Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 21
Cymric wandered back to the waiting farmers. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he gestured idly to the hill with his staff. “The problem is not a curse; it’s an astral monster about the size of that hill.” Worthro blanched while the other farmers looked at Worthro. The guards fidgeted, a couple toying with the hafts of their axes, another paying attention to the arrangement of his helmet. “I have defeated this creature once, but it is even more powerful now.”
Worthro rubbed his moustache with one finger. “Seven hundred and fifty silvers if you defeat it this time.” Cymric was annoyed. He really didn’t want to renegotiate his fee. He wanted to know why the spiritcatcher was here and how to drive it away. He threw Worthro a leave-me-alone, I’m-thinking glance.
Worthro misinterpreted the face. He tugged on the sleeves of his fancy dress shirt, looked around him, then ahemed loudly. “Very well, then, fifteen hundred silver pieces to defeat the creature. That is our final offer.” Cymric smiled ruefully. Certainly a better rate of pay than the twenty-four and a half at Twin Chin. He tried to commit the scene to memory, to see if there was anything he could learn to make commanding higher fees easier. His delay made Worthro even more nervous. “Fifteen hundred sounds fair.” Worthro smiled in relief, taking a step forward to shake Cymric’s hand. “But I’ll need the help of some of you.”
Worthro stopped, his hand extended in front of him. “What sort of help?”
“As I free some of the sheep, they may be too weak or too injured to move on their own. You’ll have to move them while I distract the creature’s attention.”
Worthro looked dubious, licking his lips as he stalled for a response. One of the farmers came up, clapped Worthro on the shoulder, and said, “Don’t tangle your beard over it. We’ll help the wizard.” Worthro nodded sagely, but relief showed through his expression.
Cymric sat, maneuvering patterns in his mind before he hit the ground. He slid the patterns for the quick attack and disrupting magic into matrices, taking the time to precisely align each pattern so there was no chance for a repeat of the mishap outside Corthy. He again enhanced his astral sense, hurriedly replacing that spell pattern with the pattern for his leaping magic. Cymric didn’t breathe as he slid the last pattern into place. It held. He stood, nodded casually to the group of farmers. They watched, stolid as cattle, as Cymric walked along the bottom of the hill.
He decided to start with sheep. That way, if his technique required a little refinement, the result would be mutton rather than a dead farmer. He walked slowly, watching a nearby ewe. Her eyes had nearly dulled to the black of her face, but she still breathed. Cymric wove a thread to his dispel magic pattern, the astral perturbation attracting the attention of the spiritcatcher. At the first hint of a change in astral space, Cymric backpedalled furiously, losing his thread. Barbed tendrils shot through the earth, ripping a hole in the aura of the living earth, though still invisible in the external world. The tendrils spun upward, then retracted and vanished from Cymric’s astral sense.
The farmers cried out at Cymric’s sudden retreat, but he raised his staff and waved it slowly. The farmer’s huzzah sounded half hearted. Cymric then returned his attention to the problem. The thom-tendrils were familiar, moving in a way similar to the thom-ward on the Ristular calendar. It made Cymric think that Maeumis was behind both the magic of the calendar and that of the spiritcatcher. The magics had the same structure, almost the same style to them. Perhaps Maeumis patterned the defenses of the calendar after the spiritcatcher. Perhaps both were simply the result of one ancient tome. Maeumis probably created both of them. Cymric quickly swallowed his doubts; the answer felt right as much as it was reasoned right.
He tapped the thread he had tied to the calendar some days ago, his neck and chest tightening as he directed the energy from the thread to his own pattern. His pulse quickened and grew stronger; Cymric could feel it in his head and throat. His knowledge of the calendar and its creator, Maeumis, became a tangible, tingly cold zinging along his limbs, strengthening his magic against Maeumis and the nethermancer’s constructs. The cold flowed outward along his limbs, reflecting off the tips of his fingers and toes to race back to his head. Cymric felt an impact on the top of his skull, as if someone inside his head had thrown a snowball. That solid cold melted and dripped from the top of his head to pool around his heart. His heartbeats didn’t ripple the pool, but did warm it. When Cymric could no longer feel the pool, he knew his knowledge of the calendar had become a part of him.
