ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/Archives/1029

Internet Message Format | 1995-07-20 | 17KB

Path: usenet.ee.pdx.edu!news.reed.edu!nntp.teleport.com!psgrain!reuter.cse.ogi.edu!uwm.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!news.ecn.bgu.edu!feenix.metronet.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!not-for-mail
From: [e-mail] (Jeff Simon)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: Story:  The Outlander  Chapter 8a
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: 18 Jul 1995 08:03:19 -0400
Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester
Lines: 402
Sender: [e-mail]
Approved: [e-mail]
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <3ug7u7$[e-mail]>
NNTP-Posting-Host: rodan.uu.net




***********************************************************
What has gone before:  The mysterious outlander known as
Jake Shade has become embroiled in a struggle with numerous
dark factions; all of them trying to seize possession of a
talisman that is in the hands of a female thief by the name
of Yvette Anastel.  Shade has thwarted the plans of Falchion,
Leader of the Thieve's Guild, one too many times.  The Crime
Lord orders the death of the outlander, sending a band of
professional assassins and former commandoes to do the job.
Already weakened by a prior ambush, Shade manages to defeat
the eight warriors in a bloody battle, but his injuries from
that combat may prove to be fatal . . . .
************************************************************







       Chapter 8:  A Time to Heal






     The streets of Generica was quiet on this night, almost
peaceful.  On the Avenue of Unforgotten Heroes the light of
multiple moons bathed the street in an almost Faerie-like glow.
A half-starved tomcat foraged in a pile of garbage that had
spilled out of a dank alleyway.  The sounds the cat made as
it scratched at the pile of trash were magnified by the still
air of the empty streets, but no one was around to hear them.
     Suddenly, the cat looked up.  Its ears flicked rapidly
as they registered the sounds of someone approaching. The
cat flattened itself, every feline muscle tensed to run as a
shadowy figure drew haltingly near.  The man - for it was a
man - paid the animal no heed as he walked past it, his gait
slow and uneven, broken now and again by a stumble.
     The tomcat watched with unblinking yellow eyes as the
man gradually disappeared into the distance.  A tantalizing
odor fell upon its nostrils, drawing it irresistably to the
middle of the street.  The cat crouched down next to where
the man had passed by and began lapping at a splash of red
which gleamed there, wetly.


     Jake Shade forced his legs to keep moving.  He walked
through streets that seemed wrapped in fog, unsure whether
the mists were real or an phantasm conjured by his dying
senses.  With each step, his body screamed in agony; but he
did not stop. One of the things that Shade had learned in his
long life was that pain, if it could not be ignored, could at
least be kept at at bay.  But in the end, even the willpower
of the immortals is finite.  At last Shade could walk no
further, his legs buckled and he fell against one of the
statues that lined the avenue.  He looked up with a painful
effort and gazed into the impassive stoney countenance of
Mesner the Immense.  It was the monument under which he
had slept on his first night in the city of Generica.

    "Hello there, Mesner old pal," Shade gasped, collapsing
at the statue's feet.  He sprawled there helplessly, looking
up at Mesner's remote features.  The statue's face blurred
as he faded into darkness . . . .






        ***************************







     Yvette had been prowling the streets for hours and frus-
tration was beginning to set in.  She had awakened in her dark
room at the Fastness filled with a dire certainty that the
outlander who had saved her life was now in danger of losing
his own.  Her vision had led her to a quiet bridge spanning
the Ceruputhon, the river which flows through Generica. There
was no trace of the outlander, but there was a trail of blood
which led back in the direction of the Mage's Academy.
     It was several hours after midnight by the time Yvette
followed the trail back to its end - or rather, beginning.  A
narrow side street off the main avenue led her to a small arch-
way.  That archway in turn led to a courtyard. She could smell
the death within that space even before she walked through the
arch.  The stones of the courtyard had been drenched as if by
a sudden red rain, and the raven-haired thief cringed as her
feet came up from the cobblestones sticky with blood that was
almost, but not quite, dry.
     Seven bodies lay scattered about the courtyard, the light
of the two moons directly overhead sufficient to reveal the
terrible manner in which each had died.  Arms tight with horror,
Yvette forced herself to turn over the bodies and look into the
face of each one. It was not a pleasant experience.
    The outlander was not among the dead, and her heart skipped
a beat with a sense of relief.  She scrubbed angrily at her eyes
with the back of one wrist, at a loss to explain why she cared
so much for the fate of a man she had met only once before. Her
brother, Winder, was not one much given to emotions of a gentle
sort.  No doubt he would have had something fittingly sarcastic
to say if he had been able to see his sister at that moment.
     Yvette was beyond caring.  Two nights ago she had learned
something important about herself.  For a year, all her hopes and
dreams had lain in ashes.  But somewhere within herself, hidden
within a heart she had thought completely desolate and barren,
she had discovered a place still capable of light and hope.  In
that secret garden of her soul, something had at long last taken
root and begun to bloom.  It was the only thing of beauty that
she had, and she intended to die before letting it go.


