Original Link (now dead) - http://zone.msn.com/asheronscall/ASHEcoldsun.asp
A Cold Derethian Sun
The easterly wind brought with it scents of the open sea, causing his swift step to slow; they reminded him of home. Was that the fragrance of a Sho wedding pyre, caught up in a moment of carelessness and spirited across the vast mystic reaches, to be exhaled slowly on this faraway beach? Even if it wasn't, the memory of Ispar, Miko's homeworld, lay heavy upon his heart.
The archer could feel the chill of the breeze clearly, even through the finely crafted links of the golden coif protecting his white-maned head. His patron Gunnar had given it to him, back when Gunnar had still been a Shayk, for “outstanding service”, although it had not been given to keep his ears warm.
Today his patron had called upon him again, to lead the way west along the beach, for a foray to what was called the Smuggler's Hideaway by the locals at Tou-Tou.
Running with them was the mysterious entity whose Sho name translated roughly to "Shadowblade." Like Dereth itself, a land of physical beauty that nevertheless nurtured the deadliest creatures close to its bosom, this man was a paradox: heavily armored but fleet-footed enough to nearly keep pace with the archer himself; a deadly fighter who disdained the use of weapons; an alchemist and archer who not only wielded his bow with astounding accuracy, but also built its deadly elemental missiles.
The faded Derethian sun could not warm Mikodemus's face as his legs waded into the surf. That islet there, a few hundred yards from shore, would be the hideaway. The stone walls of a rotting keep were clearly visible.
Gunnar, whose thin face shadowed the dry dunes of the Gharu'ndim Wastes, exhaled into his hands. "It's getting colder," he said, his flat, black eyes scanning the shallows ahead. His voice sounded as if someone were dragging a knife through sand. "If there is a way in, let's find it." Shadowblade, face hidden by a massive, horned helm, gave the merest nod. The air tingled, and Miko heard the sounds of the Desert Mage draping himself in magical armor.
They had waded almost the entire way before the lurker fell upon them, hissing and snarling in frothy anger. Spinning to face the thing, the mage raised his wand. Even as Mikodemus relaxed his breathing and notched an arrow, he knew how calmly detached his patron would face the lurker; even as it tore at his legs, it's terrible jaws seeking only to rend, he sang out the arcane formula with consistent perfection. What terrors must a man have survived to face a shallows lurker with such stoicism? Shadowblade had swung into action even before the mage, lunging at the lurker as it burst from the shallows.
The powers of steel and fire and ice burst forth from Gunnar's wand, engulfing the foul creature in a deadly storm of its own. The archer added his own lethal hail to the violent mix. When an arrow finally took it through the eyes, it dropped out of sight, the knee-deep water taking it to its final embrace. The lurker was fighting for its territory, but the sea knew nothing of this; in moments, as Miko stepped up onto the beach, the ocean was once again calm, its smooth surface uncaring. Gunnar joined him. "The beast might have watched where it was splashing all that water," he observed wryly. "Wet spell components are just so much salad."
Flashes of light reflected off Shadowblade's armour as he trotted higher to get a better view of the old keep. "I can't see a way in," he called, a gauntleted hand shading his eyes from the sun. Suddenly he scrambled farther up the slope. "Gromnie!" he shouted excitedly, before disappearing beyond the rise. Miko scrambled up after him, bow in hand.
"You rush in where Asheron fears to tread," their patron called after them. "Will you wait a moment?" There was no mistaking the exasperation in his voice. "I need to draw in some more mana! Hold!"
It was too late. The gromnie, this one the color of a clear blue sky, was initially startled to find a fully armored man bearing down on it from the small dune; unfortunately its surprise was only momentary. Turning with a speed that belied its bulk, it lowered its head and lumbered into a charge. If anything, Miko thought, Shadowblade accelerated. The man's enthusiasm was remarkable.
Every heartbeat counted, the archer knew. What was it, sixty, seventy yards? He slammed a bundle of broadhead arrows heads down into the soft sand before him, and planted his feet as firmly as he could. The bow in his hand, one of Lilitha's finest, would have to prove itself to him at this range. Miko missed his Sho yumi, which easily ranged this weapon.
Clearing his mind and calming his breathing was the work of an instant. He was aware of the freshening breeze, automatically adjusting his aim in response. Luckily he was not shooting into the sun. Aim low, he decided . . .
In rapid succession, he began loosing shafts, the next one in place almost before the last one had fully begun to fly. The gromnie howled its ire as razor sharp arrowheads began to threaten its very life. Although Shadowblade had succeeded in pummeling the creature's snout to a frothy mass, the beast turned its attention to the newer, deadlier threat.
Gromnies were tough, but not very smart. Having the armored creature lumber straight toward him was all the archer needed for that final throat shot. Stoically standing in place, only vaguely aware of the Desert Mage taking his place off to one side, Miko raised what he knew would be the slaying arrow shaft to his cheek. The wounded beast had left a trail of thick blood on the white sand.
At five paces he finished it. Silently thanking the spirit of Lilitha, he gathered the rest of his broadheads. When he straightened, Gunnar was watching him. "You are an artisan, Mikodemus. I have never seen as finely crafted kills."
The archer sought the calm of his meditation stone back on Ispar. Every day he spent away from his home it became harder to imagine its scents, its contours, its texture. How soon before he lost forever that tenuous link to his homeworld? "The Maulan's praise is not deserved," he murmured.
"Nonsense," Gunnar's thin voice rasped. "You must learn to accept compliments, Jinin. I know the Sho think they are, but in the end no one is alone on this island. We must all learn to work together, if we are to survive the Olthoi scourge." The Mage winked and turned toward the keep, his long stride eating up paces quickly.
Miko sensed, more than heard, Shadowblade step up beside him. The crazy one -- Miko had quietly dubbed him this -- tapped a chainmail-sheathed arm with a gauntleted hand. "You see this scratch? One of your arrows almost nicked me," he deadpanned. "Pretty soon you'll be missing altogether, yes?"
The archer sprang after his Maulan. "Not possible," he called back, grinning. "You will pick up a weapon first."
"Hey," Shadowblade shouted. "Don't be insulting. And wait up! We can't all be as swift as a black rabbit!"
As the weathered stone of the Smuggler's Keep rose before them, Miko again felt the cool sea breeze in his coif. It was more than impossible, but the archer would have staked his honor upon it that a Sho wedding pyre was blazing not five hundred yards from here. Was he caught in the breathy memory of Ispar again? He put it out of his mind forcibly. It was time to focus on the task at hand; it was time to ground himself in the scent of Dereth.
Behind, Shadowblade's heavy footfall furrowed the fine sand. Ahead, the Desert Mage studied the impenetrable walls, lost in his own thoughts; and still the cold Derethian sun beat down on him, steadfastly refusing to warm his face.
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