From alt.pub.dragons-inn Wed May 31 07:32:58 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8472 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!noc.netcom.net!simtel!news.kei.com!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!uhog.mit.edu!news.mtholyoke.edu!news.umass.edu!caen!reeve.research.aa.wl.com!WS008013F18C2D!simonj From: simonj@rh.wl.com (Jeff Simon) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Jake Shade] Chapter 5: Fortune's Hand Date: Wed, 31 May 1995 04:47:45 EDT Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester Lines: 624 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.205.215.16 Summary: In which the plot starts to come together . . . X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B final beta #4] *************************************************** A mysterious outlander calling himself Jake Shade has come to Generica, bringing with him an even more mysterious unholy artifact. He has befriended a graduate student at the Academy, a young mage by the name of Tadmaster. A young female thief - who's connection with these two remains unclear - has accidentally come into possession of a talisman which is desired by some very nasty people. *************************************************** Chapter 5: Fortune's Hand Business was slow that day. Rather than enjoying the relaxed pace, the wizened old seer known as Futuria Crystalshard had been feeling something akin dread all day. It was a sensation like storm clouds looming on the horizon, invisible but threatening all the same. Futuria knew what that sensation signified. A warning of great importance would be coming to someone through him before the night was over. He was consider- ing whether or not to close up early in an attempt to avoid that fate when the bell over his door tinkled. Futuria looked up to see a young woman of perhaps twenty push her way into the shop. The woman had hair of the darkest black and eyes of the brightest blue. Her body, although undernourished, held the potential to one day drive men wild with desire. Futuria had lived long enough to know much about this young woman even without being a seer. Just looking at her was enough to learn her story. . . if you had the eyes to see. It was not a happy story. Nor was it an uncommon one. "What can I do for you, Yvette Anastel?" he asked the young woman. Yvette brushed her raven-black hair back from her forehead. "How did you know my name?" she asked somewhat fearfully. "If you came here believing that I can read the future for you, my knowledge of your name should seem a thing of comparatively little wonder." "That makes sense," Yvette conceded. "Can you read my future, Mister Crystalshard?" "Most assuredly, child. The question is, do you want me to do it?" "I wouldn't have come here if I didn't." Yvette pointed out with a smile. "That is true, child. Perhaps I should have asked if you will still feel the same way when I am done?" "I'm not afraid of what the future holds," Yvette said quietly. "It can't be any worse than the past." "That is something only someone very young would say." Futuria waited to see if his warning would discourage this young woman. It did not. He had not expected it to. "Very well then. Please take a seat." he said indicating a small table with two chairs. The table was covered by a cloth as black as night. The seer placed an ornate cask of dark wood on the table, removing a small velvet bundle from inside. Yvette leaned forward to see what he was doing. Futuria was amused by the young woman's curiosity. He opened up the velvet cloth to reveal a large deck of Tarot cards. The seer passed them over to Yvette. "Hold on to these cards for a moment. They must be attuned to your aura before I can use them to scry the future for you. And you must cross my palm with silver before I can begin. It is tradition." Yvette passed over a coin of silver without protest. She had known about that part. "How long will it take for the cards to attune to my aura?" she asked, unable to restrain her curiosity. "It is already done," Futuria replied, taking the cards back. He began to spread them in the traditional pattern, the way he had so many times before. When he finished, he put the remaining cards to the side, and began turning over the ones he had placed. Yvette inhaled sharply. "They're beautiful." Futuria glanced again at the young woman across from him. The cards were indeed beautiful. Few people had the eyes to see that. The seer wondered if there was something to this girl that he had not yet seen. "First we start with your past." Futuria told her, looking at the cards. "I know my past," Yvette protested, "I don't need to be reminded of it. I need to know what to do -" "Hush, child," Futuria cut her off. "These things must be done a certain way." Futuria already knew more about Yvette's past than the young woman could possibly guess. It was futile for her to try to conceal anything from a seer. The first card was the Knight of Swords, reversed. Futuria raised his eyebrow. "This is behind you. A man of violence and discord. He marks the end of innocence." Futuria flipped another card. "Although this man is in your past, he still reaches forward to affect your present. . . ." ******************************* The woman's scream seemed to hang in the air