Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 15
“Cymric, can I talk to you for a moment?”
“Certainly. It must be serious if you’re using my name instead of ‘wizard’.” The flash in the bigger man’s eyes made Cymric regret the comment. Sometimes 1 should just say yes. Leandra turned at the tavern entrance, but Brius waved her on. She took a step back inside, then she and Brius locked eyes. Leandra broke the lock, giving Cymric a softer look before leaving. The tavern door creaked shut behind her.
“As long as I’ve known Leandra, she could take care of herself,” Brius began.
“Seems she still can.” Cymric slowly twirled his staff between the palms of his hands.
Brius smiled, ending in the warmest expression Cymric had seen from the man. “She does what she needs to do, so she can get done what needs doing. She’s neither rash, nor a fool, nor a coward.” Brius looked toward he door. “But something is working against her, working very hard. And I don’t think she sees it. Or at least, she doesn’t see all she needs to.”
Cymric twirled the staff faster. He thought he knew where the conversation was going. He already had more than enough responsibility, thank you.
Brius turned back to Cymric, “I woke up during the night and saw her necklace on the table, glowing red like a lantern at Year’s End.” Brius started a gesture, but his hands froze near his waist, his face locked for the same moment. The hands dropped. “She slept through it. This is the same woman who would come alert in camp if an owl perched too close. I tried to wake her. She just mumbled.” Cymric stopped twirling his staff, and started batting it from one hand to the other. Brius looked away again, smoothing his moustache with the first two fingers of his right hand.
“The Ristular was standing underneath our window. I managed to slip outside and nab him. The scuffle wasn’t particularly noisy, but it wasn’t silent.” He shrugged, sending ripples through his demi-cape. “Still no Leandra. I knew then that Ristul—or something—had a hook hard and deep into her.” Brius looked directly at Cymric, waiting until the wizard met his eyes. “I need you to be her eyes, to see where she is blind. Will you do that?” Cymric stopped playing with the staff. Perhaps Leandra had a number of blind spots to the dangers of Ristul. Being her eyes seemed a more appropriate role for her lover than a trail companion. Cymric felt overburdened by the promises he’d already made, promises he now doubted he could keep in full. But, then again, Leandra could be blind to perils that could tear a wizard apart. Being her eyes could be self-serving. But promising to be her eyes— perhaps he could just say yes, not anger Brius, then let events sort themselves out.
Cymric spun his staff like a top. As it started to wobble, he grabbed it with his right hand, raised it and brought it down with a resounding bang upon the floor.
“That’s not a promise this wizard can make.” He nodded curtly to Brius, then slammed through the door to catch up with Leandra.
17
Concealed by the tall grass and the dim light of a late-afternoon storm, Cymric and Leandra squatted just behind the ridge of the hill overlooking the traveler’s camp. The trail wound among the hills, following the low ground as surely as a river. Just off the trail at the base of the low hill across from them was the travelers’ camp. Notched logs formed a segmented windbreak at the northwest comer of the camp. Probably a lifesaver in late winter but rather useless against spring rain.
The Ristular were camped below. There were four of them, two human, two dwarf. Five bedrolls and packs sat on the soggy ground, indicating that this was the group to which the captured Ristular belonged. They had a big campfire going. Given the rain, Cymric assumed one of the Ristular must have known elemental magics.
The Ristular were not the only ones using the camp. An ork family was also camped there; mother, father, one who was shawled and veiled—probably grandmother—and four children ranging in ages from hyperactive to bellicose. Most of them huddled under, or ran around, a makeshift tent, a tarp supported by two poles and a large hand-drawn cart loaded with belongings. Mother and father were arguing over his unsuccessful attempts to start a fire. The occasional buffet looked none too affectionate.
“They aren’t sharing the fire with the Ristular. They cannot be that friendly with them,” Cymric concluded.
“But they’re sharing the camp. If we attack the Ristular, they might think we pose a threat to them.”
