Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 20
“—until well after the harvest, what with all the bad goings-on. My ma said Liffick is no place for honest workers these days, with all kinds of trouble floating in from the river. But here I am, taking you and the tools. Life works itself out. That’s what gramps always said.” Cymric caught the shine in Colin’s blue eyes at the mention of “all kinds of trouble.” The boy was broad-shouldered enough to handle most ruffians, and probably believed that was the commonest sort of trouble in a river town. Cymric looked at Colin’s brilliant red hair and smooth, freckle-free complexion, and thought of river rats procuring slaves for exotic Theran tastes. Probably what Colin’s mother had thought also. She had waved to the wagon for a long time, too long for a simple two-day errand, long enough to bring a blush to Colin’s cheek.
As they neared Liffick, flat land became hillier, greener as the use went from tillage to pasturage for sheep. The wagon stopped as a few hundred sheep decided that the pasture to the left of the road looked more inviting than that on the right. In the distance, Cymric saw a broad hill covered with fleecy dots, perhaps five times as many sheep as were crossing in front of them, perhaps more. Cymric kept looking at the sheep until the wagon crested their hill.
Down the road lay Liffick. The center of the town was walled, probably representing the town’s original boundaries. New buildings sprawled in every direction. The larger, more permanent ones extended up and down the river; orange terra cotta or blue and green tiles covered their roofs. Further away from the river and the town center, the buildings were smaller, roofed with slate, mud, or sometimes tar paper. Across the river was a crowded landing, serviced by a continuous stream of poled ferries. Cymric squinted, for he thought he saw one of the ferries skim across the surface. A float ferry meant Liffick attracted enough money to keep such an operation profitable. Cymric snorted, and revised Liffick’s standing in his list of possible future sites where he might sell his services.
The wagon bumped along the road into Liffick, drawing some cold stares from orks who lived in the first few shanties they passed. Juvenile orks harassed Colin, calling him “seed spitter” and “weed head.” Colin’s tight smile let Cymric know things might have proceeded differently if he and Leandra had not been in the wagon. The road became less bumpy, the buildings a little nicer the closer they got to the town walls. Dwarf cobblers looked up from their outdoor work tables, a human tailor raced from his shop to measure Cymric, suggesting a whole new cut and cloth in accordance with the new Throal fashions. Pushcarts edged the street. Maneuvering the wagon became more difficult as they neared the walls.
At one intersection Colin locked his wheel with that of an ale wagon heading in the other direction. The dwarf driver stood on a cask, alternately screaming and biting his brown beard. He grabbed his green felt cap, repeatedly swatting Colin about the chest and shoulders. Colin stood dumbfounded, not even trying to ward off the dwarf’s blows. Cymric’s efforts to calm the dwarf only won him similar attentions from the felt hat.
Two spear-carrying trolls waded through the growing crowd. The tabards they wore over their chainmail bore a white shield embossed with a blue animal, either an eel or a very fat snake. The crude tailoring suggested that these two did not rank high in whatever organization they represented. The dwarf immediately proclaimed his innocence to one of the trolls, vehemently placing the blame on Colin’s cart-handling.
The second troll looked into Colin’s wagon. He grunted, pointed to Leandra’s armor, then pulled aside his tabard at the shoulder. His armor had a small brass medallion, similar to Leandra’s. She and the troll clasped forearms. Her smile was broad, the troll’s huge. The dwarven driver quieted as he watched the troll and Leandra.
“Good to see some others got out,” the troll rumbled, “I was with Frohl.”
Leandra nodded, wincing. “Cedric, then Brius once Cedric fell.”
The troll snorted like a bull, then tugged on a long nose hair. “You had the hard way of it then,” he said quietly, “What you need in Liffick?”
“Healing.”
“We’ve some just come to town. We had serious problems with a magician, more than our herbalist could handle.”
“What sort of problems?” said Cymric.
