Tantaerra hastily transferred her hands to just the bottom edge of the crate-lid as she backed away—and the first slashing blows fell on it, numbingly hard.
A Matter of Knives
by Ed Greenwood
Chapter Two: When Someone Wants You Dead
Tantaerra hastily transferred her hands to just the bottom edge of the crate-lid as she backed away—and the first slashing blows fell on it, numbingly hard.
A few splinters flew, but the swift dark swords were sharp, and the arms that drove them very strong. Steel sliced deep and caught, binding in the wood.
The silent slayer shook its swords to free them. Tantaerra let go of the lid before she was shaken dizzy and darted around behind the huge stack of crates. Time to enact her clever plan.
She ran right up the reaching pole and kicked out hard against the cellar wall, slamming her back against the big stack of shield crates. She hit hard, readying herself to leap clear of the avalanche as the crates overbalanced and came down on top of her attacker.
Yet the big stack of shield-crates wavered not an inch.
Tantaerra cursed foully, then cursed even harder as she felt swords biting into the far sides of the crates she was now clinging to. The manyswords thing was hacking and hewing crates as high as it could reach, cleaving wood that was a lot older and damper than the lid it had just flung aside; its blades were through one crate-side already.
Tantaerra climbed wood that shuddered and groaned at each sword-blow, and was a crate higher when a sudden cacophony of sliding metal announced the riven crate was abruptly spilling all of its shields.
Spilling them right onto the head of the manyswords monster, or automaton, or golem, or whatever it was. The thing came staggering into view around the edge of the stack. By then, Tantaerra was atop the uppermost crate and holding onto one of the cellar ceiling beams, sneezing out dust.
The manyswords thing regained its balance and determination, and charged back at the stack, hewing at the next crate down.
Sparks and shrieks flew as metal struck metal, and all too soon the deluge of rusting shields emptying out of a half-destroyed crate rang out again—but this time, the weight of two full crates stacked atop the two now-empty ones was too much, and Tantaerra's perch groaned, toppled, and came down on the thing of swords with a thunderous roar.
Tantaerra rode the ponderous fall almost to the cellar floor, but sprang free at the last moment to land in a dead run up the stairs.
She halted halfway up, listening as the crash rebounded off the walls, ready to continue running at the slightest stirring in the shield pile. Yet no new sounds interrupted the fading echoes.
She turned and moved cautiously down again, halting two steps from the bottom, peering into the cellar's half-light.
Nothing was moving but eddying dust. Swords lay still here and there on the floor, and a few corners of the cage-like apparition that had been their wielder could be seen protruding from under a great heap of shattered crates and flakes of rust.
Stairs creaked as the Master moved down into the basement. "Is it dead?" he asked.
"Well and truly crushed," she responded.
He shook his head, and they crossed the cellar together to peer at the fallen swords and shields, then examined the coffin-like crate lying open and unscathed. The lid had borne the "Hroalund Only" directive; the solid box was well used and empty, and bore no other markings save the usual chalked street-carters' mark that meant "delivery fee paid."
Tantaerra looked again at the label on the lid. Although its lettering was different than the label on the crate of gorgets they'd received from Galdrake and Sarpent, the labels and glue were the same.
"Someone wants you dead," she told her master grimly, tugging the rag from her face.
He looked angry, but said only, "I believe we both know who."
"So what happens now?"
"I go and do the work they've hired me for," the Master told her, his words flat and hard. "Argulk Hroalund doesn't run from threats."
"Argulk Hroalund can't run, these days," Tantaerra replied. "From anything."
The Master of the House of Blades gave her a scowl that lightened slowly into a chuckle and a nod. "You have the right of it, little one. And I see from your face that you have an idea." He started for the stairs, and added over his shoulder, "Your ideas have never led me astray thus far, so..."
When she reached the head of the stair, he was holding out his belt-flask.
"Drink," he ordered. "You've earned it. Then talk."
∗∗∗
Loryn Garldrake is a snake of a man—making him an excellent merchant.
It was hot and cramped inside the box, even wearing only light gauzy silks. Tantaerra had taken the hood off, and resolved to stay that way until Hroalund was actually opening the catches. She wore a smoke suit: tight-fitting breeches, slippers, a jerkin, and a full-head hood, all mottled gray to make the wearer hard to see in mist, shadow, or dim surroundings. It was identical to the sort favored by Molthuni scouts and sneak-thieves of all lands, and she was surprised they'd been able to find one small enough to fit her—once the arms and legs were doubled back on themselves, that is. Sometimes it proved useful to work in a shop that sold war-gear.
Useful, but not precisely comfortable. She was bumping and rumbling along on the House of Blades' freight cart, in a box that had only two tiny air-holes where nails had gone "missing" (thanks to the Master's prybar), and huddled on a bed of coiled cords inside a frame that held a tray of the Master's smaller tools just above her nose. Her carrybag was across her legs, reassuringly heavy. The traps Master Argulk Hroalund installed were almost always activated by trip-cords or wires, and his working gear also included many pulleys, hooks, ring-catches, hinged treadles, and the like. So the cart held no less than six boxes—because Garldrake and Sarpent could afford the best, and wanted it.
The holes were too small for Tantaerra to see the splendid carved sign that proclaimed "Garldrake and Sarpent/Arms and Armor For All," but as she was carried through its doors—double doors!—she could tell that it was brighter and roomier than the House of Blades.
She did catch a glimpse of the fabled polished copper ceiling. The Master had spoken scornfully of that particular addition to the main showroom of what was increasingly his chief rival in Canorate. Sheets of copper that were polished nightly, there to make everything grander and brighter, reflecting everything on display and showing the counter staff what patrons were up to in every back corner and aisle. Ornamental pillars and moldings had been added everywhere, and doors turned into tall archways, to make the premises appear much grander.
The prices had soared, of course, but unlike the Master, Garldrake and Sarpent were happy to charge extra for their fancy show room. And it had worked—not only had they retained most of their patrons, they had gained some new ones; foolish nobles who judged a smith on the beauty of his store rather than the quality of his steel.
Where the House of Blades was crammed with knives, knives, and more knives, Garldrake and Sarpent had lots of empty space, and lone suits of armor standing on their own in gleaming displays. The shop still carried far more wares than the Master did, but most of them were on shelves filling room after room opening off the showroom.
You could do that, the Master had said a trifle enviously, if you'd taken over the next-door shops on both sides, and had coin enough to swallow more. Over the last eight years, Garldrake and Sarpent had gone from strength to strength, buying out many—no, most, by now—competitors. They were the purveyors of armor and weaponry to Molthuni of wealth and discernment.
And welcome to it, she'd often heard the Master say, but from time to time he'd sounded wistful while saying it. The rest of the time, he sounded merely bitter.
"Well, well, Master Hroalund! I am most pleased to see you!"
To Tantaerra, Loryn Garldrake sounded more astonished than pleased. That confirmed her suspicions: that the manyswords thing in the coffin had been expected to kill him, and this prearranged hiring to outfit their store with traps was an alibi—for who would kill the best trap-fitter before he did his work for you?
"Welcome, welcome!" Garldrake went on, more heartily. "And you've brought all your, ah, fixings and fittings, I see! Can you have it all done today, d'you think?"
Loryn Garldrake was one of those who could melt butter on his tongue, jovially and heartily. Probably until the instant he thought you were crossing him, and then—watch out.
"I fear not," the Master replied gently. "I could if you closed your doors, but your partner was most firm that the shop—"
"Establishment, please!"
"Ah, pray pardon—the establishment should stay open, and that one room at a time would be curtained off as I worked. Here's the chart we agreed upon; please let me know if there are any changes you'd like, or..."
"No, no," Garldrake spoke slowly, his voice sharp and shrewd. No doubt he was studying the chart. "No, this is all in order. You're the best, Master Hroalund, and the best is what we want. You'll start at the back, then?"
"Yes."
"My lads will carry your boxes through. Six, aren't there?"
"Six and my little satchel, here," the Master replied agreeably. "My thanks. The curtains? Ah, good, good..."
A few bumpy moments later, Tantaerra felt her box being set down. With care, thank the gods.
"No, leave them closed, thank you," the Master said firmly. "I'll open them as I need them. Until then, less clutter, and easier to move if a patron needs something I'm in front of. Thank you."
There were murmurs from Garldrake's shop workers, booted feet shuffling away, and then the familiar clinks and clanks of the Master getting out tools and starting to hum softly to himself.
Though Garldrake and Sarpent ran to nothing so common as a shop-bell to announce the front doors opening, Tantaerra didn't have to see to know the shop was busy. The hubbub of many voices never stopped, not a few of the nearest inquiring what was behind the curtains. Hastening feet fetched things from nearby shelves on more occasions than she could count. It made the pace in the House of Blades seem one step from the grave, by comparison.
Abruptly the catches on her hiding place were thrown back. She only just had time to tug on her hood before the Master was dragging her out by an elbow and murmuring, "Now."
After the dimness of the box, the light even in this back room seemed nigh-blinding, but she was out in it for barely long enough to snatch two quick breaths before being plunged into darkness again—dustier and faintly moldy darkness this time, with a cool draft.
The Master had bundled her into the Garldrake and Sarpent dumbwaiter—or rather, atop the box that traveled up and down the shaft on furry-with-dust but well-oiled cables. Easily done by hauling on cables and thrusting a foot down into the box, when all one needed was enough space for a lithe halfling to pop through. Tantaerra checked that her carrybag was leashed securely to her wrist; it was heavy with trap-guns, triplines, and cork-guarded darts coated with poison that brought swift and deep slumber to those they stung.
She was here to spend the night, peering and hearing as she stayed unseen. Riding the top of the dumbwaiter, or climbing its ropes to get higher, the better to spy.
Being discovered would bring almost certain death, because the Master had a pretty fair idea of what Garldrake and Sarpent were up to: cheating the rulers of Molthune by providing inferior armor and weaponry—like those gorgets—and undercutting competitors' prices, driving said rivals into business failure or forcing them to sell out to Garldrake and Sarpent. No doubt they knew that Master Hroalund would never willingly hand over his shop, and had decided it would be easier to acquire his share of the market after his untimely death.
They had to know they'd be found out eventually, but obviously planned to make their fortunes first, and probably buy merchant ships and buildings in the heart of bustling cities in other lands, so they could leave Molthune in haste and still keep some wealth. Or perhaps they'd simply quietly pay off the injured parties whenever their shoddy quality was discovered—and in the meantime, grow to dominate Molthune's arms and armor trade, and heap up coins as high as they could.
A fine plan in theory. Yet if Tantaerra could discover evidence of it, Hroalund could easily use that knowledge to expose them—or perhaps simply hold it over them, using it to secure his own safety.
Safety—and more than a little gold, if Tantaerra had her way. For anything that threatened Master Hroalund also threatened his slave. And no one threatened Tantaerra and got away cheaply...
Like Tantaerra the plucky halfling? Read more of her adventures in the new Pathfinder Tales novel The Wizard's Mask, coming soon!
Coming Next Week: Darts in the dark in the final chapter of Ed Greenwood's "A Matter of Knives"!
As the creator of the Forgotten Realms, Ed Greenwood is one of the most famous RPG designers of all time, with a veritable dragon's hoard of game setting products under his belt. In the Pathfinder universe, he's the author of the new novel The Wizard's Mask (also featuring Tantaerra) and the short web fiction story "Guns of Alkenstar." In addition, he's written more than twenty Forgotten Realms novels (many dealing with his signature character, Elminster) and ten independent novels.
The citizen looked down his nose at her, dubiously. It was unusual in splendid and sprawling Canorate to see a slave openly armed, but this one had daggers that looked like they'd serve her as swords strapped to her arms and legs.
A Matter of Knives
by Ed Greenwood
Chapter One: In the House of Blades
"I do not waste time dealing with slaves," the citizen in the splendid red doublet informed her. "Go and fetch your master. Now."
"Come back tomorrow," the halfling said flatly, her eyes two flames of fury. She stood on the shop counter facing him, chin thrust forward and hands on hips, as if she owned the place.
Which she didn't, of course. She was indeed a slave—and a halfling of shorter stature than most halflings, to boot.
The citizen looked down his nose at her, dubiously. It was unusual in splendid and sprawling Canorate to see a slave openly armed, but this one had daggers that looked like they'd serve her as swords strapped to her arms and legs.
Yet this was Hroalund's House of Blades, a shop that sold knives and daggers. The problem was, this arrogant little above-herself slave looked ready, willing, and one angrily spitting moment away from using them.
"Yes," she hissed, as if reading his mind, her hands suddenly stroking dagger-pommels. "I hit what I throw these at. Every time." Her voice became a menacing purr. "Would sir care for a demonstration?"
The citizen opened his mouth to say something sneering and dismissive—and then thought better of it. "Tomorrow, then!" he snapped, then spun on one magnificently booted heel and stormed out.
Through the shop window, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra watched the embroidered tail of the citizen's fine cloak swirl in his wake, and sighed.
The Master steps out on business for the afternoon, and half of Canorate comes in here to try to bully the shop slave into giving them things for a quarter their worth—and a sixth of the asked price. It was hardly surprising—she was, after all, an outlander and a little child of a creature, no doubt untutored and naïve.
Pah. Molthuni were such aggressively arrogant idiots.
That went double for rich Canorate citizens out adventuring beyond the walls of the gilded Sweet Orchard district, to where the lungs of Canorate breathed, the real daily business of Molthune was done, and shops that sold useful things crowded together along busy streets.
Tantaerra plucked one of the mirror-bright sample knives from an upright fan display of them atop the polished countertop, buffed it on her sleeve, then turned her back on the now-empty shop and strode right off the countertop, tossing the knife casually back over her shoulder as she started to fall.
Those who judge Tantaerra based on her size are fools indeed.
It thunked into the target even before her feet sank into the heap of soft mats the Master had accumulated behind the counter as his gout steadily worsened.
She did not have to look to know she'd struck the target dead center. She was, after all, better at demonstrating the throwing knives Argulk Hroalund was deservedly famous for than the Master was himself.
The shop guards watched her pad across the shop and leap up to retrieve the blade, their faces as impassive as ever, but when she sighed loudly and told the ceiling, "If one more overblown scion of Canorate's elite comes in here before we close..." she saw the ghost of a smile pluck at the lips of one of them, just for an instant.
As if her lament had been a cue, the singing clash of crossing swords rang out, courtesy of the enchantment on the shop door. Well, it was better than those annoying bells any day.
Tantaerra swallowed a sigh, fixed a professional smile on her face, and sprang atop the stool behind the counter once more. After all, if the Master didn't eat, neither would she, and Canorate wasn't the cheapest of places to—
Her smile became genuine. It was the Master.
Yet the grin faded as quickly as it came, and she found herself struggling to get the professional smile back into place. The Master was worried.
And it took a lot to worry Argulk Hroalund.
He was the best maker of throwing knives in five lands, probably more, and offered the best stock of knives of all sorts—from tiny hide-in-your-hair ladies' death-needles to joint-an-aurochs cleavers—in Molthune. And had been for fifty years, perhaps sixty. Which meant he'd dealt with a lot of Molthuni. And anyone who sold arms and armor had to be ready to defend themselves, as well as tough as mountain stone against intimidation, or...
"Braerand, Luthkul, Orrlehm—have my thanks; this day's shift is done. Be off home with you. The House is closing until the day after tomorrow. So tomorrow is yours, though I'll pay you for it as if you were here."
The guards were surprised, yet said not a word. They merely nodded and went.
As the Master shot the bolts in their wake and reached to swing the metal doorbar down into place, Tantaerra set the first trap, but he turned with a frown and held up a hand to stop her.
Surprised, Tantaerra stood on the counter and watched him shuffle back to her from the door and begin the routine of setting all the traps himself.
He was worried.
Most shops had traps against thieves, but the Master's were the best. Oh, a knife shop's traps almost had to be, but even the Orchard-dwellers in Canorate hired Argulk Hroalund to trap their homes.
He designed the most elaborate and best hidden mechanical traps, from half a dozen for a small shop to scores of silently waiting deadlinesses in a grand mansion; elaborate mechanical traps that could wound intruders with "knives or darts, launched or thrust." Tantaerra knew the Master's skill well; because she was deft, supple, and small even for a halfling, she was often set to work installing his creations in spaces too cramped for the Master himself.
The knives were the daily soup and cheese of the House of Blades, but the trapping was big coin.
"Anything I should know?" he growled at her as usual, as he checked the day's takings. Not too worried to entirely abandon routine.
"Two odd deliveries, both crates. The smaller from Garldrake and Sarpent, the larger from no one who wants to share his name, and who ships in crates that could double as coffins; it's labeled ‘To Be Opened By Master Hroalund Only.' So I left it. I opened the other, though. Forty-six gorgets, steel, all the same size—and utter slop. I bent some accidentally, between two fingers, lifting them out. You can't sell them. You're being insulted. Or set up for a fall, somehow."
The Master frowned and then sighed. He looked old and tired—but not surprised. "You left them in the back?"
At Tantaerra's nod, he set off for his private rooms, pinching the lamps dark as he went. Tantaerra scampered after him. His abrupt and early closing meant she hadn't even warmed the water atop the little stove, but she could rub oil into his gouty feet while supper was cooking, rather than after...
"I'd like that," the Master grunted, and she froze. She must have said her thoughts aloud.
Then he turned and proved again why he was the best Master any slave could have. "And we'll talk. My worries are bothering you, and I need someone to talk to. I trust you, Little Firebrand. You've more sense than any twenty Canorate shopkeepers—or any forty Sweet Orchard highcloaks—put together."
"Flatterer," she told him affectionately. "See if you can be as complimentary about my supper—and I'll try not to burn it."
∗ ∗ ∗
Tantaerra's stomach was both full and warm; she was finally getting the hang of hot savory pies. The Master belched and smiled, several times each, then stopped smiling and told her, "It seems Garldrake and Sarpent may turn out to be difficult trading partners. At best."
"Oh? Share?"
"Nothing to share but suspicions. Yet. Let's be looking at the larger crate."
A few shuffling moments later and they were standing over it, eyeing the crate that looked very like a coffin.
To Be Opened By Master Hroalund Only. That boldly lettered label was imperious enough.
The Master looked at her.
Tantaerra sighed. "You want me to open it, don't you?"
Hroalund nodded, looking a little ashamed and a little sad.
"Not here," she said crisply. "In the cellar. Back corner, next to the big stack."
The big stack was the one fixture in the cellar of the House of Blades. Hroalund's only deadwood; a six-crate-high tower almost brushing the ceiling beams. Bigger crates than most carters made these days, full of shields silently rusting away—shields the Master would never be able to unload, now that Molthune's armies used a new design. Not without scouring clean and reshaping every last one, and they just weren't worth the time and expense.
The Master nodded and went for his cart.
One of Tantaerra's tasks was keeping its side-ramp well greased, and she did tasks thoroughly. The Master only grunted twice as he shoved the coffin-crate up onto the cart; its journey was swift and easy.
Tantaerra had improved the winch on the pulley-lift so it rarely creaked, and gave off sighs rather than its former high, raw groans. A few pumps of the handle and cart and burden were down in the cellar.
The Master wheeled the cart to right beside the stack of crates and gave his slave a questioning look.
She nodded, and he stepped back. She pointed at the handle of the cart.
"Ah," he said, after a moment. "Take the cart away. Good thinking."
He did that, then stopped halfway across the cellar to watch. Tantaerra gave him an exasperated look, then used the prybar she'd fetched down with her to point at the ceiling, then at him, then at the ceiling again. Imperiously.
Hroalund nodded reluctantly and set off up the stairs. She made sure he wasn't halting to turn and come back down before she hastily downed breeches and emptied her bladder all over the polishing-rag she'd brought with her.
She tied the damp result over her nose. A feeble defense against poison gas, but better than nothing. She was still tightening its knot behind her ears when the Master reappeared. He had a long length of cord in his hands.
"What're you—?"
He tied it securely around her waist. "In case I need to drag you to safety."
He'd brought the long reaching-pole from the shop with him, and used its jaws to thrust the free end of the rope up through the open pulley-lift hatch in the ceiling. When he started for the stairs again, Tantaerra caught hold of the reaching-pole. "Leave it."
The Master looked surprised, but relinquished it readily enough.
Tantaerra positioned it against the wall behind the stack of crates. When she returned from behind them, Hroalund was upstairs and peering down at her through the hatch, the cord tied to her waist hanging from it.
She waved cheerily and set to work with her prybar.
The nails were few but secure. Tantaerra hauled and heaved, and it went swiftly enough; this was work she did every day. As she finished one side and started around the end of the crate—it did look like a coffin, to be sure—she caught sight of her master watching her. He looked anxious.
When every nail was out, she levered the lid up and hauled it back, keeping behind it as if it was a shield.
Silence. Stillness.
And then, as she'd expected, something erupted up out of the crate with a clatter and clang of ringing steel. The Master shouted in alarm.
The thing emerging looked like a man's skeleton sheathed in a metal cage-work—if, that is, human skeletons came with eight arms, each of them ending in wicked-looking sword blades.
It stepped out of the box and toward her, blades reaching...
Like Tantaerra the plucky halfling? Read more of her adventures in the new Pathfinder Tales novel The Wizard's Mask, coming soon!
Coming Next Week: Professional rivalry in the weapons business in Chapter Two of Ed Greenwood's "A Matter of Knives"!
As the creator of the Forgotten Realms, Ed Greenwood is one of the most famous RPG designers of all time, with a veritable dragon's hoard of game setting products under his belt. In the Pathfinder universe, he's the author of the new novel The Wizard's Mask (also featuring Tantaerra) and the short web fiction story "Guns of Alkenstar." In addition, he's written more than twenty Forgotten Realms novels (many dealing with his signature character, Elminster) and ten independent novels.
A nondescript wagon creaked down a dark street of the Inner City, the back piled high with canvas-covered wares and the caravaneers perched on the seat and rails. A single horseman rode beside the wagon, looking ill at ease in the saddle. The wagon stopped just before entering a wide, curved avenue, across which loomed an impressive stone mansion. To the casual eye, it looked just like one of the dozens or hundreds of wagons that passed through Katapesh each day.
Stargazer
by Chris A. Jackson
Chapter Four: A Matter of Commerce
A nondescript wagon creaked down a dark street of the Inner City, the back piled high with canvas-covered wares and the caravaneers perched on the seat and rails. A single horseman rode beside the wagon, looking ill at ease in the saddle. The wagon stopped just before entering a wide, curved avenue, across which loomed an impressive stone mansion. To the casual eye, it looked just like one of the dozens or hundreds of wagons that passed through Katapesh each day.
It wasn't.
"If the wizard I paid was any good, Celeste's up there." Torius pointed to the tower atop the mansion.
"Looks like Brojanni's still up," Snick said from the driver's seat, nodding up at the lights blazing through the upper windows.
"That can't be helped." It had taken four days to set this up; Torius was not going to let Celeste remain prisoner one night longer.
A spiked wrought iron fence encircled the place, inside which strode four human guards, each bearing a loaded crossbow and the leashes of two snarling hyenas.
"Don't like dogs," the pirate beside Snick complained.
"Shouldn't have to deal with them." Torius nodded to the nearest guard. "Him, however, you'll have to take out, or he'll shoot me and you'll need a new captain."
"And the downside of that would be..." Snick said with a grin.
"Just get us set up, Snick!" Torius wiped his brow and checked his bag of tricks. His hands were shaking again, blast it, and he couldn't stop sweating. He'd finally realized the source of his symptoms: the absence of his navigator, or more precisely, her venom, to which he apparently had become both inured and addicted.
"Here." Snick passed him a small bottle. "Drink it."
"What is it?"
"Pesh brandy; it'll help the shakes."
He wondered how much she knew about the origin of his shakes, then unstoppered the bottle and took a pull, feeling its sweet warmth set his stomach afire. "Thanks."
"Get ready." She glanced at the hourglass that synchronized them with three similar wagons on parallel streets. "It's almost time."
Torius doffed his kaftan, revealing a stout harness over studded leather armor. He took a bottle from his belt and downed the contents; Brojanni was a poison master, so a preemptive cure seemed a good precaution.
The crewmen pulled the canvas off of Snick's baby, already loaded with a special stone-biter bolt. A long, light rope was threaded through the bolt's eye; one end they clipped to the horse's saddle, the other to a heavy ring in the front of Torius's harness. A second line, which was wound around a spring-tensioned drum bolted to the wagon, they clipped to the back of his harness. This was a tensioning line; without it he would be dragged right into the menacing fence.
"You're sure about all this, Snick?" He took a deep, calming breath.
"Trust me, Captain." She gave him another grin, holding up the glass and gripping the ballista's trip cord. "I triple-checked everything. Ready?"
"Hell no!"
"Too bad." Snick pulled the cord. The ballista cracked sharply as it shot the bolt into the night. From adjacent streets, three more bolts shot toward the mansion. Three of the four hit their marks, lodging deep in the stone above the tower's highest window; one glanced off an embrasure and fell. Their assault force had just been reduced by one quarter.
Torius said a short prayer and snapped, "Go!" to the horseman.
The man applied his spurs and the horse bolted back down the street, pulling the line though the bolt's eye and yanking Torius from the wagon. He felt like he was being torn in half; one rope pulled him forward while the tensioning line pulled him back to keep the angle of his ascent above the deadly fence. As he cleared the tines, he saw a guard below raise his crossbow, but a hail of bolts cut him down before he could fire and Torius allowed himself to breathe. Glancing to his left, he saw Grogul and Joss also ascending toward the window.
When his feet were firmly planted against the window's narrow ledge, he unclipped the tensioning line. Grogul and Joss arrived, the former grinning his tusky grin, the latter looking pale but ready.
He had no doubt that Brojanni had some type of ward on his tower windows, but this was where another of his preparations came into play. Torius slipped out the wand he had purchased for this venture—at a cost that made him nauseous when he thought about it—pointed it at the window frame and whispered, "Negate."
Nothing happened.
Three possibilities flashed into Torius' mind: the wand was a fake and he would have to hunt down and kill the merchant he'd purchased it from, the window had no enchantment for the wand to dispel and he had just wasted a charge, or the wand had worked and it was safe. Only one out of the three would get him killed, which wasn't bad odds considering the stupidity of attacking a spellcaster in his own home. He glanced at Grogul and shrugged.
"Bah!" The boatswain kicked in the ornate leaded glass and swung through the opening. Torius followed, and Joss came last.
As they rolled to their feet, he heard the sound he had been dreading; the chanting of a wizard casting magic. He swept his wand in an arc, looking for the source. There were myriad tables, cages, boxes, barrels, shelves and alchemical apparatuses, but no wizard. Then he realized his mistake, and discharged the wand in the direction of the wizard's voice.
Too late.
Brojanni learned a valuable lesson about dealing with pirates. Or perhaps not.
Lightning cracked out of thin air, blasting Grogul against the wall. Torius leapt to the attack, wand in one hand, sword in the other, as Brojanni winked into visibility. Before he could close the gap, the wizard cast a handful of dust before him and began another spell, but Torius was ready this time.
"Negate!"
Nothing happened.
Torius grinned and advanced.
The wizard threw a vial at his assailants' feet, and it burst into a noxious cloud. The acrid vapor stung Torius' eyes and nose, but he felt no other ill effects. Chalk one up for the pre-emptive cure, he thought triumphantly.
Torius and Joss stepped forward, swords poised to strike.
Brojanni backed against the door. "How dare you invade my home, you damned pirate!"
"How dare you steal my navigator, you trite bastard!" Torius shot back. "Tell us where she is and you live."
"I didn't steal your pet naga, Captain. Your own first mate did that for me. I am not going to hand over my property to a common thief, and my guild will have your head if you kill me."
"And my guild will have your head for arranging her kidnapping!" Torius placed the tip of his cutlass against the man's chest. "Now, hand her over."
Brojanni's face abruptly softened from a sneer to a smile.
"Captain, please, we're both businessmen. The naga's venom is all I want. When mixed with refined pesh, it makes an interesting poison. I expect to make a fortune from it. A fortune we could share." He raised his hands in submission. "This is simply a misunderstanding in a delicate matter of commerce. I see no reason why we can't reach a mutually beneficial agreement with no guild involvement."
"Like what?"
"Sell me her venom! If you sign a contract to bring me regular shipments, I'll give you the naga."
Torius opened his mouth to tell the wizard what he could do with his contract, then heard distant shouts from beyond the door.
"Those are my guards, Captain, and I daresay there are more than you can oppose. Decide quickly!"
Torius's mind raced. "Five hundred gold per ounce, six ounces per month, guaranteed."
"Three hundred and ten ounces per month."
"Four hundred and eight per month."
"Done!"
Torius lowered his sword. "Where is she?"
"Just behind that wall, Captain." Brojanni produced a key from his sleeve.
"Joss, see to Grogul. We just made a deal."
"Aye, sir!"
"This way, Captain." Brojanni stepped to the shelf-lined wall. He moved a pot and fit the key into a hole. Silently, the entire wall swung out.
Inside, Celeste lay restrained by an iron collar chained to two bolts in the walls. The room was crowded with other devices and a table laden with vials of pearly white liquid.
She rose on her coils, her dark eyes wide. "My captain!"
"Release her!" Torius's hand began to sweat on his sword hilt.
"Captain, please. The monster is dangerous without the enspelled collar. Let me place a charm on it for our protection."
"Fine. Do it now."
Torius tensed as the wizard cast his spell, then stepped over and touched the iron collar; it glowed briefly and fell away. "Your owner has come for you, Celeste. You can go with him as soon as we sign a simple contract."
"Of course," she said, slithering submissively after them.
Back in the outer room, Brojanni bent over his desk to gather paper and quill. Torius sidled over next to Celeste and aimed his wand.
"Negate!" he whispered
This time, something happened.
Celeste coiled and struck, sinking her fangs into Brojanni's neck. He reeled, and again she bit him, hissing with rage. The wizard fell against the desk, and she sunk her fangs into his chest, flexing her powerful body before releasing him. Brojanni slumped to the floor, gasping for breath, his skin nearly as pale as Celeste's. Once more, she reared back, ready to strike.
"Celeste! Enough!" Torius stepped forward, but she turned and hissed at him.
"This man..." she seethed, "this beast chained me and kept me from seeing the stars! He forced me to trade my venom for a mere glimpse of the sky! I'll have him dead!"
"Wait, Celeste! Please. It's complicated. We can't kill him. It'll start a guild war." He stepped between them and turned to give her a secret wink. "In fact, I'll need to give him the antidote to your venom right away." He turned to Brojanni and handed him a large flask. "Drink this. It'll ease the poison. Quickly!"
The wizard took the flask and drank greedily, then slumped back. His hand dropped to the floor, releasing the flask as his eyes glazed over with forgetfulness.
Celeste hissed angrily. "You...you mean to let him live? After what he did to me?" She lashed her tail. He'd seen her agitated before when she'd been too long from the stars, but never this bad.
"At least he won't remember it." Torius looked down at the man's slack face. "Trust me, if I could kill him, I would. Do you have any idea how much that elixir he just gargled was worth?"
"We gotta go, Captain!" Grogul rumbled. He and Joss were busy barricading the door.
"Grogul! You okay?"
"Bah! Nothin' but a little burn." He brushed charred leather away from the healing scar on his chest. "Joss fixed me up. But we better get before this door gives way."
"We've got to go, Celeste. Now! I'll make it up to you." He pulled out a potion vial and held it while she drank. He heard Joss gasp as she morphed into a beautiful nude woman, but he didn't have time to deal with that right now. He draped a cloak across her shoulders and the four of them dashed for the window.
∗ ∗ ∗
The stars shone like jewels overhead as Stargazer sailed beyond the glow of Katapesh. Torius stepped out onto the deck, his hands behind his back. Celeste was coiled at the rail, gazing up and swaying sinuously with the roll of the ship while the crew tended to their duties around her.
"For you." Torius held out an exquisite sextant wrought in bright silver.
Celeste's smile gleamed as she floated it out of his hands. She peered through the lens and hissed with delight. Leaning close, she nipped his neck; the faint rush of weakness and euphoria was like a breath of sea breeze, and Torius sighed.
"You must have done well with the sale of the Gods' Tears to afford such an instrument," she said.
Torius looked around guiltily to ensure that none of the crew stood within hearing, then whispered, "Actually, after paying the crew and buying that, the money's mostly gone. We've got to find a rich merchant ship if we're to keep in provisions."
"Then I will find one for you," Celeste agreed, turning her face to the night sky. "And the stars will be our guide!"
Coming Next Week: A brand new story featuring Tantaerra from Ed Greenwood's new novel, The Wizard's Mask!
Read more about Torius, Celeste, and the crew of the Stargazer in the new Pathfinder Tales novel Pirate's Honor, available now!
Chris A. Jackson is the author of the Scimitar Seas nautical fantasy series, which has won sequential gold medal awards for fantasy from ForeWord Reviews, as well as Weapon of Flesh, Deathmask, A Soul for Tsing, and the Cornerstones Trilogy. He lives with his wife on a sailboat in the Caribbean. For samples of his work, his blog, and his convention schedule, visit jaxbooks.com.
It was late, and the doors of Gozreh's temple were closed, but it was not so late that a bit of judicious knocking didn't get a response. A young acolyte cracked the door and squinted at Torius dubiously.
Stargazer
by Chris A. Jackson
Chapter Three: Blood and Information
It was late, and the doors of Gozreh's temple were closed, but it was not so late that a bit of judicious knocking didn't get a response. A young acolyte cracked the door and squinted at Torius dubiously.
"Yes?"
"We need to speak to the high priest immediately!" Torius gestured to the stiff form in Grogul's arms. "My friend..."
"The high priest is eating his supper." The acolyte seemed unmoved by the plea. "Perhaps tomorrow."
"We are faithful to Gozreh!" He produced the small golden leaf on a chain from the neck of his robes. "And we are not without resources." A handful of gold reinforced the plea, and gained them entry.
Like all temples to Gozreh that Torius had seen, this one was open to the sky, its walls of joined driftwood servin...g only to keep out the unfaithful, not the elements. In its center sat the traditional large pool of water, surrounded by native plant life. Katapesh being Katapesh, however, this particular temple was far from the humble hermitages and shrines one might find on a distant coast or otherwise uninhabited island. The head priest wore fine robes, and looked as if it had been some time since he last slept out under the open sky. He sat at a beautiful wooden table next to the reflecting pool, and looked none too pleased at being interrupted.
"It's late, Captain." The aged priest wiped the grease of his curried goat stew from his long beard. He squinted down at Snick's corpse as if it somehow offended him. "And there is no hurry. Perhaps in the morning."
"I've donated enough to your coffers in years past to buy this temple thrice over," Torius seethed, one hand clenching the hilt of his cutlass. "We urgently require information that our friend may have learned just prior to her death. I'm willing to pay whatever you deem fair."
"Oh. Well, information comes easier than treatment of her... um... condition. For a generous donation to the temple, we may be able to accommodate you."
"How generous?" Grogul growled, his flinty eyes narrow.
"And before you answer, consider my longstanding, and potential future support of this temple." Torius reached for his belt pouch.
After some haggling, they came to an agreement, and the priest led them across the garden and over to a stone slab, deeply engraved with the Gozreh's leaf symbol.
"Place her there."
When Grogul complied, the priest produced a matching leaf pendant from his robes and began a careful incantation. The symbol glowed with a deep blue light, and Snick's morbid features suddenly stirred. Sightless eyes blinked, and her mouth twitched, but her color remained the ashen hue of death. Grogul muttered an oath and took a step back.
"Ask your questions," the priest instructed.
"Snick!" He stepped forward. "Snick, I need to know where they took Celeste!"
"Celeste..." The gnome's voice was raspy, undoubtedly the result of being garroted. "They took her... Don't know where."
"I need to know about Caliel. What did he do with Celeste?"
"Caliel!" Her sightless eyes flung wide, pale lips drawn back in a rictus snarl, she hissed, "Traitor! He sold her to a man."
Torius' blood ran cold in his veins. "To who? Who paid him?"
"Don't know... Didn't see his face... Wizard."
"Blast!" Torius clenched his fists and thought furiously. "Do you know where Caliel's gone to?"
"No. South... Told his men Grand Arch at dawn."
"Good! Thank you, Snick." He rested a hand on her cool shoulder. "You rest now."
The spell faded, and Snick's pale features stilled.
"It will be expensive to bring her back, Captain," the priest warned.
"I don't care. I'll pay it." Torius looked up at the heavens and a shiver wracked his body. Could Celeste see the stars she so loved? Would she ever observe the night sky again? He knew what she would become if that was denied her for too long. He turned away without another glance at the priest. "Come on, Grogul. We've got to get back to the ship. We've got an appointment at the Grand Arch at dawn."
∗∗∗
The crewmembers of the Stargazer were with him. Pirates they might be, but loyalty to one another was the key to their success and survival, and avarice was in their blood. Consequently, the opportunities to repay the treason of fellow crewmembers and reap a share of Caliel's payment for the sale of their navigator were serious incentives.
Well before dawn, Torius, Grogul and a dozen pirates were hidden among the simple homes along the road between Twilight Gate and the Grand Arch Bridge. Just as the sun peeked over the sea, seven desert-cloaked riders exited the gate astride fine mounts and headed toward the bridge.
"Horses," Grogul muttered with a note of disdain. "Figured that and brung a little surprise." He delved into a large bag and withdrew a heavy bola.
"Where'd you learn to use a thing like that?" Torius eyed the ungainly device dubiously.
"Wasn't always a pirate, Captain," the bosun replied with a grin.
"Fine. Just don't tip our hand." He watched the riders closely; they wore dust cloths across their faces, but he knew Caliel when he came close enough. When they were in position, he gave a high-pitched whistle and stepped into the street in front of the horses. Half his sailors stepped out beside him, and the rest filled the street behind the riders. Every pirate bore a loaded crossbow.
"That's as far as you go, you mutinous piece of dog meat!" Torius drew his sword and the riders pulled their mounts to a halt.
"Vin! How in the depths of Hell—"
"The shipmate you murdered gave us just enough information to find you, Caliel. Snick isn't here to cut her due out of your traitorous hide, but I'll wager you got enough from selling my navigator to pay a cleric for her return."
"Snick's dead?" Honest surprise registered in the half-elf's eyes. "Nosey gnome. I didn't mean for that to happen, Torius. She killed herself with her own damned curiosity."
"You might sell that to the dung collectors, but not to me, Caliel. I'll make you a deal. If you drop the gold you made from selling my navigator and tell me who you sold her to, I'll let you be on your cowardly way. Otherwise..." He gestured to the bowmen.
"Your navigator is a scaly monster, Vin!" The man hefted a long spear. "And you're the coward! No stomach to be a real pirate! We could have made twice what we got on that last take if you had any stones! A hold full of silks and fifteen new slaves would have paid well, and nobody would have been the wiser!"
"I told you when you came aboard that I don't deal in people," Torius said, his voice low and dangerous as he hefted his silver-hilted cutlass. "And there wasn't time to take anything more. You know that."
"Because you don't have the balls to kill a bunch of bloody merchants!" Caliel hawked and spat. "Did that scaly witch of yours chew off your manhood, Captain Vin? Is that why you're so craven?"
"Tell me who you sold her to, Caliel, or I swear by Gozreh, I'll take your head."
"You mean you'll try!" The riders kicked their mounts into a charge, spears set like lances.
"Fire all!" Torius shouted, and the crossbows cracked.
Three men fell, but Caliel and the others rode on. There was not a faint heart among his crew, but pirates are unaccustomed to facing a cavalry charge. They dove out of the way; only Grogul remained, his tusks bared as he threw his bola. One of the horses went down screaming, its rider pitching forward to land with a sickening crunch.
Torius stood his ground, reaching for a pouch at his hip. He focused on the gleaming tip of Caliel's spear and threw the pouch down hard, right in the horse's path.
It was just a simple firecracker, but the sound spooked the horse, which threw off Caliel's aim enough to save Torius's life. The tip of the spear creased the captain's shoulder, but his cutlass caught the traitorous first mate squarely in the stomach. Caliel fell from the saddle and landed in a bloody heap.
Another horse screamed in agony, and Torius heard Grogul bellow, but his attention was fixed on Caliel. He dashed to where the man lay clutching the slithering mass of his eviscerated abdomen.
He put the tip of his cutlass to his first mate's throat and said, "Who'd you sell her to? Tell me!"
"Or what?" Caliel spat, his lips flecked with blood. "You'll kill me?" He laughed horribly, then coughed, choking on his own blood.
"Or by Gozreh, your soul gets bound and sold to the foulest necromancer I can find." He withdrew an ornate crystal vial from his belt—nothing but an empty perfume bottle, but Caliel didn't know that—and pressed the tip of his cutlass into Caliel's neck. "There are things worse than death, my friend."
"A poison-crafter named Brojanni. Offered me enough for my own ship... The money's on my horse." Caliel grinned through the blood. "You said you'd let me live."
"I lied." Torius allowed the man a moment's realization before he ended his life in one quick slash. It was better than he deserved.
"Captain!"
Torius turned to see Grogul standing over a dead horse and rider. Blood dripped from both his axe and the spear that transfixed his thigh. The boatswain reached down and snapped the spearhead off, then yanked the shaft free. Torius swallowed.
"One got away." The half-orc pointed to the bridge where the last of the traitorous pirates was riding at full gallop.
"I got what I needed, Grogul." He cleaned his sword and sheathed it. "Have the men round up the horses, and bind up that leg. Our traitorous first mate just supplied us with sufficient funds to bring Snick back and heal your hairy carcass up in the bargain."
"Bah! Just a poke with a stick!" the boatswain claimed, barely limping as he shouted orders at the pirate crew.
∗∗∗
Not even death fazes Snick.
"This isn't good, Captain." Snick huddled in a blanket, her face flushed a living hue as she recovered from her brush with death. "Not only is Brojanni a wizard, he's an alchemist specializing in poisons, which explains why he wanted Celeste! And he's alchemist guild. The Pactmasters won't like it if we storm his fancy home."
"I'm guild, too, and he stole my navigator!"
"You're guild?" Grogul asked, taking another swig of his medicinal fish oil whiskey. The smell of it nearly made Torius retch.
"Merchantmen's guild," Torius explained. "Can't sell anything in this city without it."
"That's not going to do you much good, Captain, because technically, he didn't steal Celeste. He bought her, which is perfectly legal." Snick shivered and clutched her blanket closer. "The masks won't like it if you kill him."
"I don't want to kill him, Snick. I just want Celeste back." Torius suppressed a shiver of his own, and began to wonder why he was feeling like he'd just woken up from a two-day binge.
"So we go in quick, take her, and give him a swig of that memory-enema potion," Grogul suggested, taking another deep draught.
Torius swallowed hard and tried to think. Grogul's idea wasn't half bad, but they would have to make sure it happened like that, quick and without repercussions. The last thing he needed was to tangle with the Pactmasters. Katapesh was his home port; if he lost his standing here, he'd be cast adrift.
"Okay, we do like Grogul suggested. Quick in and out, and the good Master Brojanni doesn't even remember that we were there." He shivered again.
"You okay, Captain?" Grogul squinted at him.
"I'm fine." He reached for a bottle of spiced rum that he kept for his own medicinal purposes. "Snick, I think we'll need to bring your babies out of bed for this one, and I'll need to make a trip to the Repository. We'll need gold to do this right."
"How much gold?" Grogul's eyes narrowed in worry.
"All of it, I think." Torius suppressed another shiver. "When you confront a spellcaster, it's best to have a few tricks on hand."
Coming Next Week: The thrilling conclusion of Chris A. Jackson's "Stargazer."
Read more about Torius, Celeste, and the crew of the Stargazer in the new Pathfinder Tales novel Pirate's Honor, available now!
Chris A. Jackson is the author of the Scimitar Seas nautical fantasy series, which has won sequential gold medal awards for fantasy from ForeWord Reviews, as well as Weapon of Flesh, Deathmask, A Soul for Tsing, and the Cornerstones Trilogy. He lives with his wife on a sailboat in the Caribbean. For samples of his work, his blog, and his convention schedule, visit jaxbooks.com.
He scanned the crew and nodded his approval. Though they still bore weapons, they looked little like pirates. Their dark leathers and bandanas had been replaced by loose vests, colorful pantaloons, and varied desert headdresses. As captain, Torius wore a dazzling white kaftan that was subtly enchanted to keep him cool in the blistering heat. Only Grogul still looked menacing, stripped to the waist and showing his impressive array of scars. He'd traded his axe for a pair of long kukris tucked crosswise under his sash at the small of his back.
Stargazer
by Chris A. Jackson
Chapter Two: Stealing the Stars
"Don't put us downwind of the slave markets, Caliel." Torius scanned Katapesh's busy docks, looking for ships that he might prefer to avoid. The list had become quite long.
The mate sneered. "Squeamish, Captain?"
"It's the smell, that's all." Torius tended to steer clear of the slave markets for other reasons, too, but his crew need not know all the details of their captain's past.
"Smells like half-orc day at Trillia's Bathhouse!" Snick chimed from beside him, her sea-green hair fluttering in the breeze. The crew chuckled and Grogul growled low in his throat.
"All secure below, Snick?"
"Well, of course, sir! All my babies're off to bed." Snick's ‘babies' were the twelve ballistae that Stargazer bore. When in Katapesh, his home port, he ordered the huge crossbows dismantled and hidden in the smuggling niches crafted into the spaces between the ship's decks. The gnome looked indignant at the suggestion that she might be slacking. "We're nothin' but a merchant ship now."
"Except for that ruddy great reptile in his cabin," a crewman muttered.
"Good." Torius ignored the comment. Celeste's magical talents and her value as a navigator and astrologer far outweighed the risks of having her aboard, and every member of the crew knew it.
He scanned the crew and nodded his approval. Though they still bore weapons, they looked little like pirates. Their dark leathers and bandanas had been replaced by loose vests, colorful pantaloons, and varied desert headdresses. As captain, Torius wore a dazzling white kaftan that was subtly enchanted to keep him cool in the blistering heat. Only Grogul still looked menacing, stripped to the waist and showing his impressive array of scars. He'd traded his axe for a pair of long kukris tucked crosswise under his sash at the small of his back.
"Might need a trip to Jexler and Young's, though," the gnome continued. "Those swimmer bolts just don't seem to be quite—"
"First things first, Snick." Torius ruffled her hair, smiling when she grimaced and slapped his hand away. "And the first thing is to conclude our business."
When the ship was docked and all secure, Torius turned to his first mate. "Caliel, deal with the fees and bribes to the dockmaster and see to provisions and repairs. Grogul, you're with me."
The pirate captain crossed the gangplank and headed uptown as if he hadn't a care, for all the world a merchant and his bodyguard out for a stroll. The burlap sack over Grogul's shoulder was nondescript enough to be holding laundry, but inside their prize lay nestled in a padded leather pouch, a fortune for the selling. Torius had long ago learned that the most effective means of stealth is often to appear as if you have nothing to hide at all.
∗∗∗
"May Abadar smile on your every endeavor, Master Alchemist." Torius bowed low and backed out of the shop's opulent back room, smiling through the bitter taste of both the dark tea he'd been forced to drink as a matter of custom and the poor deal he'd just struck.
"That took too long," Grogul said with a scowl.
Torius handed over a small bag heavy with gems and nodded to the door, but once outside he grumbled, "And they call me a pirate!"
"What happened?"
"Oh, just haggling," he said, then lowered his voice. "We've been paid, Grogul, but not what we were promised. I should have expected it, really, but there's nothing we can do."
"You said we had a contract."
"We did, but that thief caught me broadside. If I threatened to take our business elsewhere, we'd soon have Benrahi Ekhan himself on our tails." He shook his head ruefully, then cocked a wry grin and clapped the burly half-orc on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Grogul. We still made out well, just not as well as I'd wanted." He glanced at the angle of the shadows. "Come on; we've got to hurry to make it to the Immaculate Repository before dusk."
"Bankers..." Grogul muttered, matching his captain's long stride. "Now there's a band of pirates!"
Grogul is a bosun who gets things done.
They were met with aplomb at the Repository, and the certificates of appraisal that accompanied the gems were quickly verified, their value deposited in his account with a scribbled number on a leger. Torius withdrew a sum in gold for the crew's shares and all the expenses associated with maintaining Stargazer, and they headed back to the ship. Dusk in Katapesh reminded him of twilight on a tropical reef—the time of day when predators began to hunt—but two well-armed men cognizant of their surroundings had little to fear from common thugs. They arrived at the docks just as the sun's glow faded behind the city's gilded domes, but the welcome they received was more chilling even than the coming desert night.
"Captain!" A crewman named Joss ran up as they crossed the gangplank. "You're free! Where's Mister Caliel?"
"What do you mean, ‘free'? Why wouldn't I be?" The chill slithered down Torius' spine.
"But the slavers, sir! We got word a gang of Duenas took you, the filthy hyenas, and Mister Caliel—"
"Where is Caliel, Joss?" He scanned the worried faces and shivered.
"Mister Caliel took half a dozen men and went to rescue you. This feller said he knew where you was, but that it'd take some doin' to get you back. He, uh..." The man balked, biting his lower lip. "They took yer navigator with 'em."
"Celeste?" The chill clutched his heart like the hand of a lich. Torius gripped Joss's vest, jerking him off his feet. "Where?"
"We don't know, sir! That feller, he just spoke to Mister Caliel. The mate said they'd need yer navigator's help to get you back. She took that potion that makes her human and left with 'em, all cloaked and secret-like. Then Snick followed 'em. Told me somethin' weren't right and she'd find out."
"Damn!" Torius released the man and began to pace Stargazer's deck, his mind awhirl. "And nobody recognized this man? Did Caliel call him by name?"
"Oh, aye! Called him Vemmy. I heard him."
"Vemmy..." The name meant nothing to Torius. He glanced at Grogul, who knew every sneak and informant on the docks, but the boatswain shook his head.
"Never heard of him, but I know someone who might."
"Let's go." Torius turned back to Joss. "Keep the ship secure. Nobody, and I mean nobody, comes aboard. If Caliel or Snick come back, they stay put. Understand?"
"Aye, sir!"
∗∗∗
Nowhere in Katapesh is the night darker than beneath the Night Ramp, with its seedy cluster of tents where informants and black marketers ply their trade. Grogul led Torius past clusters of men sitting around small charcoal fires cooking meat of dubious origin on metal skewers to a canvas-shrouded stall near the Obsidian Wall. There, an old woman sat smoking a pesh pipe, her knobby, misshapen feet propped up on a stool.
Grogul didn't bother with formalities or introductions. "Need to find someone, Hound."
"Nice to smell you, too, Grogul. Who's your friend?" She sniffed, then blinked, the lamplight glinting on the haze of her unseeing eyes. "Don't think I know his scent."
