Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 25
“This is Cymric,” she said, extending a hand his way and nodding. “Cymric, I’d like you to meet Orseth, a friend of Brius, now a friend of mine.”
Cymric snorted, then bowed low. Orseth straightened himself with exaggerated motion, then returned the bow. They held their positions until Leandra stomped up the gangplank. When he rose, Cymric saw Orseth pointing to a mooring line. “Would you mind untying that, master wizard?”
Leandra waved him off. “Not yet. Cymric and I have a matter to settle.” Orseth shrugged, sauntered back down into his cabin. Leandra stayed on the gangplank, squarely facing Cymric. “I’m off to Marrek, and I’ve paid for your passage. This is your last chance to back down.”
Cymric laughed. “Milady, never underestimate a wizard’s ability to find new ways to back down.”
Leandra’s eyes flashed as she tightened her grip on the hawk’s head of her sword. “I mean, I need to count on you. If you step on this boat, it means you’re with me to the end of the campaign.”
Cymric slapped his staff against a mooring pile. He took a breath. It didn’t help, so he smashed his staff against the pile five or six more times. “How can I be with you to the end when I’m not with you now?” Leandra continued to stare at him, but said nothing. “The prophecy you’ve been following is a lie. I’m sure of it.” He pounded his staff into the pier, then tossed it up with his left hand, catching it with his right. “I don’t know what the calendar means, except that Maeumis made it, and he used a lot of blood magic to do it. If I could crack the calendar, it might be different. As it stands, you’re walking into a den of fanatics without any clear idea either of what you should do or what it’s possible for you to do.”
Leandra walked down the gangplank. She knelt by the mooring pile, then began to untie the rope. Cymric took a step forward and bent down to talk to her.
“What are you going to do when you get to Marrek? Find the Ristular and charge in their front door?”
“I take it you have a better idea.”
Cymric straightened up and threw his arms to the sky. “Yes! Yes, Leandra, I do. Walk away from this one.” “The Ristular seem to be able to find me.”
“Fine! That doesn’t mean you have to run screaming straight into their stronghold.”
Leandra worked the last knot free. “I believe Garlen has made this choice for me.”
Cymric blinked, his mouth open. “You’re saying the Passion of hearth and healing wants you to attack a Horror and its followers singlehandedly? Leandra, that’s stupid!' Leandra hurled the freed rope onto the deck of the boat, and Cymric regretted what he’d said. She got up and walked over to begin untying the other mooring line. Cymric licked his lips, then went to join her. When he reached for the rope, she slapped his hands away. “I don’t want to face a Horror by myself. But I will if—” She stopped untying the rope. She sniffed once, then looked at Cymric. Her eyes were shiny, but she had shed no tears. “Cymric, did you mean the promise you made in the inn in Corthy?”
Cymric’s stomach tightened. Damn, there goes the wiggle room. The answer was no, he hadn’t meant the promise. When he’d vowed to stick with Leandra, to face a Horror, he hadn’t known what that would mean. Promises are good intentions contingent upon events. Events had given him a glimpse of the magic involved, the power arrayed against them. The odds looked bad for him, worse for Leandra. He hadn’t been able to fully decipher the calendar because there hadn’t been enough time. Before when he’d failed, it had usually meant it was time to move on, to dodge the consequences. Now ... actually, it still meant it was time to move on.
“You in there?” Leandra’s question was soft. Cymric came back to the world to focus on her face. The tears were still there, one having escaped the red rims of her eyes to trickle down the right side of her face.
Now I can at least try. Leandra said it. She meant it. She was going to face Ristul, or Maeumis, or something. Perhaps she was going to die. Make that “probably going to die.” Cymric didn’t want her to go. And if she went, he didn’t want her to go alone.
“I don’t suppose I could convince you to let me teach you the wizardly art of running away?”
Leandra eyes opened wide, then she laughed. She bit her lip. “Maybe you could. But only after Marrek.” Cymric picked up his staff and used it to thump his head several times, and none too gently. Leandra meanwhile had finished untying the knots and thrown the rope on deck. “You might find it useful to have someone who can show you how to run away. Even in Marrek.” The way Leandra was looking at him as she stood up made the heat rise in Cymric’s cheeks. “I’ll go to Marrek. Any running away I do will be with you, not away from you.” “Promise?” Leandra’s eyes searched his face intently.
