From: tinytopaz@aol.com (TinyTopaz)
Date: 18 Apr 2003 10:07:57 EDT
One Fine Morning in the Atrebla Arena...
"Now, then, here is the story. Some of it is true."
- Mark Twain
It was a bit early for practice, but Topaz was already at the practice room, having sufficiently recharged her coffee quotient, when she heard the shuffling of weary feet in the hall and looked up. Moyrloch the conjuror had obviously seen better mornings. His cloak could charitably be described as rumpled (although it was neater than his hair), and as he stumbled across the floor his boots dragged as if he were being summoned to the Last Judgement and was more than a little apprehensive about his record. She deliberately flashed him a too-bright smile and put a hearty cheer into her voice. "Good morning, Mory!" She noted (with satisfaction) that his immediate response was to wince.
"Aye..." Her student appeared to be having trouble with his ears, or his eyes, or his stomach, or quite possibly with all three. "Jus' dinnae be too loud. Please," he added weakly, eyeing the floor as if it might be contemplating a surprise attack.
"Too much celebrating last night?" she asked innocently. "You look like you might have had a tad too much fun."
Moyrloch slumped gratefully into a convenient chair and shook his head gingerly. "Dinnae know ye if'n I'd call i' fun r'nae. Och, that hurts."
"Sitting?"
"Breathin'." The poor man, she thought, obviously needed nothing so much as a little peace and quiet, preferably about three years' worth. Alas, such was not to be.
The young man who strode into the practice room was noticeably nondescript. Aside from his athletic build, which bespoke a more than passing familiarity with swordsmanship, he could have passed for an average person on the streets of any human town. Max was that rarest of characters, an actual no-kidding local native, born on RhyDin itself; but his lack of flashy costume or at-least-slightly-weird physical characteristics made him look to the casual observer like a recent immigrant, who could have easily evoked the RhyDin equivalent of "Y'all ain't from around here, are ya?" He greeted his teacher with casual friendliness and obvious sincerity. "Heya, Topaz." Taking a glance at the older man in the chair, he added, "How'd I know you'd have a headache this morning?"
Moyrloch glared at his fellow student. His memory of the night before was obscure, but he felt certain that Max had had something to do with it. He was considering frying the boy to medium charcoal on general principles when Topaz, seeing his obvious distress, intervened. "Perhaps a bit of Irish cofee would help?"
The conjurer turned a slightly deeper shade of green. "'Air o' th' dog, aye? Nae, I'll b' fine."
The other two eyed each other in obvious doubt, and the fairy began to rummage around behind the arena bar. Within moments she reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee and presented it to Mory. "Drink this, it'll help."
Mory eyed it dubiously and tried unsuccessfully to sniff the vapors. "What's in it?"
"Coffee. Trust me." Reassured, he started to sip, so she went on. "And honey, and milk, and Scotch." He began to smile, until she added, "And raw egg yolk," almost choked on the swallow, but manfully persevered. He might have managed to drink it, too, if Max hadn't gratuitously offered, "I could go grab you some leftovers from the Harris Stew."
"Ahurk!" declaimed the conjuror as he bolted out of his seat and shot like a bolt of unsteady lightning into the nearest bathroom. Topaz gave Max what she hoped was a stern restraining look and received what he imagined to be an apologetic shrug. Neither was particularly convincing.
After a suficiently lengthy prayer session at the porcelain altar, Moyrloch returned, pale but moderately alive. His first act was to seize the coffee cup and down a good half of the contents, which seemed within moments to have a properly restorative effect. Ignoring the barely-concealed smirk on his teacher's lips, Mory pulled a mint leaf from within his cloak, popped it into his mouth, and began to chew. He glared disdainfully at the other two and said, "Well'n, le's ge' on wi' i'. 'As 'e seen wha' ye found?"
Max looked puzzled and Topaz hastened to explain.
The day before, as today, Mory and Topaz had shown up early for practice. Since at that time Mory was not sufering from an inoperable case of hangover, and since at all times Topaz had a tendency - not to say a positive genius - for finding trouble when bored, the pair of intrepid heroes had gone poking into the storage rooms in the cellar of the Beacon to see what they could find.
Now, it is a widely-known and demonstrable fact that when one goes poking into old musty boxes in old musty cellars in a fantasy environment, one is quite likely to discover ever so much more than one originally envisioned, and probably something that would just as well have been better off undisturbed. This was even more true of the Beacon than most such locations, which truth is widely understood by anyone who has managed to survive more than six weeks in the company of the local residents. In the case of Moyrloch the Conjuror (and Connoisseur of the Highland Waters), an excuse may be made due to his relatively short tenure at the above establishment. As far as Topaz is concerned, see the reference to positive genius in the above paragraph.
At any rate, among the various and sundry (meaning a bunch of stuff you can't explain) items which Topaz and Mory stumbled across and puzzled over was a small box-like object which was, to them, most puzzling indeed. It was small and rectangular, almost cubic, about two spans tall by a couple of hands wide. Black on top, and white on the bottom, the material composing the odd little box was unknown to either of them, being neither cloth nor wood nor metal, yet smooth to the touch. The top is decorated with two small spirals made of some metallic alloy, and two small panels graven with decidedly odd runes. A carrying-strap adorned the top; but when the two ventured to lift it, the box turned out to be surprisingly heavy, perhaps as much as ten stones or more.
Most people, of course, would have remembered the aforesaid caution about unknown things in old musty storage places. Suffice it to quote the comments of our intrepid adventurers:
Topaz: "Looks like some kind of miniature picnic basket."
Mory: "If 'tis a picnic baske'...how d'ye open i'?"
As they had judged the Beacon not to be, perhaps, the safest place to play around with potentially unknown magic (probably the only time during these events that they could be accused of good judgement), the pair took their find with them out of the cellars and to the arena, hoping to find a safe place for their eagerly-anticipated experiments....and at this point, having enlightened the gentle reader (if not the characters) to the origins and possible dangers of the mysterious box, we rejoin our story.
The young swordsman shook his head in bewilderment as he looked over the box. "I've never seen anything like it. I'm stumped, too. What do we do?" They both looked at Topaz, who tried to look more confident than she felt.
"One first sets up the proper wards. Then one looks for traps..." That got vigorous agreement from her companions. "...and then for instructions." Blank looks this time. "And then we try some identifying spells."
"Aye, makes sense."
"But not here." She gestured toward the doorway. "We had better take this outside." She stepped over to the door and swung it open. "I know just the spot, too."
Mory nodded, and with newly-fortified strength from a second medicinal coffee he carefully hefted the "picnic basket" and headed for the door. Over his shoulder he asked, "Ye comin', boyo?"
"Right behind you."
"Burp."
A few minutes later they had emerged into the bright spring sunlight. A short walk took them just out of sight of the Beacon to a level field with plenty of room. Mory set down the box near the center of the field, glad to be free of its weight, and the three gathered round in anticipation.
"First," announced the fairy, "let me ward the box."
Max looked around the field, which was not only fairly sizeable but completely empty of all but grass. "Sure this is all necessary?"
