Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 11
“I’m sorry. Here I am all covered with ogre gook ...” “Doesn’t bother me. Never did.”
“You’ve gained weight.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, definitely. It looks good on you.”
“Really?” Gelthrain smiled brightly. Cymric mimicked her expression, silently mouthing the elf’s words. He stopped, realizing that mocking Leandra’s friend was not a healthy pastime for a half-burned, semi-naked wizard. He went back to working on his robe, with better success.
“Really. I was always afraid you were trying to look like a skeleton, not just work with one. This is better.” “Thanks. You look healthy as always. Speaking of healthy, you still seeing Brius?”
“No". He left after one of our arguments.”
“Too bad. He always had the chest I wanted to cry on. So, is there anyone new?” Gelthrain’s eyebrows rose as she made a quarter-tum to face Cymric, who was brushing off his robes with slow, deliberate strokes. He looked from Gelthrain to Leandra, then back to Gelthrain. He raised his left eyebrow. Leandra grinned.
“I see you’ve met Cymric. He is a wizard I hired to help with the calendar. Speaking of which?”
“Ask the hero with the scrawny buns; he’s the one who retrieved it from the flames.”
“Scrawny buns politely suggests that the pointy-eared witch is lying. She has the calendar.”
Gelthrain’s eyes narrowed. Leandra stepped in between the elf and the wizard, raising her hands. “Shut up, Cymric. Ease off, Gel. Please. Where is the calendar?” The three silently gauged each other, the light of the flames from the burning shop making them look angrier than they felt. Cymric sighed and shrugged.
“It’s inside the front cover of a grimoire Gelthrain had me bring out of her hellhole of a shop. I gave her the book, but she doesn’t have it now. Perhaps she gave it to an ogre as a parting gift.”
Gelthrain’s expression hardened, but softened again at the pleading look from Leandra.
“I do have the grimoire,” she said, “but I certainly did not put the calendar inside.” Gelthrain’s hands moved to about waist-height, then she pulled them apart to create a glowing opening in the air. She drew the grimoire from the glowing pocket and put it on the ground. She knelt, rubbing the front cover with her hand, then suddenly jerked her hand away.
“Wizard’s right. The calendar’s in there!” Cymric gave a satisfied snort. Leandra also knelt by the grimoire, lightly moving her fingertips across the surface. She pointed to Gelthrain’s knife and held her hand out for it. The elf gave it to her, and Leandra carefully slit the skin of the book’s cover, cutting it away from the front. Then she handed back the knife. Ever so gently, she began to edge out the calendar, holding her breath as she pulled.
The next moment there was a flash followed by a loud boom. Cymric’s ears rang, his eyes were blinded. He felt something rasp upon his skin. He dimly heard Leandra shout and a relentless hiss nearby. Cymric’s sight adjusted in time to see a shadowy serpent-head the size of his chest open its jaws. Gleaming, metallic fangs glowed with drops of luminescent venom as the thing attacked him.
12
Scales scraped against Cymric’s shoulders as he twisted away from the attack. Continuing his turn, he backpedaled as fast as he could while trying to maintain his footing. He had no intention of making himself an easy target by falling. He gripped his staff tightly in case he had to prop the serpent’s mouth open.
The monster seemed made of near-perfect darkness. Though Cymric had felt the scales, he couldn’t see them. Only the fangs reflected any light. Like a many-headed hydra, the creature had five necks and heads. The necks split at the base and then joined together in a complicated knot, which began to weave around Leandra’s legs and torso. Three of the heads faced her, while one apiece confronted Gelthrain and Cymric. The heads changed their facing by rippling and flowing around the neck. Apparently the resemblance to serpents did not include bones to support the neck and head.
The elf had backed away from the creature and now had the large grimoire open. Cymric was frantically weaving a thread for dispel magic, though he was sure it was probably a poor choice. As the serpent heads bobbed around her, Leandra swung furiously, hitting the ones that came closest. The one on her left struck in a blur of motion, its jaws engulfing her left shoulder, fangs poised just above her chest. As red light flashed from under Leandra’s armor, the serpent’s jaws worked, but could not close on her. Leandra’s face broke into a sweat. The creature hissed and pulled back.
