Darkvision - Bruce R. Cordell [11]
But what about when mortal strength was overcome by crazy bursts of potency and perception?
"Why did you wake up?" Warian addressed his arm, as he had done before. His prosthesis remained dull and barely responsive, offering no clues. He tried to will it back to life, yet nothing happened, as if nothing had ever happened. All his attempts to elicit a response from his arm since he'd fled the tavern had proven equally fruitless.
"It must be something they're experimenting with back in Vaelan," Warian murmured. Something he needed to know about, and soon. If he accidentally hurt Yasha, who might he inadvertently harm next? Or worse, kill?
Was Xaemar pushing Shaddon to empower the crystal lode with power in some mad scheme to propel Datharathi Minerals to the top of the trade empire in Durpar? Or was Shaddon, always a sneaky bastard in Warian's estimation, pursuing some crazy plot of his own? A plot that had momentarily woken a dangerous strength in Warian's prosthesis.
A strength, truth to tell, Warian wished to wield again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thormud Horn used his moon white selenite rod to scribe a circle in the fine gravel. His grimy hands, thick with the soil of the world he so cherished, guided the rod with supernatural grace and accuracy. So it was when the dwarf geomancer immersed himself in the medium of his expertise. Thormud's constant companion, a tiny replica of a dragon carved in opal, roosted on the dwarf's right shoulder. Its name was Xet.
Kiril Duskmourn took a pull from her hip flask. The whisky hit the back of her throat like smoke, cleared her nostrils, and trickled down to warm her stomach. She watched the dwarf continue his methodical inscription in the loose soil atop the mesa. Kiril had watched Thormud inscribe similar circles nearly every day for the last ten years, or so it sometimes seemed.
Kiril's sword was rarely required to protect her employer, thank all the gods of Sildeyuir. Yet she maintained her vigil. Thormud's coin was good, but more importantly, few of her own elf race (or any race, for that matter) would put up with her. Kiril's excessive cursing and bouts of near-alcoholism were traits elves generally shunned. As a rule, elves preferred the fruit of the vine, not the distilled products of root and fruit. But who could carry such a burden as hers without some comfort? Kiril's ill-famed blade was her strength and her curse, and the whisky helped her through. She doubted any of her hidden kin would last a hundred days, let alone a hundred years, with Angul strapped to a hip.
Kiril upended her flask, her eyesight threatening to blur and her hand shaking slightly. She'd reached an accommodation with her fate that suited her.
Thormud paused for a time, then he spoke. "Again, the prognostication fails." Thormud's voice was low and melodious, a voice that belonged to a trained performer on the streets of Gheldaneth, not to a crusty dwarf geomancer who lived alone in the Mulhorand scrublands. Alone but for his surly bodyguard and diminutive familiar.
"Again, you say," said Kiril in a lazy, I-don't-much-care tone.
Thormud looked at her, one hand rubbing the chin hidden below his black and gray beard. Xet loosed a call like a chime and launched from the dwarf's shoulder into the hazy sunshine. A few rags of white cloud fluttered in the otherwise vacuous blue sky.
Kiril watched the tiny construct fly toward the edge of the mesa, then dip below its rim, out of sight. "Good riddance," she muttered.
Thormud spoke. "Yes, Kiril. As you no doubt recall, all my recent prognostications have come to naught."
Kiril sighed, then said, "And you still don't know why? Maybe your wits are departing as age creeps up on you."
Thormud considered and nodded. "I checked that possibility. Fortunately for your continued commission, I find my faculties remain as sharp as ever. The trouble lies elsewhere."
"Trouble?" wondered Kiril, slightly interested despite her studied detachment.
"As you've