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From: [e-mail] (Jeff Simon)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: Story:  The Outlander  Chapter 8b
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: 19 Sep 1995 13:19:43 -0400
Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester
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*******************************************************************

    See the first part of Chapter 8 or be doomed to confusion

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










    Yvette looked down at the man, tears welling in her eyes.
The amount of blood covering him had made it hard to recognize
him at first, but the silver streak in the center of the out-
lander's brown hair stood out like a beacon.  The outlander
had murmured something to her in a strange tongue before
lapsing into unconciousness.  It had sounded like a question,
followed by a name.  She wondered if he had mistaken her for
someone else in his delirium.
    She looked about her in anxiety.  Although the outlander
was only an inch or two taller than her own five feet eight
inches, his mass was such that it was obvious she could not
carry him for far, if at all.  She looked back up the street
she had come down, where a rubbish wagon sat about a block
away.  She looked down at the outlander and removed a long,
wickedly curved knife from his left boot.


    "'Ello baby, wot's up wit' you?"  The disgustingly dirty
streetsweeper looked up from his task to leer appreciatively
at the scantily-clad Yvette.

     "A little cold to be runnin' 'roun in them pajamers,
ain't it?" he asked with a snorting laugh, amazed at his own
wit.  "Maybe ol' Vandyke 'ere can warm you up, wot?"

     "I need to borrow that wagon for a few hours," Yvette
told the man, one hand behind her back.

     "Well, this 'ere conveyance ain't mine to loan out as I
please, you know," the streetsweeper said, laying one finger
alongside his nose.  "But maybe you and ol' Vandyke can work
out an exchange, eh?"

     Yvette brought her hand out from behind her back, the
pommel of the outlander's dagger a blur in the early morning
gloom.  There was a crack as the streetsweeper's jaw gave
beneath the impact.  The man named Vandyke went down like a
scarecrow cut from its post.

    "When you wake up, let me know what you think of the
exchange," Yvette instructed the comatose streetsweeper.






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







     Winder was awake even before Kilborn burst into his room.
The sound of his fellow Threadpenney Baron's pounding footsteps
had snatched him from sleep and set his blood singing with the
anticipation of danger before Kilborn had transversed even half
the length of the hallway.  When Winder saw who it was that
threw open his door he relaxed, letting go of the hilt of his
dagger.

     "Winder, you better get out front right away!" Kilborn
shouted, his face red and wet with sweat.

     "What's going on?" Winder asked.

     "Your sister is out front arguing with Diamondhead and
Splatter," Kilborn explained between gasps.  "She wants to
bring some dead guy into the Fastness."

    Winder looked at his panting friend with raised eyebrows.

    "A dead guy?"

    "Shit, I don't know," Kilborn snarled in exasperation.
"He looks dead to me.  Are you coming?"

     Winder followed his friend back down the hall.  The
stairs creaked and groaned beneath their weight as they
careened down to the first floor.  They burst outside, where
the gray sky was just beginning to lighten with the predawn.
Splatter and Diamondhead had backed Yvette almost against
the side of the wagon.
    Winder did not break his stride, hurling himself upwards
in a leap that brought him crashing feet first into Splatter's
back.  The larger Baron went down under Winder's unexpected
assault.  Winder rode him down to the cobblestones, one hand
twisted in Splatter's oily hair while the other scrabbled for
the hilt of the dagger in his boot.  Looking up, he saw that
Kilborn had twisted both hands in Diamondhead's tunic and
pinned him against the wagon.

    "What's this I hear about you mooks giving my sister a
hard time?" Winder asked as he slid his knife under Splatter's
scraggly chin.

    "You little turd-miner, as soon as I get up I'm gonna rip
you a new -" Splatter's ranting diatribe broke off abruptly
when Winder raised his knife, pressing the razor-sharp edge
against the thin whiskers of the young man's throat.

    "I think you're assuming an awful lot here, Splatter,"
Winder told him in a cheerful voice.

    "He didn't mean anything by it, Winder."

     Diamondhead looked at Winder, then at Kilborn.

    "We're jus' doin' our jobs, man." he continued, spreading
his hands wide in a beseeching manner.  "You know the rules,
only members inside, 'less you got a dispensation from the Big
Guy."

    Kilborn released the gangly Baron and helped Yvette pull
the wounded man of the cart.  He gasped as the unconscious
warrior's two hundred pounds and more threatened to drag him
off his feet.

     "Winder, we're gonna need your help here." Kilborn
called.

