Rising Storm, page 21
Keenan walked first, as usual, then they stopped short as three women emerged from behind the tall trees.
Immediately Keenan drew her throwing daggers, letting the metal staff clank onto the ground. You've unsheathed her sword, also discarding the staff, the panther moved to flank them and John, to his mild surprise, found that he had loaded his sling. His association with his current companions appeared to have rubbed off on him.
The three women squealed girlishly in fright, but nervously stood their ground. They were extremely beautiful – if you discounted skin that looked the same color as tree-bark, green hair for one, yellow on another, and blue on the last, scanty clothes…wait, scanty clothes on beautiful women counted as a plus in John's idea of the world.
"Nymphs," Keenan said flatly. "Are you going to attack us? After that thought, you lot are going to be woefully pathetic, so I suggest you stand aside."
"You are not with him?" the first asked.
Quickly, the second followed. "The master?"
The last chimed in immediately. "The monster?"
"I wish," You've hefted her sword and narrowed her eyes, "So that I can put this through his belly, then cut his throat in such a way that he'd die slowly."
"Ah! You are escaping."
"From this dungeon."
"From this hell."
This method of speech, one after another in what looked like a practiced sequence, was beginning to annoy John. "Yeah. Know the key for the portal?" he asked brusquely.
"The portal!"
"The key!"
"Oh yes."
"But you must help us."
"Bring our acorns to our queen."
"Help us."
"Acorns? Queen?" Keenan asked blankly, managing to get a word in seaways.
"The Queen is in the Nymph Forest southeast of Tradesmen."
"The acorns are with the gray dwarves."
"Not on this level of the dungeon."
"Gray dwarves…drudger," You've looked thoughtful. "Rumored to be a hard fight."
"Help us and we will help you."
"We'd tell you where the key is."
"We promise."
"All right, all right," John raised his hands after tucking the sling back into his pockets. "Fine. Where's this key, then?"
"Down this road."
"There is a room."
"Her room."
"There's traps."
"And an alarm."
"Some of the mad creatures ran into it."
"Solemn came."
"Still there."
"Killed them."
"They didn't want to help us."
"Didn't tell about the room."
"They went anyway."
"He kept us here."
"For pleasure."
"Then he lost the ability to feel."
"So cold."
"Remember the acorns!"
"From our trees."
"If you get them out we can be free."
"Okay!" Keenan broke in. "I wonder how they got past the thought…oh, never mind."
"Didn't you find it odd we only saw a few of them after the sewers and the library?" You've asked, reaching down to pick up the staves and hand Keenan hers.
"Humph. The smell of this place – blood and death - must have disguised them, then, if they were using invisibility spells." Keenan looked disgusted at herself as they left the nymphs.
The room was just a circular space with walls surrounding it in the shape of a C, so that there was one obvious opening. There was a large bed, as elegantly decorated as the rest of the beautiful, feminine room. All the furniture was chased with silver and wrought from pale wood, delicately made, even the chest at the foot of the bed and the bookshelves. The corpses of two prisoners and the two solemn, standing immobile in the middle of the room, ruined the effect.
"You might as well use the sling," Keenan suggested, as she held the metal staff.
The first shot cracked the head of one of the unmoving solemn, then the second, the other. Not much damage seemed to have been done…until finally, after a few more, the first abruptly toppled over with a loud crash, falling into the second one, which smashed into the wall and knocked out a portion. The red light in their eyes faded away.
"Hem. Apparently the thing can only take so much damage." Keenan walked over to the solemn and took a look. She prodded the head of one with her staff. It fell off. "Clay."
"Odd that they didn't attack…but perhaps they were only designed to attack those that set off the alarm that the nymphs mentioned." You've glanced at the door. "I suggest we enter via the new opening, in case there's more of these solemn."