"Aye, laddie." Mory's look was knowing. "Th' lady an' meself know full weel y' must be careful when dealin' wi' unknown magics."
Max looked impressed. "Have you done this sort of thing before?"
"Well, yes," said Topaz, trying not to sound flattered. "The last item I dealt with was a magically-sealed book of predictions."
"What did you do?"
"I set up wards to protect the book from any damage, in case the identifying spells hit any traps and misfired." Max's eyebrows went up.
"Did it work?"
"Sure did, laddie - not a mark on th' bludie thing." Mory bent over to watch the fairy's preparations more closely. "O' course, she did have t' have th' place redecorated after."
The next several minutes were filled with a mixture of intensely-muttered spell words and an equally intense look of puzzlement on the fairy's face, while Mory and Max stood back in respectful silence. Finally Topaz ceased her muttering, but not her puzzlement, and stepped back from the box herself. "This is odd. None of it seems to be working." She glanced at Moyrloch. "Do you know any wards I haven't tried?"
"Nae, lass. "Tis nae m' bes' subject."
"Why won't it work?"
"It could be many things, Max. The box could be counter-spelled, or protected some other way aginst magic. Could even be lined with lead or gold - that would stop magical effects."
"Weel..." The conjuror's brow was furrowed. "If th' bludie box will nae let ye ward it, dinna try." She looked at him, puzzled. "Try broadenin' y'r field o' influence."
"Good idea." She backed up several steps.
"Mory." Max's voice was a low hiss, trying not to distract Topaz. "If it's lined with lead or gold..."
"Then it's likely there'll be more than a wee prize inside. Exactly." Moyrloch rubbed his hands together in undisguised avarice. "Ye'll make a bonnie detective one day, laddie." They watched as the fairy continued her step-back-and-chant experiments, until finally she stood a good ten paces from the object of their attentions. By now the expression on the experimenter's face had deepened to a serious frown. The air around the object of her experiments continued to flicker and shimmer in ever-changing patterns. The expression on the experimental object remained unconcerned. Finally Topaz ceased her efforts.
"I don't like this." She sighed in frustration. "Even if the spells would take, we can't accomplish much from this far away."
The conjuror nodded sagely, maintaining the appearance that he and she were proceeding according to plan. "What d'ye suggest, lass?"
"I suppose individual shields for us, and a general ward around the area - say ten feet? Then we could try working close."
"Soun's good t'me. An' should anythin' go wrong, we can displace away in th' blink o' an eye." He became aware of a rather odd exptression on Max's face. "What's amiss, laddie? Och, ye have nae displacin' spells?" The swordsman shook his head. "Weel, there's nae time now t' be learnin' one. Can ye jump?"
Max nodded. "Uh...Mory...how do I know when to jump?"
The conjuror was the image of calm. ""Tis nae worry, laddie. Should somethin' go awry, I'll yell "Jump!"
Max digested that. Then a thought occurred. "Uh, Mory - what if I don't hear you?"
"Weel, laddie, if I say "Jump!", and you say "Huh?"...ye'll be talkin' t' y'rself."
The requisite protections were shortly in place, although it must be admitted that Max was by now feeling a trifle confused. On the one hand, he was growing impatient with the interminable experimental procedures of his two partners, and was wondering why, now that the spells had been done, they couldn't just pop open the box and be done with the waiting. On the other hand, there was this business about displacing spells, not to mention the possibility of having to jump. Maybe there was more to this precautions thing than met the eye. Resolving when this was all over to pick up some training in displacement - could be a handy thing to have - he returned his attention to his fellow investigators, who were currently puzzling over the unusual runes on the box's lid.
"What do you think it is?" Topaz sounded puzzled, which did very little to improve her younger student's confidance. "Magical runes? Or some foreign language?"
Moyrloch shrugged. "'S nothin' I've e'er seen."
"Nor me." She glanced at Max, who had wisely assumed an air of blank incomprehension, on which he figured absolutely nothing could later be blamed. "Identity spells, then, Mory?"
"Th' only identity spells I ken 'ave to do wi' bottles." She gave him an old-fashioned look. "Och, I'll try t' adjust." He began concentrating mightily on the box, producing a sizzling in the air around it and a disturbingly serious squint on his own face but nothing else in the way of results. The conjuror dropped his hands and spat out the remains of the mint leaf. "I canna ge' anythin' of o' it."
The fairy nodded. "I suspected as much. This calls for a combined effort." Quickly she explained the additive-spell mechanics to Moyrloch. "I've done this with success before, Mory. Trust me." The conjuror eyed her warily but began making the proper passes, and Topaz joined in. Soon the runes were flickering before their eyes as the spell rewove their message, and then suddenly there was a loud "pop!" that made all three jump back.
When they looked again at the box, the runes had rearranged themselves, and they found they could make out the words. Topaz stared at them for long moments, with Mory and Max trying to peer over her shoulders and wings. Finally she said, "What do you make of this?"
Mory also stared, then shrugged. Max peered closely, obviously still confused. "It looks like just a bunch of jumbled letters to me."
"I can read it now, though. Let's see..." The fairy's voice sounded a little uncertain. "Be to warnings of potential bad lots. Care burns applicable whimsy lasting short eons."
Moyrloch blinked a couple of times. "Bah...makes m' eyes hurt."
"Waterchlorine makings smoke and loss of feelings and parts." They all stared briefly at each other. "Breathing labor bad cause essence life to vacation. Payment not good idea, waterchlorine liquid and may saturate. Flat plane best to not fall on, as expanding can occur." She looked at Mory. Mory looked at Max. Max looked at Topaz. Okay, maybe there was a code or something here. She thought for a moment. "Maybe we should read it right to left? Or only every other or third word?"
The conjuror shrugged. "All I know is, i' doesnae soun' good."
"How can you tell? It doesn't make any sense."
"Well, jus' from th' mention o' 'bad', 'burns', an' 'loss', i' speaks volumes t' me."
"It doesn't make any sense to me, either," put in Max, "no matter how you read it; but I agree with Moyr...bad."
"Aye. 'M thin'in' tha' th' mos' importan' par' o' th' whole thin' be that word there."
"Which word where?"
"'Warnings'. An' see here." He pointed to a small picture, which looked much like a small damaged hand. "See tha'?"
Topaz looked and saw. "Yes. But what does it mean?"
Mory had a decisive tone to his voice. "Dinnae mean an'thin' good, tha' much I know fer sure."
"Well, we already knew we had to be careful with it."
"Aye." He nodded. "Bu' nae wha'?"
The morning, thought Max, was beginning to wear long. No amount of analysis - forward, backward, sideways, or any other direction - had elicited any useful information from the cryptic warnings on the mysterious box, and the trio had finally abandoned all attempts at clarification. Next, in the hope that at least they could determine the strength of the magic they were trying to penetrate, fairy dust had been applied to the air around the box. The results had been somewhat less than enlightening. The initial color of the revealed aura was a rather sickly shade of puce, which accomplished little other than to remind Moyrloch of his earlier physical distress. With further concentration the magic-workers managed to get the outer layer of the aura to seperate into individual rings. The smaller rings were blue and yellow, and a broader one was orange. Most of the aura, however, stubbornly refused to seperate. All the while, Max noted, the annoying humming noise emanating from the box steadily grew in volume. About the time he had decided to chance another impatient query, a sudden and familiar "pop!" ended the spellworking. Topaz, barely forewarned by sensing some kind of activity within the box, fluttered backward out of the way, and the intricate spectrum of their magic, not to mention the revolting puce, fizzled out. For reasons incomprehensible to the swordsman, Topaz and Mory seemed positively excited.
