Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 27
The first mind dagger sailed into the target’s mind, but the Ristular barely flinched. Cymric launched another one at the same moment Leandra was gashing an attacker across the chest. Her Ristular stumbled, dropping his sword. He grimaced with his hand on his temple, then howled as he charged Cymric. Cymric dodged around the low couch. A woman dropped out of the fight with Leandra to help the Ristular chasing Cymric. While Cymric kept moving in a circuit around the furniture, Leandra went on the offensive, doubling her efforts.
An ork servant carrying fresh linen peeked around the doorway. Her eyes widened, her mouth made a big O, then she screamed. One of the Ristular who turned at the sound caught the full force of Leandra’s sword. He crumpled, a wet stain spreading across his dark robe. Dropping her linen, the ork fled into the hall, shouting an alarm. The woman chasing Cymric flicked her eyes toward the doorway. The others kept their attention on their attacks.
Cymric wove a spell thread, working through intuition and feel. He couldn’t afford to take his eyes away from the external world as he dodged Ristular through the obstacle course of the room’s furniture. It was like trying to lace up winter boots with mittens on. He knew where everything was supposed to go, the motions were simple, but he had a hard time getting it right. A clumsy thrust from the woman thunked into the bar as Cymric scooted around behind. The other Ristular moved to cut him off. Cymric flung out his left arm, hand spread, and shouted, “Die at my touch!” The Ristular flinched and spun away. Cymric sprinted on past.
A howl of pain drew his attention. On the ground another Ristular was trying to sidecrawl away from the melee. Leandra’s face and arms were coated with a sheen of sweat. Her remaining three attackers had backed off two paces, looking for a way through the swordmaster’s defenses.
Heavy footballs sounded in the hall, followed by two orks appearing in the doorway. They wore the leather armor with silver studs, carried spears with highly polished tips. One pointed his spear directly at the Ristular closest to Cymric. “Drop your Weapons, you robed freaks!”
One of Leandra’s attackers dropped his dagger, but the woman chasing Cymric reached into her robe. When she withdrew her hand, it was holding an oily-black ball that she threw to the ground, speaking a word that sounded half-cough, half-growl. Cymric again found himself in darkness. Now he was angry; these maniacs had tried to kill him, and he didn’t want them to get away. He sat quietly and wove a thread, then scrambled a few paces to a wall. He urged magic into the external world at the edge of his outstretched fingers, gently laying the spidery levitate pattern onto the floor. He hoped to cover the entire entrance to the living room with the effect of the spell, throwing any stealthy Ristular to the ceiling.
A cry and a thump sent a thrill through Cymric. Someone had entered the circle of levitation, and he only hoped it wasn’t Leandra or an ork. He sat with his back to the wall, weaving a thread to again create light, when there came the sound of glass breaking followed by a hideous scream. Arcs of jagged blue light leaped from two points, spreading like a fan as they flew through the air. A single figure was defined in the darkness by the arcs of light crashing into, bursting, and retreating from her body. It was like watching a shoreline on a pitch-black night, the shape of the rocks defined by luminescent waves crashing over them. The figure jerked several times before falling to the ground.
Cymric’s first light glowed briefly, then died as darkness swallowed it. The second spell broke the nethermantic dark. The orks had retreated to the doorway, kneeling with spears planted and pointed ahead. A Ristular was pinned to the ceiling, just now experimenting with moving against the force of the levitate spell. Leandra was walking along the wall, her left hand on the wall, her sword out in front of her. Her necklace blazed red. A Ristular who happened to be a finger’s-width away from the tip of the blade surrendered his sword. The two others still crawling along the floor followed suit.
On the other side of the living room smoked the corpse of the woman who had thrown the darkness. She had broken one of the seascape “windows” trying to escape. Cymric walked over to the window, breathing through his mouth trying not to smell the burnt odor of the body. The window frame was lined with runes, enough for Cymric to know that the seascape hadn’t been an illusion. The window had been a specially shaped scrying crystal, permanently magicked to focus on a scene hundreds of miles away. Breaking the crystal had poured that magic through the woman. Cymric thought about searching the body, but his stomach recoiled at the notion. One more look caused a reflexive heave. He left the body alone.