The room, like the one they had visited earlier, was viciously and (according to Keenan) ingeniously trapped, contained more scrolls that were useless, potions, and what could theoretically be the key, but since there were no other key-shaped items, or even items with helpful labels like "Key", or "Portal Key", or "This is the key, you idiot!" on them, they settled with it.
They hurried past the nymphs before they could start their Synchronized Speeches, and back to the portal room. The key worked admirably, and they passed through the blue haze.
A drown, a tippling, a human
To his considerable surprise, John emerged from the portal without the normal amusing portal-related reactions: i.e. a sudden and exceedingly natural urge to throw up everything inside him, starting from his esophagi. It was such that he touched his throat, wondering if anything was wrong, or if he was suffering from Delayed portal reaction Syndrome…
"Remarkably well made," You've commented, inspecting the frame. "I didn't feel any effect at all."
"Someone's here," Keenan warned sharply, dropping the staff and drawing daggers. Her amber eyes scanned the room warily, then stopped at a pile of crates. The panther snarled and edged forward, muscles rippling underneath velvet fur.
"Maybe if I cause the crates to explode he'd come out," You've suggested, winking at John, who found himself wondering if she was joking.
He grinned at her, deciding to play along. "Or maybe a nice, big berserk demon."
"All right, all right…" A small man emerged from behind the crates, holding up his hands in surrender. He had an accent that John would have readily identified as Asian, hence confirming his suspicion that this world was quite possibly some sort of alternate dimension or parallel world, the things that creators like to make when out of inspiration. They might even go something like 'Hey, I can't think of an idea for a unique new galaxy since I used up that one about making every organism subsist on baked beans, so I think I'd create an alternate universe! Or maybe a parallel dimension! What fun.'
He was shorter than John, with a decidedly oriental cast to his features that John would have assumed to be either Chinese or Japanese, as he was not particularly good at telling the races apart. Black hair had been combed tightly back to a thick ponytail. What looked like black hairy caterpillars (John wasn't in a very charitable mood) traced over the man's slanted, keen eyes, under the scarred nose and down to frame the mouth that twitched nervously, and in the form of sideburns behind high cheeks. He wore plain light leather armor complete with a cloak and hood of a subdued deep blue under a knapsack, and held a plain but evidently well maintained stank.
He started off by bowing deeply. "I think I better introduce myself, yes? I am Hashish, a thief from Kara-Turf. Are you with Irenics?"
"Irenics?" Keenan narrowed her eyes into burning slits. "You mean the bastard who owns this unimaginative dungeon?"
"Ah, you are not with him! Then we may come to an…understanding. If you would like me to, I can come with you and we can escape."
"What makes you think we need you?" John pretended to look him up and down.
"Nothing," the man said honestly, "But perhaps the bigger your group is, the easier it is to fight our way out, yes? There are shadow thieves and many monsters out there. In the next room," he gestured towards the only door; "there are many little chattering monsters that try to kill me. They seem to be generated by the monsters in four cages in it. Then there are shadow thieves – that one there nearly disemboweled me." He pointed to a bloody heap in a corner. "It was lucky he had healing potion."
"Can we trust you?" You've smiled.
"Can I trust you?" Hashish bantered. "I see a drown, a tippling, a human who wears clothes that I have never seen before, even though I have traveled more than most, and also a big panther. Odd enough, but you are the first few who haven't attacked on sight, so I'm taking that as a good sign."
"Well, we could be stringing you along to fatten you up, then we'd eat you under the moon." The edges of Waiver's eyes crinkled as she grinned. "Or maybe not."
"I'm willing to take my chances on the 'maybe not'," Hashish sheathed his stank. "Well then, what's it to be?"
"I don't see why not," Keenan put away her daggers, but looked to the rest of the group.
"He has a sense of humor." You've nodded.
"Like that would be much of a comfort if he backstab you, Luvs," John pointed out with a glance at Keenan. "But I don't mind."
"Right." Keenan shrugged. The panther yawned, and Hashish stared at it.
"How did you manage to tame a black panther?" he asked.