"Did you see that?" The fairy's eyes were sparkling.
Profound nodding. "Aye, aye."
Now he felt he had to ask. "What happened?"
"I don't know, but it sure looked cool." She was giggling. Giggling!
"Tha' was nothin' we've e'er seen b'fore, lad." And why, in the name of all the gods, did Mory sound so bloody happy about it?
"That oughta stump even Wulfson and Vincent."
"Stumped me, tha's fer sure."
The look of idiotic wonder on his partner's faces was rapidly convincing Max that either there was an element of deep subtlety in magical investigations which he had not as yet the proper experience to appreciate, or else his teacher and his fellow student had parted their moorings and were happily adrift toward Surrealistic Harbor, all flags flying. He strongly suspected the good money was on Door Number Two. Either way, this was boring. So, while Topaz and Mory argued about the exact meaning of the recently vanished colors and patterns, Max decided it was time for a little direct action - like checking the box for traps by poking it with his sword. He began to walk toward the box.
Topaz managed to surface from the depths of her esoteric discussion. "What is it, Max?"
"Pardon me if I misunderstood...but didn't you mention wanting to check for traps?"
"Lad's got a good point," agreed Mory. "Okay, Max - ye firs'."
The younger man grinned. This was something a swordsman understood. He took a step closer to the box and started to unsheath his sword. To his surprise, he heard Topaz cry "No!", and a moment later he found his arms pinned tightly to his sides in the firm grasp of the conjuror.
Greatly aggravated, and more than a little astonished, he looked around at the other two. Topaz seemed agitated. Moyrloch looked apologetic. "Not tha' way, laddie.We dinnae know wha' this'n holds."
Max shrugged off Mory impatiently. "Hence the reason we go open it!" He turned to the conjuror earnestly, trying to explain. "Look, it's keeping magic away, isn't it?"
"Aye, 'tis...bu' tha's nae our only means o' findin' out wha's in i'."
"That's what I'm saying!" Some people just never seemed to listen, did they? "Let me go try to pull it open. You wanted to know what it's warding; well, it's obviously warding magic..." Max was fingering the hilt of his sword again, and Topaz decided to intervene.
"Hey, Max." He turned. "Watch this." Pulling a handful of fairy dust from a pouch, she tossed it directly at the box. The sudden snapping and crackling of tiny lightning bolts filled the air around it. It was at best a mini-lightning show, but it was undeniably impressive, and it did get the attention of the swordsman, who assumed a more thoughtful expression.
"Hmmm..." There was a dawning awareness in Max that perhaps the object of their scrutiny could possibly be dangerous. "You think..."
"I think firs', we be cautious an' try magic. Then we'll pull i' open. Jus' nae now."
Topaz nodded. "Exactly. We must exercise caution. And responsibility."
"Responsibility?"
"Aye."
"Such as what?"
"Nae blowin' things up."
Max considered this. Not blowing things up seemed like a reasonable plan. Especially if one of the things blown up was him. The boring approach, he concluded, might be worth a little more time. Keeping his trusty sword sheathed for the time being, he followed his partners to a safe distance from the box, outside the protective ward.
"All right." The fairy's voice was calm and confident, which was easier to achieve at this distance from the box than from closer in. "We'll try a spell to trigger its trap." She made her passes and murmured her chants. Sure enough, there was an immediate and visible response. Small bluish bolts of lightning sparked off the spirals on top, growing rapidly in size. They hurled themselves outward toward the intrepid investigators, their color changing to green as they bounced off the protective ward a bare few feet in front of their faces. It was quite some time before the bolts exhausted their energy.
Mory finally spoke for all of them. "Hmmm."
Max remembered to breathe again. "Is...that good or bad?"
"Quite possibly bad," answered Mory, confirming the younger man's suspicions. Max took another deep breath.
"Now what?"
"I'm not sure." Topaz was still staring at the innocuous thing sitting smugly on the grass. "I'd like to think about this for a while."
"Then 'ow abou' we pu' i' back fer nae?"
There was no serious disagreement to this part of the plan. The older two noticed Max cracking his knuckles menacingly at the offending picnic basket; he seemed content, however, to confine himself to threatening looks, especially after Mory received some sort of electrical shock in the process of picking the box up. No one spoke during their trip back to the arena's basement, where the mysterious artifact was carefully stowed away in an inconspicuous spot. Once again all three emitted a long and audible sigh. Then Topaz turned to her companions. It might reasonably be supposed that, as their teacher, she was about to deliver a kindly-but-stern lecture on the values of caution and responsibility. What she said, however, was:
"That was fun."
One Fine Morning in the Atrebla Arena...
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From: tinytopaz@aol.com (TinyTopaz)
Date: 27 Apr 2003 11:05:48 EDT
"Never let the facts interfere with a good story."
Mark Twain
A couple days later...
The conversation in the Atrelba arena had died as a droning sound filled the air. The noise, pointed out Max, was ominously disturbing, which was seconded by Topaz. "I’ seems t’ be gettin’ louder, too," Moyrloch observed. "Shoul’ we take i’ out t’ th’ fiel’ again?"
"Bright idea," agreed the fairy. The sarcasm was totally lost upon the tall Scotsman, who promptly hefted the mysterious box by its carrying-strap and headed for the door.
Arithon had joined the intrepid band of investigators today largely on the premise that someone should be present who was capable of exercising common sense, and by his calculations that eliminated at least two of the original three. Magic-users, with all their fiddly-faddling spells and enchantments, just didn't seem to realize the best way to deal with the unexpected, which was to whap it firmly with the biggest weapon you had as soon as it appeared, if not a little before. Max, thought the mercenary as he held the door open for the struggling old conjuror, probably had the right instincts, but the boy didn't have his own years of experience. It was a good thing he was here to keep 'em all straight. He grinned to himself in anticipation of what he might be able to whap today and followed the other three outside.
As the three humans, the fairy, and the box reached the field, Mory was beginning to make sounds that closely resembled panting. "I'd swear th' bluidy bugger's twice i's weigh' from las' time," he grunted.
"You're imagining things." Topaz glared at the Scotsman, who thought better of arguing the point, shrugged, and laboriously carried the offending object to the very spot it had occupied in the field a few days before, where preparations to glean the secret of the mysterious container were commenced.