     The jingling of a small bell caught her attention.  It
was coming from the street just outside the courtyard.  She
crept to the archway with the stealth of a shadow and looked
out.
     Up the street, in the opposite direction from the one
she had taken, a massive black coach stood.  Two dark figures
in hooded cloaks were loading something big into the back of
the evil-looking conveyance.  One of the figures got into the
hearse-like coach along with whatever it was they had loaded
inside.  The figure still standing in the street handed some-
thing to its partner inside.  A gasp tore itself from Yvette's
throat.  The object was a human head, eyes gleaming glassily
as they stared into the moonlight.
     The sound of Yvette's involuntary intake of breath
caused the hooded figure to turn in her direction.  Heart
hammering against her breastbone, the young woman pressed
herself even further into the shadows. She breathed a silent
prayer to Grauna that her white nightgown would not give
her away.  The Patron Saint of Thieves must have been
listening to her that night; for the cloaked figure turned
back and clambered aboard that evil-looking coach.  Yvette
let out a sigh of relief.
     A whip cracked and the carriage clattered away noisily.
The small bell jingled over the thunder of hoofbeats as it
departed, sounding curiously flat and out of tune.  Yvette
stayed in the shadows until the only sound she could hear
was the sound of her own breathing.
     She stepped out into the street.  A trail of blood led
from the archway to the spot where the coach had been parked.
The mysterious hooded figures had been loading a body into the
evil-looking conveyance.  She knew that it was not the body
of the outlander, it had been too massive, almost ogre-sized.
    Yvette now knew that her vision of the outlander's peril had
 been a true one.  She knew that he had managed to survive
this melee at least.  If the trail of blood was his, he was no
doubt seriously injured and his life still in jeopardy.   She
wrapped  her hand around the talisman she wore around her
neck, and set out into the night once more.






        *******************************







    HE REACHED FOR THE RIPPLING SILVER MOON AS HE HAD
    NEVER REACHED FOR ANYTHING BEFORE... HIS WOUNDS
    SCREAMED IN SAVAGE PROTEST BUT HE REFUSED TO LET
    THE PAIN MASTER HIM. HIS RIGHT ARM STRAINED UPWARD,
    UPWARD UNTIL IT REACHED THAT IVORY DISK, SHATTERING
    THAT WHITE IMAGE INTO SHARDS OF SILVER LIGHT. HIS
    HEAD BROKE THE SURFACE OF THE CERUPUTHON JUST BEHIND
    HIS ARM AND HE GASPED IN HUGELY.   AIR!  SWEET AIR!
    FOR AN INSTANT HE GLIMPSED A FLAT-CHEEKBONED FACE
    WITH DEAD GRAY EYES STARING DOWN AT HIM FROM THE
    BRIDGE UP ABOVE. TEETH FLASHED DIMLY IN A NASTY,
    MALICIOUS SMILE, THEN THE SODDEN WEIGHT OF HIS
    CLOTHING DRAGGED HIM BENEATH THE SURFACE ONCE MORE.