Cymric put all his effort into his spell, draining a little life magic from himself to increase its effectiveness. Starting at his fingertips, the spell whirled along the astral arc between Cymric and the monster. The dispel magic slammed into the creature, breaking like an egg hurled against a basalt block.
Leandra struck a solid blow to one of the serpent necks. The attached head shook back and forth. The cut gleamed wetly, and what looked like a wisp of steam rose from the wound. Cymric moved around the creature toward one of the heads attacking Leandra. He slid his hands to the end of his staff, then swung it overhead before bringing it down full force with a crack. But if the blow had any effect, the monster ignored it.
One of the heads was now taking a bite out of Leandra, who screamed as its fangs crunched into her crystal armor. Cymric held the staff like a quarterstaff, windmilling the monster. Leandra stabbed it in the mouth, and the hissing head withdrew.
“Wither!” Brow furrowed, sweat dripping down her ash-streaked face, Gelthrain pointed a long finger at one of the necks. The neck swayed for an instant, a charmed cobra of immense size. Then its skin tightened with a slow creak, only to sag and loosen all along the neck. The head screamed, a sound like red-hot steel dropped into a tempering bucket. The tongue lolled. The neck quivered, toppled, and crashed to the ground.
The other heads exploded with motion. The body rotated, gaining speed like a potter’s wheel. The four live heads rose, the fifth flopped loosely. Leandra spun in the center. One of her hairpins flew by Cymric. Hair soon splayed out through her coif. The creature moved like a whirlwind, spinning after Gelthrain, who grabbed the grimoire and closed the covers as she ran. The creature slowed its rotation. Two heads attacked Gelthrain, the first one’s neck caught her on the shoulder, spinning her around. The second head struck. Gelthrain flinched, raising the grimoire to block the fangs, which sank deep into the book instead of into her. The head rose a few feet, but Gelthrain hung onto the grimoire. The head shook vigorously to free itself from the book, and that made Gel-thrain’s grip give out. She screamed as the creature flung her a dozen paces down the street.
Most of the townsfolk reacted to the scene by either gaping or fleeing. Others fell to their knees in prayer. A few approached the serpent creature cautiously, careful to stay out of range. A mustached man in a bloodstained smock shook a butcher’s knife at the thing. Two boys in the aprons of smithy work threw rocks, darting in for the throw, then out to reload. A red-faced woman used both hands to carry a burning window shutter aloft, shouting a prayer to Garlen. The creature turned two of its heads toward the townsfolk, hissing at the man and woman, striking at the apprentices as they came in to throw. The thing’s first attack missed, but the wide-eyed boys did not come as close for their next throw.
Leandra held her sword with both hands. She stabbed at a neck, sinking the blade into a third of its length. The neck arched up and back, the head making a high, whistling sound. Leandra tried twisting the blade. When that failed, she withdrew it for a second strike. Black ichor covered her blade, vanishing like mist in sunlight as she raised her sword to strike.
Cymric backed away a few paces, then took a deep breath, filling his lungs past the point of merely full. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to inner sight before he took a second breath. Finding the spell pattern he needed, he gathered a piece of his life force to help propel the pattern into astral space. The new pattern flew into the matrix holding the jump pattern, dispersing the old spell pattern like wind scattering dandelion seeds. Cymric took another deep breath and spun a thread, this time to cast a light spell. A globe of light glowed from the tip of his staff.
Cymric returned all his senses to the external world. One serpent head threatened the townsfolk, two faced Leandra (although one had the grimoire impaled on its fangs), and one struck at Gelthrain. None threatened the wizard. Cymric circled the creature until he saw the deep wound Leandra had made, then he charged, plunging his staff into the wound like a spear, the light as the speartip. The creature’s skin reacted like thick ooze hit by a huge boulder, the flesh frothing and rippling away from the light in waves, flesh nearest the light boiling off as mist. The attached head screamed, the sound of ten thousand bats squeaking and shrieking at once. The head flowed around the neck to face him, and Cymric jabbed the staff in as hard as he could. The head hissed, jaws unhinging to swallow him whole. Cymric stabbed again. The head descended in a wobbly strike, then hit the ground with a wet sound, splattering ichor but still shattering bricks and raising dust.