"It's not a real panther," John explained, "It's a dream."
"Looks very solid to me." Hashish walked up to it and squatted down, such that his face was level with the panther's. It purred appreciatively. Tentatively he patted it, then scratched its neck when the cat showed now indication of wishing to bite off his hand. "Very solid."
"Dreams aren't necessarily non-solid, Hashish," John noticed Keenan and You've staring at him. "What? Did I grow donkey ears again?"
"At this time I normally pull the joke about donkeys and asses, sparrow, but I'm more curious as to what you just said. A dream?" You've nodded to the cat.
"It's going to take some explaining, Luvs. Though there aren't any giant carnivorous plants, solemn, goblins and moppets here, so it could be as good a place as…"
"No." Keenan said firmly.
"No?" You've pouted.
"No. We introduce ourselves," Keenan inclined her head to Hashish, who had straightened up. "My name is Keenan Doddered."
"The Blackjack of the Ballard's Gate thieves? I am very honored to make your acquaintance, Keenan-San." Hashish bowed again, from the waist. John couldn't find any trace of dissembling in his words – he really was honored. He attributed it to this world – in his, no one would have openly proclaimed himself a thief in all seriousness, except possibly on pain of pain.
"I am You've Caracal," Waiver's tail twitched in amusement at the near-ritualistic introduction. "A bard."
"I have heard of you," Hashish bowed. John wondered if the thief ever got dizzy, or maybe severe intestinal distress.
"And I am called John Constantine," John rubbed his nose. "They call me an out-world. It's better than most other titles that I've been given."
"We all have many names," Hashish said. "Now, the next room…we have to kill the chattering things inside the cages, but some of us have to fight those already in the room. They can cast horrible spells."
"What sort of spells?" You've looked interested.
"I have faced wizards before," Hashish pulled at his ponytail thoughtfully. "I recognized two spells – magic missile and the color spray. One more caused small clouds of choking orange smoke to appear, one of them could blur their form, and a last caused lightning."
"Not too bad," You've looked relieved.
"How many cages?" John asked.
"Five." Hashish said promptly. "More than us, but they die easily, if you do not get outnumbered." The cat rumbled. "Oh very well – there are five of us, but I doubt the cat can reach one through the grate." He paused. "What is the panther's name?"
"Guggenheim, and I don't think I pronounced that correctly," John crossed over and patted the cat affectionately. "Gun for short, but usually I just call it Cat."
"Ah. Very descriptive." Hashish grinned.
"Well, 'Guggenheim' sounds as though it may be an Irish pounce…but I see no one understands. Never mind."
"Do you have any idea what this Irenics brought us down to do?" Keenan remembered herself. "And how did you find out what his name was?"
"I heard some of the Shadow Thieves mention it while I was running away from their voices," Hashish didn't appear to be self-conscious about this admission at all. "And no, I do not know why. Perhaps because we are all obviously different."
"That's true," You've looked him up and down. "You're the first person from Kara-Turf that I've met so far."
"It is very far from Fearer," Hashish agreed, and his eyes seemed to flicker with some emotion. "Come then. We tarry here while we could be escaping!" He grinned toothily.
**
The fight was predictable and short, though Keenan and You've both suffered a few bites and John singed his trenchant, to his annoyance. When they cleared the moppets they regrouped at the centre of the room.
It was long and cluttered with bookshelves (again, stupidity – the moppets could have damaged the pages), crates with helpful things like shot and bows and arrows for You've and Hashish, and more useless scrolls. Baubles were pocketed, even an odd-looking rod that You've couldn't recognize, and some things given to Hashish – since he did have a knapsack that he said he took from the Shadow Thief he had killed. Five domed cages lined the right wall, currently containing corpses of moppets. You've proclaimed no knowledge of the exact magic which caused the moppets to spawn, except that it had something to do with cloning. John decided not to crack the joke about sheep. They probably wouldn't understand.
