Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 15
Jordan knew what was happening. "It’s trying to protect
itself!" he shouted to the scattered men. "Ryman was
sweating--it’s trying to seal off the water!"
They stood there dumbly.
Ryman would be dead in seconds if somebody didn’t do
something. Jordan turned to look at the open doors of the
manor, twenty meters away. Clouds floated passively in the
rectangle of the reflecting pool.
Jordan decided. He reached down, splashed water from
the pool over his head and shoulders, then started up the
scaffold. He could hear shouting behind him; people were
running out of the manor.
He pulled himself onto the planks next to Ryman.
Jordan’s heart was hammering. Ryman’s head, arms, and
upper torso were encased in a shimmering white liquid, like
quicksilver. He was on his knees now, but his grip on the
upright remained strong.
Ryman was stubborn and strong; Jordan knew he would
never be able to break the man’s grip. So he reached out a
dripping hand and laid it on the oval brightness of the man’s
covered head.
With a hiss the liquid poured over Jordan’s fingers and
up his arm. He yelled and tried to pull back, but now the rest
of the white stuff beaded up and leapt at him.
He had time to see Ryman’s blue face emerge from
beneath the cold liquid before it had swarmed up and over his
own mouth, nose and eyes.
Jordan nearly lost his head; he flailed about blindly for a
moment, feeling the coiling liquid metal trying to penetrate his
ears and nostrils. Then his foot felt the edge of the platform.
He jumped. For a second there was nothing but
darkness, free falling giddyness and the shudder of quicksilver