From: reaux@csgrad.cs.vt.edu (Ray A Reaux) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [FACELESS MAN] The Giggling Medusa 1 Date: 19 Nov 1993 05:49:52 GMT Message-ID: <2chmq0$c24@server.cs.vt.edu> [Let's try this post again, It seems I have to split my posts upi ] [since it may be too long for one article. Comments guys and gals ] [Constructive criticisms, destructive criticisms. ] [Copywrited by me, Ray A. Reaux, just in case. ] Chapter Two: The Giggling Medusa The neighborhood in which the Giggling Medusa Inn stood had definitely changed for the worst. This deep into the city, the streets were cobble-stoned, but garbage still littered the streets. When I had last been here, the streets had been swept clean each morning by Edmin and his sons, the street sweepers hired by the prosperous local merchants. Most of the city's tradesmen had lived and worked here, and the city's elite had shopped in the many shops and ate and drank in the taverns that filled the five blocks collec- tively called Sandler's Way District. City guards had regularly pa- trolled the area, and although the Knifer's District was only seven blocks away, the thieves and cutthroats rarely ventured from their normal hunting grounds into the well-patrolled Sandler's Way. Lan- tern bearers had plied the streets, earning a good living escorting revelers to and from the area well into the mornings. Like the buildings around it, the external face of the Gig- gling Medusa was run down and sadly in need of new paint. The shingle of the medusa with the luscious body and a nymphic smile that hung above the entrance was badly paint chipped, with nicks cut into the hardwood itself. The shingle had been Hearn's pride and joy. He had won it in a dice game when he had first came to Cordero, just after his retirement from the Border Legion. Actually, he had won the services of an artist who had painted much better than he had thrown the dice. Inside, the inn was not much different than what I remem- bered, and the well-scrubbed inn still reflected its owners' pride. Here and there simple reminders boasted of a woman's touch: mountain flowers growing in flower planters under the windows, a once-sable curtain, now faded from numerous washings, hung over the door to the hallway that led to the sleeping rooms, and strung beads of brightly painted wood which swung over the kitchen door, invoking the good will of the Feasting Goddess. However, the simple benches and tables were more worn, stained, and chipped, and the dozen faces sitting around the tables were definitely of different caliber than I remembered, for the Giggling Medusa had once been a favorite of artists, university scholars, Legion officers, higher-caliber mercenaries, and sometimes the rich sons of the city's elite. Among the simple tradesmen who were the tavern's present patrons, was only one customer who looked like he would have fit among the old patrons. A lean young man wearing the painted leather vest of an Anamorian warrior sat warming himself near the fire pit. He had the deep-mahogany haired, compact look common to his people, and the sheathed sword which leaned against the wall within easy reach had the distinctive curve of an Anamorian war blade. A loose confederation of city states south of the Empire, Anamoria was known for its steel, and the men who wielded them. As I sat down at the familiar table, a young serving woman came from the kitchen. With one hand she carried four mugs to a table, with the other, she slapped aside a good-natured grasping hand from one of the patrons at a table she passed. She said some- thing to the culprit, and he turned bright red, sending his friends into fits of laughter. Finally, she made her way to my table so that I could order some food and water. When she came back with my order of mutton strew and water a few minutes later, I studied her face. She had Hearn's eyes. Since Hearn, the proprietor of the tavern, and my friend, had only a son when I had left. The girl must have been born later. "How is your father and the goodlady Elriana?" I asked her as I placed a silver coin on the table. She gave me a perplexed look. "My father has been dead for seven years, and my mother died last year from the wasting cough. I've never seen you here before. Did you know my parents well?" Again I buried my dead. Hearn had been a good friend, with a roaring laughter that could chase even my dour spirit to flight. His wife, butterfly small beside him, had balanced his exuberance with the calm of a summer wind. She had been his strength, and at times, mine. They had been good friends, and I had loved them dearly. Their daughter stood patiently, obviously curious but unsure whether to intrude into my thoughts. "Your father and I use to drink together," I answered. "But that was long ago." I realized my mistake as I saw her skeptical look. A quarter century had passed since I had last seen Hearn, and I looked far too young to have been his friend. That was a gift from the Exiled that I had long since cursed. Although I looked like a man in his late twenties, I was over two hundred years old. I did not age, and although I could be hurt, my body healed itself from wounds that would kill or maim a normal man. I had once lost a hand, only to see it grow back a week later. I had even survived a blade through the heart. Suddenly, I was weary and again felt the weight of my years. Physically, I had the body of a young man, but I had watched too many friends age and die. As always, I was a man alone. The Anamorian called from the hearth and held up his tankard, freeing me from the obvious question that was in the girl's eyes. He looked at me with a half-voiced challenge which I ignored. The girl nodded to me and hurried to serve the warrior, leaving me to my thoughts. However, I did not have the luxury of self-pity, for the fight at the gate was disturbing. The guard I had killed was a greyspawn, one of the creatures alien to our world that I had thought were vanquished years ago. Two centuries ago, I had stood with other warriors on the Battlement Highways and watched the opening of the Chaos gate. I had fought in the defense of this world against the greyspawn invaders, and with the help of the cyclops and the great dragons, as well as all the other intelligent creatures this world could muster, we had driven back the invading horde and sealed the gate. But many of the greyspawn had slipped through our defenses to become a violent plague in the world. Most of the creatures had sought the highest crags and the deepest tombs of the earth, the remotest jungles and the driest deserts to lick their wounds, gather strength, and stage their raids on the outposts of men. They were the least dangerous. Some few, like the shape shifter I had killed, had submerged themselves in the cities. At first, they had been easy to root out and destroy, for although they absorbed the thoughts and appearance of men, they could not hide their alien nature. Too often, they left bodies that eventually drew hunters to their trails. Though the cost in human lives and those of our nonhuman allies had been great, we had hunted and destroyed their kind, until even the rumors of their existence were no more. I had believed that we had destroyed them all, but obviously, I had been wrong. Why had the greyspawn sought to kill me? I had not fought a greyspawn in over a century. True, I had killed enough of its kin, but that had been long ago. It made no sense. Why now had it revealed itself to kill me, and how had it recognized me? I suspected the hand of the Faceless Man in this, and somehow, the Exiled were involved.