Leandra talked to the orks across the levitation circle. They had used the blunt ends of their spears to fish the one Ristular from the circle, and bound his hands securely behind his back. One at a time, Leandra grabbed the other three and tossed them into the levitation circle. When the orks finished binding one prisoner, they fished another from the circle.
Cymric looked at the three Ristular still sprawled on the ground. The first was unconscious, barely breathing. Cymric didn’t know what to do first: restrain the prisoner or try to tend to his wounds. Leandra walked over to the one whose robe was now one wet, shivering mass. She placed the point of her sword on his neck, driving it through muscle and spine with a pop-crack. The robe lay still. Cymric froze, his mind racing for something to say. Leandra killed chest-gash next, finishing the unconscious Ristular last. Cymric gagged, then swallowed the vomit back down. The ogres had been one thing, and the Ristular at the road camp had died in a fight or through enchantment. This was worse. Leandra began to search the bodies.
“Leandra?” His voiced was strained, a little weak. The taste of a regurgitated meal still burned the back of his throat.
She looked up at him, studying his face, then left the body to go fetch a linen towel and a bottle of water from the bar. Cymric rinsed his mouth and cleaned his face while Leandra spoke quietly with the orks for a few moments. They grunted, then herded the four Ristular from the room. Leandra crossed back to Cymric, stepping over the body of wet-robe. She knelt beside him, but he couldn’t look at her.
“You didn’t fight in any of the wars, did you?” Leandra’s voice held no question. Cymric fixed his gaze on a tumbler on the shelf behind the bar. His eyes watered, blurring the outline of the tumbler when he blinked. He shook his head. Leandra sighed. “Well, we’re in a war now, Cymric. This is how wars are fought.”
“You are in a war,” Cymric snapped. “I am on a quest.” Leandra smiled a sad smile. “Seven years ago I too thought of it as a quest,” she said softly. “But then it changed for me. I don’t know when. Brius didn’t either.” She tapped Cymric on the wrist. “Cymric, I’m not sure what else the Ristular want to do, but I know they want to destroy me. And I want to destroy them. For me, that is war.”
Cymric nodded. He shrugged, spread his hands. His breath caught, hung, then escaped percussively. “It’s just not the way I thought it was done. You know”—his voice caught again, embarrassment and shame weighing down his tongue—“the way heroes of legend conduct themselves.”
Leandra’s laugh was bitter. “I wondered about that. Do heroes act as the legends say, or do troubadours mold the truth for tavern audiences?”
Cymric nodded, spun his staff between his hands, drank some more water, giving his question time to bubble to the surface. “Did you ever hope to be a hero?”
Servants and guards returned to clean up the room, the guards toting away the bodies, the servants trying to clean the blood-soaked rugs and tidy up the furniture. They assiduously avoided contact with Leandra or Cymric, working around them as if they were invisible. Cymric’s discomfort grew. He readily accepted the invitation implied in Leandra’s nod toward the door.
The desk-dwarf met them in the hallway as they stepped through the doorway. He was apologetic, yet let them know that the questor had decided that the safety of other guests outweighed the hostel’s obligation to Lady DeCorvo. There would be no charge for damages. The questor wished to refund most of the donation, provided DeCorvo and her retinue found lodging elsewhere. Leandra graciously accepted the offer. Cymric counted the money in the suspiciously small pouch. The coins were gold, so the sum was more generous than the weight of the pouch suggested. They returned to their room for their packs, then headed out.
One of the ork guards caught up with them as they were crossing the common room. He told Leandra to be careful; Marrek had many more pilgrims like those who had attacked her. Most stayed in their compound in Beakstreets East. The pilgrims had made donations for a room at the hostel five days ago, one of the cheap rooms looking out onto the street. The questor had not wanted to antagonize religious visitors, but they had spooked other guests during their stay. The hostel was now preparing a formal protest to the Prince, although the guard doubted any action would be taken. Leandra thanked the man, and slipped him a few silvers for his trouble. He shook the silver in his hand, pocketed one piece, then handed the rest back. “Pilgrims have given orks problems. Driven some from Marrek,” the ork said quietly, “Disappeared some others. Dwarfs don’t much care. You might.”
