"He's right, sir," the lieutenant pointed out. "It's a nest of mazes down there."
"Damn it all, we'd better take fifty then. No, you lot come with me, and Darisharg, you round up another forty and drag that worthless wizard out of bed and away from whichever kitchen maid he's with at the moment." There was an unbidden snigger at the reference to Harrishaz's legendarily unfussy carnal habits, which Ilfaralek silenced with a single hand gesture.
"I promise you," he suddenly snarled at Jerenn, "if you've lied to me you will pay for this very dearly indeed. You will pray to die before I finish with you."
The boy flinched a little, but he stood his ground and met the man's gaze with his own.
He's not lying, Ilfaralek thought, but whether he's telling the truth is another matter entirely.
As the horses whinnied at being disturbed from their night rest, the spymaster of Vivane readied himself to find out.
24
As the largest of the orks took a determined step forward with a ragged-edged sword, one of his fellows laid his bloodied, but still good, hand on his shoulder and restrained him. The ork with the broken arm growled a warning to the others.
"I don't care who he is. He just saved my skin. I ain't going to let anyone kill him like this."
"Get out of the way, you fool," one of the orks at the back snarled. "He's a Theran, ain't he? That's enough."
"I don't care if he is a Theran," the first ork retorted obstinately. "He saved my hide. He didn't have to. He could have run away. Plenty might have done just that," he said pointedly.
"Meaning what?" spat a one-eyed ork looming from the flickering shadows at the back of the horde. "What are you trying to say, Rashurg?"
"Meaning I haven't forgotten that time when you left me to the Deadwalkers while we were looking for the jade tomb," the ork named Rashurg spat back.
"You stinking—"
"For pity's sake," the ork with the ragged sword said, slapping a hand to his warty forehead. "This is no time for ancient bloody history. We've got a Theran to kill. Look, if we let him go he'll go straight back to his Quarter and tell the Legion what he's seen. We've got to kill him."
There was a general murmur of agreement. Cassian knew it was no use pointing out that, truthfully, he'd seen remarkably little so far. He considered running, but the crossbows two of the orks bore on their backs looked dangerous enough and the elf had no idea what lay to the west in any event. He needed a screen for an escape, and that would require time for subterfuge. Clearing his throat to speak, Rashurg took two steps forward and stood with his back to the elf.
"No. I won't have it," he said. "Blood is blood. If he saved my life I won't take his, and I won't let you do it in cold blood."
"Who said anything about cold blood?" the ork with the rough-edged sword said in a tone of fake innocence.
"You bastard, we all know that thing's got venom on it," Rashurg spat. "That's no fair fight. Neither is six to one. You'll have to get past me first."
I don't think he's actually going to fight for me, Cassian thought. It's a bluff, but it's buying time. Shielded by the ork, he was able to twist the end of his scabbard and deposit a fine plume of yellow-green powder into the palm of his hand from the cavity at the base of it.
"Close your eyes," he yelled to Rashurg as he suddenly sprang to one side of him and flung the fine metallic powder into the air, turning away as he did so. The tiny particles exploded into a choking and blinding cloud of fiery sparks and smoke, enveloping the orks and leaving them coughing and helpless. For seconds, a trail of miniature falling stars seemed to burn arcs into the air as they crackled and hissed, sparking and giving out long plumes of gray, foul-reeking smoke.
The elf sped away into the darkness to the west. He had to risk running a hundred yards or so, to give himself some distance advantage, and then he had to waste precious seconds with the sound of cursing orks regaining their composure, balance, and sight behind him. The green gem-eyes of the serpent amulet around his neck gleamed suddenly and cast an aura of light around him, enough for him to see where his next footfall would land. Even so, he could not risk running so, and dared no more than a trotting half-run, halfwalk, long-striding and as fast as he could, but the orks— with the benefit of lanterns—would surely catch him soon.
To his despair, he found himself at a dead end. Desperately, he checked the walls for any sign of a hidden portal or sliding panel. When the orks were almost upon him, and he could see their bodies shrouded in lantern light bearing down upon him, the wall beneath his scrabbling hands virtually gave way and Cassian half-fell into an alcove set off from the dead end.