“A nasty dwarf. Found removing parts from ancestors buried in the guild mausoleum. When we tried to nab him, he broke the bones of half a dozen men. Three more he burned—from the inside out. Their skeletons fused together from the heat.” The troll’s eyes narrowed. “Still there; city council hasn’t decided how to bury them. The dwarf then injured some guild officials. The guild put up the money for the healers from Marrek. By airship, no less.”
“The dwarf is gone?” said Cymric.
“We believe so. Cursed a few hundred sheep, then left.”
The troll shrugged and slapped the side of the wagon. “We’ll get you to the healers.” He walked to the front of the wagon, bowed curdy to the dwarf driver. “The human oaf apologizes for delaying your august dwarfenage. Please move your wagon. Now.”
The dwarf’s eyes darted from troll to troll. Muttering under his breath, he drew out copper coins from his money pouch. He held the money aloft with one hand, pointed to the locked wheels with the others. Five of the grubbier dwarfs scrambled from the crowd and began pushing the ale wagon. Once they had disengaged the wheels, the driver snapped the reins, and the ponies started to move. The five helpers jogged alongside, receiving payment as the wagon rolled away, the trolls clearing a path through the bystanders. Colin followed their lead.
The streets narrowed until they reached the walls. The gate towers were covered with copper and brass sigils, enchantments to ward off Horrors. Liffick must have been established soon after the Scourge, when the world no longer had to live in kaers, but when Horrors were still more common than they were today. Six dwarven guards in better-looking tabards manned the gate, watching those who came and went. The medallion-troll talked to the guards, who then looked over at the wagon. Two of them crisply slapped fists to chests in a Throal honor-guard salute.
The wagon rolled down the town’s main avenue. Colin followed the trolls to a large building. Stone arches rose every six paces, supporting curved, ivied walls. Between each arch sparkled a stained glass window, curved to fit the wall, each window two or three times Cymric’s height. Each window showed dwarfs drinking, dwarfs eating, dwarfs singing, each a picture of celebration. As Cymric passed one window, a stained glass figure tapped a keg, offering a foaming mug to the wizard. The arm and mug broke the plane of the window. Cymric blinked; the illusion was excellent, an expensive touch.
The trolls guided the wagon to a pair of massive wooden doors, the left of which was open and stopped with a statue of a unicorn on a cliff. They instructed Colin to stay with the wagon, told Cymric to come with them.
The interior was lit by multicolored streams of light pouring through the windows and by the gentle glow of rose light quartz in sconces clustered near the top of supporting pillars. Rows of long tables had been overturned and stacked atop one another to make room for cots. There were perhaps a hundred cots in the hall, all full. Muslin sheets covered a few of them, shrouding those now beyond a healer’s power. Guild apprentices, still in their smocks, had been pressed into duty as orderlies.
The healers had set their gear on the hall’s polished redwood bar, which was lined with decanters, tubes, fire rings, gems, amulets, books, furs, bones, scrolls, sprigs of herbs, scorched beakers. Two dwarfs sat behind neatly stacked parchments, a steady scritch coming from their quills. Each wore a gray and white tunic, but there the resemblance ended. The thin male dwarf looked older than the bones on the bar. The plumper female looked about Leandra’s age; Cymric corrected for dwarven life span and guessed she was about forty or so. Her left eye had been replaced by a streaked yellow agate. She looked up as the trolls approached with Cymric.
The two trolls bent to one knee. Cymric bowed, perhaps a little late. Both trolls cleared their throats, looked at one another. The dwarf raised her eyebrow. Finally the medallion-troll spoke. “Mistress Pouika, we request you look at an injured sword sister. She is not bonded by the guild—”
“Then she will have to pay for our services,” said Pouika.
“—but she has a Throal commendation,” said the troll, his voice rising a bit.
Pouika switched eyebrows. “She shall have our full attention, but she is still required to pay.”
The trolls rose and bowed. One gestured at Cymric. “Her wizard can negotiate the fee. Thank you, mistress.” They clacked their spears on the floor, turned and marched in step to the doors. Cymric blinked. Pouika waited patiently.