Leandra’s tic-smile flicked across her face four times. She nodded, extending her hand. They clasped hands, drawing a look of concern from the desk dwarf and two servants. Cymric cleared his throat. The ork released the handshake, and he and Leandra passed through the teak doors onto the street.
Leandra readjusted the pack on her shoulders. Her injuries were reasserting themselves, and combat had put a hitch in her walk. A grimace preceded her next tic-smile. “The basics of the plan still sound good to you? Food. Sleep. More food. Horror hunt?”
Cymric stepped aside as a troll merchant in gold silks hogged the walkway with a drunk swagger. As he turned up a stairway, tired legs made his boots scrape over each step. Cymric debated his answer until Leandra gave him a tight-lipped stare.
“The plan stands without serious amendment,” he said. To himself he added one element to the plan: discuss how the Ristular knew that he and Leandra were staying at the hostel and whether Brius might be trying to get them killed.
31
Afternoon sunlight glistened off the faceted black stone skin of an obsidiman watching five Ristular thread their way through the marketplace. Her iron staff probably weighed seven times what Cymric’s did, but she wielded it as if it were made of bamboo. The brass hemisphere on top of the staff had a basket of fruit and a loaf of bread hammered into it, signifying her position as a market guard. Cymric sat five feet behind the guard. Reaching into a straw shopping basket, he took out a piece of three-spice chicken, which he ate as casually as possible while keeping a close eye on the Ristular. He chewed noisily, mouth open, his mind on the robed figures, not his table manners. With the sound of a grinding rumble above, the obsidiman turned, fixing her green eyes on Cymric. He caught himself, stopped chewing, then covered his embarrassment with the new linen napkins Leandra had purchased. The obsidiman turned back around.
Leandra returned, carrying an orange earthenware jug and walking along booths not twenty feet from the Ristular. She smiled, squeaked the cork out of the jug, then took a long drink before passing the jug to Cymric as she sat down. Cymric sniffed; fermented fruit juice plus a hint of lemon. His sip surprised him, the taste much more refreshing than the smell suggested, a light blend of fruit flavors with the slightest tickling kick. He took a full swig.
“It’s not whitewater, but it’s not milk either,” Leandra said. “Drink like that and you’ll be sitting here through nightfall.” Cymric slowed his pace, but took another swig. Leandra reached into the basket for a piece of chicken, flicking off hunks of pepper before taking a bite. Her face froze in a moment of rapture at the first taste, then she resumed eating with a more tranquil expression. After consuming half a thigh, she paused. “I learned some interesting tidbits from Garoche.”
“Who?”
“The ork guard from the Lochost hostel. Guild magicians found a ward in our room. An illusion to prevent us from noticing when the necklace detected the Ristular.”
Cymric remembered the glint of red in the mirror shortly before the attack. The illusion had probably prevented anyone from spotting the glow directly, but had not been quite sophisticated enough to conceal secondary sources such as the reflection. “I used an illusion like that in Gelthrain’s workshop. Theirs must have been pretty sophisticated if it could squelch the mere glow of the necklace.” Plus, the ward must have been triggered even before the necklace started glowing—yes, very impressive. Cymric grew uncomfortable at the thought of yet another discipline of magic serving the Ristular. He should have suspected it, he told himself, taking a savage bite out of the chicken.
Earlier in the day Leandra had purchased two blue scarves. First, she’d wrapped them around the stones in the necklace, then squeezed the whole affair under her armor. The glow was still faintly visible, coloring dozens of links in her armor. The glow slowly receded as the Ristular walked further into the market, vanishing about the time Cymric lost sight of them in the crowd.