                    THE GENTLE GRIP OF THE WATER MADE HIM FEEL WEIGHTLESS
    BUT HE KNEW THE EVIL LIE THAT LAY BEYOND THAT CRUEL
     ILLUSION.  HE STRUGGLED TO TEAR OPEN THE CLASP TO HIS
    CLOAK AND CURSED HIS USELESS LEFT ARM UNTIL FINALLY,
    FINALLY THE CLOAK CAME FREE. HIS BUOYANCY INCREASED
    IMMEDIATELY BUT THE SILVER SURFACE WAS SO FAR ABOVE
    HIM NOW.  HIS LUNGS BURNED, HOW THEY BURNED!  BROKEN
    RIBS TWITCHED AGAINST THOSE HEAVING ORGANS, SETTING
    NERVES AFLAME IN A THOUSAND DIFFERENT MESSAGES OF
    PAIN.  HIS THROAT HITCHED, DESPERATE TO INHALE AND
    - What was that?!? - HE KNEW IT WOULD BE ONLY ANOTHER
    MOMENT OR MAYBE TWO BEFORE THE COLD RIVER WOULD POUR
    INTO HIS LUNGS LIKE RELENTLESS, DARK THUNDER BRINGING
    OBLIVION - something solid underneath the fingers of his right
     hand! - AND A COLD, COLD GRAVE HERE IN THIS GOD-FORSAKEN
    LAND HE HAD NEVER HEARD OF, FAR AWAY FROM EVERYTHING
    THAT HE HAD EVER LOVED - It was one of the bridge supports! -
    AND THE GRATING VOICE OF A LONG DEAD CENTURION WAS
    SCREAMING OVER THE POUNDING OF THE BLOOD IN HIS HEAD,
    SCREAMING: PULL! YOU FEEBLE BASTARD, YOU MISERABLE
    MAGGOT,  YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT, PULL! AND HE WAS
    PULLING BECAUSE THOSE CENTURIANS WOULD KICK YOUR
    ASS AND GRIN WHILE THEY WERE KICKING IT AND THE  WATER
    WAS IN HIS NOSTRILS AND HIS THROAT HITCHED FOR THE LAST
    TIME BEFORE HE INHALED GREAT LUNGFULS OF STINKING
    RIVER WATER AND HE KNEW IT WOULD MEAN DEATH BUT HE
    COULDN'T HELP IT AND THIS WAS IT AND WYNEEVE,  I'M SO
    SORRY --   HIS HEAD BROKE THE SURFACE ONCE MORE!


    AND NOW THE HARDEST PART, OH JAKE ONLY ONE IN A
    THOUSAND MEN COULD HAVE THE GUTS, THE WILLPOWER,
    THE CONTROL, BUT BREATHE SLOW, FIGHT THAT SCREAM-
    ING URGE TO GASP LOUDLY, BRING THAT AIR IN WITH A
    HISSING BREATH THAT WAS ALMOST A SOB AND AGAIN AND
    AGAIN AND KEEP IT QUIET BECAUSE UP ABOVE *HE* IS
    WAITING WITH THAT BLADE SO SHINY, SO BRIGHT, LIKE
    SHARDS OF SILVER LIGHT ON THE SURFACE OF THE
    CERUPUTHON--




     Shade lurched out of unconsciousness, certain that he
had heard someone approaching.  He listened closely and heard
the sound again.  A grinding noise, coming from above him. He
looked up and saw the statue of Mesner the Immense tilt its
head and look down upon him.

    "Jake, Jake.  You're not looking too good." Mesner chided
him sorrowfully.

     Shade, who did not act the least bit surprised to be
addressed by a monument, said nothing for a moment.  The
outlander grinned up at Mesner with red-streaked teeth.
He had to swallow blood before he could reply.

     "I've been worse off," Shade pointed out to the statue
looming over him.  His bravado sounded somewhat weak even
to his own ears.

     The statue did not reply immediately.  A light rain
began to fall.  Shivering, Shade cried out at the pain the
movement caused him.

     "That was far away, a long time ago, and a completely
different set of circumstances." Mesner finally opined
to the outland warrior laying at his feet.

    This time it was Shade who did not reply for a while.
When he spoke the words were halting, bitten out between
bursts of pain.

     "I don't heal as quickly in Generica," Shade whispered.
"It's like all the magic from Aurauna is unraveling as I
spend more time here."  It was hard to tell if Shade's
statement was an observation or a complaint.

    "If your curse was truly lifted as Thastorian claimed
it was, you would heal at the same rate as any other man,"
Mesner pointed out.