All three heads flowed to find Cymric. The wizard ran, a leaping step carrying him just out of reach of the two nearest heads. The creature began to spin again. Cymric wove a thread for another light spell, this time targeting Leandra’s sword. The arc was difficult to see, twitching and twisting as the sword spun around with Leandra. A nearby hiss told Cymric the creature was ready to strike. He cast the spell, withdrawing from inner sight as the pattern zipped along the arc to its target.
Cymric dove forward, under the neck of the head attacking him. The head flowed to face him, and Cymric raised his staff defensively, keeping the light-globe pointed at the creature. The mouth spasmed open as the head gurgled its death cry. Leandra withdrew her sword from the neck, then quickly plunged it in twice more, once into each remaining neck. Both heads crashed to the ground. One head still twitched, the grimoire still held firmly in its mouth. The butcher approached in a frantic three-steps-forward, two-steps-back run. He swung his knife three times, hitting the head twice. The head stopped twitching. The butcher raised bis arms and howled. The apprentices slapped hands and forearms together. The red-faced woman spoke her thanks to Garlen.
The knot holding Leandra loosened as the creature’s entire body began to bubble and effervesce. She slogged her way out of the black goop while Gelthrain struggled to pull the grimoire out of a similar pile of goop. Covered with tarry ooze from the waist down, Leandra moved slowly, her left leg not supporting her full weight. The ooze slowly turned to mist as she made her way toward Gelthrain. Cymric followed, his pace slowing as the women’s voices rose.
“You know I don’t like that tone of voice,” Gelthrain said.
“Your message said the calendar was genuine. Genuine and clean.”
Cymric stopped a few paces from them. Leandra stood, her hands behind her head, trying to untangle her hair from the coif. Cymric’s eyes widened as he saw the red stain over the front of her crystal chain. Gelthrain was on her hands and knees, using her dagger to scrape tarry ooze off the grimoire.
“The enchantment ran deeper than I thought. I’m sorry.” Anger flared in Gelthrain’s eyes as she glanced up at Leandra, then back at the book. Leandra knelt down and touched her friend hesitantly on the wrist.
“Stop scraping that book for a moment and look at me. Please? Gel, what’s happening?”
Gelthrain looked up. Her face was taut, her lips tight. “I don’t know. I would tell you if I did, truly. We can talk later. But I can’t let the book get damaged.”
Cymric cleared his throat, but only Leandra looked up. “I can clean off the book.” That got Gelthrain’s attention, but her face showed more suspicion than relief. Cymric felt an odd embarrassment, as though he’d crossed some unseen line. He cleared his throat again. “My magical light ought to work better than a knife on that ooze. Probably better for the book, too.” Gelthrain considered the statement. Her nod of agreement was slow, reluctant. She put one foot out, then levered herself up, hands on that thigh.
“We can talk over by what’s left of my shop.”
“I plan to stay at Silver Keb’s,” Leandra said. “We could talk there.”
Gelthrain shook her head. “We stay here until your wizard finishes cleaning up my book.”
“Fine. I’ll join you in a minute.”
While Gelthrain was walking back to her shop, Leandra turned to Cymric and nodded toward the book. “Thanks. And thanks for sticking with me during the fight.”
Cymric grunted as he pivoted his staff so the light faced down. He took the staff in his hands like a broom, preparing to sweep darkness from the grimoire. Leandra took hold of his shoulder, made him look her in the face.
“You all right?”
“I’m not the one bleeding. What about you?”
“No. But I’ve been hurt often enough to know I’ll get better.” Leandra slid her hand from his shoulder, still looking at him intently. Cymric found it hard to swallow under that gaze. She softened her expression. “You dodged my question. Are you all right?”
Cymric blinked. Your crazy elf friend used me to within two inches of death. Maybe you, too. Don’t trust her. His breath came hard. “No. Gelthrain and I don’t get along. She’s ... I think she’s dangerous. Very dangerous. But she’s your friend.” Cymric ended the sentence with a halfshrug he hoped didn’t look as awkward as it felt. Leandra gave him a tic-smile. Then a slower, broader smile.