The obsidiman guard rumble-lumbered to a new post four booths away, the site of a loud dispute between a potter and a customer. Cymric caught the phrase “Iopos glazing” a number of times, as well as querulous suggestions about what the potter ought to throw next into his kiln. Leandra took the jug back. Cymric chewed slowly. Last night they’d avoided the topic of Brius, avoided most topics other than what to eat and where to sleep. They could no longer avoid them. Cymric juggled the order in his head. He decided Brius should be last, to better the odds of getting through the other topics. He borrowed the jug from Leandra, took a swig and handed the jug back. He wiped his mouth and hands, irritated that his hands had already begun to sweat. “What do you know of the Ristular compound?”
Leandra raised one finger as she finished chewing. “Not much has chanced since I last saw it. They took over the Upandal works in Beakstreets East.”
“What sort of defenses has it got?”
Leandra shook her head. “Some must have changed. For what it’s worth, Gelthrain said the wards were simple. Ragnar had problems with some of the locks. The Ristular themselves varied.”
Cymric borrowed the jug again for a small, cool sip, then thunked it back down in front of Leandra. “Any problems getting in?”
She took a long drink before giving Cymric a wicked smile. “Getting in should be simple. All it takes is a small donation.”
“Excuse me, did I hear you right—a small donation?” Cymric’s visions of demonic guards and fiendish traps were difficult to adjust to the idea of a small donation. The only images that came to mind made him shudder.
Leandra’s smile grew broader. “The Upandal works are something to see, especially the garden. The Ristular maintain it, open to the public for a fee.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. The Ristular keep their plans to themselves. Letting folks see parts of the works gives them a good public face and fattens their purse a little.”
Cymric grabbed the jug back, took a long drink, then held on to the jug. Risking his life, braving dangers to overcome fiendish defenses before meeting his demise was one thing. Paying for the privilege seemed something else entirely. Not at all in keeping with the heroic image. After he’d taken a few more slugs, Leandra threw him a disapproving look and pulled the jug from his hands. Cymric selected a soggy biscuit from the basket, nibbling on it as he broached the next topic. “Last night I kept waking up, thinking about the calendar, Maeumis, and the prophecy. Perhaps my most important conclusion is that the Horror Ristul isn’t in Marrek.”
Leandra’s eyebrows rose. She corked the jug with a definite thud. “Your reasons?”
Cymric gestured to the griffin face on the palace looming above them. “Well, first, there’s so much magic in the palace I can almost smell it from here. It was built to protect Marrek’s nobles during the Scourge. If a Horror were in town, I’m sure the magics would activate.” He stuffed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. “Two, you said the gardens and other works are being maintained in such a way that the public wants to see them. Legends strongly suggest Horrors have a more grisly esthetic. And three, Maeumis delivered a ward against Ristul to the town of Liffick. If Ristul were here, I’m sure he would keep the nethermancer under his claw. Developing a ward against one’s master doesn’t seem like an approved activity for the servant of a Horror.”
Cymric reached for the jug, but Leandra slid it away with a nudge of her leg. Still leaning forward with outstretched arm, he met her eyes. “I believe Ristul has not yet been summoned to this world.”
“And today’s interpretation of the prophecy?”
Leandra’s tone stung. Cymric knew that he was working in the ether with some of his reasoning. Well, what of it? He’d been right before. He’d been wrong before. This was just his best guess. “I think the prophecy was part of the bait to lure you to them at the proper time. To kill you, or whatever it is they have to do with you to properly summon Ristul.”
“You now think the necklace—?”
Now Cymric was weaving a story from threads slimmer than an apprentice’s first. All he had was a hunch, formed from a belief that Garlen would not throw Leandra’s life away in a futile battle against a Horror. He had little supporting evidence other than the great power of the necklace. “I think Garlen has chosen you as a hero to stop the summoning of Ristul. I think the necklace is a tool.” “Other than warn us, what does it do?”
Cymric felt the blood go to his cheeks. Instinct drove him behind a barricade of wizard’s words. “Its powerful amalgamation of patterns provides a unique platform for spirit portage, most useful in—” He caught himself, swallowed once. “I’m sorry, Leandra. I just don’t know.” Leandra nodded. She reached forward to tap him on the knee. “You did what you could.” She leaned back again. A tic-smile came and went. “You said the prophecy was part of the bait. What was the rest?”