Cymric cast his leaping magic, blood pulsing through his legs. He smiled, wiggled his eyebrows, and walked back toward the ewe. So, monster, let’s see if you’re still connected to Master Maeumis. He wove a thread to the dispel magic pattern, heartened that the thread seemed surer, stronger. The perturbation again attracted the creature. Cymric held his ground, releasing his spell upon the ewe. Astral sense detected a flash, then the flail of a tendril disengaging from the ewe. Cymric leaped as the tendrils tried to snare him, doing his best to mimic the motions he’d used to avoid the calendar’s thom-ward. The tendrils missed.
The ewe bleated, rose to her feet, fell again. Cymric unleashed a blade of mental energy, striking a moving tendril. Triumph flooded his limbs with energy as the spell struck. The mind dagger flared more brilliantly than normal, drawing power from his knowledge of the calendar. So Maeumis was responsible for the spiritcatcher.
Cymric leaped straight into the air and whooped, which the farmers took as a signal to intervene. Two of them raced for the ewe, their stocky legs pounding the ground with jarring strides. Cymric leaped and tossed mind daggers at the tendrils while the farmers effected the rescue. As the two were carrying the ewe to safety, Cymric wove for another dispel magic, feeling a soothing coolness as the thread neatly fit into the pattern. He had to leap midweave, maintaining his concentration through the air and the hard landing. Then he unleashed the spell, freeing another sheep. This one had the energy and sense to run downhill, away from the creature. Seeing other sheep also beginning to bleat and a few more staggering to their feet, Cymric reasoned that the creature must have had to withdraw tendrils from the spirits of those animals in order to deal with him.
His life energy was running a little low, but it did the dead no good. Prudent use of his life force to bolster his magic might make the difference. Astral sense warned him a fraction of a second ahead of the attack. Adding some of his life energy to his leap, Cymric somersaulted through a thicket of tendrils. He landed on his feet, then continued moving up the hill in erratic skips and bounds. The farmers hurried to rescue sheep from the slope below. Every time Cymric sensed the movement of a tendril, he targeted it with a mind dagger.
He moved quickly, trying to avoid any pattern in his movements. The increasing number of tendrils made dodging more difficult. Before his leaping spell could lapse, he cast another. The farmers were retreating, carrying the sheep they had to and herding what they could. Cymric bounded downslope toward Jol. His leap became a flying spin as he avoided the creature. He landed close to Jol. “Are you strong enough to get away if I release you?”
Jol nodded, face red from hours in the sun. Cymric wove and cast, touching Jol in the chest. Inner sight saw a gentle blue light infuse Jol’s pattern; he began to crawl away toward the other farmers. Cymric cartwheeled in the opposite direction. His back flared pain as some of the creature’s barbs raked across his spirit. Screaming angrily, he responded with a mind dagger boosted by a sizzling packet of his life energy. The spell impact nearly blinded Cymric with the astral flux, wave after wave of brilliant white fire. The fire rolled over him without heat, but his spirit bobbed like a bottle in an ocean storm. Disoriented, he stopped for a moment to get his bearings in the external world. He had never thrown a mind dagger that potent before, and it had left him a little dizzy.
The spiritcatcher responded a bit differently. Everywhere sheep were bleating or staggering to their feet. Cymric knew where all of those newly freed tendrils would be going. He leaped up the hill, heading for the center of the creature. He hoped the creature would be reluctant to risk striking itself, choosing instead to slacken its attacks on him.
The creature frenzied, tendrils and limbs striking everywhere. They collided, deflected off each other, tangled with one another. Cymric panicked, nearly leaping into a tangle of thorny limbs. But then he realized the spiritcatcher was dumber than he thought, and he tried to think of ways to exploit the weakness. He lay perfectly still for a while, hoping the creature would thrash randomly rather than continue hunting him. He looked down at the maw of the creature, which flared with changing colors, copper to orange to yellow to emerald to sapphire. There was a strange configuration to its maw, an outline formed by its “teeth”, which in turn was repeated by the shapes of threads woven around the maw. The whole reminded Cymric of the metal puzzles Throalic merchants loved to peddle, except this puzzle had the center piece missing. The spiritcatcher was meant for one particular purpose, completed when a pattern of the correct shape filled its maw.