     "I should have just melted those mercs into broth,"
Shade said in a remorseful tone of voice, dimly aware that
he was changing the subject.

     "Or used that spell where all their major bones turn
into venomous, carnivorous eels." Mesner reminisced. "that
one never failed to leave them rolling in the aisles."

     Shade laughed weakly.  "Yeah, that was always one of my
favorites too."

     "So why didn't you do it?" Mesner wanted to know.  "Why
didn't you take the easy way out?  Assassins deserve no
better.

     "Those men weren't Mages," Shade answered. "Warriors
are to be faced with steel, not spells."

     "Look what honor has gotten you," Mesner sneered.
"Almost killed, thrown off a bridge and almost drowned,
forced to break into a merchant's shop like a common thief
in the middle of the night to steal a dry cloak.  How far
the mighty have fallen."

    Shade had no immediate answer.  The beads of falling
mist collected on his cloak, shining in the moonlight like
tiny diamonds. The outlander watched them as they multiplied.

     "It was the big guy," Shade told Mesner at last.  "The
one with the sixty pound iron quarterstaff."  The outlander's
left arm throbbed as he recalled that fearsome weapon.

     "I could tell that it was killing him to sell his arm
like that," Shade mused.  "It was in his eyes.  I don't think
he liked the idea of being a hired blade.  I would have hated
to kill a man of honor in a dishonerable fashion."

     "A man of honor in a dishonorable profession," Mesner
mused thoughtfully.  "It doesn't sound too likely."

     Jake used the last of his strength to turn over onto
one side.  The broken ribs on that side screamed in silent
protest, but there was no other way he could prevent his
unpunctured lung from filling with blood.  It was a few
moments before he could continue the conversation.

     "What do you know about it, Mesner?" he asked the statue
bitterly.  "You've been dead for a hundred and fifty years."

     "You're just jealous of my unique perspective." Mesner
told him.

     "Well, I think that I might be sharing that perspective
with you before much longer," Shade admitted.

     "The healing hasn't started yet," Mesner observed.  "Do
you think that the curse has been lifted?"

     "Yeah.  Things are getting worse.  I can't feel my legs
anymore."

      "You sound like you don't quite know how to feel about
that," Mesner observed.

     Shade thought about the statue's last remark.  His
thought processes seemed to be winding down like an old
clock, getting slower and slower. He wondered belatedly if
the temperature ouside was dropping or if it was just his
body cooling down as his blood drained away.

    "I guess it would be a good thing if my curse were lifted,"
Shade said at last. "It's just that I don't want to die right
now."

     Mesner snorted in disbelief, an odd accomplishment for
a monument.  "I find that hard to believe, Shade.  After all
this time? You've had more time than any ten men.  How can
you say that you haven't had enough?  Remember those days
when you use to beg God to let you die?"

     "I've had enough time," Shade conceded.  "It's just that
if I had to pick a time to go, this wouldn't be it. I feel
like I've made a new start here.  Like I've got a clean
slate."

    Mesner chuckled in the darkness above the outlander.
"You can never clean a slate as dirty as yours, Shade."

     Shade didn't bother to answer.  Somewhere in his soul
he felt anger at Mesner's last jibe, but his anger was a
distant thing, not important.  He had shed a lot of tears
and spilled a lot of blood trying to atone for his sins.
If this were the end, he would make no apologies.
     The tingling had left Jake's arms.  Now they were as
numb as his legs.  The outlander floated in the fog, knowing
that death was not far away.  At the furthest edge of his
darkening vision, a figure in white drifted nearer.  A
woman's face bent over his, her sweet breath caressing his
brow like a fluff of down borne on a summer breeze.  Even
near death, the beauty of her clear blue eyes moved him.

     "Am I redeemed?" he asked her, his voice choked with
emotion.  "Have you come to take me back?"

     The figure in white brushed black hair away from the
porcelain skin of her forehead.  She made no reply, just
stared into his eyes.  Shade felt consciousness slipping
irrestistably away.

      "Wyneeve . . ." he breathed, and then he was gone.











***************************************************************

          See the second half of Chapter 8

***************************************************************

--
The opinions expressed in this message are mine alone.  This message
does not necessarily reflect the positions or opinions of my company
or organization.