Free Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed by By Chaos Cursed (v1.0)

voice sounded strained, even to his own ears. Only then did he realize he was gripping Gaelinar’s sword’s hilt so tightly that his hand had blanched and the brocade had left impressions in his palm. Bothered by his paranoia, he freed his hand and shook it to restore the circulation.
    “There’s another circle of magic just inside the first.” Taziar rested a palm against the trunk of a sturdy oak with several jutting branches. “Careful now. Follow me.” He shinnied to a high limb with an ease and quickness Larson could never hope to copy.
    “Yeah, right,” Larson mumbled. Turning, he motioned Astryd over to the base. Cupping his hands, he created a step for her. “Put your foot here. I’ll give you a boost.”
    Astryd looked doubtfully from Larson’s fingers to the wards while Taziar watched with nervous expectation. Dutifully, Astryd passed her dragonstaff to Taziar, then placed her booted foot on Larson’s hands.
    Short even compared with Taziar’s five foot nothing, Astryd seemed nearly weightless to Larson. He hoisted her without difficulty, waiting until she caught a solid grip on a higher branch before lowering his hands. Though agile, Astryd looked as awkward as a growing adolescent compared with Taziar’s practiced grace. Sighing, Larson seized the trunk and followed her, the rough bark scratching his hands.
    Taziar waited only until Larson had reached the branch on which he and Astryd perched before tossing the garnet dragonstaff safely over the wards. He leapt in a gentle arc to the ground, then signaled for Astryd to jump.
    Astryd hesitated while Larson waited, clinging to the branch with one hand, the other braced against the trunk. She lowered herself over the limb, dangling by her hands to lessen the distance to the ground, then let go. She plummeted dangerously close to the wards. Larson held his breath, scrambling to a position that might allow him to make a desperate dive for her. Before he could leap, Taziar stepped between Astryd and the barrier, catching a slender arm and hauling her to safety.
    Larson clambered to the branch, heaving a sigh of relief. He waved Astryd and Taziar out of his way, not liking the distance of the jump. In junior high school, a lesser fall had broken Larson’s arm. Edging to the end of the branch, he sprang to the ground, hit, and rolled to his feet, unharmed.
    “That’s the hardest part,” Taziar said. “The rest is just dodging around wards. Take your time, don’t get sloppy, and you should do fine.”
    Larson clapped dirt from his palms. He took little solace from Taziar’s words. Accustomed to judging obstacles by his own ability to surmount them, Taziar’s idea of “sloppy” rarely gibed with Larson’s. A high school soccer player, weight lifter, and college boxer, Larson had always considered himself fit, but Taziar’s nimbleness made the American feel clumsy. Worse, thrown onto an unfamiliar body, Larson had been forced to relearn coordination, a competence rapidly acquired and sorely tested by Gaelinar’s sword lessons as well as Bramin’s and Loki’s attacks.
    Without further warning, Taziar headed off, soundlessly weaving through the brush. Astryd followed. Larson darted glances in all directions, locating the splayed pattern of magical glints, memorizing positions and trying to trace Astryd’s footsteps. Yearly deer hunts in the New Hampshire forests had accustomed Larson to pine forests and moving quietly over twigs and brush, and months in Vietnamese jungle had made him oversensitive to the sounds of rustling foliage. Again, he thought he heard a distant noise behind them. His palms went slick, and sweat dampened the leather-wrapped hilt of Gaelinar’s katana. Larson cursed himself. Keep your mind on the wards. There’s nothing behind you. And even if there is, it can’t possibly be as dangerous as what’s ahead.
    The uppermost branches of oak caught the dawn light, silhouetting the autumn leaves red and gold against pink. Taziar