A dwarf Ristular rose and walked deliberately over to the orks. He bowed courteously to the mother and father, but all Cymric could hear of their conversation were muffled sounds. The father ork handed the dwarf an item, maybe a dagger. The dwarf took two steps back, then gestured with his hands to conjure a small flame in midair. The flame slid onto the item, which the dwarf placed in the fire. The wet wood hissed and smoked, but some of it caught fire. The dwarf bowed, refusing whatever the ork offered him.
“Damn,” Cymric said. Now the orks had reason to like the Ristular. Why did the Horror-servants have to be so reasonable and observant of trail etiquette? Why couldn’t they be frothing, gibbering maniacs Leandra could slaughter without fear of reprisal from the orks? “I’m open to suggestions.”
“They’re going to tire of waiting for their spy. We have to strike soon.” Leandra gripped the hawk’s-head pommel. Staring into the camp, she asked, “Can you handle the orks?”
“Please clarify ‘handle’, if you would.”
“Stop them while I take care of the enemy.”
Cymric felt a chill run up his spine. He looked down at the overstuffed wagon. “I’m not the sort of wizard who butchers traveling families, if that’s what you mean.”
Leandra twisted her neck for a long, slow look at Cymric. Water droplets gathered on her coif. The puddles soon broke, flowing in thin lines down her face. She blinked re-flexively when the drops got into her eyes; the reflex was the only motion on her face. She gripped the pommel more tightly. “Can you prevent that traveling family from butchering me while I’ve got my back turned?”
“I’ll talk to them. I can probably convince them to stay neutral.”
Leandra nodded. “I’ll give you a little bit of time to talk before I attack. If it’s not going well, or if the Ristular move suspiciously, I hit them. You’re on your own with the orks.”
Cymric nodded, then slowly crawled backward until he could no longer be seen from the camp. He trotted around the hill, his movement hindered by his staff. When he splashed in a puddle far deeper than it looked, he worried that the sound might somehow carry to the camp. He circled wide to intersect the trail at a point out of sight of the camp, a point on the trail from Corthy.
While he stopped to catch his breath and straighten his robe some, adopting a more wizardly demeanor, Cymric ran through possible openings with the orks. Excuse me, but were you aware that the kindly dwarf who started your fire actually serves a ravening Horror? Would you mind standing idly by while my companion carves him to pieces in front of your children? He strode confidently forward, but Cymric suspected his mud-spattered clothing probably diminished the effect. Taking the last turn in the trail before reaching the camp, he paused as if to consider which campfire to approach, then made for the orks. Cymric could smell the stew now simmering in their cookpot. Mother, father, and young bellicose looked up as he drew near.
“Excuse me, gentlefolk, but I was wondering if you might be kind enough to help a wizard on a mission from Corthy?” Cymric bowed. The rest of the family turned to regard him, although the youngest did so from behind grandmother.
The father spoke, “Corthy? They still needing good, honest hands for mending and fixing?” The mother ladled out some stew, giving the first bowl to grandmother, the second to father, and offering the third to Cymric. She had to stare down bellicose, who was in mid-reach for the food. The boy spat, then leaned back on his elbows. Mother glared, lip curling to show a little more tusk than usual. The boy shrugged, then took an interest in scratching designs in the wet dirt just beyond their tent. Mother turned a composed face to Cymric.
The stew did smell good, if heavily peppered. Cymric was wet, cold, and in need of convincing the orks he was on the level. He sat down, and accepted some stew. “Many thanks. Corthy can use hands, and still has coin to pay them.”
The father slurped stew from his bowl. Noting a lack of utensils, Cymric did the same, but his eyes bulged and his tongue screamed in agony at the hot, spicy oils in the stew.
He granted involuntarily; eyes watering, he managed to turn the grunt into an “uuh-uumm” of approval.
The father grinned. “Marta doesn’t cut it down to dwarf strength when she’s not expecting company.”
As the burning subsided, Cymric noticed flavor rather than sensation. “This is quite good. You might want to add ‘cooking’ to bolster your ‘mending’ and ‘fixing’.”