"I'm Captain Vin of the Stargazer." Torius stepped forward. "We're looking for a man named Vemmy."
"And what are you willing to pay for this, Captain Vin?" The old woman puffed on her pipe, drawing the acrid smoke deep into her lungs and holding it there before exhaling. She smiled, thin lips pulling back over elongated canines. Her name, it seemed, was apropos.
"Gold or steel," Torius said, a hand on his sword hilt. "Gold if you tell us the truth. Steel if you lie."
"I never lie, Captain. There's no profit in it." She took another puff from her pipe. "Twenty scarabs."
"Ten," he countered.
"Seventeen."
"Fifteen." He was in no mood to haggle, but if he didn't, he risked being marked as moneyed prey.
"Sixteen, then, if you insist."
"Done." He counted out the coins, but kept them in his palm. "Where do we find Vemmy?"
"Street of the Seven Suns, north of The Block. He works for whoever pays him, and isn't particular."
He handed over the money. "Thank you."
"You already have, Captain." She laughed and jingled the money in her hand before slipping it into a pocket.
"Come on." Torius grabbed Grogul's arm and turned him north.
A quarter of an hour and dozens of twisting streets later, they entered the Street of the Seven Suns. Most of the stalls in the bazaar were closed, but the alehouses and pesh pits were open for business. A few questions and some judiciously applied silver pointed them toward a narrow alley and a dark second story flat.
"Round the back," Torius instructed his boatswain in a whisper. "If he bolts..."
Grogul nodded and vanished around the corner, stealthier than his bulk would suggest possible. Torius gave him a moment to get situated, then climbed the rickety stair, the boards creaking under his weight. There was a click as the door opened, and the glint of starlight on metal. Torius dodged as the crossbow fired, and felt the bolt tug at the sleeve of his robe. He drew his sword and dashed up the stairs before the man could reload.
The door splintered under his onslaught, but he only caught a glimpse of the man's boots vanishing out of a small window. He heard a crash, then a grunt and a scream. He leaned over the sill.
"Grogul?"
"Got him, sir." The half-orc was bent over a prone form.
"Dead?"
"Not yet."
Torius ran back down the stairs and around the corner. Grogul bore a cut along his cheekbone, and the tip of his pointed ear was missing, but that was nothing compared with the man he was pulling to his feet. One of the bosun's kukris transfixed the man's shoulder from back to front, six inches of bloody steel sticking out of his filthy robes.
"You okay, Grogul?"
"Bah! Just a scratch."
"You must be Vemmy." Torius peered into the man's pockmarked face. "Not a good night for you."
The man spat an epithet, then screamed again as Grogul whacked the hilt of the kukri. Torius winced.
"Now Vemmy, let me be clear. You tell us where Caliel took my navigator, or you're tomorrow's dinner special at Chargut."
"Don't know where," the man said through clenched teeth. "He just paid me to bring the message and watch his back. Then that blasted gnome came along."
"Snick? Where is she?"
"Dead."
Torius felt the blood drain from his face, and he whacked the kukri himself. Vemmy's scream was gratifying.
"Show us where. Now!"
Grogul arranged Vemmy's cloak to hide the knife and frogmarched the man through the dark streets. In minutes they reached an alley and Vemmy pointed.
"In there. I stashed the corpse behind the bins."
Torius's gorge rose in his throat. The building was an abattoir, and the rats had massed for their nightly feast. He kicked the rats away, and found Snick's body reasonably unchewed; apparently the butcher's offal ranked higher than gnome on the rat culinary scale. He pulled her into the faint starlight, and saw the mark of a garrote around her throat. She was dead, her limbs stiffened and her face fixed in a ghastly expression.
"Grogul, pick her up. We need to—"
Vemmy gasped in shock as the half-orc retrieved his kukri. Grogul hadn't simply pulled the blade out, but twisted it and slashed down through bone and sinew. Blood quickly darkened the man's robes, and he crumpled to the refuse-strewn ground. Grogul wiped the blade on Vemmy's cloak and sheathed it.
"You were sayin', Captain?"
"I was saying, we need to get her to Gozreh's temple."
"Why?" He picked up the gnome's corpse and tucked it under his arm.
"Because, Grogul," Torius said, leading the way into the night, "the dead can talk."
Coming Next Week: A chat with a corpse in Chapter Three of Chris A. Jackson's "Stargazer."
Read more about Torius, Celeste, and the crew of the Stargazer in the new Pathfinder Tales novel Pirate's Honor, available now!
Chris A. Jackson is the author of the Scimitar Seas nautical fantasy series, which has won sequential gold medal awards for fantasy from ForeWord Reviews, as well as Weapon of Flesh, Deathmask, A Soul for Tsing, and the Cornerstones Trilogy. He lives with his wife on a sailboat in the Caribbean. For samples of his work, his blog, and his convention schedule, visit jaxbooks.com.
Black sails tore out of the moonless night, all but invisible as the corsair Stargazer swooped down on her prey. Even as the merchant galleon's crew recognized the danger, three ballistae cracked in perfect unison, and their steel heads bit into the planks of the ship's hull.
Stargazer
by Chris A. Jackson
Chapter One: Venomous Friends
Black sails tore out of the moonless night, all but invisible as the corsair Stargazer swooped down on her prey. Even as the merchant galleon's crew recognized the danger, three ballistae cracked in perfect unison, and their steel heads bit into the planks of the ship's hull.
"Haul!" bellowed a voice, and Stargazer's capstan spun, hauling in the lines affixed to the ballistae bolts, pulling the two ships together.
The two hulls met with a crack, and thirty seasoned pirates leapt aboard the merchant ship in a wave of curses and flashing steel. One stout sailor swung a boathook, cracking a burly pirate across the face. The pirate responded with an anatomically impossible epithet and a sweeping blow of his heavy axe that clove the sailor's skull like an overripe melon. The captain and crew of the Golden Griffin dropped their weapons and backed against the windward rail, pleading for mercy, hands raised.
"Bosun Grogul!" The voice cut through the night like a knife, staying the burly pirate's hand as he raised his axe above the merchant captain's head. "Stand down! Secure their weapons and start your search!"
"Aye, Captain!" The half-orc pirate spat blood onto the deck. He glanced over his shoulder at his captain standing on Stargazer's rail, and the rage in his eyes dimmed. "Search party with me! You others, secure this rabble!"
Captain Torius Vin stepped onto the deck of the merchant galleon with the preternatural agility of a born seaman, one hand on the silver hilt of the cutlass at his hip. His confident swagger was that of a man walking across a street instead of a lurching deck as he stepped over the corpse of the dead sailor and confronted the captain of the Golden Griffin.
"Where is it, Captain Wayland?" He stroked his carefully groomed goatee, dark eyes narrowed.
"Where's what?" The merchant captain's voice sounded harsh with fear. "You're nothing but a damned pirate!"
Torius grinned—he expected fear from his conquests, but not defiance—and drew his cutlass. The flat of the blade slapped the captain's cheek, the edge coming to rest beneath the man's ear. "A pirate I am, Captain, and I may even be damned one day. But not today, and not by the likes of you! If you hand over the coffer you're delivering to Benrahi Ekhan of Azir, I'll spare the lives of you and your crew. If you lie to me again, I'll feed you to the adaro a piece at a time—your right ear first."
"Bugger yourself, pirate!" the captain spat. "You'll kill us all anyway. You vermin have no honor!"
Torius' wrist stiffened, and the razor edge of his cutlass drew a bead of blood from the captain's ear. "Have it your way," he said, but a soft voice from behind him stayed his hand.
"My captain!" There was a rustle of scales against wood. "I can help, if you'll allow me."
"Celeste!" Torius lowered his sword and glanced over his shoulder to see... nothing. "Is there time?"
"There's always time, Captain Vin. It's what we do with it that matters." The voice was as hauntingly beautiful as the night sky. "In this moment of it, I can find what you seek."
"Then by all means proceed, my dear." Torius stepped back.
Undulating coils of starlight flowed over the conjoined rails of the two ships as a huge serpent with the head of a woman materialized from invisibility. The white waves of her hair glowed in the starlight as she slithered to Torius's side, then smiled, her fangs glistening with venom. Torius stifled a chuckle at the gasps of horror from the Golden Griffin's captain and crew; where they saw a monster, he saw magnificence.
"Captain Wayland," she hissed as she bent close to the man's sweaty face. Torius heard the whisper of her quietly murmured spell. "If not to save your own life, then for the lives of your crew: tell me where you have hidden the coffer destined for Benrahi Ekhan."
The man paled nearly to the naga's alabaster hue, swallowed, then answered. "In a secret compartment under the chart table in my quarters. This is the key." He fumbled a heavy brass key from a pocket, and it floated out of his grasp and into Torius's hand.
"Mister Caliel!" Torius tossed the key to his first mate. "Get that coffer, double quick! Time is of the essence!"
Celeste is an exceptional woman—in many senses.
"Aye, sir!" The tall man, a half-elf by the gentle point of his ears, gathered two men and hurried aft.
"Celeste," Torius said more quietly, "best go below now. Thank you for your help."
"Who am I to argue with the stars, my captain?" Her lips curved in a knowing smile. "I await you in your cabin." She slithered away with astonishing alacrity, gone by the time Torius turned back to the captain of the Golden Griffin.
"Now, Captain, there are two possible outcomes to this night's events, and only one ends with you still breathing." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a large, flat bottle. "Outcome one is that you and your crew each take a single draught from this bottle, and forget the last half-hour of your lives. Outcome two is that you all die, right now."
"That's a choice?" the captain scoffed, his defiance returning.
"Life or death? Yes, I do believe that is a choice, Captain." A door slammed, and Torius turned to see Caliel with a small metal coffer, while his two companions hefted much larger bundles of finery. He grinned. Pirates will be pirates, he thought, then turned back to the captain. "Choose now—live or die. Quickly! If you delay, your choices get cut in half." He tapped the side of the man's neck with his cutlass.
The captain cursed, but took the bottle, removed the cork and tilted it into his mouth, then passed it to the next man in line. Torius watched carefully, making sure each sailor took a mouthful of the precious potion and swallowed. It had cost him plenty, but he gauged it worth the lives of fifteen men, given that he'd already taken from them a prize fifty times the potion's value. When the last man in line drank, he took the bottle back and smiled; the captain's eyes were already glassy with forgetfulness.
"Bosun Grogul! Anyone else aboard?"
"No, sir! Searched from stem to stern."
"Good! We're leaving. Gather your men and get aboard Stargazer."
"Aye, Captain!" The boatswain and his men, burdened with more armfuls of carefully selected spoils, returned to the corsair.
"Farewell, Captain." Torius gave a fluid salute that ended with his cutlass snapping into the scabbard at his hip. He leapt to the rail of his ship and doffed his hat in a sweeping bow as his men cast off and the ships parted. "May we do business again soon!"
As Stargazer heeled away, black sails vanishing into the cloak of night, Torius strode through his grinning crew of pirates and shouted down the open main hatchway. "All secure below, Snick?"
"Secure as a half-orc's virginity, Captain!" a high-pitched feminine voice called back up.
The joke elicited a round of giddy laughter from the crew, and a growl from the bosun, which was probably what the gnome was aiming for. Others, however, seemed in a less humorous mood.
"Besmara's boots, Captain, that was close," Caliel grumbled. "You put a lot of faith in that wizard's concoction, expecting it to keep our identity a secret."
"Aye, we could'a took her like a cheap doxy, Captain," Grogul said as he wiped his gore-streaked axe with a rag. "Dead men don't talk, and it would'a saved the cost of that potion and gained us a hold full of fine Qadiran silk."
The bosun's boldness loosened the tongues of some of the other crew, and Torius heard a rush of dark muttering. He shook his head dismissively.
"The potion was crafted by a priest, actually, Caliel, and I tested it personally. Besides, this way we're free to plunder the Golden Griffin at a later date. Set course for Katapesh, and don't spare the canvas. I want twenty miles between us and the Golden Griffin before sunrise!" Torius pointed to the coffer. "Grogul, bring that to my cabin. Now. It's worth more than a dozen holds full of the finest silks in Golarion."
"Aye, sir!" The boatswain scooped up the coffer and followed.
In Torius's dimly lit cabin, they were greeted by the disconcerting sight of several navigational instruments, including an elaborate astrolabe, floating about the sinuous coils of Stargazer's navigator. She lay beneath the open skylight, but turned from her celestial observations as they entered, the tip of her tail twitching in delight.
"My Captain, I see that we're underway. I'll take my instruments up to the quarterdeck presently to get a proper fix and plot our course. Ah, Grogul, you bear the coffer of Gods' Tears." She cocked her head in concern. "And you're injured."
"Bah! Just a bloody lip, Miss Celeste." The half-orc put the box down and nodded. "I'll leave you to yer snake charmin', Captain." He ducked out of the cabin with a tusky grin.
"Pass the word for Snick to come by when she's through mothering the ballistae, Grogul. I'll need her to open this thing."
"Aye, sir." The door clicked closed.
"You take a great risk in this endeavor, Torius." Celeste turned to the astrolabe, rotating the discs more accurately with her magic than most could with two hands. "Such a valuable prize will not go unmissed."
"Not such a great risk, Celeste. The Sword of Man himself would thank me for keeping such a relic out of Rahadoum. The Gods' Tears will vanish in the markets of Katapesh, and there'll be no trail leading back to us." He unbuckled his sword and hung it on a peg near his bunk. "Which was another reason for the potion. Better to obliterate their memories than kill the crew of the Golden Griffin. Contrary to what Grogul thinks, dead men do occasionally talk."
He stepped to where Celeste lay coiled, her torso swaying easily with the roll of the ship as she gazed at a particularly bright star through her telescope. A stylus on the chart table scratched down a series of numbers. Beneath the charts lay several scrolls, mostly zodiacs of various cultures and lengthy scholars' notes of celestial observations. He stood next to her and stared up at the star-filled sky; this far from the lights of any city, they were so clear he felt as if he could reach out and touch them.
"It's a beautiful night." He brushed a hand through her silvery hair.
"Isn't it?" The tip of her tail shuddered as she turned to him. "And speaking of potions."
A thin drawer beneath the chart table opened and a small vial floated out. The stopper twisted free and she quaffed the contents in a single gulp. Her shape shifted with the potion's magic, her tail morphing into two long legs, two pale arms sprouting from supple shoulders. In the time it took him to draw a deep breath, she stood before him as a tall, willowy human woman with skin the luster of pearl and eyes of midnight, her face and hair unchanged. He reached for a cloak and draped it over her shoulders, though she was unabashed by her lack of raiment. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, unaccustomed as she was to having digits.
"Celeste, Snick will be coming by to open the coffer any minute."
"And the potion will only last a few minutes also." With a glance from her, the door's bolt clicked closed. "Time enough."
"Oh, hell," he murmured as her hands explored beneath his shirt.
"Besides," she breathed, nuzzling his neck, "it's been far too long since I've had arms to hold you."
He felt the prick of her fangs, then the familiar rush of weakness from her venom and the odd euphoria that accompanied it. He knew the weakness would fade quickly; he'd become accustomed to Celeste's venom. In fact, he'd become quite fond of it... and her.
"And legs," he reminded her. "Don't forget your legs..."
Neither of them noticed the soft click at the door, or the shadow that passed below the lintel.
Coming Next Week: Pirate problems in Chapter Two of Chris A. Jackson's "Stargazer."
Read more about Torius, Celeste, and the crew of the Stargazer in the new Pathfinder Tales novel Pirate's Honor, available now!
Chris A. Jackson is the author of the Scimitar Seas nautical fantasy series, which has won sequential gold medal awards for fantasy from ForeWord Reviews, as well as Weapon of Flesh, Deathmask, A Soul for Tsing, and the Cornerstones Trilogy. He lives with his wife on a sailboat in the Caribbean. For samples of his work, his blog, and his convention schedule, visit jaxbooks.com.
They moved silent as breath through the empty tunnels, tucking charges into crevices and butting them against wooden support beams. The devil's scent of saltpeter made the caverns smell like Hell, ready to burn with a single, ragged spark. Fairy lights danced in the deeper darkness where the Lieutenant and Trilaina licked wicks and set fuses, making certain everything was perfect. Up near the ore doors, Garm and Chaplain laid their casks with held breath. They were so close they could smell the sweat of the Molthuni regulars on the other side of the barred doors.
The Irregulars
by Neal F. Litherland
Chapter Four: Out with a Bang
They moved silent as breath through the empty tunnels, tucking charges into crevices and butting them against wooden support beams. The devil's scent of saltpeter made the caverns smell like Hell, ready to burn with a single, ragged spark. Fairy lights danced in the deeper darkness where the Lieutenant and Trilaina licked wicks and set fuses, making certain everything was perfect. Up near the ore doors, Garm and Chaplain laid their casks with held breath. They were so close they could smell the sweat of the Molthuni regulars on the other side of the barred doors.
The cleric tapped Garm on the shoulder and pointed to the columns that framed the entrance. Garm set the keg down like it was made of glass, gently turning it back and forth to set it in the dirt. He was repeating the process with the other side of the door when something caught his ear. He cut his hand through the air and crept closer, pressing a tattered ear to the central crevice.
"You heard from either of them, though?" A man's voice. "They haven't come up in hours."
"Probably off with that girl Goblin's always talking about," another voice answered. The second voice was deeper, harder, with something inhuman in its accent and ancestry. "He won't shut up about her. If'n she wasn't a slave, I think he'd try and marry her."
"If she wasn't a slave, Goblin would have been clapped in irons by now," the first voice answered.
"Truth," the gruff voice answered. The first said something else, but Garm couldn't make it out. When the conversation picked up again, the words were more intelligible, and they sent a chill down Garm's spine.
"Still, it's strange that they haven't even checked in." Leather creaked and chain rustled as the other guard shifted his feet. "Maybe we should go and take a look?"
"I see enough of those two as it is."
"Maybe it's time for them to take a turn up here." The first voice stifled a yawn. "Got to change posts, make sure everyone stays sharp. I'd rather be down there than up here."
"You go check, I'll keep eyes up here," the other guard said. "You've got fifteen minutes. After that, you're not my problem."
Garm jerked his head at Chaplain. They grabbed the last three casks, using the noise of the door as cover while they sped around a corner. Chains tightened, and the bar lifted out of its brackets with a groan. One door creaked, and weak lamplight slipped into the underground. The door shut with a hollow boom. Chains rattled, and the beam dropped back into place.
"Your loss," the first guard called back through the door. Garm and Chaplain flattened themselves against the wall as the man approached the turn, but he stopped and turned back the way he'd come. His spear clattered against the wall, and a moment later the rain gutter sound of an emptying bladder filled the cavern. They heard him kick dirt over the puddle, then the lantern creaked as he lifted it up. "What the hell?"
Garm's soles made no noise on the smooth stone as he slipped behind the man and wrapped an arm around his neck. The half-orc wrenched, and the guard's neck snapped like a dry-rotted twig. The rank smell of excrement filled Garm's nostrils, and he dragged the corpse as quietly as he could. He looked at Chaplain, who made the sign of the hammer over the dead man.
"I think we're out of time," Garm whispered.
"Agreed."
Chaplain grabbed the lantern, and Garm tore the lids off the remaining casks. Black powder glinted in the lantern light—sand with the breath of a volcano buried inside. Chaplain started down the hall, and Garm followed a moment later, leaving a trail of powder to the others kegs they'd already placed. Chaplain started humming an old dwarven tune the rest of the Irregulars would recognize, just in case someone got jumpy and started shooting at anyone carrying a lantern.
The Lieutenant is a little crazy, but all good officers are.
"What went wrong?" The Lieutenant stepped out from behind a pillar.
"Guard got curious." Garm poured out the remainder of the last cask. "His partner gave him fifteen minutes before he had to be back, and half of that's already gone."
The Lieutenant nodded. "All right, then. I'll slap the trigger together and hope for the best." He reached into a side pocket of the bag and pulled out three stoppered clay flasks. Fragile at the best of times, they'd do well enough for a timer. The Lieutenant laid the alchemical fire-flasks flat on their sides, and uncorked one more bottle. He leaned it carefully, the thick slosh of the caustic contents enough to give anyone pause.
Somewhere above them, an alarm bell brayed its single, brassy note.
The Lieutenant glared at the ceiling, then at the others. "Well? What are you waiting for, a bloody invitation? Get the hell out of here!"
They ran, but even the hard pounding of their footsteps and the muted call to arms overhead couldn't block out the pop of the cork, and the steady drip-sizzle of acid as it poured out onto the clay. They sped past supports and stress fractures, packed and fused, everything ready to blow at the first breath of flame. Garm slammed his shoulder into the exit door, sending it squealing open on its hinges. Trilaina leaped over the threshold, hair flying in a fan behind her and color riding high in her cheeks. Chaplain burst out last, boots dragging into the dirt as she tried to slow her forward momentum.
Gunner emerged from his post behind a nearby stone, Denna at his side. "What happened?"
"Lieutenant had to improvise the detonator," Trilaina panted.
The gnome's eyes shot wide. He swung into the saddle and put his heels to the she-wolf's ribs. Mount and rider took off like they'd been fired from a siege engine, vanishing down into the obscured path along the ridge.
"You'd think he would have waited," Trilaina said.
"Did you forget what happened last time we tried this maneuver?" Garm asked.
Before the half-elf could reply, the Lieutenant burst from the tunnel entrance, his bad leg making him lope like a retired race horse.
"I would suggest we run now," the Lieutenant said. He emptied a flask down his throat, the contents syrupy slick and reeking of corrupt sugar and fermented poison. His lips drew back, and a shudder went through him as everything in the old man cranked a notch tighter. Joints popped, tendons sprung to attention, and his skin creaked like leather as the formula took hold. "Race you!"
They ran, hell hounds that had slipped their leashes and had no intention of ever going back. They skidded and tumbled, leaping over rocks and dodging over smooth patches that cut corners around switchbacks. One step ahead of a broken neck, they made it to the gentler foothills and ducked behind an outcropping. Before they could draw more than a single breath, the fuse hit home.
It started small. A rumble shook the earth, like the snore of an ancient colossus rolling over in its sleep. Stones that had sat in the same place for centuries jumped and bounced, falling over one another in their hurry to escape the fury boiling inside the mine. Everything went silent. After a few more breaths, the squad peered out to look at their handiwork.
The mountain exploded.
The hidden door splintered as fire and flame belched from the stone throat. A choking cloud of dust followed, tinged red by iron dust. The valley shook, and a roar like a beast in agony echoed across the crags. The surrounding hills gave back the cry, turning it into a chorus of rage and pain. Then, like a child calmed after a nightmare, everything fell silent again.
The squad looked to the Lieutenant. He shrugged. "Let's circle back around, make sure all the slaves got clear and that we really did what we came here to do."
They took formation, and looped a wide circle back to the front of the mine. They obliterated tracks where they found them, and kept to the rocky areas where they could. They tried to stay low, crawling through ditches or ducking into dry ravines where they could move quickly without the risk of anyone seeing them.
Gunner was the first to break the silence. "Guys," he said, peering over the lip of a sheltered ridge. "Get up here. You're going to want to see this."
One by one, they crept over the natural wall to see what they'd done.
The mountain was the same, reared up squat and wide against the sky. The road up to the mine was still there, as was most of the geography they'd spent all of yesterday studying so thoroughly. But the mine itself was completely unrecognizable. All that was left was a depression filled with crumbled rock and the remains of a few structures that had fallen down into the hole when their supports collapsed. One defensive wall had been shaken out like loose teeth, and the other clung on, nearly pristine despite the destruction that had reshaped the landscape in a moment. Nothing moved down among the destruction, except the odd tongue of fire that licked across smashed beams or broken doors.
"I told you it was poorly built," Chaplain said.
The others grinned, and at a hand signal from the Lieutenant dipped back down out of sight. They hunkered close together, eyes combing fore and rear to make sure no unexpected outliers took them by surprise again.
"Everyone, listen up," the Lieutenant said. "We did good work. But this is just the tip of the iceberg."
He smoothed the settled dust and laid out the countryside all around him and his squad. Mountains to the east, flat countryside broken by cities and rivers to the west. With precise measurements he drew three more X's along the mountains.
"We've made a good start, but a few escaped slaves and a single collapsed ore pit aren't going to slow down the war machine that Markwin Teldas and his ilk have built in this little place," the Lieutenant said. "The plan right now is to stay one step ahead of the reinforcements that will be combing the mountains, and make sure we have a few encore performances before we head back home to Andoran, where I'm sure we'll be welcomed with open arms and enough medals to tear your tunics."
The Lieutenant put his right hand out over the map. The others did the same, gripping tight to each other. The Lieutenant smiled, and his troops returned it.
They were the best of the best of the bottom of the barrel. The bloody hands that broke locks and necks with equal aplomb. They had their mission, and nothing would stand in their way. Gods above and below help the poor fools who chose to try.
"Gunner, take point," the Lieutenant said. "If Trevon is to be believed, then we're going to have company very soon, and I doubt they'll be as thrilled with our night's work as we are." He rose stiffly to his feet. "All right, Irregulars, let's move out."
Coming Next Week: A sample chapter of Chris A. Jackson's new high-seas Pathfinder Tales adventure, Pirate's Honor!
Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit www.facebook.com/NealFLitherland.
Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.
The assault was precision-perfect, and quiet as a greased whisper. They charged into the blackness, teeth bared, ready to bring permanent silence to the dark places beneath the mountain. Instead they found an empty hallway, the door flanked by dark lanterns and lonely-looking chairs. A deck of cards sat on a scarred tabletop, dog-eared and forlorn. The air tasted stagnant, and cold as second-day stew. They lowered their weapons, and Chaplain pulled the door closed.
The Irregulars
by Neal F. Litherland
Chapter Three: In the Black
"Are you sure it's here?" Trilaina whispered.
Chaplain nodded, thick brown braid bobbing. "See there and there, the stress fracture lines they tried to hide? And how the stone around it is worn smooth, but this one spot is chiseled? It's been here a while, but it still doesn't fit here."
"Dwarves know their rocks," Gunner said as he watched their back trail. As far as his eyes were concerned, it was still as bright as daylight, even with a sky empty of anything except stars.
"My father was a stonemason," Chaplain said, putting a glare into her voice. Gunner made a small gesture over his shoulder, a duelist conceding a point to an opponent. Trilaina shrugged and ran her hands over the rock, eyes narrowed as if she could see through the stone.
"Even if it is a door—and I'll take your word that it is—there would have to be a knob, or a trigger or something..." Trilaina trailed off and smiled. Her fingers disappeared into a hidden niche, and something clicked softly. "Looks like I found our way in."
"’Bout time," the Lieutenant mumbled. "I'm tired of standing out here in the dark."
"Details, details," the half-elf murmured. "Everybody ready?"
Tendons creaked and knuckles popped. Cold steel whispered out of sheaths and glimmered beneath the moonless sky as the team nodded their assent. Trilaina filled her free hand with a nasty little hawkbill blade and opened the door. Counterweights turned, pulleys groaned, and the hundred-stone weight swung wide.
The assault was precision-perfect, and quiet as a greased whisper. They charged into the blackness, teeth bared, ready to bring permanent silence to the dark places beneath the mountain. Instead they found an empty hallway, the door flanked by dark lanterns and lonely-looking chairs. A deck of cards sat on a scarred tabletop, dog-eared and forlorn. The air tasted stagnant, and cold as second-day stew. They lowered their weapons, and Chaplain pulled the door closed.
"Where is everyone?" Trilaina asked.
"They're watching the woods for bogeymen," Hook said. He popped a match and lit a lantern. "They're down a patrol, with one man still missing in action, and everyone up there is wondering where we are. Just as I figured. The way out is a secret, and it's one of about a hundred possible approaches. In the dark, most people wouldn't have a shot in hell of finding it."
"Where do we go from here?" Garm asked.
"You and Chaplain reconnoiter," the Lieutenant said, slinging a leather bag down off his back and reaching in to the shoulder. "Eliminate threats if necessary, but bring your mental maps back here. After that, we move on to stage two."
The soldiers nodded, and the darkness swallowed them. Trilaina and Lieutenant Hook donned stolen armor stained with blood and took seats at the table. Trilaina dealt a hand of a game called king is dead. Gunner leaned on the wall and watched the shadows. Denna lay down with her nose on her front paws. She took deep breaths and awaited the approach of strangers. Seconds turned to minutes like slow-burn alchemy, but none of them moved. They knew their work, and waiting was part of it.
On the third hand, with Trilaina dealing bottom deck, footsteps approached. They heard the soft whisper of bare flesh on the stony floor flanked by two sets of boots. Hands wrapped around hilts, and eyes turned to the shadows. A girl with close-cropped hair, strong shoulders, and a shapeless shift wrapped around her body walked out of the darkness, Garm and Chaplain on either side.
"Taking in strays now, are we?" Trilaina asked. Garm held up his right hand. The knuckles gleamed with fresh, red blood.
"There were supposed to be two guards at this post," he said. "They decided no one would come in this door, so they went off to have a bit of fun."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Chaplain's frown pulled her entire face taut, and her dark eyes simmered. Garm nodded grimly.
"I hope you didn't show them your gentle side," Trilaina said. Garm shook his head.
Chaplain is as good with people as she is with her hammer.
Chaplain gently touched the girl's arm. "Go on, Rulla. Tell the Lieutenant what you told us."
The girl stared at them, hard eyes still suspicious. She swallowed and looked back where she'd come from. Apparently she considered them the lesser of two evils.
"The guards put us all in our cells hours ago," she said. "They took every digger out of the hole and filled every bolt room. Except for Regan and Goblin, everyone else is up on the wall."
"Goblin?" Gunner raised an eyebrow.
"Ugly whoreson," Garm replied. "My guess is his parents probably saw one and decided it was a fitting name."
"Go on, Rulla, tell him the rest." Chaplain silenced her squadmates with a look. Rulla licked her lips.
"When the last guards went up, they barred the ore gate," she said. "There's no way in or out except the rear door unless that main gate is opened."
The Irregulars looked at each other for several long moments, letting the significance sink in. The Lieutenant smiled, and his troops smiled back. He stripped off the stained leather and tossed it aside. Trilaina slit the lacing and peeled her disguise off like an unwanted second skin. Garm lit the second lantern and handed it to the half-elf.
"New plan, everyone." The Lieutenant rubbed his hands together. "Gunner, get outside and watch the hilltop. If someone realizes the mountain's bleeding out the rear passage, they're going to stopper us up from both ends."
"Consider it done." Gunner mounted up, and Garm opened the door far enough for the duo to slip back into the dim night. He closed it without letting the door catch.
"Garm, did you get the keys from the guards?" Both the half-orc and the dwarf took out two sets of well-used iron keys. The Lieutenant nodded approvingly. "Rulla, is everyone down here a slave?"
"Yes, sir." Her eyebrows drew together. She looked unsure, but she also clearly knew it was too late to stop, even if she wanted to.
"Good. Are there any hard cases we need to know about?"
Rulla shrugged. "I suppose."
Hook nodded, stroking his chin. "Anyone that belongs in this hole?"
Rulla narrowed her eyes. "You're just trusting me? Just like that?"
"He does that," Garm said, looking back into the darkness.
"And you'd just leave them in those cages?"
"Probably not," the Lieutenant admitted. "But I might make sure they went last, after everyone else got a head start. That would make them the most likely to be caught, and it would give everyone else more time to get away."
"No," Rulla said. The Lieutenant raised one bushy eyebrow. "No, there's no one that I think will make trouble. No one wants to be here, and if they were given a choice, they'd run till their feet bled."
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Chaplain said.
"There's only two keys, but we have to be fast." The Lieutenant sucked his teeth, glaring at the imaginary clock in his head. "Garm, you and Chaplain unlock the cages and send people back to this room. We'll make this our jump-off point. Small groups, easily mobile. Look for night-sights and moonbeams, spread 'em around as necessary so we don't have a bunch of scared people stumbling around in the dark and making all kinds of noise. We can't give them lights, much as we might like to. They're a high priority, but not number one."
"What are you going to do?" Trilaina asked.
The Lieutenant pointedly sat down in the chair he'd vacated a moment ago. "I’m going to supervise. From here, I can bottleneck either way, and keep a leash on this whole thing."
Garm, Trilaina, and Chaplain nodded, then scattered. Silence rolled in like an ebb tide.
Rulla looked at the Lieutenant, who took out a long-stemmed pipe. At last, she could stand it no more.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
The Lieutenant slowly crossed his good leg over his bad one, then lit the pipe and puffed. "Why are you here, Rulla?"
"I was sold to a slaver by my husband to pay gambling debts to a bookie in Laekastel." Her tone was flat, yet the Lieutenant could still hear coals burning beneath the ashes.
"Cheliax." The Lieutenant turned the nation's name into a curse. "Molthune is a small man with big plans. It has everything it needs to become an empire: ore, timber, fertile soil, and a defensible border to keep it safe from invasion. But you can't fight wars without soldiers, and you can't reap or sow without farmers. It’ll take too long to do it the old-fashioned way. The saber rattlers want to be kings now. So they buy slaves."
Rulla nodded. The Lieutenant blew a smoke ring, then cocked his head and listened. He stood, holding the lantern high.
They appeared like bog ghosts—filthy, pale will-o’-wisps with wide eyes and bent backs. Most were human, but an occasional dwarf or half-breed stood out among them. Down in the darkness, they'd all become one, and it was as one they came to escape. The Lieutenant looked at them and grinned, tapping out his pipe as he blew the remnants through his nose like a dragon scenting prey. He glanced at Chaplain and jerked his head.
The dwarf stood up on the rickety chair, facing the room. The assembled slaves stared at her with red-rimmed eyes.
"Prisoners of Molthune, listen close." Chaplain was never loud, but when she spoke people listened. A murmur went through them, and they shuffled forward to hear her. "You have been bought and sold. You have been brought to this place and turned into little more than cattle that can swing a pick and carry stones. Today that life is over. Today we’re giving you back the freedom that never should have been taken from you."
A soft, furtive cheer went up, as ragged and dirty as the men and women that offered it. Chaplain held her arms out, quieting and embracing them all as she continued.
"The night is long and the mountains are treacherous. You need to move quickly and quietly. You’ll have to help each other get away. Eagerness will get everyone caught, so listen carefully and do as you're told."
Trilaina and Garm took charge, dividing the escapees into small groups. They went quickly, quietly, slinking out of the mountain as Gunner led them to safety. One group left, another got ready, and soon the numbers dwindled to nothing.
"Good speech," the Lieutenant said.
"Thank you sir," Chaplain replied.
The Lieutenant flipped the flap on his bag of tricks and dug down deep. He pulled out a wooden cask, stoppered with cork and smelling strongly of sulfur. Then another, and another, stacking them nearby. He eyed every member of the team, lips peeling back in a wolfish grin.
"Now comes the fun part."
Coming Next Week: The explosive final chapter of Neal F. Litherland's "The Irregulars"!
Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit www.facebook.com/NealFLitherland.
Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.
... The Irregularsby Neal F. Litherland ... Chapter Two: Scouting Party The place looked more like a kicked anthill than an iron mine. Built of heavy bulwarks of timber and stone, its arms curved out from the mountain like a mother's arms around her belly. A hundred eyes peered out of the crenelated sockets, sweeping the land. The gate was simply a drawbridge that spanned a dry moat filled with dust and splintered stakes. Pitch or filth lined the bottom—it was impossible to tell from so...
The Irregulars
by Neal F. Litherland
Chapter Two: Scouting Party
The place looked more like a kicked anthill than an iron mine. Built of heavy bulwarks of timber and stone, its arms curved out from the mountain like a mother's arms around her belly. A hundred eyes peered out of the crenelated sockets, sweeping the land. The gate was simply a drawbridge that spanned a dry moat filled with dust and splintered stakes. Pitch or filth lined the bottom—it was impossible to tell from so far away. A portcullis hung ready to fall, cutting the people inside off from anything short of heavy bombardment. Parties of guards, some on foot and some on horse, went in and out, regular as an old man on a steady diet.
"Place is a fortress," Gunner said.
Chaplain snorted. "It's also poorly built."
"A poorly built fortress is still a fortress," Gunner grumbled.
They lapsed into silence, lying or crouching along the ridge top and drawing as little attention to themselves as possible. The guards would be unlikely to notice the band unless they moved quickly, or stood out against the backdrop of the scrub trees and hardy bushes. So they sat, waited, and watched.
"Looks as if our friend Robbes gave the commander quite the earful about what we did to his little caravan." The Lieutenant barked a rough, sharp sound that was as close as he got to laughter. "They're giving us a right heroes' welcome."
"Tell me again why we want them to know we're coming?" Trilaina asked.
Lieutenant Hook snapped his spyglass closed and slid it back among the legion of pouches slung around his narrow hips.
"It's all part of the plan." The Lieutenant scuttled back from the precipice like a crab, and the others followed, slinking and scraping out of the line of sight. Once they'd slipped into a wash, they knelt and drew close. The Lieutenant brushed the sand flat and drew in the dust. "Now pay attention."
The old man laid out the mine in small lines, giving a rough distance from the front gate to the rise they'd been watching from. He mapped out the paths visible from where they'd been sitting, like veins stretching out from a hard little heart. He carefully included the hundred yards or so of completely clear land leading up to the walls. Gunner reached over and added a few branches, his lines thicker and harder. No one questioned the gnome's eyes.
"This is our position here." The Lieutenant drew an X with his fingernail, light enough that it was barely noticeable. "We've got some daylight left, and until that fades we'll be most vulnerable. So we're going to hold this position until night falls, and when it does, we'll-"
Denna growled, jutting her head forward across the map at Trilaina. The half-elf's eyes widened and she backed away, holding her hands out in front of her.
"Denna," Gunner chided, putting a hand on her mane.
That was when an arrow buried itself in the she-wolf's side, turning her growl into a yelp of pain as she fell over.
The Irregulars stood, backs together and hands on hilts. In the time it took them to reach their feet, both ends of the little ditch filled with Molthuni soldiers. The rag-tag Andoren squad stood at the bottom, looking up at a trap they'd never even noticed. The ambushers had arrows knocked, bows taut as heartstrings and eyes cold as winter wine. A man stepped out of the scrub from behind Trilaina, pulling a new arrow from a quiver on his hip.
"Put your hands up and surrender," he commanded.
Gunner and Denna make quite the team.
"I told you they'd be here!" A voice called from the left flank. "I saw the flash on the lens!"
"Now's not the time, Theron." The older man spoke without taking his eyes off the five interlopers and their wounded wolf. "If you do not put your hands up and surrender, I will have my men open fire."
The captured Andorens raised their hands slowly, gazes sweeping back and forth over the outriders that had clearly been dispatched to comb the foothills. They'd apparently doubled back. There was no give in them, and no relaxation as their prisoners-to-be showed empty hands.
"Irregulars," the Lieutenant said with a death's-head smile. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em."
Glass broke, and thick, yellow smoke rose in a plume around the little group. Both flanks of ambushers loosed, smooth and cool. The Lieutenant swore, and there was a gnome-sized thud as Gunner went down. The soldiers reached for more arrows, uncertain whether their targets were even still there.
Then the smoke cleared, and madness descended.
Twin daggers flicked through the air, tumbling end over end towards the left flank. One archer cried out, his words bubbling from his throat in a bloody spray. Another dropped his bow, clutching at fingers cut to the bone. Garm exploded up the hill, teeth bared in a tusked snarl that would have put fear into iron. Another Molthuni—the one their captain had called Theron—loosed a shaft, but the half-orc slapped it out of his path. His fist swung back like death's own pendulum, breaking bones and sending the injured bowman to join his companion.
Bowstrings twanged again on the right flank, but before they could be drawn a third time a single glass vial arced out of the vanishing smoke. It shattered, and bottled lightning crackled, snarling over the soldiers and leaving them twitching. Chaplain came on behind it, undaunted, swinging her hammer in a wide arc. It crushed leather and bone alike, doing its nasty work at a piston pace while the cleric drove the men down like tent stakes.
"Bastards!" The leader of the Molthuni outriders cried out as he drew an arrow’s fletching to his cheek. "You bastards, I'll—"
Whatever else he would have said was cut off by the twang of Gunner's infernal engine. He unleashed a full load of bolts in the blink of an eye, and they flew like darts flung by a giant, slamming into the trunk of the leader's chest with nary a finger's breadth between them. The man fell back, his arrow streaking for the low scudding clouds.
"Regroup!" The Lieutenant snarled, waving away the last of the smoke. "Status!"
"One prisoner, sir," Garm called. He marched Theron down the hill, one of the man's arms twisted up behind his back and Garm's hand around his throat, making certain he couldn't scream. Trilaina retrieved her daggers from the dead men and drug a double trench along each side of the soldiers' necks, just to be safe. Chaplain said a quick prayer, then rifled pouches and weapon belts looking for anything useful. Denna whined and licked Gunner. The gnome coughed, shifting on his back.
"Easy, girl." He grunted and tugged at the arrows stuck in his armor. The Lieutenant put a foot on the gnome's chest and pulled, the bent-tipped barbs grating on steel.
"Looks like the extra chain came in handy after all," The Lieutenant said.
Gunner grinned. "It's a heavy bastard, is all," he said. "Help me up, I need to see to Denna before she makes herself worse."
Chaplain gave him a hand and Gunner struggled back to his feet. He caught the she-wolf's teeth on his bracer and shushed her. He pulled, she bit, and the offending shaft slipped free with barely a protest. Gunner whispered, speaking in the voice of wind and rain while he dragged his fingers through Denna's fur like he was raking out a bloody burr. The wound came free, its lips sealed as if it had never been. Only a small bald patch gave testament.
"And here it was I thought she still didn't like me," Trilaina said.
Denna growled, a low rumble of thunder deep in her chest. Trilaina retreated a step, and Gunner scratched the wolf under the muzzle.
"She doesn't," he said. "Bastard's lucky he came from behind you. She started growling at Garm, I'd have shot first and asked questions later."
"Not my fault I'm prettier," Garm said.
Theron's eyes were wild, and he clawed at Garm's hand. The boy—which is what he really was, now that they saw him up close—may as well have tried to chop down a tree with his cheekbones.
"Beauty's in the eye of the beholder," Trilaina said, the words dry as hardroot cider. Garm dropped the boy, coughing and gagging, in front of the little map they'd drawn only moments ago. It was scuffed, but still legible.
"If you're going to kill me, just do it and get it over with." Theron had probably meant it to sound defiant, but it came out a gallows whisper. The Lieutenant hunkered across the map, looking at Theron as if he was an out-of-season fruit. Something to be picked when the opportunity presented.
"Whether you die here with no one but the gods to see is entirely up to you," Hook said.
Theron waited. The Lieutenant waited. It didn't take long for the tow-headed captive to crack.
"You'll never get in that gate," he said. "The mine is locked down and everyone's watching. Commander Hartwick has already sent word to the Cettigne garrison requesting reinforcements. They’ll be here by midday tomorrow."
"Fortunate we never intended on going in that gate," the Lieutenant said, half his mouth curling in a sly grin. "Show me where the Deserter's Door is, and you get to live."
"The Deserter's Door?" Theron asked.
The Lieutenant snapped his teeth, and the boy jumped.
"Everyone's determined to prove themselves a fool." The Lieutenant leaned forward, nostrils flaring. "The secret escape route discovered by a work crew ten years ago. It was closed up tight and guarded. It's been kept as a final option by the mine overseer since then in case of overwhelming assault, since it comes out the back side of that little hill from the front gate. You strike me as a curious boy, Theron. I'm sure you've seen it."
"And if I have?" Theron asked.
"Then you tell us where it is, and you walk," the Lieutenant said.
"Just like that?" Theron’s disbelief was obvious.
"Of course." The Lieutenant leaned in close to the boy. "The brand on your right arm labels you a conscript. You're a slave trying to make good. If you tell us where this gate is and you go back, you'll be killed for cowardice and consorting with the enemy. But if you walk away from here right now—well, there's no one to say what really happened up here, is there?"
Without hesitation, Theron stretched out an arm and marked a spot northeast of the mine's main gate. Lost in the crags, it would take them until nightfall to get there if they didn't want to be seen.
The Lieutenant smiled. "Good boy."
"So what now?" Theron asked.
The Lieutenant nodded, and Garm's fist crashed into the side of Theron's face. Blood ran, and the boy's eyes didn't quite know where to look as he tried to sit up. His teeth were still in place, and nothing appeared broken.
"You walk away." The Lieutenant stood. "That will swell up right pretty in half a turn or so. You walk out of the foothills toward the river. If someone stops you, you tell them you were sent running and got turned around—the bump to the head addled your brains. That bruise will corroborate your story and keep you from looking too much like a deserter. If you're lucky, you'll make it all the way out of Molthune, and we'll never see you again."
Theron sat, the words sinking in slow. Finally he hauled himself to his feet and offered a shaky salute. The Lieutenant returned it, and the boy walked away until he was out of sight.
"Conscripts," Garm said, and shook his head.
The Lieutenant jerked his chin toward the mountain. "There's more out there," he said. "Irregulars, keep your mouths shut, and your ears open. There are people counting on us in that mine, and I would hate to disappoint them."
Coming Next Week: Plotting a prison break in Chapter Three of Neal F. Litherland's "The Irregulars"!
Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.
They marched like human cattle through the arid throat of the mountains. Men and women, old and young, were all subsumed into a single, shuffling, iron-bound mass. They walked with their heads down and bodies slack, broken through and through. Men wrapped in leather and steel rode snorting horses and shepherded the herd like overzealous hounds. Lashes snapped, the loud cracks of cruelty that made words unnecessary. Dust rose from bare feet and shod hooves, and the hot wind reeked like the breath of Hell welcoming new pilgrims. Just more meat for the grinder of Molthune's aspirations.
The Irregulars
by Neal F. Litherland
Chapter One: The Setup
They marched like human cattle through the arid throat of the mountains. Men and women, old and young, were all subsumed into a single, shuffling, iron-bound mass. They walked with their heads down and bodies slack, broken through and through. Men wrapped in leather and steel rode snorting horses and shepherded the herd like overzealous hounds. Lashes snapped, the loud cracks of cruelty that made words unnecessary. Dust rose from bare feet and shod hooves, and the hot wind reeked like the breath of Hell welcoming new pilgrims. Just more meat for the grinder of Molthune's aspirations.
"There're more of them than when we saw them three days ago," Trilaina whispered. The scout lay on a flat rock, a rumpled, no-color cloth thrown over her and weighted down with sandy soil.
"More slaves or more guards?" Chaplain asked.
"Both," the half-elf replied, her lips barely parted enough to speak. Chain shifted below, down in the shade where the cleric was keeping out of sight.
"Torag will provide," Chaplain said.
Trilaina resisted the urge to turn and glare at the dwarf. "That's what you always say."
The cleric shrugged her shoulders again. "The day that I'm wrong, child, you may feel free to say 'I told you so.'"
The herd came close enough that shouts and cries pulled apart and became words. Trilaina saw faces over the groove of her crossbow, every one of them minted with the hopelessness a forced march brought. An older woman, her strength finally failing, fell over. She didn't move when the lash opened her cheek, but blood ran fast enough to testify that she wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway.
"Patience," Chaplain said, her words more of a prayer than a caution. "Be calm, and wait for the signal."
Trilaina's mouth opened to reply when a howl rolled the across the valley. As one, the guards looked, goggling like children scaring each other with campfire stories. A black she-wolf, silver in her muzzle and fire in her eyes, appeared on an outcrop. She growled down at the mass of men like a judgmental goddess, unafraid of their slings and arrows. One of the caravan guards cranked his own crossbow, raised it up, and shouted something to the others. The others laughed in reply. Trilaina couldn't hear what he said, but they were his last words.
A loud twang snapped like a split harp string, and a bolt skewered the would-be archer's head like a practice pumpkin. He sat his saddle another moment, blood dribbling to the thirsty earth, before falling like a sack full of meat. Trilaina took a breath, found her mark, and squeezed. It wasn't until her bolt tore into another guard's guts, right through the weak spot where his armor laced together up the side, that the others realized they were under attack.
Swords cleared scabbards and arrows were loosed into the rocks. Bottles smashed against the hills, and gouts of liquid fire spumed up like dragon's breath. In response, more shafts fell from both sides of the canyon, every one of them striking home. The imprisoned horde, scenting that its captors were wounded, woke up. They attacked in ones and twos at first, but then the floodgates opened full force. They pulled men off horses and snatched weapons from hands and belts. The guards that went down screamed and didn’t rise again. The horses, panicked by the potent combination of fear and rage in the air, bolted. The remaining slavers, facing the ragged wraiths bent on vengeance, followed the riderless mounts.
"They're getting away," Trilaina grunted. She snapped the reload lever and slipped another shaft along the groove.
"Not for long," Chaplain observed.
No sooner had the words been spoken than a thick rope leaped out of the soil and barred the way. It caught the riders and sent them flailing and crashing to the dirt. Trilaina sighted and squeezed carefully, catching the first to rise from the heap between the shoulder blades. The others chose to stay down, bellies up like dogs.
"You know, it's scary how you do that." Trilaina cocked the crossbow again. Chaplain hefted her hammer and smiled. She always looked matronly when she did that. Stern, but matronly.
"When you've been around as long as I have," the dwarf started.
"Then I'm sure I'll recognize the signs," Trilaina finished. She tried to brush some of the grit out of her eyes—returning her hair to its previously golden hue was going to take nothing short of a wish. She brought her weapon back into firing position. "Let's just get this over with, huh?"
"As you wish."
Trilaina has little sympathy for those who traffic in flesh and misery.
They clambered down the rocky slope, each watching carefully while the other descended the rough patches. It wasn't pleasant, and if anyone with ill intent had been paying them the slightest mind, they could have turned both women into pincushions. But no one was watching, and soon enough their boots were back on level ground. They took a single moment to sweep the area, then headed for the far end of the battlefield, where an interesting little group had gathered.
Four former guards sat on the ground, rusty irons around their wrists. It was amazing the difference that only a few moments made in their bearing. The wolf—Denna—stood to the left with her head down and her hackles up. Gunner sat on the wolf's back, holding the infernal collection of gears, levers, and bow strings that made up his bizarre heavy crossbow. If not for his eyes—the same verdant green as his hair and mustache—the gnome could have been a statue in woodsman's clothes. On the right, glaring over his crooked nose, stood Garm. The half-orc breathed easy, stripped to the waist, muscles like steel cables flexing under his charcoal skin. Between the two of them, facing the little crowd of captives, stood the Lieutenant.