The preparations commenced, in point of fact, with Max asking why anyone was bothering with the shields at all this time. The resulting lecture on common sense and responsibility took up a good five minutes. (The casual observer will note, of course, that if all proper precautions and preparations were taken into account, the item would have never left the Beacon in the first place.) Discussion was held on the proper approach of this investigation, mostly pertaining to whether the four preferred to conduct further magical tests on the box or to just open it outright. It became quickly apparent that if they truly wanted to see the inside of the box, they needed it open. But one thing all present agreed upon was that the irritating droning noise grating on all of their nerves really had to go. Max had a twitch going, Mory’s stress level was stretched as thin as a whore’s virtue, and even Topaz was restless. Ari alone seemed to be a pillar of stoic calm.
After a failed attempt to silence the grating noise, they decided (perhaps foolishly so) just to open the damned thing and be done with it. Gloves were passed around from the conjurer’s vast storehouse within his cloak, and the physical tests began.
The first thing noticed was the lack of hinges anywhere on the container. The only parts that appeared to have any give to them at all were the small panels on top, the ones with the perplexing writing on them. Max decided to concentrate on those, prying at them with a small knife.
"Careful o’ them metal things, boyo."
"Why?" Max said, carelessly dropping the knife as he spoke. Before he could grab it, the knife-blade fell across both the spiral knobs on the box's top and was instantly and violently knocked away in a shower of hot blue sparks. Max cursed and picked his knife back up.
"Tha’s why, Max me lad. Lightnin’ an’ metal dinnae mix well."
The young swordsman took a slight breather while Mory began poking the box gingerly with his staff. As he did so, the investigators noticed a small wisp of smoky substance starting to rise from out of the box. "Mmm," the conjuror commented sagely as he hurriedly ceased his poking. "Tha’ canna be good."
There was a muttered comment, which seemed to come from Ari's direction, regarding Moyrloch's "remarkable clarity on matters of the obvious", or some similar disparagement. Max fearlessly stepped forward, knife in hand again, not noting the rest (and possibly wiser) of the group had taken a step or two back. The spellcasters began to ready the offensive enchantments that they knew. Mory took much less time about it, but inexperience and lack of spell repetoire will do that.
"Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all," Topaz thought aloud. Looking back on this event, most if not all impartial observers would agree that this simple sentence was the most intelligent thing stated that day.
"Th’ road t’ ‘ell is paved wi’ good intentions." the burly mage countered obscurely, with a hint of a grin.
While all this sage advice was being handed out, Max had been applying a little direct action to the problem and had finally succeeded in prying loose one of the panels on the box's top, exposing three holes. They were small, perfectly in line, and each one the size of a small coin. "We should have shotguns for this," said Max.
"What’s a shotgun?" Mory, Topaz, and Ari said almost in unison.
"Never mind," sighed the swordsman, abandoning the attempt at humor as he studied the box again. "When in doubt..." he trailed off, poking the knife in one of the holes. The loud shout from the conjurer was almost enough to drown out the popping noise which preceded Max hurtling back almost his entire height in distance. His knife lay forgotten, smouldering and melting from the tip back. Max shook himself and grumbled something which in the interest of our younger readers it would be best not to repeat here.
Now, however, a maleficent-looking fog was oozing out of the holes in the box, hugging the ground as it spread quickly across the grass and began to billow evilly upward. Taken aback, the intrepid adventurers began to back toward the edge of the shielded area, staring in disbelief at the menacing greenish cloud taking shape in the air before their eyes. So intent were they upon the sight of the growing mass of airborne slime, they scarcely noticed the droning noise gaining in intensity. It did not escape their notice, however, that the evil fog seemed to steal the life from anything it touched, including the grass of the field, which browned and disintegrated as they watched. At this, their careful steps backward could be seen to quicken, and in moments they had gained the supposed safety of the outer shield.
"Now we’re getting somewhere," Max said under his breath, then began to cough. Moyrloch looked over with concern.
"Ye alrigh’, lad? Ye didnae breathe tha’ stuff, did ye?" The boy shook his head, and Topaz watched the fog begin to gather itself over the box, thinning out around the edges where it met the magic shield. Where the green gas had been, there was a ring of barren earth left behind.
"Vicious stuff," commented the fairy.
"Aye," agreed Moyrloch. Max and Ari said nothing, simply drawing steel. The fog over the box was becoming thicker, more palpable by the second. Time, it seemed to Topaz, was getting rather short, and with a quick flick of her hands she hurled a mage bolt flaming through her own shields directly at the menacing cloud. Magical energies exploded red and orange in the center of the ominous green mass, and a low growling issued from somewhere within. The four tightened their grips on their respective weapons.
"Wha’e’er that stuff is, I dinnae thin’ i’ liked tha." As the conjuror spoke, the orange glow from the mage strike faded quickly within the cloud.
"Doesn’t look like that hurt it much either." Lightning was starting to burst against the protective shields from the center of the fog - which, Mory noted, was coalescing even further, and growing...taller. Much taller.
"An’one else feel one o’ them cosmic 'I told ye so' speeches comin’ on? Cause I sure do. . ." the mage murmured, looking rather gaunt.
"Maybe we shouldn’t tell Amal about this," suggested Topaz as she eyed the alarming growth of the fog, "and thereby avoid giving her an opening for such a speech."
"Tell ye wha'. Le's worry more abou' 'ow we're goin' t' clean this up firs'. Then, if'n i's possible, we'll get intae nae tellin' Amal."
"There wouldn't possibly be any spells you two know that would get rid of that damned fog in there?" Max asked dubiously.
"Nae wi’ou’ gettin’ rid o’ th’ shield as well, Max me lad." Mory said with a calm he didn’t really feel. What he did feel was edgy. And it wasn't getting any better. Especially now that the evil-looking cloud was starting to assume a rather more distinctive shape, one that anyone who had encountered your standard genie-in-a-bottle would immediately find disturbing.
"This is rather fascinating."
"Tha’s nae th' word I'd use."
"Think it’ll go back into the box without our help?"
"Didn’t seem to want to be in there in the first place." And with that precise evaluation of the chances of an easy resolution of the situation, the conjuror began to ready his magics, mindful that they might be somewhat less than effective.
Topaz thought briefly and furiously. Fire hadn't worked. All right, how about ice? She summoned an arctic blast and flung frozen death into the fog. More lightning snapped and flickered within the clouds, but otherwise the scene was dismayingly unchanged. She tried to think of something to try next, but then the shields flickered, and she heard a terrible noise, uncomfortably much like a large axe crunching into a wooden shield, and with a roar and a burst of blinding sparks her magics shattered and exploded, and whatever she had been going to try next didn't seem to matter anymore.
Moyrloch had been about to make a suggestion to his teacher when the shield exploded, knocking her to the ground, and his words turned into a curse, then into a shout of warning as a huge axe swept down toward her out of the smoke. Before she could react, Arithon lept forward, swinging his longsword with speed and skill just in time to deflect the huge axe-blade, as Topaz rolled sideways and lept to her feet.
