the surrounding waters.
As the alien form crumples, Vin sees an open window beyond. Freedom! Even with such a magnificent weapon, he can't hope to fight off an entire clan. The ruby bracelet senses a change in tactics and floods his stomach with raw fear. The will to fight evaporates, replaced with a single prerogative: flee.
Holding the sword out before him, Vin leaps for the window.
* * *
Down. The sensation of dropping, of several bodies in a tightly-packed space.
"He mentioned an appointment with Dr. Dorian."
"Dorian will want to see him, alright. Look at that thing on his wrist."
A woman's voice. A man's voice.
"I think he should be checked out, first. He's not well."
A snort. "This is a museum, not a bloody free clinic."
Vin felt firm leather beneath him. He was sitting with his head lolled forward. A wheelchair?
But then came a noise, over the creak of what he realized were elevator cables. The sound drew him even further down, inside himself.
Splashing.
* * *
He plunges into frothing water, cold for only a moment. When he comes up again the barges of the Rogue Clan are behind him, alive with shouts and lamplight.
To his left: the faint glimmer of beach, and jungle foliage just beyond. Sword in one hand, he begins to paddle in that direction.
But the waters around him are frothing for a reason. A hundred pairs of glowing yellow orbs stare up from the murk below. The rest of the Deep Folk's wedding party.
Have they heard the death-croak of their brethren?
He thrusts the sword through a strap in his shoulder harness and begins swimming with broad strokes, knowing he can't hope to outdistance the creatures if they give chase. But trying to fight them, in their own element, is madness.
Something powerful parts the water beneath his legs. He feels the brush of coarse skin, and moments later a sleek head breaks the surface before him. A monstrous eel! Tiny, glimmering eyes set above a jaw of triple-rowed teeth, rearing up over the water like a serpent about to strike. But this serpent's body is as thick around as Vin's muscled thigh, and striped in vertical slashes of ochre and black.
Gaping up at those fangs, any normal man would lose all volition. But the ruby bracelet once again shudders to life and sucks the fear from Vin's body, leaving him with only crystalline logic. The will to survive. His hand blurs for the hilt behind his shoulder—
A familiar war-cry booms out.
Jaryk Koln's barrel-chested figure thrashes across the water, sputtering curses, to land on the eel's striped back. Faint starlight gleams off the metal in his fist. He sinks his blade once, twice, and the giant eel lets out a hiss like a cauldron venting steam. The great head swivels around to track Jaryk, and in that moment Vin reaches upwards, swinging the Sword of the Sea Clans with everything he has left.
* * *
A splash of cold water brought him around.
Vin's eyes focused first on the plastic cup, then the gnarled old man holding it. He wore a houndstooth jacket and gold-rimmed spectacles. The gray hair combed back from his forehead still had some black in it.
"Returned to the realm of consciousness, eh?" He smirked. "I'm sorry for the water, but it was better than slapping you."
Vin was sitting in a wheelchair, the same one he'd ridden down on the elevator. His cane was tucked into one of the side pockets. He'd been parked in a fusty-smelling office with just enough space for an oak desk, banker's lamp, and the old man.
"You must be Dr. Dorian."
"Indeed. Muroc said you'd be coming. He neglected to inform me about your, ah, episodes. Gave the attendant staff quite a fright."
Vin remembered the sword in the glass case.
His
sword. Just looking at the blade had triggered a surge of memories. How much more would come back if he could hold it again?
One puzzle-piece at a time
, he told himself. Find out about the bracelet, first.
"I was hoping you could identify—" He frowned. His right wrist felt too light as he lifted
As the alien form crumples, Vin sees an open window beyond. Freedom! Even with such a magnificent weapon, he can't hope to fight off an entire clan. The ruby bracelet senses a change in tactics and floods his stomach with raw fear. The will to fight evaporates, replaced with a single prerogative: flee.
Holding the sword out before him, Vin leaps for the window.
* * *
Down. The sensation of dropping, of several bodies in a tightly-packed space.
"He mentioned an appointment with Dr. Dorian."
"Dorian will want to see him, alright. Look at that thing on his wrist."
A woman's voice. A man's voice.
"I think he should be checked out, first. He's not well."
A snort. "This is a museum, not a bloody free clinic."
Vin felt firm leather beneath him. He was sitting with his head lolled forward. A wheelchair?
But then came a noise, over the creak of what he realized were elevator cables. The sound drew him even further down, inside himself.
Splashing.
* * *
He plunges into frothing water, cold for only a moment. When he comes up again the barges of the Rogue Clan are behind him, alive with shouts and lamplight.
To his left: the faint glimmer of beach, and jungle foliage just beyond. Sword in one hand, he begins to paddle in that direction.
But the waters around him are frothing for a reason. A hundred pairs of glowing yellow orbs stare up from the murk below. The rest of the Deep Folk's wedding party.
Have they heard the death-croak of their brethren?
He thrusts the sword through a strap in his shoulder harness and begins swimming with broad strokes, knowing he can't hope to outdistance the creatures if they give chase. But trying to fight them, in their own element, is madness.
Something powerful parts the water beneath his legs. He feels the brush of coarse skin, and moments later a sleek head breaks the surface before him. A monstrous eel! Tiny, glimmering eyes set above a jaw of triple-rowed teeth, rearing up over the water like a serpent about to strike. But this serpent's body is as thick around as Vin's muscled thigh, and striped in vertical slashes of ochre and black.
Gaping up at those fangs, any normal man would lose all volition. But the ruby bracelet once again shudders to life and sucks the fear from Vin's body, leaving him with only crystalline logic. The will to survive. His hand blurs for the hilt behind his shoulder—
A familiar war-cry booms out.
Jaryk Koln's barrel-chested figure thrashes across the water, sputtering curses, to land on the eel's striped back. Faint starlight gleams off the metal in his fist. He sinks his blade once, twice, and the giant eel lets out a hiss like a cauldron venting steam. The great head swivels around to track Jaryk, and in that moment Vin reaches upwards, swinging the Sword of the Sea Clans with everything he has left.
* * *
A splash of cold water brought him around.
Vin's eyes focused first on the plastic cup, then the gnarled old man holding it. He wore a houndstooth jacket and gold-rimmed spectacles. The gray hair combed back from his forehead still had some black in it.
"Returned to the realm of consciousness, eh?" He smirked. "I'm sorry for the water, but it was better than slapping you."
Vin was sitting in a wheelchair, the same one he'd ridden down on the elevator. His cane was tucked into one of the side pockets. He'd been parked in a fusty-smelling office with just enough space for an oak desk, banker's lamp, and the old man.
"You must be Dr. Dorian."
"Indeed. Muroc said you'd be coming. He neglected to inform me about your, ah, episodes. Gave the attendant staff quite a fright."
Vin remembered the sword in the glass case.
His
sword. Just looking at the blade had triggered a surge of memories. How much more would come back if he could hold it again?
One puzzle-piece at a time
, he told himself. Find out about the bracelet, first.
"I was hoping you could identify—" He frowned. His right wrist felt too light as he lifted
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