To his amazement, he could see the orks as they came to the end of the passage, and it took a few moments and what seemed like twenty heartbeats before he realized they could not see him. He'd not reassumed his invisibility magic, and cursed himself for not having done so, but there'd been no time. Now, it appeared, he was in a place where such magic cloaked him anyway. He risked looking away from the orks who were just standing there, staring stupidly around them.
The alcove was almost like a linen cupboard in size; tiny, with room for no more than two or three bodies at most. A tiny table and chair were the only decoration here. A simple silver flask stood on the table, and a plain gray robe hung on a metal hook hammered into the wall opposite the passageway. He just had time to pocket the flask, intrigued by the serpentine design etched into it, before he heard the orks muttering.
"He's got to be here somewhere," one of the bemused orks was saying. "This is where she comes. Maybe he's found out where she comes in and out and he's gone that way."
"Well, where the hell is it then?" an irascible ork yelled.
"I don't know, do I? It's magic. Wizard's stuff. Look, if we hadn't been shown how to find the way to the tunnel end back there"—he jabbed a finger in the direction from whence the orks had come—"I'd never be able to find it."
The orks began to tap the walls with hammers and the hilts of weapons. Cassian was certain they would find him. One particularly heavy hammer-thump hit the wall he had somehow walked through, and as he recoiled reflexively, it sounded as if the tool had struck solid stone. After an extended search, the orks stood scratching their heads.
"This is your fault, Rashurg, you damn fool," the one-eyed ork growled. "Now he's got away and there'll be half the Legion down here any minute."
"We don't know that," Rashurg protested as his fellows gathered around him.
"Arlyna will kill you," a shadowy ork yelled. "If you've ruined everything, you elf-loving—"
The sentence did not get completed. From the wall opposite the alcove where Cassian was observing events, a dark-cloaked figure seemed to emerge from the stone. She was tall for a woman, with short raven-black hair. Her green eyes gleamed in the lantern-light, truly like those of some feral cat in a dark forest. She was young, elegant, and Cassian caught a peppery and rich scent about her even from where he stood. She looked oddly familiar, though he couldn't place her face.
His jaw dropped as he realized she was looking at him. She could see him, unlike the orks, and she drew back like a cornered cat, spitting fury. She pointed to him and screamed some words in a dialect or tongue Cassian could not understand. The orks turned and stared as if cataracts had fallen from their eyes. They drew their weapons and took a pace forward. Cornered as he was, Cassian knew he had no hope of escape. The young woman was already reaching to her neck, and he knew at once she had some magical object she would use to attack or disable him. There could be no escape from this.
The ork with the poisoned sword was halfway through the wall-portal when the left side of his neck suddenly erupted into a fountain of blood. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward, the crossbow bolt that had felled him sticking out at a crazy angle. Cassian just managed to pin himself against an alcove wall and avoid being felled by the dropping corpse. A second ork was already staggering, a pair of like bolts having mined most of the left side of his
rib cage. The orks with crossbows of their own had no time to return before a glowing-yellow serpentine creature erupted in their midst and began to expand and envelop them even as Cassian looked on.
What began its existence as a snaky form, with definition and elegance, grew in a few instants into a bloated shape with sticky, slippery tentacles flailing around in every direction. Limbs were ensnared and throats wrapped in the strangling, enfeebling magical strands. Within moments not a single ork was left standing to attack Cassian. Then, as he was almost ready to step out himself and look for the woman, a red spot appeared in the center of the magical fluxes and mushroomed in an instant to fill the entire area.
Even shielded by the magical barrier, Cassian could feel the intense heat as the sphere expanded and filled the cul-de-sac. It did not stop even then, but began to expand back eastward along the lengthy passage. If anyone was there in the way of the magical firestorm, Cassian could neither see nor hear. The screams of orks being burned alive and the appalling stench of burning flesh consumed his senses. He reeled backward, away from the heat and light, trying not to gag. With one hand firmly over his mouth, he reached into his pack and dragged out the waterskin, showering the contents over his head and drenching his clothes as best he could. He sat down and pulled a soaked area of cloak over his face and hands, trying to avoid burns from the heat beyond.
