Cythera Chronicles: Collusion, Chp. 4-6

Chapter 4
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Marchal sat on a recently fallen tree, his head rested between his hands.

Why?

How did he get into this? He indulged in introspection, contemplating the events of the last day and a half. The capture of Rothan in the tavern, being arrested and carted off, the Shroomish... it all was a blur.

Would he survive? Go home to see his wife? He’d just married her a month ago. The thought of never seeing her again deeply saddened Marchal.

What had become of Horgan? Had even the staunchly loyal dwarf abandoned him?

He hadn’t slept in what seemed like days, and his thinking faded into sleep.

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Horgan placed the final branch upon the pyre he’d built for the soldier. Cremation was not a dwarven custom, but was acceptable in cases where the body of someone presented a risk to the living, such as this one did. Who knew if the parasites within it were dead with their host?

He lit the pyre with his tender and firerock, watching as the flames ascended the wood.

It was traditional for a dwarf attending the funeral of a fallen warrior to recall the accomplishments of the dead one, but there was nobody to hear the words, nor any words to say, for Horgan knew nothing of the man or his deeds.

He stood for a few moments in unaccustomed silence, then headed into the woods, hoping Marchal had managed to escape the Shroomish attackers.

As he tromped through the woody grasses and shrubbery, Horgan’s thoughts became agitated, begging him to give in to the fears that Shroomish might have designs on Cythera. And if they could now live in warmer climates, might they ever descend into the Dwarven lands?

Was anyone safe from the wiles of the Shroomish?

He could not be sure. He doubted any human or dwarf knew.

Horgan stopped for a moment. He looked for signs of recent passage through the area, such as broken twigs low to the ground, footprints, and other more subtle disturbances in nature.

This time, he didn’t need the presence of a crushed reed to tell him a confrontation had taken place here. A burnt, blackened circle was charred into the forest bed, marking the place where a bomb had exploded. Horgan proceeded to examine the area. It did not take his expert tracking skills long to find a pull-tab striker from the bomb. Emblazoned with the inscription ‘EMPIRE ARMAMENTS’, it bore witness to the fact that the bomb had been made in the Coastal Empire, and had probably been imported into Cythera. Not an important detail, Horgan reasoned as he dropped the tab. It only confirmed that it had belonged to one of the soldiers, who probably were armed with the same standard arsenal throughout the confederation.

There didn’t seem to be any bodies or other evidence of injury nearby, he concluded that this device missed its mark.

Moving on, He noted a second blast crater. It did not seem to have resulted in a casualty either, and was thus of little interest. The Shroomish did not bury or burn their dead, nor the others they killed. If they’d murdered Marchal, he’d find the body in the open. Though it was not a pleasant thought, it would at least make his job simpler.

However, Horgan held on to the belief that Marchal was not dead. He hoped the belief was well founded.

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Chapter 5

Marchal, in the netherworld of dreams, imagined himself to be back at home, in his family’s farm outside Kosha.

Dusty evening light filtered through the attic’s window, illuminating the myriad items stuffed away here.

Marchal’s past self rummaged through a wooden chest, its lapis blue paint flaking with age. Each item removed from the blue chest was more curious than the next.

A shiny helm, painted in Pournellian symbols, and lined with soft goat skin. An old, worn map of Cythera, inked with brilliant ocher and malachite dyes.

Each relic had a story, he knew. "Father, what’s this one?" he asked, as he lifted a long sword from the box.
It was engraved with runes, and had been well cared for.

"That was my father’s favorite sword. He restored it himself, a long time ago." Marchal’s father picked up the weapon, examining it.

While his father pondered the sword, Marchal’s attention came to a small, iron box. It was possessed of leather straps and brass fasteners, and looked rugged. The top of the box was inscribed with a gilded skull and crossbones.

As he lifted the box, Marchal’s bygone self let his imagination examine the possibilities. Pirate treasure? The tools of a Jar-hanin assassin? Who could know what such a container could hold?

Suddenly, he noticed something... odd. No, disturbing. It wasn’t an ordinary skull. Something was wrong with it, the features were slanted upwards, and bore a sickening, terrifying aura. He was sure it hadn’t look that way a second ago.

With a jolt, the box began to shake. Wildly. Marchal’s father’s attention was drawn to the box instantly.

As the container spasmed with horrific fury, one of the straps snapped. A thin, leathery tendril emerged from the gap, pushing and prying the lid open.

"Run!" Marchal took to flight alongside his father, but it was too late. A final sickening crack rent the bonds of the box’s hinge, losing the monster within.

We are Shroomish. We act for the Overmind.

The node lashed out with it’s powerful tendrils, which grew in size to ensnare Marchal’s foot.

Prepare to accept us.

Marchal fought to back away futilely. He was being dragged into the darkness of the box, into the evil maw of the Shroomish within.