forever. Disgusted, Falchion continued to watch the sky as Grace finished up. The Watch Lieutenant emerged from the shadows, buckling his breeches as he walked. The tall swordsman ignored the low moans and sobs that continued behind him. Although he was a hard man, Falchion could not be so selective in his own hearing. "If you ever treat one of my girls like that, you won't live to regret it," he informed the Lieutenant grimly. "Why Falchion, old pal. That sounded remarkably like a threat." Grace had a twisted smile on his face as he spoke. He stepped close to Falchion, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as he crowded the straw-haired crime lord. The Lieutenant still hadn't learned that the Radj^o Man himself couldn't intimidate Falchion. Falchion locked his pale blue eyes on Grace's steely gray ones. He stepped in closer himself, until less than a foot of space remained between the two of them. "You can take it anyway you'd like, 'old pal'. You can even take it as a joke. Just don't forget what I said." "Don't worry Falchion. I won't forget." Grace promised. He turned and exited the alley. A snarl distorted Falchion's face before he regained control of himself. He followed the Lieutenant out of the alley, adjusting his stride to match the taller man's pace. "If you're finished putting business before pleasure, there is a message that I want you to take to Malfaedor." "It's about time," Grace told him. "The old wizard is starting to think that you're avoiding him." Falchion was silent for a moment. "Tell Malfaedor that the talisman is still in the possession of the pair that stole it. Tell him that we've narrowed their probable location to within a few square blocks. We should have it back by tomorrow night, possibly the next." "I wouldn't take too long, Falchion," Grace warned. "Malfaedor's beginning to lose patience. I daresay he's even entertained the possibility that you might have sold him out." Grace smiled. It was obvious to Falchion which scenario the Lieutenant was promoting with Malfaedor. "I never break a contract," Falchion pointed out coldly. "So you say. I've assured Malfaedor that you don't have the guts to sell him out. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't always listen to me. I have the feeling he's about to turn this matter over to his own agents." The tall Lieutenant grinned as Falchion blanched. It wasn't often that Grace managed to get under the Crime Lord's skin. "Tell him I need two more days." Falchion repeated as they emerged onto one of the main streets. Grace smoothed his long black hair into place, then checked his uniform for blood. Satisfied that his appear- ance was immaculate, he responded. "I'll tell him what you said, Falchion. I hope for your sake he believes it." Grace adjusted the fold of his cloak, then turned to look his companion in the eye. "On another note. . . one hears a lot of things back at the Command Post. Just last night I heard something that might interest you, Falchion." "And what was that?" Falchion asked reluctantly. "I heard that your old pal Jacobius Bunggarelli tried to strong-arm an outlander the other day. The WRONG outlander. Whatever that outlander did to Bungg, it scared him so badly that his mind snapped. I hear he's over at Saint Cuthbert's, laid out like a vegetable in the charity ward." Grace paused to savor the effect his words were having. "You'd best be careful, Falchion. If word gets out that you can't keep your best friend protected, people might start to think you've gotten soft. And we all know what happens to soft Bosses." Grace smiled at his companion, then stepped out onto the street. He strolled in the direction of the Seawall, continuing his tour of the Watchposts. Falchion's pale blue eyes followed him for a long time. There was ice in them. **************************** Yvette sat back in her chair. She gnawed at her lip, hugging herself protectively. Her blue eyes had gone dark and unreadable. Futuria sighed. He had known that this was going to be a grim reading. "This card covers you now." he said, flipping over another card. "It represents your present." He frowned at the card momentarily. The card depicted the image of a youthful man with an arm full of flowers. He was gazing dreamily up at the sky while before him an abyss yawned, waiting to swallow him up. It was the Tarot commonly known as the Fool. "I see another man. This one is young, or immature. He is prone to make rash decisions that could bring great sadness to you." Futuria turned over another card, laying it over the Fool. "You must influence his decisions or his decisions will influence you. . . ." ****************************** "I don't see why you gotta do this now." Kilborn com- plained as he finished wrapping Winder's wrists. The wiry teenager he spoke to made no reply, his mind occupied with what was to come. Kilborn sighed, and tied off the strips of leather carefully. "The 'crawler's a big one this time, Winder. Thunder didn't go easy on you, that s for sure." Winder turned his head and spat. "I don't want that Cha- head to do me any favors anyways." Kilborn lightly smacked the smaller teenager on the side of his head, "Watch what you say Winder. If you're going to be a Baron, you don't criticize the Leader." Winder glare at his older friend, eyes blazing hot. Kilborn met