Even in a motley crew like this, Lieutenant Sturgeon Hook was impossible to miss. An old buzzard of a man, Hook seemed to have been named for the prominent nose that jutted out like a beak over his pointed chin and wispy beard. What hair he had left was white, and his skin was the ratty testament of a violent vagabond who'd weathered a storm of swords in his day. Of all the team members, he was the only one who wore a proper uniform—the faded and dust-stained blue coat of an officer in the Andoren army—yet the real proof of his rank lay in his bearing. He glanced up at the last two members of his unit, then went back to studying the prisoners.
"Looks like you caught something, Garm," Trilaina called.
The half-orc nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Trying to decide which one to keep," he finally said in his sonorous baritone.
"I'd throw em back," Gunner grunted, gesturing with the business end of his miniature ballista. "Watch ’em try to swim."
The Lieutenant ignored the banter and leaned towards the man in the center. The captive wore no armor, but was swathed in desert robes that had probably been fine some time ago. His mustache was ridiculous, his boots were ostentatious, and his fat fingers each bore a multifaceted gemstone set in heavy gold. The Lieutenant smiled, and the man on the ground shuddered.
"Harlon Robbes," the Lieutenant croaked, the smile transforming into a sneer. "A more aptly named rut-smear there never was. Where were you planning on going with so many unwilling passengers, Robbes?"
"The South Menador Mine," the slaver said. Frightened as he was, his voice was still as smooth as oiled clockwork. "They have an iron quota to fill, and they aren't shy about how they wrest the ore from the mountain."
"And since you're a patriot, you venture forth to recruit the best and the brightest to clap in irons," the Lieutenant said. The slaver shrugged, a single, spasmodic jerk. "When are they expecting you?"
"Shortly," Robbes replied, licking sweat from his cracked lips. "I was told to expect an escort by noon tomorrow."
"Ah," the Lieutenant said, as if that single fact explained everything. One of the men moved, and Denna lifted her lips. The sharp, white fangs made him decide that whatever itch he had could wait a little while longer.
"What do you think, boss?" Trilaina glanced over at the newly freed slaves. The mob looked back, a herd of sheep that had stampeded the wolves, but which still wasn't quite sure what to do.
"I think the best cure for a blight like this is a taste of its own medicine." The Lieutenant stepped back and nodded to Garm. The half-orc grabbed the manacle chain and lifted the nearest guard like a child caught misbehaving, and marched him toward the eager crowd. Chaplain grabbed a second, and Gunner gestured at a third. Before the third man could rise though, Robbes snatched the man's belt, hauled them both to their feet, and ran.
The other captives all tried their own runs for the sun. The first man struggled, wrenching his wrists and trying to throw Garm over his hip. The guard was big and broad-shouldered, but it wasn't enough. Garm smashed an elbow into the side of the slaver’s head with a hollow crunch, and the man went down like a slaughterhouse bull. The second guard pulled, and Chaplain let go. Before the prisoner could enjoy his freedom, Chaplain rung his bell with the side of her hammer, and he sprawled out flat. The third man made it four steps before something wet and sticky exploded against his back like a resinous pustule. He tripped over his own feet as the alchemical bag turned him into another graceless lump on the valley floor. Trilaina snickered, always happy to use one of her favorite toys.
Robbes hadn't relied on his own legs in some time, and it showed. Galvanized by fear, however, and with the chill of the grave on the back of his neck, he ran fast enough. The Lieutenant swore as he snatched a vial from his belt and hurled. The explosion of the bomb sent up a spray of rocks and dirt that sent the man stumbling. Gunner sighted and fired, his hands just one more part of the complex weapon. The bolt screamed, a steel-tipped falcon that slashed along the heavy, meaty expanse of the lead flesh-merchant’s shoulder. He yelped like a stuck pig and ducked, running even faster. A horse whinnied, and by the time the dust had cleared both horse and the rider were dark smudges far down the canyon.
"I told you to miss him," The Lieutenant said.
Gunner shrugged and reloaded. "He'll run faster if he's winged."
Hook blew out a long breath and shook his head. "We don't want him running too fast."
Gunner straightened in the saddle. "Sir."
Lieutenant Hook nodded and looked around at his team. They all nodded back.
"Anyone hurt?" he asked. They all shook their heads. "Good. Fine work, everyone. Consider this a step toward the final goal."
The Lieutenant knelt down, wincing, and snatched a heavy, rusted key off a dead guard's belt. He tossed it to Garm, and Trilaina took a nearly identical key off a second's man's belt. The Lieutenant nodded and rubbed at his bad knee.
"All right, let's get to work. Gunner, round up the horses and butcher them—these people are going to need some proper meat once they're not carrying around half a measure of iron each. Chaplain, soothe them as well as you can. There's quite a bit of day left to burn, and we've got to make these people disappear. The sooner we get that chore done, the sooner we get to go and play king of the mountain. Hop to!"
Coming Next Week: Swift justice to agents of the slave trade in Chapter Two of Neal F. Litherland’s "The Irregulars"!
Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.
Rodrick nodded, smiling, absorbing the not-so-subtle reminder that Manius knew he was a thief, and would be watchful. Manius handed the sword off to Rodrick and strode out of the room, a busy man with big plans.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Four: Illusions of Ice
"Have you ever slain a demon, sword?" Manius addressed Hrym directly for the first time.
"Probably," Hrym said. "I can't be expected to remember every kind of thing I've slain. Listen, Manius, before we begin our crusade, do you mind giving me a few moments alone with Rodrick here?"
Manius narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"We faced horrors together in that tomb," Hrym said. "Monstrous serpentine creatures of darkness—"
"And an angry dwarf," Rodrick chimed in.
"Yes, that too," Hrym said. "We became blooded comrades in arms together, and while I'm eager to join you in your battle, Manius, I wish to give my fellow warrior Rodrick my blessing before he goes on his way."
"Ah, certainly, the camaraderie of battle, I understand." Manius nodded sagely, with the full understanding of someone who'd never been anywhere near a real battle. "I shall return shortly. I have men waiting in the hallway, Rodrick, if you need anything in the meantime."
Rodrick nodded, smiling, absorbing the not-so-subtle reminder that Manius knew he was a thief, and would be watchful. Manius handed the sword off to Rodrick and strode out of the room, a busy man with big plans.
"I was promised a bed of gold," Hrym said. "Not a one-way trip into the heart of demon country! This fool will get himself killed, and I'll rot in some fecal swamp!"
"That does seem a likely outcome," Rodrick admitted. "I'm sorry—Manius didn't share his ambitions with me when he hired me to break into the barrow and bring you back. I assumed you were just going to be another collector's item. But don't despair. You're immortal. Someone will come along and pick you up from the battlefield eventually, and—"
"Piss on that," Hrym said. "Get me out of here."
Rodrick shook his head. "I don't see how I can. Manius doesn't trust me—he hired me to steal you, so he's prepared for me to try to steal you again. Short of using you to kill everyone between me and the outskirts of his property, I don't see how—"
"Then start thinking," Hrym said. "Remember what I said about how you'd need to become more cunning? Now's your chance."
"I appreciate the difficulty of your situation, but I'm afraid—"
Hrym is no ordinary magic sword.
"I have no intention of going to the Worldwound, Rodrick. If you don't save me, then I'll wait until Marius assembles his crusaders to start marching, and I will freeze every single one of them in place. They will be a forest of dead statues. And when that grim site is discovered, I'll start screaming 'Rodrick made me do it'!"
They sat together in silence for a moment. Then Rodrick said, not without admiration: "That's blackmail, Hrym."
"I prefer to think of it as forceful persuasion."
"Perhaps..." Rodrick murmured. "Listen, Hrym, this might take me a few days. But tell Manius you're going to stop talking until you reach the Worldwound—a vow of silence, or a period of meditation to help you prepare for the rigors of the struggle to come—whatever. The point is that you have to shut up. Can you do that?"
"I didn't say a word for years in that barrow. Silence is within my considerable capabilities. But I don't see why—"
"I know this is a laughable statement on the face of it, but: just trust me."
"And you trust me," Hrym said. "If you don't come back for me, remember: a field of frozen crusaders."
"Consider me motivated."
∗∗∗
Rodrick took his money—beautiful money, of which he suspected he'd have to spend nearly all of it—and then took his leave of Manius. He headed to Carpenden, the nearest town of size, and began making some inquiries.
Carpenden was prosperous, home to wealthy landowners and the merchants who catered to them, but it was also a military town, housing a large portion of Andoran's army. The real military types Rodrick encountered didn't give Manius's planned expedition great odds of success. They allowed that even a well-prepared force of hardened paladins led by a veteran warrior couldn't expect to win any decisive battles in the Worldwound. As for a mixture of unaffiliated crusaders and mercenaries led by a gentleman farmer who'd read a few textbooks on military tactics? A noble undertaking, in a way, yes—but hopeless.
Like anyone in his line of work, Rodrick knew people, and the people he knew knew other people, and so two days after leaving Manius's house he sat down in the back room of small gambling house with an illusionist named Horwick. The illusionist was fat, and wore a threadbare red velvet robe, and picked at his teeth endlessly with his over-long pinky fingernail.
"Do you know the goldbrick trick?" Rodrick said.
The illusionist considered the smear of old food stuck on his fingernail and grunted. "You offer to sell someone a gold brick, and at the last minute, you switch it with a lead brick covered in a thin coating of gold leaf. But you don't need an illusionist for that. You barely need a paintbrush."
"I'm working a sort of... variation," Rodrick said. He explained the two things he needed.
Horwick allowed that he could provide those items, if the price was right.
The right price, as Rodrick had expected, was ruinously expensive.
∗∗∗
Rodrick returned to Manius's house with an old sword strapped to his back and a pair of wands tucked away in his shirt. The crusaders were more organized now, clearly preparing for departure, but they still paid no attention to him as he rode up to the front steps. He wandered into the house again—depressed at the lack of small, valuable objects to steal—found the chamberlain, and requested an audience with Manius.
After a while, Manius appeared in the sitting room, which now contained only a single chair, the other having presumably been sold for sword polish or something. Rodrick rose to greet him, noting Hrym's hilt sticking up from scabbard at Manius's belt. "Your talk of crusade moved me," Rodrick said. "I'd like to join your party."
Manius grunted. "We're not on a quest for gold, Rodrick. Only glory."
Rodrick pressed a hand to his chest and put on his most sincere face, one that had charmed the coinpurses off men and the underclothes off women many times. "I've spent the past three days thinking about the empty hollowness of my life, and my need for a greater purpose. Please. Allow me to join you."
"It does my heart good to see you make that choice. My hope for humanity has never been stronger." Manius stroked his chin. "I could send you to report to one of the crusader leaders... but I think I'd like to keep you closer, as part of my personal retinue."
Rodrick beamed. "That would be an honor." He knew it was more likely because Manius didn't trust him and wanted to make sure he didn't steal the horses and provisions, but that was fine. If Rodrick was sleeping in the house, it would spare him having to sneak in later. "How are you, Hrym?"
"The sword is spending the foreseeable future in silent contemplation, marshaling its powers for the great battles ahead," Manius said. "It's just as well—it strikes me as a bit unseemly, having a sword speak."
He can still hear you, Rodrick thought, amazed at the man's arrogance. He seemed to think Hrym was just a curiosity, when the sword was really—
Well, not a person in the normal sense, obviously. But he was still a person.
"We could all probably do with a little less talking," Rodrick said.
∗∗∗
Late that night, Rodrick slipped from his bedroll in the corner of an empty storage closet and crept through the house to Manius's chamber. The door was unguarded, and why not? There was literally an army on the grounds. Rodrick opened the door and slipped in, then waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, listening to the rich man's snores from the overstuffed bed in the center of the room. The only light came from the fires outside shining faintly in the windows.
Rodrick was making a terrible habit of sneaking into places where dangerous creatures were sleeping in order to retrieve a magical sword. At least this time he was armed, though he desperately hoped he wouldn't have to stab anyone with the sword on his back.
"Psst," Hrym said. "Rodrick? Is that you? I'm over here."
Rodrick crouch-walked over to a large wooden wardrobe. Hrym was still in his scabbard, slung over the back of a chair. Not even a bed of coins. Rodrick eased the blade out of the scabbard.
"Let me out of this thing, I can't see—" Hrym began, and Rodrick shushed him, listening to Manius mutter in his bed for a moment before deciding he wasn't waking up.
Rodrick drew the old, battered longsword from the sheath on his back and laid it on the ground before him. He felt in his shirt for the right wand—it had a golden band around one end, while the other was plain wood—and withdrew the slim and expensive bit of magic. He touched the wand to the sword, and watched the illusion take hold.
The beaten sword shimmered and turned bluish-white. In a moment, it was a perfect copy of Hrym, sparkling like ice. He then took Hrym out of the scabbard.
"You sly bastard," Hrym said. "It's my spitting image—"
"Your turn," Rodrick whispered, and touched Hrym with the other wand. The sword was transformed into a battered, notched longsword, decidedly unmagical. He shoved the disguised Hrym into his scabbard, ignoring the sword's outraged squawk. Then he placed the false Hrym in Manius's scabbard and hung it back over the chair. Horwick had assured Rodrick that the illusions were long-lasting enough to let Rodrick escape undiscovered with time to spare, but he didn't want to test that.
Rodrick was nearly to the door when he heard the mattress creak. "Who's there?" Manius demanded.
The thief stopped breathing, and tried to think like a shadow. Manius padded over to the chair, drew the false Hrym halfway from the sheath, and grunted. "Still not talking?" He rattled the sword and then shoved it back in the scabbard, sighed, and returned to bed.
Rodrick counted to a hundred fifteen times before he was convinced Manius was asleep again, then slipped into the hallway and away.
∗∗∗
"Do you think he'll realize the sword is fake before or after he tries to charge directly at a demon lord?" Hrym asked as they dawdled along a road many miles south the next day. He'd instructed Rodrick to stick him on the outside of the scabbard on Rodrick's back, and Hrym had frozen himself in place there—that way Hrym could see. Drawing Hrym was a lot easier when he wasn't actually in the scabbard, too. Wearing a longsword strapped on your back made you look impressively dangerous, but it was practically difficult to draw four feet of icy blade from a sheath on your back in a hurry, unless you had freakishly long arms.
"Before, if he's lucky." Rodrick jingled his coinpurse, or tried to; it contained three pieces of copper and one of silver, which didn't make for much of a jingle. He'd had to sell his lovely blue boots, too, and he'd never even walked on water with them. "Wands are damnably expensive, Hrym. I wish I was sure you're worth it."
"The wands still work, don't they? Can't they cast the same spell dozens of time?"
"Well, I suppose, but—" He paused. "You're a genius, sword. I could sell you. Over and over again."
"You could use me to put on a dazzling demonstration, then sell worthless hunks of metal that looked like me," Hrym said.
"Oh, this could work out," Rodrick said.
"We just have to settle how to divvy up the profits," Hrym said. "Since without me there would be no profits, I suggest a ninety-ten split, in my favor."
"Ha! More like ninety-ten in my favor. I'd like to see how much gold you'd make on your own if I stuck you in the bottom of a bog, sword."
They rode on, bickering amicably, into their golden future.
Coming Next Week: A look inside one of Andoran's oddest military units in Neal F. Litherland's "The Irregulars."
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
Rodrick threw the lantern at the dwarf's head. It bounced off the miner's helmet, but didn't deter the attack.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Three: Rich Man's Crusade
Rodrick threw the lantern at the dwarf's head. It bounced off the miner's helmet, but didn't deter the attack.
"Use me!" Hrym shouted.
Rodrick lifted the sword defensively. As he swung the blade, an arc of whiteness flew from its tip and struck the dwarf just below the knees. The miner's forward movement instantly halted, and he swayed like a young sapling, his boots and calves frozen to the tunnel floor—which didn't stop him from swinging his axe wildly, to the limit of his reach.
"I'll just, ah, be going." Rodrick moved carefully around the dwarf, then followed the slanting tunnel upward at a brisk jog.
What other miners they encountered were quick to drop their swords and flee, and a short while later Rodrick and Hrym emerged into a bustling mining camp. They sidled toward the edge of the settlement and then hared off into the trees, following a ridgeline up and away. Once they'd reached high-ish ground, Rodrick looked around in hopes of finding his bearings. The barrow was in the hills of northern Andoran, east of Darkmoon Vale, but he wasn't sure how far he'd gone underground. But if the gloomy spire of Droskar's Crag was over there, then that was west, and so...
"Are you lost?" Hrym said.
"Only until I find a road," Rodrick replied, and set off downhill in what he suspected to be the direction most likely to lead to civilization. After a while they hooked up with a dirt track—probably the one that led to the mining camp—and Rodrick proceeded with more confidence. They were sure to encounter a village soon, or someone they could beg a ride from.
"So what are you really?" Hrym said as they—or, rather, Rodrick—trudged along.
"I can't imagine what you mean."
"You say you're an adventurer. You're certainly no fighter, though—when holding a sword in one hand and a lantern in the other, your first instinct is to defend yourself with the lantern? I would therefore assume you're a thief, but I saw you skulking in the cavern, and you're equally awful at stealth—"
"Please, your flattery will overwhelm me. I do wish I had a scabbard to shove you into." He switched Hrym to his left hand and stretched out the cramped fingers of his right. Carrying a sword for this long was grueling, even if Hrym was lighter than most blades his size. "As you can see, I look like a fighter—"
"Humans look mostly like fuzzy blobs of varying hues to me, I'm afraid."
Rodrick sighed. "Take me at my word, then—I am long of limb, broad of shoulder, wide of chest, mighty of thew, and so on. Reasonably mighty, anyway. I am blessed with a certain natural athleticism, though admittedly devoid of skill or training in battle, because people get hurt in battles, and I have no interest in getting hurt. But looking as I do makes it easy for me to be hired as a caravan guard, or personal bodyguard, or member of an adventuring party—"
"And once there, in the midst of your trusted allies, you wait for the opportune moment to steal whatever you can and escape in the night?"
"Do I detect a note of judgment in your voice, sword?"
Many nobles fancy themselves warriors, but most warriors would rather be nobles.
"Not at all. I'm interested in ends, not means. And I'm only interested in ends when those ends are gold."
Rodrick laughed. "You and I could get along, sword. A shame I've promised you to someone else."
"You could just steal me, though," Hrym said reasonably. "In fact, by not stealing me, you're violating your own habits. You might even be accused of doing an honest day's labor."
"Oh, I had to cheat a few people to get into the barrow, don't worry—I kept in practice. And what are you saying, anyway? You'd give up your spot in a rich man's treasure-heap?"
"I'm not volunteering to join you, no, though this has been entertaining—at least compared to being jammed beneath a linnorm's belly. I'm just wondering why you don't seize an object of my obvious value. An intelligent sword of living ice, capable of speech and great feats of magic—whatever this rich man's paying you, I'm worth more in your hand."
"Ah, and if I were truly a fighter and adventurer, I'm sure I'd never dream of giving you up. But to succeed in my chosen venture, I benefit from a certain amount of anonymity. I can easily disappear into a crowd after committing a morally questionable act—assuming it's a sufficiently handsome crowd—and alter my speech, mannerisms, and mode of dress well enough to elude detection. But if I started carrying around a loud-mouthed sword with a blade of shimmering blue-white crystal, word would get around. I might even, allow me to shudder at the thought, become famous."
"You might have to change your ways a bit, I suppose," Hrym said.
"You wouldn't suggest I try actually being a fighter."
"No, no. You'd just have to get better at cheating people and stealing from them—ideally leaving them unaware they'd been cheated at all, at least until you'd said your farewells and ridden into the next country. I'd be good for you. I'd force you to become more cunning, and elevate your practice."
"Alas, we'll never know." Rodrick shaded his eyes and looked down the ridge. "Aha! I know that village. I can get a sheath for you there, and a horse, and room for the night." He yawned. "And then take advantage of a bed. Being drugged in a barrow doesn't count as a good night's sleep."
"I don't like sheathes," Hrym said. "And you'd better not spend all the gold you stole on horses and beds and things—you'll need to scatter a nice layer of coins for me to rest upon while you sleep."
"You are a very odd weapon, Hrym."
∗∗∗
The sword drew quite a few glances before Rodrick bought a sheathe and convinced Hrym it was better to be temporarily hidden than to become a target for ambitious bandits. They settled in an inn Rodrick had visited before and bedded down for the night. Normally when so flush with coin Rodrick would not have been alone in that bed, but the thought of inviting one of the village's more adventurous ladies up to his room while Hrym rested in a drawer on a thin scattering of coins was too embarrassing to contemplate. Yet another good reason he and the sword shouldn't travel together.
And yet, they stayed up into the night, talking. In the dark, it wasn't so strange to chat with an intelligent sword; they were just a couple of rogues swapping stories of past exploits. Rodrick's tales were mostly wildly exaggerated, and he assumed Hrym's were, too. Even so, the sword's laziness and avarice—and the heroic efforts he was willing to expend in hopes of future laziness, while wielded by men far more ambitious than Hrym himself—were truly inspiring.
The last thing Hrym said before Rodrick fell asleep was, "My great tragedy is that I'm so attractive to conquerors, crusaders, and heroes, when by temperament I'd be a better companion for a treacherous, self-interested hedonist like you."
"You say the nicest things, sword," Rodrick said, and closed his eyes.
∗∗∗
The next day Rodrick bought a sweet-tempered horse and they rode down out of the hills east of Darkmoon Vale, toward the fertile valleys south of the Andoshen River, where Rodrick's employer Manius lived. The rich man's family had been nobility back in the days when Andoran had such things, and in the years since had managed to recreate the conditions of nobility by buying up farm- and timberland, amassing quite a fortune. He lived in a grand house surrounded by green fields, with a stand of personal forest spreading green and wild beyond—
Or at least he had last time Rodrick was here. Rodrick reined in his horse and stood staring across the fields.
"What?" Hrym said, voice muffled inside the scabbard. "Are we there yet?"
"Ah, nearly," Rodrick said.
The fields were trampled and full of tents, with armored men milling among them. The miniature forest was greatly reduced, and the sounds of hammering and sawing and cart-building suggested what had become of those noble old trees. Smoke rose from the house's four chimneys, and from at least two makeshift forges. Rodrick, never comfortable entering camps of armed men without a good reason, eased his horse forward. None of the soldiers challenged him, even as he passed among the tents and proceeded to the house. A harried-looking man stood near the front door, directing various servants, and Rodrick recognized him as Manius's head of household.
"Hail," Rodrick said. "I've returned from my mission—"
The chamberlain—or whatever his title was—squinted at Rodrick, then brightened. "Ah! The master was just wondering if you ever intended to return. We'll see to your horse—you go on inside. The butler will arrange an audience."
"If you don't mind me asking," Rodrick began, "why is there an army on the—" But the man had already hurried away.
The butler didn't open the door at Rodrick's knock, so the thief just let himself in. The interior of the place had changed greatly, too—the beautiful rugs were gone, leaving bare wood behind, and the artwork was gone from the walls. He wandered on the first floor until he found the butler, who stuck him in a drawing room that still possessed a couple of chairs and told him to wait. Hrym complained of being in the sheath, so Rodrick drew him forth and leaned him against the other chair.
"This doesn't look like the opulent palace you led me to expect," Hrym said suspiciously.
Rodrick spread his hands. "It was a rich man's mansion last time I was here, I assure you. I can't speak for what's going on now—"
"What's going on," said Manius, stepping in and shutting the door after him, "is preparation for a crusade." Manius was in his early fifties, with graying hair, a lined and serious face; and the bearing of a warrior ascetic. He wore the sort of clothes that seemed ordinary unless you noticed how perfectly they were cut and tailored to his form. His eyes fell upon Hrym, and widened. "Rodrick. You succeeded. You brought me the blade of ice!"
"I did," Rodrick said. "With great effort and considerable peril, and even loss of life among the hirelings who assisted me, and—"
"You will be duly compensated." Manius stepped forward, then paused. "Does, ah—does it truly speak?"
"I do," Hrym said. "You may address me directly."
"Remarkable!" Manius said, still talking to Rodrick. "One of my ancestors saw this blade in battle, wielded by Brant Selmy—"
"Oh, I hated him," Hrym said. "Never knew how to relax. Until he died. Buried me in his tomb with him. But I suppose you know that."
Manius knelt, took Hrym by the hilt, and raised him up, staring at the shimmering blade. Rodrick felt an unexpected twinge at seeing the sword in another man's hand.
"Beautiful," Manius murmured. "You will be the death of many a demon."
"Demons?" Hrym and Rodrick said at the same time.
"Oh, yes," Manius said. "It's the reason I wanted this sword. My life has been one of idleness and pointless pleasure for far too long. I decided that I need to make my mark on the world before I die. And so I've spent every penny I've inherited and earned to gather and provision an army of crusaders to go north, where we will face the demon-infested nightmare land men call the Worldwound." He held up Hrym. "We leave in one week. And with this sword, I hope to slay a demon lord with my own hand."
Coming Next Week: The final chapter of Tim Pratt's "Bastard, Sword"!
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
Rodrick dropped the bell and scrambled toward the slope that led back to the barrow. The linnorm uncoiled with impossible speed, and suddenly its head filled Rodrick's vision, blocking his route to the treasure room.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Two: Serpent and Bow
Rodrick dropped the bell and scrambled toward the slope that led back to the barrow. The linnorm uncoiled with impossible speed, and suddenly its head filled Rodrick's vision, blocking his route to the treasure room.
The miniature snowstorm Rodrick had accidentally spawned with the bell sent snowflakes spiraling all around, limiting visibility, but not enough to matter at this range. The coins and stones beneath the soles of his feet were icy, so cold Rodrick worried he'd lose his toes to frostbite—and then realized such a worry was the least of his problems, as he was standing nose-to-snout with a linnorm.
Rodrick had never seen a dragon or dragon-type creature in person, but this one looked more or less like the statues and drawings of such creatures: a huge reptilian head with twisted horns, immense black eyes, and a mouth full of teeth like broken daggers. It was unmistakably an apex predator of such power and size that Rodrick would barely count as a mouthful.
He froze, still holding Hrym aloft, as the creature gazed at him. It opened its jaws, and Rodrick prepared himself to be bitten in half. The preparation mostly involved whimpering and trembling.
Instead, the creature began to draw in a vast breath. Rodrick's relief lasted only for an instant. Could linnorms breathe fire, or ice, or poison, as their less snakelike cousins the dragons did?
At least it would be a quick death, Rodrick thought. Not as good as no death, but better than many of the other alternatives.
"Point me at the beast!" Hrym shouted.
Rodrick complied, though it was more of an involuntary muscle spasm than a conscious effort.
A cone of swirling, bluish-white crystals shot forth from the point of the sword, and the blade sent up great billows of freezing white mist. The linnorm disappeared in the torrent of ice, and when Hrym ceased his frigid attack, the beast's head was encased in an irregular ball of ice the size of a boulder. The linnorm's body began to whip around wildly, and Rodrick threw himself to one side—careful to keep his grip on the sword—to avoid being crushed by the creature's coils. The boots wrapped around his neck nearly strangled him in the process, but he managed to cram himself against the cavern wall.
The linnorm's ice-encrusted head slammed into the wall that led to the treasure room, smashing down enough rocks to block access to the barrow. Rodrick whimpered again—he was doing a lot of that lately. Trapped in a cavern, in a magical ice storm, barefoot, with a furious linnorm lashing around. The day just got better and better.
The torch he'd jammed into the coins was dislodged by the beast's lashings, and it came sliding down the mound of treasure toward Rodrick. He scooted away on his butt to avoid having his feet set on fire, then picked up the torch. It flickered weakly, its fuel nearly extinguished. The thought of being trapped here blind was too horrible to contemplate.
The linnorm continued to bash its head against the cavern wall, trying to break the armor of ice before it suffocated. Rodrick wondered if it would die or escape before causing the entire cavern to cave in.
"Good thing it's a mountain linnorm," Hrym said. "They breathe fire—or, actually, molten rock. Ice linnorms are immune to my powers."
"How fortunate," Rodrick rasped. He struggled to his feet, shivering in the cold. "We have to kill the beast before it collapses the whole cavern on top of us."
"I wouldn't recommend that," Hrym said. "When linnorms die, they curse their killers. Don't you think your luck is bad enough already?"
"I'd rather be cursed and alive than blessed and dead, sword."
"Hmm," Hrym said. "You make a point. Being an immortal magical sword, I don't usually see things in those terms. There is another option, though."
The ball of ice encrusting the linnorm's head began to glow deeply red, like an immense ruby. Rodrick realized the monster was trying to use its breath weapon—magical lava-breath versus magical ice. Which would prevail?
"Don't you want to hear about the other option—"
"Yes, yes, of course!" Rodrick shouted.
"We could just leave."
"The monster has sealed off the entry to the barrow—"
Never get between a dwarf and his ore.
"Yes, I can see, you know, even if I don't have eyes. I don't mean we can leave that way. There's a tunnel toward the back of the chamber, probably too small for the linnorm to fit through. But a tiny little humanoid like you—"
Rodrick was moving before the sword even finished speaking. The cavern was brighter now, with the monster's fiery breath shining through the prism of ice around its head, casting rays of ruby light all around—and revealing a spot of deeper shadow in one wall, a tunnel big enough for Rodrick to fit through if he crouched.
Once outside the main cavern, the horrible biting cold diminished. Rodrick's spine protested as he shuffled along bent forward, torch in one hand, icy sword in the other, following the curving contours of the tunnel. Behind him there was a great thump, and the sound of cascading rock. He paused and looked back in time to see the mouth of the tunnel go totally black, sealed off by a cave collapse.
"Is it dead?" he asked.
"I don't know," Hrym said. "Do you feel cursed?"
"Now that you mention it... But wouldn't you be the one to get cursed?"
"I believe traditionally the wielder of a weapon is held to be the responsible party, not the weapon itself."
Rodrick grunted. He leaned Hrym against the tunnel wall, jammed the spluttering torch into a scree of small stones, and sat down on a flattish outcropping of rock. He crammed his feet—they felt like lumps of ice—into the magical boots, which shifted and squirmed to fit his feet perfectly. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed and exhaled. "It's good to be alive."
"I wouldn't know."
The thief opened one eye. "You can shoot ice, then. That's handy."
"Oh, that's just a small part of what I can do. I hail from the north, and all things of frost, ice, and cold are within my power."
"I don't suppose you can withdraw cold? My ears are freezing."
"No, but I could make the rest of you even colder, to make the ears seem warm in comparison."
"I think I'll pass," Rodrick said. "Do you have any other tricks? Glowing in the presence of evil, flying around and fighting on your own, things like that?"
"Total elemental mastery of ice isn't enough for you?"
"Yes, well. Hmm. So you can't move on your own, then. You need a wielder. Someone to carry you around."
"Yes, humans are to me as horses are to humans."
"Ha. Horses aren't the ones who decide where to go, though."
The sword's voice grew harder. "A man who tries to take me somewhere I don't wish to go will find himself with his hand frozen off, adventurer. And now that we're on the subject, I don't want to be carried around—I want to rest on a heap of treasure. Specifically the untold riches I was promised. Shouldn't we be on our way?"
"Do you know a way out of this black cave, then?"
"I barely knew there was a tunnel. I just remembered glimpsing this one when the linnorm dragged me into his hoard. Aren't you living creatures attuned to subtle drafts and currents of air and so forth?"
"Not especially." Rodrick stood up, his head brushing the top of the tunnel. "But it's not as if we're faced with a wealth of choices. This tunnel only goes in one direction."
"If you die and leave me stuck in some dark hole with no gold I will be very annoyed."
"I'm sure knowledge of your unhappiness will make my afterlife miserable, sword."
Rodrick picked up the sword and the torch and made his way along the tunnel, trying in vain to feel a waft of air suggesting a route to the upper world. He also did his best to avoid facing the possibility that he might simply be sealed in the dark forever, plunging ever deeper, eventually starving to death. The torch's light grew ever more inconstant and flickering as he progressed, and he wondered how long he'd be able to force himself to keep going once the light was gone, and he was inching along by feel—
"Do you hear that?" Hrym said.
Rodrick cocked his head. He did hear something—a distant sort of knocking, seemingly coming from the rock wall before him. "It's not the linnorm," he said. "That's still behind us, unless I've become hopelessly turned around."
"Jam me in that crack in the rock," Hrym said. "As far in as you can."
"As you wish." Rodrick shoved the point of the sword into a fissure in the wall. "Now what—"
The exposed length of sword began to steam and billow mist, and ice crystals poured out of the hole. Cracks spread across the wall, like thin ice breaking over a pond, as magical frost filled every minute fissure and pushed it wider.
"If you bury me, you stupid sword—"
The wall collapsed inward in a cascade of frozen stone, and Hrym stopped steaming mist. A hole three feet across yawned open at chest height, light glowing on the other side. A man with a filthy face, holding a pickaxe, gaped in astonishment at Rodrick.
"Hi there," the thief said, clambering through the hole, leaving the torch behind. "A miner, are you? Good man. I have only the greatest admiration for those who wrestle wealth from the very bowels of the world—"
"Are you mining for gold?" Hrym said. "Answer me, man!"
The miner stared, wide-eyed, at the talking sword, then dropped his pickaxe and ran away, leaving a sack and a lantern behind with his tools.
"Hmm," Rodrick said. "We may as well follow him. I doubt he's running in terror deeper into the mine, so he's probably headed for the surface."
"I don't see anything shiny at all," Hrym said. "They must be mining something boring here."
Rodrick picked up the lantern and began to walk, whistling, through the tunnel. "Things are looking up, sword. You'll be resting on a bed of gold in no time, and more importantly, so will I—"
A dwarf stepped from a side tunnel and into Rodrick's path. He wore a miner's helmet set with a magical glowing gem, and held a battleaxe with a head approximately as large as his own chest.
"Breaking into my mine?" he rumbled. "Trying to steal from me? Nobody steals from me! This mine is mine!"
"You don't—" Rodrick began, but then the dwarf was coming at him, axe held high.
Coming Next Week: Finder's fees and disillusionment in Chapter Three of Tim Pratt's "Bastard, Sword"!
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
Rodrick—pragmatist, opportunist, and occasional outright thief—groaned and tried to sit up, but only managed to half-lean against the wall of a lightless cavern. His head had felt like this many times before, but usually only after a night of drinking and wenching. His memories of the prior hours were fuzzy, but they didn't involve taverns and winsome (or buxom, or both; he wasn't picky) maids.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter One: Ill Met by Torchlight
Rodrick—pragmatist, opportunist, and occasional outright thief—groaned and tried to sit up, but only managed to half-lean against the wall of a lightless cavern. His head had felt like this many times before, but usually only after a night of drinking and wenching. His memories of the prior hours were fuzzy, but they didn't involve taverns and winsome (or buxom, or both; he wasn't picky) maids.
Images bobbed in his mind like rotting apples in a pond. A body, crushed in a trap. A man with a weaselly narrow face and a pack full of potions. A creature that looked like a beautiful woman from one side, and a gnarled, hollowed-out tree from the other. A room full of shattered treasure chests, and a suit of ancient black armor, and a distressingly large hole in the back wall—
Then he remembered. Sneaking into a barrow rumored to be full of treasure, accompanied by a fool named Simeon who'd gotten himself killed in a trap before they were even well begun. Disabling traps and killing a monster, assisted by a treacherous alchemist named Alaeron. They'd had a small disagreement about how to proceed, and so the alchemist had drugged Rodrick, knocking him unconscious and leaving him here to die.
Or, more accurately, to wake up with a headache.
Rodrick patted his pockets and discovered that all of his knives were gone, even the ones in his boots. No surprise, really, since his boots were also gone. The alchemist had stolen his shoes. That was nicer than stabbing Rodrick in the neck, admittedly, but still quite rude.
Now he sat slumped on a sloping hill, in a dark cavern that stank of something rank and reptilian, which Alaeron had claimed was a linnorm—a great slumbering beast that wasn't exactly the same as a dragon, but close enough. This barrow of treasures plundered from the North had included a linnorm egg, which had, at some point, hatched and grown to full size. The beast had smashed through the tomb wall into a system of caves and constructed a lair there, complete with a hoard made from the gold and gems and magical geegaws Rodrick had come to steal.
The linnorm had been the source of Rodrick's disagreement with the alchemist. Rodrick had advocated sneaking into the linnorm's cave and stealing everything, while Alaeron had favored running away and living to loot another day. Rodrick had insisted on his course of action, using a sword to advance his argument, and Alaeron had replied with a potion.
Rodrick began to crawl up the slope, quietly, toward the hole in the wall. There should have been torches lit in there. Either they'd burned out, or Alaeron had doused them when he left.
Having groped his way back into the mostly-empty treasure room, Rodrick crawled without success along the floor, looking for the lantern. No luck—the alchemist had taken it—but he did find an unlit torch, and he still had his flint and steel, at least. He got the torch lit and breathed a shaky sigh of relief as light blossomed in the dark.
After lighting the other torches on the walls, he sat in a carved wooden throne and considered his options. He was tempted to pursue Alaeron and exact revenge, but there was a more pressing concern: acquisition.
The most important thing was the sword. The alchemist had used a potion of darkvision to look over the sleeping linnorm and its hoard, and had claimed to see a sword, so that was promising. Rodrick had spun a tale for the alchemist about discovering the existence of this barrow and deciding to pillage it with his friend Simeon, but that was only partly true. Rodrick had actually been hired by a wealthy collector to break into this place and retrieve the sword, rumored to be an artifact of great power. Anything else he could steal was his to keep, in addition to a hefty payment in coinage.
Returning to Manius without the sword wasn't really an option if Rodrick wanted to keep his head. He could flee, with the collector's up-front payment in his pockets—but no, damn it, Alaeron had stolen his coin purse too—and probably escape any unpleasant consequences by changing his name again and heading south.
Escape was tempting. He was no dragon-slayer, even if linnorms weren't exactly dragons. But the treasure... the treasure was even more tempting.
He sighed, rose, lifted a torch from its sconce, and slowly approached the hole in the wall. He stepped through carefully, the torch held out in front of him.
The light immediately returned to him, shining from a shimmering lake of golden coins and glimmering jewels. As always, the sight of large quantities of wealth took his breath away. Alas, he could also see the pale scaled belly of something immense coiled atop the hoard. He'd hesitated to bring light into this chamber before, for fear of waking the beast, but then he'd had an alchemist on hand, with potions that would let them see in the dark. Circumstances had changed, and necessity demanded a certain amount of risk.
He crept down the slope, to the more-or-less level bottom of the chamber, just a few feet from the outlying spill of gold and gems. In this case, being barefoot was actually a boon—his footing was more sure, and he could move through the coins far less noisily. Rodrick mostly watched his feet, carefully sliding coins aside to find secure footing underneath, but occasionally he glanced up and saw more and more of the linnorm revealed. The thing was large enough that he couldn't apprehend it as a whole—it seemed serpentine, wrapped around and around itself. At least its head wasn't visible. Alaeron had said the creatures could hibernate for centuries, so Rodrick hoped a little torchlight wouldn't serve to wake it up.
His circle of light continued to advance. At last, it touched the hilt and first foot or so of a longsword's blade. Unfortunately, the remainder of the sword was firmly wedged beneath the linnorm itself, both resting atop a bed of coins. Perhaps if Rodrick undermined the coins—
"Do you mind?" The voice was deep, faintly annoyed, and slightly muffled, as if the speaker were wrapped in a blanket.
Rodrick froze. "I... beg your pardon?" he whispered.
The voice didn't bother to whisper. "As well you should. Do I come creeping into your bedchamber at night and shine a light in your face? Well?"
Rodrick is cunning, but that doesn't make him wise.
"Uh, who is this speaking?"
"Me," the voice replied unhelpfully. "What are you doing in here? In case you haven't noticed, there's a linnorm sleeping a few feet from your face. You wouldn't enjoy waking it up. If it even rolls over in its sleep you'll be crushed by its coils. The thing must be sixty feet long."
"I'd love to discuss my motivations, but I'd like to know who I'm talking to—"
"I'm the sword, idiot," the sword said. "Call me Hrym, if you must call me something."
"Ah." Rodrick closed his eyes, but only briefly. "The sword. Of course. I'd heard rumors that you could speak, but I didn't entirely believe them."
"I'm a rare breed," Hrym said. His voice was muffled—presumably because he was jammed beneath several tons of sleeping monster. "Who're you?"
"Rodrick. An adventurer."
"Stay here too long and you're sure to have an adventure, though it's likely to be your last. Why don't you have any shoes on?"
"I had a disagreement with a, ah, fellow adventurer, and he stole them."
"Mmm. There's a pair of boots there, about a foot to your right."
Rodrick turned his head slightly and moved the torch. A pair of pale blue boots were indeed jumbled in with the gold and gems. "Are they magical?"
"No," Hrym said, the sarcasm unmistakable. "They're perfectly ordinary boots, sealed up in a warlord's barrow with all his other treasures."
"Ah. Do you know how they're magical?"
"They let you walk on water, if I recall," Hrym said.
Rodrick sighed. "Hardly helpful in my current circumstances."
"They are also quite functional as ordinary boots."
"A fair point." Rodrick slid over the gold, wincing as a small cascade of coins tinkled and chimed together. He stuck the torch down in the heap of gold—a bit like shoving a stick into sand—to free his hands, tied the laces of the boots together, and hung them around his neck like an unwieldy scarf.
"Most people wear those on their feet," Hrym said. "But I'm sure your bold new fashion will soon be all the rage. Away with you, adventurer! I doubt the linnorm will notice the absence of the boots—they were just sort of swept along with the rest of the treasure. As long as you don't try to remove anything shiny from the hoard, you can probably escape."
Rodrick thought of the gems and rings he'd already dropped into his pockets along the way and decided to pretend he hadn't heard that last part. "The boots are nice, but I'd rather hoped to leave with a bit more."
"Don't be greedy," Hrym said. "It's unseemly in a human. Why, think of the money you could make ferrying people across rivers. You've got nice broad shoulders and strong arms—you could probably carry two, maybe three people at a time. If they didn't have any luggage."
"Sword—Hrym—I'm here to rescue you."
"Rescue," the sword said. "Rescue? Would you ask me to rescue you from a brothel or a barroom?"
Rodrick frowned. "I suppose it depends on the circumstances—"
"I love it here, human. Do you know my fondest aspiration in this world? It's to sleep on a bed of gold. And do you know what I'm doing just this very moment? Sleeping on a bed of gold! Or I was sleeping, until you shone a light in my face."
"You don't have a face."
"And you don't have a very good grasp of metaphor. Fine, then, you shone a light on my hilt—"
"Which I assume would be less akin to your face and more akin to your—"
"My point," the sword said, loudly, "is that I don't need to be rescued. What you really mean is 'stolen.' Now go away before I wake the linnorm."
Rodrick considered. Stealing a sword should have been a lot simpler than this. But the sword had a mind—of sorts—which meant that it could be manipulated. And Rodrick was far better at manipulation than he was a burglary.
"Suit yourself," he said. "My client will be disappointed."
"Oh, to know I caused the disappointment of some human I've never met or heard of, how will I stand the pain? Now, go. This beast is hibernating, but I have ways of stirring it into consciousness very quickly."
"All right, fine. You're missing out, though. I mean, you call this a pile of gold? Pfft."
"Pfft?" Hrym said. "These are the all the riches acquired by the warrior Brant, slayer of beasts and men, despoiler of vaults—"
"Oh, I mean, it's alright," Rodrick said. "I wouldn't mind having this lot in my house, certainly. But my employer doesn't pillage. He invests. He owns half of Andoran, including the banks, and he believes in keeping a ready supply of coin on hand. There's a basement in his house that's so full of gold and gems that he has ten clerks working full-time just to inventory it all, and they can't keep up with the fresh cartloads of coins that arrive every day. He loves money, but more than that, he's a collector of rare and precious magical items and relics. You, of course, are one of the most rare and precious in the world—"
"This is true," Hrym said.
"—and he desires greatly to add you to his collection. Why, he's paying me more gold than I see here just to deliver you to him! Hrym, you could rest in a place of pride atop a mound of treasure that makes this look like the dregs of a drunkard's coinpurse after a holiday. Or you can stay wedged under the ass of a monster, if you prefer."
"Hmmm," Hrym said. "If this is a trick, you'll regret it. I have powers beyond mere speech."
"I'm sure you do," Rodrick said. "Shall we?"
"Very well. Draw me forth. But slowly, so I don't slice the beast."
Rodrick moved toward the sword, grasped the hilt, and gently drew out the blade. The linnorm didn't so much as shift—it might have been carved of stone.
Hrym's blade was dazzling. It was made not of steel, but rather of some bluish-white crystal, gleaming like a faceted diamond in the torchlight. The substance resembled nothing so much as—
"Ice," Rodrick whispered. "I'd heard you were a blade of living ice, but I didn't know what that meant."
"You still don't," Hrym said. "Now go, quickly."
Rodrick held Hrym aloft and carefully worked his way down the slope, moving in a low crouch, away from the light of the torch. He paused halfway down, spying what looked like a silver bell as big as a man's head, half-buried in coins. "Is that—is that the bell that summons blizzards?" he whispered. "I heard there was such a thing here."
"Oh, probably," Hrym said.
"I can carry that too," Rodrick said, and moved carefully sideways.
"I wouldn't do that." Hrym said.
"In that respect, we differ." Rodrick reached for the bell, brushing away coins with his free hand, and grasped the ring at the top. He lifted the bell up, carefully, slowly—
And as it came free from the heap of gold, the clapper struck a deep, low note so loud it brought back Rodrick's headache in full force. An icy wind suddenly blew through the cavern, and the great coils of the linnorm began to move.
Coming Next Week: The perils of waking a linnorm in Chapter Two of Tim Pratt's "Bastard, Sword"!
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
Captain Najh Semekh and his two soldiers formed a wall between Shaba Alemas and me. Drawn scimitars gleamed cold with starlight, while Najh's knife dripped rancid black fluid. I drew my own dagger, trying to catch Shaba's eyes, but they were hidden in pools of shadow. The sleeping roc stirred, the sound of its feathers ruffling like the canvas of a ship under sail.
The Fate of Falling Stars
by Andrew Penn Romine
Chapter Three: Buried in the Sky
Captain Najh Semekh and his two soldiers formed a wall between Shaba Alemas and me. Drawn scimitars gleamed cold with starlight, while Najh's knife dripped rancid black fluid. I drew my own dagger, trying to catch Shaba's eyes, but they were hidden in pools of shadow. The sleeping roc stirred, the sound of its feathers ruffling like the canvas of a ship under sail.
Shaba raised a hand. At first I thought it in supplication to the assassin, but the words that tumbled from her mouth were more like a prayer. A calloused finger flew to her lips, shushing Najh, and suddenly all sound died away.
A wise precaution, as waking the roc would likely doom us all. Still, the magical silence did nothing to hinder the satrap's assassins, while simultaneously preventing me from using my own magic to salvage the situation. The soldiers advanced, their booted feet silent across the sand-blown floor.
Fortunately, in addition to magic, I had learned a different sort of craft at Aunt Jaffira's knee—the geometries of knife work and the weak places where a halfling's blade might bite deepest. Najh's brows lifted in surprise as I stepped forward. Perhaps he had not expected me to fight. A mere astrologer does not pose much of a threat to a trained soldier, even if that astrologer is a convicted thief.
A thief with a destiny.
I plunged my knife into the back of a soldier's knee, feeling the leather of his high boot pop like a split sausage casing. His legs buckled, and he fell hard to the floor, his mouth open in a ragged, soundless scream. I rewarded him with my fiercest grin, one I was sure that Aunt Jaffira would approve of, then acquainted his face with the sole of my boot. I imagined a satisfying crunch to accompany the spray of blood from his nose. The man sprawled senselessly upon the landing of the precarious stair.
Shaba, her blade still in its scabbard, evaded her assailant's slash and kicked hard at his ankle. He fell sideways, colliding with his comrade on the stairs, mute profanities reddening his face. Najh leapt clear of the fray, scimitar in one hand, poisoned knife in the other. His handsome face was pinched with doubt.
So much for the would-be assassins of the Pierced Rose.
One of the fallen soldiers fought to rise from the tangle of limbs and stumbled—or so I first thought. Only when several stones fell away from the edge of the landing did I realize the truth. The fragile stair was giving way. The fellow made a fruitless attempt to leap over the buckling stonework to the relative safety of the nest, but his efforts only hastened the disintegration of the stair. He and his companion vanished into the gloom below. They fell in eerie silence, and not a stone thundered or echoed at the bottom.
Najh retreated, putting his back to the wall and the gap in the floor to his right. He choked on a lungful of dust rising from the subsidence below. I turned my knife toward him. Once more, the phantom sound of sails rippled in my ears.
"Oh dear," I whispered, glancing to my left. Shaba's spell had fallen along with the soldiers.
Distracted as I was, Najh readied himself for a thrust, but a sudden resonant wind arose. The steady drawing of air prickled the hairs of my neck. A flicker of motion danced in Najh's wide stare, his eyes reflecting the danger like mirrors.
"Raaaarrrrrrrrrrwwwkkkkkkk!"
Forgetting Najh, I turned to face the peril rising behind me. A pair of hungry white moons rose into view. An enormous beak flashed like hammered brass, and at its center a pale, fleshy tongue dripped with slime. The roc stood, buffeting us with grit and a stench like a camel pit in the heat of summer.
To his credit, the assassin was only momentarily deterred. He swept his blade at my head, and when I jumped aside, he surged forward to face Shaba. She had still not drawn her sword.
"Your pacifist dreams end tonight, Shaba Alemas. There will be no more resistance within Sarenrae's church. Qadira's glory will be her own."
Shaba unbelted her sword, though she still refused to draw it from its scabbard.
"That is for Sarenrae to determine," she said.
"How about you and the halfling ask her yourself?"
Najh makes a much better assassin than he does an expedition leader.
"If it's all the same to both of you, I'd rather live!" I shouted.
The roc screamed its disagreement.
The great bird lunged forward, shredding stone with its black talons. The whole of the tower swayed, rolling the eggs, the Eye, and what was left of our expedition decidedly toward the shattered rim of the parapet. The roc took momentarily to the air, confused in its blindness. The Eye of Azzah broke free of the clutch of eggs and accelerated toward the edge of the tower. The heat of its passing pressed me back, but Shaba cried out and threw herself in front of the globe to try and halt its precarious slide.
Najh advanced with a triumphant smile and drove his blades at the distracted hermit.
"Burn," I commanded, spraying flames at the pouncing assassin. Caught within the roiling blast, Najh howled and dropped his sword. His charred fist retained its hold on his dagger, however, and he turned the fury of his glare upon me.
"You'll regret that, you little cur!"
