The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Around and above them swam a dozen or more sahuagin, herding the zombies toward an unknown destination. Lyim had never seen these legendary fish-men before, but had heard tales of their rapacious attacks on coastal towns and their utter brutality. He also knew they had a paralyzing fear of magic, and so he drifted in for a closer look.

  Their backs were blackish green, shading to white on their bellies. A dorsal-like fin, black at the base and shading outward to red at the spiny tips, marked each of their spines. Webbed fingers and toes made them fast swimmers; mouths filled with sharp fangs made them dangerous. That, and the assortment of crossbows, daggers, and spears they carried. Though in the body of a scrag, Lyim drew back instinctively behind some kelp-covered rubble.

  He didn’t see the shark until it was nearly too late. The mage could feel something part the water behind him. Spinning about slowly, he spied the frighteningly sleek and speedy creature rushing toward him, jaws spread wide. The polymorphed mage twisted aside, narrowly avoiding the razorlike teeth in that gigantic maw. His own huge claws raked across the shark’s flank as it sped past. Now spewing a thick plume of crimson, the shark turned and attacked again. But even its speed and power were no match for the brutal strength of the scrag. As it closed again, Lyim’s claws slipped beneath the creature’s belly and tore it open with one long slash. Thrashing wildly, the monster disappeared in a churning red cloud that sank slowly to the buildings below.

  Unfortunately, the brief fight had drawn the attention of the sahuagin guards. Immediately they abandoned their mindless zombie captives and rushed to attack the scrag, one of their most hated enemies. Half a dozen maneuvered to the left, another half a dozen to the right, with the rest coming straight on.

  Normally, this would have been a titanic struggle, given a scrag’s ability to regenerate itself almost instantly. The sahuagin, even with the advantage of numbers, would be hard-pressed to actually kill the sea troll. But Lyim was not in fact a scrag; he only had the form and strength of that monster. Without its regenerative power, he would quickly be overcome by small wounds.

  But the last thing the sahuagin expected from this foe was magic. Among the few things Lyim knew about sahuagin was that they detested light almost as much as they feared magic. Lyim’s claws raked out. He snatched up a handful of the faintly glowing moss that grew all over the ruins, then he muttered a single magical word. A ball of light erupted within the front ranks of onrushing fish-men. It was a simple light spell, one of the first that any apprentice learned. On land, it cast a pale blue light. Here, where light had not shone for hundreds of years, it seemed as if the sun had just risen in their midst.

  With hideous shrieks and guttural curses, the sahuagin scattered away from the hated brightness—all except the one on whom Lyim had actually cast the spell. Unable to escape, blinded, nearly insane with rage, it thrashed and writhed like a hooked fish.

  Another band of sahuagin now burst from the ruins to Lyim’s right and approached warily. Their foe was obviously no normal scrag. They appeared to be considering how best to attack when a bolt of lightning ripped into their ranks as a ball of flame, boiling the water around them. Five charred and stewed sahuagin sank slowly while the rest scattered toward cover.

  Lyim knew that, underwater, the usual bolt of lightning became a fiery ball and would not harm him if he cast it to form at least ten paces away from himself. He didn’t know that behind him, a third group rushed on unabated, perhaps thinking that speed was their only salvation. Before Lyim was even aware that they were within striking distance, a heavy net of woven kelp was drawn tightly around him. Both his snake and long scrag arms were pinned to his sides, despite the scrag’s great strength. He could not break free. Without freedom to move, Lyim could not cast spells. His struggles increased until the sharp claws on his webbed feet shredded the lower portion of the net, but still he remained tightly wrapped. His snake arm’s wild hissing erupted as bubbles. The sahuagin, true to their reputation, watched his plight with cruel amusement while anxiously fingering their wickedly barbed spears and tridents.

  Let the human pass.

  Lyim was startled to hear another creature’s voice inside his head. He was certain he’d not heard it with his ears, and yet it conveyed a direction, as if it were coming from behind him. He struggled to paddle himself around inside the net. Lyim’s sharp scrag eyes fell on the remains of the palace through the broken colonnade.