    Yvette's brother resheathed his blade, running it along
Splatter's cheek as he pulled it away, smiling as he felt the
larger youth flinch.  He got up, watching cautiously as his
victim clambered to his feet.  Splatter's eyes were narrow
with anger, but it appeared that he would save his grief for
another day.

     When the three of them had disappeared back into the
Fastness with their bleeding charge, Splatter turned to
his gangly friend.

    "I'm going to cut a piece out of that little punk," he
said heatedly.

    "I don't know, Splatter," Diamondhead temporized.  "I
think there's something wrong with that kid's head.  The
guys have been sayin' Thunder's got his eye on him, that the
Big Guy likes his suicidal attitude.  I say it's better to
leave guys like that alone 'til they self-destruct, know what
I mean?"

    Splatter did not reply.  He looked up at the third floor
of the Fastness, wheels of deliberation churning behind his
eyes.






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







     Winder watched impatiently as Yvette manuevered the
wounded warrior into her cot.  Kilborn looked at him with a
questioning stare and clueless, Winder shrugged.  Kilborn
decided to beat a hasty retreat, and Winder was left alone
with his sister and the unconscious outlander.

     "You wanna tell me what this is about, sis?"

     "This is the man who helped me escape from Grace the
other night." she told him shortly.

     "Oh.  Well I guess that explains why he's perforated
like a sieve and holing up with us," Winder said expansively.

     "He's here because I'm the one who found him, Winder.
Whoever did this to him might want to finish the job, and I
owe it to him to try and keep that from happening."

     "Hrrm, it looks like a waste of time to me.  Look at the
blood stains on those clothes.  He'll be taking the big dirt
nap by sundown tonight."

     "Your compassion for others never ceases to amaze me."
Yvette spat the words.

     "Yeah?  Well fuck 'em!  Nobody is gonna help you and me
except you and me.  Nobody's gonna look out for us, nobody's
gonna give us nothin', so I don't plan on doin' it for them."

     Winder was really started to get warmed up on his
favorite theme, but he stopped dead when Yvette rounded on
him with cold eyes that froze him speechless.

    "This man stepped in where no one else would have, Winder.
He stood up to Grace for me.  For me!  If there'd been another
man in this city with that much guts, maybe last year Grace
wouldn't have . . . ." Yvette's voice choked off, and she
turned away from her brother.

     Winder stood there flooded with shame, an impotent rage
against the Watch Lieutenant flooding his veins once again.
His hand shook as he put it awkwardly on his sister's shoulder,
not knowing what to say or do.

     "Yvette . . . I'm sorry.  What can I do?"

     Yvette reached into one of the outlander's belt pouches
and pulled out a handful of silver coins.

     "Bring me a healer, Winder.  The best one you can find."







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






     If Gelamesh the healer was perturbed to find himself in
the Low City, he gave no sign of it.  If he was nervous at
being brought within the urban fortress-complex of a street-
gang, Winder was not able to detect it.  Perhaps it was the
amount of silver that Winder had paid the man.  Maybe it was
Gelamesh's commitment to his role as a healer.  Perhaps it was
that the healer's calling had brought him to worse places than
this in the past.
     The two sentinels at the door allowed the healer to
pass without comment.  Anticipating a replay of the earlier
scene with Splatter and Diamondhead, Winder had cleared this
visit with Thunder's right hand man before setting out.  The
healer took one final look around the outside world, then
followed the youth into the gloomy interior of the Fastness.
     The first thing Gelamesh did was throw Winder and Kilborn
out of the room.  The two youths slunk off with resentful
glares, like two lean hounds banished from the tableside.
He allowed Yvette to remain, after making it plain that she
was to stay out of his way.
    The healer began by removing the outlander's clothing,
stripping him down completely, a small cloth thrown over his
thighs for modesty's sake.  He cleaned the wounds carefully,
then turned and looked at Yvette sharply.

    "Your brother said that these wounds occurred late last
night," he said in an accusing tone.

    "They did," Yvette affirmed in a puzzled tone.

   Gelamesh continued to stare at her, waiting for her eyes
to drop.  Yvette continued to look at him with a guileless
expression.  The healer turned back toward the outlander with
troubled eyes.  After a moment, he turned back to Yvette.

    "There is more here than meets the eyes," he stated
gruffly.  "I must go into an exploratory trance to determine
what is going on here.  You may remain, but it is essential
that you remain completely still.  Do you understand?"