He clawed at the hardwood floor, splinters jamming into his fingertips, but he couldn’t get a grip. Suddenly, he spied a knothole. He plunged his fingers into the hole. Bracing himself, he managed to gain a foothold. Perhaps, might he have a chance to live?

Just as he dared let hope creep into his mind, the floor turned mirror-smooth. The hole sealed up, forcing his fingers out. He was being drawn into the box.

No, he wasn’t. This wasn’t the attic anymore, it was a funnel. He was falling down a funnel. A funnel that lead straight into the withering aperture of the box, abuzz with thousands of tendrils. Blackness overtook Marchal as he plummeted into the funnel’s tip. Shaking, now. Was this what it was like to be invaded by the Shroomish?

There was a voice... calling him.

Marchal!

Marchal! Wake Up!

In a pop of awareness, Marchal faded form the brink of oblivion and was back in the relative safety of the forest.

He awoke to the sight of a oft-seen face, that of Horgan. "Are you all right?"

Uggg... he certainly didn’t feel ‘all right.’ "I’m fine..." he said.

Marchal picked himself wearily up from the log serving as his seat, and dusted himself off.

"What time is it?" He queried Horgan.

"Five notches past apogee, or, as humans call it, three o’clock."

Marchal silently nodded as he returned to the log. "I had a terrible dream."

Horgan then spoke. "Dwarves are not dreamers, not like humans. It’s rare indeed for us to dream naturally. In the times past, the dwarven oracles would inhale the smoke of the burning garalt weed to induce a dream. That reminds me of the time when my brother Jorshan discovered the secret garden of the oracle in Tolten..."

Marchal sat listening to Horgan’s story, gradually rebuilding his tattered psyche.

In a few minutes, Marchal felt more refreshed and was ready to move on.

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"Do you think we’ll make the skydock by nightfall?" Marchal asked Horgan, the life returned to his voice.

"I should say so, given that we keep a brisk pace. We need be more mindful that we get there before the last zeppelin bound for Mevren, lest we have to delay. And it does not take a genius to figure that we best be moving along from here," Horgan answered.

Marchal inquired again. "Do you think the Shroomish know we’re alive?"

"Yes. And it doesn't help that you may be a fugitive, Marchal. Be thankful the soldiers didn’t make it back to the city, or they’d have alerted the skydock and we’d have to travel by boat."

Marchal shuddered at the thought of how perilous such a voyage would be. He’d nearly been lost at sea as a boy, when a gale had blown his small raft out to sea. It’d been a harrowing two days before a passing zeppelin spotted him and he’d been rescued.

"So, you’re sure this ‘Talaris’ will know what to do?" Marchal asked.

"Talaris is the foremost biologist in the world. If anyone will be able to explain what we’ve seen, it would be her. Besides, the Mevren institute is home to the greatest minds of Cythera."

Marchal conceded the point, and the twosome continued through the road.

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The Catamarca Skydock bustled with activity throughout the day and night, every day of the year. Built on top of the workshop Talm used to construct his balloon, the facility was one of three skydocks on Cythera. Vendors yelled out to travelers, trying to entice them to purchase Tashmurak signaler drums, or sample some Dwarven food. Marchal observed a imperial tradesman trying to pawn off imitation ‘Milcom’ swords to a largely ignorant tourist.

"Which one of these zeppelins do we board?" asked Marchal as he gazed out glass window of the skydock at the tethered airships. They were quite elongated, with passenger baskets hanging beneath huge balloons. Passengers were beginning to board one of the smaller vessels, which bore markings of Dwarven origin. The mountains made direct air travel to the Dwarven league difficult, a roundabout route had to be taken to avoid them.

"We’ll be riding in that one, according to the pamphlet," answered Horgan, as he pointed to a craft being unloaded. The vessel looked sturdy enough, though it was of the older hydrogen type, rather than a newer helium vessel.

As dock workers began loading the engine with coal from the elevator basket, Marchal and Horgan began heading up the docking tower, unaware that the most difficult challenge was soon forthcoming.

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Marchal tried to get comfortable on the airship’s wicker bench, but to no avail. The paper-thin cushion did little help. Marchal looked out the open zeppelin window. The sun had set, the forests cast once again into the powers of the wolflizard and harpies. Woe to the unarmed wanderer who dared travel at night. Though the bandits were few in recent decades, animals knew no fear of the law.

A cold breeze struck Marchal’s cheek, urging him to withdraw his head into the confines of the zeppelin’s wicker and wooden underbelly.

Horgan, seated adjacent to him, was already asleep. Marchal concluded that it was indeed an ideal time to get some rest, and closed his eyes.

Just as he was beginning to slumber, a jolt awoke Marchal as the airship took off. The single oil lantern hanging from center of the cabin ceiling sent bands of ruddy light cascading across the passengers. One could easily spot the first-time fliers in the gaggle, they showed the universal signs of alarm. The other, more experienced travelers paid little heed to the bump, it was typical to all zeppelins.