In desperation the conjuror flung a blade-spell, which he noted had about the same effect as a moderate sneeze on the monstrous being now standing before them. Full seven feet or more it towered above them, humanoid in form but demonic in appearance. Its bulging muscles were wrapped here and there with bits and pieces of leather and metal, much as if it had ripped its way through a crowd of warriors and, having consumed the lot, was still wearing the debris. Noxious green fumes, their stench overpowering, still clung to its body and drifted in poisonous streamers from the terrifying huge battle-axe, black as coal and threatening as a tax-collector, which the creature gripped in what can only be called hands because of their location at the end of its arms. Atop a thickly-muscled neck that would have made an NFL nose guard gasp in disbelief, the thing's smooth and shining skull surmounted two glowering eyes, burning fiery red, while the mouth was covered by some sort of armored guard, its uncanny resemblance to a grotesque surgeon's mask all too suggestive of the creature's probable intentions regarding the hapless four who had released it. All in all, the horrid visage of the monster would have dismayed even Darth Vader, or at least induced in the Dark Lord a severe case of projectile vomiting.
Appearances, as the man said, can be deceiving. Unfortunately the voice which now grated forth from behind the mask, and which made our intrepid heroes' stomachs roil even more, if that were possible, seemed to confirm their original diagnosis of their opponent as someone who would not be invited a second time for tea, assuming there were any survivors of the first occasion.
"Endoskeletal substances of miniscule proportions, the essences coil possessed by your frames will soon be given freedom."
It may be listed as a credit to our intrepid heroes that, in the face of horrendous danger, a small part of each of the four was able to take note of the monster's strange speech, which seemed much like the incomprehensible tongue they had found on the panels of the box. The rest of each of our heroes reacted instantly as heroes should, which is to say they scattered like the winds, calculating the odds favorable to getting only one person killed at a time. This premise seemed quickly justified when the creature began throwing large and painful-looking lightning bolts in the general direction of Moyrloch. (It may also be noted that the other three had never before seen the old conjuror move with such agility.)
Max, staying cool and collected - or possibly being completely clueless of just how much danger he was in - moved stealthily behind the creature, in hopes to strike it a mortal blow and true from the honorable position of ambush. Then they all again realigned their tactical positions, advancing to the rear as the fearsome battle-axe confronting them reshaped itself into a giant hammer, threatening to permanently redesign their kneecaps, if not their legs.
The conjurer, doing his best to live up to his title, began rapidly conjuring daggers and throwing them at the creature’s head, but these met the same fate as his spell, and melted even before making contact. This desperate attack, however, did provide enough of a distraction for Topaz to dart closer after a particularly mighty swing of the giant hammer, and from inside the monster's guard managed to strike its calf with a quick thrust of her rapier. This had the effect of enraging the creature, or at least mildly annoying it, and it stepped forward and turned to try and swat the pesky fluttering thing which had just stung it. The fairy, though, recognizing discretion to be the better part of extermination, had already backpedalled her wings as hard as they would go, and the monster's blow succeeded only in smashing against its own leg, which did little to improve its disposition.
Now truly out of sorts, the giant attempted to chase down each of the vermin before it and smash them in turn; but the vermin were uncooperative and displayed a dismaying ability to weave and dart away before the killing blows could be delivered. These pursuits took the monster hither and yon across the grassy sward in ever-increasing circles, and before long the combat had passed far from the spot where the box which had been the source of all the current excitement still sat in the middle of the circle of withered grass, trying its best to look inconspicuous.
As the astute reader will have gathered, our intrepid heroes had been able to dodge the monster's attacks; the tactics required, however, had been largely defensive in nature and precluded the opportunity of dealing their opponent any decisive blows. This, Max was feeling, was not only unsatisfying but contrary to his own combative instincts. Wisely perceiving the futility of close combat at the moment, but determined to maintain his honor as a doughty warrior, he coolly drew his trusty .50-caliber Desert Eagle pistol and snapped two quick shots at the monster’s neck. Both connected but didn’t seem to do an awful lot.
For his part, Ari was fully engaged in front of the giant, shifting rapidly in an attempt to keep its attention while skillfully parrying hammer-blows with his longsword. It was his professional experience that if you kept your enemy fighting long enough, he'd get tired, and then he would make a fatal mistake. He figured this should hold true even for demonic monsters that came out of a box, and he did seem to notice the swings of the huge hammer slowing down a little. He devoutly hoped the fatal mistake he was expecting would come before he himself ran out of steam.
Topaz had given up any ideas of physical attacks whatsoever, and had backed away to prepare a spell of banishment, combining three spells she’d used in the past for this purpose. One of the creature’s lightning bolts passed close enough to singe her sleeve, but despite her pique at the slight disfigurement of her favorite costume the fearless fairy did not allow her concentration to falter. This, she guessed, would probably be their only hope. She just prayed that it would be in time.
Mory, meanwhile, had decided enough was enough. He drew his family greatsword out of his cloak, ignoring the blade’s chuckling in the back of his mind. Using the power of the blade to enhance his own abilities, he charged in, dodging more lightning and even a couple of streams of acid which caused the ground to smoke where they struck. He felt the old Gaelic battle madness upon him, and with a cry only intelligible to his Highland ancestors, and their sheep, he pressed his attack. Ducking under the giant's massive weapon, he drove his blade with a mighty thrust deep in the beast’s stomach - to the hilt he drove it into the beast.
Fully engrossed as he was in his hero's blow, the Scotsman failed to notice the creature reaching for him until the monster’s hand was around his head. At this he let loose the blade, still entrenched in what he hoped were the demon's vitals, and attempted to knock the creature’s grasp loose with his fists; but to no avail. The pressure on his skull increased (and it would well to note, at this point, that he was lucky to be of HIghland lineage, for such pressure would have crushed a lesser skull). As from a great distance, he heard an all-too-familiar gratingly nauseating voice.
"There are sensations which only one such as myself can teach you in any measure of competence, of which this will be one." The conjuror only hoped that either his fellows would finish off the beast quickly, or that it would kill him before he had to listen to any more of its bewildering ravings, which he suspected even good whisky would never improve.
Seeing his comrade dangling from the monster’s fist, feebly beating on its arm, Arithon sprang to the rescue. Handling his longsword with the cold competence of an experienced professional warrior, he struck like a charging bull, piercing his enemy's shoulder with his deadly blade.
If getting the demon's attention was Ari's primary objective, then his attack can only be described as successful, although any other desired results might be called into question. For at receiving the warrior's strike, the monster apparently decided that using its helpless captive as a club, to pound the man who had just stabbed it, would be fun. It shifted its grip to the mage’s legs and swung him around at Ari, who deftly avoided being Scotched. Mory, who on occasion liked to think of himself as a weapon, but not like this, did the only thing he could do. He screamed. And kept on screaming.
This may have been the wrong tactic for Moyrloch to employ at this point, although in fairness it is difficult to imagine what else, under the circumstances, he could possibly do. Whatever the case, his captor repaid him for his efforts by temporarily planting his magical weapon into the soil, and then seizing the mage's left arm in one vicious clawed hand and his torso in the other. With a horrible and disgusting sound, disturbingly like something heard at a turkey dinner, the monster pulled in opposite directions and made a wish. Keeping the smaller piece, possibly for luck, it dropped the remaining portion of the now unconscious and much quieter conjuror to the ground.