Winder's glare evenly, not dropping his eyes. After a moment, Winder nodded in acknowledgement. The wiry teenager hopped off the table, inspecting his wrappings. "You did a good job Kilborn. How much longer until I'm on?" Kilborn squeezed his pal's shoulder. "Not long. Thunder wants to make a speech first." Thunder's fortress was an apartment complex that took up half a city block in the worst section of the Low City. All the doors leading to the streets had been sealed off, save for one. The courtyard in the interior of the complex had been converted to an informal arena. Here prisoners of war were brought to be executed. New recruits wishing to join the Barons were brought here to prove them- selves. The interior of the courtyard was lit tonight by a number of torches. Bathed in the flickering light, scores of feral young men had gathered to hear their leader speak. They leaned out of second story windows and lounged on balconies that overlooked the courtyard. They waited with a barely concealed excitement. Standing on a massive plat- form at one end of the courtyard, Thunder looked down upon his kingdom, and saw that it was good. Thunder was a young man, barely out of his teens. He liked to go shirtless, baring his blockily massive physique to all eyes. That physique was criss-crossed with a multitude of white scars, souvenirs of the many knife-fights he had survived in order to become leader here. He paced the wooden platform like a caged leopard. Below him, nearly one hundred teenagers and young men waited for him to speak. They were young men like Thunder. Angry young men without homes, jobs, or prospects. Men without fear. The members of his gang were united by one thing. Hatred. Hatred for the rich, hatred for authority, hatred of life. Their hatred banded them together, made them strong. Made them an army. Thunder's army, the Threadpenney Barons. "Brothers!" Thunder' voice carried across the courtyard effortlessly, heard by every ear. "We are gathered here today to watch the testing of one of our newest recruits. He is young and untried. Society has no use for him. The city of Generica has no use for him. Life has no use for him." Thunder paused, looking out at his brothers with passionate eyes. He spread his hands wide above their upturned faces in a silent benediction. "The Threadpenney Barons have a use for him. No one else has given him a chance, but tonight WE will! A chance to prove that he belongs. A chance to prove that he has what it takes to become one of us. One of our family." Thunder paused once more, pacing from one side of the platform to the other, looking at this assemble army. Thunder knew how to put on a show. He was pumping them up, reinforcing a sense of esprit de corps that would bind them to each other; bind them to him. "You all know that not everyone can become a Baron; a Lord of the Streets. We have no place for the weak here. Those who are weak weaken US. They weaken our legs, they dim our eyes, they slow our sword arms." "That is why no one may stand among us until they have passed the test. For how can we stand against those who wish us ill, if our brothers cannot stand tall at our sides? Those who wish to stand with us must earn that right!" Thunder stopped his pacing and stood, surveying his army. They looked back at him with shining eyes, adoring him. Thunder breathed in the tension . . . and loved it. They were ready. "Bring out the worm!" Thunder commanded. Below him, three of the Barons heaved a disheveled teenager out a doorway and into the courtyard. It was a member of the Night- crawlers, a rival gang. The young man got to his feet with bared teeth and wild eyes. At the other end of the courtyard, a door opened slowly. "Let him stand forth; he who would be one of us!" Thunder roared. In the shadows behind the door, Kilborn turned to Winder. "You're on, pal." ***************************** Yvette was puzzled, confused by the reading. She leaned forward, knowing that the future would come next. The old seer observed her sorrowfully. His patrons never knew how to separate what was important from what was unimportant. He reached for the next card. His hand froze as it came in contact with the Tarot. Futuria struggled to keep his face expressionless. The card was cold to the touch. Ice cold. Something unearthly was afoot. He turned the card over. It was the Hanged Man. "This just keeps getting better," Yvette observed darkly. "You are mistaken child. This card is not a bad card, as such." Futuria spoke to Yvette gently, trying to focus her attention on what was being revealed. "I see a third man, one that you have not yet met. He is represented by the Hanged Man. This card represents wisdom, often learned at a great cost." Futuria did not mention that this was the critical part of the reading. For some reason he was reluctant to go any further. "Tell me more about this man," Yvette demanded, as Futuria had feared she would. "Very well. It requires that I deal five more cards. . . ." ************************** Tad awoke to a host of new sensations. There was a pounding in his head, a throbbing in his jaw, and a roiling in his stomach. The world was spinning past his eyes at a steady pace. No, not spinning. It was sliding sideways. Tad turned his head and saw that he was hanging over the shoulder of his new