The Shattered Land_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [61]
The creature nodded and slowly rose to its feet. It indicated that they should follow it with a motion of one curved claw, then lumbered down the passage.
“I did not realize I had such a champion to protect me,” Lakashtai said, her ghostly smile flickering into view, “but please, keep your sword in its sheath for the rest of this visit.”
Kuryeva!” the goblin merchant called, leering with rotting teeth as he offered his wares. “A fine skin of kuryeva to warm the darkest night!”
The street was a riot of color and noise, swirling around Pierce and Lei. In plotting their route back to the Ship’s Cat, Gerrion had taken pains to send them along crowded streets, believing that the Riedrans would avoid a fight in a public place. As damaged as he was, Pierce found himself wishing that they’d taking a quieter path—a pack of assassins seemed preferable to the milling crowd.
“Gurk’ash! Gurk’ash meat and milk, a luxury no traveler should do without!”
“A comb for the lady? Such lovely hair should be treated with care.”
Pierce stepped in front of the last speaker, a dwarf with greasy gray hair and a patchy beard. He reeked of sweat and ale. Comb-seller or no, given the man’s knowledge of hygiene Pierce suspected that larceny was his true goal.
Even as he pushed the dwarf aside, Pierce recognized the foolishness of his actions. Lei had shown herself to be quite capable of dealing with the cutpurses of Sharn. Given his current condition, if it came to a fight he would be wiser to let Lei take point. While Lei’s magical talents had restored him to consciousness, Pierce was still grievously damaged: combat would be most unwise.
Pain was a familiar feeling for Pierce. Shame was not.
The sensation of physical injury was quite different for warforged and humans. Pierce was aware of the damage that he suffered. Just as he could feel the stone when he touched a wall, he could feel the claws that tore through his innards. After the shock of the initial blow, the pain lingered, a continuing reminder of his condition. It was simply a part of how he perceived the world. He could sense each root-like tendril that ran throughout his body. He knew that six of the cords in his waist were severed, while four more were severely damaged. There was a long gash on the mithral plate of his upper left torso, and the alchemical reservoir below had suffered minor damage. There was no escape from this knowledge: even when he was fully repaired, he would feel the minor shifting in his ligaments with every motion, the constant balance of the self-replenishing fluids that kept his organic components flexible. For a human, it would be like sensing every second of the aging process, being constantly aware of the growing voice of hunger and thirst, feeling even the faintest touch of rot and cancer as they laid claim to his body, yet these things didn’t bother Pierce. This was a part of his existence and always had been.
While Lei could restore Pierce’s body, his pride was another matter. Pierce’s life to this point had been defined by his ability to perform his task and protect his allies. This was not the first time he had been seriously damaged, but it seemed that he had failed on multiple levels. First there was the frustration of the malady that had befallen Daine. Pierce could face any foe on the battlefield, but this concept of an enemy within dreams—Pierce could not even sleep, let alone dream. His inability to help Daine had been gnawing at his mind for the last week, far worse than any physical pain, and now he had failed again. He was a scout, and he’d fought Valenar commandoes in the woods of Cyre, yet he’d been surprised by Riedran assassins last night, and he’d fallen prey to the psychic attack that Daine had found the strength to resist. Now he’d been nearly torn apart—by another creature of magic and metal.
Was he flawed, or was lack of action to blame—had the relatively peaceful life of the last six months dulled his skills?
“Are you all right?