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

frowned, and Larson understood his discomfort. Accustomed to working in near darkness, night gave the little Climber an advantage. Daylight would turn the odds even further in Bolverkr’s favor.
    At length, Taziar stopped, motioning to Larson and Astryd to stand in place. Without turning to see if they had complied, Taziar went on alone. Within seconds, he had disappeared between the trees.
    Wind shivered through the branches, sending the pines into a bowing dance. Larson lowered his head. In a safe position between the wards, he went deathly still. Something brushed his hand, and he glanced up at Astryd. She held a stance of defiance, yet fear glazed her eyes. Larson took her hand, squeezing encouragingly. He had faced death enough times to know that the trick to succeeding at a suicide mission was to concentrate wholly on the goal and forget the consequences. To think about a future without himself, Taziar, and Astryd, to know fear instead of certainty, even for a moment, might jeopardize the success of their attempt. So Larson pushed failure out of his mind.
    But Astryd had lived her first fifteen years as a shipbuilder’s daughter and the last six protected and isolated from the world on the grounds of the Dragonrank school. She had not yet learned to accept her own death. Larson pitied her, sympathizing with her struggle against innocence, yet he knew he could do nothing except understand.
    Taziar returned, dodging through the wards once again. “Bolverkr’s still pacing the curtain wall. Any suggestions?”
    Larson stated the obvious strategy. “We need to hit him fast and hard, preferably from more than one side. Our only chance is to catch him by surprise and strike before he can retaliate.”
    Taziar nodded in agreement. “I can get us onto the ramparts.” He patted his side to indicate a coil of rope he carried beneath his cloak.
    Larson frowned, wondering why Taziar had not produced the rope when they’d been maneuvering over Bolverkr’s magical perimeter. Apparently, he didn’t see the need. Or he didn’t think we could spare the time. Larson found it difficult to fault a tactic that had worked. We made it over. That’s all that matters.
    Apparently recognizing Astryd’s discomfort, Taziar took her other hand. “The wards get thicker the closer we get to the keep. Pay attention. Don’t get too eager or distracted. Insane or not, Bolverkr’s not stupid. The only safe path to the wall is on the side where he’s pacing.”
    Larson dropped Astryd’s hand, leaving her solace to Taziar. They all knew Bolverkr’s retribution was aimed specifically against the men who had loosed Chaos against him; if Larson and Taziar were killed, Bolverkr had no further need of Astryd. They had already discussed the contingency; if their attack failed, the Dragonrank sorceress was to use any means at her disposal to return to Silme, accepting the men’s deaths without consideration of revenge.
    Alert to the urgency of time and the necessity for quiet, Taziar gave Astryd a fond but quick embrace unaccompanied by verbal explanations or platitudes. Pulling away, he knelt, seized a fallen twig amid the underbrush, and cleared a patch of dirt. Using the tip of the branch as a stylus, he drew a series of curved and tangled lines on the ground. “This is the pattern through the wards from the edge of the forest to the curtain wall. We may have to run through it. Can you do that?” He glanced up at his companions.
    Larson frowned, uncertain. He had experience with obstacle courses, but none so hair-trigger deadly as a Dragonrank sorcerer’s magic.
    Apparently, Taziar intended his last question to remain rhetorical, because he did not wait for an answer before pushing silently through the brush.
    Astryd and Larson trailed Taziar. Branches parted before them, leaves brushing quietly against linen and leather. Larson kept his head tilted, his concentration fully on the glittering traces of sorcery, though he could see them