In a shower of fragments, he landed on the cold sidewalk outside the shop. His shoulder was numb, his face a stinging mass of scrapes and cuts, and one eye was blinded by flowing blood. He had lost a boot and most of his pants, but he was still alive. His magic had saved him from the flames.
The bum was still there. Faintly, Sam could hear him clapping.
'Hey hey, good show.'
Sam was not amused.
The scarecrow elf stepped through the window. His curly hair was matted from the water and his clothes dripped, but he seemed unaffected by his physical state. As soon as he saw Sam sprawled on the sidewalk, he smiled. 'No more running, Verner. Time to die.'
A shadow danced between Sam and the hunter. The bum.
'Can't do that,' he objected. 'The Anglo's mine. You want somebody, you go find your own. I've got magic too, elf. I'm the wind of the desert and I'll blow you away.'
The bum waved his arms wildly. His serape undulated and flapped, but nothing else happened.
The elf sneered. 'Wind? You're nothing but hot air, old man, while I am truly Rock. And if you do not take your pestiferous hide away, I will grind you to less than nothing. This matter does not concern you.'
Before the elf could make good his promise, the roar of gunshots ripped the night. Staggering backward, he caught his heel against the sill of the display window, then fell heavily into the shop with a resounding crash.
The old bum stared down the street. Sam followed his gaze and saw the slim razorguy racing toward them.
Looming out of the dark behind that one came the twin bulks of the other two muscleguys.
More trouble. At least Sam knew now that the scarecrow and Masamba were not working together. He pushed himself up on one elbow but his head spun and slumped under the lash of pain that made his head spin. Looked like this round was going to the bad guys. Sam felt a shudder in the pavement caressing his cheek. Could the razorguys be carrying enough chrome to shake the earth where they ran? A delirious concept, but he was close to delirium. Concussion, he supposed. He rolled over onto his back.
It wasn't the razorguys. The shudder increased in frequency and a grating rumble rose. The scarecrow elf was standing in the window of Weapon World, arms outstretched and glowing with the intensity of the mana gathered around him. He was singing, too, but Sam didn't recognize the language.
The rumble grew to a roar and the street began to. heave, stopping the advance of the razorguys as they fought to keep their balance. Pacing stones from the surrounding buildings split off and plummeted to the street. A large piece struck one of the trench-coated muscleguys and squashed him like a bug. The others took cover, too unsettled by the massive magical manifestation to fire at the magician.
A wail from down the street drew Sam's attention to the figure of Masamba standing there. The Black mage unleashed a bolt of amber energy that shrieked from his hands and burst into coruscating sparks against an invisible barrier surrounding the scarecrow elf. Encouraged by the arrival of their own magical support, the remaining razorguys opened fire.
Sam snatched the old bum's serape and hauled him down. His reward was a kick and a complaint.
'Hey hey, what ya doing? I'm magic, you stupid Anglo. Ain't gonna hurt me.' Around them the apparent earthquake increased in fury. Dust from the falling bricks and building stones rose like a fog. It whirled and eddied in a wind that came from nowhere, but stubbornly hugged the ground to obscure vision beyond a couple of meters. Unable to target, the razorguys ceased their steady fire. Only when the swirling dust opened a fire lane did the guns speak. Cyan flashes of magical energy lit the dust clouds as they screamed in response to Masamba's erratic barrage of amber bolts.
A brick crashed to earth near Sam's head. Pain forgotten, he scrambled to his feet. The old Indian leaped up at his side, screaming taunts at the stones and daring them to hit him. Sam's renewed attempt to restrain the old fool was aborted when the slim razorguy appeared wraithlike from the dust. He grabbed Sam's jacket and lifted him bodily. The force of the muscle-guy's rush slammed Sam against a wall. As his head rebounded, a gun muzzle poked into his throat, forcing his head back into another painful collision with the brick.
'Give it over and I'm gone. Keep it and you are.' Jaw clenched by the pressure of the gun, Sam could barely answer. 'I don't know what
…' 'Don't jerk me, Verner.'
Sam felt the hard, cold barrel of the razorguy's pistol slam against his temple. Before the pain ignited in its full fury, the muzzle was again under his chin. A hand slapped against his side. 'Frag! It's gone!'
The pressure eased suddenly and Sam sank down, off balance. When the pain lessened, he struggled to his feet. The razorguy had vanished. Sam reached to his side where the street tough had struck him. There were slices in the leather of his jacket and his pants were ribbons over his hip, but he was slow to realize that he shouldn't be feeling the leather or fabric at all. His satchel was gone. He remembered his slashing passage through the Weapon World window. The strap must have been sliced away then.
The wail of a siren pierced the howling wind. As it grew louder, Sam looked around desperately. The pouch had contained his identities, and the credstick key to Hart's safe house. Somebody without a System Identification Number or any other means of identification wasn't going to get along too well with the police, even if they hadn't fallen for Masamba's earlier ploy. Word was that they didn't like shadows in the Ute zone. And Sam was too deep in that zone to get out in a hurry on foot.
Flashes of magical energy continued to sear cyan and amber through the dust storm.
A hand gripped Sam's arm. He twisted reflexively and struck out, relieved to feel the gripping hand release him. The target of his violence careened back into a wall and slid down in a disheveled heap.
The old man.
'Hey hey, Anglo. Some gratitude. Save ya from the rocks and ya slug me. Well, forget it. Find your own
The old man dragged himself to his feet and started away.
Sam tried to see what was going on. He didn't know what the two factions were after, or why they wanted it. From their earlier attention to him, it was something he had been carrying. Their sudden lack of interest in him indicated mat he no longer had what they were fighting over. That was fine by him. In his current condition, even the loser of the fight would probably walk all over him.
The sirens grew louder.
There seemed nothing to gain and a lot to lose. He wouldn't be able to recover his materials tonight, if ever. He staggered down the alley that had swallowed the Indian. Maybe the old sot really did know his way around the zone. The Indian might not volunteer any more aid after Sam's reaction to his helping hand, but by following him Sam could at least escape the immediate effects of the battle. After that, who knew?
Hohiro Sato wanted the stone the moment he laid eyes on it, though he'd never liked opal much till now. The oily iridescence was not his style, which tended more toward the clarity and depth of ruby or emerald.
But this stone… To see it was to want it. The opal had a magnetic attraction, almost as though it were somehow a part of him. Before, he had coveted it simply because Grandmother did. And the interest shown by the unknown faction told him it was a potentially powerful tool. But seeing it now, he wanted it for itself.
Its surface felt smooth, and was not cold as it appeared. It almost seemed alive under his hand.
He did not understand its potential, but he would. Someone would solve its riddles for him, and the power it represented would be his. How fortunate that one of Grandmother's agents had perished in the incident with who or whatever had attacked Verner in the gun shop. It had made it that much easier to dispose of the other and to eliminate any immediate claimants for the prize.
Sato contemplated the store, scratching absentmind-edly at an itch along his left forearm. The stone was magic, no doubt about that. He could almost feel its power. Very powerful magic, indeed, to draw the attention of the magically powerful party that had ambushed Verner. Masamba swore that the magician he had faced was at least a sixth rank initiate. The term didn't have any real meaning for Sato, beyond the fact that Masamba believed he had faced a wizard more powerful than himself. And that meant the third party was well supplied with magical resources. The level of magic involved in the Weapon World battle was well beyond that of which Verner was believed capable.
Sato wondered how much information Grandmother had on this third party. Had she known of the opposition before she sent him after the stone? Had he only been a stalking horse for her? If so, he would find a way to make her regret it.