As the red glow faded through the cloth of the cloak, and he felt the worst of the baking heat dissipate, he risked a side glance out of the alcove. A pall of filthy black smoke hung over a pyre of charred bodies barely even distinguishable as individual corpses now. The heat must have been unbelievable to reduce living flesh and bone to such a ghastly mound in so short a time.
The elf had no desire to leave his place of safety, but the air around him was growing fouled and smoky even through the magical barrier he had penetrated, and he knew he would suffocate if he remained here much longer. After carefully emptying his second waterskin over his cloak, the elf, almost soaked to the skin now, drew in a deep breath and took a determined step out of the alcove.
The residual heat was still extreme and Cassian could feel heat from the stone of the floor burning away the cloth tied under the soles of his boots. Had he looked down, he would have seen them smoking as he stepped forward, but he had no time. It was impossible to avoid stepping on a body, and his foot crunched through crackly, charred skin remains, briefly burying itself in half-roasted flesh and slippery internal tissue. The sensation was one of the most disgusting Cassian had ever known. This time he knew he would not be able to keep his revulsion down.
He held his breath and ran east the instant he'd stepped out of the wreckage. He managed to get a good thirty yards down the passage before the rebellion of his guts became impossible to repress any longer, and he vomited copiously against a wall. Gasping with disgust, he realized that the terrible heat had abated a little here, though the stink must surely fill the tunnel almost end to end. Sweat was already pouring from his face and brow.
Wiping a hand across his mouth, he looked up redeyed to see a hard-faced and familiar form in full military uniform staring down at him as he stooped, almost to support himself against the wall. Behind that form stood another familiar figure, shorter and slighter, quavering with fear and looking almost as much in a state of shock as Cassian himself.
"It would appear that your slave boy was not lying to me," Ilfaralek said smoothly. "Now this is interesting. I had not learned of this"—he gazed around as if at the whole tunnel area—"at all. I think we had best have a nice long discussion, Cassian."
"Of course," Cassian said, making a mighty effort to regain his composure. "By the way, what kept you?"
"Very droll," the man shot back, but Cassian could see a faint smile on his face.
"Look after Jerenn," the elf said, breathing heavily now as the shock and disgust began to abate slightly. "He brought you here?"
"He did," Ilfaralek said with a slight air of surprise.
"Then make sure he gets properly fed, some good wine, and a comfortable bed." After thinking Jerenn had deserted him, Cassian now realized that but for the boy's intervention he'd have been bludgeoned and cut to ribbons by ork weapons by now—or worse.
He turned around sharply and forced himself to look at the bodies. Though he could not be certain from the evidence of his senses alone, he was sure that no human woman's body lay among them.
It was she who had crafted that firestorm, he realized. She killed all those orks, who'd trusted her, just to make good her escape.
But then, that just raised the murder tally into double digits.
25
The arrival of fifty mounted troops at any point within the Broken Quarter could hardly go unnoticed. Soon, swarms of people had poured from the ruins and hovels to cluster around the area, not daring to get too close to the phalanx of soldiers standing guard above the entrance lo the tunnels from which Ilfaralek, Cassian, and their retinue had just emerged. There were murmurs of surprise at their appearance; Ilfaralek was dressed in his full general's regalia, and Harrishaz, his wizard, dressed flamboyantly even by the standards of the vainer wizards of the city. Clearly, something important was afoot.
"Better get a whole damn division down here," Ilfaralek growled to his lieutenant. "Seal off the area. You," he added, turning to Harrishaz, "go back with Tenshen here and a dozen men and start mapping out the place. There's no telling how many magical barriers and portals there are. I had no idea anything so complex was involved."
The red-faced wizard looked unhappy but could hardly argue with his superior. Grumpily, he reached into the folds of his cloak and was about to take a hefty swig from a silvered and bronze-stoppered flask when Ilfaralek almost knocked it from his grasp.