“I promise. I’ll even make that a swordmaster kind of promise, rather than the sort we shifty wizards use.” Leandra didn’t laugh as he’d expected. Instead she clasped her hands over his, which were holding the staff. She stood for some time, eyes closed. Cymric let go of his staff, leaning it in against his shoulder. He held her hands, aware of the warmth and the callouses of her right hand. Leandra released his hands and moved into him, heedless of the staff. She sniffed several times, once breathing in a gasp-sigh. “Thank you,” she said.
Cymric opened his mouth for a sharp-witted reply, then decided against it. He only hoped he wasn’t going to be scared witless by whatever they faced. He had to keep thinking, especially in those situations where he might prefer to run away. “Hope I can be useful to you when things get bad.”
Leandra looked up at him. “Being there is a pretty solid start.”
“I personally would like to be something other than dessert for a Horror who’s just had you for a main course.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure the Horror will eat you first.”
Cymric laughed, bringing a smile to Leandra’s face. Grabbing at his staff as Leandra moved away, he then followed her up the gangplank. Orseth emerged from his cabin and picked up a pole. Leandra took another. Together they shoved the boat away from the dock. Orseth moved to the tiller. Shouting poling instructions to Leandra, he moved the boat into the current. Lifting her dripping pole from the water, Leandra placed it back in its notches on the deck. Then she and Cymric joined Orseth at the tiller. On a river ruddy-red with the setting sun, each slap of the water marked another bit closer to Marrek.
29
A fireball shrieked overhead, then exploded in the water sixty paces away. Warm spray was all that hit Cymric, who was sitting with his feet dangling from the boat, sipping some of Leandra’s Landis blend. Upstream of Marrek, a flotilla of rivercraft had congregated a safe distance from the two t’skrang steamboats battling outside the harbor. Both ships had come racing in from the Serpent River, whistles screaming and elemental engines belching smoke. The captains must have decided that the race for first berth was too close to call, because fire cannons boomed almost simultaneously. A proper frenetic battle for t’skrang honor followed.
Orseth said t’skrang battles “are big on bellowing and small on bloodshed.” While the boarding actions looked and sounded serious, Cymric had to admit the fire cannon barrages were remarkably inaccurate. Two rowboats of t’skrang rowed furiously for the docks, cheers ringing from a nearby fishing skiff as one of the boats pulled into the lead. Someone’s wager must be looking more secure.
Leandra sat beside Cymric putting her hair up into a combat coil. “Which lizards are winning?”
“Fiercely contested, I would say.” Cymric pointed to the steamboat with the red paddles, prow, and smokestacks. “The rowboat from that ship looks like it will make the docks first.”
Orseth, who was sitting on Leandra’s other side, tossed her some fresh biscuits, two of which she passed to Cymric. “Could be. But even that advantage might not be enough. Captain Eluchai has several adepts in his crew, but they’d be better at fighting than rowing, so I bet they’re in the trailing boat.” The first boat reached the docks. Its occupants ignored the hemp ropes twined around the piles, preferring to throw their own grappling hooks onto the docks. Their faint “huzzah” was echoed by a much louder cheer from the watching dockhands.
Orseth hastily swallowed a biscuit. “Time to move closer or else we’ll miss the show. And the best berths.” The elf grinned. He stood, shook his head when Leandra started to rise. “You stay and watch the fight. I’ll call for river help to nudge us in.”
The elf returned to the tiller, unlatched a compartment in the deck to remove a silver cup. Next came a bottle of wine, but not a particularly distinguished-looking vintage. Orseth poured the wine into the cup, then reached into the compartment a third time and emptied a small burlap pouch of long, dried blue leaves. He swirled the leaves into the wine while singing softly. That done, Orseth raised the cup in salute of the water, then poured the mixture off the stem. Nothing happened.
Cymric looked back toward the docks. The second rowboat had arrived while the crew of the first kept busy throwing off grappling hooks and cutting lines. The few from the second boat who managed to reach the docks were soon hurled back into the muddy water.