This was the opportunity for which Topaz had been anxiously waiting. As the younger swordsman lunged fearlessly at the exposed and unguarded back of the evil wizard-whacker, the fairy unleashed all the fury of her magics at the monster, who was now not only bereft of weapon and wizard but also somewhat distracted in contemplation of whatever wish it had just made. Sword and spell struck as one. The beast recoiled and writhed under the dual assalt, and it seemed to Topaz as if it might be trying to cast counter-magic; but whatever it was attempting ran headlong into her spell's binding energies and exploded.
The blast knocked both the beast's assailants to the ground, in the process causing Max's trigger finger to tighten and his pistol to discharge. Ari, who somehow had managed to stay on his feet, rushed to the side of the fallen conjuror, who lay motionless on the blasted heath. Using what little magic he knew to heat his sword to red-hot, he laid it over the stump of Mory's arm, cauterizing the wound. He then pulled out a flask, ignoring the screams from his now-conscious patient, and poured a measure of the strong alcohol over the wound, then poured some in the mage’s mouth. This treatment promptly had a salutary effect upon the patient, who stopped screaming long enough to gasp a request for more, "an' don' be wastin' i' on the bluidy woun'!" Apparently Moyrloch would live. Quickly Arithon glanced at his other companions.
Max, it appeared, was on top of things. Ari noted with satisfaction that the boy was already getting back to his feet, Desert Eagle still in hand. The younger warrior advanced without hestitation upon their enemy - which was presently engaged in the unsettling process of dissolving back into a mist and heading for the safety of its box - took careful and determined aim, and rapidly emptied the rest of his ammunition into the target. The target answered this final insult by lashing out with its not-yet-dissolved hammer, a factor which Max had possibly omitted from his calculations, if indeed he had made any at all. This time the blow, aimed at the offending handgun, was not complicated by any defensive maneuvers, as it had been previously. The hammer struck Max's left arm hard enough to break the arm bone, drive the arm on into Max's ribs and crack two of them for good measure, and shove the young man's whole body off-balance and topple him to the ground. As a parting shot, Ari decided, it was pretty impressive. Live and learn, kid. He looked around.
Topaz lay on the ground, white with shock, as blood leaked from the hole in her shoulder where Max's accidental shot had managed to land. Max was holding his injured body parts with his good hand, a steady stream of curses that Ari had supposed beyond his education pouring steadily from his lips. Mory had ceased moaning and lay quietly, a blissful and familiar glaze over his eyes and near-empty flask clutched firmly in his remaining hand. Well, those two seemed fine, at least until he could send a coach for them. The warrior gently eased the fairy's limp form into his arms and started as quickly as he could down the path to the Beacon.
Date: 27 Apr 2003 11:05:48 EDT
"Never let the facts interfere with a good story."
Mark Twain
A couple days later...
The conversation in the Atrelba arena had died as a droning sound filled the air. The noise, pointed out Max, was ominously disturbing, which was seconded by Topaz. "I’ seems t’ be gettin’ louder, too," Moyrloch observed. "Shoul’ we take i’ out t’ th’ fiel’ again?"
"Bright idea," agreed the fairy. The sarcasm was totally lost upon the tall Scotsman, who promptly hefted the mysterious box by its carrying-strap and headed for the door.
Arithon had joined the intrepid band of investigators today largely on the premise that someone should be present who was capable of exercising common sense, and by his calculations that eliminated at least two of the original three. Magic-users, with all their fiddly-faddling spells and enchantments, just didn't seem to realize the best way to deal with the unexpected, which was to whap it firmly with the biggest weapon you had as soon as it appeared, if not a little before. Max, thought the mercenary as he held the door open for the struggling old conjuror, probably had the right instincts, but the boy didn't have his own years of experience. It was a good thing he was here to keep 'em all straight. He grinned to himself in anticipation of what he might be able to whap today and followed the other three outside.
As the three humans, the fairy, and the box reached the field, Mory was beginning to make sounds that closely resembled panting. "I'd swear th' bluidy bugger's twice i's weigh' from las' time," he grunted.
"You're imagining things." Topaz glared at the Scotsman, who thought better of arguing the point, shrugged, and laboriously carried the offending object to the very spot it had occupied in the field a few days before, where preparations to glean the secret of the mysterious container were commenced.
The preparations commenced, in point of fact, with Max asking why anyone was bothering with the shields at all this time. The resulting lecture on common sense and responsibility took up a good five minutes. (The casual observer will note, of course, that if all proper precautions and preparations were taken into account, the item would have never left the Beacon in the first place.) Discussion was held on the proper approach of this investigation, mostly pertaining to whether the four preferred to conduct further magical tests on the box or to just open it outright. It became quickly apparent that if they truly wanted to see the inside of the box, they needed it open. But one thing all present agreed upon was that the irritating droning noise grating on all of their nerves really had to go. Max had a twitch going, Mory’s stress level was stretched as thin as a whore’s virtue, and even Topaz was restless. Ari alone seemed to be a pillar of stoic calm.
After a failed attempt to silence the grating noise, they decided (perhaps foolishly so) just to open the damned thing and be done with it. Gloves were passed around from the conjurer’s vast storehouse within his cloak, and the physical tests began.
The first thing noticed was the lack of hinges anywhere on the container. The only parts that appeared to have any give to them at all were the small panels on top, the ones with the perplexing writing on them. Max decided to concentrate on those, prying at them with a small knife.
"Careful o’ them metal things, boyo."
"Why?" Max said, carelessly dropping the knife as he spoke. Before he could grab it, the knife-blade fell across both the spiral knobs on the box's top and was instantly and violently knocked away in a shower of hot blue sparks. Max cursed and picked his knife back up.
"Tha’s why, Max me lad. Lightnin’ an’ metal dinnae mix well."
The young swordsman took a slight breather while Mory began poking the box gingerly with his staff. As he did so, the investigators noticed a small wisp of smoky substance starting to rise from out of the box. "Mmm," the conjuror commented sagely as he hurriedly ceased his poking. "Tha’ canna be good."
There was a muttered comment, which seemed to come from Ari's direction, regarding Moyrloch's "remarkable clarity on matters of the obvious", or some similar disparagement. Max fearlessly stepped forward, knife in hand again, not noting the rest (and possibly wiser) of the group had taken a step or two back. The spellcasters began to ready the offensive enchantments that they knew. Mory took much less time about it, but inexperience and lack of spell repetoire will do that.
"Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all," Topaz thought aloud. Looking back on this event, most if not all impartial observers would agree that this simple sentence was the most intelligent thing stated that day.
"Th’ road t’ ‘ell is paved wi’ good intentions." the burly mage countered obscurely, with a hint of a grin.
While all this sage advice was being handed out, Max had been applying a little direct action to the problem and had finally succeeded in prying loose one of the panels on the box's top, exposing three holes. They were small, perfectly in line, and each one the size of a small coin. "We should have shotguns for this," said Max.
"What’s a shotgun?" Mory, Topaz, and Ari said almost in unison.
