Where are they? Where are my legs?
By what right do you address me in this manner?
Water, a dram. Just a dram. Water.
So cried out the beasts at the edge of the ruin, in the voices of the many dead they had eaten. A year or two ago a mid-level mage cast Continual Light on the obelisk at the center, creating an oasis that held the night creatures at bay. They lurked just beyond the reach of the light in a gibbering mass, a carpet of monstrosities so thick that every night they formed a seething wall the height of two standing men, climbing over one another and falling forward into the circle to be burned and scrambling back, swimming beneath the surface of the sand ineffectually as the blazing pharos scoured their bones clean.
After a few minutes trying to pick out individual threads of narrative, Artaud excluded the whole clamor from his sensorium without conscious effort. He couldn’t afford to spend precious resources on the things outside the circle.
By what right do you address me in this manner?
Water, a dram. Just a dram. Water.
So cried out the beasts at the edge of the ruin, in the voices of the many dead they had eaten. A year or two ago a mid-level mage cast Continual Light on the obelisk at the center, creating an oasis that held the night creatures at bay. They lurked just beyond the reach of the light in a gibbering mass, a carpet of monstrosities so thick that every night they formed a seething wall the height of two standing men, climbing over one another and falling forward into the circle to be burned and scrambling back, swimming beneath the surface of the sand ineffectually as the blazing pharos scoured their bones clean.
After a few minutes trying to pick out individual threads of narrative, Artaud excluded the whole clamor from his sensorium without conscious effort. He couldn’t afford to spend precious resources on the things outside the circle.
It was common for travelers through the Plain to rest in the crypt beneath the pharos. Convention was to cry out on entry, and to cry a response. To avoid unfortunate incidents.
Hipolito cried out and got no response. The fresh tracks that led into the tomb were deliberately effaced but unmistakable in the false daylight of the spire, without any corresponding marks of egress. There was no discussion of what came next. No suggestion that the occupants might be scared of strangers in the dark, or ignorant of local customs, or just asleep. Hipolito and Artaud stacked the door while the casters prepared their spells.
Rakia fondled the hook and Artaud felt his heart grow large, until his ribs creaked and his muscles threatened to shatter his bones in an effort to escape his body.
Pharnobal squeezed the wishdoll and he felt his heart grow fast, while the world around him grew slower until he could count the wingbeats of the flies drinking the sweat from Hipolito’s greasy braids. His hands felt enormous. His weapon felt like a toy.
Pharnobal cast her light into the tomb and he followed it in.
He killed two before the acid arrow ate the first layer of his eyes. He didn’t need them. He lashed out at the sound of distressed bleating and hooked the third behind the neck, killing it with a dismissive yank of the fokos. Something flashed before his gaze. The Deodand shouted somewhere far behind him. There was no prospect of recovering his weapon before the fourth one hit him, slipping a blade between helm and mail to open his throat.
He didn’t need that either.
Hipolito cried out and got no response. The fresh tracks that led into the tomb were deliberately effaced but unmistakable in the false daylight of the spire, without any corresponding marks of egress. There was no discussion of what came next. No suggestion that the occupants might be scared of strangers in the dark, or ignorant of local customs, or just asleep. Hipolito and Artaud stacked the door while the casters prepared their spells.
Rakia fondled the hook and Artaud felt his heart grow large, until his ribs creaked and his muscles threatened to shatter his bones in an effort to escape his body.
Pharnobal squeezed the wishdoll and he felt his heart grow fast, while the world around him grew slower until he could count the wingbeats of the flies drinking the sweat from Hipolito’s greasy braids. His hands felt enormous. His weapon felt like a toy.
Pharnobal cast her light into the tomb and he followed it in.
He killed two before the acid arrow ate the first layer of his eyes. He didn’t need them. He lashed out at the sound of distressed bleating and hooked the third behind the neck, killing it with a dismissive yank of the fokos. Something flashed before his gaze. The Deodand shouted somewhere far behind him. There was no prospect of recovering his weapon before the fourth one hit him, slipping a blade between helm and mail to open his throat.
He didn’t need that either.
No comments:
Post a Comment