     Yvette nodded, wondering what the old man could be
talking about.  The healer closed his eyes and began rocking
back and forth slowly, a low humming coming from his throat.
The sound was deep and sonorous, rising and falling almost
hypnoticly.  Yvette was startled to see a faint green aura
begin to surround the healer, eventually extending to the
body of the outlander she had rescued.

    When at long last the healer opened his eyes, it was
obvious that he was shaken.  When he looked at Yvette, his
expression was one of naked fear.

    "Young lady, I don't know how you got involved with this
.. . . man, but I reccomend you rectify that mistake as soon
as possible."

    Yvette's eyes narrowed with suspicion.  "What are you
talking about?"

     Gelamesh cleared his throat and shook his head.  "I am
not completely sure.  This man's aura is not human, I'm not
even sure he is alive.  It is almost as if he were . . .
undead."

     Yvette's confusion was obvious.  The healer turned and
pulled a sheet over the outlander's body before continuing.

    "I could be wrong.  He bears a curse, the strongest I've
ever seen.  I suspect that it is a God-curse.  That may be
what is confusing my senses.  Regardless, no healing magic
will help this man, especially that which might be wielded
by a priest.  I would also reccomend not bringing any
religious artifacts near him."

    Yvette felt despair closing in.  "Will he die?"

    Gelamesh cleared his throat again.  "That is hard to say,
young lady.  It appears that his body has supernatural means
of healing itself.  These wounds would be mortal in any other
man, yet he still lives.  The wounds themselves look to be a
week old, yet you assure me that they were dealt to him last
night.  His arm was almost crushed, yet it has begun mending
perfectly despite the fact that it was not set.  This may be
a function of the curse he bears, although such things rarely
have beneficial effects."

     Gelamesh took Yvette's hands in his own, and pulled her
to her feet.  He took her face between his palms, and looked
deep into her eyes.  His fierce old face wore an expression
of such paternal concern that in spite of herself, Yvette felt
a kind of love for the old man.

    "You listen to me, young lady.  There are evil things
loose in this world, and sometimes they take on a fair seeming.
No matter what this outlander's story is, the fact remains that
he brought with him a horrible curse.  Such things have a wicked
tendency to spill over and destroy anyone who comes in contact
with the afflicted individual.  Whether this outlander wishes
you well or wishes you ill is of no relevance.  He has no
control over the reach of the curse.  And let me assure you,
this man is not involved with powers of a lesser order.  I
have never seen . . . ."

     The healer trailed off, and Yvette put her hands over
his own, in a strange kind of embrace.

    "I understand what you say, Grandfather," she said
gently, granting him the honorary patronymic.  "But this man
saved my life, and I owe him a debt.  I have looked into his
eyes, and I know that he is a good man.  I will not desert
him just because he does not come free of complications."

    Gelamesh sighed, resigned to the rashness of youth.  He
had seen the woman's aura and knew what she had not yet
admitted to herself.  Inside, he already grieved for the
tragedy he knew was probably inevitable.  He took a small
cloth bag from the pouch which hung by his side, and pressed
it into her hands.

    "Take these herbs.  They are non-magical, and should be
effective to at least some degree.  Mix a small amount of
them with water and let him drink it if he regains conscious-
ness.  I think that he will, before long."

    "Thank you, Grandfather," she said with a gratitude that
was heartfelt.  "Thank you very much."






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










TWISTED VINES AND CURVED THORNS SLIDE RAPIDLY BY
HIS EYES IN THE BRIGHT MORNING AIR.  THE HOT WIND
THAT BLOWS OVER HIM FEELS LIKE THE BREATH OF A JUST
OPENED OVEN.  THE CURSES AND PANTING BREATHS OF THE
FOUR MEN WHO RUN IN A PACK AROUND HIM FALL UPON HIS
EARS AS IF FROM A GREAT DISTANCE.  THEY ARE HOLLOW
SOUNDS WITH NO MEANING.