"Never mind," sighed the swordsman, abandoning the attempt at humor as he studied the box again. "When in doubt..." he trailed off, poking the knife in one of the holes. The loud shout from the conjurer was almost enough to drown out the popping noise which preceded Max hurtling back almost his entire height in distance. His knife lay forgotten, smouldering and melting from the tip back. Max shook himself and grumbled something which in the interest of our younger readers it would be best not to repeat here.
Now, however, a maleficent-looking fog was oozing out of the holes in the box, hugging the ground as it spread quickly across the grass and began to billow evilly upward. Taken aback, the intrepid adventurers began to back toward the edge of the shielded area, staring in disbelief at the menacing greenish cloud taking shape in the air before their eyes. So intent were they upon the sight of the growing mass of airborne slime, they scarcely noticed the droning noise gaining in intensity. It did not escape their notice, however, that the evil fog seemed to steal the life from anything it touched, including the grass of the field, which browned and disintegrated as they watched. At this, their careful steps backward could be seen to quicken, and in moments they had gained the supposed safety of the outer shield.
"Now we’re getting somewhere," Max said under his breath, then began to cough. Moyrloch looked over with concern.
"Ye alrigh’, lad? Ye didnae breathe tha’ stuff, did ye?" The boy shook his head, and Topaz watched the fog begin to gather itself over the box, thinning out around the edges where it met the magic shield. Where the green gas had been, there was a ring of barren earth left behind.
"Vicious stuff," commented the fairy.
"Aye," agreed Moyrloch. Max and Ari said nothing, simply drawing steel. The fog over the box was becoming thicker, more palpable by the second. Time, it seemed to Topaz, was getting rather short, and with a quick flick of her hands she hurled a mage bolt flaming through her own shields directly at the menacing cloud. Magical energies exploded red and orange in the center of the ominous green mass, and a low growling issued from somewhere within. The four tightened their grips on their respective weapons.
"Wha’e’er that stuff is, I dinnae thin’ i’ liked tha." As the conjuror spoke, the orange glow from the mage strike faded quickly within the cloud.
"Doesn’t look like that hurt it much either." Lightning was starting to burst against the protective shields from the center of the fog - which, Mory noted, was coalescing even further, and growing...taller. Much taller.
"An’one else feel one o’ them cosmic 'I told ye so' speeches comin’ on? Cause I sure do. . ." the mage murmured, looking rather gaunt.
"Maybe we shouldn’t tell Amal about this," suggested Topaz as she eyed the alarming growth of the fog, "and thereby avoid giving her an opening for such a speech."
"Tell ye wha'. Le's worry more abou' 'ow we're goin' t' clean this up firs'. Then, if'n i's possible, we'll get intae nae tellin' Amal."
"There wouldn't possibly be any spells you two know that would get rid of that damned fog in there?" Max asked dubiously.
"Nae wi’ou’ gettin’ rid o’ th’ shield as well, Max me lad." Mory said with a calm he didn’t really feel. What he did feel was edgy. And it wasn't getting any better. Especially now that the evil-looking cloud was starting to assume a rather more distinctive shape, one that anyone who had encountered your standard genie-in-a-bottle would immediately find disturbing.
"This is rather fascinating."
"Tha’s nae th' word I'd use."
"Think it’ll go back into the box without our help?"
"Didn’t seem to want to be in there in the first place." And with that precise evaluation of the chances of an easy resolution of the situation, the conjuror began to ready his magics, mindful that they might be somewhat less than effective.
Topaz thought briefly and furiously. Fire hadn't worked. All right, how about ice? She summoned an arctic blast and flung frozen death into the fog. More lightning snapped and flickered within the clouds, but otherwise the scene was dismayingly unchanged. She tried to think of something to try next, but then the shields flickered, and she heard a terrible noise, uncomfortably much like a large axe crunching into a wooden shield, and with a roar and a burst of blinding sparks her magics shattered and exploded, and whatever she had been going to try next didn't seem to matter anymore.
Moyrloch had been about to make a suggestion to his teacher when the shield exploded, knocking her to the ground, and his words turned into a curse, then into a shout of warning as a huge axe swept down toward her out of the smoke. Before she could react, Arithon lept forward, swinging his longsword with speed and skill just in time to deflect the huge axe-blade, as Topaz rolled sideways and lept to her feet.
In desperation the conjuror flung a blade-spell, which he noted had about the same effect as a moderate sneeze on the monstrous being now standing before them. Full seven feet or more it towered above them, humanoid in form but demonic in appearance. Its bulging muscles were wrapped here and there with bits and pieces of leather and metal, much as if it had ripped its way through a crowd of warriors and, having consumed the lot, was still wearing the debris. Noxious green fumes, their stench overpowering, still clung to its body and drifted in poisonous streamers from the terrifying huge battle-axe, black as coal and threatening as a tax-collector, which the creature gripped in what can only be called hands because of their location at the end of its arms. Atop a thickly-muscled neck that would have made an NFL nose guard gasp in disbelief, the thing's smooth and shining skull surmounted two glowering eyes, burning fiery red, while the mouth was covered by some sort of armored guard, its uncanny resemblance to a grotesque surgeon's mask all too suggestive of the creature's probable intentions regarding the hapless four who had released it. All in all, the horrid visage of the monster would have dismayed even Darth Vader, or at least induced in the Dark Lord a severe case of projectile vomiting.
Appearances, as the man said, can be deceiving. Unfortunately the voice which now grated forth from behind the mask, and which made our intrepid heroes' stomachs roil even more, if that were possible, seemed to confirm their original diagnosis of their opponent as someone who would not be invited a second time for tea, assuming there were any survivors of the first occasion.
"Endoskeletal substances of miniscule proportions, the essences coil possessed by your frames will soon be given freedom."
It may be listed as a credit to our intrepid heroes that, in the face of horrendous danger, a small part of each of the four was able to take note of the monster's strange speech, which seemed much like the incomprehensible tongue they had found on the panels of the box. The rest of each of our heroes reacted instantly as heroes should, which is to say they scattered like the winds, calculating the odds favorable to getting only one person killed at a time. This premise seemed quickly justified when the creature began throwing large and painful-looking lightning bolts in the general direction of Moyrloch. (It may also be noted that the other three had never before seen the old conjuror move with such agility.)
Max, staying cool and collected - or possibly being completely clueless of just how much danger he was in - moved stealthily behind the creature, in hopes to strike it a mortal blow and true from the honorable position of ambush. Then they all again realigned their tactical positions, advancing to the rear as the fearsome battle-axe confronting them reshaped itself into a giant hammer, threatening to permanently redesign their kneecaps, if not their legs.
The conjurer, doing his best to live up to his title, began rapidly conjuring daggers and throwing them at the creature’s head, but these met the same fate as his spell, and melted even before making contact. This desperate attack, however, did provide enough of a distraction for Topaz to dart closer after a particularly mighty swing of the giant hammer, and from inside the monster's guard managed to strike its calf with a quick thrust of her rapier. This had the effect of enraging the creature, or at least mildly annoying it, and it stepped forward and turned to try and swat the pesky fluttering thing which had just stung it. The fairy, though, recognizing discretion to be the better part of extermination, had already backpedalled her wings as hard as they would go, and the monster's blow succeeded only in smashing against its own leg, which did little to improve its disposition.