“Leandra has no feeling in her legs, a result of spell damage. I think—”
“I think, master wizard, that you should allow me to do the diagnosis.” Pouika slid off her stool to walk around the bar. As she traveled its length, she picked up three herb clusters, a round camelian, and something that looked like a cobweb. While she was making her way through the jumble of cots, the look of one patient stopped her, a young dwarf with swollen eyes, yellowed skin, and bald patches in his beard. Pouika knelt, whispered softly to him. He slowly shook his head. Pouika sighed, looked at the herb clusters. She got up, fetched a pitcher of water from beside another patient’s cot. She persuaded the dwarf to drink, chew an entire cluster of herbs, then drink a little more. She whispered again, smiling as she ended. Patch-beard returned a weak smile. Pouika started for the wagon again.
“I’m low on supplies, wizard. The guild is only so generous with its funds.” Pouika’s voice was level, neither bitter, nor angry, just stating the facts. “Unless you can pay for what your sword sister needs, I may not be able to help her.” She got to the wagon, hesitating at the human-scaled step. Colin helped her up with a smooth lift, then Pouika climbed into the back with as much dignity as she could muster.
“How are we today, my fine stretch of a sword woman?” She placed the camelian on Leandra’s forehead.
Leandra’s face became a polite mask, her smile courteous but without warmth. “I need my legs back.”
Pouika nodded. “We shall see what we can do. First I need to know what has been to done you.” She took the camelian in her hand and slowly ran it down the length of Leandra’s body. Pouika stopped to make circular motions above Leandra’s hips, then moved a hand-span or so back up. The healer put the camelian down, then placed both hands on either side of Leandra’s waist. Cymric sensed threads being woven, a slight waver in astral space, then the spell was cast. Pouika closed her eyes for a few moments; her breathing synchronized with Leandra’s. When the healer opened her eyes, they were huge, with eyebrows high. She looked down at Leandra.
“You are fortunate to be alive. You should be dead. Your spine is broken in two places, and you have damage to intestines and liver.”
Leandra swallowed slowly. “How long until I am whole?” She stared directly at Pouika.
The healer avoided her gaze. “It would help to know how you are holding yourself together. If we can augment that, we have a good chance.”
Cymric reached into his pack for the Garlen flask. He showed it to Pouika. “We were attacked at a shrine of Garlen. I took this potion from the shrine. It seemed to help Leandra.”
Pouika glanced at Leandra, stared at the flask, back to Leandra, her gaze finally settling on the flask. “The flask was full?” Her voice was husky. When Cymric nodded, Pouika gestured for the flask. Cymric hesitated before handing it to her. The healer opened the flask, wafted the scent with her hand. She then rimmed the flask with her finger, sampling the fluid. Pouika closed her eyes. She kept them closed as she announced, “The breath of Garlen.”
Cymric presumed her reverential tones meant the breath of Garlen was a good thing. He reached for the flask, but Pouika did not give it up. Instead she signaled to a pair of orderlies with a stretcher. They carried Leandra; Colin picked up her personal effects. Pouika turned to Cymric.
“Your friend’s life force was not enough to absorb the damage of the spell. She would have died but for the grace of Garlen and her gift to you. Garlen’s life is sustaining your friend.”
Cymric knitted his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Pouika wrinkled her nose. “When your friend reached the threshold of death, Garlen gave of her own life force to satisfy death’s demand for a spirit. Through the breath of Garlen, she continues to do so. But the gate to death remains open until the damage can be healed.”
“Can you shut the gate?”
Pouika nodded absently. “We have most of the supplies. When the guilds hear that Garlen has chosen life for your friend, I doubt they will risk angering Garlen by denying her aid.” Pouika closed her eyes for another moment. “As for payment, we will accept the remainder of the potion, plus four hundred silvers for supplies that other patients may live.”
Cymric opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it. “Any idea where an enterprising wizard might raise four hundred silvers?”
Pouika looked annoyed, then her face cleared. “The nethermancer cursed a large number of sheep. They lie lisdessly on a hill outside Liffick, not moving, rarely eating. Strike a deal with the Farmers Guild to remove the curse if you are able in such magics.”