EACH MAN HOLDS A CORNER OF THE STRETCHER AND DOES
HIS BEST TO KEEP IT LEVEL AS THEY CLAMBER OVER THE
UNEVEN TERRAIN.  HELLFIRE FALLS FROM THE HEAVENS,
SCREAMING DOWN WITH A SOUND THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
TORN FROM THE THROATS OF FALLING ANGELS. THE SWEAT-
ING SOLDIER HOLDING THE CORNER BY HIS LEFT SHOULDER
LEANS OVER AND SPEAKS TO HIM, SHOUTING TO BE HEARD
OVER THE CLAMOR OF THE TORN BATTLEFIELD.  YOU'RE
GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT TRIBUNE,  HE SAYS. HOW CAN A
SHORT GUY LIKE THIS WEIGH SO MUCH? ASKS THE ONE BY
HIS RIGHT BOOT.  IT'S LIKE HE'S MADE OF STONE.  THEY
SHOULD CALL HIM STONEHAWK.
THEY GET HIM BACK TO THE BASE CAMP BY THE TIME THE
HOT SUN HAS REACHED ITS ZENITH.  IT'S THE TRIBUNE,
THE MAN BY HIS LEFT SHOULDER SHOUTS.  HE'S DOWN!
THERE IS A FLURRY OF ACTIVITY. WHEN IT IS OVER, THE
MERCILESS SUN NO LONGER BURNS INTO HIS EYES. HE IS
SHIELDED FROM THAT FIERY ORB BY THE ROOF OF A TENT
OVERHEAD.  THE DOCTORS CUT AWAY HIS ARMOR AND WHAT
REMAINS OF HIS UNIFORM.  THERE IS A PAUSE AND THE
TWO SURGEONS LOOK AT EACH OTHER WITH SOLEMN FACES.
THE MAN HAS SEEN DOCTORS WITH THAT LOOK BEFORE,
BUT NOT OVER THE BODY OF A LIVING MAN.  TRIBUNE, DON'T
TOUCH YOURSELF THERE, ONE OF THEM IS SAYING. I MEAN
IT, IT'S A MESS DOWN THERE.  HE'S OPENED IT UP!  THE
OTHER ONE SHOUTS. HE'S LOSING BLOOD!  ORDERLY!
ORDERLY!  GRAB HIS WRISTS!  GRAB HIS--





     Jake woke with a start.  He was in a strange room. A
young woman was sitting next to him, watching him with wide
eyes.  They were the bluest eyes he had ever seen, like the
summer sky or a crystal spring on a sunny day.  Her hair was
blacker than midnight, above high cheekbones made all the
more prominent by a near brush with starvation.  She looked
like she hadn't had a decent meal in months.

     "I know you," he told her weakly, trying to place her
face.  He was suddenly aware that she was holding his hand.

     "You and your friend helped me escape from Grace the
other night." she told him.

     Jake detected something in her voice, a note that he
was too foggy to decipher.  His eyes slid shut.  The young
woman stroked his cheek tenderly with her free hand.  Jake
cracked open an eye and she pulled back her hand quickly.

     "You were talking in your sleep," she told him. "You
said some strange things. . . ."

     The woman leaned forward as if waiting to catch his
explanation.  Jake did not speak, his mind turning back to
a period he had not thought of for a long time.

     "I'm thirsty," he told her.  She lifted a clay bowl to
his lips.  He drank slowly, despite the raging thirst within
him.  The water tasted strange, tinged with a trace of some
sort of medicine.

     "I had a greatsword," Jake told the girl. He sat up
slightly, his face conveying a sense of urgency.  "It was
in a sheath across my back.  What happened to it?"

     "It's here," she told him gently.  "I wrapped it in a
sheet and put it under your cot."  Jake fell back, weak as
a kitten.

     "Don't let anyone touch it for any reason," he told her.
"It is more dangerous than anything you could imagine."

    "Don't worry," she soothed him, "I'm here.  I'll take
care of everything."

     Jake was too weak to argue about anything.  The warrior
within him cursed his weakness.  He gave the girl's hand a
squeeze.

     "My name is Jake," he told her drowsily.  "Jake Shade."

     "My name is Yvette," she replied. "Yvette Anastel."

     The outlander's eyes were closed.  Yvette wondered if
the warrior had even heard her before fading back into sleep.
She took his hand in both of hers, turning it over.  She
traced the scars that marred that powerful looking hand,
wondering about the stories behind each one.



     In a room on the third floor of a building in the Low
City, a woman sat by the side of a wounded warrior, stroking
the silver lock that streaked his hair.  The fading light of
day shone in one window, falling on the young woman's black
hair, lighting it with a golden corona.  Seeing it, some
people might have said that the light looked like a halo of
fire.






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

The characters in this chapter of Jake Shade (The Outlander)
are copyrights of Jeff A. Simon, 1995.  All rights reserved.
The republication of this or any other Jake Shade story is
strictly prohibited without the express permission of the
author.  Jake Shade will return in Chapter 9 of the Outlander
Chronicles, *FOOL'S GAMBIT*.  Any questions or comments are
welcome and should be sent to > [e-mail]
**********************************************************************

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