As the pendulum-like bands of lantern light stabilized, one flicker caught a dark-brown mushroomlike form emerging from a piece of luggage.

No one took note of it, it continued executing it’s telltale plan unabated.

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Chapter 6

Horgan reentered the realm of consciousness to the screams of frantic passengers. The Zephlin’s cabin was ablaze!

The flames worked their way forward unrelentingly over the wicker walls, threatening to consume all in their path.

Horgan’s mind searched for the cause of the fire. If it had resulted from the boiler or engine room, the fire would be coming from the back. If it had been the lamp, the midsection would be the locus of conflagration. But rather, it came from the front. In an instant, he was enlightened with the cause of the fire.

"We are Shroomish. We are acting for the Overmind!" shouted the zeppelin’s pilot, as he walked forward from the control bridge. In his hand was a naked oil lamp.

"We regret that you will be unable to join us in the bliss of serving the Overmind."

The pilot, under the power of the Shroomish, hurled the lamp down the center of the passenger cabin. It exploded, showering the surroundings with flaming oil.

Marchal, having joined Horgan in consciousness, jumped over the seats and into the back row. In the ruckus of the next few seconds, it was unclear to everyone what exactly happened. Under the influence of surging adrenaline, Horgan and Marchal escaped the embattled cabin and found themselves in the engine room.

The engine room was a cramped, twenty-foot wide room filled from floor to low ceiling with machinery. It was alternatively pulsing, clanking or spouting steam. It was clear to anyone that the workings had been sabotaged.

"What now?" asked Marchal, the urgency in his voice more than evident.

"We’ve got to find something that floats!" Horgan returned, hoping it was obvious.

"... And remove it from this thing, so we don’t have a flaming airship land on us!" he finished.

Marchal nodded, and the two split up, scouring the engine room for an appropriate object.

It did not take long for Marchal to track down a large cargo barrel being used to store coal for the engine. It was not a moment to soon, the fire had begun to spread into the engine room.

"Over here!" Marchal yelled at the top of his lungs.

Horgan could barely make out Marchal’s form through the rapidly thickening acrid smoke. Horgan bolted for the barrel as Marchal began emptying it of coal.

Horgan never made it to the barrel.

A poison dart caught the dwarf in the neck, fired by the cowardly saboteur. "We are Shroomish. We have acted for the Overmind," calmly spoke a coal-loader as he emerged from the shadows. The dart gun was still in his hand.

As Horgan lay dying on the engine room floor, Marchal was in shock at what had just happened. In a scant five seconds, everything had changed.

But Marchal knew if he was to avoid the fate of his comrade, he’d have to act fast. Marchal drew his sword as the Shroomish host reloaded the evil dart gun.

Filled with rage at the murder of Horgan, he charged the machination. His sword found its mark in the center of the host’s chest.

Marchal’s next reaction was one of fear. The host was utterly unfazed.

Despite began impaled in a fashion that would have easily ending the life of a normal person, the coal-loader grabbed Marchal’s sword and swung him into the cast iron boiler.

Marchal fought to remain conscious as his head impacted upon the boilerplate. The host pulled the sword from its chest and prepared to use the weapon to finish Marchal off for good. He moved away just as the sword impacted the place where his head would have been seconds ago. Deflecting of the boiler, the weapon grazed Marchal’s arm as he crawled away.

The host, not easily dissuaded, made a second attack, forcing Marchal into a corner.

It raised the sword appropriated form Marchal, and attempted a killing blow. Suddenly, an overhead pipe burst, sending superheated shrapnel and steam all over the room. One piece of metal neatly extracted the sword from the host’s hand. The sword fell through the air and landed inches from Marchal’s torso - a close call. As hot steam expelled the air from the room, he frantically scurried away from the host. Marchal climbed the rear escape ladder, and bashed open the outer hatch. As the turned around to escape, Marchal noticed the host was not in pursuit.

What could have shaken the tireless pursuit of the abomination?

Marchal’s gaze fell back into the room’s corner. The Host lay dead!

Marchal recalled in an instant the cause - Shroomish can not tolerate high heat!

The steam must have pushed them over the limit, making them lose control of the host and perish. It also explained why the crazed zeppelin pilot had not ended up back here, he’d trapped himself between two advancing walls of fire.

Marchal looked out, examining the rapidly approaching ocean for something to cling too. Then, he saw it - a Tatrinaian Whaling ship!

It’s navigation lanterns stood out like a beacon against the midnight-black sea. As the ocean got within safe distance, Marchal jumped from the hatch and into the hands of gravity.

Marchal, treading water and barely conscious, watched as the burning zeppelin’s hydrogen bag caught fire, exploding in the biggest fireball he’d ever seen. The flaming cabin fell into the sea, hitting the water with a catastrophic hiss. The ocean extinguished the flames as quickly as the fire had extinguished so many lives.

(To be continued)

[This message has been edited by moderator (edited 05-07-2002).]

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