The creature’s color changed again, drifting from sapphire back down to its coppery hue. The limbs began to disentangle. The maw began to move away. Cymric waited as long as he dared, then leaped through an opening in the thorn tangle. Only after he had leaped about sixty paces did he pause to look.
The spiritcatcher was slinking off. Cymric followed cautiously, keeping the creature just at the edge of his astral sense. He trailed the monster until he saw it slip beneath the shimmer of flecks of elemental water carried in the river’s current. Cymric stood for a moment, then raised his staff to shout to the sky, “Flee, you misenchanted amalgam of astral filth! And don’t come back!”
A sound at his back made Cymric turn around. Two of the dwarf guards stood there, along with Jol and another farmer. The rest of the farmers were probably busy with their sheep. Worthro must have decided that following a wizard who hopped like a flea was not a dignified pursuit. The shorter guard stepped forward. “It’s gone then.” Cymric nodded. The dwarf harrumphed in a manner Cymric couldn’t decipher, but then punched Cymric in the arm as befitted warrior camaraderie. Cymric winced, glad Leandra didn’t express her appreciation this way.
Jol stepped forward, steadied by the hand of the other farmer. As he reached for Cymric’s hand, his grip was strong, but his hand trembled. “Thank you. We have a saying that spellcasters will go to any lengths to avoid bending their backs in an honest day’s work. Jol Cathcart now knows that the saying is a lie, and I’ll say so to any who try to defame you.” Jol’s mouth hung open for a second, but he found nothing more to say. Embarrassment silenced Cymric as well. Jol released his hand, then walked away, one hand on the shoulder of the other farmer.
The guard nodded toward Liffick. As Cymric started to walk, the guards fell in alongside him. The story must have preceded him, for the look of the townspeople was more curious, more furtive than hostile, when they got back to town. The shorter guard nudged Cymric in the hip. “Worthro is going to try to cheat you, you know. He likes to pay with a single, large pouch, thinking you won’t count out fifteen hundred silver pieces in front of him. He’ll probably try to shortchange you by a hundred, maybe two.”
Cymric blinked. He’d completely forgotten about the payment. Other than the need to pay Pouika, the money hadn’t mattered. But now that someone was trying to cheat him, he got angry. “I’ll count every silver. Slowly, to watch Worthro sweat.”
The taller guard pretended not to hear the conversation. The shorter one grinned. “I’ve got a better idea if you like, and more fitting, I think. Old Ilka counts the money we pay out. She doesn’t like the guild shaving its promises. I can get her to let you know how much is in the pouch.”
Cymric raised his eyebrows. “Then I can announce the exact amount in mysterious wizard fashion. And let Worthro sweat, doubly as the coins are counted.” The guard’s grin widened. Cymric laughed. “Thank you, sir guard. If I may be so bold as to ask, why are you so helpful to itinerant wizards?”
“Don’t like defending people who break promises; more trouble than it’s worth.” The guard’s expression became crafty. “My sister is a wizard, and she has dealt with Worthro’s kind. The trick is from her. You know, kind of wizard to wizard.”
Cymric’s smile started small, then stretched to the limits of his face. “Then I shall consider it an honor to continue such a fine tradition.”
They came to the walls, and were admitted with no small amount of quiet side chatter between the gate guards. Cymric asked his escort to lead him to Leandra. They saluted, and moved a step ahead. Cymric mulled over what he’d learned, and considered what he already knew in light of new suspicions. “Tell me, is the mausoleum within the city walls?”
The question surprised the guards, their expressions suggesting wizards were a bit more mysterious than previously expected. The taller guard answered. “Yes sir, right next to the guild hall.”
The guards dropped Cymric off at the healer’s with a stomp of their boots and a flourish of their axes. There, Cymric sought out Pouika, finding her hard at work distilling a new concoction. He interrupted, but her look of annoyance changed to pleasure when she saw it was him. “Your news arrived ahead of you. Good work.”
“Thank you. I shall give you your silver tomorrow after I extract payment from the farmers’ guild.”
Pouika nodded, then tapped the copper still with a glass rod. “The breath of Garlen is enough to form the basis for better than a dozen potions. The guilds coughed up most of the other ingredients. Your arrival helped me save a lot of lives.”