I ran, but the shaking tower caused me to veer closer to the panicking roc. The beast's cries pierced my eardrums nearly as effectively as Shaba's mantra of silence. It grabbed blindly at the nest, trying to save the eggs but only making matters worse. The floor trembled and stones dropped away from the edge of the tower, clattering down the sides as they fell. The giant bird's cries grew shriller as the nest fell apart and the eggs rolled freely. I narrowly avoided a downward-flashing beak, Najh dogging my heels.
I looked up to see the blind eyes of the roc shining in the starlight. Perhaps it dimly recognized the tasty morsel running directly beneath it. The threads of its fate had nearly unraveled—the beast was old, blind, and sick. The desert air that eddied and pooled at the tips of its feathers sang to me. It could barely stay aloft.
Najh's blade swished in the air behind me, trying to sever the threads of my own destiny.
I risked a glance over my shoulder at Shaba. She had managed to halt the Eye from its plunge, her arms wrapped around it. Her face was contorted in a rictus of pain. The heat must have been incredible, and I marveled that the hermit could maintain such a grip. The stench of cooking flesh filled the air, and I knew Shaba wouldn't be able to hold it much longer.
Then I ran straight into a wall of reeking feathers, and had no further time to contemplate Shaba's predicament. Filthy barbs snatched at my hair and plucked at my beard, entangling me in the bird's plumage. Najh had me at his mercy.
Yet fate was not so kind to Najh Semekh. With a groan like the earth itself splitting apart, Shaba rose to her feet, hefting the Eye of Azzah in her blistering hands. With a last, worshipful glance at the writing upon the stone, she hurled it at Najh.
What it must have cost her to give up that stone! And she did it for me.
The stone struck Najh across the kidneys, sending him staggering backward.
Right into the blind pecking of the roc.
Whatever the roc could see, it sensed that at least one violator of its nest was within striking distance, and the great bronze curve of its beak lunged down and plucked the would-be assassin from the floor. The attack dislodged me from the vile black feathers, and I tumbled to the ground.
To his credit, Najh made a valiant fight of it. Despite the razor-keen grip of the beak slicing into his torso, he still struggled, managing to puncture one milky eye with his poisoned blade. The roc lifted fully into the sky, blanketing the tower in a black snow of feathers. With one talon like a cage of wrought iron, it tore the assassin from its beak.
Well, most of him anyway. Much of the rest vanished into the roc's pink gullet or fell as crimson rain upon me.
But the roc was gravely injured by Najh's final blow. It wheeled in a frenzied spiral, pulverizing stones and smashing sun-rotted timbers. I struggled to rise in the heaving chaos. I cried out to Shaba to come nearer, but even as the words formed on my lips, the top of the tower gave way with a roar that drowned out even the roc's dying screech. The surge of rubble carried us all—Shaba, myself, the Eye of Azzah, and the roc itself—out into the nocturnal abyss of the Ketz sky.
A miasma of stinging dust enfolded me, choking out sight and sound and air. But I had already prepared my call to the desert winds, and they congealed beneath me in a pillar like the very breath of the dunes. I righted myself in the column of air and searched the roiling clouds for the hermit.
A fold of homespun wool, fluttering within the billowing dust, caught my eye. A ribbon of her long black hair caught the delicate glint of starlight, and in that brief flash I knew that she had never been destined to be buried in the sky like her revered Azzah. Greater things lay in store.
At my command, the desert winds shifted again, and a finger of air unwound from the body of my rescuing pillar, stretching out to catch her and slow her fall.
The rest of the debris crashed into the desert in a clangorous rumble, burying both the roc and the Eye of Azzah. We touched down atop the rubble several moments later, raising only the barest cloud of dust.
Shaba grimaced when she saw the ruin.
"The satrap nearly had his wish, halfling. You were right." She spat a muddy gob of dust.
"It pains me to be so."
Shaba crouched for long minutes without reply, sifting through the debris. Her hands were blistered from the Eye's touch, and I wondered how she could stand to move them at all. After some few minutes I grew impatient to return to the tower and see if any of the treasures in the interior remained unburied, yet I forced myself to wait. At last, she pulled a fist-sized chunk of heatstone from the pile. Only fragments of Azzah's final words remained. Shaba's expression was as shattered as the Eye.
"The Eye is destroyed," I said.
"But you're safe," she replied. I couldn't tell if it was a curse.
There was a long pause. Then at last I asked the question that hung over us. "Why did you save me, Shaba? It cost you the stone, yet you didn't hesitate."
A rare smile bloomed on her face. It was the crooked grin of someone unused to such expressions of mirth, but I decided I liked it when Shaba smiled.
"Perhaps it was your destiny, Kazzar."
I returned her smile and plucked a large black feather from between two stones. Such a treasure, even with its barbs kinked from the fall, would make a mighty pen, or perhaps adorn a fine new turban.
"We could piece the stone back together," I suggested.
"But it would take many days to gather all the fragments, while the satrap yet plots." She tumbled the fragment of the Eye in her hands. "I had hoped Azzah's stone would unify our temple, but perhaps my own words will have to serve for now."
"We can't go back to Katheer," I said. "At least not yet."
Shaba had climbed down from the rubble to the rocky sand. The sky brightened almost imperceptibly. Sarenrae's glory would rise above the horizon soon. Her hermit-priest raised an eyebrow at me.
"No, it's the best time to return. It will unbalance the conspirators. Force the satrap and his allies among the high priests to acknowledge me. I will not be intimidated. How about you, Haron esh Kazzar?"
I decided, just for that moment, to let Sarenrae's star guide my fate, and followed the priest back to where the camels waited.
Coming Next Week: A sample chapter from Liar's Blade, Tim Pratt's new darkly comic adventure about a thief and his talking sword!
Andrew Penn Romine's short stories have appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, Crossed Genres, Broken Time Blues, Rigor Amortis, and the forthcoming Fungi from Innsmouth Free Press. In addition, he's contributed nonfiction articles and blogs to Lightspeed Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, Inkpunks, and Functional Nerds (as the Booze Nerd). For more information, visit his website andrewpennromine.com or follow him on Twitter at @inkgorilla.
The defile descended into shadow as the sun burned itself out along the broad horizon. We left the camels behind, secured within a circle of boulders. The hermit-priest of Sarenrae, Shaba Alemas, led our company by several paces, her coarse robe furrowing trails in the black and yellow dust. Two of the satrap's soldiers followed, casting nervous at the sky in fear of the great roc's return. Captain Najh came next, striding with a wary grace like a desert cat on the hunt. I—palace astrologer, sorcerer, and accused thief—shuffled along ignominiously at the rear. Najh watched me closely, lest I develop a sudden proclivity to flee the vicinity of Azzah's ancient tower and seek the safety of the night.
The Fate of Falling Stars
by Andrew Penn Romine
Chapter Two: The Treasures of the Faithful
The defile descended into shadow as the sun burned itself out along the broad horizon. We left the camels behind, secured within a circle of boulders. The hermit-priest of Sarenrae, Shaba Alemas, led our company by several paces, her coarse robe furrowing trails in the black and yellow dust. Two of the satrap's soldiers followed, casting nervous at the sky in fear of the great roc's return. Captain Najh came next, striding with a wary grace like a desert cat on the hunt. I—palace astrologer, sorcerer, and accused thief—shuffled along ignominiously at the rear. Najh watched me closely, lest I develop a sudden proclivity to flee the vicinity of Azzah's ancient tower and seek the safety of the night.
"Keep up, halfling," Najh hissed, "or we'll tie you up with the camels."
"Never fear, Captain, I'm right behind you."
In truth, I wanted Najh where I could see him. Unbeknownst to the captain, I had glimpsed the sign of the infamous Pierced Rose gang tattooed on his back. Pierced Rose brutes held sway in certain quarters of Katheer and certain disreputable caravanserai. Though renowned enforcers and thugs, they rarely operated in secret—which was extremely fortunate for us. In allowing me to see his tattoo, Najh had proved himself either careless or foolishly overconfident. Or both.
Without question, his main target was Shaba, the young pacifist priest whose splinter sect opposed the satrap's warmongering against Taldor. At the same time, however, I had no illusions that he would suffer any witnesses to live—I had stolen from the satrap's library, after all. No, the real question was why the satrap would employ a criminal rather than simply order our execution, or send us off into the desert on a fool's errand when a simple knife in the dark would do the work just as well. Then the answer came to me.
Martyrs.
There were no other souls in the Ketz Desert to report that Shaba—or Kazzar the Astrologer, for that matter—had died in any other way than in service to the satrap and the Dawnflower. Shaba's people couldn't make her a rallying cry against the satrap and his militant allies in the church. It was clean. Simple.
It was also finished, as of that moment. I refused to die an unknown martyr to someone else's cause. It was not a destiny befitting one who was born under the watchful stars.
The narrow way of the defile twisted toward the tower, and Azzah's resting place finally loomed directly above us. The shallow walls of the track no longer shielded us from the roc's view, so I hoped Shaba was right when she'd deemed it blind. The vast bird still perched atop the tower, motionless against the dark iron sky. A slim rectangular opening, framed by eroding sandstone plinths, beckoned us forward into the eastern vestibule. The entrance had once been deeply inscribed with symbols sacred to the Sun Goddess and painted in vibrant shades of cobalt and yellow, but the desert had scoured all meaning from their surface. Shaba froze mere paces from the door.
"We stand in a sacred place," she whispered, lifting a hand to halt our progress.
Najh raised his head slowly and jerked his chin at the sky.
"The beast may be blind, but is it wise to tarry here, praying until it hears us?" he whispered back.
Shaba narrowed her eyes but said nothing in response. The skin of my neck again prickled, as if with the feet of sand-spiders. Boulders creaked as they cooled. Wind ruffled feathers as black as death high above our heads.
"Might we please just go inside?" I asked, unable to keep the panic from my voice.
Without another word, Shaba vanished into the darkness of the tower. The soldiers, with a final glance skyward, followed close on her heels. Najh spun and grabbed the loose fabric of my tunic, hauling me under the arch of the door.
"You have a part yet to play, Kazzar," he hissed.
"I can assure you I have every intention of seeing this enterprise through, Captain."
Najh smoothed the front of my tunic and gave a thin, reptilian smile, his brassy hair glinting with the first starlight of the evening.
"In that case, there may yet be a way to earn the Satrap's forgiveness for your crimes."
I choked down a retort about which of us might be burdened with the longer list of illicit deeds. Instead, I lied.
"As my Uncle Ilnario is fond of saying, 'No camel has two drivers.' I remain your man, but you must say what you expect from me."
Najh peered into the tower, then back at me.
"His Eminence is as interested in bringing Azzah's final words to Katheer as our rustic friend here. Should some sad fate befall her in that tower, Azzah's secrets must return with us."
I nodded agreeably for Najh's sake, though his meaning was as bright as the edge of a sword. Najh was indeed there to ensure Shaba's tragic fate.
We gathered in the gloom of the eastern vestibule of Azzah's Tower, where arches of sandstone swept upward to mosaics of colored glass and glinting gold, their panes no doubt warded by magic to have survived so many centuries unscathed. Scenes from Azzah's life intermingled with what I supposed were texts sacred to the Dawnflower, their scripture covering the walls. Several panels depicted historical eclipses, but I recognized the significance of little else. Azzah had appointed his tower as a vizier's, with aggrandizements of self woven into every arc and flute of its construction. I decided I liked the old fellow after all.
Shaba traced the outlines of one panel, disappointment muddying the usual fire of zealotry in her eyes. She wiped away layers of dull dust to reveal a colorful mosaic of Azzah receiving tribute from the generals of a surrendering army.
"All to the glory of Sarenrae," I chuckled, my words a bit harsher than I'd intended.
She ignored my jibe. "It's warm."
I ran my hand along the bottom edge of the scene and the patterned border of gold and black stones. The black chips radiated heat, almost enough to burn with prolonged contact on unprotected skin.
"Heatstone!" I exclaimed. "Your Azzah was a wealthy man, to use them for decoration like this. Lucky caravans sometimes have a few in the supply train for cold desert nights. I'd heard that they can sometimes be found in the Ketz Desert, but I had always thought they were mostly found in the garderobes of high nobility."
Her mouth quirked in another semblance of a smile, and her eyes shone with excitement. Sadly, it was not at my wit.
Shaba is pure in her faith, yet it takes more than belief to turn a blade.
"Then it's here," she whispered.
Before I had a chance to ask what she meant, one of the soldiers lit a torch. The golden light chased away the gloom, reflected back in countless tiny mirrors and gilt sun disks. Najh studied a door opposite the entrance, one that led deeper into the tower. It was limned in gold and cobalt glass. He stepped around a chunk of fallen masonry and reached for the door.
"I'm going to secure the next chamber," he said.
"Do you think it's a good idea to go by yourself?" I replied. I didn't want him out of my sight.
Najh favored me with an unctuous smile.
"We must know how much of the interior of the tower stands, lest the roc observe us trooping into his aerie. As the expedition's scout, I've a duty to go."
"Touch nothing, Captain," Shaba warned. "This place is sanctified. It's also Azzah's grave."
Najh returned her admonition with insincere piety.
"I wouldn't dare, Shaba. What do you take me for, a thief?"
My fingertips ached with the fire I longed to call down upon Najh for that remark.
He vanished through the sun door, but his two goons remained, carrying torches and pretending to study the mosaics. Shaba approached an idol of Sarenrae and knelt before it. I wasn't sure how long Najh would be gone, so I followed Shaba and risked interrupting her prayer.
"They mean to kill you," I whispered.
"Fate has decreed that I walk with killers," she replied.
"We should walk away from them."
She shrugged. "You mean well, my friend. But I don't think it's my destiny to die here. The Dawnflower has granted me her favor."
"But the satrap has not," I said, finding myself more than a bit pleased at being called her friend. "And he has allies amongst your fellowship that eagerly seek war."
"But we serve the same goddess. Despite appearances, the church of the Dawnflower in Katheer remains open to a more peaceful way."
"Perhaps. But what of the satrap and his ministers who plot war against the north? They rile your fellow priests to righteous anger and lead them down the path of violence—the same path that you preach against. What do those ministers think of the meddling hermit out of the desert, I wonder?" I jabbed a finger at her ragged tunic.
"I do not know what sins you are expiating out here, Kazzar, but do not shroud this holy mission in your paranoia."
"Think about it, Shaba. If you vanish in the desert, there will be one fewer voice of opposition to the satrap's plans. The Dawnflower's dervishes may well go to war even if the nation cannot, manipulated by the schemes of devious nobles."
Najh's soldiers grew suspicious of our whispering and began examining a panel nearer to us. I changed the subject.
"Tell me more about your 'holy mission,' Shaba," I said loudly.
For all her apparent dislike of subterfuge, she replied without missing a beat. "Azzah the Prophet lived eight hundred years ago and fostered a strictly nonviolent sect that worshipped Sarenrae."
"Yet you still carry a sword," I observed. Shaba ignored my jibe. She was growing adept at that.
"When he was aged and near death, his most trusted followers vanished into the desert, leaving behind only a handful of scrolls with his core teachings. But he left a promise that before he died his truest message yet would be delivered to those who followed the Dawnflower."
"And the final homily never came?"
Shaba shook her head.
"Indeed. Though word did come that he'd constructed a tower somewhere in the depths of the Ketz Desert and offered his body to the beasts of the air."
I shuddered. Sky burial was an ancient practice, and not much in fashion with the civilized folk of Qadira these days. A roc nesting at the top of the tower suddenly seemed too convenient a coincidence. Such portents were not to be taken lightly.
"It seems the beasts of the air never left," I said. Shaba raised a knuckle to her lips, thinking over my words.
"Perhaps the roc serves as the guardian of Azzah's spirit," she said, dismay plain in her voice.
Najh returned from the next room with a wolfish smile.
"The interior is intact. There's a stair through the ceiling into another chamber."
"And what did you see there?" I asked.
"The treasures of a faithful man," he replied, his eyes shining.
Najh motioned for us to follow. Shaba rose, absently tracing the pommel of her sword with one finger. I wondered if the priest would trust in her fate or in her sword when the time came to choose.
It was cold in the innermost chamber of Azzah's Tower, insulated as it was from the desert's glare by thick walls. Four vestibules ringed that central core: north, west, south, and finally east, the chamber where we had entered. The western portal was filled with debris and sand, but the others stood open, and I longed to explore them as Najh clearly had. Despite the glint of gold from objects in those shadowed chambers, the tower walls here were less ostentatious in their proclamations of Azzah's glory, with little adornment save repeating icon of Sarenrae and the holy rays of her sun.
Shaba made immediately for the stair that wound its way up the core and into an upper chamber. Najh halted her.
"Wait," he said, gesturing to one of his soldiers.
The man held his torch as high as he could, peering into the gloom above. Then, unsheathing his sword, he mounted the first step. The stones shifted under the tread of his boots, showering dust and flakes of rock. One stone fell loose, thumping to the floor with a dreadful echo. I froze, awaiting a sudden death of falling stones, feathers, and talons, but if the roc heard, it made no response.
"We must mind our step." Shaba said, following the soldier over the missing stone.
A simple spell could have carried me up into the darkness as if on the desert winds, but Najh gave a slight bow and waved me onto the fragile stair. My misgivings intensified when he and the other soldier also drew their swords. The hole where the step had rested gaped like a missing tooth in a mouthful of fangs—and we were marching right into the gullet.
We climbed the stairs with utmost caution, my legs quickly developing painful cramps from the slow, careful steps. The soldiers kept their swords drawn, and my spine writhed like a serpent as I anticipated the kiss of a blade. I kept a spell close to quickening in my mind, in case a sudden escape should become necessary. If Najh meant to kill me, he appeared not to be in a hurry, and so we gained the upper chamber without incident.
It was a large spherical hall sectioned into eighths by gilt buttresses like the ribs of an orange. The stair continued around its circumference, eventually winding through a portal in the roof, framed with more sunbursts that led further up into the tower.
Around us, the treasures of Azzah's life were piled in haphazard fashion: chests of worm-eaten silks, tarnished plate of silver and brass, patinaed copper trade ingots from bygone caravans, and small caskets of glinting coin and glittering jewels. There was no doubt significant value to Azzah's storehouse, but with one camel now in the belly of the roc, I feared we would not be able to carry it all away.
As with the rooms below, frescoes of Sarenrae's legends intermingled with scenes from Azzah's life. Here was a brightly painted scene of his miraculous birth under an eclipse; there as a young man, already with a prophet's braided beard, turning away an invading army and welcoming their commanders as his followers. A large painting spread across the top quarter of the room; Azzah's exile from Katheer, his former students taking up the sword, and the final moments of his sky burial where huge black vultures carried gobbets of his flesh into the heavens. I shuddered involuntarily at the last one.
Shaba fell to her knees, her eyes shimmering like muddy oases.
"The Eye! It is here!"
I followed her pointing finger to a detail on a mosaic. It depicted a large globe of black stone atop a pedestal near the vultures feasting on Azzah's corpse. Indecipherable writing wrapped its surface and gold panels of light radiated like sunbeams. Magical lines of force perhaps, but I recalled the tiny heatstones in the mosaics below.
"If it's still here, Shaba, then I fear it warms the nest of the roc upstairs." A thrill of pleasure welled up from my toes to the crown of my head to see the sudden look of dismay on Najh's face.
"That is the artifact you and the satrap seek?" Najh asked, his eyes narrowed.
Shaba nodded, her face grave.
"The Eye of Azzah contains his final words of peace, his last revelation of reconciliation. What did you expect, Captain?" Immersed in the study of a casket of gemstones, I still registered Shaba's contempt.
"Traipsing into the roc's nest is beyond foolish," Najh said, his voice flat.
"Shaba and I can go alone if you'd like," I offered. "It shouldn't take us but a minute to steal the Eye and roll it back down the stairs."
Najh flashed his canine teeth.
"Your intention is noble, but perhaps it would be wiser if we stuck together, Kazzar."
Shaba couldn't contain her fervor any longer. She raced to the stair and gained a quarter turn before Najh's soldiers caught on. I darted ahead of them as well, a sudden elation burning within me. The stairs of the sun chamber were more fragile than those below, and so I kept my charm of rescue ready in case I should trip and fall.
Destiny is not always a burden. It can lighten the heart and fire the soul. I had known that I would see and do great things all my life, as a result of the stars that rose above my head the night of my birth. As I raced up the stairs, I saw Shaba returning with the Eye to Katheer and being welcomed as a hero, gaining a following to rival even Azzah's. I saw the satrap helpless before her persuasions, and Najh and his men executed as thieves of Sarenrae's temple. Most of all I saw myself elevated to vizier, vital to all commerce between the Sarenites and the Qadiran government. And after that, who knew how much further I might rise?
But the mirage of glory vanished when I reached the top of the crumbling stair.
The uppermost chamber of Azzah's Tower had collapsed, penetrated by a sky blacker than a pit. Atop one crumbling battlement, the roc slept, its vast hunched shape blotting out most of the cold, glinting stars. Wind-scoured stones ringed its nest, where a half-dozen eggs the size of sheep lay. Marbled in green and gold, they lay basking in the warmth of a globe of solid black rock.
The Eye of Azzah.
Just one of those eggs would fetch a generous sum in Katheer, but the Eye was beyond price. I strained to make out the tiny inscriptions in gold and silver across its face, ancient Kelish words which swam before my eyes. Shaba stood silent, quivering before it. Her face was lit with holy rapture, a sheen of reflected starlight that bespoke a destiny greater than perhaps even my own. I owe little to the gods that move above and below this world, but I saw a working of their will in Shaba's suddenly humble frame.
Then from within the eggs came the dull scraping of chicks nearing their hatching time. The foreboding racket so transfixed my attention that I almost missed Najh's quiet, nasty chuckle and the sleek rasp of a dagger being drawn.
"Now is the moment, Haron esh Kazzar," he whispered.
Whatever Shaba Alma's destiny, it seemed that fate had other plans for her.
And for me.
Coming Next Week: Heroes caught between a roc and a hard place in the thrilling conclusion Andrew Penn Romine's "The Fate of Falling Stars"!
Andrew Penn Romine's short stories have appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, Crossed Genres, Broken Time Blues, Rigor Amortis, and the forthcoming Fungi from Innsmouth Free Press. In addition, he's contributed nonfiction articles and blogs to Lightspeed Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, Inkpunks, and Functional Nerds (as the Booze Nerd). For more information, visit his website andrewpennromine.com or follow him on Twitter at @inkgorilla.
The future is not so mysterious, to those of us who know how to read the turning roof of the sky. When that array of glittering stars beckons you to the gilded paths of fortune, you know you are destined for greatness.
The Fate of Falling Stars
by Andrew Penn Romine
Chapter One: The Rose and the Star
The future is not so mysterious, to those of us who know how to read the turning roof of the sky. When that array of glittering stars beckons you to the gilded paths of fortune, you know you are destined for greatness.
Still, bracing myself on an outcropping of black rock, the remnant of some ancient volcanism or arcane calamity, I wondered if perhaps the stars had other plans for me. I stood blinking into the westering sun at the rim of a shallow valley deep within the desert of Ketz, buffeted by a wind like a belch from a reeking furnace. I wrapped my keffiyeh tightly around my face, but the sand still ground in my teeth as I clamped my mouth shut.
Despite the fearful wasteland, the promising allure of ancient treasure beckoned before me. A hill of black and red stones loomed above the shimmering desolation, crowned by a squat flat-topped tower seemingly as old as the Ketz Desert itself. Azzah's Tower—just where I had calculated it must be. Even through the drift of centuries, polar Cynosure had pointed me true on my star charts.
A short slide back down the slope deposited me in the minimal shelter of the defile that wound like an ancient road toward the tower. My minders awaited me beside their camels, a company appointed by the satrap himself to ensure I read my star charts accurately. Four were warriors, clad in layers of ochre leather and black cloth and bristling with the tools of their trade—scimitar, dagger, and a keen impatience for a halfling astronomer.
Najh Semekh, their captain, a human with a touch of the ifrit in his brassy hair, sneered down at me with impatient disdain dulling his chestnut eyes. Resentment pinched his brow and darkened the planes of his face. I imagined he thought himself handsome and witty, but after four weeks in the desert I'd grown weary of his counterfeit charm. As a scout in the satrap's service, he claimed familiarity with the Ketz's trackless waste, but it was I who predicted the tower's actual location, not he.
"What do you see yonder, thief?" Najh inquired. "Is this the right place?"
I allowed a smile to blossom and inclined my head in a semblance of a bow. I still bristled at the epithet "thief," as it was hardly a fitting title for Haron esh Kazzar, palace astrologer. It was perhaps accurate, however, for I'd been caught in the satrap's personal library with an armload of scrolls and a thin, rare volume of star-lore tucked in my sash. One parchment of particular interest detailed possible locations for the time-lost tower. Explaining that I had intended only to borrow the items in question for an evening of study failed to move the guards, the magistrate, or indeed the satrap himself.
"A tower, just where your ancient survey map indicated. In a few short hours, the sign of the Stranger will rise behind it, and you will have your proof. Of course, there's only one among us who can ultimately confirm that we have found Azzah's fabled tower."
I pointed to our final companion, kneeling beyond the circle of Captain Najh and his warriors. Shaba Alemas, a human in a sand-colored robe befitting a hermit, was compact and muscular; even her long black hair had been braided close around her head. Her exact age eluded me, for the elements had etched her skin, but a youthful vitality remained in the flash of her topaz eyes. Where Najh chattered constantly, hers was a more phlegmatic demeanor. Now she knelt in prayer, her sun-dry lips moving in silent communion with the goddess she served—Sarenrae, the Dawnflower.
I held little patience for the cult of the Dawnflower—they placed such importance on the sun's course across the sky that they consigned the rest of the stars to a lesser role. But Shaba Alemas seemed to me touched by starlight. I saw its delicate tracery along the rough line of her jaw and the pale whirl of her eyes. Despite her rustic appearance and stolid devotion to her goddess, she would rise to great things someday.
The satrap, hungering for war with the north, encouraged the more militant devotees of her holy order to fits of zealotry and righteousness. I had naturally assumed Shaba one of these at first, for she held her chin high and spoke of Sarenrae's great divinity. However, she armored herself with only her faith, a homespun robe, and a scimitar she strapped to her belt but never drew.
Shaba ceased her prayer and fixed me with a penetrating look.
"This is the place. Fate and our astrologer have led us true."
Najh laughed, the short bark of a jackal.
"Indeed, and I suppose my efforts leading us through the desert were inconsequential?"
Shaba inclined her head and lifted one knotted brow.
"You and your men have my utmost thanks as well, Captain Najh."
The corners of Najh's mount twitched in estimation of the value of Shaba's gratitude. I had seen similar expressions on my own Aunt Jaffira's face when receiving poor bids for her camels. If Shaba noticed, she made no remark, but stood and prepared to remount.
"You think it's fate that brought us here, Sister Shaba?" I asked. "In truth, I supposed my destiny might lead me to a less wretched spot."
Every scholar is a thief at heart.
"Fate and destiny aren't the same, astrologer. I thought you of all people might understand that."
"So fate is living out your days in the desert with a few crazy followers, and destiny is to be well-remembered for it?" I laughed, but Shaba found no humor in my jibe.
"Azzah was a devoted servant of the Dawnflower," Shaba said, "and his final words will heal the rift in my church. This is his destiny. And it's also mine."
As if in mockery, a camel suddenly brayed, and the other beasts stamped in sympathetic restlessness, crunching the gravel of the narrow defile. The wind died, and in the odd stillness my heart thrashed in my chest. Something was wrong.
Where there had been none a moment ago, a cloud moved across the sun, plunging us into shadow. One of the soldiers cried out as a rush of hot air returned, blasting down the gully counter to the previous wind. In the premature night, there was the whooshing of a great bellows. Immense pinions fretted the sky, and a carrion-stench fouler than the backside of a camel clawed at my throat. The camels groaned in terror even as the sun returned, and the soldiers struggled to control them. Only Shaba's beast remained placid.
A great shriek ripped open the cobalt sky, forcing our hands to our ears. One of Najh's soldiers lost the battle with his mount, and the creature raced from the defile, bleating in terror, dragging the poor man behind. Shaba moved with phenomenal speed, hurtling into the open after the fleeing beast.
"No!" I shouted, knowing the death that wheeled through the vault of the sky. It was the great terror of the desert, a bird of prey that dined on elephants and camels as well as unlucky travelers and foolish seekers.
The roc.
Fright numbed my good sense, and I raced after Shaba, though my legs didn't carry me so fast up the scree. Najh, his eyes wide with surprise, made no move to follow even though it was his man in peril. From the corner of my eye, I witnessed a curious gleam in the captain's eye and doubted it was from tears shed for his soldier.
I slid down the other side of the scree to the heat-blasted stones of the plain. The bleating camel and its doomed rider had already traversed a hundred paces in the opposite direction from the tower, but was still well within view of the vast black bird that rushed from the east like a hungry cloud. The cruciform spread of its ink-black feathers cut a hole in the vault of the sky. The copper flash of its hooked beak like the prow of a merchant ship dazzled my eyes. Shaba ran ahead of me, the ragged edge of her anchorite's robe dragged the ground and cast small dust devils in her wake.
I cursed myself as a fool for following. What was it to me if Shaba met her end in the gullet of a roc? Surely we could still collect whatever artifacts the satrap wished us to acquire without her help. I didn't relish the thought of the trip back across the desert at Najh's mercy, as I suspected he was as tired of my company as I was of his, but that alone was no reason to risk my life.
No, in truth, it was the starshine in Shaba's eyes that drew me. Few of us are touched thus by fate, or destiny, or whatever the dour hermit chose to name it. To lose her to such ignominious circumstances would be a tragedy.
Shaba, focused on saving the soldier, ran headlong into the roc's path. I'd thus far avoided calling upon my star-granted gifts within Najh's sight, lest he think me capable of completing this expedition by sorcery alone. Yet I wouldn't stand by as the hermit tried to martyr herself.
The heavenly motions of the stars are ever smooth, without the slightest hitch or friction. It was this aspect of the sky that I took into myself and then cast out, into the sands in front of Shaba, making them as slick as oiled glass. Her feet slid out from under her, and she fell hard to the ground just as the great black roc dived.
The camel and its hapless rider were beyond my help, and the bird snatched them into the air with an exultant screech that nearly made my ears bleed. Enormous feathers fluttered over the desert, each worth a sizable amount of coin to the right buyer. I calculated the risk of collecting at least a few, but the roc, unbalanced with its struggling load, still wheeled overhead.
I crawled to Shaba and touched the hermit upon the heel.
"We must crawl back to the defile. Slowly, before it notices us."
"I could've saved that man, halfling."
I shrugged, indicating with two fingers crooked into a beak-shape what her likely fate would have been.
"I suspected you had a gift with sorcery," she said, her eyes still fixed on the circling roc.
"Don't tell Najh. He'll expect miracles."
What might have been the ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Shaba's mouth.
"We need you in Azzah's Tower, sister. I'm not going in there with just the satrap's men."
"Aren't you the satrap's man?" she sneered.
"Only as much as it pleases me to be."
"You're a curious one, Kazzar. I haven't decided to what purpose Sarenrae has fated us to meet."
"Perhaps to many purposes, Sister Shaba. My fate is guided by more than one star."
The roc, still clutching its prize, turned toward the tower. It alighted there, tearing into its meal and shrieking out across the valley. The dying sun silhouetted a gobbet of meat as it vanished down the roc's feathered gullet. Deep in my belly, there came a fluttering of tiny wings.
"The roc has picked a most inopportune place to nest."
Shaba nodded, her smile growing.
"But sorcerer," she said quietly, "did you remark upon its eyes as it circled past us? Milky as quartz. Its beak is cracked with age, and its feathers droop most raggedly."
The news warmed my spirit like a gallon of Taldane brandy.
"If it's blind, then we might be able to approach the tower after all," I said. "As long as we're quiet, of course."
"And the wind is in our favor. It is fateful."
The fervor in her stony blue eyes again befitted not so much an anchorite, but a martyr.
We crawled back to the defile, where Najh received us with callous relief that we had survived.
"Hulf was a good soldier," he said, his sincerity vaporous enough to see through.
"Sister Shaba did all she could to prevent his death, Captain," I replied. The man had plenty of reason to dislike me, but the look he cast at Shaba's back as she walked away tingled my spine with the breaths of a thousand sand-spiders.
"Leave the camels here," Shaba commanded, tying the reins of her camel to a horn of rock. "We can proceed to the tower on foot."
"With the roc up there?" Najh asked, clearly chafing under orders that weren't his own.
"It's blind, or nearly so. If we proceed slowly and quietly, we've got hope of gaining entry to the eastern vestibule undetected."
Najh crooked his jaw, weighing Shaba's plan, his eyes lit with calculation cold enough to bring snow to the desert. Then he nodded. As he turned to lead his remaining men down the defile after the priest, I saw that his fight to control his mount had left his tunic askew, revealing a patch of flesh at the base of his neck. There on his bare skin was a symbol scribed of darkest hues: a drooping rose bisected with a needle.
I had learned something of my family's trade before the stars called me away. Camel trading. Caravanserai supply. The selling of secrets. At Uncle Ilnario's knee I had learned of the true centers of power in Katheer, and that not all of them resided in the satrap's palace. The Pierced Rose was a sign of one of the most notorious mercenary gangs in all of Qadira. Indelicate thugs, those wearing the Pierced Rose relied mostly on their reputation for violence to solve problems. To find that Najh was one of their number was no small omen of trouble.
And I placed great significance in such signs.
Coming Next Week: Venture into the roc's tower in Chapter Two of "The Fate of Falling Stars"!
Andrew Penn Romine's short stories have appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, Crossed Genres, Broken Time Blues, Rigor Amortis, and the forthcoming Fungi from Innsmouth Free Press. In addition, he's contributed nonfiction articles and blogs to Lightspeed Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, Inkpunks, and Functional Nerds (as the Booze Nerd). For more information, visit his website andrewpennromine.com or follow him on Twitter at @inkgorilla.
As more and more sunlight reached the canyon floor, Dron made a steadily increasing effort to keep to the shade. Sometimes, even though raising his maimed hand made his face twist with pain, he used it to shield his eyes.
In Red Rune Canyon
by Richard Lee Byers
Chapter Four: The Master's Table
As more and more sunlight reached the canyon floor, Dron made a steadily increasing effort to keep to the shade. Sometimes, even though raising his maimed hand made his face twist with pain, he used it to shield his eyes.
"I take it," Kagur said, "that ghouls generally hole up during the day."
Dron grunted.
"Does that mean all your fellows will be resting in the same cave where the demon is holding Eovath?"
The ghoul hesitated, as though pondering whether he dared lie or might gain any benefit from doing so. At length, he said, "No. Slaves not rest where Master rests. Might touch Master's things. Might eat Master's prisoner."
If that was true—and to Kagur's ears, it sounded true—it might be a bit of good fortune. Maybe she could at least make her way to Eovath without fighting any more living corpses.
That was assuming the demon wasn't leading its minions against her at this very moment, but she doubted such was the case. The fiend had taken Eovath first because it deemed a frost giant the greater prize. At the moment, it probably wanted to concentrate on turning him undead, not hunting down the human who remained at liberty. It would assume tonight was time enough for that.
Scowling, Kagur vowed to prove that this time, it was the demon that was underestimating its foe.
As the morning wore on, she and Dron began to encounter the unnatural features that figured in campfire tales of Red Rune Canyon. Patches of the walls had turned the hue of blood or obsidian black. In some places, the discolorations had cracked open, and bubbling crimson sludge oozed forth like pus from infected wounds, stinking of sulfur.
At another spot, the creek took on a rusty hue, and the vague suggestion of anguished faces formed and dissolved in the flow. Glimpsing them made Kagur's skin crawl, yet she felt an urge to go on peering, a sense that if she could only make them out clearly, she'd learn something she urgently needed to know.
But she also realized that fascination was irrational and the result of some malign influence. She jerked her head up and spotted a pallid something moving partway up the left wall.
A ghoul perched on a ledge with an outcropping above it for shade, an upward jut of stone at the edge of the drop providing cover like a parapet. Kagur could only see the top of it, and wouldn't have been able to discern anything at all if it hadn't straightened up to blow the curling ram's horn bugle it was raising to its lips.
She snatched an arrow from her quiver, drew, and loosed all in an instant. There was no time to aim properly. Luck was with her, though, and the shaft still punched into the ghoul's head. The creature lost its grip on the ram's horn and flopped back out of sight. The trumpet fell banging and bouncing down the wall.
Kagur waited a moment to see if the ghoul would reappear. When it didn't, she pivoted and aimed a second arrow at Dron's face. Her guide flinched.
"You said," Kagur gritted, "ghouls hide in their lairs when the sun is up. You didn't say there would still be lookouts posted along the way."
"Not know! New! Watching for you!"
Kagur took a breath and let it out slowly. "Maybe. Anyway, you and I are going to keep an eye out for any more of them. You want to spot them before they spot us. Because—"
"If they give signal, you kill me!" Dron snarled. "Understand!"
As it turned out, they didn't come across another sentry. Maybe the one watcher had been a casual afterthought. Perhaps the demon assumed the tangled layout of the gorges would be enough to keep Kagur wandering lost and confused until nightfall. As it might have, had she not pressed a guide into service.
The sun had passed its zenith when said guide halted and waved his maimed hand at the spot ahead where the gorge they were following forked into two. "Go right. See cave."
"We'll see it together."
"Master say, 'Kill,' I kill. He say, I do—no matter what."
Kagur frowned. She was reluctant to dispense with Dron's assistance. But she also saw the sense in not taking him any farther if the demon could compel him to attack her even against his will. Maimed he might be, but he still had fangs and claws.
And if it was time to do without him, should she kill him? A ghoul was unnatural and the enemy of all that truly lived. Every such creature deserved destruction simply for being what it was, and even had it been otherwise, now that Dron was crippled, it might actually be merciful to grant him a fast and painless death.
But she couldn't. Blacklions dealt honorably, even with the undead. "Go, then." If it turned out he'd led her falsely, it would be easy enough to run him down.
She waited while Dron hobbled a little way back down the defile. Then she took a long breath and laid another arrow on her bow. She crept forward and peered around a slimy black- and red-striped outcropping into the right branch of the fork.
As Dron had promised, a cave mouth opened onto the stones and sand of the canyon floor and the creek flowing down the center. Unfortunately, another ghoul lookout, the female with the dangling amber necklace, squatted just inside the entrance. Squinting, the creature had a hood pulled up to shield its head from the sun, but appeared morose and uncomfortable anyway.
The demon must use the table to help it transform prisoners.
Kagur stepped out into the open, drew her arrow to her ear, and let it fly. At the same time, the ghoul spotted her and opened its fanged mouth to shout.
The hurtling arrow plunged into the ghoul's chest. Its cry silenced before it began, the living corpse flopped backward and lay motionless.
Kagur peered about to see if the creature's demise had gone undetected. Seemingly so. She prowled onward to the opening. There she exchanged her bow for her longsword, then skulked into the cave.
It wasn't entirely dark inside. Not at first, anyway. The daylight coming in the entryway shined for a dozen strides before the passage doglegged, and not far beyond that point, greenish luminescence flickered from an opening in the left wall.
Stalking onward, Kagur found the opening led to a side chamber that evidently contained the demon's treasures—or at least a sparse but exotic collection of possessions. A golden quill scratched letters in red on a parchment that somehow unwound more and more of itself without ever reaching an end or making a great pile of used paper. In a sluggishly moving painting, a bloody man and woman locked in a carnal embrace gnawed off and devoured pieces of one another's flesh. The green light danced from an egg-sized gem wreathed in emerald flame and reflected from an oval looking glass floating in midair.
But there was no sign of Eovath. Kagur would have to venture deeper into the cave to find him.
She took a breath, steeling herself to do so. Then a notion came to her, and she turned back to contemplate the mirror anew.
Like any proper Kellid, she distrusted sorcery even when human beings rather than demons were the casters. And a looking glass that hovered in the air was about as plainly enchanted as any article could be. There was no telling what touching it might do. Yet if the demon tried to use its horrible, debilitating gaze on her again, it might just come in handy.
Gingerly, she took hold of the mirror's golden frame and tugged. It moved it easily. When she tucked it under her arm, it made no effort to drift upward or pull away, acting no different from an ordinary object. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Then Eovath's deep voice bellowed, and metal rattled and clashed.
Kagur nearly succumbed to the urge to race in the direction of the sound. But stealth and caution might still serve her brother better, and so she managed to hold herself to a fast stride rather than a sprint.
The light failed as she stalked deeper, until she was groping her way through utter darkness. But fortunately, that was only for a few steps. Then she rounded a bend, and a trace of new light tinged the murk up ahead.
At its end, the passage widened out into another chamber. As she crept up to peek inside, metal clattered once again.
The light in the chamber shined from a scattering of glowing stones and glinted on an upright gray metal slab and the coils of chain that bound Eovath against it. Projections clasping the sides of his head kept him looking straight forward, and little hooks at the ends of thin, bent arms held his golden eyes wide open. At the top of the apparatus, a leering molded face sneered out above the giant's own.
Eovath writhed and struggled against his bonds, producing more rattling and clashing, and the chains shifted and tightened like living things to hold him in place. The metal face clenched its jaw with effort.
The bat demon watched until even Eovath, for all his enormous strength and endurance, had to leave off straining and catch his breath. Then, its clawed feet clicking on the floor, it advanced on him, probably to try again to change him.
Kagur stepped out into the open. "Stop!" she snapped.
The demon hissed and lurched around. Kagur looked straight into its crimson eyes, as though she'd learned nothing from their previous encounter, and felt the power the Abyssal creature had raised to corrupt Eovath stab at her instead. With a surge of triumph, she jerked the looking glass up in front of her face.
Nothing happened.
She was still struggling to make sense of that fact when clawed hands grabbed the mirror frame and ripped it from her grasp. Manifestly unharmed by what she'd imagined to be a masterful ploy, the demon spun the mirror behind it and released it to float.
"That's mine!" the creature snarled, and lashed out at her with its claws.
Kagur dodged aside and whipped out her longsword. When the demon snatched for her again, she cut at its scaly forearm.
She connected solidly, and her blade should have sliced deep and left the limb dangling maimed and useless. But as she pulled the weapon back, she saw it had only nicked the demon. The fiend laughed at her consternation.
Maybe her father had been mistaken. Maybe there were some things that could hurt her and which she couldn't hurt back—at least, not enough to matter.
No! There had to be a way, and she was going to find it.
But it was difficult even to think in the midst of this combat. The demon was strong and tricky, and pressed her relentlessly. In addition to contending with its claw slashes, she had to remember to avoid its gaze, and to stay alert for the slithering, thickening sensation that meant it was trying to seize hold of her with magic.
Even so, she managed to wound it two more times. But those gashes were nearly as shallow as the first, and they stopped bleeding in a matter of moments.
She retreated, and her back foot fetched up against a wall. The demon lunged, claws raking downward, and she wrenched herself out of the way—but not quite far enough. A sting of pain and a spreading wetness told her that the fiend's talons had cut her across the shoulder blade.
She didn't think the slashes were deep, but couldn't stop fighting to check. She could only come back on guard in the increasingly forlorn hope of finally cutting deep enough for it to do some good.
Or perhaps not. She belatedly realized that not all the noise in the cavern came from her battle with the demon. Still chained to the table, Eovath was throwing himself against his bonds again and again in an effort to break free.
A glance was enough to tell her that his efforts were still unavailing. But maybe she could change that.
She faked a sidestep to the demon's right, then charged forward on its left, the trick carrying her past the fiend's talons. It still slapped her with a beat of its wing, but not hard enough to knock her off her feet. She raised her sword high, leaped into the air, and cut at the face at the top of the restraining rack with all her strength.
The metal visage split, and the glinting gray mouth screamed. The lengths of chain whipped and flailed.
At Kagur's back, the demon gave a screeching hiss, and she spun around to face it once again.
It attacked as savagely as before, nearly rending her twice in as many seconds. Then a huge battleaxe whirled at its flank. As she'd hoped, hurting the chain-thing had enabled Eovath to free himself and recover his weapon, and now he was joining the fight.
The demon dodged, and a blow meant to smash into its torso merely tore a wing instead. Worse, Kagur judged that despite her brother's might, the resulting rip was smaller than it should have been—like the gashes cut by her sword, they somehow weren't enough to truly hurt the demon, and would probably heal in a matter of moments. It might be that even she and Eovath fighting together couldn't dispatch the demon in their usual fashion.
But maybe there was a different way to kill it.
Kagur waited for a moment when Eovath attacked hard and obliged the demon to focus on him. Then she darted to the floating mirror and shattered it with her sword. The bat creature pivoted toward the crash and screeched at the destruction.
"Run to the other chamber!" Kagur shouted. "Break everything!"
Without hesitation, Eovath whirled and dashed out into the tunnel.
Kagur's immediate objective was simply to get everybody moving toward the mouth of the cave, and she expected the demon to chase Eovath in the normal way. Instead, the creature paused for an instant—then vanished.
She had a bad feeling about that. As she sprinted after Eovath, she called out, "Don't break things! Just get out!"
When she passed the entrance to the green-lit treasure room, the demon was inside. It had somehow blinked from its former location to its current one, and now it goggled at her, surprised that she and the giant were racing right on by without even trying to make good on her threat.
Eovath lunged out into the sunlight, and Kagur scrambled out after him. Then, bursting into view as suddenly as it had disappeared previously, the demon was before them, crouched and ready.
Kagur darted around Eovath and cut the demon across the ribs. The giant bellowed and buried his axe in the creature's torso, and the bat thing stumbled backward. Judging by appearances, it had finally suffered real pain and shock from a wound.
"Into the creek!" Kagur gasped.
Charging, using the axe still embedded in its body like a handle, the giant bulled the demon backward. The creature snatched and scrabbled but failed either to deter its foe or detach itself from the weapon before Eovath shoved it down into the water.
"Hold its head under!" Kagur said.
Eovath dropped on top of the demon and wrapped his massive arms around it, forcing its face below the surface. Kagur ran up beside the other two combatants and, despite the risk of accidentally hitting her brother, stabbed the bat creature repeatedly.
She no longer had any expectation that the resulting wounds would kill it. But the punishment might keep it too distracted to use any of its foul magic. And in a simple wrestling match, nothing could beat a frost giant.
One and two at a time, ghouls started peering from their hiding places, from burrows like shallow graves in the sandy ground and shadowy depressions in the canyon walls. They might hate the daylight, but the commotion had roused them even so. Kagur wracked her brain for a strategy that would allow her and Eovath to contend with them and their master at the same time.
But then Eovath wheezed, "I think we got it."
He straightened up, gripped the demon by the neck, and hoisted it high, displaying it to the ghouls. The fiend dangled limply as a rag doll, and its many wounds weren't puckering shut anymore.
"You see?" Eovath croaked to the ghouls. "The demon's dead!"
The ghouls exchanged glances. Then they started retreating back into their holes and dark recesses. Maybe they feared to fight folk formidable enough to kill their maker. Kagur supposed it was even possible they were grateful for their liberation.
In any case, their withdrawal allowed her to take a closer look at Eovath, and she caught her breath to see how many times the demon had clawed him as it struggled to break free. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"I will be." Eovath dumped the demon corpse beside the water. "Thanks to my cunning sister."
"Who shouldn't have insisted on coming here in the first place. I'm sorry. I'll heed my elders and be cautious from here on."
He grinned. "Truly?"
She felt a smile tugging at her own lips. "Well, maybe."
Coming Next Week: Andrew Penn Romine takes us to the deserts of Qadira in "The Fate of Falling Stars"!
Enjoying this story? Check out the further adventures of Kagur and Eovath in Called to Darkness, available now!
Richard Lee Byers is the author of more than thirty novels, including the Pathfinder Tales novel Called to Darkness (also starring Kagur and Eovath) and the first book in R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen series. In addition, he's also the co-creator of the critically acclaimed young adult series The Nightmare Club, and the author of a new urban fantasy series beginning with the novel Blind God's Bluff. He's written one previous Pathfinder Tales web fiction story, "Lord of Penance".
But by the ever-thirsty blade of the Lord in Iron, Kagur refused to be helpless. With a rasping snarl of her own, she pushed chill and weakness—well, the greater part of them, anyway—out of her body by sheer dint of will.
In Red Rune Canyon
by Richard Lee Byers
Chapter Three: Divide and Conquer
Kagur's legs turned soft as dough. She collapsed to her knees, banging one on a stone. Eovath dropped beside her, and the ghouls raised a hissing snarl to see the foes who'd humbled them brought low.
But by the ever-thirsty blade of the Lord in Iron, Kagur refused to be helpless. With a rasping snarl of her own, she pushed chill and weakness—well, the greater part of them, anyway—out of her body by sheer dint of will.
Which was good as far as it went, but instinct told her the improvement would be fleeting if she kept looking at the demon's batlike face. Somehow, it was the fiend's gaze that had debilitated her, and with that still linking them, she sensed the creature focusing its mind for a second assault.
With a fierce twist of her neck, she broke eye contact. She scrambled back to her feet even as Eovath did the same. The demon hadn't succeeded in slaying or crippling him, either. Poised to launch themselves forward, the ghouls balked at their prey's sudden recovery.
Kagur laughed. Her brother spat.
With a scream, the demon clenched its fist with such vehemence that the long claws surely stabbed into its flesh.
Kagur felt as if the air was thickening and sliding around her. She tried to spring clear of what must be some sort of supernatural attack, but she was too slow. Her limbs froze, locked in place as if her whole body were encased in ice. She couldn't even make herself bellow in rage as the demon, wings lashing the air, swept down from its perch toward them. Eovath swung his axe, but the demon jinked nimbly out of range, then curved back to sink its filthy talons into the meat of Kagur's shoulders.
Again, Kagur tried to shout something—anything—but still her jaws betrayed her, leaving her to silently suffer the pain of the intruding claws as they lifted her off the ground and up into the night sky. Below her, Eovath roared curses, and in her mind Kagur matched them.
Yet now she had bigger problems. As the ground retreated beneath her, she felt a sudden surge of mingled rage and fear. Once the creature had lifted her high enough, it need only drop her to kill her. And in her current paralyzed condition, she wouldn't even be able to resist, just fall as placidly as a dropped stone until the impact splattered her across the rocks of the canyon floor.
Yet as the demon sailed over the ridge of the canyon's wall and down into a defile on the other side, she felt a brief flare of hope. If it was descending, then perhaps it meant to set her down safely—no doubt to better enjoy the pleasure of killing her slowly.
Inwardly, Kagur smiled. All she asked was that the demon's plans force it to release its spell over her before killing her. Then she'd show it what a warrior of the Blacklions was made of.
