From alt.pub.dragons-inn Mon Sep 4 22:44:41 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8682 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!howland.reston.ans.net!agate!newsxfer.itd.umich.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 8 Part 2 (Repost) Date: Sun, 3 Sep 1995 06:01:07 EDT Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester Lines: 510 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.205.215.16 X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B final beta #4] ******************************************************************* 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 outlander's brown hair stood out like a beacon. The outlander had murmured something to her in a strange tongue before he lapsed 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 wheezing laugh, amused at the keeness of his own wit. "Maybe ol' Vandyke 'ere can warm you up a bit, 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 'ere 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 foot- steps had snatched him from sleep and set his blood singing with the anticipation of danger, before Kilborn had traversed 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 had 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 about your future, Splatter," Winder told him in a cheerful voice. "He didn't mean anything by it, Winder." the other Baron protested. 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 are 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 grievance for another day. When the trio had disappeared back into the Fastness along with their bleeding charge, Splatter turned to his gangly companion. "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, if you 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 long, dark 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 starting to get warmed up on his favorite theme, but he stopped dead when Yvette rounded on him with 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 burning in 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 stay 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 recommend 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 recommend not bringing him near any religious artifacts." 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 affection 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 doom. 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 his fate. If you try to come between this man and the bane that is upon him, you may suffer for it. 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 Yvette had not yet realized herself. Inside, he was already grieving for the tragedy that 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 AN ORE SMELTER. 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, WITHOUT MEANING. EACH MAN HOLDS A CORNER OF THE STRETCHER AND DOES HIS BEST TO KEEP IT LEVEL. THEY CLAMBER OVER THE UNEVEN TERRAIN AS 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? THE ONE BY HIS RIGHT BOOT ASKS THE MAN BY HIS SIDE. IT'S LIKE HE'S MADE OF STONE. THEY SHOULD CALL HIM STONEHAWK. THEY SPRINT INTO THE BASE CAMP AS THE HOT SUN CLIMBS TO 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 IS NO LONGER BURNING INTO HIS EYES. HE IS SHIELDED FROM THE FIERY ORB BY THE ROOF OF A TENT OVERHEAD. THE DOCTORS CUT AWAY HIS ARMOR AND WHAT REMAINS OF HIS UNIFORM WITH DESPERATE SPEED. THERE IS A PAUSE, AND THE TWO SURGEONS EXCANGE SOLEMN GLANCES, THEIR FACES INTENTIONALLY STILL. THE MAN HAS SEEN DOCTORS WITH THAT SAME EXPRESSION 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 powerful hand in both of hers, turning it over and tracing the scars that marred it. Wondering about the stories that lay behind each one, she vowed to do her best to see that no more of them would be added. ******************************************************************** 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 > simonj@rh.wl.com ********************************************************************** -- The opinions expressed in this message are mine alone. This message does not necessarily reflect the positions or opinions of my company or organization.