Cymric stretched himself to his full height, a move not quite as effective as he hoped, for Pouika was still in the wagon. “Wizards know curses.”
“Then I shall send for a guild representative to come talk with you.” Pouika climbed back over to the front of the wagon, and Cymric helped her down. The healer returned to the bar with the Garlen flask while Cymric went to find Leandra’s cot. She was just conscious enough to acknowledge his presence, perhaps having relaxed her will once she felt the healers would treat her. Cymric sat beside the cot, talking of an interesting bakery he’d seen on the way into town, the sheep problem, how Leandra would be on her feet in a few days. Cymric’s monologue trailed off. He sat holding Leandra’s hand until the Farmers Guilds-man arrived.
The guildsman was a dwarf of enormous girth and officious expression, dressed in russet velvets and fashionably cut boots. He introduced himself as Worthro, and offered to take Cymric to the hill to inspect the sheep problem. Cymric accepted.
Cymric, Worthro, and four dwarf guards to shield them from what Worthro called “the warty element in town” took a packed dirt road out of town. By road the journey was only three miles, but Worthro stopped so frequently to haggle that Cymric was sure they could probably have used the same amount of time to cover nine miles if they’d only kept up a steady pace. Cymric set his price at five hundred silvers. He wouldn’t budge, despite verbal gymnastics from Worthro that would have done a courtier proud. Worthro grumbled about the recalcitrant tall, but agreed to the price.
The hill was perhaps a quarter-mile across, rising about fifty paces. Lying in the grass were hundreds of sheep, some baahing piteously, others languidly chewing the grass in front of them. Several farm hands stood watching the sheep. A few tried to coax the sheep at the edges of the group to move. No one wandered out into the group of sheep. Cymric saw why; about a hundred paces away a swarthy farm hand, beard matted with sweat, lay on his back. He would move his arms or legs occasionally, crying out as he did.
One of the farmers came over to them, saluting Worthro when he stopped. “Jol went after that ram of his. Got stuck early this morning. Ram’s still there too.”
Worthro nodded sagely, looking out across the hill. Then he slapped Cymric in the small of his back. “Arak, I brought you a wizard to lift this blight.” The guildsman beamed at Cymric. “Go to it, son.”
Cymric saluted with a tap of his staff to his forehead, then faced the hill. He slid a pattern into a matrix, wrapping the spell around his own pattern to enhance his astral sense. The hill appeared as a blot of darkness that made Cymric feel queasy as the back of his mind began digging up a memory. He added some of his life force to a second casting that let him penetrate the darkness.
Catching a shift in astral energy, he saw three huge, coppery helix-arms extending beyond the range of his astral sense. Where the arms converged were hundreds of barbed lines, like rose bushes bent into hooks. It was the spiritcatcher from the well. Only now it was ten times as big.
24
Astral images of barbed tendrils faded, replaced by the scene from the external world. The sheep, and poor Jol, lay on spots corresponding to the positions of the tendrils. The spiritcatcher had hooked them. Some of the sheep were dead, others lay at varying distances from death. So, monster, what are you doing here? Besides killing sheep?
Cymric walked around the perimeter of the hill, again seeing through his astral senses. He kept a prudent distance from the nearest tendrils. Last time he’d used dispel magic to weaken the creature’s hold upon him. This time the creature held hundreds of other creatures. Cymric would probably have to dispel the magical hold on each one while also avoiding being snagged by the spiritcatcher. The odds of success were too long for his liking.
Perhaps he could convince the creature to leave, dropping the sheep and Jol as it did so. He doubted the spiritcatcher was much of a conversationalist, let alone a connoisseur of the finer points of debate. Cymric would have to use a somewhat cruder method. He mulled over his options. He wanted to do five things: sense astrally, disrupt the creature’s magic, keep out of its grasp, and have ready a quick, short-range mental attack and a slower, longer-range, more powerful attack to shred the creature’s will. He only had three matrices. Casting raw magic next to a spiritcatcher seemed really stupid. Time to alter the plan.