Yet though the demon did deposit her on the ground, in a section of twisting gorge little different than the one from which it had extracted her, it didn't land as well. Instead, it released her from her magical bonds as soon as her feet touched the soil, then flapped back up out of reach.
Quick as a hunting cat, Kagur drew her sword and threw, sending it lancing up into the sky after the creature. Yet the fiend only laughed a grating laugh and rose higher, wings snapping, and the sword passed harmlessly beneath its trailing claws. Within moments, the beast had disappeared back over the canyon wall.
Kagur had no idea why the creature hadn't killed her, but she assumed it had removed her from the battlefield so Eovath would have to fight alone. She ran, retrieved her sword, and then peered about, seeking an opening that would allow her to pass through the wall at ground level.
There wasn't any. There was no way back except to climb.
So this is the ghouls' master.
She did so, without hesitation, finding handholds and ledges to aid her ascent. But despite her resolve, she was no experienced mountaineer, and the darkness further slowed her progress. It immediately became obvious she'd never reach her brother in time to help him.
Still, panting, fingers aching, denying herself all but the briefest of rests, she struggled upward. Dawn found her atop the wall.
She peered down the other side and made out a scattering of ghoul bodies. But Eovath was nowhere to be seen—not from the ridge, and not when she completed a laborious descent.
Her jaw clenched as fury welled up inside her—an admittedly familiar sensation. But it was different, too, because this time she was angry with herself.
Borog had warned her and Eovath not to enter Red Rune Canyon, but she'd been certain she knew better. And here was the result of that brash overconfidence: her brother was lost. It made her want to scream, or pummel her own body.
She took a long, deep breath instead. Now was not the time for self-recrimination. She had to rescue Eovath before the demon had a chance to do whatever it intended to do to him.
She stooped beside the creek, scooped frigid water in her cupped hands, and slurped away the raw, parched feeling in her throat. Then she strode to retrieve her bow and quiver. Her path took her near one of the fallen ghouls, and the emaciated, gray-white thing startled her by hissing.
She drew her sword to kill it, then reconsidered. Last night, a ghoul had spoken. Maybe she could persuade this one to speak to her now.
As she approached it, she saw it was the same ghoul whose fingers she'd sliced off and whose leg she'd crippled. Then she caught her breath as she noticed the blue and green beadwork adorning its deerskin tunic and the two copper rings in the lobe of its pointed ear.
The undead thing was Dron—or what was left of him. Fighting him in the dark, Kagur hadn't realized, but it was so.
Which meant there'd never been any hope of saving him. The realization brought another pang of self-disgust.
Pushing it out of her mind, she pointed her sword at the creature on the ground. "Do you know me?"
Squinting against the morning light even though little of it had as yet reached the floor of the canyon, Dron bared his fangs.
"Talk," Kagur persisted. "I know you can. Or I'll hurt you."
"Know you," the ghoul rasped. "Cut fingers. Cut knee."
"Yes. But do you remember me from before that? From before you... changed?"
The ghoul hesitated. "Kagur."
"That's right, and you're Dron. We hunted together. Tell me what happened to you."
Dron hesitated. "Can't. Master not like."
The living Dron had been loquacious and clever. Repelled by the undead version's ugly form and noxious reek, Kagur nonetheless felt a twinge of pity at his broken speech. His transformation had seemingly damaged his mind as well as warping his body.
But compassion wouldn't get her what she needed, so she set it aside and jabbed at the raw, spongy stumps of Dron's severed fingers with the point of her longsword. The ghoul hissed, snatched the maimed hand back, and covered it with his good one.
"'Master' isn't here," Kagur said. "The demon abandoned you because you were crippled and of no further use to it. I am here, and I swear by Gorum I'll keep cutting pieces off you until you answer my questions."
Dron hesitated. Then: "Killers come. Demon eyes kill some hunters. Make me... this. Other ghouls kill the rest. For meat." The undead creature lowered his eyes. "Not want eat. But did."
Kagur frowned. "So... every time there's an attack, the demon turns one victim into a ghoul. That's why there's always a body missing. But what's the point? What does the demon want with ghouls?"
Dron shook his head, apparently to indicate he didn't actually know. But he did have an opinion: "Little demon. Wants be big demon."
In other words, to be a leader like Kagur's father, or one of the Mammoth Lords who presided over the followings. To command a following, or even a single tribe, one needed followers.
East of the tundra was the Worldwound, a land teeming with demons. People said it was the wrongness of that place seeping through the earth that tainted Red Rune Canyon. Maybe "Master" hailed from the Worldwound and meant to return one day at the head of a war band of undead warriors.
Kagur caught her breath as a ghastly possibility occurred to her. "What about Eovath, then? Is he gone because the demon changed him into a ghoul? You were here watching. Tell me!"
Dron shook his head. "Giant strong. Not change yet." He smirked as though enjoying Kagur's distress. "But Master make him weak. Ghouls drag him off. Master will change him."
Him and me, Kagur realized. That was why the demon hadn't just dropped her from on high. Eovath and she had both impressed it with their prowess, and it meant to add them both to the ranks of its followers to replace the undead they'd destroyed.
She swallowed. "No. That won't happen because I won't let it. Now, you ghouls ambushed Eovath and me without Master's permission. Why was that?"
"Told you. Hungry. Too many ghouls, not enough meat."
"Hm." She took stock and decided she was nearly out of questions. "Where is Master holding Eovath prisoner?"
"Cave. Probably."
"You're going to take me there." It ought to be quicker and surer than trying to track the other ghouls, especially since, by all accounts, the blighted land called Red Rune Canyon was actually a confusing tangle of several interconnecting gorges.
Dron flinched. "No! Tell you the way!"
"And then what could I do about it if it turned out you told me wrong? I need you with me so I can kill you if you try to betray me."
"Can't walk!"
"I can fix that."
Kagur trotted back around the bend, slung her bow and quiver over her shoulders, but left her pack where it sat lest it slow her down. She then planted her foot atop the head of one of Eovath's javelins and pulled up on the shaft until the steel point snapped away from it.
When she returned to Dron, she tossed him the length of seasoned ash. "Your crutch," she said.
Fangs bared, the ghoul struggled up with the aid of the prop. "Can't do this!"
"You can," Kagur said, "or I'll finish you off here and now."
Hobbling, the ghoul turned and led her toward the deeper recesses of the canyon. Alternately watching him for signs of treachery and scanning her surroundings from other dangers, Kagur unbuckled her belt pouch by touch, fished out the last few half-squashed bearberries, and popped them into her mouth.
Coming Next Week: A daring rescue attempt in the final chapter of Richard Lee Byers' "In Red Rune Canyon"!
Enjoying this story? Check out the further adventures of Kagur and Eovath in Called to Darkness, available now!
Richard Lee Byers is the author of more than thirty novels, including the Pathfinder Tales novel Called to Darkness (also starring Kagur and Eovath) and the first book in R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen series. In addition, he's also the co-creator of the critically acclaimed young adult series The Nightmare Club, and the author of a new urban fantasy series beginning with the novel Blind God's Bluff. He's written one previous Pathfinder Tales web fiction story, "Lord of Penance".
Tossing aside her blanket, Kagur sat up and looked where Eovath was gazing, but though she had keen eyes, he generally fared better in the dark. "I don't see anything."
In Red Rune Canyon
by Richard Lee Byers
Chapter Two: Among the Dead
Tossing aside her blanket, Kagur sat up and looked where Eovath was gazing, but though she had keen eyes, he generally fared better in the dark. "I don't see anything."
Eovath stood up. "Neither do I, now. It was just a shadow, and it's shuffled back around the next bend. But whatever it was, it had two arms and two legs and was bent over like it was hurt. Dron, maybe, if he escaped."
"Or the bait in a trap." Kagur smiled. "There's one way to find out."
Her longbow was of little use when she couldn't see targets at a distance. She left it unstrung and leaning against the canyon wall and drew her longsword instead. The straight steel blade made a faint hissing sound as it cleared the pewter mouth of the scabbard.
Meanwhile, Eovath likewise forsook his pair of javelins in favor of his battleaxe. Jorn Blacklion had pulled the enormous double-bitted implement from the grip of a giant he'd slain in battle, and it fit the hands of his adopted son better than any little human weapon could.
"Ready?" Kagur whispered.
"Yes," Eovath replied, and they advanced.
The night was as silent as it was dark. Kagur's pulse beat in her neck.
She told herself she wasn't nervous. She was a Blacklion warrior, well schooled in the use of the sword and tested in fights with orcs, wolves, and saber-toothed cats. Still, a ghost... or a demon...
She sneered her anxiety away. Her father had taught her that if something could hurt her, she could hurt it back. That only made sense, and it meant a warrior need never be afraid.
When she and Eovath stalked around the turn, it was only to behold another stretch of gorge that, as best she could judge with only starlight to see by, was as empty as the one behind her. But as she peered about, she caught a whiff of decay hanging in the chill night air.
"Smell that?" she whispered.
"Yes," Eovath replied. "You were right. This is a trap."
"Dron could still be here." Kagur raised her voice: "Dron! It's Eovath and Kagur! We came to help you!" The shout echoed away, the sound bouncing off the canyon walls.
In response, a dark form staggered away from the wall of the gorge. As Eovath had said, it was shaped like a person, hunched over, and had its back to the Blacklions. When Kagur squinted, she could just make out variations in the texture of it that might indicate the layered fur and leather garments of a Kellid hunter. She shifted her grip on the hilt of her sword, and she and Eovath headed for the shadow.
A second black shape plummeted down onto the giant's back.
The dead were not meant to walk.
Clinging to the giant like a child riding his father's shoulders, his assailant ripped at him, maybe with a dagger, maybe with something else. In the darkness, Kagur couldn't tell.
She sprang forward to cut at the attacker, but Eovath reeled around and inadvertently shielded the thing clinging to his back with his own towering body. He dropped his axe to clank on stones on the canyon floor, reached back over his shoulder, and yanked his foe from his perch, smashing it down onto the ground with a bellow.
Kagur's belly tightened in loathing, not because the creature was hideous—although it was—but because she suspected it had once been human. It still had the general form of a man and wore a man's garments. But it was so withered and shriveled that by rights, it should have had no strength at all, and its nails and teeth alike had grown long and jagged-sharp. The dark, slanted eyes in its pale face were featureless, without differentiated whites, irises, or pupils, and its ears were pointed. The carrion stench Kagur had smelled at the site of the massacre and at intervals along the trail emanated from its body.
To her surprise, the creature wrenched itself free of Eovath's grip and started to roll to its feet. She lashed out, cutting through the side of its neck until steel grated against spine. It flopped back down onto the ground, thrashed, and then lay still.
Eovath was swaying, and blood from his claw wounds stained his tunic. "How badly are you hurt?" Kagur asked him.
Nearly pitching forward in the process, he stooped and fumbled for his battleaxe. "Behind you!" he croaked.
She whirled. More shadows were rearing up from the creek. She hadn't realized it was deep enough to hide something the size of a man, but it evidently was.
The things rushed her. So did their comrade farther up the gorge, the lure that she and Eovath had hoped was Dron.
Hoping to surprise them, she charged the gaunt, pale things splashing out of the water. One surprised her instead by throwing a dagger, but she saw the gleam of metal just in time to twitch aside. The blade spun past her.
A creature sprang at her with outstretched claws, and she cut at its head and sliced half its face away. It fell, but as she pivoted to meet the next one, it started to stand back up.
No living man or beast could have shaken off the effects of a wound like that. She realized that if she and Eovath hadn't found ghosts, they'd at least come close. For the foes rushing at her were almost certainly some manner of undead, perhaps the skulking, corpse-eating brutes called ghouls.
She cut into the next one's chest, and it snarled and lunged, driving her sword deeper into itself in its frenzy to reach her. She tried to jump back and yank the blade free, but the ghoul was quick and prevented her from opening up the distance. Its clawed fingers grabbed her leather-clad forearm, and it leaned forward and opened its fanged jaws wide.
Using her off hand, she snatched a dirk from her belt and drove it into the middle of the living dead man's forehead. The creature collapsed with her longsword still embedded in its torso.
She yanked the sword free and cut in a single motion, barely in time to hold back another onrushing ghoul, this one discernibly female by virtue of its bouncing, withered breasts and swinging amber necklace. Without pausing, Kagur turned and slashed again at the one with half a face, which had by now regained its feet. It recoiled, and the attack fell short.
Kagur had always imagined the walking dead to be slow and clumsy, but the ghouls were nimble and inhumanly resilient. As she struck repeatedly, whirling and dodging all the while in an effort to keep her foes from surrounding and swarming over her as a group, she came to the uncomfortable realization that they might well overwhelm her.
Particularly if she had to go on fighting alone. Somehow, despite the incessant pressure exerted by the ghouls and the need to respond to the threat after threat, she managed to cast about and spot Eovath in the darkness.
His head bowed, the giant was down on one knee. Plainly not dead, thank Gorum! But why wasn't he fighting? Had the first ghoul wounded him that severely?
Suddenly, Kagur glimpsed a shadow, a ghoul apparently seeking easier prey than she was proving to be, darting in on the giant's flank. She couldn't have reached it in time even if she hadn't had her own foes blocking the way. She could only gasp in a breath and shout, "Look out!"
The frost giant lifted his head, cast about, and swatted the ghoul away with the back of his hand. As it fell and rolled back to its feet, he groped to reclaim his axe.
At the same moment, a charging ghoul forced Kagur to refocus on her own situation. She slashed the clawed white fingers from her assailant's hand and crippled one leg with a cut to the knee. When it fell headlong, she scrambled right over the top of it and cut at the undead brute behind it. The stroke ripped open the ghoul's neck, but that only made it bare its fangs and gather itself to spring.
Eovath fared better. Looming up behind the ghoul, he chopped down at the top of its skull and split the creature all the way down to the breastbone.
Freeing the battleaxe and dumping the ghoul's remains to the ground with a flick of his wrists, he panted, "Don't let them scratch you! It steals your strength!"
"I wasn't... planning on it." Kagur feinted high and cut low, but her target sprang aside from the true attack. "Let's fight back to back!"
Once they did, things seemed less frantic. Kagur had instants when she could consider tactics, not simply react, and her sword struck home more often. She had little doubt that behind her, Eovath's axe was chopping and smashing to similar murderous effect.
"Blacklion!" she shouted. "Blacklion!" Then her brother took up the battle cry as well, their twin roars reverberating off the canyon walls.
After several more exchanges, and another ghoul sprawled maimed and motionless in the sand and stones on the canyon floor, it became clear the undead were attacking less relentlessly than before. It seemed likely they would soon retreat, and, grinning, Kagur resolved to give chase when they did. She wanted to slaughter all the filthy things.
Then, however, two whistled notes, the first short and the second sustained, shrilled down from the sky. Whereupon the ghouls did fall back, but plainly not of their own choosing.
A signal! Judging that locating the ghouls' hitherto unsuspected leader was more important than cutting the creatures down from behind, Kagur held her position. Struggling to control her breathing, sweat stinging in her eyes, she peered upward.
Leathery wings flapped, and a shape swooped down from on high. For a moment, Kagur couldn't make out anything to distinguish it from a gigantic bat. Once it lit on an outcropping partway up one of the walls, however, it was easier to distinguish other features. Though tufted with bristles, its body was mostly hairless and scaly like a snake's, and it had arms as well as wings. Its legs were as long as a man's but bent backward like a goat's and ended in feet with three splayed toes.
"Well," Kagur panted, "you wanted to see a demon." She had little doubt they were seeing one now. The thing certainly looked demonic.
"I didn't ask for a flying one." Moving slowly, Eovath stooped and picked up a stone. Giants were notorious for their ability to throw rocks, and unless the demon descended to the canyon floor, they would have no other way of striking at it.
Although maybe they wouldn't need to, for the fiend appeared to be paying them little heed. Instead, it raked its gaze over its followers, the ones still whole—or mostly so—that had gathered beneath its perch, as well as the crippled ones struggling to crawl in the same direction, and the inert forms Kagur and Eovath had dispatched outright.
When it had glared its fill, it bared its needle fangs and hissed. "Disobedient!"
Most of the ghouls cringed, but one glowered back. "Hungry!" it growled. "Starving!"
The demon sprang from its perch. The defiant ghoul tried to dodge out from underneath, but it was far too slow. The fiend slammed down on top of it, smashed it to the ground, and, stooping, beheaded it with two sweeps of the dagger-long talons on the fingertips of its oversized hands.
Kagur watched to see if the other ghouls would protest the fate of their fellow. But even if they felt any such impulse, their master had them too thoroughly cowed.
The fiend then pivoted and glared squarely at Kagur and her foster brother for the first time. Eovath immediately flung the rock. The missile caught the demon just above its batlike snout, but despite the force with which the giant had hurled it, the stone glanced away without doing any apparent harm. Ignoring the attack, the creature locked eyes with Kagur.
Her vision shifted. Though Kagur could see that the demon was still crouching over the headless ghoul, part of her suddenly had the feeling that it was springing at her. Or perhaps she was plummeting toward it, falling sideways in defiance of nature, into eyes that yawned like pits to swallow her. Cold pain shot through her, and her heart stuttered in her chest.
Coming Next Week: Demons and the dead in Chapter Three of Richard Lee Byers' "In Red Rune Canyon"!
Enjoying this story? Check out the further adventures of Kagur and Eovath in Called to Darkness, available now!
Richard Lee Byers is the author of more than thirty novels, including the Pathfinder Tales novel Called to Darkness (also starring Kagur and Eovath) and the first book in R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen series. In addition, he's also the co-creator of the critically acclaimed young adult series The Nightmare Club, and the author of a new urban fantasy series beginning with the novel Blind God's Bluff. He's written one previous Pathfinder Tales web fiction story, "Lord of Penance".
The wind blowing in Kagur's face smelled of rot. She started running, and the soft earth, boggy with the coming of summer, sucked at her feet. Her five companions ran as well.
In Red Rune Canyon
by Richard Lee Byers
Chapter One: A Difference of Opinion
The wind blowing in Kagur's face smelled of rot. She started running, and the soft earth, boggy with the coming of summer, sucked at her feet. Her five companions ran as well.
Eovath soon pulled ahead of everyone else. Like her, the blue-skinned frost giant was still growing, but he was already taller than any human tribe member, with longer legs and a longer stride.
He slowed down, though, when the several bodies on the ground came into view. It was too late to help them, and prudent to advance with caution in case their killers were still lurking about.
They didn't seem to be, though, which left Kagur free to inspect the corpses. The shredded flesh, glazed eyes, and flies that buzzed up into the air at her approach forced her to swallow away the stinging taste of bile.
Her squeamishness made her scowl. Like any Kellid warrior, she'd seen violent death before, and only one of the dead folk here had been a Blacklion like Eovath and herself. But they'd all become friendly since setting forth to hunt from a gathering of half a dozen tribes.
Borog straightened up from his examination of one of the corpses. A member of the Eagleclaw tribe, he was the oldest surviving member of the hunting party, with deep lines etched in his sun-bronzed face, pouches under his dark eyes, and white hairs speckling a close-cropped black beard. "Like the others," he said.
They'd all heard tales of other hunters encountering the same grisly end. They just hadn't let it deter them from roaming the prairie themselves. No true Kellid allowed fear to rule her, and even had it been otherwise, a tribe that didn't hunt wouldn't eat.
"Not all the others," Eovath said. His adolescent voice broke on the second word, but even then it was as deep as most men's.
Borog frowned. "How so?"
"The way I heard it," the frost giant said, "the first band of hunters fell dead without a mark on them. It was the latter ones that were torn apart."
The Eagleclaw warrior snorted. "And what does that tell you? That the first incident was something different than the slaughters that have happened since."
"Maybe not," Kagur said. Turning, she counted the corpses. "Supposedly, every band, including that first one, had one member carried off. And one of our own is missing: Dron."
Those who try to protect Kagur would be better off protecting themselves.
One of the other hunters hurriedly checked Kagur's body count with the aid of a jabbing finger. Another touched the beaten silver good-luck charm hanging around her neck.
"All right," Borog growled, "maybe the same thing did kill the first party. At this point, what does it matter?"
"It doesn't," Kagur said. "What matters is picking up the trail." Studying the ground, she prowled away from the corpses, and after a moment, her companions followed her lead.
She hoped it would be easy to find tracks in the mucky earth, and bent blades among the new grass, and in fact, it was only a short time before Eovath called out: "Here! The sign isn't clear enough to tell what the killers are. But they came from the northeast and headed back that way, too."
"Let's see," Borog said. He stalked to where Eovath was standing, squatted to study the sign, then grunted in a way that suggested he agreed with the giant's reading.
"Let's move out," Kagur said, striding closer to the other two.
"No," Borog replied. "Red Rune Canyon is northeast."
Kagur blinked. That particular fact had momentarily eluded her. And while she'd only heard rumors about strange deaths on the tundra since the start of summer, she'd listened to tales about Red Rune Canyon her whole life. Every Kellid knew the place was cursed.
But in the present circumstances, that didn't matter. "We have to rescue Dron."
"Dron's dead," said Zorek, a lanky Eagleclaw of about Kagur's age. Blood had trickled out of his sleeve to stain the back of his hand. Several days previously, a ground sloth had clawed his forearm, and he picked at the scabby gash when no one was watching to slow the healing and make an impressive scar.
"You don't know that," Kagur said. "If the attackers wanted him dead, they could have killed him on the spot like they did everybody else. You don't know they really came from Red Rune Canyon, either."
"They could just be orc raiders out of the Hold of Belkzen," Eovath rumbled.
Borog shook his head. "Smell the rot in the air. Our friends haven't lain dead long enough to stink like that. That's the smell of the unnatural things that killed them."
Kagur scowled. "Maybe, but it doesn't change anything. Dron still needs rescuing, and our dead need avenging."
Borog took a breath. "Look around. There are fewer of us than there were of those who lost their lives already, and you, Zorek, and the giant are young and green. How do you expect to win where a stronger band of warriors already lost?"
"We can make a plan when we know more."
"Here's the plan," Borog said. "We'll return to our tribes, and the chiefs will decide what to do next. Maybe they'll decide to hunt and fight the killers properly, and you can ask permission to join the war party."
"By then, Dron will likely be dead or tortured."
"But you'll be alive, and Jorn Blacklion won't start a feud with the Eagleclaws because I let his idiot daughter come to harm."
"It's not for you to decide what the 'idiot daughter' will do," Kagur said. "You're not my chief, and I'm going after Dron even if nobody else does."
"No," said Borog, "you aren't."
If his voice changed, his eyes shifted, or his hand gestured to give a signal, Kagur didn't notice in a conscious way. But the rest of the hunters had drifted up behind her to listen to the conversation, and suddenly instinct screamed that they were reaching for her.
She tried to spring forward, but hands grabbed her forearms and held her back. She stamped on a foot and snapped her head backward into someone's teeth and jaw. That loosened the grips restraining her, and she wrenched herself free and spun around.
Spreading out to flank her, her three assailants came after her. Backing away, she reflexively reached for her longsword, and they faltered, as well they might. Young as she was, she was skilled with a blade, and they knew it.
But, her anger notwithstanding, she knew drawing a weapon would be stupid. She didn't want to kill folk from friendly tribes, especially when, as they saw it, they were only trying to stop her from coming to harm.
She hitched her foot, faking another step backward, and when they advanced, she threw herself at them. She punched Zorek in the solar plexus and made the breath whoosh out of him, but then her other two opponents grabbed her. One kicked her left foot out from underneath her, and they dumped her onto the ground.
Kagur thrashed but couldn't break their holds. Panting, Zorek came up behind them with a length of rawhide in his hands.
A big blue hand caught him by the shoulder and flung him aside. Then Eovath bashed the other hunters away from her with two sweeps of his fist.
Grateful as she was for the help, Kagur winced. Eovath was stronger than any human, and he hadn't held back.
Fortunately, her assailants weren't seriously hurt, as they demonstrated by scrambling back to their feet. Unfortunately, they too deemed that the confrontation had escalated from a scuffle to a deadly serious fight, and they snatched for the weapons slung from their belts.
Eovath lunged, caught Zorek before he could ready his axe, and heaved him into the air by his throat and arm. The lanky Eagleclaw's face turned red, and he made gurgling sounds.
Borog hefted a javelin. The upper edge of the leaf-shaped steel point glinted in the morning sunlight. "Let him go."
"You might kill me," Eovath said, his yellow eyes gleaming like the spear point, "but not fast enough to keep me from killing your kinsman. One shake snaps his spine. One squeeze crushes his windpipe."
"No!" cried Kagur, leaping to her feet. "I mean, no to both of you! Borog, what's the sense of killing us to keep us from risking our lives?"
"I never threatened to kill you," Borog replied without taking his eyes off Eovath. "Only the slave."
She put her hand on her sword hilt. "Eovath is my brother, and if you hurt him, you'd better kill me."
Borog's jaw tightened. "Fine. Go. Your father must know what a stubborn fool you are. Maybe he won't blame me."
Eovath sneered and tossed Zorek away.
Once Kagur and the giant were on the trail and sure their erstwhile companions weren't following, she asked, "What were you going to do if they called your bluff?"
The giant smiled a crooked smile. "What makes you think I was bluffing?"
"You wouldn't really kill friends of the Blacklions."
"They didn't seem much like friends when they jumped you."
Still, she doubted their father would have approved. But if Kagur and Eovath had offended the Eagleclaws, Jorn Blacklion would make amends with gracious words and gifts. Meanwhile, his daughter and foster son had a hunt to complete. She paused to inspect the ground before them, then pointed at the clearest track she'd found so far: the unmistakable impression of a boot.
Eovath nodded. "You were right. Dron isn't dead. In fact, he's fit enough for his captors to march him along."
For a moment, Kagur was certain that was the way of it. Then she noticed additional tracks a couple paces farther along. "I hope so. But look here. The 'captors' were wearing boots, too."
Eovath grunted. "Then maybe they are orc raiders, despite the putrid smell. Or Kellids turned bandit."
Kagur looked up at him. "You sound disappointed."
"Haven't you ever been curious to see a ghost or a demon?"
"I suppose. Is that why you agreed we should come after Dron?"
"I agreed because no one should be dragged off into slavery."
Kagur frowned. "You're not a slave, despite what Borog said. No Blacklion thinks of you that way. Not anymore. Not for a long while."
The frost giant shrugged his massive shoulders. "We should keep moving."
They did, loping across windswept tundra and past ponds surrounded by patches of yellow-green moss and stunted diamond-leaf willows. When the trail led near ripe red bearberries, they gobbled some and picked more for later. Gray-white hawks with crimson beaks floated in the sky, and wild mammoths trumpeted in the west.
Animals grew scarcer, though, as the terrain became hillier and the trackers drew near to Red Rune Canyon. By the time the sun was sinking toward the western horizon, and the notch between two stony walls came into view, Eovath and Kagur were the only moving, breathing things in sight.
"It's nearly dark," Eovath said. "We could camp here and head in come morning."
Kagur shook her head. "Let's cover as much ground as we can."
Unfortunately, that wasn't a great deal more, for when, peering about for lurking orcs and other dangers, they prowled into the mouth of the canyon, they found it was already twilight inside. They had to stop not long thereafter lest they risk losing the trail.
They camped beside the creek that ran down the center of the gorge and supped on more bearberries and bison jerky. Kagur had swamp tealeaves in her pack as well, but it would be foolish to build a fire to brew a beverage. Someone or something might spot the light. So far, however, Red Rune Canyon had done nothing to justify its sinister reputation.
Later, when Eovath was on watch and sleep continued to evade her despite the day's exertions, Kagur came to a decision. "It's just orcs. Orcs bold and cunning enough to hole up where humans are afraid to go."
"What about the rotten smell?" Eovath replied.
"How many clean orcs have you fought?"
"What about the first hunting party, slain without a mark on them?"
"I don't know, but—"
Eovath suddenly peered farther down the canyon. "Something's there."
Coming Next Week: The dark secrets of Red Rune Canyon in Chapter Two!
Enjoying this story? Check out the further adventures of Kagur and Eovath in Called to Darkness, available now!
Richard Lee Byers is the author of more than thirty novels, including the Pathfinder Tales novel Called to Darkness (also starring Kagur and Eovath) and the first book in R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen series. In addition, he's also the co-creator of the critically acclaimed young adult series The Nightmare Club, and the author of a new urban fantasy series beginning with the novel Blind God's Bluff. He's written one previous Pathfinder Tales web fiction story, "Lord of Penance".
Thieves Vinegarby Kevin Andrew Murphy ... Chapter Four: The Hall of Whispers You might think that watching cultists devour a corpse would be the most horrible sight one could witness. ... You'd be wrong. ... The most horrible sight is watching those cultists throwing the corpse back up while a vampire vomits. This latter is particularly bad when you remember who the priestess seated me opposite. If I ever hear a bard say the words bathed in blood again, I swear I'll kick him. ... I wanted to...
Thieves Vinegar
by Kevin Andrew Murphy
Chapter Four: The Hall of Whispers
You might think that watching cultists devour a corpse would be the most horrible sight one could witness.
You'd be wrong.
The most horrible sight is watching those cultists throwing the corpse back up while a vampire vomits. This latter is particularly bad when you remember who the priestess seated me opposite. If I ever hear a bard say the words "bathed in blood" again, I swear I'll kick him.
I wanted to kick my brother, but he'd saved us. While the cultists dealt with their unexpected illness, he'd located a secret side door and unlocked it with a mithral chime, then bustled us through. When the door was safely latched behind us again, he began to explain about harmonics and sympathetic vibrations, but I really didn't care. I was covered with the blood of Zharmides the Godless while Norret didn't have a speck on him. He'd been standing safely out of range, painting the portrait.
Norret was actually quite pleased with how it had turned out, and I had to admit that it was well done, assuming one likes portraits of cultists slicing up dead naked wizards. I was in the back, holding the unicorn horn spoon in one hand and the vampire's lavalier in the other. Rhodel was there as well, holding Zharmides' damned snuffbox with the lions and lilies, like a treasure chest for a pixie pirate queen.
Norret was happy that he'd found such a good use for the canvas, while I was upset because Urgathoa's pepper mill was still amethyst even though Rhodel wasn't touching it.
"Hmm, interesting." Norret took it, holding it by the chain as it went white. He touched it with his bare fingers, watching it change to rose quartz.
He handed it back. While it was pink for a moment, it swiftly purpled. "But I'm not undead!"
"Probably another false positive," Norret speculated. "It may test for some other property. Perhaps Urgathoa's approval."
I was about to protest that I didn't know why Urgathoa, goddess of sickness and escaping your grave, might approve of me, but I bit my tongue. Plus I'd just had a vampire get sick all over me. "What was in that vial?"
"Syrup of ipecac," Norret replied, "a powerful emetic. It's made from the root of the ipecacuanha plant. Didn't I tell you?"
He hadn't, nor had he told me we'd be traveling through Korvosa's sewers.
He was still holding the map he'd purchased before, tracing imaginary lines on it as we made turn after turn through the stinking—but admittedly rather spacious—tunnels beneath the streets. I didn't like to think about why folks would need to build them so large.
Norret was mumbling to himself, counting his paces. Each time I started to breach the silence, he waved my questions away, lest I interrupt his rapidly expanding total. At last he said, "If we went left there, then we should be under it right about..."
We turned a corner, and found a wall with an unmarked iron door set into it.
"Perfect!" Norret said. He opened his box labeled Hessim, Newby, & Sage Paint Manufactory's Complete Pigment Panoply. He selected the smallest pot of paint—already half empty—took a nip of some elixir, and set to painting an intricate key on a page of his formulary. He blew on it to dry, then held up the book and shook it.
A complicated iron key fell into his hand.
Norret corked the tiny sample pot, cleaned the brush, and put away the set.
The key fit the lock like it was made for it.
Nella is a tricky one, that's for sure.
An iron staircase wound upward. Occasionally passageways branched off. Terrible screams and moans echoed from those halls. We passed a silver mirror, and in it I glimpsed Rhodel talking with two men dressed as guards. No one stood on the stairs.
At last we came to another door with a keyhole. Norret inserted the iron key. It turned.
It opened out into a library—an unusually round one—with the door a hidden panel disguised as a shelf of books. A moment later I realized that all the books were false. They were made out of bronze, the same as the busts of the dead wizards and the statues of the past headmasters of the Acadamae. The floor was black marble inlaid with silver circles and arcane diagrams, and the dome above was painted midnight blue and spangled with stars. In the middle hung a great glass lantern painted to look like the moon, but from this angle, it looked more like a skull.
"It's the columbarium," I breathed. "The Hall of Whispers...."
As I said the words, they were repeated, ghostly echoes whispering around the room.
"Oh!" exclaimed Norret. "A whispering gallery! I've read about these! Some interesting acoustical properties here...."
His words echoed around the room as well, hissing and whispering as they passed the bronze books and the effigies of wizards past. Then they were followed by other words, repeated whispers not spoken by my brother: "Ya thievin' packrats! Give back what ya stole!"
There, before an alcove with his bust, stood Zharmides the Godless–completely transparent. But this time, thankfully, with his clothes.
Something was wrong, subtly wrong, but I couldn't quite say what.
"Give it back!" he wailed. "Give back my iv'ry chest or I'll curse ya ta–"
Suddenly the scent of ectoplasm and roses manifested as another ghost appeared—one I knew—and I realized what was wrong. Zharmides looked like a ghost, but didn't smell like one. Ever since I'd died and come back, I'd had the ability to sense ghosts by smell. And this one didn't smell at all.
Rhodel stared eye to eye with her fellow ghost. "Boo!" she said as she reached up and flicked his hat.
Zharmides' bowler raised in the air, hissing, while lines of blood appeared, trickling down his face. His hat flew atop his bronze bust and turned into a pug-nosed orange tabby. "Marcat! No!" the dead wizard cried in a feminine voice.
Rhodel disappeared, smirking.
The ghost of Zharmides the Godless turned toward us.
"My mistake." Nella Cailean's illusion melted. "Never pick drama over believability. I should have just impersonated Headmaster Ornelos." She shrugged. "Anyway, I still want the little ivory chest." She held out her hand.
"Why?" I almost screamed. "Are all wizards mad? What's so important about a snuffbox?"
"Sivanah only knows!" she laughed. "But all the older instructors have them, so I intend to find out."
"And how'd you know we'd be here?"
"My main field of study is illusion, but I dabble in divination as well. I spy with my little scry..." She produced a sheet of paper and grinned at Norret. "I still haven't figured out your claw spell, but a page from an alchemist's formulary and a handwriting sample? Can't ask for better sympathy than that."
"I thought I felt someone was watching me," said Norret.
"And a whole lot more will be if you don't give me Zharmides' snuffbox." She paused. "And the vault key. I only reserved the columbarium for an hour, and you must have alerted half the spectral spies."
A knock sounded at a door on the other side of the chamber.
"Reserved!" Nella cried. "Summoning!"
"Acadamae security!"
Nella looked at Norret. "Give me the goods, and I'll get you out. Refuse, and you deal with the guards."
"So will you."
"I'm a student. I'm used to it. You?" She cocked her head. "Did you hear the screams in the halls below?"
"Fine," he agreed. "Just be quick." He placed the key and the snuffbox in her hand.
They disappeared up her sleeve. "Understood." Nella wove her hands in the air, muttering arcane syllables. My brother's appearance melted, reforming into the image of Arlunia Ehrmande, Lecturer in Charms.
The door opened and three hellspawn entered the chamber.
"You fools!" Nella screamed. "I summoned a drekavac, and now it's out of its circle!" She pointed at me.
"What's a drekavac?" the first hellspawn asked.
The second stared at me in horror. "You summoned a plague spirit?" He turned to Nella. "Are you insane?"
The third remarked, "Don't drekavacs have animal heads?"
"It's a greater drekavac!" Nella improvised. "A bloody drekavac! A child who died of the plague!"
So far as I knew, I'd only died of a fever, but Nella's lies were uncomfortably close to the truth. I was also acutely aware that I was still drenched in the blood of Zharmides the Godless.
"Professor Ehrmande, do you think you can hold it?" Nella asked breathily.
"I think so," said Norret in his normal, masculine voice.
The hellspawn stared at him. "Does she have the plague?"
Norret coughed.
"Save yourselves!" cried Nella.
The hellspawn ran out the door.
Nella produced a wand. "Hold hands and run for the Acadamae gates. This won't last long." She touched me with the wand and said a single word: "Fernseed." Then she touched Norret. "Fernseed," she pronounced again and he vanished.
We were invisible. We ran for the open door and out into the Hall of Whispers. We found the main entrance by following the cries of "Drekavac! Drekavac! Run!"
We were out on the lawn, out the front gates, and halfway down a side street before the spell wore off. The illusion of Arlunia Ehrmande lasted a little longer, but was gone by the time we found a bridge to cross the Narrows of Saint Alika.
By the time we got to the Old Quay, I was staggering. Norret covered me with his cloak, and I finally slept.
∗∗∗
Teleportation is an awful way to wake up, but it was followed by the realization that we were back in Galt, in the Primrose Suite.
Sweet Galt. How I'd missed her.
"Blue Liberty!" Dr. Orontius swore. "What happened, Orlin? You look like you were in the front row at a particularly spectacular beheading!"
I wanted to say, "No, a vampire got sick on me," then found that I already had. Before I hardly knew what I was doing, the whole story came out. Norret even had pictures, including his painting of the cult's feast just before they all threw up.
Dr. Orontius worked a small spell, making all the blood that covered me vanish, then Norret told the rest of the tale, including how he'd lost the snuffbox.
"'Nella Cailean,' you say?" asked Dr. Orontius. "Saucy little minx. Well, two can play at the scrying game...."
"Unless there's lead in the way."
"Well, yes," admitted Dr. Orontius, "but it's not that common."
"White lead is also the primary ingredient in flake white, which I used to gesso my canvas." Norret opened his case of pigments, revealing a full jar of white paint. "I used to be a soldier, so I'm familiar with the feeling of being scried on." Norret reached into the jar and removed a tiny chest. "I assumed you could clean this off."
"Splendid!" cried Dr. Orontius. "You painted the snuffbox in the portrait twice, once with mundane pigments, once with the marvelous ones?"
"Yes," said Norret.
Dr. Orontius chuckled heartily. "Knowing what I do, Nella should be heartily surprised when she discovers that her prize is a fake!" He repeated the blood-removing charm, but this time it stripped paint, leaving a pretty little ivory snuffbox, complete with gilded scrimshaw lions and lilies.
He opened the tiny chest, bringing it to his nose and sniffing. "Ah yes, dear Zharmides always favored Peshpetal Blend." He snapped it shut and held it to his heart. "I will cherish this memento and think of him always."
"You could cherish that and think of him too." I pointed to the portrait of the cultists devouring Zharmides' corpse.
Dr. Orontius looked uncomfortable. "Yes, well, perhaps I might use that to retrieve some fragment of his body."
"So what's the snuffbox for?"
"Clever boy." He pinched my cheek. "Perhaps one day, if you are clever enough, you might attend the Acadamae and learn that secret." He patted me on the head for good measure. "But presently, you must work. Breakfast won't fix itself!"
There is something wrong with a world where ghouls and vampires are more polite and grateful than a houseful of scholars. I went out to the garden, let out the chickens that had been cooped up all day, and took in a double helping of eggs.
The post-execution day omelets were late the next morning, but they were seasoned with thileu bark. I declared them "Omelets Korvosa." If I didn't need to tell the boarders about unicorn bone porridge, I didn't need to tell them about Urgathoa's pepper mill either.
I was beginning to fix lunch when the bell for the Primrose Suite began jangling. Dr. Orontius had some nerve. But when the wire pulled the spring out of the wall and slammed the bell into the ceiling, I realized something was seriously wrong.
"Rhodel, get Norret!" I raced for the Primrose Suite.
Norret was already there, staring at the door, his monocle pushed up on his forehead. A horrible banging and cursing came from the suite, mixed with the screeching of an owl. Norret was half-shaven, holding a mug and shaving brush.
He pushed the monocle back in place, spat in his shaving mug, and painted the doorframe with the resulting lather.
Norret pushed me down on the floor. The lather sizzled and exploded, the entire door and doorframe falling out into the hall. Plaster dust swirled through the air like smoke.
Through the new arch into the Primrose Suite, I saw Dr. Orontius being beaten over the head with a gold-topped cane by Zharmides the Godless. Meanwhile, a green winged monkey-gremlin-thing attempted to garrote our boarder with the bell pull while an owl clawed at it.
Norret still had his pomander orbiting his head. He hurled it at the gremlin, angling the opening just so. The thing screeched, blinded by thieves vinegar. It looked like a beribboned, clove-studded orange-peel hat had been pulled down over its eyes.
"Get the homunculus," Norret said. "I'll get the wizard."
I wasn't certain how I was supposed capture a flying manikin, but then I spotted a bell jar on the mantel. It was covering a clock the same size as the homunculus.
I used my spirit's hand to tweak its nose. The homunculus flew up as I caught it in the jar, clapping the open end down to the surface of Dr. Orontius's traveler's trunk. The thing raged against the glass, but it was too heavy for it to lift.
With a terrific thundering that rattled the windows and knocked all the pictures askew, Zharmides the Godless blew up—fortunately into flecks of shaving cream and shadows rather than blood and gore like the last time he'd been ripped apart. A torn scrap of parchment fluttered down, and Dr. Orontius's owl familiar caught it. He dropped it in my hands before taking his customary perch atop the bust of Nethys and looking at me expectantly.
I examined the parchment. It was half of a magical figure—half a circle, half a square, and the upper half of Zharmides the Godless, holding his cane in one hand, his arms shown in two positions, like an architectural diagram for a jumping jack. More sympathetic magic.
I turned. The lower half of the symbol was pasted inside the open lid of another large chest, an ivory one. But it was still possible to see that this one was scrimshawed with lions and lilies and filled with books.
"Thank you," Dr. Orontius wheezed, loosening the bell pull from his throat. "Your assistance is appreciated but was not strictly–"
"It's Zharmides' trunk," I said. "The real one. The little snuffbox is just a focus, isn't it?"
Dr. Orontius harrumphed, but he couldn't hide the guilty expression. "How was I to know—"
I cut him off. "You use the paintings when you teleport somewhere. By the same principles, you use your snuffbox to teleport your traveler's trunk to you later when you want it. Why go back to your library when you can have your library brought to you? Zharmides knew the same trick, but to get his books, you needed his snuffbox. Which would have all worked out fine, except he left his homunculus inside the larger chest along with a trap."
"A symbol," Dr. Orontius said, feeling the lumps on his head. "I'm not certain which one...."
I handed Dr. Orontius the upper half of the torn piece of paper.
Norret beamed like a proud parent. But he was actually just my brother, and someone had to have a head for business. "I don't know what deal you had with Norret," I said, "but I'll be making up a bill."
I stepped out over the rubble, adding, "There will be no further room service."
Coming Next Week: A sample chapter from Richard Lee Byers' new Pathfinder Tales novel Called to Darkness, starring the Kellid warrior Kagur and her quest for vengeance against the frost giant that killed her family!
Kevin Andrew Murphy is the author of numerous stories, poems, and novels, as well as a writer for Wild Cards, George R. R. Martin's shared-world anthology line. His previous Pathfinder Tales stories include "The Secret of the Rose and Glove" and "The Perfumer's Apprentice" (also starring Norret and Orlin), and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.
We were in the Gray District, the necropolis in the southeastern corner of Korvosa. More specifically, we were in Potter's Ward, the southeastern corner of that, used for the graves of the poor. The air was filled with greasy smoke. It smelled like someone was cooking rotting pork and it had caught fire. Except that in this case it was long pork. The only thing that smelled worse than the burning corpses were the ones that weren't yet burnt.
Thieves Vinegar
by Kevin Andrew Murphy
Chapter Three: Still Life with Snuffbox
I have never been so grateful for vinegar in my life.
Norret had taught me, as part of the science of perfumery, that there were seven basic scents. One of them, putrescence, was necessary in any truly fine perfume, but only the faintest note.
Putrescence was found in stinkhorn fungi and the carrion flowers of the Mwangi Expanse, but most commonly in putrescine and cadaverine, alchemical substances that came from corpses.
We were in the Gray District, the necropolis in the southeastern corner of Korvosa. More specifically, we were in Potter's Ward, the southeastern corner of that, used for the graves of the poor. The air was filled with greasy smoke. It smelled like someone was cooking rotting pork and it had caught fire. Except that in this case it was long pork. The only thing that smelled worse than the burning corpses were the ones that weren't yet burnt.
Some of those even stumbled around. I think they were zombies–I hope they were zombies–because the other alternative was that gravediggers and priestesses of Pharasma were beating still-living plague victims with shovels and setting them on fire.
I clutched my pomander orange and inhaled the floral notes of tansy and thyme, the camphoraceous notes of rosemary and lavender, the minty note of mint, and the sweet pungency of apple cider vinegar.
"Wizards are utterly mad, Rhodel," I told my spirit guide, or possibly the empty air. "Even crazier than alchemists." I held the pomander against the stench. "A 'keepsake,' Dr. Orontius said. A memento to remember his beloved school chum.…" I snorted and was immediately sorry because I'd snorted vinegar. Then I was less sorry because, once my eyes stopped watering, I realized I couldn't smell anything.
I glanced at another corpse and checked Norret's picture of Zharmides the Godless.
Nella had told us more about Zharmides, a convert to the Rahadoum heresies who spiced his divination lectures with tart comments on the gods, calling Blackfingers a two-bit snake-oil salesman and Pharasma a schoolmarm with an attendance fetish.
Nella wouldn't repeat what he said about Asmodeus other than mentioning that one particular string of blasphemies had reportedly made an imp faint.
I was sorry that he was dead, and even more sorry I wasn't finding his body. That was my job while Norret ran interference, helping the priests and priestesses of Pharasma blow up the zombies that seemed to be rising with some regularity. Our story was that we'd been sent to help by the temple of Shelyn, not that anyone seemed inclined to check.
When I wasn't looking at corpses, I amused myself—if that's the right word—by examining the potsherds the Potter's Ward was named for. Norret's art tourists' map noted that some believed the bits of broken crockery littering the soil went back to the time of the Shoanti.
I assumed this was a more relaxing pastime when there weren't zombies lurching around. Someone else with wild hair and glassy eyes lurched toward me, except this man had a wheelbarrow filled with fresh bodies. I was about to examine them when I took note of the gravedigger's brocade waistcoat. Not only was it too fine a garment for gravedigging, but it was covered with stylized Zs. Unfortunately, the pockets were all flat. Even the pocket square was gone.
"Where'd you get your waistcoat?" I asked.
The gravedigger beamed. "The master gave it to me."
"Who's your master?"
He paused, then said swiftly, "I have no master."
"Then whom do you work for?"
"I work for the Church of Pharasma. I am a simple fellow. I dig graves." His voice was as flat as a zombie's, assuming zombies could speak. He attempted to push past me with the barrow full of plague-raddled corpses. "Please move. I must bury these bodies."
To say that he was acting strange was an understatement. "Did you by any chance find a snuffbox? A little ivory one with gold fittings, same monogram on the bottom as you've got on your vest?"
"Oh yes. The— He was very pleased to get it. Said every nobleman should have one."
"So where's your master?"
"I have no master."
"Could you take me to your master?"
The gravedigger looked puzzled, then tortured. At last he whispered, "Only if you're one of the faithful?" His eyebrows rose hopefully.
"If I said that I was?"
"Then I would ask you for the password."
"What's the password?"
Rhodel certainly makes an attractive ghost.
"I'm not allowed to say." He looked frightened. "I am a simple fellow. I dig graves. Please move. I must bury these bodies."
I stepped aside. My skin prickled as if a whole gaggle of geese were walking over my grave, and I've been dead so I know what that feels like. I went to Norret and told him about my conversation.
"Drugged or enchanted," he concluded. "Duke Devore's formulary has a recipe for hypnotic perfume, but..." My brother flipped one of his monocles down and peered at the gravedigger. "Definitely enchanted. Mind-controlled—I've seen it on the battlefield. Give someone too many contradictory orders and the mind starts to break."
I didn't know if he was talking military orders or magical ones, or if there was much of a difference. "How do we find his 'master'?"
"We keep an eye on him and an ear out for this 'password.'"
When my brother said "keep an ear out," he meant this literally. He swigged some tincture of wolfsbane and grew ears as long and pointed as a wolf's. A bit of eavesdropping and spying on the addled gravedigger later, he said, "I am famished."
"You're hungry?" I gasped, still holding my pomander against the stench.
"No, 'I am famished.' That's the password."
It certainly wasn't one that easily sprang to mind, especially with how I'd lost any trace of my appetite, given the reeking corpses. But with that last clue, everything about the strange man fell into place. "I guess that tells us what he meant by a 'one of the faithful,' then?"
Norret nodded. "It would seem that the grave digger—or whoever's controlling him—is a worshiper of Urgathoa, goddess of gluttony and undeath."
I shuddered, but it made sense. Who else would be hungry in a graveyard?
Once the sun had set, our pomander oranges began to glow with will-o'-wisp light like little moons. We dodged one last patrol of Pharasmins as the priests swept the necropolis before locking the gates for the night–plague or no plague, even priests of the goddess of death needed sleep, especially after the day they'd had. Norret and I, on the other hand, would get no sleep, not just because of where we were but because Norret had prepared a pot of coffee Woodsedge-style—half coffee, half roasted chicory root.
We picked our way across the Potter's Ward, trailing the gravedigger and a cortege of figures we presumed were cultists. We hopped a low fence into Everyman's Ward, and finally slipped past a loose bar in the spike-tipped iron fence that led to the Gold Ward where the nobility were interred. Being a Galtan, it soothed my soul somewhat to know that the Urgathoans were desecrating the tombs of the nobility rather prying into graves of the common man, not that I think they were making that distinction.
Most of the mausoleums in the Gold Ward were grand affairs, with polished brass knobs, cypress wreaths, and even freshly cut flowers placed in urns outside. One mausoleum looked decidedly seedy and unkempt, neglected for many years, the doors falling off their hinges and the only flowers being weeds and lichen growing through cracks in the marble façade. The name Galdur was carved above the doors, and the last cultist was disappearing down the steps.
We followed and were greeted at the bottom by a lady in a tattered spattered gown like from the nursery rhyme. Her black hair was an obvious wig, though her ghoulish teeth were real enough, having been filed to points. The cultist smiled, letting us get an even better look.
"I am famished," I said, and Norret did as well.
"Then you are welcome in Urgathoa's Hall!" She smiled as if welcoming us to a holiday party. "You must call me Deaconess Gentle. How should I know you?"
"I'm Orlin, and this is my brother, Norret."
"Oh, an artist!" She took delighted note of Norret's folding easel and the multicolored alchemical stains on his clothes. "You must paint a portrait to immortalize this celebration."