  Apparently the sahuagin heard the voice as well, because they immediately released their net lines and paddled away from Lyim and into the shadows of the rubble.

  Come to me, the voice commanded. This time it clearly came from the palace. Lyim freed himself from the slackened net and paddled through the broken sections of columns, swimming toward the palace. Rubble filled the courtyard within the colonnade, but Lyim floated above it unaware, eyes and thoughts focused on his destination. He set his long flat feet upon the right side of the crumbling staircase, stopping upon the balcony. Just beyond the seven archways was a towering central double door. He approached it slowly, walking instead of swimming across the undulating mosaic floor. Lyim was mildly surprised when the mossy doors swung open smoothly though slowly with only a light push.

  The room beyond was round, not unlike the rotunda of Lyim’s villa in Palanthas, which he appropriated after Belize’s death. In the center of the vast room was a dais, and upon it a throne, its carved marble back to Lyim. He kicked his scrag legs and swam around the dais. What he saw upon the seat of majesty made him gasp, bubbles hissing in a torrent through his razor-sharp teeth.

  Seated in the throne was a woman—assuming she had once been human—pinned to the marble seat-back by a harpoon through her chest. Hundreds of slender tendrils of living orange coral wrapped around the entire throne, as if the stuff had been dripped over the oracle like candle wax. Her head was unfettered, but it was as pale as death and bloated like the zombies. Her hair looked to be made of barnacles. Amurchin had dubbed her the Coral Oracle.

  “I thank you for your aid,” Lyim said smoothly, “though I could have managed the situation myself.”

  I think not, said the vaporous voice inside his head. That form severely hampers your magical abilities, Lyim Rhistadt. Though she resembled a zombie, the oracle’s eyes shifted with a light the undead did not possess as she evaluated the scrag.

  Her familiarity startled him. “How do you know my name?” Though she spoke telepathically to him, his words came out in bubbles. When the woman didn’t respond, only continued to stare, Lyim realized the answer himself and was encouraged. A legitimate seer would know who he was, and much more.

  “I’ve come,” he said, “to ask you to reveal the cure for my mutated hand.”

  I know. The oracle slowly blinked. Hold the limb in question to my cheek, she instructed. I must draw a sense of it.

  Reluctantly, the mage-turned-scrag swept his colorful snake hand up to one of her belly-white cheeks. To his surprise, the snake, though usually driven into a frenzy by others, was uncharacteristically calm and content. Lyim derived no sensation through the snake’s flesh, but he had a good imagination; she must feel like a bloated corpse.

  The woman’s expression softened slightly, as if the contact were pleasant for her as well. Abruptly she blinked again. I have the answer you seek.

  Lyim glided backward to a four-foot remove from the oracle and waited anxiously for her to continue, his bulbous scrag eyes searching her bloated face. “Tell me, please!”

  First you must do something for me.

  Lyim dropped back still farther, his fist clenching at his side. He had done more “favors” for self-serving informants and doddering mages over the last five years than he could remember, all in exchange for vague, often useless, snippets of information. “What is it you ask me to do?”

  A human must remove the harpoon from my chest to lift the curse that holds me here.

  Lyim paddled around to get a closer look at the encrusted weapon. “This”—Lyim indicated
her predicament with a graceful sweep of his elongated left arm—“was the result of a curse?”

  My entrapment here was, yes. My ability as a seer came to me naturally and was, in fact, partially the cause of the curse. It is a long tale—the story of my entire life—but I will tell it to you simply. I was Potentate Sullento’s favorite concubine, for more than the usual reasons.

  “I read about you!” exclaimed Lyim.

  She continued as if uninterrupted. From the start Sullento believed in and relied heavily on my skills as a seeress to manage the city. However, I was not his first or only mistress, but his fifth. The other four, old and fat shrews, grew more and more jealous as he turned all his attention away from them and entirely upon me. For a time I alone satisfied his every need. Not maliciously to deny them, I will tell you, but because it was my duty and my honor.