friend, the outlander who called himself Jake Shade. Jake was walking briskly over one of the many bridges which spanned the Ceruputhon. Presumably he was taking Tad back to the academy. "Please put me down," Tad requested. Jake stopped walking and turned to look at his passenger. "Hello there, Tad. You feel up to walking already?" "No it's not that. I think that I am going to be sick." The haste with which Jake set him on his feet did nothing to settle Tad's stomach. Jake grabbed him by the collar and marched him briskly over to the side of the bridge, bending the young mage over the railing. He did it at the precise instant that Tad lost his struggle against the irresistible tide surging against his lower esophagus. "I remember my first beer, too." Jake told him when it was over. "That wasn't my first beer." Tad told him miserably. "Looked like your first ten beers to me." Jake told him. His smile was the smarmy grin only a sober man in the company of a man truly hung over can possess. Tad silently swore to kill the outlander at some future date. "How come my jaw hurts so badly?" he whimpered, watching the river carry away his hurled offering. "That's the 'medal of merit' you were awarded for defend- ing a barmaid's honor," Jake told him. "Lyssa," Tad remembered with a goofy grin. Jake shook his head in disgust. "Well, let's get you back to the Academy, Master Tad." "That's Tadmaster," the young mage said absently, still reminiscing about the copper-haired serving wench. His reverie was cut short by the sound of a woman's scream. Tad and Jake both whirled to see a young woman being accosted by a tall man about one hundred paces away. Jake cracked his knuckles thoughtfully as he started up the street. "It never ends in this town," Shade bitched to himself. ************************** Futuria carefully dealt the first two cards of five into the prescribed pattern. As he was about to place the third, two cards slipped from the deck and fell to the table. Yvette stretched out her hand to retrieve them. "Don't touch them!" Futuria snapped. He indicated the cards, one of which covered the Fool. The other fallen card covered the Knight of Swords. "The cards that are dealt must remain, no matter how they come into play." he explained. "Otherwise the meaning of the hand will be obscured." Futuria turned over the first card that he had placed. "This is what covers the Hanged Man." he told her. The card showed a man in robes, before a table upon which were a cup, a sword, a staff and a pentacle. The man's belt appeared to be a serpent; the head biting the tail where the buckle should have been. It was the Tarot known as the Magician. "This card indicates that the man you will meet is a man of skill and decisiveness. He is easily able to translate ideas into action." Futuria leaned back and regarded the Tarot cards warily. "What's wrong?" Yvette asked him, trying to hide her concern. "It is unusual for a fortune to have so many of the major Arcana cards involved in it." Futuria told her, his mind miles away. "It could be that events of great importance are about to pass. Apparently they may touch upon you." Yvette sat back, her emotions in turmoil. The reading was far what she had hoped. It had revealed little, at the same time hinting at much. She was already sorry that she had come. Futuria flipped over another card, reciting the words "This is behind him," as he did so. The card showed a great tower with a turbulent sea behind it. Lightning flashed in the sky overhead, and flames billowed from the structure. "The Tower," Futuria breathed. "Another of the major Tarots. This tells us that the man comes from a place of destruction and chaos." Futuria did not tell the girl that all the cards since the Hanged Man had been cold to the touch. She would not have understood the significance. He flipped the third card. "This is what he brings with him. The Page of Pentacles. A young person, serious and scholarly, with a respect for new ideas." Futuria frowned, unable to see how the cards fit together. "What about the two cards that fell?" Yvette asked. Futuria flipped over the card touching the Fool. It showed an armored skeleton marching beneath a black banner. The device upon the banner was a black poppy with blood red leaves. On the horizon behind the figure, the sun was setting behind a sinister looking castle. "The Death card!" Yvette gasped. "Yes. One of these two figures will bring death to the other. Whether the Fool brings it to the Hanged Man or the reverse, I cannot say." "I've seen enough." Yvette told Futuria abruptly. "This serves no purpose. I can't imagine what I was thinking, coming here." She stood and gathered her cloak about her, preparing to leave. "Once begun, the reading cannot be stopped midway." Futuria protested. Yvette misunderstood him. "Keep the silver." she told him, and hustled out the door. Futuria listened to the tinkling of the bell as she left. He stared at the remaining card for a long time. He put the tips of his fingers to it; it was ice cold as he had known it would be. Sighing, he flipped the last card over. The seer bolted to his feet in astonishment. "This is not possible!" -- The opinions expressed in this message are mine alone. This message does not necessarily reflect the positions or opinions of my company or organization.