Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

Prolugue
CHAPTER 1 : Shadows of Death
CHAPTER 2 : Shadows in the City
CHAPTER 3 : Shadows of the Truth
CHAPTER 4 : Shadows of Magic
CHAPTER 5 : Shadows on the Temple Wall
CHAPTER 6 : Shadowed Alleys
CHAPTER 7 : Ladies of the Shadows
CHAPTER 8 : Dim Shadows of Vengeance
CHAPTER 9 : Shadows of Justice
CHAPTER 10 : Dust and Shadows
CHAPTER 11 : Shadows of the Gallows
CHAPTER 12 : Shadows of Doubt
CHAPTER 13 : Shadowed Corners of the Mind
Epilogue

SHADOW’S REALM Copyright © 1990 by Miriam S. Zucker

For Dwight V. Swain
Who taught so many. So well.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Dave Hartlage, Sheila Gilbert, Jonathan Matson, Richard Hescox, D. Allan Drummond, Joe Schaumburger, our parents, and SFLIS for their own special contributions.

The sun rose over the eastern horizon, casting red highlights across the pastures and grain fields of Wilsberg until the land seemed crusted with rubies. Atop a grassy hillock overlooking the village, the Dragonmage, Bolverkr, sprawled casually across the doorstep of his mansion. A breeze ruffled hair white as bleached bone, carrying the mingled smells of clover and new-mown hay. Clouds bunched to towering shapes or drifted to lace in the mid-autumn sky.

Bolverkr stretched, attuned to the familiar noise of the town he had considered home for his last century and a half: the splash of clay pots dipped into the central fountain, the playful shrill of children chasing one another through narrow, cobbled lanes, the metallic rattle of pans at the hearth behind him. The latter sound brought a smile to his lips. He twisted his head, peering down the squat hallway of his home to its kitchen. His young wife, Magan, whisked from table to fireplace, black hair swirling around,sturdy curves marred by the bulge of a womb heavy with child. She was dark in every way Bolverkr’s Norse heritage made him light.
Beautiful. Sensitive to my needs as I am to hers. I picked a good one this time.
Bolverkr chuckled.
Two hundred seventeen years old, and I’ve finally learned how to select the right woman.

The throaty low of a cow drew Bolverkr’s attention to the southern paddock. A ribby herd of Cullinsbergen cattle chewed mouthfuls of alfalfa hay, browsing through the stacks with wide, wet noses. Chickens scurried to peck up dislodged seeds, muddied feathers matted to their breasts. Children, shirking chores, alternately tossed bread crumbs and pebbles to a flock of pullets, giggling whenever the birds flapped and fought over the rocks. From his world on the hill, Bolverkr studied the children’s wrinkled homespun and their dirt-streaked faces, aware nearly all of them carried his blood at some near or distant point in their heritage.
Seasons come and go. Cottages crumble and are rebuilt. My grandchildren have spawned grandchildren. And the only constant feature of the farming town of Wilsberg is an old sorcerer named Bolverkr.
Contented by his musings and cheered by the promise of a clear day, Bolverkr eased his back against the doorjamb.

The Chaos-storm struck with crazed and sudden violence. Without warning, the clouds wilted to black, smothering the autumn sky beneath a dark, unnatural curtain of threat. A half-grown calf bellowed in terror. A startled woman flung her jar into the fountain, throwing up her arms in a gesture to ward away evil. The clay smacked the basin stones, shattering into chips that swirled to the muddy bottom. Frightened children fled for shelter. Before Bolverkr could raise his withered frame from the doorway, Northern winds knifed through the town of Wilsberg.

Bolverkr gaped, horror-struck, as the force raged through threadlike walkways, scooped up a handful of children, and hurled their mangled bodies like flotsam on a beach. One crashed into the fountain, slamming a gale-lashed wave of water over the peasant woman. A wall tumbled into wreckage, and the squall tore through Wilsberg like a hungry demon. It shattered cottages to rubble, whirled stone and thatch into a tornado force of wind. The fountain tore free of its foundation; the gale scattered its boulders through homes, fields, and paddocks.

The dragonmark scar on Bolverkr’s hand throbbed like a fresh wound. Desperately, he tapped his life energy, twining a shield of magic over a huddled cluster of frightened townsfolk. But his power was a mellow whisper against a raging torrent of Chaos-force. It shattered his ward, claiming sorcery, stone, and life with equal abandon. It swallowed friends, cows, and cobbles, the mayor’s mansion and the basest hovel, leaving a sour trail of twisted corpses and crimson-splashed pebbles.

Bolverkr tossed an urgent command over his shoulder. “Magan, run!” Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, he delved into the depths of his being, gathering life energy as another man might tap resolve. Holding back just enough to sustain consciousness, he fashioned a transparent, magical barrier of peerless thickness and strength. His spell snapped to existence, penning scores of townsfolk against the base of his hill. The effort cost all but a ragged shred of Bolverkr’s stamina. Too weak to stand, he sank to one knee; a dancing curtain of black and white pressed his vision. Sick with frustration, he focused on shadows as panicked men and women bashed into the unseen shield, unaware they were safe from the onrushing winds.

Suddenly, sound thundered, pulsing through the village as if some wrathful god had ripped open the heavens. The gale-force burst through Bolverkr’s shield. Once protected, the farmers now became prisoners of the spell. They ran for freedom, only to crash into its encumbering sides. Gusts heaved bodies against the solid remnants of Bolverkr’s magic, smashing townsmen into gashed and battered corpses.

Bolverkr staggered to his feet, too weak to curse in outrage. Only one course remained to him, one power left to tap; but he knew it might claim a price equal to the other-world storm he faced. He felt Magan’s touch through the bunched cloth of his tunic. Ignoring his command to flee, she caught his arm, steadying him against the door frame with trembling hands. Raven-hued hair touched his cheek. Magan’s abdomen brushed his hip, and he felt the baby’s kick. In Bolverkr’s mind, there was no longer any question. “Run,” he whispered. “Please.” He gouged his fingernails against the ledge for support, oblivious to wood slivering painfully into flesh. Head bowed, he fought down the natural barriers that shielded men’s minds from the manipulations of sorcerers and began the sequence of mental exercises that would call unbridled Chaos to him.

Bolverkr knew nearly two hundred years had passed since any Dragonrank mage dared to draw power from a Chaos-source other than his own life energy. But, pressed to recklessness, Bolverkr drew the procedure from the cob-webbed depths of memory. His invocation began as a half-forgotten, disjointed mumble of spell words.

And Chaos answered Bolverkr. It seeped into his wasted sinews, restoring vigor and clarity of thought. The method of its summoning returned like remembrance of a lost love. His conjuration grew from a mental glimmer, to a verbal whisper, to a shout. Golden waves of chaos filled him, exultant and suffocating in their richness. Gorged with new power, Bolverkr laughed and raised his hand against the force that blasted grass from the hillside as it raced toward him like a living thing.