Norret nodded in hasty agreement.
"So, what have you brought for Urgathoa's feast?"
"Brought?" I repeated.
"An offering to share! An unholy delicacy for us to consume for the delight of the Pallid Princess!"
I thought, then remembered my little horn spoon. "How about unicorn bone porridge?"
"Delightful!" exclaimed the cultist. "Did the beast scream as it was butchered?"
"I don't know. It died a long time ago."
"Well aged, then." She turned to Norret.
"I brought coffee."
She rolled her eyes but merely said, "Mistress Kissim brought funeral biscuits. I'm certain they will go well together." She gestured to one corner of the crypt. "I think you might set your easel up there. It will have the best view of the festivities. Do we need more candles?"
"No, the shadows are just right," Norret said.
"Well," the deaconess allowed, "none of them are hungry, but I'm certain that can be remedied later. I'm just so pleased we have an artist. Please, come in."
Norret nodded and did.
I might have expected many things of the cult of Urgathoa, but one thing I did not expect was a demented potluck. Cultists were milling about, placing food on the old sarcophagi like they were artists arranging still lifes—should the skull go beside the cheese tray or on top of it?—and everyone was chatting as if they'd gathered in some Isarn salon for a Crystalhue feast rather than in an abandoned Korvosan crypt for the blasphemous rites of the Pallid Princess.
Deaconess Gentle peered up the stairs. "Is there anyone else?"
"One more." The scent of roses and ectoplasm replaced the musty odor of the crypt.
Beside us appeared a vision of loveliness, a girl of no more than sixteen summers garbed in a green and ivory festival gown, a garland of pink noisette roses plaited into her golden hair. I'd only seen my spirit guide in this world once, when I was poisoned, but necromancers had told Norret and me that spirits had an easier time appearing to the doomed or the dying, or in certain places where the veil between worlds wore thin.
I hoped it was the third possibility, or at least that "doom" was more a warning than a certainty.
"How lovely you are!" The priestess clasped my spirit guide's hands, but not quite. "How may I know you?"
"Call me Rhodel."
"It is an honor to be graced by one of the incorporeal. Lord Galdur had feared that he would be the only one here to celebrate an ashenmorn."
"Ah nae." Rhodel laughed. "Orlin slipped his grave too."
"Indeed?" said Deaconess Gentle, blinking at me. "I took you for a living child. Forgive me."
"No need," I said truthfully.
"You shall have the place of honor." The priestess showed me to a chair at the upper left corner of the central sarcophagus, seating Rhodel just to the right of me before taking her place at the head of the "table." It was covered with a funeral pall. Seated opposite me was a rakishly handsome young man with dark hair, pale skin, and mismatched finery. Being from Galt, I was familiar with the look. It was what happened when you raided the wardrobes of dead nobles and had no eye for taste.
"Now, Master?" asked the gravedigger groveling at his side.
"Now, Alfoun."
The gravedigger whisked away the pall like a waiter uncovering a tray. I tried not to look at what was on the slab–who was on the slab–not wanting to see another plague-ravaged corpse. But then I did and I realized that, apart from liver spots, there were no marks on the old man's naked body. The mouth was open in a death rictus. Even so, I recognized it. I had been looking at it all day. It was the face of Zharmides the Godless.
"Oh, one without the plague!" Deaconess Gentle exclaimed delightedly. "Wherever did you find it, Lord Galdur?"
The young nobleman smiled, revealing pronounced eyeteeth, and petted the gravedigger like a faithful dog. "Good Alfoun brought it to me."
"Urgathoa has truly blessed us! Much as I enjoy the fruits of the season, it's nice to have a little variety."
"Shall I have the kiss of undeath now, master?" the gravedigger begged.
"No!" cried the pretty young woman seated to his left. "You swore your next bride would be me!"
"Patience, dear ones. Go eat some rats."
He said this last just forcefully enough. They both scurried off to one of the lower tables where one of the other cultists had indeed brought rats, roasted on a stick.
"There is a chair free now, my lovely." Lord Galdur gestured.
Rhodel vanished from her chair and reappeared in the one at his side.
Deaconess Gentle made brief introductions, then told Rhodel, "I'm so embarrassed. We didn't expect any of the incorporeal. How might we feed your pain?"
"Mayhaps a li'l pinch a snuff?" Rhodel asked. "Loved it in life 'n I kin still smell it in death."
Deaconess Gentle looked perturbed, but Lord Galdur reached into his pocket and gallantly produced a snuffbox. The snuffbox. Ivory, carved with lions and lilies. Even the stylized Z on the bottom. "A nobleman never goes anywhere without it."
"Ah, how pretty!" Rhodel exclaimed. "Lemme guess yer name. Is it Zander? Zaries?"
"It's Tyrnan," he said smoothly, "the fourth of that name. But I inherited this from my great uncle, Zellin Galdur."
I realized then that the vampire was a fraud—and likely about more than just the snuffbox. I suspected that if he had any noble blood in him at all, it was only because he'd drunk it.
"I've been ta the other side. I've met Tyrnan Galdur. All four." Rhodel took the snuffbox from him—actually, physically took it—and smiled. "Yer not him."
The vampire hissed like a cat, fangs bared, but this wasn't very frightening to a ghost. "And you, milady? Who are you, appearing like a Shelynite doxy at Urgathoa's feast!?"
"Ah," said Rhodel, "ye found me out. 'Tis true. I loved the Rose mosta' all. But I lived a long life, an' I prayed ta the Pallid Princess there at the end." As she said this, she grew older and older, the lines of age and care appearing on her face, then the sores of hag pox, the harlot's curse. "Kith me, handsome!" she slurred, her odor of roses turning to alcohol, anise, and the stench of sulfur as she grabbed him in a clench. Then she caught fire and exploded in a flash of fireworks and ectoplasm.
The vampire shouted and stood, his chair clattering behind him.
I felt something appear in my hands. It was the snuffbox, sticky with ectoplasm. I quickly put it in my pocket.
Deaconess Gentle retrieved her wig from where it had been blown off in the explosion. Beneath it, her hair was stringy and white. "The incorporeal—always so dramatic!" she exclaimed to the assembled cultists.
"Where is she?" hissed the vampire. "Where's my snuffbox?"
The priestess tugged the edge of his coat. "Lord Galdur, please. The ritual."
The vampire sat, glaring at me.
Deaconess Gentle placed one hand on my shoulder, then addressed her congregation, "My famished ones, this is Orlin. He's brought us a special delicacy. What was it again, dear?"
"Um, unicorn bone porridge."
Appreciative sounds issued from the cultists. The pretty woman who wanted to be a vampire brought me a bowl. I tried to ignore the fact that it was made from the top of a human skull and placed the little horn spoon inside.
Thick pasty gruel welled up. Norret had tried to make it look and taste like blancmange, but it only did insomuch as blanched almond pudding looked similar to stewed unicorn bones.
I offered the bowl to the priestess. She took a delicate bite. "It... has a lovely texture," she said politely. "Like rotten brains."
I was less disturbed than I should have been. "It's a little bland," I admitted.
She smiled. "I believe Lord Galdur may have a solution." She turned to him. "Might Orlin borrow your talisman?"
The vampire set down the glass of blood he had been draining from Zharmides' arm and addressed his priestess. "Does he have any skill as a chef?"
"A little," I admitted.
"Marvelous." He greeted me with a predatory smile. "Behold this talisman, sacred to the Pallid Princess." He reached up to his neck and touched his lavalier. "It makes the blood of the dead taste as sweet as that of the living." The pendant was amethyst, dark as Hymbrian grapes, a six-sided natural crystal capped with silver filigree in the shape of flies. "In the hands of a true chef, it can also produce sugar, salt, and spice. Yet that is not its only virtue. When touched by the undead, the Princess's crystal becomes the pure purple of royalty." He unclasped the chain, and held it out, then dropped it to pool on Zharmides' dead chest. "When touched by those bereft of Her blessing, it turns pale." The crystal clouded and color leached from it, transmuting from amethyst to milky quartz, white as leprosy. "But when touched by the living, it turns as pink as a baby's cheek."
The vampire bared his fangs in a feral grin. "Although you appear alive, Orlin, you smell of vinegar, like my cousins from the east." He stared at my neck. "Tell me, does your head come off?"
So far as I knew, everybody's head came off when you applied a Final Blade. "Yes, but I'd prefer if it stayed where it is."
"Just so," said the vampire. "I've heard it's troublesome to put your head back. But as youthful as I appear, I am older than I look."
"Same here."
"Indeed," agreed the vampire, "but from what I know, my eastern cousins are all women, not men. And never children. Touch the talisman and reveal Urgathoa's truth!"
He was trying to command me like his rat-chewing lackeys. But it was a litmus test. As awful as Urgathoa was, she still followed rules. The milky quartz of the pallid crystal would turn to amethyst for the dead and rose quartz for the living.
Of course, if you contaminated your sample, a litmus test could yield a false positive or negative. "Fine." I stood up and reached for the crystal while under my breath I said, "Rhodel...."
My spirit guide knew how to take a cue. I felt the cold touch as her hand overlaid mine.
I sat back down. While my fingers were closed around the crystal, they weren't touching it. Rhodel's were. Slowly I saw it clear and change from lavender to violet to deepest amethyst.
"Blessed child of Urgathoa!" cried the priestess.
The vampire sulked, even more so when I asked, "So what do I do now? Twist it like a pepper mill?"
As I said the word "pepper," a sprinkle floated down over the bowl of unicorn bone porridge, just like it had for Dr. Orontius. "Does it do thileu bark?" As I said it, it answered my question.
"If you add some fear's breath and hatefinger, I'll take that bowl, please," said Deaconess Gentle.
I'd never heard of these herbs, but Urgathoa's lavalier had, adding a sprinkle of each.
"Just nightfog and bloodroot for my wine," "Lord Galdur" grumbled sourly, holding out his glass of wizard blood.
Orders came in. It was almost like I was back in Isarn dishing up breakfast for our boarders. I fixed myself a bowl of porridge, seasoned it with sugar, cinnamon, and ginger, and tried to pretend I wasn't eating out of the top of someone's skull. It did taste like mother's blancmange now.
The festivities proceeded. Deaconess Gentle opened some moldering tome titled Serving Your Hunger, which I'd initially taken for a cookbook, and led the congregation in a ghastly chant made more horrid by the fact that most of the cultists were off key. Then she had me sprinkle Zharmides the Godless with thileu bark, after which she proceeded to pour Korvosan tawny port over the wizard's corpse and began to dish up slices of meat.
I didn't know whether this was the fate the gods had designed for those who mocked them or whether Zharmides had foreseen it and this explained his choice in religion.
As the cultists continued their ritual, I began noticing little oddities. For all that she looked the part of a priestess, Deacon Gentle seemed to fumble her way through the divine readings, sometimes stopping and having to repeat passages. Though the other cultists ate with gusto, all bore normal human features, and one or two even seemed a little queasy over the things they were shoving into their mouths. Only the vampire was actually undead, and despite the way the humans simpered and fawned over him, he too seemed to be trying hard to play a part—that of the world-weary undead lord.
They're new at this. The realization struck me suddenly, and for a moment I felt a little sorry for them. I wondered if their conversion was the result of the plague, or if they merely hoped to be rewarded by the vampire. Either way, it was a pathetic scene.
Then one of them began gnawing at a loop of intestine, and my sympathy evaporated.
I realized that Deaconess Gentle was looking expectantly at me. She was holding an empty plate, waiting for me to request a cut.
"Um, that's not how I... serve my hunger," I said as politely as I could, hoping I was saying the right thing.
"Indeed? And what would your kind prefer?"
Alarmed, I looked for Norret. The woman followed my glance. "Oh, the artist! Of course—he'll eat first, then you'll drink from his veins. Splendid."
My brother came over and saw what he was expected to do. Fortunately there was a line of cultists, and some were going back for seconds.
I got his attention when the priestess went to pour more port over Zharmides' body. I surreptitiously slipped my brother the damned snuffbox. He put it in a pocket and handed me a vial, jerking his head towards the bottle of port.
I unstoppered the vial and gripped it tight with my spirit's hand. It glittered like a diamond as I raised it in the air, but the cultists were distracted and drunk and didn't notice the drops dripping down as I added to Zharmides' seasoning. For good measure, I made sure a few drops got into the vampire's glass as well.
Then I pulled my spirit's hand back to my physical hand and stole a glance at the empty vial, pondering the label, written in Norret's neat handwriting: Syrup of Ip.
Coming Next Week: Things get truly gross in the final chapter of "Thieves Vinegar" by Kevin Andrew Murphy!
Kevin Andrew Murphy is the author of numerous stories, poems, and novels, as well as a writer for Wild Cards, George R. R. Martin's shared-world anthology line. His previous Pathfinder Tales stories include "The Secret of the Rose and Glove" and "The Perfumer's Apprentice" (also starring Norret and Orlin), and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.
Newby analyzed the contents of Norret's flask, pronouncing it ninety-nine point nine percent pure will-o'-wisp essence, with the impurities mostly consisting of honeysuckle and grape. Norret nodded, and the three old men fell to talking amongst themselves.
Thieves Vinegar
by Kevin Andrew Murphy
Chapter Two: The Hall of Lies
Newby analyzed the contents of Norret's flask, pronouncing it ninety-nine point nine percent pure will-o'-wisp essence, with the impurities mostly consisting of honeysuckle and grape. Norret nodded, and the three old men fell to talking amongst themselves.
"Wizards would buy it for ink," Sage pointed out.
"Wizards don't need this degree of purity," Newby countered.
"Would be useful for underpainting secret messages," said Hessim. "Signatures and such."
Newby snorted. "Think of the holy glow of Iomedae's sword or Sarenrae's rays."
"Bit heretical, considering the origin," said Sage.
"Then the ghastly pallor of Urgathoa."
"Or the flames in Asmodeus's eyes," Hessim enthused.
"Point," admitted Sage. "Wonderful for unholy icons. We are agreed then, gentlemen?"
"Aye," said his fellow shopkeepers.
The old men were nothing if not scrupulous. They kitted Norret out with an elaborate case of oil paints and brushes, including a traveling easel, a sketch pad, and a small canvas, while I was given a similar set of watercolors. They also gave us a map of Korvosa and advice on the best bridge to take to cross the narrows en route to the mainland and the Acadamae atop Citadel Crest.
It was grand. It was imposing. It was also open only to students, faculty, and tradesmen. Frightening hellspawn guards menaced those who didn't belong.
That said, Norret and I were Galtan, and we were used to avoiding the Gray Gardeners. Hellspawn gate guards, no matter how ridiculously twisted their horns, simply did not rate. We walked past.
A plague also raged, and we'd noted any number of Korvosans who'd masked themselves like hastily deputized Gray Gardeners, neckerchiefs pulled up over their faces to keep disease-bearing spirits from flying down their throats. Ours were Vudrani silks which had belonged to Rhodel.
Perhaps the most shocking thing were the imps that perched blatanly on the shoulders of students and professors, or lounged on the lintel of the main gate. These stuck out their tongues and made evil gestures at the tiny dragons who rode on the shoulders of better-minded students and faculty. One older and elegant wizard had a cloud of multicolored gemstones orbiting her head, serving as the hoard for the rust red drakeling perched atop the jeweled comb holding up her long red hair.
We had floating pomander oranges.
The Acadamae's discipline of its familiars leaves something to be desired.
We followed her into the Acadamae's grounds. Before us lay the grandest and newest building I'd ever seen in my life.
Suddenly an imp swooped down. "Trespassers!" it shrieked. "You've no legitimate business! You're our lawful prey!"
Norret displayed Dr. Orontius's letter, including the seal at the bottom, a calligraphic O that resembled an owl's eye. "On the contrary, we're here to deliver a missive to one of your instructors, Zharmides the Godless."
The little fiend snatched the letter, fluttering higher into the air, then turned a backflip as it giggled with infernal mirth. "Didn't you know?" the creature cried. "He's dead! Not even of the plague! Choked on a fishbone!" The imp laughed as if this were the most hilarious joke in the world. "But without this letter, you've no legitimate purpose—or even with it! Ignorance of the law is no excuse!"
"Except you've no lawful right to that letter either."
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law!" the imp countered. "Care to try for the last tenth?"
It hovered above Norret, just out of arm's reach. While my brother is tall, he's not that tall. Norret jumped for it while the imp pulled it out of the way, still chortling.
Then I saw my brother get angry.
Norret angry looks a lot like Norret happy, except instead of the corners of his eyes going crinkly, his lips go white. He took off his glove, the fringed one with the ruby on the back, then reached into his pouch and took out the reefclaw pasty. He seasoned it with thieves vinegar and chewed it slowly, his teeth becoming longer and sharper, pointed like an eel's.
Then his arm shot up and his hand—well, I've seen my brother sprout claws like a wolf or a bear, and once even talons like an owl, but that was nothing compared to this. His hand changed, growing and shifting, becoming a giant crawfish pincer with the top half as big and sharp as one of the Final Blades of Galt.
The claw snapped like a guillotine. The imp's head flew one way, the body another. The letter drifted down.
Norret caught it, his hand once again its normal shape. He tucked the letter inside his jacket, put on his unicorn-skin glove, and picked up the imp's body by the tail. He stuck the stinger through the stopper of a corked vial and watched as unholy venom leaked down the sides.
"Guards! Guards!" shrieked the imps on gate.
Norret tossed the imp's body on the ground. It smoked, the little fiend dissolving into ectoplasm and ash as Norret turned to face the hellspawn guards.
"Is there a problem?" asked a lilting voice. The wizard with the rusty house drake on her comb stepped forward. "These gentlemen are with me." Hers was a beautiful smile, sweet as an icon of Shelyn. "They agreed to paint my picture before the Hall of Charms. Isn't that so, gentlemen?"
"Yes," I lied. Norret nodded.
The guard with the improbable horns snorted. "Visitors are supposed to sign in at the front gate."
"You are forgetting that the guest book was found to be a source of contagion." The wizard still smiled her sugary smile. "Please just put down that Arlunia Ehrmande, Lecturer in Charms, has two guests for the afternoon, and try to see that those in my retinue are not molested by stray imps." The house drake on her comb flicked its forked tongue for good measure.
"Of course." The horned hellspawn bowed.
Our rescuer gestured for us to follow.
We accompanied her past a rhododendron hedge and around to where a wide lawn opened onto smaller buildings. She gestured to the left to a graceful structure partially obscured by a copse of trees. All I could see above them was a marble frieze of frolicking satyrs and enticing nymphs. "The Hall of Charms is always lovely in any light, but..." she mused, tapping one finger to her painted lips, "perhaps, today, another might be more apropos...." She indicated the building directly behind her. "You're the artists. What do you think?"
What I thought was that I'd seen the building before—the House of Joy, the Calistrian temple from Isarn. The building's shape was slightly different, but otherwise it seemed a perfect copy. Then I realized that the banners of the former palace displayed the old king's crest, and instead of the usual bevy of Calistrian beauties, the balconies were thronged with pre-revolutionary coquettes, frivolous young noblewomen with impossibly high hairdos, fantastically jeweled gowns, and flirtatious glances strikingly like the sacred harlots.
I blushed and looked away.
"Behold," said the enchantress, "the Hall of Lies...."
All at once she changed, like a chalk painting dissolving in rain. The woman's rich flowing gown became mouse-gray robes, her long red tresses became mouse-brown hair, the cloud of jewels vanished, and her comb became a bunch of pencils stuck in a bun. Even the haughty little house drake became a crumple-eared orange tabby cat.
It had been an illusion, I realized. The Hall of Lies had to be one too, since I didn't think it likely that the Acadamae would just happen to have a building I recognized so well.
The woman gave a lop-sided grin. "I'm not Professor Ehrmande," she admitted, "but I couldn't leave a couple Galtan boys to deal with the hellspawn. My grandfather's from Galt, and you sound just like him." She appeared decades younger than the serene enchantress. "Besides, I saw that spell with the claw. It's wicked good, and I want it."
"It wasn't a spell," Norret admitted.
"Alchemy?" she guessed. "All I'll say is I'm from Daggermark, and it's not a spell yet. Give me the page from your formulary and I'll figure out what's missing." She grinned and put her hand out. "Nella. Nella Cailean. Not the one from the puppet show and no relation to the really famous one either. And not Nellaforia or Nellali, and for Cayden's sake not Nellatirencia. Just plain Nella or Nel, Journeyman Fibber. And this," she said indicating the snub-nosed cat still perched atop her head, its eyes round and bright as two coppers, "is Lady Marcatella, or Marcat for short. You two?"
"Norret Gantier," Norret said, "and this is my brother, Orlin."
"And you have a fabulous estate back in Galt that you'll inherit once the Revolution's over?" She paused, looking at our expressions. "Wait, you're really from Galt? Not just the kids of refugees we've got crawling all over the River Kingdoms?"
I didn't know what to say. Here she was admitting that she not only knew escaped nobles but that she might even be descended from one and had even given her cat a noble title. Then I remembered that I was in Korvosa, not Galt, and the Red Revolution was half a world away.
"We're from Dabril," Norret explained.
Nella paused, glancing at Norret's glove and the ruby on the back. She chuckled. "You read Pintgarthe's Lost Jewels too, eh? Points for making it look believable. You can't imagine the sort of gaudy crap impers try to pass off when they take 'Frauds & Forgeries.' The Hero's Tankard made of solid gold chased with pearls? As if!" She gave us each a hard look. "But what's your scam? Don't try to fib a fibber."
Norret reached into his jacket. "We're just here to deliver a letter."
She looked at the letter and laughed. "You're after Zharmides' lost books too?"
"Lost books?" I was confused. I'd thought we were after a snuffbox.
"What, you really don't know? The imp told you straight: Zharmides is dead. Choked on a fishbone down at the Posh and Turtle. The professors have been accusing each other of stealing his books 'cause everyone wanted his spells. Speaking of which, you owe me one." She put out her hand.
Norret sighed and got out his formulary, his alchemical workbook. He pulled a blank page out of the back, took out his silver pencil, and began copying notes and scraps. It took a while, but at last he folded it and held it up out of Nella's reach. "A question first: Where's Zharmides' body now?"
Nella shrugged. "No great secret. The government's ordered all the dead taken to the plague pits in the Gray District and burned. The Acadamae's torched its dead in the Cube."
"And the ashes?"
She paused. "Sent to the Hall of Whispers for its columbarium."
"Columbarium?" I said.
She nodded, slightly so as to not dislodge her cat, which I realized had no tail. "Dome filled with cinerary urns: books for students, busts for instructors, full-on bronzes for headmasters, and a necromantic circle in middle so you can talk to their spirits, though it works a bit better if the urn has actual ashes in it."
I could already summon spirits–or at least one–without ashes, so I was less impressed than I might be. I heard a giggle, a bit too high-pitched and far too nasty to be Rhodel.
Nella raised her hand, adjusting her bun or her pencils or the cat who was sitting on them, but her pinkie was out at an odd angle and her cat was looking the same direction. I looked where both pointed. Norret did too, adjusting the lenses of his monocle.
Dr. Orontius once told me that three or more imps are called "an impudence." The impudence that was fluttering nearby scattered, spooked.
Norret looked back to Nella. "But Zharmides died outside the Acadamae."
"Right," she said, "and no one's wanting to search the plague carts to see if they've burned his body yet. The conjurers are pissed 'cause, if he'd had an imp, they could summon it and ask for his soul, but Zharmides, just to be contrary, had a homunculus."
"Homunculus?" I repeated, confused.
"Homunculus?" Norret said the same word delightedly.
He and she exchanged looks, and she explained, "It's an artificial imp."
"It's made out of a mandrake root," Norret continued, "and that's not quite accurate."
"It's a foot-high manikin with fangs and bat wings." Nella waved flippantly. "About the only visible difference is that an imp has a poisoned tail, while your classic homunculus has poison teeth."
"So what did Zharmides look like?"
"The spell first?"
Norret handed her the folded paper.
She opened it and almost absentmindedly stepped over to the Hall of Lies and tapped one of the statues flanking the door—that of a cavorting nymphette with precariously tall hair.
The statue's illusion flickered, feminine trading for masculine, youth for age, and hard marble for living flesh, now appearing as a stooped, thin-faced old wizard leaning on a gold-topped cane. The brocade of his waistcoat was woven over and over with stylized Zs, and the same sigil was engraved on the wax seal hanging as fob from his watch chain. I didn't see a snuffbox, but I noted a telltale bulge beneath his pocket square.
Norret took a vial from his bandolier and sipped it, flipped to a blank page in his formulary, took his silver pencil in hand, and began to sketch.
Coming Next Week: Bringing out the dead in Chapter Three of "Thieves Vinegar."
Kevin Andrew Murphy is the author of numerous stories, poems, and novels, as well as a writer for Wild Cards, George R. R. Martin's shared-world anthology line. His previous Pathfinder Tales stories include "The Secret of the Rose and Glove" and "The Perfumer's Apprentice" (also starring Norret and Orlin), and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.
"Observe, Orlin." Norret scooped a vial of purple cabbage water from the leaves I was blanching for the afternoon's meal. "Note how the introduction of even a weak acid transmutes the deepest amethyst to brilliant fuchsia...." He added a drop of vinegar and swirled it.
Thieves Vinegar
by Kevin Andrew Murphy
Chapter One: The Old Quay
"Observe, Orlin." Norret scooped a vial of purple cabbage water from the leaves I was blanching for the afternoon's meal. "Note how the introduction of even a weak acid transmutes the deepest amethyst to brilliant fuchsia...." He added a drop of vinegar and swirled it.
The dark purple did indeed change to bright pink, but I'd already seen this reaction when he'd ruined half my store of violet syrup, oblivious to the facts that sugar was dear in Isarn and violets troublesome to pick.
High on the kitchen wall, one of the servant's bells jangled—the one with the wire running to the Primrose Suite, occupied by Dr. Orontius, a kindly old wizard and one of our best boarders.
A whiff of ectoplasm manifested—an example of ethereal, the seventh scent, as Norret had taught me—mixed with the faint odor of roses.
Some people, when they returned from Pharasma's Boneyard, could see its denizens. Others heard ghostly voices. Me? I was raised in Dabril, famous for its perfumes and gloves, so I only smelled the dead and sometimes felt their touch.
The violet syrup levitated. It emptied itself into a jug of water, dying it the same color, then changed this to pink as a cut lemon squeezed itself over it.
"You see?" Norret beamed. "Even Rhodel can work a litmus test!"
My ghostly spirit guide also knew how to make pink lemonade. "Go stall." I handed him the jug. "I'll bring lunch up as soon as I can."
As Norret left, words appeared on the kitchen slate, written in a woman's hand: Careful what you wish for.
"I know." I had hoped that, after our last adventure, my brother would stop treating me like a child. I had not expected that he, a grown man, absolved of this responsibility, would start acting like a child himself. But it was the case.
Dr. Orontius is nice enough—but a wizard is always plotting something.
It was also the case that the Revolutionary Council, rulers of Galt, had appointed Norret and me proprietors of the Eglantine House, home to some of the nation's finest scholars and magical researchers. They paid rent but expected meals. The kitchen garden provided fruits and vegetables, a few hens provided eggs, and an enchanted horn spoon provided bland unicorn bone porridge. I had become good at hiding it in other dishes. This afternoon's luncheon was cabbage rolls stuffed with "horsemeat."
What would have really helped were salt and spices.
Fortunately, Dr. Orontius had his own, or at least he could wave his fingers in the air, mumble some ancient syllables, and make a sprinkling of salt materialize over his food, followed by pepper. This he did as soon as I arrived with the tray, then sampled a bite from a silver fork. "Ah, yes, now it is perfect."
Norret adjusted the complicated series of jeweler's loupes and lead crystal lenses attached to the monocle he'd taken to wearing in place of his old eyepatch. For reasons only my brother could understand—sympathy, antipathy, planetary resonance—lead both helped divination and blocked it. This included the sense I'd picked up from some unicorn horn and a drop of philosopher's mercury, which let me detect poisons. Norret, after an alarming and thankfully temporary experiment with eyedrops that let him look through walls, had switched his optical inquiries to lens grinding and tinted glass. He'd been trying to peep through the veil into Pharasma's realm so we could see Rhodel. He still hadn't discovered the right combination of lenses to see the spirit world, but had managed the arcane spectrum.
"Is that phenomenon accomplished by means of conjuration or spontaneous generation?" he asked Orontius.
"An astute metaphysical question," said Dr. Orontius, "but a true wizard never reveals his secrets." His old blue eyes twinkled, the same color as his robes and pointed hat. "At least not without receiving another secret in trade. Perhaps that formula for 'thieves vinegar' you mentioned?"
"Not in exchange for such a trifle," said Norret. "An alchemist has his secrets as well."
"Just so," Dr. Orontius agreed, turning to me. "Your brother claims to have a formula for a fabulous antiplague, a sovereign preventative for all manner of ills. As Desna would have it, a plague currently ravages Korvosa. Zharmides, an old classmate from my Acadamae days, has recently perished therein. I desire a keepsake to remember him by, a little ivory snuffbox of which he was fond."
"Can you describe it?" Norret asked him.
"Why describe when one can simply show?" Dr. Orontius muttered arcane phrases and made mystical passes with both hands, opening one to reveal a tiny ivory chest resting on his palm. "This is merely a memory, so look but do not touch." The wizard's memory sharpened, scrimshawed lions and lilies appearing on the sides, little clasps and fittings in matching gold. It floated in the air, tumbling like a bubble, revealing a gilded sigil engraved on the bottom, looking like a stylized Z.
My brother took out his formulary and a silver pencil. The talent Norret lacks for cooking he makes up for with drawing and scientific illustration. Soon he had a passable silverpoint architectural diagram of the snuffbox.
"I expect it should be among the effects to be interred with his body." The wizard gestured with his fork and the vision of the snuffbox vanished, quickly followed by his last bite of cabbage roll. "Whether that will be in Korvosa or with his family in Alkenstar, I cannot say. But I'm certain there should be time for formal viewing at the Acadamae itself." He produced another snuffbox, this one of paueliel burl, the sacred "first trees" of the elves. Norret had taught me how to identify paueliel along with a dozen other woods with interesting alchemical properties. A matching traveler's trunk sat against one wall, swirled with whorls like owl eyes, and I swear, I had once seen it blink at me.
Muco, an actual owl and Dr. Orontius's familiar, perched atop a bust of Nethys at one end of the mantel. He swiveled his head around backward and blinked at me for real.
Dr. Orontius merely opened the smaller box, a whorl on the lid forming yet another eye with the iris wide as an O, and took a pinch of snuff in each nostril. The snuffbox disappeared back up his sleeve, replaced with a handkerchief. "I shall give you a letter for Zharmides." He blew his nose decisively. "While he of course will not be able to read it, being dead, it should at least gain you admittance to the funeral."
Where my brother would pick a dead wizard's pocket. Unless Dr. Orontius's "friend" were already interred, in which case Norret would think nothing of burgling the dead.
After all, he'd already dug up my grave. Not that I was complaining.
"He's not going alone," I stated plainly.
"Oh, surely—" said Dr. Orontius.
I cut him off. "Surely something can go wrong."
Norret only smiled with his eyes, but the one without the monocle was almost dancing with amusement. "Orlin is growing up."
"Quite," sniffed Dr. Orontius. "But if this 'thieves vinegar' is as efficacious as purported, there should be no risk to yourselves."
I had already died once of a fever, and while I had been brought back to life, I had no desire to repeat the experience. That said, it was not my brother's alchemy I was worried about.
"As Desna would also have it, tomorrow is an execution day." Dr. Orontius stood, straightening his robes and his beard. "Your boarders will be procuring viands elsewhere, and since you two have no other duties, shall we away now?"
I paused. "Wait. Isn't Korvosa rather far away? Outside of Galt?"
"In Varisia," Dr. Orontius supplied helpfully, "but really, it's no further away than that picture." He gestured to a wall crowded with old paintings. He'd shown me his collection many times, telling tales of his travels in the days before the Revolution: The Grand Opera House of Egorian, capital of devil-haunted Cheliax; or The Warlock's Walk in Nex, parade ground for its arcane arclords.
His finger indicated a smoke-yellowed painting up in one corner. A small brass plaque attached to the frame identified it as The Old Quay In Korvosa. "Are you familiar with a metaphysical process known as 'teleportation'?"
∗∗∗
I was not familiar with teleportation before Dr. Orontius cast his spell. Afterwards? I never wished to experience it again. Unfortunately, if we ever wanted to see our beloved Galt, we would rejoin him on the morrow at this spot when he would transport us back to Isarn.
I was also wondering if we'd traveled in time as well as space, for the sun hung lower in the east than it had in Isarn, but before I could ask, Dr. Orontius pronounced some ritual phrase and vanished with an inrush of air and an audible pop.
Norret and I were left on the quay, a very old dock, even older than the one in Dr. Orontius's antique painting. As I looked down at it, I realized we were standing at the same spot where the painting had been made.
"An excellent illustration of sympathetic magic," Norret remarked.
He wasn't smiling, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. He knew the pun he'd made, but wasn't going to admit it.
"But which branch? Homeopathic or contagious?"
"Homeopathic," I decided. "The Law of Similarity governs a wizard using a painting to go where it shows."
"But wouldn't it also be contagious?" My brother waved a gloved hand. "Surely it was painted from this exact vista."
The boards of the quay were spotted with pigment. A short distance away were two easels with artists behind them. No pun intended, we'd teleported to the most picturesque spot in Korvosa.
"Both then. It falls under the Law of Contact too."
The Law of Contact, or Contagion, stated that things that had once been in contact remained in contact. That meant that anything that touched evil could become evil, so if you put on a ring that had been to the Worldwound, for example, you could be possessed by a demon. If you touched something that had been touched by a plague victim? You could catch the plague.
It was alarming to think about. Before, I had thought that sickness was carried by tiny pixies so small as to be invisible, who flew over the river from Kyonin on mosquitoes and shot people with poison darts. At least that's what the doctor told my mother. While I'm sure she put out a bowl of milk and honey to make them take my fever away, that obviously didn't work.
Norret's solution, rather than milk and honey to bribe capricious fey, was vinegar to drive them off. Thieves vinegar was perfumed with a bouquet of magical herbs–sage, mint, tansy, thyme, rosemary, lavender, wormwood, and rue–but it took an alchemist to know how to decoct them so what you got was an antiplague instead of salad dressing. Besides driving away evil pixies, thieves vinegar was said to ward off fever spirits, purge foul humours, and repel the flies that were the eyes of Urgathoa, at least if you believed the nursery rhyme:
I met a pale lady in a tattered spattered gown.
Her hair was black. Her face was white. Her dress was red and brown.
She said the flies were all her eyes and she saw near and far.
I drove her off with salad and a splash of vinegar!
That was a lot to expect from salad dressing.
That said, I had faith in my brother. He had faith in Citizen Cedrine who'd taught him the formula. She in turn had had faith in the graverobbers who'd used the perfumed vinegar to safely plunder plague pits and battlefields before they were sent to the guillotine for their crimes.
We'd washed with it, gargled with it, and for good measure carried hollowed-out pomander oranges studded with cloves, wreathed in frilly ribbons, and filled with sponges soaked with thieves vinegar. "Carried" is probably not the right word. They were floating, and not just because Rhodel was playing with them or because I'd forgot and reached for something with my soul's hand instead of my regular hand like I sometimes did. They were floating because Norret's only sponge came from a deceased will-o'-wisp, which he'd prepared specially so that it would retain its ability to float. It glowed, too, or at least would come nightfall.
So there we were, standing on the oldest quay in Korvosa with pomander oranges circling our heads.
Strange as it may sound, we were not the strangest people there. Two men walked down the quay wearing perfectly ordinary tricorne hats, but below them they had the faces of storks. Occasionally they stopped at a shop, looked in, and marked an X on the door with chalk. At first I was thinking they had stork men in Korvosa like I'd heard lived in Osirion, but then I realized that they were wearing masks.
"Plague doctors," Norret explained. "Those are doctors' masks."
"Wouldn't storks make more sense for midwives?"
"If they wore them for fashion, yes," explained Norret, "but the beaks hold herbs that work like our pomanders. Powdermaster Davin once helped us rig up similar masks for the battlefield. But he'd been to Korvosa before the Revolution and said it's illegal to wear a doctor's mask if you're not a doctor. Besides, we don't want to see patients. We just need to find Zharmides the Godless—or his body. He is, or at least was, a professor at the Acadamae."
"Where's the Acadamae?"
It was a reasonable question, and I was completely skipping the fact that I'd missed the honorific and "Zharmides the Godless" didn't sound like anyone you wanted to deal with, even if he was dead.
Especially if he was dead. I didn't know what the gods did with atheists, but it couldn't be pleasant. And I'm saying this as someone who met a couple of them.
Gods, I mean. Not atheists. Or, if I hadn't met them, at least I dreamed about Shelyn and Pharasma talking about me when I was dying, so it sort of counts.
"I think it's on the top of a hill." Norret glanced around. Two hills were visible in the city, one nearer, one farther. "Let me ask."
He went over to one of the artists while I stood there feeling somewhere between stupid and nervous. Apart from that time when I died, I'd never been outside of Galt, and while Korvosa wasn't as grand as Isarn, it was still far grander than Dabril. And there was a plague, so I assumed many folk were staying in.
"Reefclaw pasty! Hot 'n tasty!"
Even plague couldn't stop barkers. A young woman wearing a patchwork scarf waved to me. Her booth's sign read Meatclaw's Feast! It showed some horrible monster with the front half of a lobster and the back half of an eel, a giant wooden claw grasping a doll in the shape of a terrified fisherman.
Behind the young woman was an older one tending a cauldron of boiling oil. She used a wire mesh scoop to fish out balls of fried meat that looked like the salmon croquettes. One of them floated in the air, took a second to dip itself in what looked like cameline sauce, and popped itself in my open mouth.
I didn't know whether to thank Rhodel or be annoyed at her, so I just ate it. The sauce did taste like cameline, with cinnamon and nutmeg, but with mint in place of the usual ginger. The pasties tasted like crayfish-and-lamprey tarts.
"For eight silver shields, I'll owe you three more pasties and another spoon of thileu bark sauce." I glanced at the menu slate. It seemed spice was as dear in Korvosa as it was in Isarn, but meat was cheaper, even if it was monster meat.
I took out a gold minted by one of Galt's previous Revolutionary Councils and tossed it to her. The young woman scrutinized it and shrugged. She handed me a paper cone with three more pasties, a waxed paper cup of dipping sauce, and a couple of the local silvers which did indeed have shields on them.
I went back over to Norret, who was talking with one of the artists. "And they still make Newby Violet? Excellent!" He noted the reefclaw pasties and the dipping sauce. He took one, sampling both. "Thileu bark? Some interesting alchemical properties there. And... reefclaw?" He glanced over at the sign. "That could come in useful."
He took a second pasty and munched it. Then he confiscated the last pasty and the dipping sauce, placing the pasty in a pouch and the sauce in a stoppered vial. "Intriguing stuff, thileu bark. Only the Varisians know the trick of harvesting it." He chewed, considering. "Said to be one of the few spices potent enough to be tasted by the dead."
"Did you find the Acadamae?"
"Oh, yes, it's on that hill over there." He pointed to the farther one. "But I also found out where we could buy a map."
My brother had that dreamy look he sometimes gets. He led us up a couple streets and around a corner. There he stopped and stared with an expression like he'd seen Shelyn combing out her rainbow-streaked hair.
I saw a sagging old shop with a quilt of little diamond-paned windows displaying pots and jars, easels and brushes, and a signboard that looked like an artist's palette sized for a giant. The multicolored splotches spelled out Hessim, Newby, & Sage Paint Manufactory.
"Powdermaster Davin told me about this place."
I followed my brother inside. The shop reeked of turpentine and linseed oil. And poison. My unicorn senses were almost overwhelmed: arsenic in the familiar Isarn green, quicksilver in the Tian red, and white lead in the flake white. That was everywhere, in gallon jars and penny pots and covering all the pre-painted canvases.
They also, indeed, had maps, whimsical illustrated ones with points of interest drawn to a larger scale. But the pigments and poisons were everything an alchemist could dream of, which explained my brother's glazed expression. "I want your deluxe set. The one with everything—including the special pigments..."
Three old men stood behind the counter. When I say "old," I mean you could picture them patting liches on the head and calling them "sonny." When I say "men," I'm meaning men shorter than me, like tall no-nonsense gnomes. On the wall behind the counter hung three masterful portraits labeled with helpful brass plaques: Hessim, Newby, and Sage.
Sage spoke first: "You couldn't afford it."
Hessim spoke second: "Who told you to ask?"
Newby simply took off his thick spectacles, polished them with a velvet pocket square, and named a figure that would have made Abadar check his vault.
Norret did not drop his monocle. He reached into his pack and pulled out a beautiful cut crystal flask that had formerly belonged to Dabril's duchess and had until recently held honeysuckle absolute. Now it was glowing with an eerie light. "Perhaps we could work out a trade."
Coming Next Week: Adventures at the Acadamae with Norret and Orlin in Chapter Two of "Thieves Vinegar."
Kevin Andrew Murphy is the author of numerous stories, poems, and novels, as well as a writer for Wild Cards, George R. R. Martin's shared-world anthology line. His previous Pathfinder Tales stories include "The Secret of the Rose and Glove" and "The Perfumer's Apprentice" (also starring Norret and Orlin), and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.
She looked me over again, her eyes lingering on my arms, the spurs on my elbows, my fists, and all the fights carved into my red leather jacket. "I thought you might be the sort of man who had killed before."
Killing Time
by Dave Gross
Chapter Four: The Killing Radovan
It'd been over a year since I'd felt the touch of a woman's hand, much less the rest of her. Iolanda, the most beautiful prostitute in Absalom, had just offered me a whole night with her. All she wanted in return was one little murder.
"No dice, sweetheart."
She looked me over again, her eyes lingering on my arms, the spurs on my elbows, my fists, and all the fights carved into my red leather jacket. "I thought you might be the sort of man who had killed before."
"I'm trying to cut back."
She turned real slow, her dark eyes stroking me. A bead of sweat slipped down my neck.
It'd been over a year. I'd never gone a year.
"What'd this guy do to make you want him dead?"
She sat down in front of a vanity and held my brothel token near the lamp. I could just make out the naughty image on its face. "He took a purse full of tokens like this one."
"Exactly like that one?"
"No," she said. "All different. He doles them out as tips to common, ugly men, brutes and servants."
I tried not to take it personal. There wasn't a thing I'd rather do than to go through that purse and cash in every token, one by one. Still, it wasn't worth a man's life. I said so.
"He beat me," she said. "In front of everyone."
Back in my Trick Alley days, I beat the hell out of the men who got too rough. I broke a lot of arms and legs, cracked more than a couple of skulls, and I was happy to do it. But the rule was, you don't take a life except for another one.
And yeah, I knew some men need killing. Those cutthroats I'd beaten earlier. It wasn't wrong to say I'd have done Absalom a big favor by ending them.
But I hadn't. Sure, both in the Goatherds and later, working for the boss, I'd had to do some killings, but it'd always been to keep the other guy—or rat-man or demon—from killing me first. They all had it coming.
This last year, though, in the body of my own personal devil, I'd killed plenty of guys who didn't have it coming. I thought about the monks of Iron Mountain almost every day. I had nightmares about those phoenix girls.
"I can get those tokens back for you. I can even bust him up real bad. But I don't kill him."
She turned to spill all that black, black hair over the shoulder. "For an hour of my attentions."
"All night."
"You drive a hard bargain."
It had been a year. "Sweetheart, you got no idea."
∗∗∗
Iolanda pulled a bell rope that summoned the thin white butler. She whispered in the servant's ear, and she or he nodded, led me halfway downstairs, and pointed through an open archway at a game of towers in the next room. There was my mark.
The big fellow lounged back in his chair, drawing on a fat cigar as one of his two toadies played his cards for him. Thick hair bristled on his bulging forearms, and his beard was coming in after a morning's shave.
"They will leave soon," the servant whispered. "They must be far away before any misfortune falls on them."
I gave the servant the don't-tell-me-my-business stare. She or he called over a hellspawn girl to keep me occupied, but I didn't want to spoil my appetite. "I'll just hang out."
The mark gave up on towers a couple hours later. He tipped the dealer with one of those platinum tokens. I couldn't see what favor was on its face, but from the dealer's eyes, it was a good one. The mark and his lackeys pushed off. I gave them half a minute and followed.
I saw the mark's goons walking away without him, a carriage rolling off in the opposite direction. I recognized the shape of the mark's head in the rear window.
Desna was smiling on me.
Before I could whistle, another carriage pulled up. The horses shied as they got close to me, so I jumped into the cab. As they settled down, the driver who'd dropped me off turned around with a grin. He'd been waiting for another good tip.
"Follow that carriage," I told him. He slapped the reins.
We followed the mark back toward the docks, where he got out beside a warehouse office. His buddies were nowhere in sight, but he paused before putting a key in the door. He looked right at the carriage. Right at me.
He pointed at the docks and crooked a finger before walking over to the boardwalk.
"Shall I drive on, sir?"
"Nah, this is good." I tossed him the second-smallest of the purses I'd taken from the cutthroats. Before he could ask, I said, "Stick around. This won't take long."
I followed the mark across the boardwalk. The place was almost deserted, with only a few night watchmen swinging lanterns between the warehouses. My guy went up to one of them and bought the lantern from him. The watchman got lost while my guy climbed a narrow stair beneath the boardwalk.
I followed him down. The beach stank of fish and seaweed, and the lantern light cast long shadows across the pebbled shore.
The other fellow rolled up his sleeves as I moved in, showing off just how big his arms were. The way he did it reminded me of the bouncers back at the brothel. In fact, everything about him reminded me of those bouncers, like they were imitating him when they used that gesture.
He just put up his fists and beckoned me to come on. I kissed my thumb, drew the wings of Desna on my heart, and went in.
The guy surprised me with a quick, long punch. I got my arms up barely in time, but he smashed my guard back into my face.
He fought in the classic style, fingernails up for inspection, thumbs outside. I bounced back, slid to the side, and went in for a shot to the ribs. He shot back with a one-two that cracked my wrist and smashed my ear. I danced away, grinning with a confidence I didn't feel. He rushed me again.
I put a dock piling between us. He came around, and I ran behind another one. I needed to think. All those great moves I'd learned in Tian Xia were scrambled in my head. I'd learned them while stuck in a devil body. Now that it was gone, I didn't feel them the way I had for the past year. I had to think about them, and that made me slow.
"You going to run, run now," he said. "Just don't let me see you back at my brothel."
Radovan's jacket tells a story, but not a happy one.
Your brothel?
I came around the piling, fists high. When his shoulder dropped for a punch, I Swept the Beach. My foot barely caught his heel, but quick as spite he stomped my ankle. He put all his weight down, pinning me.
He walked up my leg. I tried kicking him, but he caught my other foot and twisted hard. He got a scream, but not as much as he wanted. He raised a foot to crush my gnarlies.
I winced, expecting the pain but knowing it'd be worse for him. He must have seen it on my face. At the last instant, he turned just enough to smash my thigh instead of impaling his foot on my spiked cup.
I scissored my legs around his foot and rolled. We both went down, tumbling over the stones. A dead crab tore the hell out of my cheek. The guy got his finger in my ear, moved to put a thumb in my eye. I kneed him in the gut and tried to roll away, but he hung on.
His size and strength gave him the advantage. We fought with knees and elbows, which gave it back to me. I bloodied his hip with a spur. He pulled a razor from his belt and damned near drew me a new smile.
"Stupid son of a bitch, I wasn't going to kill you," I growled.
"You think you're the first? I'm sick of it. Once I'm done with you, I'm going to kill that whore."
I pushed away the hand with the razor in it. Then I let it come back, only this time I turned my head and opened wide. I'm not proud to be a biter, but you got to go with your strengths.
He lost the razor along with most of the use of that hand.
"I'll kill her slow," he gasped. "Believe it."
Before I could answer, he smashed my nose with a head-butt. The pain blinded me. He pushed me away. We got to our feet, blinking and reeling. Somebody kicked the lantern, sending the world spinning under the docks. I closed my eyes and listened for his breath. I charged, catching him right in the breadbasket.
We fell into the surf. His head hit something hard, but not hard enough to knock him out. He fought for his life, because that's what we were fighting for now. I got his ear in one hand, a hank of hair in the other. I shoved his head under the water.
His fingers found my throat. For a second I faltered. His head came up. "You don't know who you're dealing with! You'll never get out of Absalom ali—"
I put his head back under and counted. At thirteen I let him up again. He sputtered, "I'll pay you!"
That got my attention. "What about Iolanda?"
"You can buy out her contract. She gambles it all away anyway. You can win it back like I did."
He beat me. Those had been her words. I'd just assumed she meant the other thing.
Which was what she'd been betting on.
This guy was her pimp, not a bad customer. Iolanda knew he wouldn't let things go if I just beat him. If he went back to kill her, it was her own damned fault.
Still.
"Tell me you won't lay a hand on her," I said. "Make me believe it."
"I swear."
His eyes flicked down as he said it.
"Sorry, pal." I put his head back under. "I believed you the first time."
∗∗∗
It was just after dawn when I hopped out of the carriage in front of the boss's little clubhouse. Smoke rose from a blackened building. The boss stood beside a scorched semicircle in the lawn, standing straight while a couple of Pathfinder mucky-mucks chewed him out. Arnisant caught my eye like he wanted to escape, so I called him over and scratched his jaw.
When the shouting was done, the boss came over with a fire-crippled servant carrying his satchel. The boss stopped when he saw the cab. "I have been too long without the Red Carriage," he said. "Back to the inn. We shall collect our things and take the first ship to Greengold."
That was fine by me. I'd be glad if we never saw this damned town again.
Arnisant followed the boss into the cab, and the burned servant offered me the boss's bag.
I said, "You want to help with the luggage?"
He hesitated, glancing back at the smoldering building. I could tell he wanted an excuse to leave but needed a little incentive. I held up the purse I'd taken from Iolanda's pimp. "I'll make it worth your while."
Coming Next Week: A band-new adventure featuring Norret the alchemist and his resurrected brother Orlin in "Thieves' Vinegar"!
Enjoying this story so far? Check out even more adventures of Radovan and Varian in the new novel Queen of Thorns, available now!
Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy,""A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.
Killing Time by Dave Gross ... Chapter Three: The Dead Prince ... Varian The intruder stepped out of the shadows. I stood, shocked by several simultaneous realizations. ... Foremost was that he had employed magic to read my thoughts, thus causing my momentary dizziness and his echoing of my unspoken notion. My irritation with the Decemvirate paled in comparison to my outrage at the violation. ... You will never guess who I am. The intruder's voice was a sneer behind his golden mask. ......