  But they, of course, did not see the diminishment of their power that way. Together, they whispered in his ear, whenever they were near enough, that I was no prophetess at all. They told him I was betraying him with a mage who made my predictions come true. The prophetess shrugged away a span of time and truthlessness with a blink of her eerie eyes. It was only a matter of time before Sullento, who for all his power was no more confident than any man, came to believe their lies, instead of my truthful denials.

  “You tried also to warn them of an approaching cataclysm,” interjected Lyim.

  She blinked again as if nodding. By then, Sullento no longer believed in me. To punish me and warn all others that no one was beyond his wrath, he bade his court wizard cast the curse whose first step imprisoned me thus. In a public ceremony Sullento himself inflicted the harpoon that sealed the curse. You see, he could not bring himself to kill me outright, and yet he knew no human would dare remove the harpoon and free me while he was ruler, for fear of retribution. And then the cataclysm struck, as I predicted, and there were no humans left alive to free me.

  “Surely I’m not the first to come seeking answers?”

  The first to seek me, no. Many have arrived over the centuries, but Itzan Klertal’s underwater inhabitants are even more inhospitable than the surface dwellers of Klertal were. Only two survived to reach me before you. One was a clever little dark-skinned elf named Amurchin, and the other was a denizen of the Abyss in the service of a human mage master. Neither could lift the curse. But you can; the curse will recognize your true human form.

  Lyim could certainly appreciate her desire to have the curse lifted, but he was reminded again of the useless leads for which he’d paid dearly. “Give me my answer first, and if it is adequate, I will gladly do as you ask.”

  I will not, she said firmly, the first true inflection in her voice.

  Lyim’s lips pulled back in a scowl that exposed his needlelike teeth. “I could destroy you with one spell!”

  That would be punishment for you and liberation of a kind for me, she said without guile.

  “What if I refuse?” he demanded, feeling backed into a corner.

  Then I will remain here, and you will still have no hand.

  Lyim heaved an inward sigh and briefly pondered his options, which were slim to none. He would never willingly leave without his answer. He consoled himself for giving in with the thought that he could always obliterate her afterward, if her words proved pointless.

  Planting his webbed feet at the base of the slick, kelp-covered throne, he wrapped the long green fingers of his left hand around the smooth harpoon shaft and tugged. It didn’t budge. Surprised at the difficulty, Lyim tucked the pole under his arm more firmly and pulled with all his might. The lance shifted. Summoning even more strength, Lyim was rewarded for his efforts when he felt the weapon shudder slightly. Probably a barb breaking off, he thought. And then it slid back, slowly at first but gaining speed. At last he wrenched the harpoon from the oracle’s chest. The effort sent Lyim spinning away from the dais. He dropped the harpoon and righted himself so that his eyes locked on the oracle in the throne.

  The vivid coral that crawled across her pale form, pinning her, cracked like glass and sank to the dais at her feet; the bloated woman broke free of the throne. Whatever dress she had once worn had disintegrated during more than three hundred years in salt water. Her hideous, blue-white body spun away, circling the room with a slow, jerky motion.

  I had forgot what it felt like to move, she breathed softly, examining every nook and cranny of the room with a child’s delight. The oracle paddled slowly, stiffly toward the wide-open door that led out to the sunken city, eager to see what was beyond.

  “Wait!” cried Lyim, swimming after her. “I freed you. Now pay me what you owe me!”

  The oracle paddled halfway about and regarded him over the hardness of her barnacle locks. You have been searching for a cure without knowing the true cause of your malady. The answer, and your arm, still lie within the dimensional bridge where it was lost. Seek the builder of the bridge.

  “Belize?” cried Lyim. “But he’s dead!”

  The dead are not beyond the reach of those who wield magic. The oracle’s eyes were focused over Lyim’s shoulder, at the world that lay beyond this room. No one knows that better than I, who have waited more than three centuries to punish the spirits of four shrews. Fare-thee-well, Lyim Rhistadt.