Nothing more in the room, so they proceeded to the next one – another gloomy chamber that stank of blood and death. There were chains on the wall and what looked like polished surgical equipment on a table, next to a metal waist-high table on which there was a corpse of a human male, garbed in some sort of cloak wound around his waist, with a barely visible symbol of a black talon, but nothing else. The cause of death wasn't apparent – there were so many brutal wounds. With a shudder, John noticed whip lashes and marks of what looked like chains, as well as blisters from burns. Knives had featured predominantly in this poor sod's demise – neatly in a row next to his head. They looked like solid silver.
The others looked on with sickened but slightly detached expressions of those who pitied the corpse but due to their not knowing him personally, had some sort of mental barrier. With the exception of Keenan, who rushed over to the table and turned the face up to the light of the torches, then let out a wolf-like howl of anguish. "No!"
"Shiite." John muttered under his breath. More complications already… but Keenan did not hear him. Sobs racked her deceptively slender frame as she pushed herself away from the metal table.
"No…not Name…" she whispered. "Not him."
"Keenan?" You've spoke tentatively, after a long silence punctuated with Séance's broken sobs, more startling in the fact that the odd group had come to see her as a strong one, determined, iron-willed. Seeing her cry was as shocking as watching a fluffy rabbit suddenly turn rabid and start leaping for people's throats.
She looked up, and grief was replaced with fury, ice cold and relentless, points of diamond amber. John wasn't sure which was worse. "Irenics will pay. He will. If I have to track him for the rest of my life." These words would have sounded stereotypical, even funny, to John if he were reading them or watching them being said in a movie in the comfort of his world, but here, ringing from the dull stone walls from air that smelled of death, with death so obvious in front of them, he shuddered.
It wasn't that he had never heard this sort of words before. Quite a few times they had even been voiced against him, by creatures/people with not inconsiderable power, but the burning, feral gleam in Séance's amber eyes, the way her hands curled unconsciously into claws, and especially the way his brain kept suggesting that she was actually a huge wolf standing on two legs, seemed extremely eerie. Or maybe he had hit his head too many times.
**
If Séance's skills were good before, they were superb now – she fought like a whirlwind of rage, somehow managing to juggle daggers and the staff without detriment to her skill. The Shadow Thieves that tried to block their way – apparently thinking they were of some rival guild, or just simply out of fear after one look at Keenan – were cut down as if they had been standing still and unarmed. Apparently 'drown' weren't exactly the most popular of races, but given their normal reaction to people (if Zaniness was anything to base them by), that was quite predictable. Hashish unquestioningly kept up just behind her discreetly to step out occasionally and disarm traps – in her blind fury, Keenan couldn't seem to care about traps. That raised the thief in John's eyes, at least – for the moment. People with strong ideals of honor often just got in the way, most of the time – and he found it mildly amusing that this honor seemed to coexist quite peacefully with Hashish's thieving nature.
Eventually they reached a huge room with a vast carpet. There were odd designs on the carpet – John noticed stylized patterns of fire, lightning, a cloud, a monster…before his eyes decided to go on strike and look away at the ruined pillars at neat intervals on the left wall. There looked like openings to corridors on the right walls.
At this moment one of the mad creatures they had freed rushed up from behind them – somehow it had gotten through the portal and followed – ran past onto the carpet. As it stepped on the pattern of fire, a gout of flame roared out from the pillar, and the person shrieked, a human-shaped torch now as it staggered and fell convulsing on the next pattern of the cloud. Gas spewed from the pillar nearest to the pattern, spreading quickly, but not reaching them, and further down the room came coughing and wheezing and the movement of feat. Then a scream and a bright crackle of lightning which blinded John for a few seconds.
"Wow. Chain reaction." He commented when all the screaming stopped.
"At least you know your plan worked, sparrow," You've leaned against the wall, watching Keenan, who seemed to be calming down. She was shivering, though it wasn't cold, and running fingers roughly through white hair.