Marta did not react, ladling out soup for her children and herself. Grandmother smiled, clucking approval. Now I know who your child is, old mother.
The father laughed. “Corthy runs on dwarven silver, and their tastes don’t run to honest food. Although their ale is stout enough.”
“Perhaps, but I still think it worth a try.” Cymric took another slurp. His tongue had to wrestle a big piece of lamb into his mouth, while carrots and potato came of their own accord.
“You said you had a mission from Corthy,” Marta reminded him, her voice deep and gravelly.
Cymric touched his cheeks to indicate his mouth was still full, then he took his time chewing to create some suspense. “I’m looking for a band of robbers who prey upon travel to Corthy.”
“Robbers?” asked bellicose, sitting up in interest. “Robbers,” confirmed Cymric, “and vicious ones at that. Oh, they seem helpful enough at first, offering food, helping with fires, that sort of thing.”
Marta and father exchanged glances. Grandmother watched Cymric with eyes that made him nervous. Bellicose sat crosslegged, thumping a knee in excitement. The other children watched with wide eyes, although the littlest turned her face halfway to grandmother.
Cymric took a small sip as they looked at each other, then continued. “They wait until the travelers are asleep. Take what they want, kill anyone who wakes.”
“How do you know the robbers are on this trail?” warbled grandmother.
“I don’t for sure. But we captured one who was scouting ahead, and he said his four companions were on this trail.” Bellicose turned to look at the Ristular. The boy’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. A convert, thought Cymric.
“Why did they send you out alone after a band of cutthroats?” wheezed grandmother.
Good question; time to modify the story a little. “I’m not alone, just a member of a party charged with the duty of arresting these villains. They sent me in first because we believe one of the robbers is a magician, one who works with fire.” The father licked a tusk, then looked at his oldest boy. The mother looked at the father and then the grandmother. Cymric thought it time to cast a net and see what he could catch. “I noticed the four over there. Have you seen any of them work magic with fire?”
The mother and father looked at each other, then apparently reached unspoken agreement. The father turned his head toward Cymric, kicking at a burning log with the sole of a wet boot. Sparks flew as the log hissed. “Dwarf came over. Magicked a broken dagger with flames. Started this fire,” the ork said.
“Working with flames does not make you a robber,” grandmother said. She gave Cymric a stubborn look.
Cymric met her gaze, nodding sagely. “My good woman, you are certainly correct. But I think you will agree it makes that party worth further investigation.”
“They had five bedrolls,” Marta said to grandmother.
Cymric blinked. Grandmother ignored him. She gently ran bony fingers through the coarse black hair of the child nestled against her. She nodded. “The wizard claims Corthy captured a spy, their fifth.”
“We certainly did, we certainly did,” Cymric said. This was going well. He would suggest the family move. Just temporarily, if they wished, but long enough for him to conduct his “investigation.” They could come back when it was over.
“If they are the robbers, what will you do?” Marta asked.
Cymric put on his best grim-portents face. From the father’s puzzled look, the expression must have been a little off. He was just leaning toward them when a flash of light bathed the group. Flames from the Ristular fire roared into the sky, three times the height of a man and growing. The other Ristular were positioned between the orks and the flame, apparently protecting the dwarf as he cast his magic.
With a piercing yell, Leandra attacked the camp.
18
A powerful sweep from Leandra’s sword caught a human Ristular in the midsection. Perhaps the man was wearing armor under his robes, for the blade didn’t bite deep. Leandra spun, hit him in the back for her second blow. This one struck hard, sending the Ristular sprawling not two feet from the fire. The other two guard Ristular howled as they drew curved blades from slits in their robes.
The dwarf magician cut his spell short. The flame shrank considerably, but still rose to human height. The dwarf extended his left hand toward the flame while gesturing wildly with his right.
Marta howled for her children to take cover under the cart. Father went to the cart and drew out a battered mace and a club. He handed the mace to Marta, kept the club for himself. The largest boy also rummaged in the cart, extracting a bent brass bar perhaps fifteen inches long. Grandmother stayed where she was, her body not moving, but her eyes darting everywhere.