A shudder passed through the boat, which canted wildly to port, sending Cymric sliding off the deck. While he scrambled for handholds, Leandra grabbed him with her left hand, the right holding onto rope lashed to the cabin. She let out a grunt of pain with each pull on Cymric, who lifted a few inches at a time. On the last couple of tugs he was able to help haul himself up.
The boat was now slicing through the water at a good speed, throwing up a turbulent wake at the other unmoving vessels. Glancing down, Cymric saw half a dozen translucent corkscrews, like those in Yleesa’s front pond— elementals singing in squeaky, high-pitched tones. The water moved in response, propelling the boat forward. Orseth leaned hard into the tiller to maintain direction. “All those fireballs must have gotten them riled,” he shouted.
Orseth started singing once again. Cymric hung on tightly to the ropes attached to the cabin, and so did Leandra. Noting that the boat neither slowed down nor continued to gain speed, he watched the elementals until a shout from Leandra drew his attention to the fight on the docks. A t’skrang was leaping about the docks, tail and sword a flurry of concerted motion. Orseth interrupted his singing to yell, “Kricklen, a t’skrang swordmaster! Thought you might want to see one in action.”
Leandra nodded, a broad smile stretching across her face and her eyes lighting up each time Kricklen made an acrobatic move. She let go of the ropes to applaud when the t’skrang disarmed two opponents at once. Despite Kricklen’s best efforts, the opposing t’skrang were slowly encircling him, but his antics were giving the other crew time to scale the docks. The complexion of the fight changed, breaking down into small clusters of cursing, taunting lizards.
Kricklen was now faring better against a smaller number of foes, keeping them off balance with broad tail sweeps while beating them about their heads and shoulders with his sword. Little by little Kricklen’s crew slowly claimed the dock and began to toss the other crewmen into the river. Some of the defeated crew flailed arms, legs, and tails while shrieking full-lung, then fell ker-splash with a plume of water rising up to the height of the docks. The victors waited until these t’skrang surfaced, then loudly thumped their tails in approval of the defeat display.
Orseth lullabyed the boat into a choice berth, then bid the elementals goodbye. As they surged off through the water and rushed to the center of the river, they created a wave two men high. Some of the t’skrang got caught in the wave. After a moment of floundering, a chorus of whoops indicated that the wave met with t’skrang approval. Leandra leaped from the boat.. After landing she squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them in an annoyed expression. To Cymric it looked as though the excitement of the fight had her blood flowing faster than her thoughts; she had forgotten about her injuries. She exhaled sharply, then began mooring the boat.
A pudgy dwarf tromped down the pier toward the boat, bound book under his arm, sweat beading on his forehead and glistening in his beard. Orseth lowered the gangplank for the dwarf, who came pounding up the plank while opening his book. He tapped the margin of the right-hand page. A quill of pure black peeled from the page and floated to his hand. Pudgy looked at Orseth. “Vessel, cargo, and stay?”
“The boat is A Troll’s Dream. I carry two passengers and a selection of collectibles. I wished to be berthed for a week.”
Pudgy raised an eyebrow. “Nature of collectibles?”
Orseth smiled the way a python smiles at a rat. “The sort of collectibles requested by the Outriggers Guild. I have the contract if you wish to see it.”
Pudgy delayed a fraction of a second, then thrust out his hand. Orseth pulled a stained piece of parchment from his sleeve, its seal of silver and purple waxes broken. Pudgy’s face twitched, then he shook his head. “Your papers are in order. That will be thirty-five silvers for the week.” Orseth attempted to haggle for the price, but Pudgy would have none of it. Orseth planted his hands on his hips, determined to pursue the matter. “You two take off,” he said. “Good luck.”
Leandra flourished her sword in salute. “Say hello to Brius for me when you see him.” Orseth gave her the strangest grin, but only nodded his head before returning his attention to Pudgy.
Cymric and Leandra strolled up the pier to the dockside. Workers were busy preparing for the ships and boats now arriving, but the walkways were clear of cargo. The winning t’skrang steamboat was docking with whistles sounding. Most of the crew did not wait for the ship to stop, swinging on ropes or taking running leaps to the dock. A few missed. Those who landed scrambled for the city gates, which were outlined by a tall archway studded with glowing crystals. Beyond the gate Cymric could see the top of a huge pearlescent dome. Leandra followed the lizard throng.
