Robert Charrette - Find your own truth

Perhaps he was just tired, worn down by lack of sleep or maybe just frustration. He seemed no closer to finding out what had happened to Howling Coyote than when he had arrived in Denver. Tonight's meeting didn't look hopeful. The runner he was to meet had done some work for the Sovereign Tribal Council while Coleman was president, but that was nearly fifteen years ago. It was a slim connection at best, not much likely to produce a lead, but he had to try. He had gone through almost all the possibilities Dodger had dug up. No one he'd met would so much as talk about Howling Coyote, not even for a price. Was it some kind of conspiracy to hide the man, or what had happened to him?

Paranoia again. But paranoia was a survival trait in the shadows. Or was it just the first step into madness? Maybe all his fears that his magic was tied to madness were based in fact. There were enough mad things in his life. Like those dreams. Even with his eyes wide open, awake rather than asleep, he could almost hear the baying of the nightmare pursuer. So why did his scalp itch?

Sam looked the street over. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The scavenger had gone to ground somewhere, and the crowd's composition was beginning to shift. The sprawling kids had gone, mere leaves blown away before the rising wind of night. A trio of razor-guys in gang colors now occupied one of the tenement

Nothing seemed out of place, yet Sam sensed that something was wrong. He was safely out of the traffic flow, so he leaned back against the wall and shifted his perception to the astral.

What had been hidden from his mundane sight now came clear. Across the street, stalking among the evening sidewalk traffic, a tall, gangly figure moved like a nightmare scarecrow. The being had pointed ears and slanted eyes that blazed with a golden light against his dark skin. Though much like an elf, this being seemed subtly different. Sam felt a strong sense of power fueling the illusion spell in which the elven scarecrow was wrapped.

Flickering astral presences danced around the dark stranger like electrons around a nucleus. When one broke off its orbit to flutter and bounce before its master's face, Sam knew he had been spotted. The apparition turned its attention to him.

Sam didn't think he could outdistance the scarecrow's long legs, and wasn't prepared to bet he could out-magic the well of power he sensed. He needed help, but he was alone in this city. The city!

Desperately he searched, calling as he focused his power. He stretched his own abilities, seeking a response from the etheric world around him. There were immediate stirrings, but a coherent response took shape only slowly. Or so it seemed to his shifted perceptions. In the mundane world, the scarecrow had covered but half the block that separated him from Sam.

"Come," he called silently, urgently. "Born of the streets, hear me. Soul in the bones of the buildings, answer my summons."

An unwonted clarity in Sam's view of the concrete, stone, and plastics of the environment told him he had been heard. Though Denver wasn't Sam's city, the presence acknowledged him, recognizing his authority as a Dog shaman and therefore a master of the spirits of Man. Still, it was little inclined to do anything for him. Sam asked service of it, demanding that it wrap its essence around the scarecrow and enfold him so that Sam might escape. It yielded to his insistence, and the rush of fresh air that accompanied the spirit's departure to do Sam's bidding held the tang of its assent.

Half a block away, the scarecrow was suddenly stopped in his tracks by a collision with another pedestrian, a dwarf. Both hit the ground. The woman immediately picked herself up and loudly cursed the shoddy state of sidewalk repair. The bewildered scarecrow sat with a shocked look on his face, then let out a howl when another passerby trod on his hand as though he wasn't there. This was followed immediately by a passing dog that seemed to think the seated stranger was a fire hydrant. Raising a leg, the dog marked him. The dark man struck out and the dog skipped away, then lit out as though seeing a ghost.

Good idea. Sam, too, started down the street at a run. People moving toward him saw him coming and got out of his way. He dodged around those going in his own direction. Behind him he could hear the scarecrow's angry shouts, as he tried to force his way through pedestrian traffic that didn't seem to know he was there. While many voices exclaimed in surprise and pain, only the dark man's voice was full of anger. The people he jostled seemed to blame the collisions on their own clumsiness, or on some unseen piece of trash or unnoticed unevenness in the sidewalk. To them, the scarecrow was not there. The gap between Sam and his pursuer widened. Satisfied that the steady stream of rush-hour traffic on West Colfax Avenue would prove a major barrier to the spirit-ridden scarecrow, Sam cut around a corner into an alley. All the doleful singers of nearly two centuries had failed to imagine how completely a city could alienate a person from those around him. His relief died as he skidded to a stop. Four silhouettes blocked his way. A hint of chrome gleamed among night-dark leathers. Razorguys. Two were hulking brutes in long coats with upturned collars and slouch hats that concealed all pertinent information about them. Bulges under their clothing suggested armor, enhancements, and weapons. They were too big to be orks and not broad enough to be trolls. The third was slender as a whip and wore his leathers tight to emphasize his build. His eyes sparkled with chrome reflections as he took three steps to Sam's left. The group was spread out enough now that he couldn't watch them all closely without turning his head. The fourth moved from behind the brute on the right, and the glow from newly wakening street lamps revealed that he was not an enhanced bullyboy like the others. What Sam had at first taken for a synthleather duster like the big boys wore was really a fine woolen topcoat of stylish cut. His slouch hat was festooned with magical symbols. Eyes and teeth shone hi an entirely natural way from his brown face.

"Wrong turn, chummer. For you, that is. For us, a fortunate turn that should save us significant effort. You have something we want. There'll be no trouble if you're bright about it."

Recognition was as shocking as the ambush. Sam had seen this mage before. "I know you. You're Harry Masamba."

The black man frowned. "No. Not bright at all." Sam recognized the reaction for the sentence it was. He spun and sprinted back toward the corner. From the way his response had caught them off guard, Sam knew the razorguys must have been expecting him to passively submit to their overwhelming superiority. A bullet chipped some concrete off the corner of the building, fragments pelting the back of Sam's jacket as he made the turn onto West Colfax. A pedestrian, caught by one of the bullets meant for Sam, tumbled over backward, spraying blood. A moment later it would have been Sam.

Sam raced down the sidewalk less carefully than before. He crashed into people and left a swirling mass of shouts behind him. Masamba's voice cut through the street noise. The mage had magically enhanced it, no doubt.

"Murderer!" the voice shouted. "The Anglo just shot him! Filthy white dog! Catch him, somebody! Call the police!"

Sam risked a glance back as he rounded the nearest corner. The slim razorguy was hustling toward him through the crowd, but the trench-coated pair was nowhere in sight. Masamba leaned against the alley mouth, laughing.

What in hell was going on?

Sam ducked into a doorway. His chances of outrunning the razorguy were so slim that he could have slid them between mortared bricks. And that was exactly what he'd have liked to do with himself. He needed time to think, to figure out what was going on. Time he wouldn't have if the razorguy caught him.