Marta and the father took defensive stances near the cart while the boy started toward the Ristular. With one quick step, the father caught up to the boy, grabbing the hair tufts and top of the boy’s left ear. A growl and a yank dropped the boy to one knee. The ork boy screeched in protest, suddenly sounding much younger than he looked.
If the orks were going to defend their cart, Cymric thought he might chance helping Leandra, and began to weave the thread for a spell of powerful mental attack. His inner sight remained calm and unwavering; the thread slid smoothly and evenly into the spell pattern.
Cymric kept part of his attention focused on the external world, saw the dwarf magician twist his left wrist. Flame leapt from the fire to his right hand, forming itself into a spear longer than the dwarf. Leandra saw the spear, dodged while deflecting a slash from the other dwarf Ristular. The magician hurled the spear. The shaft of flame followed a clean, smooth curve, straight into Leandra’s side.
Leandra screamed as she was blown back a good three yards, impact with the ground dislodging the sword from her hand. She scrambled, recovered her sword on hands and knees. The blade-wielding Ristular moved in for the kill.
As Cymric let fly his spell, he felt a rush of energy pour through him, then relief as the pent-up magical charge flew along the astral arc to its target. The blade-dwarf was clutching his head and stumbling to the ground while Leandra’s other attacker spun to see what new threat had appeared. The dwarf magician scanned the campsite before locking his gaze on Cymric. Cymric licked his lips and inhaled, trying to control nervousness. He started to weave another thread.
Leandra rose, began to travel in crab-fashion, facing the human Ristular while moving around him. The Ristular struck. Leandra knocked the blow aside, then riposted to leave a gash on her opponent’s weapon arm.
Cymric delicately stippled the thread throughout the spell pattern, resisting the fierce impulse to hurry. Blood throbbed in his head, the spell pattern wavering in his inner sight in time with his heartbeat. The thread glowed evenly, providing a comforting point of stability. Cymric completed the weave.
Smoothly meshing external sight and inner sight, he saw the dwarf reach for the fire, apparently preparing another spear. Cymric’s inner senses matched an astral pattern with the dwarf’s position. As the dwarf began to draw fire for his spear, Cymric imagined the arc between the spell pattern and the fire’s position. Then he released the spell, the fire flying upward as Cymric levitated the logs. The dwarf did not complete his spell; the fire he had gathered flickered and died.
The Ristular campfire hovered a few hundred feet above, bathing the battle in a dim light. Cymric heard the clank of Leandra’s parry as much as saw it. He moved forward cautiously, holding his staff firmly with both hands, looking for the dwarf magician. The rain made the task more difficult, the drops diffusing the light from above. A few drops caught the light just right to sparkle or flash randomly, distracting Cymric.
A Ristular collapsed in a death wail, the sound sending prickles over the skin of Cymric’s neck and arms. Leandra shouted, then he saw her silhouette leap high over the sweeping blow of the last Ristular fighter, landing just behind her attacker’s right shoulder. He twisted frantically to counter an expected attack, but Leandra spun as he turned, a tighter spin that put her on the Ristular’s unprotected left. Her sword blade caught the light on its descent, disappearing from view into the dark form of the Ristular. A hissing squeal turned bubbly, and Leandra wrenched her blade free. The Ristular fell, thrashing in frenetic, staccato splashes. A final blow stilled him.
A whizzing noise passed close to Cymric. He spotted the dwarf twenty or so paces away, standing in the middle of the trail south. The dwarf stood behind a low spot in the trail, which was now filled with rain and muddy runoff from the adjacent hill. Firelight shimmered off ripples in the puddle, indicating that the water-covered ground was perhaps five paces wide. Cymric advanced cautiously. If the dwarf could work with fire, he could probably work the other elements as well.
The dwarf scooped up trail mud, then began to gesture as if weaving a thread. Cymric wove as well, imagining the force of his will crashing into the dwarf’s mind. A shadow streaked by him, Leandra on her way to attack the dwarf.