The four dwarf officials at the gate looked harried even as the first t’skrang arrived. To Cymric it looked as though each official was accompanied by an unusually high number of guards, six or seven in chain mail, plus one in full crystal plate. All were armed with axes, all had their weapons out and ready. The guards eyed the t’skrang carefully. Taking a guess at which would be the quickest line, Cymric nudged Leandra in that direction. He found himself inordinately pleased that he seemed to have chosen correctly.
Ahead of them waited a group of five t’skrang, the holes in their satin waistcoats showing their painted and polished scales. All five carried daggers, and three were armed with swords. One had studded his tail with green-faceted gems, perhaps peridot, a half-dozen of which had been enchanted to sparkle brilliantly with their own light. The group reached the official, a tired-looking dwarf whose rightmost beard-braid had worked itself loose. Seated at his desk covered with quills, inkpots, seals and wax, parchment documents, and a half-eaten muffin, he asked the t’skrang the nature of their visit. The five huddled and murmured for a moment. When they broke the huddle, Gemtail spoke for the group. “To sample fine dwarven food and finer dwarven ale. To sing the songs of legend. To fight pitched battles in the streets. To loot the wealthiest merchants and raid your holiest places. To carry off your women to our ship for nights of wild abandon. All with your permission, of course.”
The guards shifted their weight, looking at each other and the official. The official rubbed his eyebrows vigorously as if to wake from sleep. He grabbed five pieces of parchment and began pouring wax on them, then stamped a seal with vigor. “You may purchase ale and food as you like. You may sing until the midnight bell. All other requests denied. That will be four silvers apiece.”
The t’skrang looked disappointed, and Gemtail whipped his tail in a catlike gesture of annoyance. They murmured once more, then paid the fee and took the parchment before bounding past the guards into Marrek.
Cymric stepped forward, toying with the answer to the official’s question. Actually, sir, we are here to hunt a Horror and its fanatical followers. We doubt we can harm it, but we can probably anger it enough that it will destroy your city as it has destroyed many villages. What do you say? Suddenly snapping back to the here and now, Cymric found the dwarf official smiling as though he had just caught Cymric in some secret ritual.
“Got a forked tongue longer than my hand?”
Cymric shook his head. “Excuse me?”
The guards grinned. The official stamped two pieces of parchment. “Welcome to Marrek. I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay. That will be one silver apiece.”
Cymric’s eyebrows rose. The official merely shrugged while one of the guards looked steadily at Cymric. Cymric paid the silver. Leandra nodded to the guards as they passed. Once they were through the gate, Leandra said, “First time in Marrek?”
Cymric nodded. Leandra smiled. “A good city, though silver holds too tight a grip. But I know the best way to see the city for the first time. Come.” She took a left, following the gate wall, then passed through an archway with a griffin symbol, and began to climb the spiral staircase inside. The stair ended in a tunnel that made two sharp bends. The second bend opened onto a platform facing a blank wall. Leandra tapped Cymric on his left shoulder. He turned.
The city was hewn from the ground, four gigantic terraces nested like an inverted pyramid. Buildings were packed onto the tops of the terraces, and some were carved into the terrace walls along the zigzag roads that connected one terrace to another. At ground level the “pyramid” was perhaps three miles wide, perhaps more. In the center was the biggest building Cymric had ever seen. The pearles-cent dome was its top, supported by a tower and dozens of columns. Beneath the tower was a huge statue of a griffin, more eagle-like than any he’d ever seen depicted. Though its wings were tucked back, they still extended hundreds of yards. Blocky slabs of stone formed walls built around and encasing the griffin. Where the griffin’s forepaws rested, the building changed styles. The walls became white, with slender windows, doorways, columns, and towers. Causeways ran from the terrace levels to this level. Gigantic stairways descended to the next level. The bottom level was a collection of pools and gardens, illuminated by hundreds of multicolored light crystals. Cymric managed to spot a few arches and a window or two hidden in the greenery.