Killing Time
by Dave Gross
Chapter Three: The Dead Prince Varian
The intruder stepped out of the shadows. I stood, shocked by several simultaneous realizations.
Foremost was that he had employed magic to read my thoughts, thus causing my momentary dizziness and his echoing of my unspoken notion. My irritation with the Decemvirate paled in comparison to my outrage at the violation.
"You will never guess who I am." The intruder's voice was a sneer behind his golden mask.
Locking my gaze to his jaundiced eyes, I made a silent inventory of my weapons: riffle scrolls before me, the Shadowless Sword at my hip, and Arnisant at my feet. Yet for the moment, my most powerful weapon might be a sharp tongue. "Prince Kasiya of Osirion."
He choked. "How—?"
"You wear the funereal garb of the royal family of Osirion, with the addition of a few rather gaudy accessories." The latter caught my interest: the miniature chariot had to be a magical conveyance, and by the durable bindings—one crocodile hide, the other the skin of a large blue-skinned reptile—I inferred Kasiya's books contained arcana or similarly rare material. To my knowledge, Kasiya had not been a spellcaster when we last met. Of course, to his knowledge, neither had I.
"So my attire made it all too easy for you to guess my mortal identity. Still, you can hardly deduce the nature of my incredible return from death and entomb—"
"Vampire."
"How could you possibly—?"
"You are smothered in the traditional burial ointments and herbs, yet not of sufficient quantity to disguise the stench of a ghoul or ghast. You are obviously tangible, so you cannot be a spectre, wraith, or ghost. You speak articulately, so your mental functions are no worse than they were in life. And let us be frank, Kasiya: You were never lich material."
"Prince Kasiya!" he sputtered, bloody flecks forming around the rim of his mask's mouth. He struck the table with such force that he left the impression of his fist in the mahogany. "You will address me as 'Your Highness.'"
As he raged, I slipped a pair of riffle scrolls into my coat pockets. I did the same again and put a third pair in my hands before he regained his composure.
"You are no longer a prince, Kasiya. You are a corpse, a carcass, a cadaver—a casing of dead flesh. You have sunk lower than the grave, become more common than dust. 'Kasiya' is too much name for you."
"You, a mere count, dare speak to me with such insolence? You should bow to the ground and grovel for mercy, for I have bided my time for decades, mastered the arts arcane, plotted every calculation for the singular purpose of—"
"Revenge." I yawned into my palm, holding the riffle scroll between my fingers like one of those loathsome cigars with which Radovan used to annoy me. It was, I thought, a rather good semblance of nonchalance—so long as Kasiya did not notice the trembling of my fingers. "Vengeance is the common motivation for your ilk."
"Again you say 'common'!?" Kasiya sputtered. "And my ilk?"
"Vampires are as susceptible to pride as... well, as susceptible as princes. Dead ones."
Kasiya raised a bandaged hand to trace a symbol in the air. I recognized the gesture as the beginning of an incendiary invocation. As he cupped his hands around a growing spark, I dropped a riffle scroll and snatched another from my pocket. Its pages snapped across my thumb. I felt the arcane tingling of my counterspell wash away his nascent fireball.
"Not in the library," I admonished him. While he glowered, I dropped the expended scroll and slipped another into my hand. "After all, you too were a Pathfinder, once."
Kasiya's halting breath gurgled and broke into such a repugnant sound that it took me a moment to recognize it as laughter. "You hide your fear well. I had forgotten that you too enjoy some excess of pride."
"Honor."
"Semantics."
His words struck like a dash of cold water. Either Kasiya had been spying on me for hours, or else—
No, I refused to believe my artless Osirian nemesis had gulled me with an impersonation of a member of the inner circle. Besides, it was inconceivable that a vampire could infiltrate the Decemvirate. Or so I prayed.
"You mentioned revenge," said Kasiya, rising confidence in his voice. "Tell me, Chelaxian, what in your infernal empire is a fit punishment for a man who betrays a prince and leaves him for dead?"
"Your implied accusation is false on both counts."
"How do you mean 'false'?"
Kasiya's mask cannot hide the horror he's become.
"First, I did not leave you for dead; you were in fact dead. Second, I did not leave your remains; I returned them to your royal brother, whose noble hospitality I repaid by withholding the true account of your treachery."
"Enough," said Kasyia. "It is time to make you suffer."
"In that you have already succeeded with your tiresome posturing."
Kasiya lifted the blue-bound book hanging from his girdle. He twisted open the latch and revealed the contents. In an instant I recognized the weird writing and detestable illustrations.
"The Lacuna Codex!"
"Ah!" Humor returned to Kasiya's sepulchral voice. "At last I surprise you."
In the hands of a powerful wizard, the rituals contained in the Lacuna Codex could alter the course of history. They were weapons so dreadful that the last prince of Ustalav hesitated to unleash its powers, perishing at the hands of Tar-Baphon before the hero Arnisant finally sacrificed himself to imprison the Whispering Tyrant. After recovering the Codex from that prince's tomb, I entrusted it to the Decemvirate.
And now Kasiya had it.
"What do you think of me now, Count Jeggare? With such power in my grasp, do I still amuse you?"
"Read me a bit."
"What?"
"Anywhere will do. Perhaps that caption under that rather disgusting illustration."
"You test my patience."
"Surely you can read ancient Thassilonian," I said. "If not, this tome is of no more use to you than to a blind beggar."
I raised a riffle scroll, but before I could place my thumb upon its edge, Kasiya leaped over the table and struck me full on the chest.
His icy hand pressed down upon my heart. I slapped the golden mask from his face.
Where once Kasiya's face had been a study in Osirian beauty, it was now a patchwork ruin. The brown skin, once lustrous, now resembled a patch of moldering leaves through which writhed livid worms. His teeth floated in his lumpish jaws, irregular except for the prominent fangs peculiar to blood-drinkers. As I watched, his crooked nose wriggled back into place after my strike had flattened it against his cheek.
Kasiya lashed out again, tearing open my shirt. There on my chest lay the outline of his hand, white fading to the natural hue of my flesh.
"You life essence should be mine. How—?"
I had an inkling of the answer, but the time for badinage had passed. "Arnisant!"
The hound did not stir from his place near my feet. For an instant I felt the panic of imagining he were dead, but his chest moved, and I heard the steady groan of his snore.
Kasiya let out another horrid gurgle. "Your pet will not wake until you are dead. When I have finished with you, I shall let him dine on your corpse."
I snapped a riffle scroll. Kasiya drew an eldritch sign to ward off my spell, but I had not aimed at him.
My magic peeled away the enchantment that kept Arnisant asleep. I pointed at Kasiya. "Arnisant, hands!"
With a scrabble of claws on the floor, Arnisant leaped. Kasiya grasped the hilt of his khopesh while fending off the dog with his empty hand. He shouted and drew back the hand, one finger short.
Kasiya slashed his khopesh toward Arnisant. The blade missed, but he pummeled the hound with the weapon's butt. Arnisant fell back, choking on the putrescent finger. He coughed it up, and the gray appendage dissolved into slime on the floor.
I dropped the expended scroll and drew the Shadowless Sword, thrusting at Kasiya's exposed face.
He fell back with inhuman speed, yet my swift blade scratched his cheek. Black ooze welled up on his mottled skin.
I struck again. He grabbed at my blade, but I withdrew before he could capture it in his unholy grip.
Kasiya retreated, but only one step. He whirled the khopesh above his head, bringing it down in a blinding arc. I stepped back scarcely in time to avoid destruction. The heavy blade splintered my chair.
I unleashed another riffle scroll. Its magic tingled through my sinews. Poised for another attack, Arnisant uttered a querulous whuffle as he felt the spell affect him too.
Kasiya flew toward us, but now Arnisant and I matched him in alacrity. The vampire's sword struck empty air where I had stood an instant earlier. Arnisant blurred behind Kasiya, harrying his heels.
I circled the table, attacking Kasiya's exposed face at every opportunity. His parries struck hard against my blade, but they were hasty—he still feared attacks to his face and eyes. He feinted a leap onto the table but turned instead to cut at Arnisant.
"Arnisant, out!" Kasiya's blade scored a shallow cut across the hound's hip as Arnisant ran back. I stabbed deep into Kasiya's ham. His lunge faltered, but he staggered forward, recovering as abominable energies repaired his severed ligaments.
I pressed the attack. Kasiya retreated into the library stacks. With his free hand, he swept books from the shelves. They crashed over me, the dust of decades blinding me.
The creaking of a high shelf alerted me to the danger I could no longer see. Pushing books through the nearest shelf, I snaked through the towering stack even as it fell upon its neighbor. The massive shelves cascaded one against the other as I rolled back toward the tables at the center of the room. I turned to witness the ruin of the windows as the last stack fell against them, shattering the stained glass.
Beyond the broken window, the pink of dawn colored the eastern sky.
I repressed the impulse to taunt Kasiya. He still had time to kill me, if I were careless. Taking another riffle scroll in hand, I watched the open window, ready to slow his escape with a frost spell. Nothing moved above the roiling dust. Instead, I heard a crackle of flames from the direction of the door.
Kasiya released the fireball. As it flew toward me, it grew from the size of a pea to the circumference of a pumpkin. I leaped for Arnisant, trying to knock the dog flat on the floor.
The blast swept us both across the room.
My head rang with the explosion of dust. Burning pages flapped around us like fiery birds landing on a charred beach.
Kasiya stood before the door, unperturbed by the explosion. Retrieving his mask, he favored me with an ugly, eel-like smile. "This is the first of your punishments, Count Jeggare. Do not dare to hope that it shall be the last."
As he spoke, his features melted. So too did his flesh and garments, dissolving into a greasy cloud that seeped beneath the crack of the repository door.
Scrabbling to my feet, I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Locked.
Heedless of the flames rising around me, I collected my satchel and as many of the materials as I could find in the wreckage of the table. Happily, the scroll I required was one of those I recovered in the debris. I discharged its magic to open the door and stepped out of the smothering smoke into the cool air of dawn.
The hue of "Fire!" rang across the grounds of the Grand Lodge. Servants and Pathfinders poured out of the nearest buildings. A few lugged buckets, demonstrating the efficiency with which they had learned the menial lessons taught to burgeoning Pathfinders—lessons that I, by virtue of my noble birth, had been spared.
"Venture-Captain, you are injured." Timon thrust his bucket into the arms of another man and produced a handkerchief to press against my temple. By his fearful grimace, I saw he was glad of any excuse not to approach the inferno.
I took the handkerchief, grateful for the gesture but uncomfortable at the touch of a servant.
A Pathfinder, I reminded myself. Timon was not always a servant. I shuddered to imagine myself set down so low, a humiliation I had experienced recently. A growing light from the sky arrested my attention.
Another fireball fell toward us. Illuminated in its glow, Kasiya rode upon his now full-sized chariot, drawn by a pack of flying saluki dogs. Beside me, Timon gasped but stood paralyzed by fear.
Frantic, I fumbled with my satchel, eyes searching for the right scroll. My fingers found it, my thumb pressing against its unbound edge, and the blaze engulfed me.
Coming Next Week: Blood and waves in the final chapter of Dave Gross's "Killing Time."
Enjoying this story so far? Check out even more adventures of Radovan and Varian in the new novel Queen of Thorns, available now!
Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy,""A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.
Killing Time by Dave Gross ... Chapter Two: Token of Affection ... Radovan Stand fast, varlet! ... I could hardly believe my ears. What did you say? ... Don't move. The bravo struck a pose and looked down his skinny sword at me. ... That ain't what you said. What did you call me? ... He sneered, probably thinking I couldn't hear his buddies creeping up behind me. When I told the boss I was going out for some exercise, this wasn't what I had in mind. The swordsman looked me in the eye. Varlet....
Killing Time
by Dave Gross
Chapter Two: Token of Affection Radovan
"Stand fast, varlet!"
I could hardly believe my ears. "What did you say?"
"Don't move." The bravo struck a pose and looked down his skinny sword at me.
"That ain't what you said. What did you call me?"
He sneered, probably thinking I couldn't hear his buddies creeping up behind me. When I told the boss I was going out for some exercise, this wasn't what I had in mind. The swordsman looked me in the eye. "Varlet."
"That's what I thought." I crooked a finger. "Why don't you come over here and whisper it in my ear."
He slid a step closer before thinking better of it. He had a good five inches of height on me. Along with the sword, that gave him plenty of reach. In the narrow alley, that gave him one hell of an advantage. Judging from the purses I saw dangling from his belt, it'd been working out for him so far.
I could've put a dart in his eye, but that would've spoiled the surprise for his buddies, who didn't know I knew where they were. Besides, after the past year, I wasn't in much of a killing mood.
"When I hear a word like 'varlet,' I know I'm talking to a special kind of guy," I said. "The kind with a scented hanky in his cuff, maybe a monocle just for show, a box of powdered tobacco to sniff off the back of his wrist. You know the kind of guy I mean. In Cheliax, we'd call you a poet."
"Mind your tongue, hellspawn, or I will give you such—"
"A poet'd say 'thrashing.'"
"—a thrashing— Curse you, you insolent Chel!"
"I've got to hand it to you, though. You Absalom thugs dress better than Egorian river rats." I sniffed at him. "Smell nice, too. What's that, lilac water?"
"How dare you! I am no thug. I am a gentleman. I keep the streets of Absalom—"
"Alleys."
"I keep them clean of scum like you."
I nodded at the purses on his belt. "And charge us for the privilege, yeah?"
For a second he lost his tough and looked past me at his partners. His eyes told me I'd guessed right when I heard their boots scrape the cobblestones: there were two moving in, one on either side. They needed a little more time, so I vamped.
"So you want my purse? What about my fancy new jacket? You wouldn't believe how much it cost. I had it made in a city on the other side of the world, ten times bigger than this little hamlet." I showed off the dragon running down either sleeve, the monkey and the swordswoman tooled on the chest. I imagined the backstabbers checking out the phoenix on the back. "On the other hand, it's a bit wide in the shoulders for a skinny little poet like you. You ever lift anything heavier than that toothpicker?"
"You'll eat those words—"
The guy on my left made his move. I whipped around to put a spur in his belly. Lucky for him, I caught him in his big thick belt. The sharp bone jutting from my elbow didn't perforate him, but it knocked the wind out of him.
The second guy lunged for where I wasn't standing anymore. I threw out my leg in a move my late "master" called Sweeping the Grass. For the first time I realized that name didn't make any sense. Who sweeps the grass? It should've been Sweeping the Porch or the Sweeping the Street or something. Maybe I'd rename it now that the old bastard was gone to Hell and I wasn't. Not yet.
When I took out his legs, the second mook hit the cobblestones hard. He tried to stand but slipped in a pile of garbage, raising a terrific stink before falling again.
While I was dancing with his friends, the gentleman moved in to take a stab at me. I tugged the first goon over by the belt, careful to let his pal's sword miss the important parts. That's the kind of guy I am: considerate of others' feelings. Not that you'd believe it from the guy's yowling.
"Desna weeps." For all I knew, the city guard showed up in Absalom alleys. I was going to have to wrap this up.
The second knucklehead tried to get up, so I gave him a rap on the noggin. The bleeder sat on the alley floor, clutching his belly and wailing.
"Shut up, you, or I'll give you something to cry about." Maybe I didn't want to kill these jerks, but he was testing my resolve.
I grabbed the blades they'd dropped and saw the bloodstains. They'd used these knives recently.
"You aren't just robbers," I said. "You're cutthroats."
Gentleman took a step toward me. I showed him the big smile, and he froze.
"Stand still, knave. I will hold you here to answer to the city guard."
"Seriously? You want to explain these to the city guard?" I threw away the bloody knives and pocketed the stolen purses from the backstabbers.
The point of his sword drooped.
"That's more like it. Now hand over your loot."
The man had no guile. His feint was obvious. Before his point came anywhere near me, I lunged below it, sitting splits in a lunge the aforementioned late master called Monkey Plucks the Peaches.
Gentleman recited his vowels, top of his lungs at first, then weak as a squeaky hinge.
"Drop it." When he didn't, I shook the tree.
The sword hit the ground. Three of the purses followed.
"All of them." I squeezed.
Fingers shaking, he slipped out a platinum coin and tucked it behind his sash before letting the purse fall to the ground.
I collected the money while he cradled his peaches. When I reached for his sash, he tucked an elbow over the coin. I cracked him across the face and took the coin. It was different from the local currency I'd seen. "What's this?"
"A token," he wheezed. "Sentimental value. Please... let me keep it."
Instead of the head of a queen or a bishop, stamped on the face of the coin was a woman performing what the boss would call "an unmentionable act."
For a couple seconds I considered what to do with these lousy killers. Cutting their throats would be a big favor to the neighbors. But I really was sick of killing.
I flipped the coin, slapped it flat on the back of my hand, pretended to make a choice. "Desna smiles on you boys tonight."
I sauntered away until I turned the corner. Then I ran.
∗∗∗
Who could say no to a face like Iolanda's?
According to the fourth guy I asked, the brothel that minted the coin was way across town. Between the boss's purse and the loot I took from the cutthroats, there was no reason to walk. I flagged down a carriage. Settling into the cab, I couldn't stop looking at the coin, rolling it across my knuckles. It'd been a long, long time since anyone'd done something that kind of unmentionable to me.
At the brothel, I tossed the driver the smallest of the stolen purses. He took a peek inside and whistled his appreciation. "Shall I wait for you, sir?"
"Nah, I'm going to take my time."
He tipped his hat as I jumped out.
The bouncers took one look at me and started pushing up their sleeves. I didn't want any more trouble. One of the bouncers was a half-orc with tusks bigger than my spurs.
"Take it easy, fellas," I said. "I got this coin."
They squinted at the token, grumbled a bit, and nodded at the halfling doorman. As I went inside, the slip whispered, "Nice jacket."
I never get tired of hearing that. Some fellas spend all their money on booze or shiver. Me, I like to look sharp. I tipped the slip a gold coin, which didn't seem to impress him much. Once I got inside, I saw why.
The boss, he's probably the richest guy in Egorian, capital of Cheliax, which is pretty much the richest country in the world. That makes my boss the richest guy in the world.
Well, maybe that's not what he'd call "empirically true." But let's just say that the difference between my boss and the actual richest guy in the world is less than the difference between me and somebody else who ain't rich.
The boss is better with the metaphors.
The brothel's salon made the boss's look like a warehouse office. It was all red velvet cushions, tiger-hide couches, chandeliers like all the stars fell down at once, carpet so thick you needed a machete to cross the room, with all the knobs and fixtures made of gold-plated gold. And the girls...
Years back, my old boss Zandros the Fair put me in charge of security for a couple of the Goatherds' houses on Trick Alley. Even after he got jealous and put me back on collections, I spent a fair amount of my free time getting to know the ladies of the lane. Whenever one of the houses brought in a great beauty, the madam always said the new girl was from some far-away land: Osirion, Qadira, Tian Xia, Rahadoum, or Katapesh. Standing in this fancy brothel, I realized they'd all lied.
All those beauties came from Absalom.
The girls were made of all the colors, hair and eyes and skin. There were elf girls with ears as slim as milkweed, and their eyes were jewels. There were slip girls nimble as forest nymphs, three of them chasing each other over the furniture and through the legs of the clients. There were fat girls, skinny girls, tall girls, short girls, a couple of bald girls, and one dwarf girl with biceps bigger than mine. I winked at her. Later on, we were going to talk massage.
Somebody put a cool glass in my hand. I drank it without looking. Fizzy.
"Can I help you find something in particular?" A slim fellow in a white butler's coat stood beside me. When I got a closer look, I wasn't so sure it was a fellow after all.
"I got this coin." I showed it.
"Iolanda. You lucky devil." His or her wink smoothed over my suspicion that it was a crack about my bloodline. Lots of folks mistake the grip of the big knife hanging from the spine of my jacket for a tail, which I don't have—and no horns neither, so don't even start. Not-a-butler pointed up a spiral staircase to indicate a balcony on the third floor. "Up there."
I tossed away the glass and started up the stairs.
From some angles the hair she let spill over the balcony was black as ink. From others, blue as midnight.
People got in my way, but I pushed them aside without a glance. I couldn't look away from Iolanda.
It was her eyes. They weren't blue, not if sapphires are blue. Not purple either, if that's what you call amethysts. They were the color of those stars you think you see some nights, only when you point them out to someone else, they're already gone, dark as the blank sky. But you never forget them.
Iolanda didn't look at me, even after I got close. I tried to follow her gaze, but she wasn't looking at anybody downstairs, although plenty of them were staring up at her. She sighed through lips like ripe plums.
On the way up, I'd worked out a few ice-breaking lines, real charming stuff. When the moment came, I cracked the little smile and said, "I got this coin."
She looked down at me. She didn't quite sniff, but her expression told me she was used to seeing a higher class of client. Still, she took the coin. Her fingernails were painted the exact same shade as her lips. Somebody's got that job, I thought, staring at her lips while mixing that color. Desna smiles on that guy.
"Come." She led me to a bedroom door. "This won't take long."
"Don't be so quick to judge." On the other hand, I thought, I'd been what you call abstinent for over a year. "Let's take our time. I got all night."
She stopped and turned toward me, her voice serious. "You understand what these tokens indicate. You receive only the favor shown."
"Yeah, I know. I just figured..." I shrugged, hopeful.
"Only what is shown, and only for as long as it takes." She gave me a closer look. Her eyes trailed across my jacket. She frowned like she was thinking. I wanted to make her smile.
"How much for the night? I got money."
She named her price. The only guy I knew who could pay it was the boss, and he'd need more guys to carry that purse.
She saw it on my face and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps there is something else you can do for me. Something that would be worth more of my attention." She trailed a finger along the dragon on my left shoulder. Even through the leather, her touch gave me a thrill.
"What do you want, sweetheart? Just name it."
She smiled.
"A killing."
Coming Next Week: Old enemies reaquainted in Chapter Three of Dave Gross's "Killing Time."
Enjoying this story so far? Check out even more adventures of Radovan and Varian in the new novel Queen of Thorns, available now!
Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy,""A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.
Killing Time by Dave Gross ... Chapter One: The Night Visitor ... Varian The old servant fumbled with the keys. The glow of the lantern transformed his gnarled hands into dried roots. ... At my side, Arnisant growled a warning. The instant I touched the Shadowless Sword, a gloved hand covered mine in a gesture doubtless intended to reassure me. Instead, the unwelcome touch raised the hairs on my neck. My pulse remained calm, however, a reminder of the strange transfiguration of my lately...
Killing Time
by Dave Gross
Chapter One: The Night Visitor Varian
The old servant fumbled with the keys. The glow of the lantern transformed his gnarled hands into dried roots.
At my side, Arnisant growled a warning. The instant I touched the Shadowless Sword, a gloved hand covered mine in a gesture doubtless intended to reassure me. Instead, the unwelcome touch raised the hairs on my neck. My pulse remained calm, however, a reminder of the strange transfiguration of my lately sundered heart.
Invisible a moment earlier, a woman glanced up at me. The shadow beneath her voluminous hood offered no impediment to my half-elven vision, yet I perceived only a platinum mask inlaid with blue gemstones. I had seen that mask only a few hours earlier, on one of the Decemvirate, the anonymous inner circle of the Pathfinder Society.
I showed Arnisant a hand sign. The wolfhound's growl ceased.
"I'll take those, Timon." The woman released my hand and reached for the lantern and keys.
I recognized the servant's name. As he surrendered the lantern, I saw that the wrinkles on his face and hands were the result not of age but of horrific burns.
"Timon of Korvosa," I said. "The Timon who stole the captain of the Sable Company's steed. The Timon who eloped with Chief Redmuzzle's daughter."
He bowed, stiff from his wounds but with a crooked smile acknowledging his pleasure at the recognition.
"Eloped?" The masked woman fidgeted, keys rattling, light bobbing. "Wasn't Chief Redmuzzle a goblin of the Mushfens?"
"The marriage was strictly a matter of self-preservation," said Timon.
"But goblins hate humans."
"Shortly before encountering Redmuzzle's tribe, I ran afoul of a marsh witch—"
"Green Sobeska!" I recalled his decades-old report in the Pathfinder Chronicles. "From the hag you retrieved several fragments of the tablets of Xanderghul. She transmogrified you into a goblin as you fled her grotto."
"I am flattered that you remember, Venture-Captain."
Timon's use of my Society title pleased and irritated me in equal portion. After my infuriating audience with the Decemvirate, I remained uncertain of my status. In my long absence, they had reassigned all of my field agents to others, leaving me a venture-captain in name only.
"Thank you, Timon." The woman's cool tone indicated dismissal.
For a moment I wished Radovan were with me so that he might slip a few coins into the retired Pathfinder's withered hand.
As Timon withdrew, the woman brushed past me and opened the door. Before I could identify her perfume—something Qadiran—the mingled scents of old paper, parchment, and leather poured out of the building. The woman snapped her fingers. Two rows of yellow lamps flickered to life along a pair of long reading tables.
Ranks of bookshelves surrounded the tables. Like tombs in a catacomb lay thousands of old, damaged, or misfiled volumes of arcane and mundane lore. The curators of the Grand Lodge's many libraries would determine which to restore for general use and which to retire.
I felt a pang of sympathy for the forgotten books and for Timon.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather use one of the libraries?" she asked.
"I enjoy the solitude."
"It's better for sulking, isn't it?" She saw the effect of her remark in my posture. "No, no, I'm sorry, Varian. That isn't how I meant to begin. Here, I brought you a gift in honor of your long-awaited return from Tian Xia."
She produced a goblet from beneath her cloak. I stifled my annoyance at her familiar address, made all the more infuriating by her own anonymity. Since my return to the Grand Lodge, no one but Timon had addressed me as "Venture-Captain." In default of that title, anyone less than a prince should address me as "Your Excellency," or at least as "Count Jeggare."
She set the goblet on a reading table and produced a pair of bottles. The curling labels seized my attention: the wine came from my own vineyards in Western Cheliax, two of the finest vintages ever produced in the Inner Sea.
Decades earlier I had sent such bottles to certain of my field agents, who reported their excursions to me for fact-checking, annotation, and ultimately submission to the Decemvirate for potential inclusion in the Pathfinder Chronicles. Could this woman be Medesha? Khirsah? It should not surprise me to learn that either of those talented women had entered the Society's innermost circle.
I studied what little I could see beneath the mask: sea-green eyes, coral lips, and a long, fair chin. The enchantments of a Decemvirate mask could very well extend beyond the features it covered, even disguising the wearer's voice. Perhaps the masked stranger was not a woman, perhaps not even human.
As she poured the wine, I noticed that the corks of both bottles had been previously drawn and reinserted.
"You will join me, of course."
The Decemvirate has a flair for the dramatic.
"I hoped you would ask." She produced a second goblet from beneath her cloak. She filled both vessels and allowed me to choose.
Her gesture only heightened my caution, despite the seeming absurdity that a member of the Decemvirate would poison me on the grounds of the Grand Lodge. I chose the goblet nearest me. As I nosed the wine, she lifted the other goblet and said, "To old friends."
"Whoever they are." I put the goblet to my lips to cover my sarcasm.
The wine covered my palate with ripe cherry balanced with a hint of black olive and tobacco. After a moment's savor, I let the wine trail down my throat, relishing its decades-mellowed character.
The woman admired her goblet before setting it down. "Patience has its rewards."
By her tone, I knew she had prepared that remark.
I gestured for her to sit, taking the chair opposite as Arnisant settled at my foot. He laid his head upon his crossed forepaws and closed his eyes.
"Believe me when I say I understand your frustration," she began. Uttering my thoughts on that proposition seemed impolite after accepting a drink, so I smiled. "All right, I can't possibly understand your frustration. But I can imagine that you feel you deserve an explanation."
"And you feel I do not deserve one?"
"I'm not saying that. I'm saying you must trust that we know what we are doing."
"What I know is that I accepted, without explanation, a mission to retrieve this Celestial Pearl." Even as I named the artifact, I felt the cool pulse of half of its former contents within my breast. My brief death and subsequent resurrection by virtue of the dragon's heart was one of several intentional lacunae in my report to the Decemvirate. "During my absence, no effort was mounted to aid or rescue me and my—"
"We had no message from you."
"So you say. I sent three before misadventure prevented further communication."
"So you say." She drained the rest of her wine and refilled the goblet as I seethed. Once again, I noticed the eerie calm of my heartbeat even as the muscles in my neck drew painfully tight. "The truth is that I believe you, Varian. Others do as well. What I don't believe is that all the wizards of the Grand Lodge are lying about receiving no messages."
"It takes only one to sow deceit."
"Your concerns are noted. And..." She looked toward the door and peered into the darkness between the book stacks. Beside me, Arnisant lay still, breathing steadily. Surely he would have scented any intruder, so I took her gesture for more mummery. "The oaths of the Decemvirate are more demanding than those of the Society at large."
"If nothing else, my tenure in the Society should afford me the courtesy of an explanation. What was the purpose of my fetching the Celestial Pearl? Why can I not see the Lacuna Codex? Why will no one explain—?"
"I'm sorry, Varian. Already I've told you more than I should. You must place your faith in the judgment of the Decemvirate."
"As Eando Kline did?"
She sighed. "I knew you would throw that in my face."
"The machinations of the Decemvirate seem to be driving away the most promising members of the Society even as others retire."
"Kline's mistake was to place his judgment over that of the Decemvirate."
"Was that a mistake?"
"You don't have all the information."
"Perhaps if I did—"
"It is strictly need-to-know—"
"I am a Pathfinder. By definition, I need to know."
She made a silent snarl, a gesture reminding me of Radovan's big smile, except for her perfect white teeth. I raised an eyebrow, half amused at the image she presented.
She let out a sigh and shook her head. "Try to resist the impulse to have the last word tomorrow. You might get it."
"Perhaps tomorrow I will want it."
"I beg you not to follow Ollysta's example, Varian. Don't throw away a long and distinguished career for the sake of pride."
"Honor."
"Semantics."
"Only to someone who has forgotten the difference."
She pushed back from the table, jostling the bottles and goblets. "Enjoy the wine. Timon will return later to unlock the door."
As she walked away, I took her advice and resisted the impulse to have the last word. When she slammed the door shut behind her, I opened my satchel.
Arranging my remaining riffle scrolls, I set out a pot of ink, two compartmentalized boxes full of various material essences, dozens of blank riffle scrolls, a blank journal, another half-filled with my notes and sketches from Tian Xia, and my latest grimoire.
It was to fill the latter volume that I had come to this repository. While I had learned many new spells during my time at Dragon Temple, I wished to add others to my repertoire now that I was no longer an armchair arcanist but a practicing wizard.
Draining my goblet, I selected a riffle scroll and raised the cup. With two fingers I pinned a riffle scroll against the heel of my palm and thumbed the edge. The pages zipped past with a satisfying burp. Arcane light surrounded the goblet.
Holding it high, I searched the stacks for the tomes I sought. The organization was more or less as I remembered. Soon I returned to the table with three books of spells.
For a few minutes I indulged the nostalgic reflex, lingering over the names and annotations of the Pathfinder wizards who had fallen in the field. Two had once reported to me as their venture-captain. The other had been a friend, one whose humorous letters I could recite almost verbatim.
After pouring another goblet of wine, I set to work. Hours later, I had inscribed several long-desired spells. As I finished copying an interesting illusion, I lifted the second bottle to find that it, too, was empty. A wave of fatigue fell over me. I shook my head, and the feeling passed.
Arnisant distracted my thought with a loud and abrupt snore. Placing my toe against the dog's ribs, I reconsidered jostling him but instead withdrew my foot. Like Radovan and me, he had endured a long, arduous journey. The loyal hound deserved his rest.
"A loyal dog does deserve his rest." A liquid voice echoed my thoughts as a masked man stepped into the lamplight.
He wore a mask of hammered gold painted with enamel at brows, lips, and beard. Beneath jeweled arm rings, crisp linen wound tight around his arms. He wore a breastplate of compressed peacock feathers and a pleated scarlet kilt. From one hip hung a khopesh in a jeweled half-sheath. From the other dangled a pair of bound books and a miniature chariot of elm, ash, and sycamore. Scents of myrrh, sandalwood, cedar, and attar of roses flowed from him.
The stranger's obscured face rose in an imperial gesture, and he said, "Although you are a most disloyal dog, Count Jeggare, you too shall have the rest you deserve—a final rest."
Coming Next Week: Brawls and brothels in Absalom's seedier districts in Chapter Two of Dave Gross's "Killing Time."
Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy,""A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.
Proper Villainsby Erik Scott de Bie ... Chapter Four: The Reward He awoke in a cold spray of brackish water. The Hellknight who'd roused him drew back the half-empty bucket, then brought it forward again for another go. This time, Tarrant inhaled half the putrid stuff and gagged. Is that really necessary? he coughed. ... The Hellknight leaned close, his breath turning Tarrant's stomach. You stink of fear, Liespinner. ... And you stink of mediocrity, Tarrant said. I prefer my smell, thanks....
Proper Villains
by Erik Scott de Bie
Chapter Four: The Reward
He awoke in a cold spray of brackish water. The Hellknight who'd roused him drew back the half-empty bucket, then brought it forward again for another go. This time, Tarrant inhaled half the putrid stuff and gagged. "Is that really necessary?" he coughed.
The Hellknight leaned close, his breath turning Tarrant's stomach. "You stink of fear, Liespinner."
"And you stink of mediocrity," Tarrant said. "I prefer my smell, thanks."
The knight kicked him in the stomach, and Tarrant collapsed to the floor. The pain was bad, but at least he had earned the freedom to inspect his surroundings. He was still in Hawkthorne Tower—up in the council chambers where Doreset sometimes held formal events. The second Hellknight stood a little ways off, clutching both Tarrant's sheathed rapier and the bottomless red silk bag. Evidence, no doubt. Beyond the Hellknights stood a circle of Blackscale Blades, their expressions grim.
Tarrant saw Gislai first, manacled and bruised. Her illusion had fallen, revealing her natural half-orc features. She glared at Tarrant with a mixture of concern and contempt. She had, after all, told him so.
Ephere was there as well. She'd shed her fine emerald gown for black working leathers that left her brand uncovered, and she fit in well amongst the Chelaxians. She averted her gaze from Tarrant, like the aloof and serene elf maiden she had first seemed to be. He'd always been a fool for a pretty face.
The Hellknight kicked Tarrant again, and Gislai cried out. "Stop it!"
Her captor slapped her hard enough to make her stagger into Ephere, who shoved her back with one arm.
It wasn't supposed to go this way. Only Tarrant was supposed to suffer for his mistakes, not his friends.
The Hellknight drew back his fist for another punch.
"Enough." A severe woman with long blonde hair and her own set of fiendish Hellknight armor stepped through the circle of judgment. She clicked the talons of her right-hand gauntlet together and looked down at Tarrant with the sort of expression wolves reserve for wounded deer. "Leave him to me."
"Altara," Tarrant said. "Charmed, as always."
She kicked at his face with her steel-shod boot, but instinct let him dodge aside enough to save his neck from snapping. The boot crushed his nose and sent him rolling over and over until he slammed into the legs of his Hellknight captor. There he lay coughing as the world spun.
Of the many women he'd loved and left in his wake, Altara Hathran had been his first—and consistently worst—oversight. He'd made her promises when they were young together, never dreaming that he would disappoint her, or that his betrayal would lead her to the life of a militant ascetic. He regretted it all bitterly, almost as much as his broken nose.
He heard familiar laughter, and turned his woozy focus to a massive man reclining on a divan a few paces away. "Ah, my trusted friend." Lord Doreset's prodigious bulk quivered under his words. "It pleases my heart to see you again, so... helpless."
His presence answered all Tarrant's questions. How long had he been in league with the Hellknights? How long had they planned this ambush? It didn't matter.
"Your plan has failed," Altara said. "We will find your other friends soon enough—if they haven't fled already."
"Aye, that sounds like Eram."
"Still a jester." Altara thrust the talons of her gauntlet through Tarrant's mail tunic and into his shoulder, then lifted him to his feet. Tarrant gasped for breath and bloody stars burst at the edges of his vision. She fanned out the sharpened fingers of her other hand on his face and sneered at him. "It's over, Tarrant Liespinner. Your crimes will finally see justice. Have you anything to say for yourself?"
"Did—" he muttered. "Did you look... in the bag?"
Altara leaned closer. "What?"
Altara took the breakup badly.
"I see you... haven't returned the treasure," Tarrant said, getting his breath back. "I expect that's because it's evidence. Have you checked it yet?"
"Very well," Altara said. "You wish to have this crime punished now? So be it." She let Tarrant slump to the floor, flicked his blood off her claw, and waved her Hellknight to open the red silk bag. "Should I look for something in particular?"
"At the bottom." Tarrant didn't dare sing a song of healing, but surreptitiously pressed his wound to staunch the bleeding. "You wouldn't want to drop any of it, though."
Altara reached carefully into the bag, which swallowed up her arm. She drew out handfuls of treasure, but had nowhere to put it. One of the Blackscales came forward with another obviously enchanted haversack, and Altara shoveled handful after handful of jewels and hard coin from the bag into the pack. Lord Doreset chuckled in the background.
"This is a mountain of evidence," Altara said.
"True," Tarrant said.
Finally, Altara reached the bottom of the haul and pulled out a book wrapped in black leather. She peered at it.
"Wait," Lord Doreset said, his voice soft. "What is that—?"
"More evidence," Tarrant said.
Altara unwrapped the twine that held the book shut and flipped through the pages. "Names, dates, amounts," she said. "This is a ledger. And—" She looked at the writing carefully. "This is not your writing, Akayn."
"No, it is not," Tarrant said. "My lady."
She scrutinized the book anew, with the eye of a judge—which, of course, she was. Whatever grudge Altara might have against Tarrant, she remained an agent of the law. "This is your hand, Lord Doreset," she said.
"I've never seen that before!" Lord Doreset huffed.
"You mean you haven't seen it recently," Tarrant said. "How could you, when I had stolen it?" he turned back to Altara. "I think you'll find that to be an account of all House Doreset's illegal dealings, from tax evasion to swindling merchants in Cheliax to selling chattel to necromancers in Geb. Also records of embezzlement—oh." He glanced at the assembled soldiers. "Including the thousands of gold sails he embezzled from the Blackscale Blades, while supposedly acting as their patron."
A cold murmur passed through the room. Doreset's face went red. "This—this is a trick!" he declared. "A forgery!"
"Subject it to whatever tests you want," Tarrant said. "As I fancy you shall."
Two burly Blackscale officers moved forward and took Doreset away, no doubt to conduct their own investigation. A third approached Altara and motioned toward the ledger.
"See that it's not damaged," she said, and handed it to him. "My knights will be conducting their own investigation as well." The officer nodded in thanks, then left as well, taking the rest of the Blackscales with him.
Through it all, Altara watched Tarrant suspiciously. "What was this about?" she asked finally. "You'd do all this—sacrifice your winnings and yourself—just to bury Doreset?"
"You uphold justice in your way, I do it in mine." Tarrant coughed raggedly and looked at Altara. "Justice is done, my lady. Would you unbind me, please? Oops." He let the open manacles dangle from one hand. "Looks as though I took care of that. I'll just be going—"
"No," Altara said.
The Hellknights drew their swords. Tarrant shivered.
"Lord Doreset's accounts will be settled," Altara said. "Fear not on that account. But you and I are far from finished." She took hold of his armored shirt and pulled him up to eye level. "What's your plan for dealing with me, Tarrant Liespinner? How are you going to walk out of here?"
"Altara, love of my heart." Tarrant gave her a winning smile. "Who said I wanted to leave?" He hummed a sweet melody, which in his mind's eye took the form of floating flower petals around them.
Slowly, Altara's expression softened. She was different now—hardened, honed. But underneath the armor, he could still see the lovely young woman he had known in Cheliax. "Oh, Tarrant." Altara loosened her grasp on his tunic.
That was all he needed to slip from her clutches and step away. "I'll just be going then."
Altara hesitated a second, confused, then her face darkened. She tried to grab for him, but he'd manacled her wrists. "Seize him!" she roared.
Her two Hellknights stepped forward, but one jerked spasmodically and toppled to the floor. The other looked around into the flame of a burning fist held up to his face. Ephere stepped protectively between them and Tarrant.
"Well done," Tarrant said, putting his arm around her for support.
The elf nodded, keeping her fists up.
"What treachery is this?" Altara demanded.
"A thousand apologies," Tarrant said. "Did you think that night at the Open Palm was our first meeting? Lady Ephere and I are old friends. I can't imagine why you thought otherwise."
"What—what of the mark?" Altara pointed her chin at Ephere's chest.
"A slave brand," Ephere said. "Tarrant was the one who saved me."
"Understandably, she holds little love for Cheliax," Tarrant added.
"You were playing us from the beginning!" Altara said.
"Indeed." Tarrant looked to Gislai. "Coming?"
The half-orc—who looked as shocked as Altara—nodded. She twisted free of her captor and headbutted him in the face. He joined his compatriot on the ground. "You could have told me, you know," she observed.
"And spoil the fun? Hardly." Tarrant undid her manacles. "And thank Calistria we're no longer in the vault. Your ring, if you please?"
Gislai turned her ring around her finger, and a shimmering light appeared around the three thieves.
Still manacled, Altara glared at them. "This is not over, Liespinner."
He blew her a kiss. "Love, I would have it no other way."
∗∗∗
Later, at the Open Palm, Gorm was all smiles as they shared one last drink. Gislai and Ephere were seated nearby, talking of all things elven. Now that all was revealed, they had become fast friends. Tarrant couldn't say whether that boded well or ill.
"Really?" Gorm asked. "They just took Lord Doreset away like that?"
"As I expected. Perhaps the proper authorities will even get to lock him up afterward. If there's anything left." Tarrant winced as he dabbed a damp cloth at his nose. Gislai's prayers had healed it, but it still felt uneven. "That squares your debt, then?"
"Yes, but you—" Gorm shook his head. "You've given much for me: almost got thrown into prison again or worse, lost your magic bag and any reward, and only brought the Hellknights down on you all the harder. You'll have to leave Absalom. Come to think of it, why haven't you left yet? I'm glad to drink with you, but—"
Tarrant shrugged, unconcerned. "I hear Korvosa is nice this time of year—and that its women are fiery. Besides, who spoke of loss?"
At that moment, two Blackscales entered. Ephere raised her gauntlets and Gislai pulled out several shuriken, but the adventurers' forms shimmered as the magic of their potions wore off. Eram and Arlif looked none the worse for wear. The halfling walked sullenly to Tarrant's side.
"You might have trusted me," Eram said. "And not sent this mute giant with me."
"And you might have fled town." Tarrant took the haversack from Eram. "Fled before splitting shares, that is."
He opened the bag to reveal gleaming treasure: their haul from the bait and switch.
"Now it's time to go," Tarrant said. "The road beckons, and greater villainy awaits."
Coming Next Week: A preview chapter of Dave Gross's new novel "Queen of Thorns"—plus a whole scavenger-hunt extravaganza!
Erik Scott de Bie is the author of several Forgotten Realms novels, most recently Shadowbane: Eye of Justice. In addition, he's published numerous short stories for a variety of anthologies and collections. For more information, visit erikscottdebie.com.
Proper Villainsby Erik Scott de Bie ... Chapter Three: The Caper Humming anxiously under his breath, Tarrant watched as the last cart of treasure arrived from the docks as the sun set. This time was always torture and ecstasy for him: he could hardly stand the waiting, and yet he could not help his excitement for the game to come. Tarrant shadowed the cart from the docks to Hawkthorne Tower, then slipped around the back. ... It was time to begin. ... With all the activity around the front...
Proper Villains
by Erik Scott de Bie
Chapter Three: The Caper
Humming anxiously under his breath, Tarrant watched as the last cart of treasure arrived from the docks as the sun set. This time was always torture and ecstasy for him: he could hardly stand the waiting, and yet he could not help his excitement for the game to come. Tarrant shadowed the cart from the docks to Hawkthorne Tower, then slipped around the back.
It was time to begin.
With all the activity around the front gate, where the Blackscale Blades were delivering the great treasure, the servants' entrance stood only lightly guarded. Two armored men flanked the back door, one of whom wore the key around his neck as a badge of office. Tarrant was familiar with Lord Doreset's favored mercenary company and knew their procedures.
Tarrant swaggered out of the alley. A thick brown cloak dipped in low-class swill covered his identity. As he approached, Tarrant sang a dwarven song in a low-pitched, slurred voice, crafting bubbles that floated through the air toward the man with the key.
"Shove off, you!" shouted the other guard. "Go be drunk on your own—Drohn?"
The guard's partner smiled like a child and plucked at the bubbles of song that floated around him. When he saw Tarrant, his smile widened, and he stared.
"Magic!" hissed the first guard. He reached for his sword, but a different spell caught him before he could draw. He blinked, swayed on his feet, and looked confused. He pointed his sword at Tarrant half-heartedly.
Gislai appeared. "Your need for attention is your least likeable characteristic."
"I make up for it in other ways," Tarrant sang, and resumed his song with a chorus to keep the beguiled guard interested.
The priestess rolled her eyes and chanted a second spell. Her half-orc visage wavered and changed into that of Captain Nemerath, an authoritative human Blackscale captain of Tarrant's acquaintance and occasional liaison. The guard captain's armor—unfastened slightly for appearances—made a perfect disguise for Gislai. "You seem troubled, soldier. What's your name?"
The guard looked relieved to see her. "I'm Rholf, captain."
"A good strong Ulfen name," she said. "Named for your father, were you?"
He nodded, then turned his attention back to Tarrant. "This one... is he yours?"
Tarrant recognized Gislai's little mischievous smile all too well—she was considering betraying him. He kept singing, and Drohn sat down so that he could listen better.
Finally, Gislai nodded. "He is a friend. We've come to check the locks on the gate."
"Locks." Rholf looked at the strong iron lock on the door. "Drohn has the key, but—" His expression grew suspicious. "But I can't just give—"
"Oh, we don't need the key," Gislai said. "That wouldn't be much of a test, would it? My associate is suitably skilled. He'll test the lock."
Eram Many-Fingers appeared from the shadows, his eyes darting back and forth nervously. He stepped up to the gate and slipped his lockpicks out of his belt. Meanwhile, Gislai took Rholf aside. Every one of her words, smiles, and seemingly unintentionally touches strengthened the spell. It really was a wonder to watch such a natural con artist at work.
With Rholf suitably distracted, Tarrant nodded—the signal for Eram to make his move. He didn't even touch his picks to the door, which would have triggered the warding magic anyway. Instead, he crept up on the distracted Drohn and took his chain of office—along with the key—right off his neck.
Tarrant wove a new thread of the song, suggesting Drohn shuffle off to the nearest alehouse. When Drohn had wandered out of sight, Tarrant let the song trail away. "Gislai."
The half-orc cast him an annoyed look, then shared a few more words with Rholf. The guard nodded and left. "He'll go back to guarding the gate—once he finds Drohn, wherever the man got off to."
Tarrant nodded. "Your spell is very effective."
Gislai is more than just a pretty face.
"Aye, for one guard. And now it's expended. What happens when we face a group?"
"No worries," Tarrant said, patting the satchel at his hip. "I've a plan for that, too."
At his signal, Arlif and Ephere emerged from the alley, both clad in thick cloaks. They crossed to the door and entered. The elf gave Tarrant a brief nod that made him smile.
"That, right there?" Gislai pointed to the elf. "That's dangerous."
"Whence this dislike for our companion, 'captain'?" Tarrant shed his filthy cloak to reveal a Blackscale's trademark mail beneath. He sang a brief song of disguise and took the shape of Rholf. "Is not your Calistria an elven goddess?"
"That just means I know how treacherous elves are," Gislai countered.
"And beautiful."
"As I said."
They stepped through the door into the inner guardroom and found the others in a tense standoff with three more Blackscales—two humans and a dwarf. Axe in hand, Arlif stood between them and Ephere. Eram was nowhere to be seen, the coward. Blades slid from sheathes.
The Liespinner hadn't earned his name by hesitating. "Down arms! A thousand apologies, my lady ambassador!"
The Blackscales looked confused. "Ambassador?" the dwarf rumbled.
On cue, Ephere threw back her cloak, revealing a gorgeous gown of green silk, lined with silver stitching. Tarrant had acquired this dress in one of Absalom's most fashionable boutiques.
"Ambassador Saleae Epheldera of Kyonin," Tarrant said. "Here to inspect the ancient elven treasures recovered during the recent expedition."
The dwarf, presumably the commanding officer, shook his head. "We were not informed."
"Yes, well, the honorable Viridian Crown has heard of our recent exploits, and..."
"I am an expert on the artifacts of Kyonin." Ephere held up her ensorcelled gauntlets, which crackled with magical power. "My kinswoman, Queen Telandia, knows of this dragon you slew—an old beast with an even older hoard. She will pay handsomely for relics that predate our people's return from Sovyrian. But this—" Ephere drew up to her full height. "This is not how I am accustomed to being treated. First drunken guards, and now insolence? This is an insult to me and to the queen."
Confronted with an offended noble promising a reward, the Blackscales quickly put their blades away and offered apologies. Ephere's natural affinity for deception touched Tarrant's villainous heart.
"Someone under my command mucked this up," Gislai said. "I'll bet it's that damned Drohn—always drinking on the job. Where's your good-for-nothing partner, Rholf?"
"Apologies, Captain," Tarrant said to her. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." Gislai looked to the Blackscales. "Stand easy, gentlemen. You're not at fault here."
At first, it seemed the guards might press for more answers, but ultimately they relaxed. At a nod from Gislai, they sat back down to a half-finished hand of Towers.
Tarrant and his party pressed through the cloakroom and closed the doors behind them. It disappointed him that the guards hadn't asked why such a noble visitor would enter through the servants' door. He'd had a lie all prepared for that—"a matter of diplomatic delicacy." Shame, but an unused lie was an unspent arrow.
Perhaps, he thought, they didn't care. Perhaps they recognize a robbery in progress and had just given Tarrant their tacit approval to take Lord Doreset for all he was worth. He liked to think they had.
Eram appeared from around the corner, rubbing his hands together and glancing back at the site of the near-disaster. "Finally, you return," Tarrant said. "No troubles?"
"None," the halfling murmured.
"Are you well?" Gislai asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "You seem even more twitchy than usual."
"No, not at all!" the halfling protested. "I'm fine! Just fine!"
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were planning something."
"Only the plan!" Eram said. "Promise!"
"I'm sure it's fine." Tarrant turned to the others. "That was exciting, wasn't it?" He touched Ephere's arm. "You did well."
The elf nodded. Behind her, Gislai groaned.