“And don't drink that stuff, idiot," Ilfaralek yelled. "I want your senses about you when you're searching the place. By the Passions, why do I have to deal with such people?"
An angry wizard stumped off towards the chute leading back into the depths, taking out his annoyance on a foot soldier who nearly got himself kicked down the aperture for just being in the right place at the wrong time. Cassian grinned and scratched his scalp. His skin was hot, sweaty, and dirty and before he did any talking, he wanted a bath.
"I've got to see Kypros tomorrow and—"
"I'll be less than an hour. I'm sorry, but I feel absolutely disgusting and I'm not talking to you until I look and feel more presentable," Cassian insisted. "And be sure that Jerenn is well cared for. I absolutely insist."
"By Thystonius," Ilfaralek muttered irritably, "next you'll be asking me to send a kedate off to the brothels to fetch him half a dozen wenches."
"If that's what he wants, I'll pay for it," Cassian replied through clenched teeth. They stood glaring at each other for a moment and then both broke into half-apologetic grins. Tension and anxiety were draining out of them, not least through sheer fatigue.
"It's important," Cassian said. "There have been wizards at work down there; and one of them may have some of the boy's blood. He needs to be kept in a place of safety-"
Ilfaralek slapped the elf on the shoulder. "I'll make sure. Can I see you in an hour's time?" he said more cordially.
"Of course," Cassian smiled back. "Can I borrow a horse to get back to the Quarter? I didn't exactly come by carriage."
Ilfaralek laughed and shouted an order to one of his soldiers. Already, reinforcements were arriving from the barracks just inside the Theran Quarter and the throng of curious onlookers was being steadily pushed back as the area was roped off. Cassian turned away, climbed into the saddle with a groan of tiredness, and rode slowly off toward his villa and the promise of hot water, soap, scent, towels, and tension unknotting from his muscles.
At first, the boy thought he was going to be flung into the barracks' jail cells. Everyone in Vivane knew what they were for: they held prisoners prior to execution, and those awaiting trial on charges carrying pain of death for conviction. By the time he was back at the b
arracks, he was petrified with fear and had to be helped out of the saddle. It was ridiculous, and wholly irrational, but Jerenn had never seen magical might like that which had flared and blazed around the tunnels and passages beneath the Rat Circus, and he was quite unsettled. An unsmiling captain led him into the barracks and through a nest of branching passages, until they came to a stout, featureless wooden door. The captain unlocked and opened it to reveal utter blackness beyond. Jerenn felt as if he had done something terribly wrong and could not for the life of him figure out what it was. Head hung low, he followed the captain like a convicted murderer headed for the executioner's axe.
Then the flare of lantern light showed him a wholly different scene than the one he'd expected. Dominating the chamber was a huge bed plumped up with silken cushions, and a sunken bath was filled with warm and clear water, beautifully inviting. Platters of fruit, bottles, goblets, and a tray of cold meats met his astounded gaze.
"General Ilfaralek says you must be available for questioning at any time," the captain said; there was a clear edge of disgust in his voice at the very notion that a slave should be treated in such fashion. "You are to remain here. I shall lock you in." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and locked the door behind him.
Jerenn could hardly believe his good fortune. He stripped off his dirty clothes and half-dived, half-slid into the bath. Bubbles rose continuously within the water, so that he bobbed and floated effortlessly. Scents and unguents made the water and air smell deliciously clean, light, and wholesome. Bobbing at the side of the pool, he was able to stretch out a hand and pluck a bunch of grapes from a tray, which he then wolfed down like a furtive beggar fearing someone might suddenly snatch them away again. But after some minutes he became emboldened and realized that he was meant to be here, and surely they would not have provided things if he was not to be allowed to have them.
Ten minutes later, clad in a yellow silk gown of exquisite design and pattern, the boy began to investigate the best of the Vasgothian wines from its magically and permanently chilled flask.
Shadowrun - [Earthdawn 05] - Shroud of Madness Page 18