“Including Leandra’s?”
Pouika puffed her cheeks. “She will certainly live. She’s tough, and Garlen’s grace goes with her. I would say she’ll be walking in a week, at full speed in maybe a month, maybe three weeks.”
“Why the face?”
“Your swordmaster gives me the impression she plans to leave in a day or two, whether or not her legs work.” Cymric snorted. He rolled his staff between his hands as he decided. “Let this wizard try his bedside manner. Perhaps she can be persuaded to linger a while longer.” He bowed to the healer, who immediately resumed her work. Cymric walked carefully among the cots. He had to explain to one delirious dwarf that he was not a healer, trying to break as gently as possible from his grasp.
He found Leandra resting comfortably by a pillar. Her chainmail was piled beside her cot, but the necklace was still around her neck. Her sword lay across her lap, and she had her right hand draped over the hilt. She stared at a stained glass window, watching the illusion of a dwarf couple performing an intricate folk dance. She smiled when she saw Cymric. “They seem to think they can keep me here for days. They don’t know me very well.” Cymric knelt beside the cot. “No, they don’t. But I think they’re right, that you should take the time to heal.” Leandra propped herself up on one elbow. “They want me to rest for weeks, maybe a month. We don’t have that kind of time.”
Cymric looked down, trying to be sure about what he was saying before saying it. “I think we do.”
Leandra studied his face carefully. Her suspicion was evident. “You now think the dates are different than the ones given in the calendar?”
Cymric shook his head. In his heart he felt he was right. But his confidence melted when he looked into the quiet fierceness of Leandra’s expression. Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened as she waited for him to speak. If he didn’t say something soon, his courage would fail him altogether.
“Leandra, the prophecy is a lie.”
25
Leandra slapped him hard, leaving a searing sting on his left cheek. Her face froze in pain, her arm thrown across her body from the blow. She gingerly laid herself down on the cot. Her teeth gritted, then her jaws relaxed. “You talk to Brius about this?”
Cymric nursed his cheek. He considered her question, trying to determine whether there was more to what she was asking. “No, if you mean did we hatch a plan to dissuade you before you got to Marrek.”
“You did talk to Brius about the prophecy.”
Cymric waved his right hand, warding away her assumptions. “Not in so many words. He just said that if I determined that the prophecy meant to send you into the clutches of the Ristular, then I had better be ready to walk into them alongside you.”
Leandra’s eyes widened briefly, warm spots of brown surrounded by luminescent white. Her gaze lost focus. “But he wasn’t willing to walk into Marrek with me.” Cymric hesitated, slowly rolling his staff between two hands. “I cannot speak for Brius or for what happened between you.” He shifted his weight, uncomfortable with his position. The shift did not help the discomfort. “I am speaking as the wizard whose truth you wanted. The prophecy—” Cymric felt frustration well up within him. He had only a few facts, his magical training, and a nagging intuition. With these he confronted a driving force in Leandra’s life. “The prophecy has a hollow ring to it.” Leandra’s face could have been chiseled from ice— sharp, clean, cold. Her arms were crossed, her right hand reflexively rubbing her upper left arm, “Just what sounds false to you?”
“I just drove the spiritcatcher away from Liffick, the same one from the well in Twin Chin. Bigger now, more powerful, but the same one.” Cymric laid his staff on the floor, held his hands up in a circle. “This time I saw the center of the beast. Its pattern is incomplete, needing another pattern to complete it. I’m sure it needs your pattern. If you would let me read your aura, I could find out for sure.”
“Not today, wizard. Too much effort; I need my life energy elsewhere.” Leandra closed her eyes for several breaths. Her face relaxed with each breath. “So the Ristular have a creature meant to kill me. The prophecy says I will kill Ristul. I have to believe the Ristular will bust their scrots to stop me.”
“The spiritcatcher has yet to attack you even though it’s been in your area at least twice. Odd for a creature conjured specifically to kill you.” Cymric tapped Leandra’s elbow. “I think the nethermancer Maeumis created this prophecy. The Horror Ristul may not be involved at all.” “You’ve been sniffing Pouika’s herb pouch!” Leandra said angrily.
