The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [69]
Just before hitting, his defense slipped and he felt the hot piercing sting of the fiend's barbed tail bite into his side. There was no time to cry out as they slammed into the stone. He managed to swing his axe as reality twisted and rolled around him. He heard the varrangoin scream and saw it falling away, one slashed wing twitching as it disappeared into darkness. He quickly rose to one knee and winced at the blinding pain in his side. Looking over his shoulder, the top of the tower lay far closer than he'd expected after the last fall.
Rising to his feet, aching joints screamed in pain as the beast's poison took hold. Spasms wracked his muscles and he struggled to hang on, to ignore the pain long enough for one more effort. Screeching in excitement, the rest of the flock drew closer, their chase almost at an end.
Breathing raggedly, he fumbled in his robes for a small clump of rose petals. He forced out the words of the spell, intoning them carefully and timing the syllables to the nearness of the varrangoin.
Just as their eyes dimmed in the light of his axe, their needle-sharp fangs glistening and long tails twitching, he tossed the petals in the air before them. The air shimmered and grew thick, slowing the creatures. They sniffed and blinked, wings beating at the air sporadically, faltering as they shook their heads, making sneezing noises. Drifting back, one by one, their glowing eyes fluttered as an arcane slumber overcame them.
Bastun wheezed as the rage left him. He lay shaking in a pain that grew by the heartbeat. He crawled, barely hearing the faint sound of bodies smashing against the rocks below. The gravity spell kept him from joining the fiends, but it would not last indefinitely.
Reaching one hand over the edge, he pulled himself up, raising one leg onto the floor just as his other fell straight with the normal pull of gravity. His stomach turned, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Flexing his fingers, forcing them to work, he removed his mask. Rolling slowly onto his side, he began pulling pouches from his belt. He made a pile, studying the contents of each pocket. Shivering with fever, he picked at the items, finding the things he needed, cursing and talking to himself.
"Leave Rashemen? Live by my own rules? Find honor in my own battles? Excellent idea, Bastun." He groaned, tremblingas spasms churned his gut. Grasping a small flask of liquid, he set it aside and kept at his search. "Trade one isolation for another, leave pointing fingers and dishonor for undead soldiers, frozen corpses, tiefling assassins, and flocks of Abyss-spawned acid-spewing demon-bats."
With a handful of herbs he whispered a cantrip, then set them down carefully as they began to smoke and smolder. As the herbs charred and the smoke lessened, he collected and crushed the ashes. Pouring them into the flask, he closed it and shook the contents to mix them.
"Well," he said, teeth chattering, "here's to adventure."
He tipped the flask to his lips and downed as much of the mixture as he could before coughing and spitting. The foul taste of the Rashemi firewine and the burnt herbs flooded his mouth and nostrils. He had come by the idea of using jhuild as a catalyst for simple potions quite by accident, finding some of the stuff left behind by fellow apprentices. Its nearly poisonous properties made it an interesting candidate for treating poisons found in nature and elsewhere. Unfortunately, when enchanted by the right herbs, it became the antidote equivalent of cauterizing a severed limb.
Flashes of pain shot through his body, and he fought to contain his screams. Throat burning and blood boiling, he felt as if he were melting. Pain shuddered through his body. Bright spots danced on the inside of his eyelids. He fell onto his back, letting the potion take hold, breathing deep as fresh snow melted on his cheeks, joining the tears that streamed from his eyes.
Time disappeared as exhaustion replaced pain. Though his mind was alert, he waited for feeling to return in his extremities.