Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm by Shadow's Realm (v1.0) Page A
Authors: Shadow's Realm (v1.0)
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traitor’s in the house!” His bootfalls crashed after the fleeing Climber.
Taziar’s memory sprang to action, mapping the route through the kitchen to the emergency exit. The open meeting area’s just before the front door. Too many people there. Got to get out the back. He skidded onto the landing, trying to catch a glimpse of the layout below, prepared to dodge whoever blocked his path to the exit. Below and to his right, a crowd of prostitutes sat bolt upright on gathered couches, benches, and chests. The half dozen men interspersed between them mobilized slowly. Beyond Varin, now nearly down to the lower landing, Taziar saw no one between himself and the door to the kitchen.
The strong-arm man sprang forward, catching a streaming fold of Taziar’s cloak.
Yanked suddenly backward, Taziar lost his footing. He twisted. Cloth tore. He pitched into empty air. His shoulder crashed into the hard edge of steps, and momentum flung him, tumbling, down the stairs. Wildly, he flailed for a handhold, but the cloak tangled about his hands, the soft fabric slipping from the wood as if greased. His head struck the banister, ringing. Each step jolted the breath out of him, stamping bruises into his flesh.
Taziar landed, sprawled, at the foot of the flight. Dazed, he staggered to his feet. A wave of rising enemies filled his vision. Cursing the pain, but glad for the seconds his fall had gained him, he burst through the door into the kitchen.
A middle-aged man sat, composed and alone, at the huge dining table across from the cooking fire. At the far side of the room, the exit stood, slightly ajar, and Taziar knew it led into a small food storage room where Shylar screened whoever pounded on the black door, ignoring anyone who did not use one of the assigned, personal codes of the underground. Relief washed over Taziar. If it came to a race, he knew he could beat the stranger to the door. Once in the entryway, I’m free. He quickened his pace.
The stranger did not move. An odd smile graced his features, and he made a loud but wordless noise as Taziar caught the doorknob.
Before Taziar could pull it, the door wrenched open violently. For a startled instant, Taziar stared at a leather tunic stretched taut across a muscled chest. He glanced up to fair features so badly scarred that bands of tissue disrupted golden hair in patches. Pale eyes swiveled, unmistakably glazed from the berserker mushrooms some Vikings took to enhance ferocity in battle. Hands large as melons seized Taziar’s arms. The Norseman dragged Taziar off his feet and through the doorway, then spun and hurled the Climber into the far wall.
Taziar’s shoulder blades crashed into stone. Impact jolted pain along his spine. He heard the door slam shut as he stumbled forward and caught a glimpse of a second Norseman, larger than the first. Then, clenched fists slammed into Taziar’s lower chest with the speed of a galloping horse. Something cracked. Pain jabbed Taziar’s lungs, and momentum reeled him into the wall. His head smacked granite. His vision blurred and spun, and it required a struggle of will to keep from sinking limply to the floor.
A tottering side step regained Taziar his balance. He raised an arm in defense, his other hand pawing desperately for his sword. The scarred Norseman seized him by the wrists and ripped both arms behind him. Taziar struggled madly, but the larger man pinned him as easily as an infant. Through a whirling fog of anguish, Taziar watched the Norseman’s partner approach and recognized the same drug-crazed expression on this man’s features. “Wait!” he gasped. Doubled fists exploded into his abraded cheek. Taziar’s neck snapped sideways. There was a sudden flash of brilliant white; blindness descended on him. For a second, he thought he was dead. Then the huge hands smashed his other cheek, sparking pain that made him scream.
“My turn.” The man holding Taziar used the Scandinavian tongue with selfish eagerness,
Taziar’s memory sprang to action, mapping the route through the kitchen to the emergency exit. The open meeting area’s just before the front door. Too many people there. Got to get out the back. He skidded onto the landing, trying to catch a glimpse of the layout below, prepared to dodge whoever blocked his path to the exit. Below and to his right, a crowd of prostitutes sat bolt upright on gathered couches, benches, and chests. The half dozen men interspersed between them mobilized slowly. Beyond Varin, now nearly down to the lower landing, Taziar saw no one between himself and the door to the kitchen.
The strong-arm man sprang forward, catching a streaming fold of Taziar’s cloak.
Yanked suddenly backward, Taziar lost his footing. He twisted. Cloth tore. He pitched into empty air. His shoulder crashed into the hard edge of steps, and momentum flung him, tumbling, down the stairs. Wildly, he flailed for a handhold, but the cloak tangled about his hands, the soft fabric slipping from the wood as if greased. His head struck the banister, ringing. Each step jolted the breath out of him, stamping bruises into his flesh.
Taziar landed, sprawled, at the foot of the flight. Dazed, he staggered to his feet. A wave of rising enemies filled his vision. Cursing the pain, but glad for the seconds his fall had gained him, he burst through the door into the kitchen.
A middle-aged man sat, composed and alone, at the huge dining table across from the cooking fire. At the far side of the room, the exit stood, slightly ajar, and Taziar knew it led into a small food storage room where Shylar screened whoever pounded on the black door, ignoring anyone who did not use one of the assigned, personal codes of the underground. Relief washed over Taziar. If it came to a race, he knew he could beat the stranger to the door. Once in the entryway, I’m free. He quickened his pace.
The stranger did not move. An odd smile graced his features, and he made a loud but wordless noise as Taziar caught the doorknob.
Before Taziar could pull it, the door wrenched open violently. For a startled instant, Taziar stared at a leather tunic stretched taut across a muscled chest. He glanced up to fair features so badly scarred that bands of tissue disrupted golden hair in patches. Pale eyes swiveled, unmistakably glazed from the berserker mushrooms some Vikings took to enhance ferocity in battle. Hands large as melons seized Taziar’s arms. The Norseman dragged Taziar off his feet and through the doorway, then spun and hurled the Climber into the far wall.
Taziar’s shoulder blades crashed into stone. Impact jolted pain along his spine. He heard the door slam shut as he stumbled forward and caught a glimpse of a second Norseman, larger than the first. Then, clenched fists slammed into Taziar’s lower chest with the speed of a galloping horse. Something cracked. Pain jabbed Taziar’s lungs, and momentum reeled him into the wall. His head smacked granite. His vision blurred and spun, and it required a struggle of will to keep from sinking limply to the floor.
A tottering side step regained Taziar his balance. He raised an arm in defense, his other hand pawing desperately for his sword. The scarred Norseman seized him by the wrists and ripped both arms behind him. Taziar struggled madly, but the larger man pinned him as easily as an infant. Through a whirling fog of anguish, Taziar watched the Norseman’s partner approach and recognized the same drug-crazed expression on this man’s features. “Wait!” he gasped. Doubled fists exploded into his abraded cheek. Taziar’s neck snapped sideways. There was a sudden flash of brilliant white; blindness descended on him. For a second, he thought he was dead. Then the huge hands smashed his other cheek, sparking pain that made him scream.
“My turn.” The man holding Taziar used the Scandinavian tongue with selfish eagerness,
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