“Yes, she’s my friend. But I’ll be careful.” Leandra turned to join Gelthrain, then stopped to face Cymric again after going maybe half the distance. “Go to Silver Keb’s,” she called out. “Tell Keb I sent you. Get us a couple of rooms. They have really good bread, great soup. Stay away from the lamb.”
Cymric watched Leandra turn back to Gelthrain. Fresh food sounded good; a bed sounded better. He realized a fraction of a second too late that he hadn’t thanked Leandra for the suggestion. Now he felt foolish shouting his thanks out across the evening.
He tilted his head down and resumed sweeping the grimoire clean, the black ooze wisping away at contact with his light spell. Cymric lightly brushed the top cover, then the pages, finally the spine. When the light flickered, he pulled the staff away. The spell glowed brightly again and he moved it slowly toward the spine. The light flickered, shrank, then disappeared with a sharp pop. A single word glowed, visible for only a heartbeat before fading. Maeumis.
13
In the four days since the fight with the ogres, Cymric had forgotten Leandra’s warning about the lamb at Silver Keb’s. Now he sat before a plate holding a piece of gristly, boiled meat. He had already eaten the four or five bites containing more meat than fat before gamely trying to chew on the next bite. Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, he picked up his napkin, looked to see whether anyone was watching, then spit the meat into the cloth. At least the bread and soup had been good and the ale passable. He drained his tankard.
The tavern was crowded this evening. News of the Corthy battle had reached a caravan bound for Marrek, and the caravan master knew an opportunity when he saw one. Being the first merchant to arrive in a town intent on rebuilding was too good to miss. So now Keb’s was filled with dwarfs who wore nose rings and braided their beards into complicated loops. Cymric concluded that the number of rings through a dwarf’s nose corresponded with his importance to the caravan—and a three-ringer was someone important, indeed. A few of the dwarfs also had elaborate tattoos covering the backs of their hands, including their thumbs and fingers. But one finger remained unadorned, though it wasn’t always the same finger. Cymric had seen a plain thumb, two plain middles, and a plain ring finger. Out of curiosity he inquired of the bartender about the tattoos. The old dwarf told him to forget about it, forget he’d even asked the question. Cymric dropped the subject.
The newcomers were loud, and liked to sing trail songs at the top of their lungs. The songs had simple melodies, but complex percussion accompaniment. They also had a choreographed clanking of tankards, pounding of fists upon tables, stomping of feet, and clapping of hands. The rhythms impressed Cymric, but he was surprised how many of the trail song lyrics dealt with getting out of the caravan business.
The locals took refuge at tables in corners or along the wall. They groused to the wait staff about the intruders, their objections growing in proportion to the ale consumed. Cymric was seated at a table along the middle of the wall. Not very private, but good for observing the rest of the main room.
A blond-haired boy in a blue apron with silver stitching skittered to a stop in front of his table. “Are you finished with that, mister wizard, sir?”
Wincing a little at the title, Cymric pushed his plate toward the boy. “Thank you, Warris.” The boy beamed at hearing his name, but Cymric was still hungry. “Could you bring me some of that pudding I saw Keb preparing?” “Yes sir! Right away!” The boy almost lunged in his eagerness to clear the table, gathering up everything with a loud clatter. Cymric held out his hands, his expression one of mock-surprise. Warris grinned sheepishly, then his eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened.
“Oh! This afternoon Leandra told me she would finish with the elf-mage tonight. She wants to talk to you. She asked that you not wander off in a drunken stupor.” Great, I drink too much the first night here. Now I have a reputation as a spellcasting lush. Levitating the statues of the town fathers had not helped him reputation, except with those apprentices and journeymen who’d seen him do it. Warris had been among them, and he still had that eager-puppy look.
“Thanks for the message. Next time tell the sword lady to bring it to me personally.”
Warris looked confused. His mouth worked for a moment before any sound emerged. “You said no one dare disturb you in your room. That your work with the spirits was delicate and dangerous.”
