Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (44 page)

Shadows blurred and spun through Al Larson’s world. He fought for clarity of mind and met sharp, unfocused pain. His thoughts swam through darkness, pinned by the same lead weight that held his body in place. He tried to roll, but his limbs would not respond. His breaths were rapid and shallow against the agony jabbing his lungs.

Gradually, Larson’s senses returned. First came touch, and he realized he lay on a bed.
A hospital?
The indecipherable roar of conversation touched his ears, completing the picture. A childhood memory rose, a remote recollection of awakening amid a sea of white coats and strange faces, the odor of chemicals harsh in his nostrils.
Mom? Dad!
Larson attempted to scream, but not even a whisper of sound emerged. A different recollection floated, unan-chored through Larson’s consciousness, a female voice, thick with grief, speaking words that made no sense to him then or now: “I’ve done all I can to stabilize him until my life energy returns, but it’s not enough. The only thing that can save him now is his own stubborn force of will.”

Other memories, descended upon Larson now, the smells of excrement, gasoline, and death, muzzle flashes and the scream of jets.
The war. My god, I was injured in the war!
Larson remembered a desperate charge intro the waiting AK-47s of a Viet Cong patrol.
Jesus Christ! Don’t tell me some gung ho surgeon sewed the pieces back together.

Alarmed by what he might find, Larson gathered enough strength to wrench his eyes open. The pale glow of a lantern blinded him after the dark depths of his unconsciousness; its light revealed a group of people sitting on the floor in a circle as ragged and imperfect as a young child’s drawing. Slowly, Larson’s vision adjusted, and he identified them. Astryd, Silme, and Shylar kept their backs to him. Taziar’s position gave him a sideways view of the bed. Only Asril faced Larson directly. The violet-eyed thief was picking at a splinter in the floorboards, and no one seemed to notice Larson had awakened.

Larson allowed his lids to sink closed, and, finally, Shylar’s words became clear to him. “... never in any danger from the guards in the prison. You can’t believe how much respect my position commands. Harriman may have had the higher ups’ ears, but I had their privates. And where men are concerned, the latter is more important.”

A wave of polite laughter followed Shylar’s pronouncement.

Astryd pressed further. “But if you hold so much power, how did Harriman get you arrested?”

“Even more power and connections. Harriman was the bastard of the duke as well as a competent diplomat. He’d had dealings with the baron for decades, and he learned how to arrange things so people always felt they got the best of any bargain. Once he wrested control of the girls from me, he had everything. But it’s not going to happen again. I don’t think it could.”

Larson recognized Taziar’s voice. “What about you, Asril? Shylar’s probably safe, but the guards will double patrols looking for you and the others.”

Larson opened his eyes in time to see Asril shrug.“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve gone into hiding,” He threw the question back to Taziar. “What about you? Are you staying?” He added hastily. “You know your friends are welcome, too.”

Shylar nodded in silent agreement.

Taziar shook his head. “Much as I’d like to, no. We still have a fight to face. Harriman was only a pawn. Our real enemy is a sorcerer willing to destroy people and things to hurt me.”

Hopelessness touched Larson. The voices dulled, and darkness clotted his vision.

Asril’s reply was shrill. “Are you telling me this person almost got
me
hanged because he was mad at
you.
” He did not wait for affirmation. “Taz, forget what I said about hiding. I’m going to kill the bastard!”

“No.” Silme’s voice lulled Larson. Pain faded, replaced by a comforting void, and he slowly began to give himself over to the darkness. “Asril, you don’t understand. We’re not going against some farmer. Bolverkr has power you can’t begin to understand. We have no choice except to oppose him, but it may prove impossible ...”

Taziar glanced toward the bed. Larson let his eyes sag fully closed, but not before he saw the Climber make an abrupt gesture that silenced Silme. “We’d welcome your sword arm, Asril, but we don’t need it. Of course, Bolverkr’s a challenge. Everything’s impossible until someone accomplishes it. They said no one could escape the baron’s dungeon, but I’ve done it. Twice. And I’m just a little thief who
fights like a girl. A jerk. A creep. A swimmer who drowns in his own damned city!
”

Taziar’s shout cut through the buzzing in Larson’s skull. He anchored his senses on Taziar’s words.

Taziar leaped to his feet. “Allerum killed a Dragonrank Master after the finest swordsman in the world failed. As if that wasn’t enough, he went on to slay a god in the same afternoon. With Allerum on our side, we can’t lose. In fact, Asril, maybe you should join Bolverkr. He’s the one who needs help!”

Larson fought aside the numbness clutching at his senses. A whisper of vitality returned, awakening the agony he had tried to escape. But now, Larson savored the pain and the life that accompanied it. He struggled to one elbow, his eyes open and alert. “We’ll kick Bolverkr’s ass!”

“What?” Taziar asked in confusion. Every gaze spun toward the bed.

Larson managed a shaky smile. “Never mind,” he said.

TK scanned and proofed. 2012 september (v1.0) (html)