Now truly out of sorts, the giant attempted to chase down each of the vermin before it and smash them in turn; but the vermin were uncooperative and displayed a dismaying ability to weave and dart away before the killing blows could be delivered. These pursuits took the monster hither and yon across the grassy sward in ever-increasing circles, and before long the combat had passed far from the spot where the box which had been the source of all the current excitement still sat in the middle of the circle of withered grass, trying its best to look inconspicuous.
As the astute reader will have gathered, our intrepid heroes had been able to dodge the monster's attacks; the tactics required, however, had been largely defensive in nature and precluded the opportunity of dealing their opponent any decisive blows. This, Max was feeling, was not only unsatisfying but contrary to his own combative instincts. Wisely perceiving the futility of close combat at the moment, but determined to maintain his honor as a doughty warrior, he coolly drew his trusty .50-caliber Desert Eagle pistol and snapped two quick shots at the monster’s neck. Both connected but didn’t seem to do an awful lot.
For his part, Ari was fully engaged in front of the giant, shifting rapidly in an attempt to keep its attention while skillfully parrying hammer-blows with his longsword. It was his professional experience that if you kept your enemy fighting long enough, he'd get tired, and then he would make a fatal mistake. He figured this should hold true even for demonic monsters that came out of a box, and he did seem to notice the swings of the huge hammer slowing down a little. He devoutly hoped the fatal mistake he was expecting would come before he himself ran out of steam.
Topaz had given up any ideas of physical attacks whatsoever, and had backed away to prepare a spell of banishment, combining three spells she’d used in the past for this purpose. One of the creature’s lightning bolts passed close enough to singe her sleeve, but despite her pique at the slight disfigurement of her favorite costume the fearless fairy did not allow her concentration to falter. This, she guessed, would probably be their only hope. She just prayed that it would be in time.
Mory, meanwhile, had decided enough was enough. He drew his family greatsword out of his cloak, ignoring the blade’s chuckling in the back of his mind. Using the power of the blade to enhance his own abilities, he charged in, dodging more lightning and even a couple of streams of acid which caused the ground to smoke where they struck. He felt the old Gaelic battle madness upon him, and with a cry only intelligible to his Highland ancestors, and their sheep, he pressed his attack. Ducking under the giant's massive weapon, he drove his blade with a mighty thrust deep in the beast’s stomach - to the hilt he drove it into the beast.
Fully engrossed as he was in his hero's blow, the Scotsman failed to notice the creature reaching for him until the monster’s hand was around his head. At this he let loose the blade, still entrenched in what he hoped were the demon's vitals, and attempted to knock the creature’s grasp loose with his fists; but to no avail. The pressure on his skull increased (and it would well to note, at this point, that he was lucky to be of HIghland lineage, for such pressure would have crushed a lesser skull). As from a great distance, he heard an all-too-familiar gratingly nauseating voice.
"There are sensations which only one such as myself can teach you in any measure of competence, of which this will be one." The conjuror only hoped that either his fellows would finish off the beast quickly, or that it would kill him before he had to listen to any more of its bewildering ravings, which he suspected even good whisky would never improve.
Seeing his comrade dangling from the monster’s fist, feebly beating on its arm, Arithon sprang to the rescue. Handling his longsword with the cold competence of an experienced professional warrior, he struck like a charging bull, piercing his enemy's shoulder with his deadly blade.
If getting the demon's attention was Ari's primary objective, then his attack can only be described as successful, although any other desired results might be called into question. For at receiving the warrior's strike, the monster apparently decided that using its helpless captive as a club, to pound the man who had just stabbed it, would be fun. It shifted its grip to the mage’s legs and swung him around at Ari, who deftly avoided being Scotched. Mory, who on occasion liked to think of himself as a weapon, but not like this, did the only thing he could do. He screamed. And kept on screaming.
This may have been the wrong tactic for Moyrloch to employ at this point, although in fairness it is difficult to imagine what else, under the circumstances, he could possibly do. Whatever the case, his captor repaid him for his efforts by temporarily planting his magical weapon into the soil, and then seizing the mage's left arm in one vicious clawed hand and his torso in the other. With a horrible and disgusting sound, disturbingly like something heard at a turkey dinner, the monster pulled in opposite directions and made a wish. Keeping the smaller piece, possibly for luck, it dropped the remaining portion of the now unconscious and much quieter conjuror to the ground.
This was the opportunity for which Topaz had been anxiously waiting. As the younger swordsman lunged fearlessly at the exposed and unguarded back of the evil wizard-whacker, the fairy unleashed all the fury of her magics at the monster, who was now not only bereft of weapon and wizard but also somewhat distracted in contemplation of whatever wish it had just made. Sword and spell struck as one. The beast recoiled and writhed under the dual assalt, and it seemed to Topaz as if it might be trying to cast counter-magic; but whatever it was attempting ran headlong into her spell's binding energies and exploded.
The blast knocked both the beast's assailants to the ground, in the process causing Max's trigger finger to tighten and his pistol to discharge. Ari, who somehow had managed to stay on his feet, rushed to the side of the fallen conjuror, who lay motionless on the blasted heath. Using what little magic he knew to heat his sword to red-hot, he laid it over the stump of Mory's arm, cauterizing the wound. He then pulled out a flask, ignoring the screams from his now-conscious patient, and poured a measure of the strong alcohol over the wound, then poured some in the mage’s mouth. This treatment promptly had a salutary effect upon the patient, who stopped screaming long enough to gasp a request for more, "an' don' be wastin' i' on the bluidy woun'!" Apparently Moyrloch would live. Quickly Arithon glanced at his other companions.
Max, it appeared, was on top of things. Ari noted with satisfaction that the boy was already getting back to his feet, Desert Eagle still in hand. The younger warrior advanced without hestitation upon their enemy - which was presently engaged in the unsettling process of dissolving back into a mist and heading for the safety of its box - took careful and determined aim, and rapidly emptied the rest of his ammunition into the target. The target answered this final insult by lashing out with its not-yet-dissolved hammer, a factor which Max had possibly omitted from his calculations, if indeed he had made any at all. This time the blow, aimed at the offending handgun, was not complicated by any defensive maneuvers, as it had been previously. The hammer struck Max's left arm hard enough to break the arm bone, drive the arm on into Max's ribs and crack two of them for good measure, and shove the young man's whole body off-balance and topple him to the ground. As a parting shot, Ari decided, it was pretty impressive. Live and learn, kid. He looked around.
Topaz lay on the ground, white with shock, as blood leaked from the hole in her shoulder where Max's accidental shot had managed to land. Max was holding his injured body parts with his good hand, a steady stream of curses that Ari had supposed beyond his education pouring steadily from his lips. Mory had ceased moaning and lay quietly, a blissful and familiar glaze over his eyes and near-empty flask clutched firmly in his remaining hand. Well, those two seemed fine, at least until he could send a coach for them. The warrior gently eased the fairy's limp form into his arms and started as quickly as he could down the path to the Beacon.