcome to try.”

Silme ignored the taunt, forcing herself to think.
Dare I use magic? Allerum and I could conceive another baby.
The moment of consideration reminded her she still had her utility knife tucked in a pocket of her dress.

Harriman eased the pressure on Silme’s hands. “Oh, ach, how cruel.” He clutched his throat with his free hand. “How do I bear the anguish?”

Silme knew Harriman mocked her.
He wants me to kill the baby.
She winced, realizing fury had nearly driven her to do exactly what he wanted. Now the idea seemed painfully evil. The child had become a real, a solid part of her she had protected through too much already.
Allerum, Taziar, and Astryd might die for this baby. I can suffer through Harriman’s indignities for the life of our child.

Harriman blinked in the silence. When Silme gave him no reply, he shifted, his weight smashing her legs to the coverlet. One-handed, he fumbled with the buckle of his sword belt, unfastened it, and tossed it to the floor.

The weapon flew in a wide arc. Silme recognized the black brocade of its hilt and the slim curve of its sheath.
Gaelinar’s katana.
The sword whacked against the floor, leather whisking as it slid across granite. Gaelinar had often claimed a man’s sword was an extension of his spirit. She had seen the ronin samurai let wounds gape and bleed while he tended a blade dirtied or nicked in battle. Harriman’s casualness dishonored Silme’s memory of the greatest swordsman in the world, a single-mindedly loyal bodyguard who had also been a respected friend. Fear retreated, leaving only the blinding rage. She struggled wildly against him.

Harriman jarred a backhanded slap across her cheek and jerked her trapped arm so savagely Silme could not keep from screaming. She went limp, waiting for the pain to subside. Tears filled her eyes, transforming Harriman into a blue-white blur. She felt him paw at her dress, heard the jerk and tear of undergarments, followed by the cold touch of air on her exposed thighs. Unable to contain her terror, she sobbed, then bit her lip.
He may be able to humiliate me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

A single, sharp tug at the ties of Silme’s bodice bared her breasts. Harriman’s speed shocked her. She twisted her gaze to the knife he clutched, splinters of leather still clinging to the blade.
My knife
, Silme realized.
My last chance to fight him.
Her hands and legs had gone numb beneath him. Bile rose, sour in her throat. He clamped a hand, icy and pinching, to her breast, and her flesh crawled beneath his touch. She met his eyes, soft brown, his expression gentle and incongruous with his actions.

“You’re mine, Silme.” Harriman stated it as simple fact, as if gloating was not a part of his emotional repertoire. “You belong to me now, and I can do anything I want.” As if to prove his claim, he arched against her and reached to unfasten his own garments.

Harriman’s words were a challenge.
He believes he owns me, this damaged creature controlled by another sorcerer.
The thought mobilized Silme, and she cursed herself for not considering the option sooner. She gathered and grounded her awareness, burying fear and anger beneath intensity of will, and thrust her way through the ruins of Harriman’s mind barriers.

Silme’s last physical perception was of her body sagging into the straw mattress. Her sense of Harriman’s bedroom, the understanding of pain, Harriman’s skin touching hers all disappeared as she ducked between the clinging shards of his mental barrier into a world of thought and memory. The superficial glimpse her probe had admitted the previous day did not prepare her for the vast plain of slashed, looped, and knotted pathways, chaotic as tangled harp strings. Harriman’s master had made no attempt to hide his meddling. But no matter how much time the sorcerer had had to maim and corrupt, Silme knew his efforts must prove mediocre, at best. In order to maintain Harriman’s abilities as warrior and diplomat, the experiences that taught him those skills must remain intact.
The master must have obliterated the connections between action and emotion.

Surprise reverberated through Harriman’s mind, liberally mixed with confusion and frustration. Silme caught the name “Bolverkr” bright as a signal flare, a desperate plea for help radiating from Harriman’s thoughts.

Silme froze. She harbored no doubt Bolverkr was Harriman’s master, a sorcerer whose skill and strength she could not hope to stand against.
I must find some memory terrible enough to distract Harriman while I escape. And I have to work fast!
Silme sprang forward and swam through the thought pathways, experiencing rapid glimpses of Harriman’s past realities. She found a life entwined with lies and deception, hidden ideas and expressions. As if from a great distance and through Harriman’s perception instead of her own, she felt his body stiffen. Lust died like a candle snuffed. She heard him howl, a deep echo in his own ears, heard the click of the doorknob.