  Lyim’s dark scrag eyes watched her vaguely as she slithered out the door and disappeared into the murky city. The answer that had eluded him for so long had been under his nose from the start. Strangely, the realization left him with more questions than he’d had before coming to blasphemous Itzan Klertal.

  Dear Maladorigar,

  I am writing this without knowing if I will ever be allowed to send it. The rules regarding communicating with people outside Bastion are unclear. Perhaps this will help me sort through my thoughts, at any rate, and then I won’t feel so lonely.

  Zagarus and I arrived five months ago, although you would be able to calculate that better than I. Time is an odd thing here. There’s neither sun nor moons to mark the passing days. I am estimating time by the growth of my hair: one index finger joint every two months. With nowhere to go, it matters very little anyway.

  The Council of Three teleported Zag and me to the courtyard, or inner bailey, my bags in hand. It was as dark as ink, for there were no stars above. I felt dizzy, and it took several minutes for my eyes to adjust—to the darkness, I thought first. The immense building before me looked flat and seemed to waver as if in a summer heat wave. I closed my eyes and willed my body to stop swaying, as Justarius had instructed me. I opened them again when I could stand still for at least three heartbeats.

  The sight took me back five years, to a mountain valley in the morning shadows of Skullcap. I couldn’t help thinking of Esme and the time we had spent helping to build this marvel. I still miss her.

  Bastion’s outline fit the pattern in my memory: a short, flat-faced facade leading the way to the disparate designs of the three wings behind it. The facade is made of a mosaic of fired white porcelain, red granite, and black onyx to symbolize the working harmony of the three orders of magic. I could see that gargoyles—real, live ones—had been added to every ledge and arch on all three sections. Topiary trees and odd statues, carefully designed to cast realistic and frightening shadows in the odd, angled light, were also new to my eyes.

  One other new feature that I must comment on was almost imperceptible in the wan light until I got very close to Bastion. The entire edifice is covered, top to bottom and front to back, with runes, sigils, and mystic etchings of every variety. I’ve since spent much of my free time studying their design and have them nearly unraveled. The challenge of it kept me interested and active when I otherwise might have begun seriously missing my home and familiar sights.

  Seeing Bastion again after so long brought to mind something unexpected and long forgotten. Many years before the building of the stronghold, while I was an apprentice in Justarius’s house, Esme had talked me into watching my first theatrical production. I had not even heard o
f such things before coming to the big city of Palanthas. What impressed me most was not the story, or even the players, for I can remember nothing of either, but the backdrop that had been created for the stage. It was a street scene, with false shop fronts and homes that looked quite real in the odd greenwhite glow provided by the bowls of powdered lime and water that served as footlights.

  I realize this seems a long digression, but I tell you because if you have ever seen such a sight, you will understand how the exterior of Bastion looks now. Not dark, exactly, but very dimly lit from the bottom up. I felt as if I stood upon a stage, though I knew the building before me was not false-fronted, nor the darkness beyond the edges of my vision merely stage wings hidden by heavy curtains.

  I knew, too, that the frightening sounds around me did not come from actors in the wings, waiting to play the parts of hounds. Plaintive baying echoed from beyond the lacy wrought-iron fence that surrounds the stronghold. I could see red eyes glowing at an unknown distance, oddly shaped and placed; one here, three there, not like any wolves I had ever seen.

  Zagarus was pressed against my leg, for once speechless. To our mutual great relief, the enormous, arched door before us swung open on creaky hinges, flooding the courtyard at our feet with yellow light. I remember it only because I had not felt like such a rube since I arrived as an apprentice at Justarius’s villa those many years ago. My mouth hung agape, I am sure.

  “You’re here. Come in. I have too much to do to be standing in the doorway.” The voice was brisk, yet unmistakably female, and had the hint of an accent I still have been unable to place. Her face was entirely in shadow.