Shadowrun 01 - Never Deal With A Dragon by Robert N. Charrette Page A
Authors: Robert N. Charrette
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awaited them, bowing and mumbling apology and welcome.
The man wore a pale green lab coat embroidered in stylized designs. A heavy silver disk swung from a chain around his neck as he held himself bent at the waist. Hart recognized the markings as cabalistic symbols, real ones rather than the crude protective runes worn by the superstitious. The symbols were much like those she used, but with subtle variations whose study could give her a clue to the magical orientation of this person. It was obvious from the arrangement and profusion of the markings that the wearer was a mage and member of an hermetic order. She didn't recognize the particular group, but she knew enough about Human magical orders to tell that this mage was a minor member of his organization.
"Greetings, Lord Dragon," the Human said in a louder voice. "We are honored by your presence today."
The Dragon disdained to reply.
Hart caught a flare of emotion from the beast, confirming that he was as testy as she had feared. She remained outside the archway as the Dragon continued on, sliding his great golden bulk past the man. When the Dragon's tail flicked toward her leg, she sidestepped quickly, the sharp spines missing her knee by centimeters. The mage, holding his bow, was oblivious to the danger. Foolish, norm. Always keep your eyes on a Dragon .
The tip of the beast's tail had barely cleared the door when Hart saw the ripple begin in the powerful tail muscles. Ivory spines arced up as the Dragon's tail swept toward the mage. The man grunted in surprise and pain as the barbs tore across his left thigh and into his belly. The impetus of the blow lifted him from his feet and slammed him aside, into the wall. He slipped to the floor, moaning.
" Perhaps you will not be so slow the next time ."
There was no sound to the Dragon's words, but Hart knew the mage heard it as well as she did. Dragon speech was a trick of mind and magic, something much more than a voice, something less than telepathy. The creatures still needed to know a language before "speaking" it. Their "words" had a consistently flat intonation, but carried emotional overtones in a way that Human speech could not. The emotional content that they broadcast needed no language. The Dragon's annoyance and irritation would have communicated even to someone who spoke no English.
The beast proceeded into the chamber, heedless of the spatters of blood that flicked from his tail spines and the wail that arose from his victim.
Hart approached the fallen mage. A brief glance was enough to tell her that his injuries were beyond her own skills. She bent and placed her hand on the screaming man's forehead. Taking advantage of the pain that shuddered through him, she overrode his will and sent him down into sleep. A small enough blessing.
Behind her, she heard running footsteps. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the mage's co-workers were coming to his aid. One woman ripped a first aid kit from its wall receptacle and almost caromed into a white-haired fellow with the most elaborate coat Hart had yet seen among them. The woman's haste to prepare mundane aid earned her no kind thoughts from her superior, judging from the glare he gave her. Hart had to agree; it should have been perfectly obvious that the fallen mage would need more than coagulant and spray seal to save him.
Hart stepped back to let the new arrivals tend to their comrade. Noticing that her sash was stained where it had dipped into the mage's blood, she briefly considered its worth as a material component for ritual purposes and found no significant value. This mage was too stupid to ever make it necessary. She untied the knot that held the band around her hips and let the scarf flutter to the floor. One thousand nuyen on the expenses, Old Lizard. That was real silk and a Scaratelli to boot .
Dismissing the ruined sash from her mind, Hart surveyed the chamber, It was large, a vast womb in the belly of the earth. The ceiling was
The man wore a pale green lab coat embroidered in stylized designs. A heavy silver disk swung from a chain around his neck as he held himself bent at the waist. Hart recognized the markings as cabalistic symbols, real ones rather than the crude protective runes worn by the superstitious. The symbols were much like those she used, but with subtle variations whose study could give her a clue to the magical orientation of this person. It was obvious from the arrangement and profusion of the markings that the wearer was a mage and member of an hermetic order. She didn't recognize the particular group, but she knew enough about Human magical orders to tell that this mage was a minor member of his organization.
"Greetings, Lord Dragon," the Human said in a louder voice. "We are honored by your presence today."
The Dragon disdained to reply.
Hart caught a flare of emotion from the beast, confirming that he was as testy as she had feared. She remained outside the archway as the Dragon continued on, sliding his great golden bulk past the man. When the Dragon's tail flicked toward her leg, she sidestepped quickly, the sharp spines missing her knee by centimeters. The mage, holding his bow, was oblivious to the danger. Foolish, norm. Always keep your eyes on a Dragon .
The tip of the beast's tail had barely cleared the door when Hart saw the ripple begin in the powerful tail muscles. Ivory spines arced up as the Dragon's tail swept toward the mage. The man grunted in surprise and pain as the barbs tore across his left thigh and into his belly. The impetus of the blow lifted him from his feet and slammed him aside, into the wall. He slipped to the floor, moaning.
" Perhaps you will not be so slow the next time ."
There was no sound to the Dragon's words, but Hart knew the mage heard it as well as she did. Dragon speech was a trick of mind and magic, something much more than a voice, something less than telepathy. The creatures still needed to know a language before "speaking" it. Their "words" had a consistently flat intonation, but carried emotional overtones in a way that Human speech could not. The emotional content that they broadcast needed no language. The Dragon's annoyance and irritation would have communicated even to someone who spoke no English.
The beast proceeded into the chamber, heedless of the spatters of blood that flicked from his tail spines and the wail that arose from his victim.
Hart approached the fallen mage. A brief glance was enough to tell her that his injuries were beyond her own skills. She bent and placed her hand on the screaming man's forehead. Taking advantage of the pain that shuddered through him, she overrode his will and sent him down into sleep. A small enough blessing.
Behind her, she heard running footsteps. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the mage's co-workers were coming to his aid. One woman ripped a first aid kit from its wall receptacle and almost caromed into a white-haired fellow with the most elaborate coat Hart had yet seen among them. The woman's haste to prepare mundane aid earned her no kind thoughts from her superior, judging from the glare he gave her. Hart had to agree; it should have been perfectly obvious that the fallen mage would need more than coagulant and spray seal to save him.
Hart stepped back to let the new arrivals tend to their comrade. Noticing that her sash was stained where it had dipped into the mage's blood, she briefly considered its worth as a material component for ritual purposes and found no significant value. This mage was too stupid to ever make it necessary. She untied the knot that held the band around her hips and let the scarf flutter to the floor. One thousand nuyen on the expenses, Old Lizard. That was real silk and a Scaratelli to boot .
Dismissing the ruined sash from her mind, Hart surveyed the chamber, It was large, a vast womb in the belly of the earth. The ceiling was
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