"You noted them well, I hope?" Tarrant slipped vials of blue potion to Arlif and Eram. "In case anything else goes wrong."
"What is this?" Eram asked. "Escape in a bottle?"
"Something of the sort," Tarrant said. "Let's move on, shall we?"
They stepped past the entry chamber into a larger hall where the walls pulsed with warding magic. Torches burst into life at their approach, revealing a solid vault door at the end of the hall. Tarrant felt the oppressive warding magic all around him, like an invisible wall of water. "Beyond here, anything we bring from the vault will no doubt trigger—"
Eram took a step deeper into the hall, and the wards whined to angry life. Two hulking iron statues shivered, pulled away from the walls, and pointed massive swords at them.
"—Guardians." Tarrant took Drohn's chain of office from Eram and presented it to the guardians. "Hold!"
The golems stepped closer, oblivious to his command.
"Stop?" Tarrant tried. "Desist?"
The golems raised their swords, and the would-be thieves reached for their weapons. Ephere's arms lit with fire and lightning. Eram slipped two daggers into his hands and Arlif unbuckled his greataxe. Tarrant wondered if his music would touch such creatures. He doubted it.
Then Gislai—still in disguise as Captain Nemerath—stepped forward, seized the chain from Tarrant, and raised it to the golems. "Zarahtas!" she declaimed.
Instantly, the guardians lowered their swords and returned to their places.
"Good thing I bothered to get the passphrase from Rholf," she said as they crossed through the hall. "For security, one guard had the chain, one had the code. Apparently, Doreset had the golems changed after he had you thrown in prison."
"Outstanding." Tarrant strode past the resting golems and sized up the doors. "You know, these doors were specially built in Nex with the finest magic coin can purchase. They have no ward that needs to be renewed daily, but rather several persistent enchantments imbedded in the doors themselves. It would take several wizards multiple castings to suppress them, and by that point, the alarm spells would sound. Damned impressive, not to mention expensive." Tarrant beckoned to Eram. "Rod please."
"What?" the halfling said.
"Why do you think I asked you about the job in Cassomir? I know you're carrying the rod, so just give it here."
The halfling grumbled, but sure enough, reached into his haversack. His arm extended all the way into one of the small pockets, and he pulled out a foot-long silvery rod. "Be welcome to the cursed thing anyway."
"I sense a story there, no?" Gislai said.
Eram shook his head frantically.
Tarrant took the rod, which hummed slightly in his hand, and held it in front of the door. "Arlif, Eram, this is as far as you go—Gislai, you too."
"That wasn't the plan!" the half-orc protested. "I'm certainly not leaving you with her."
Ephere seemed unconcerned.
"As long as she's at your side," Gislai said, "I'm at the other."
"I never object to working between two lovely ladies." Tarrant smiled. "I'll have that potion back, then. It's important you not have it."
Gislai looked perplexed, but ultimately she rolled her eyes and handed the vial back.
"Outstanding." He tucked it into his tunic. "Arlif, Eram—time to part ways."
The big Ulfen warrior turned and made his way back across the golem-guarded hall, and Eram—after a longing look at the vault door—joined him. Gislai stood her ground stubbornly.
"I didn't realize you cared," Tarrant said. "I'm touched."
"Touched in the head, if you think I'm letting you in there alone," she said. "What's to keep you from taking your fill of gold and leaving nothing for us?"
"Prudent." Tarrant tapped the rod against the door, setting off a series of pops and crackles as its antimagic cancelled out the door's many enchantments. The magic left its mechanical locks in place, however.
He began a song the elves of Kyonin used to welcome ships from distant lands, which his mother had first heard from traveling musicians. It had always been one of his favorite ballads as a boy, and now as a man, it provided focus to his magic. Soft green light swirled around him. At the climax of the spell, he reached out and knocked once on the massive vault door.
Nothing happened.
"Huh."
He cast the spell and knocked again, but still, the doors remained sealed.
"How terribly embarrassing."
Tarrant began the song a third time, but Ephere laid her hand on his arm. From beneath the folds of her gown, she drew a hollow mithral tube about twice the length of her slender hand.
"Is that what I think it is?" Gislai asked. "Well isn't that convenient. And suspicious."
"Nonsense! Thank you, Ephere." Tarrant handed her his rapier. "Have a care with this."
Ephere tapped the rapier's pommel against the tube, which resonated with a deep, clear tone. The locks on the now mundane door clicked, and the vault opened to them, shedding golden light that bathed their skin.
Gislai sucked in a sharp breath.
Ephere nodded.
"Outstanding," Tarrant said.
The sheer size of the hoard stunned them to silence. A kingdom's ransom in coins and jewels overflowed from open chests. Cut gems the size of a clenched fist lay carefully arranged atop bolts of fine silk and damask. Ancient swords and shields adorned marble statues inlaid with silver and jewels. The most impressive piece was, by far, a statue of a dragon, wrought of pure gold and studded with rubies the length of its tail.
"To work." Tarrant pulled a red silk bag from his tunic, into which he began shoveling treasure. However much they put in, the bag never seemed to swell.
"Avoid the relics—tricky to fence," Gislai said. "Hard coin and jewels spend better."
"Good thing Eram stayed away," Tarrant said. "He'd likely die of a burst head."
"I might do so myself." Gislai held up a platinum tiara. "Look at this! A lass could get used to—"
Then a keening wail filled the room, roaring out into the tower: an alarm spell. Tarrant turned to see Ephere pointing her war gauntlets at them. He reached for his sword, only to remember that the elf had taken it at the door. He winced.
"Don't move," she said. "Lady Altara will be here soon."
"I told you not to trust her," Gislai murmured.
"That's really comforting," Tarrant said. "Why, dear lady? Have I offended you? Why would you side with those poorly appointed Hellknights over us?"
Ephere reached down and pulled her bodice open just enough to reveal a long-faded scar, like a brand. There, she traced the forefinger of her right hand across her flesh, lighting a burning star to mark herself. That was why she'd been keen to hide her skin earlier, and why that spot on her chest had felt hot under his touch. It was a symbol Tarrant recognized all too well.
"Hail Asmodeus." She pressed her lightning gauntlet to Tarrant's head and shocked him into darkness.
Coming Next Week: The final chapter of Erik Scott de Bie's "Proper Villains."
Erik Scott de Bie is the author of several Forgotten Realms novels, most recently Shadowbane: Eye of Justice. In addition, he's published numerous short stories for a variety of anthologies and collections. For more information, visit erikscottdebie.com.
Proper Villainsby Erik Scott de Bie ... Chapter Two: The Gang You're sure about this gang? Fat Gorm fidgeted, rubbing his fingers together. I only ask, because the hour presses on— ... Sit easy. Tarrant hummed dancing wisps of music, which calmed him. He wondered how anyone who couldn't see music managed to relax. ... They met at midnight in the Bloody Fang, a dive down in the Puddles district that catered to sailors, criminals, and the lowest of the low. The authorities of Absalom...
Proper Villains
by Erik Scott de Bie
Chapter Two: The Gang
"You're sure about this gang?" Fat Gorm fidgeted, rubbing his fingers together. "I only ask, because the hour presses on—"
"Sit easy." Tarrant hummed dancing wisps of music, which calmed him. He wondered how anyone who couldn't see music managed to relax.
They met at midnight in the Bloody Fang, a dive down in the Puddles district that catered to sailors, criminals, and the lowest of the low. The authorities of Absalom rarely made it there, and certainly not at this hour of night. Entering after sunset required a chit: a coin-sized disc of wood branded with a crude image of a dragon's fang. Tarrant turned his over in his fingers as he mentally rehearsed the plan.
It had taken three days to set up the meet—good timing, as the last of the expedition treasure would be arriving the next day. It would be stored in the Blackscale Blades' base of operations until appraisers could arrive and a full accounting could be made. The dishonorable adventurers were living it up in the city, spending coin freely and bragging of the dragon they had supposedly slain. Crossing them didn't seem wise, but Tarrant had spent the last three days coming up with a perfect plan.
In truth, the entire scheme had occurred to him seconds after Gorm told him about the hoard, but he'd given it some time to crescendo in his mind, the different parts of music falling into place. He couldn't play a symphony alone, however, and he hoped the crew gathering in the Bloody Fang would be exactly what he needed.
A man came tumbling in the swinging doors, rolled several paces, then lay groaning. The big Ulfen warrior who stepped in the door after him had pale skin and hair and many woad tattoos carved across his honed frame. If the show of force and muscle weren't enough, the hooked axe strapped to his back proved sufficient to discourage any would-be challengers.
"That would be Arlif, I reckon." Fat Gorm stumbled over the name. "They say his tattoos depict the men he's killed. Well—the memorable ones, at least."
"He must have killed a goodly number," Tarrant observed. "Where did you find him?"
"Mercenary. Been cracking heads around the island for about a year now. No one's ever heard him speak, but by Torag is he strong. And you did say you needed a tough."
"That is what I said."
Arlif dropped his chit on the table, waved for mead, and sat in brooding silence.
The sneak came next, though he didn't make nearly the entrance Arlif had. The halfling's silhouette in the creaking doorway looked like that of a child, but the worldly gleam in his eye belied that impression. Also, no boy-child, no matter how ludicrous his taste in fashion, would wear such a hat, with its sweeping red and gold feather.
"Eram Many-Fingers." Tarrant sighed. "I should have known you'd bring him in."
"I thought you liked the halfling. You've pulled many jobs together, right?"
"Oh indeed. More than even he can count." Tarrant nodded to where the halfling was indicating the number of drinks he wanted on his six-fingered left hand. "That doesn't mean you should trust him."
"Of course not," Gorm said, offended. "But we can trust him to be untrustworthy."
"Ah, my friends!" the halfling said. "I almost thought I'd come to the wrong place, but oh joyous day, here I find you! I'm off for a drink, you want something? No? Well then!"
The enthusiastic halfling headed off to find the nearest server.
The magic arrived next, in the form of a feminine shape in the Fang's door. The other patrons quieted and looked, but when Gislai drew back her hood to reveal her lank black hair, greenish skin, and small tusks, most glanced away. She smiled and stretched languidly, revealing the three daggers of Calistria on an amulet around her neck.
"Gorgeous Gislai?" Gorm said. "Why, Akayn? Why do you do this to yourself?"
"Have faith. Half-orc or no, Gislai is the best cleric for any heist I've ever worked."
"You mean you worked her."
"I'll not deny I like green." That made him think of the other night, and the way Ephere's leaf-scale armor clung to her body. "Besides, it's in the past. We're strictly professional now."
"This is going to go badly."
"Do you want to do this, or shall I sell you into indentured servitude right now?" Tarrant asked. "Maybe Doreset will discount you—he might just take your hands as payment."
Fat Gorm paled.
Ephere seems to be the center of attention wherever she goes.
"There he is." Gislai strode to their table. "Liespinner, the city of Absalom did herself a disservice letting you out. Better to keep you sealed up there with the other thieves and traitors."
"Greetings to you too. Apologies for not writing—I was a bit chained up at the time."
"Good." The half-orc eased into a chair and put her boots up on the table. She toyed with one of her shuriken and nodded to Gorm. "Who's this? The coin?"
"The empty purse, actually." Gorm gave Tarrant an uneasy look. "Your take, your gang—have it your own way. But have a care too, yes?"
"Mm?" Tarrant asked. "Sorry, I was too stricken with Gislai's disarming looks. Anger serves her complexion admirably."
The half-orc glared at him. "And the spinning begins already."
Arlif watched the exchange in silence.
As Gorm slipped away, his stealthy tread seeming more of a waddle, Eram arrived with a tray of libations. Tarrant knew better than to take any—the halfling's thirst was legendary.
"Greetings." Tarrant spread his hands wide. "No doubt you've heard something of this already, but let me fill in the rest of the story. First, the reward is fantastic. Lord Doreset chartered a group of adventurers on a delve to uncover ancient treasures in what was supposed to be a deserted ruin. It turned out to be a dragon's lair, complete with a dragon—which the heroes slew—and a fabulous hoard. Once His Corpulentness learned of the hoard, he decided the original terms of the contract were far to unfavorable to himself, and immediately dispatched his good friends, the Blackscale Blades mercenary company, to make things right by claiming the entire hoard for Doreset. They're even now bringing the treasure back to Absalom to be stored until it can be appraised."
"Stored, you say," Gislai said. "Stored where?"
"Blackscale Hall, right?" Eram said. "Please say Blackscale Hall."
Eram coughed out some of his rotgut, then drank it again. "What?"
"I thought you were insane." Gislai shook her head. "Now I know you are."
Arlif nodded slowly.
"No no no," Eram said. "When I agreed to this job, I thought we'd take it en route, not from gods-damned Hawkthorne's Shield!"
"I know robbing the tower may seem difficult," Tarrant said. "Walls of stone a spear's length thick, iron doors reinforced with steel bands, and every window, sewer grate, and rat hole sealed up tight with the best magic the Doreset family can muster. Not exactly a comfy place to live, which is why His Lordship houses his apartments elsewhere. But as a secure storage facility, it can't be beat."
"That's even worse than I thought," Gislai said. "What's your plan? We talk our way in? You, a notorious criminal, and we, your known associates."
"Yes," Tarrant said. "And while notoriety appeals to me, 'twould be kinder to my pride if you used the words ‘suspected' and ‘alleged' in your description."
"I stand by my words." She tossed a shuriken a hand's width into the air and let it sink into the table. "Maybe you want to try a ‘raving lunatic' game? It would fit."
"Because you're mad," Eram said. "Mad!"
"Leaving that aside for the moment," Tarrant said. "Even if we get in, and even if we manage to steal the treasure, getting out won't be easy. That place is as much a prison as a fortress."
"I have a ring that will teleport us," Gislai said. "Limited use, but it can potentially get us out. Or in, technically, if we know where we were going."
"Alas," Tarrant said. "Lord Doreset has the vault warded against such things, necessitating that the Blackscales bring the items in by hand. Not to worry, though." From within his tunic, he took a red silk bag little bigger than a coin purse, into which he inserted his entire arm, then withdrew it. "I lived in the tower for nearly a year, once upon a time—I know exactly how to get in and out again. Follow my plan, and there's no way we can fail."
"Plan? What plan?" asked Eram.
"Remember the ‘helpful peddler' job we pulled in Cassomir? And how you owe me?"
Eram shuddered. "You said you'd never bring that up again."
"I'm the Liespinner, Many-Fingers," Tarrant said. "We do this one the same way—haversack and all."
"We'll need luck," Eram said. "Sure you don't want to go seduce a priestess of Desna into this game?"
"Calistria can kiss as well as sting," Gislai said, scowling at the halfling. "We make our own luck. And no one's seducing anyone."
"Pity, that," Eram said.
Arlif had been watching, but something drew his attention past Tarrant.
"All seeming madness aside," Tarrant said. "My plan requires a blade, a thief, a caster, and a face—that's the four of us. Now we just have to find a lure. A means of distraction."
"You're still mad," Eram said. "We..." He trailed off and followed Arlif's gaze.
"A lure," Gislai said. "You think that's all we need?"
"With the plan I have? Yes. And—" He saw what Eram and Arlif were looking at. "Ah."
Sure enough, Ephere had entered the Bloody Fang and sat at a table ten paces removed. Her presence drew Tarrant's senses like a lodestone. He could smell her from here, like a sweet earthen incense, and see the faint green light of a tune she was singing under her breath.
Gislai followed his gaze, her frown deepening. "Who is she?"
"Inspiration." Tarrant got to his feet. "Pardon a moment, fellow conspirators and lady."
"Where are you going?" Eram turned to Gislai. "Where is he going?"
"I was wrong about the seducing bit." The half-orc shook her head. "He's always an idiot for a woman."
"Speaking from experience, are we?" Eram asked.
Gislai nodded gravely.
Tarrant made his way to Ephere's table. Without speaking or even looking up at him, she laid the Bloody Fang chit he had given her back at the Open Palm on the table.
Tarrant's heart sped up with everyone watching them. Every day of his life, he trod upon a stage for his enemies, and he loved every deadly hour of it.
Mindful of appearances, Tarrant swept a wide, attention-gathering bow. "Twice I have the honor and pleasure of your beauty, Lady Ephere."
"Liespinner," she said without looking at him. "I am in your debt for the service you did me last time we met."
"Did you remember my offer and come to test my tongue? With your true name, that is."
"Saleae Epheldera," Ephere said, the elven words falling from her lips like rain. She listened for his pronunciation and nodded in approval. "You speak my tongue well for a human."
"I travel," he said. "Now that we've been properly introduced, I've come to offer you a proposition. Ah!" He smiled broadly as she bristled at the word. "Apologies for my ill speech. I assure you, I intend nothing scandalous, but..." he took her hand and bent to kiss the ruby on her gauntlet, pausing to look into her eyes. "I will admit that my intentions are entirely dishonorable."
Ephere made no sign of backing down. He wondered again what she saw. His arrogance, certainly, but his earnestness? His desire for justice against Lord Doreset, a noble leech who'd grown fat at the expense of the weak and powerless?
At that moment, the doors flung open, and a tiny ball of flame sailed into the chamber. "Akayn!" came a shout.
Tarrant threw his arms around Ephere and sang of racing stallions on the far-away tundra. Feathers of golden light flowed from his lips and encircled his feet to hasten him as he carried Ephere past the table and out an open window.
The Bloody Fang exploded in flame behind them as they rolled out into the rainy darkness. Tarrant found himself lying side-by-side with Ephere, their faces close. He managed to look away long enough to see two familiar Hellknights near the front of the tavern, standing among a crowd of folk shouting for the watch or for water. Between the knights stood a tall blonde woman in severe black armor, who held aloft in her barbed gauntlets the source of the blast: a wand that smoked slightly.
Altara the Hound: Hellknight, hunter, and his favorite regret.
"Akayn!" she cried. "Show yourself!"
Excitement shivered through him. He thought that if he'd been on his own he might have liked to face Altara then and there—but he had Ephere to worry about. She might kill one or both of Altara's minions and then there would be trouble.
The elf shifted, and he put a hand on her breastbone to signal her to wait. He felt the heat radiating from beneath her armor. She stared at him dangerously.
Tarrant sang a quick spell his mother had written about him. Magic sculpted the smoke into an illusory likeness of Tarrant himself—tall, dark-skinned, with piercing eyes and a wry smile—which nodded to its creator and ran off down the street. Altara barked an order, and the Hellknights gave chase.
Ephere's eyes gleamed. "Yet again, you've caused me trouble, then saved me from it. What is it you want, Tarrant Akayn?"
"Well." Tarrant saw movement near the tavern. His allies had escaped—Gislai in particular was glaring at him.
He smiled. "How would you like a job?"
∗∗∗
"Intriguing offer," Altara said as the sun rose outside Lord Doreset's manor. "But no."
"No?" The would-be betrayer looked shocked.
Lord Doreset, who was snoozing by the fire, smiled. "That is what she said."
"But—" Eram Many-Fingers sputtered. "But I'm handing Tarrant Akayn to you on a platter! Trussed up like a goose and delivered to your great, lovely, and honestly somewhat intimidating majesty!"
Altara yawned. "Do you know how I spent the last year? This year that the master you would so eagerly betray spent in prison here in Absalom?"
The halfling shook his head.
"Reading," she said. "Interviewing. Thinking. I've hardly slept nor ate. When my knights woke me to tell of a traitor at my doorstep, I'd only been abed an hour or so."
She rose, and the halfling flinched.
"I know this man," she said. "I know everything about his games here in Absalom, and I know all about your dubious allegiances. If you would betray your friend, what would stop you from betraying me? No."
She nodded toward Eram, signaling her knights to flank him.
"No deal, thief," she said. "The law will be satisfied in the law's way, not through the treachery of a sneak seeking to protect himself. In the end, I'll catch you all. And I will destroy you."
The halfling tensed just before the first Hellknight laid hands on him, then twisted free. His would-be captor overbalanced and tripped over the halfling, who seized the opportunity to jab the other knight with his dagger.
Lord Doreset spoke up. "Might as well let him go. Let the Liespinner think all remains well. Many-Fingers will tell him nothing."
"And if he does?" Altara asked.
"What, that he tried to betray him? No." Doreset laughed. "Unless of course this was part of Akayn's scheme, and he sent Many-Fingers himself. If so, he knows nothing significant."
"True." Altara—who had been drawing her sword—sighed and sat back in her seat. "Again, I counsel you to unbind my hands, and let me take Akayn by force. There is naught to be gained by playing this game. He will defeat you."
"And again, I remind you of our agreement." Doreset sipped his morning tea. "You almost spoiled my plan with your little fireball assault earlier—no more rash action. Akayn is a creature of great arrogance—he will come at us anyway. And when he does, we will be waiting."
Altara snorted. "Many have sought to outwit Akayn, and all have failed. How do you know he'll not make such a fool of you again?"
A smile spread across Lord Doreset's perpetually greasy lips. "Because I have my own secret knife to wield at the right moment."
He waved. On cue, a tapestry moved aside, and someone stepped into the chamber. Altara was confused until she saw the brand burning on the newcomer's chest.
She knew Tarrant Akayn—knew his strengths, and especially his weaknesses.
And this would be the end of him.
Coming Next Week: A bold caper in Chapter Three of Erik Scott de Bie's "Proper Villains."
Erik Scott de Bie is the author of several Forgotten Realms novels, most recently Shadowbane: Eye of Justice. In addition, he's published numerous short stories for a variety of anthologies and collections. For more information, visit erikscottdebie.com.
Proper Villainsby Erik Scott de Bie ... Chapter One: The Liar You owe how much? asked Tarrant the Liespinner. ... My boy, my boy—don't fret. Fat Gorm's cheeks reddened like two overripe apples. It's not so bad. ... Tarrant cast his gaze around the Open Palm to check for eavesdroppers. Fat Gorm's tavern bore a fitting name, considering how often the dwarf asked his supposed friends for coin. Tarrant Akayn the Liespinner had been out of prison for all of two hours, and already the dwarf...
Proper Villains
by Erik Scott de Bie
Chapter One: The Liar
"You owe how much?" asked Tarrant the Liespinner.
"My boy, my boy—don't fret." Fat Gorm's cheeks reddened like two overripe apples. "It's not so bad."
Tarrant cast his gaze around the Open Palm to check for eavesdroppers. Fat Gorm's tavern bore a fitting name, considering how often the dwarf asked his supposed friends for coin. Tarrant Akayn the Liespinner had been out of prison for all of two hours, and already the dwarf was hitting him up—and for a major take.
Tarrant cleared his throat. "I know Taldane isn't your mother tongue, but when you say ‘not so bad,' what you really mean is ‘cataclysmic,' yes?"
The dwarf shrugged. "'Tis a sum I can hardly pay myself, true—not without selling myself into slavery."
"And we can't have that, can we?"
"Do these hands look suited to manual labor?" Gorm clutched his chest. "Nay, far better for you to do this little task for me."
"Little task, you say," Tarrant said. "Rob the Blackscales blind?"
Stealing enough treasure to buy a small island out from under the Blackscale Blades—a rather disreputable mercenary party—didn't sound "little." Just days before, another adventuring company on a hunt for ancient relics had hit some haunted ruin in the mountains that unexpectedly housed a dragon. Apparently, there had been a disagreement with their patron, who had furnished the expedition with equipment and supplies. Specifically, he broke his contract and hired the Blades to claim all the treasure. One of the double-crossed adventurers was apparently an old friend to Gorm, and he'd tipped the dwarf off that even a fraction of the hoard would be more than enough to cover his debts. It was insane, of course, but lunatic risks were Tarrant's specialty and abiding passion.
"Coin's waiting—that and who knows what fabulous treasure?" The dwarf grinned ingratiatingly. "And think of your cut. You have debts of your own to pay off, I think."
"Strike where I'm weak, eh?" Tarrant asked. "You must really be desperate. Who owns your debt, Fat Gorm? What aren't you telling me?"
"It's Lord Doreset. He's the one financed the delve, and he owns my debt." The dwarf bit his lip. "Now, before you get upset—"
Tarrant sighed. "Of course. Because fate just loves me."
Emilano Doreset, a nobleman from Cheliax who'd relocated to Absalom some years ago, had never forgiven Tarrant for certain liberties he'd taken with the Doreset name, the Doreset holdings, and the Lady Doreset. He'd managed to get Tarrant thrown in prison for a year, but he could prove little. Doreset couldn't very well reveal the full extent of the Liespinner's crimes, when almost all the stolen coin came from Doreset's less-than-legal interests in the city. An unresolved grudge hung between them like a duelist's blade.
It stood to reason Doreset would squeeze one of the Liespinner's friends for revenge. Was this all a trap? If so, that only made the task more appealing.
His heart raced just thinking of it. The danger—the audacity! And above all, the challenge. It drew Tarrant like a rallying cry. How could he claim to be Golarion's greatest con artist if he backed away from such a game?
The front door stirred a bell on a chain, ringing in two men built like guard towers. They moved with the grace of practiced killers. Debt collectors? No—worse. Beneath their dusty robes, the newcomers wore black-forged steel studded with wicked barbs and fiendish motifs.
Hellknights. What were Hellknights doing all the way out here in Absalom?
First the Blackscale Blades, then Lord Doreset, and now Hellknights.
This was definitely a trap.
Tarrant attracts trouble wherever he goes.
The entrance of the Hellknights sparked an exodus from the Open Palm. The elite lawkeepers of Cheliax were a rare sight in the city, but even to the unenlightened, their harsh intentions came clear. After a moment, only a few patrons remained, too nervous or drunk to do more than watch. They would be enough to bear witness.
"Better make yourself scarce, Gorm." Tarrant nodded to the thugs.
The dwarf scowled. "My thanks—you need anything from the cellar?"
"Anything from Qadira, by any chance? I do love the fruit of the desert."
"If you've got the coin." Tarrant frowned, and Gorm spread his hands. "What? I'm short."
Tarrant clicked his tongue, dismissing the dwarf, then hummed a low tone to focus himself. His mother had raised him among minstrels, and he had spent every night of his youth with lullabies from far-distant lands. She had sung a certain melody that would put a grown man to sleep, let alone a boy. He let that song flow from his lips, and golden magic took shape around his dusky fingers. Anyone could hear his music, but only he could see it.
When he turned to cast the spell however, he saw that the Hellknights had paused, turning their attention elsewhere.
An elf woman in leaf-patterned green hunting leathers sat at the center table, ignoring the knights who flanked her. Tarrant hadn't seen her arrive, which in itself made her remarkable. Her fine elven features—radiant skin framed by rich brown hair—made her even more so. Pupilless eyes like emeralds met Tarrant's own.
One of the knights leaned in close. "Your pardon, m'lady, but the menfolk here aren't worth your time. Why not try a real warrior?"
All eyes were on the elf and the knights now. Tarrant had never known the famously disciplined Hellknights to be distracted by something as trivial as beauty; but then, the elf was so beautiful that Tarrant himself found it difficult to look away. It was more than her appearance, though—there was something dark and powerful about her. She spoke to him on a deep, resonant level, like she was a lonely strain of music he couldn't quite grasp. Perhaps the knights were drawn to her for the same reason?
Tarrant managed to look away from her face long enough to note the elaborate golden bracers that extended the length of her forearms, each imbedded with a gemstone on the back of the hand. Her left-hand bracer boasted a pure white pearl, while the right hand—the one close to her bow—bore a bright red ruby.
"What, don't you speak Taldane?" The amorous knight reached for her shoulder.
The elf ignored him, but the gems on her bracers flickered with awakening magic.
This was about to go bad and bloody.
Tarrant sang three notes of his mother's song, loud enough that the first man looked up, startled at the sound. The magic in the music flowed from his lips, a golden ribbon of silk that wrapped around the knight. Tarrant kept singing as he slid off the stool and strode toward the confrontation. He drew his rapier as he went.
"What—" The Hellknight sank to his knees and then to the floor, sound asleep.
The other knight reeled, fighting his way free of the invisible ribbon of music. Even as the man drew his sword and turned to face the unexpected threat, Tarrant changed key and sang a warsong of the Mwangi Expanse, punctuating the words with resonant notes that exploded like starbursts in the Hellknight's face. This magic the knight needed no blessing to see, and the lights made him stagger, confused, long enough for Tarrant to skip over his sleeping partner. The knight parried Tarrant's feint, opening himself for a swift application of sword pommel to unhelmeted temple. The knight's eyes rolled up, and he sagged to the floor.
"And here I had worried." It seemed to Tarrant that they had put up surprisingly little fight for Hellknights—but then, he had struck from surprise, while they were captivated by the elf. He would have to remember that gift of hers.
Tarrant turned to bow to the woman who had made his job easier. "My thanks, lady, for letting me borrow your charms." He turned to go.
"Hold," she said.
Tarrant drew up short and turned back to her. "Tarrant Akayn the Liespinner at your disposal, lady." He trod back over the sleeping hellknight and bowed again. "What is your desire, beautiful one?"
The elf frowned. "You have done me a service tonight, human. Your kinfolk proved tiresome." Her words were music—to him, she spoke in summer rain.
"Ah, but these are no kin of mine. They neglect their own hygiene far too much."
He wondered, though. Most looked no farther than his dark skin—the touch of the exotic that spoke of a Mwangi father. But perhaps the elf's keen eyes saw his Chelish mother as well, who had taught him a love of music and cursed him with wanderlust.
Tarrant reached for the elf's hand, though she drew it back before he could kiss it. "You have an untrustworthy face," she said, adjusting her collar. She seemed particularly keen to preserve modesty. "Keep your distance."
Prickly as well as beautiful. He was in love already.
"Has the service I've done you this eve—rescuing those poor blighters from your graceful wrath—earned me the favor of your name?" He gave her his best smile. "I merely wish to tell the story accurately when I recount the tale of the most beautiful creature I've ever driven away with my rude manners."
Her eyes pierced him. Finally, she nodded slightly. "Among men, I am known as Ephere. The tongues of lesser races find the names of elves difficult."
"My tongue is up for any challenge, my lady. Yours especially. But stay a bit—"
Something hit him hard, making him drop his sword and stagger into her. They both fell to the floor, Tarrant atop Ephere, his hands in an impolite position. "Terribly sorry," he said.
Ephere hissed a curse that still sounded lovely in Elven and pushed him off. Strong hands dragged him away and pulled him up to face the Hellknight he'd clubbed.
"Tarrant Akayn." Steel scraped against leather as the knight drew out a heavy mace. "Down arms and submit to the law."
"Already half there." Tarrant indicated his fallen rapier. "About the ‘submit' bit, though—"
Ephere slammed a fist coursing with lightning into the knight's side. Shock ran through Tarrant as well, blowing the two of them apart. He tumbled gracelessly across a table while the Hellknight twitched and coughed his way to his knees. Ephere raised her other hand—this one wreathed in flame—to the knight's face. The man froze and stared into his imminent death.
"Wait," Tarrant managed, trying and failing to right himself. The shock stole his body's natural grace. "Fas-fascinating."
Ephere regarded him with curiosity as he staggered and levered himself up clumsily.
"You are a curious creature." Ephere's face held no pity of any kind. The elf turned her hand in front of the Hellknight's face, and the man winced despite his iron discipline. "You seek to stop me from killing this man?"
"Oh no—by all means, put yon fist through his face. That is, if you want half the Hellknights in Cheliax to board the next boat to Absalom looking for your blood." Tarrant finally managed to stop twitching. "Excellent plan."
She considered a moment, then pulled her fire gauntlet away. Instead, she touched her lightning gauntlet to the Hellknight's temple. The magic shocked him to the floor, unconscious.
"Useful," Tarrant noted.
The two of them stood staring at one another. Tarrant made sure everyone in the tavern saw them together, including the Hellknights. Then he took a wood disc the size of a coin from his pocket and tossed it to Ephere. She caught it deftly.
"Well, it's been a delight, lady, but now is when we part ways. Have a care with those weapons: the unwashed masses of Absalom might not appreciate their potency, but I think we both know how valuable and dangerous they are." He leaned in close. "And take care with the gauntlets, too."
Mouth open in shock, Ephere stared at him as he waved a salute, then left the Open Palm. As soon as he hit the doors, he chanted a song of lovers meeting by moonlight. The music flowed in the form of silvery wings around him, and he faded from sight, invisible.
He made his way around the back of the Palm, where he found Fat Gorm's considerable bulk wedged through one of the windows. Gorm yelped when Tarrant—still invisible—grasped his wrists and hauled him out into the street, where he lay panting. The effort broke the spell, and Tarrant reappeared, standing over the out-of-breath barkeep.
"Friends among the Hellknights, Gorm?" he asked.
"Collectors," said the dwarf. "They work for Lord Doreset, don't ask me why. I didn't expect it would be this dangerous. I can get the coin another way."
"Ease your waggling tongue—of course I'll take the job." That had never been in doubt—if anything, the skirmish with the Hellknights made Tarrant more excited to do it. "Consider it a favor to Lord Doreset—his being a nose that looks best tweaked."
"You have accounts to settle with Doreset," Gorm said. "That's good."
"Yes, yes I do."
Prison had served as an excellent refuge for a full year, excepting the bars and chains. And while he'd known a Chelish agent would spot him sooner or later once he left prison, he hadn't expected Hellknights to arrive on his trail so soon. It seemed too fine a coincidence, as though the enemies he'd left in his homeland had been waiting for him. Definitely a trap.
"What of that elf?" Gorm asked. "Is she with you?"
"A beautiful stranger," Tarrant said. "I almost regret using her as bait to throw the Hellknights off my trail."
"You're a villain, Liespinner," Gorm said.
"Indeed,' Tarrant agreed. "And I'll need a team of the same. The Blackscale Blades aren't going to rob themselves."
∗∗∗
Altara the Hound tapped her barbed fingers on the thick darkwood arm of her chair. She liked sitting as little as she liked waiting. She was a woman of action, whose record in tracking down fugitives had earned her the nickname a dozen times over. "You failed."
Her men didn't shift from their stiff-backed parade rest. "We searched the Palm, but the dwarf was nowhere to be found."
She slammed her gauntleted fist down. "To the hells with the dwarf! Akayn is the real target."
"Tell me of this elf," said the noble fop seated across from her, speaking between bites of his second dinner. Corpulent Lord Doreset was always eating. "You say she was beautiful?"
"Unnaturally so," said one of the knights. "She may have been using some form of magic. She was... compelling."
"And the Liespinner seemed to know her?" Altara demanded.
The knight with the livid purple bruise on the side of his head nodded sharply. "He tried to make it look like he knew her, but I don't think he does. It might be a false trail."
"Tarrant Akayn has always been a fool for a pretty face. It will be his undoing." Altara stood. "Go."
Her men dutifully marched away.
"Patience, Altara." Doreset stuffed a fresh pastry in his mouth. "You'll have the Liespinner soon enough, and I'll have my coin back. There's no point in terrorizing the help."
Altara glared at him, then marched out of the room and back to her guest chambers. She shoved her borrowed desk over in a cascade of papers: reports, sketches, descriptions, all of the same man. She caught one—a rendering of his face, with its familiar cocky smile, and tore it in half with her barbed fingers.
"Tarrant Akayn," she murmured. "There will be a reckoning between us."
Coming Next Week: A gathering of thieves in Chapter Two of Erik Scott de Bie's "Proper Villains."
Erik Scott de Bie is the author of several Forgotten Realms novels, most recently Shadowbane: Eye of Justice. In addition, he's published numerous short stories for a variety of anthologies and collections. For more information, visit erikscottdebie.com.
Shattered Steelby F. Wesley Schneider ... Chapter Three: Wounds that Rust I crashed down on my upper back with a peal of metal thunder, the impact as much a sound as a physical blow, jarring every steel plate and fragile bone. Flashes of lightning exploded within my helm, and I fought to remain conscious as I slid sideways down a mound of rubble, part of a small avalanche of splinters and broken bricks. I think I momentarily lost my senses, as the next thing I remember was a commotion of...
Shattered Steel
by F. Wesley Schneider
Chapter Three: Wounds that Rust
I crashed down on my upper back with a peal of metal thunder, the impact as much a sound as a physical blow, jarring every steel plate and fragile bone. Flashes of lightning exploded within my helm, and I fought to remain conscious as I slid sideways down a mound of rubble, part of a small avalanche of splinters and broken bricks. I think I momentarily lost my senses, as the next thing I remember was a commotion of unpleasant sensations, pinpricks cascading across my limbs as my confused body tried to either reawaken itself or rage against the grip of paralysis. Something in my memory urgently vied for attention, the lingering flickers of rational thought screaming at me, going hoarse with desperation.
A shadow fell across my unseeing gaze, and my mind rallied.
I kicked as fiercely as I could, silently exulting at the sensation of my legs—though heavy—actually moving. The motion slid me further down the pile of wreckage, spinning me just as a heavy object impacted the rubble where my head had been, pelting my slightly askew visor with debris. My heels hit the semi-level stone of the courtyard and I was up, taking two long stumbling strides as one hand righted my helmet and the other gripped my sword. I spun, my blade half from its sheath before reflex threw me into another motion more akin to ballet than battle.
The barbed spike of a halberd whistled as it swung, swiping through vision up-flung by the extreme arch of my back. Muscles like taut chains snapped my torso upright, and I faced my attacker with blade fully drawn, a deadly extension of my outstretched arm.
What light filtered into the courtyard barely glinted from blackened plates as much weapons as armor, bladed and forged with the visage of a fiendish skull dominating the breastplate, its monstrous teeth gnashed together in a wall of daggers. The infernal steel piled upon a mountainous figure, his face now hidden behind the featureless visor of a newly donned helm. Had the night itself sent its own legionnaire against me, its manifestation could not have been more menacing.
A Hellknight. Now it was clear who Quil had found to avenge him against the Calavettis so affordably. Initially I'd assumed just some sadistic gang member or bloodthirsty lunatic, but those possibilities had largely evaporated when I'd seen the Slug's Trail emptied of its huddled occupants. So much for optimism. The Hellknights served no lord other than their own grim vision of justice, meting it out sometimes for the coin of those seeking lawful revenge, and sometimes merely to make examples of those who flaunted their crimes. I suspected Quil had convinced this monstrosity that the Calavettis fell into that latter category—they had robbed the crooked gambler, after all. It'd be easy to see them as the villains and undertake their execution with only half the story—Quil's half. I couldn't help but wonder if I would have done the same if Quil had come to me.
The Hellknight's tempered, dispassionate voice jerked me from my fantasy of morality, his words sounding almost mechanical as they reverberated from his heavy helm to mine. "There's no defense for your being here," he said, his tone that of judge delivering his verdict. "Having rejected amnesty, you are a war criminal and a traitor to the new order. Throw down your weapon and submit."
He was right. Just wearing this armor made me a criminal, an embodiment of slaughter and mad ambition. After the queen fell, the city's new rulers offered us our old lives back. They humbled us and called it mercy.
But they didn't know what it had been like. They might have had their families killed and their bodies scarred, but so had we—and worse, we had done it to ourselves. We were the Gray Maidens, the elite, the bodyguards of a queen as beautiful as she was ambitious—and viciously insane. Few chose to join the queen's guard, but she and her followers were not to be denied. The beautiful, the talented, the unscrupulous—I forget which I'd been—all of us were made to serve. Those of us who hadn't reveled in our cruel authority had our minds shackled as thoroughly as our bodies, the parts of us that made us who we were locked away, transforming us into the marionettes of a mad woman. The scholar I once was—the one who had dreams, who indulged in magic words, and whose blood I too often bled—died long ago, executed in all but body for deeds performed against her will, but performed nonetheless. And not the sweep of a thousand bureaucrats' pardons would resurrect her. There was only this. Only a chance, a hope, that I could make something right in whatever days I had remaining. That I might have a chance to prove that something like a heart still beat within this armor.
But the Hellknight cared nothing for my redemption. His halberd hung in the space between us, its curved blade all too suggestive of an executioner's axe. If I submitted, at best I'd be handed over to the city guard, put on public display, then executed as either a zealot or a dangerous lunatic. Or he might exact his view of justice here and now—as he did with the Calvettis. He didn't appear to be carrying any manacles. In any case, I doubted he would be the first of his kind to show sympathy.
I stepped forward, as if preparing to lunge. The knight's weapon came around in a predictable arc, but far faster than I'd anticipated, barely giving me an instant to dance back. The blade passed and I shot forward again, seeing how close I could get between scythelike swipes. Farther this time, but not far enough. The Hellknight channeled the momentum of the long-hafted axe like a deadly conductor, directing his steel around in a lethal figure eight, the weapon never even slowing as it wheeled around, intent on cleaving me in two. I flung myself back just barely in time, the point of the halberd's spear tip clattering across the steel scales of my midsection. If he'd been able to adjust his weight fast enough, he could have impaled me in that instant. I slid farther out of reach, and regarded him even more cautiously.
He knew his weapon, had greater range, was likely stronger, and was at least as well trained as I. This was going to be nasty—but he didn't have all the advantages.
The Hellknights serve no lord other than their own grim vision of justice.
His heavy blade waving between us, I darted in once more, directly toward the weapon. The spear tip shot forward to meet me, seeking to punch through my armor's weaker scales. It hit almost directly—an inch closer to my middle and it would have skewered me. As it was, it struck where I'd intended. I spun with the impact, twisting hard away from the curved axe head. Flexible scales rolled the weapon's point across my midsection, and for an instant the knight saw my back—probably believing he'd struck a deadly wound. I eagerly disillusioned him. My upraised sword arm came around with my spin, sliding my blade cleanly under his spiked gardbrace, tearing into his shoulder.
A growl of surprised pain rang within the dark armor and I yanked my sword back as though it were a knife, preparing to stab again. With me inside his guard, he couldn't effectively bring his polearm to bear. I had him.
His armored fist erupted upward, catching me under the chin. Stars flashed across my vision, and the blow snapped my jaw up hard, rattling my teeth as though I'd caught a thrown rock in my mouth. I stumbled back, slashing wildly, but succeeding only in scoring the fiendish face snarling upon his sculpted breastplate.
My sword almost didn't come up fast enough. The axe-head skidded along my blade and I had to use both hands to throw it aside, the power of his blow forcing me back another step. The vibrations of the impact rang through me, dulling the feeling in my arms. Just as fast, the next strike came. The bloodied Hellknight had perhaps lost a measure of his composure, but none of his vigor. His attacks hammered down, raining over me like a taskmaster's lash. Before the tremors of the last strike subsided the next was already falling. It felt as though my bones were being reduced to dust in their sockets. I gave ground just to keep my balance, each impact forcing me back farther, each step a chance to slip or find myself backed against a wall.
I felt his rhythm before I even realized it, my limbs expecting the coming blow, my sword arm rising to parry an attack high and to the left. The Hellknights prided themselves on their mercilessness, on their unfeeling exaction of law, but obviously didn't value imagination. This one had trained himself to be a clockwork soldier—deadly, but predictable.
I, on the other hand, had the dubious fortune of having been trained by maniacs.
The halberd came leveled for my head, and I wasn't there. Dropping low, I slid under the swipe and drove my blade down with all my weight, puncturing the metal guarding his left foot, momentarily pinning him to the ground. His growl worsened to a roar as he reflexively tried to jerk back. Lashing wildly, the butt of his weapon came down hard on my shoulder, knocking me away. I rolled as best I could, slashing at his legs. The armor seemed weaker there, and my steel cleaved through leather and skin—but not without a price. The spear-tip fell, and I threw up my arm to catch it. The barbed spike grated through metal and flesh with equal ease.
Immediately, the length of my arm coursed with wet warmth, rivulets leaking through armored gaps. It looked black as oil in the courtyard's shadows. My sword rose wildly, scraping the plates of my attacker's groin. It didn't find a mark, but the impact alone caused him to flinch, pulling his bloodied weapon along with him.
Bounding to my feet, I pressed forward, trying to keep him on guard as long as possible. We clashed like living swords, both of us weapons honed for similar purposes, but still far from alike. Where my armor granted me flexibility, his reinforced the impression of some hellish automaton, and what strikes he couldn't deflect with his weapon he beat aside with gauntleted fists. Again and again my blade struck like a cat's claw, his metallic hisses signaling a dozen minor scratches, but none telling. From the lines of dark droplets sprayed across the courtyard rubble, I had to be wearing him down, but his movements gave little sign. He fought like a fanatic, and as the fight ground on I realized he'd never back down. For him, this wasn't a battle with another soldier—it was against an enemy of his blind convictions. Somewhere, someone's word ordered him to fight unto victory or death. It was simple.
For a moment, I almost envied him. But my days of freedom through obedience died with the old queen.
Again the swing of that blackened halberd cleaved the air like a giant's axe, carrying the force of a killing blow. Flecked with gore, the devil upon the knight's armor sneered viciously, its cruel eyes acknowledging that out duel could only end in death. The Hellknight knew my speed now, striking lower to limit my motion. As agile as I was, attempting to leapfrog an attack was a deadly gamble. But if I was to survive, it wasn't the only gamble I'd be willing to try.
With his next thrust, I gripped my cloak like the cape of a bullfighter and threw it directly for his horned helm. The heavy fabric rippled between us and I followed, ready to strike. He struck first, ignoring my attempt at distraction. The halberd blade swept the ground, extended too far to sever my legs, but the shaft bludgeoned my calf. The blade jerked back toward its wielder, catching my limb in its hooklike curve, tugging my leg out from under me. A moment's weightlessness, and then I hit the ground with a rush of breath and a clangor of collapsing steel.
Two devils glared down—the one on the armor, and the one inside it. I gripped my sword, only to have a steel-shod boot kick it away. The first blow fell, punching through scale mesh and piercing my side. The echoes within my helm made me realize I'd screamed, more out of frustration than pain.
"You could have renounced your armor. You could have left with your sisters." The Hellknight's voice rumbled matter-of-factly through his heavy breathing and the blood-leaking helm. "Instead, you've persisted in the old queen's madness. As a Gray Maiden, still within these walls, you prove yourself the embodiment of that madness. You and your order forced this city to the brink of chaos, and for all of you the punishment is the same." The spear-point lifted again.
I was finished—but the dead woman inside me refused to give up so easily. The old words rang through my armor before I could compare them to faded memories. Numb fingers moved as though possessed, recreating delicate signs as I thrust my arms up to meet the plummeting blade. The crimson sensation of sharp metal sheering along my wrists matched the blast of energy that burst from my palms.
The arcane darts flickered and threatened to falter, they didn't have far to go. They lanced into the black sliver of the Hellknight's visor, then exploded in a rain of scarlet sparks. A wail like that of a malfunctioning machine tore through the courtyard as the Hellknight and his dripping blade toppled, crashing backward into the rubble.
I lay there breathing deliberately, letting the exhaustion of bruised muscles and split veins momentarily overcome me. When I rose, I cradled my left arm. Although my steel skin was little more than scraped, it felt as though the flesh within had been reduced to ribbons. Learning the extent of my wounds would have to wait, though. Recovering my sword, I walked to the fallen Hellknight.
A thin wisp of steam, smoke, or breath rose from the soldier's visor, and I imagined I caught a whiff of burnt meat. He lay perfectly still, and through the leering armor I couldn't divine any sign of life.
I didn't regret toppling him—it had been his life or mine—but I had to admit that I could all too easily become like him again: a champion of a crusade sane people could never fathom, a killer without the inclination to see or the soul to judge the difference between law and right. How many had thought the same of me?
Just in case, I kicked that bloody halberd out of his reach. Then my sword slid between the thick plates at his neck, releasing a spurt of liquid darkness and a brief choking noise more gurgle than gasp.
"Gray Maiden?" The name came unbidden, even as the steel-skinned fanatic bled out at my feet. Was that all I was even now? A shattered sword that refused to stop killing? "We'll see."
I turned to start the shadowed walk back to Trail's End, a Varisian neighborhood just outside Korvosa. I couldn't say whether I'd done right tonight, or avenged anyone who deserved it. I couldn't say whether I'd just murdered a hero or a monster. But I was pretty sure there was a Varisian girl back in Trail's End who would sleep better for the rest of her days knowing that the ones who killed her kin had paid for those deaths, and that she'd bought the sword that struck the avenging blow. And when you can't afford justice, you make due with revenge.
Coming Next Week: Honor among thieves in "Proper Villains," a new story by Erik Scott de Bie!
F. Wesley Schneider is the Editor-in-Chief of Paizo Publishing and co-creator of the Pathfinder campaign setting. He is the award-winning author of numerous RPG adventures and sourcebooks, including Rule of Fear, Book of the Damned Vol. 1: Princes of Darkness, Seven Days to the Grave, and Endless Night, as well as the Pathfinder's Journal Guilty Blood.
Shattered Steelby F. Wesley Schneider ... Chapter Two: Silvered Skin Two brothers. Sczarni. My words took on the hollow, metallic ring of my sealed visor. Their blood is on your hands. ... The gambler's eyes bulged like a panicked animal's, his gaze torn between my sword point and the copper-scented mess spreading about my feet. What?! No! I'm just a dicer, he stammered—a total coward, and doubtlessly a liar. Obnoxiously, his voice had also gone up an octave. We roll a friendly game...
Shattered Steel
by F. Wesley Schneider
Chapter Two: Silvered Skin
"Two brothers. Sczarni." My words took on the hollow, metallic ring of my sealed visor. "Their blood is on your hands."
The gambler's eyes bulged like a panicked animal's, his gaze torn between my sword point and the copper-scented mess spreading about my feet. "What?! No! I'm just a dicer," he stammered—a total coward, and doubtlessly a liar. Obnoxiously, his voice had also gone up an octave. "We roll a friendly game here. Dice—just dice. The weapons are just for protection, you never know who—"
He screamed like a farm lass thrown from her horse, a surprised shriek followed by a stream of blubbering. Good the guards never patrolled these docks, as to someone above the noise surely sounded like something far worse than a thief getting what he deserved. I brought my sword level once more, Quil's cheek reddened from the slap, but was no more bloodied than by a bad shave.
"You killed them."
"No!" he whimpered.
My blade crossed his other cheek, releasing new reserves of pathetic noise. He dropped to the ground.
"Please!" he bawled. My blade rose. "No! The Calavetti brothers. You mean the Calavettis. I know why they're dead, but I didn't kill them!" The words spilled out almost faster than I could follow. When the sharp steel didn't fall, the gambler ventured a glimpse at me between his upraised arms.
"They came to my game a week ago—less than that. They lost. But that happens—that's the game—and they knew the risks when they got into it." His shielding arms, slowly lowered. A twitch of my still-wet blade was all it took to jerk them back to position.
"All their coin, every copper, and more—they lost it all, but they didn't know how to quit. There was some jewelry, a necklace, the hat off one of their heads. They got in that deep, and lost."
"You cheated them."
"It's cheater's dice!" he squawked. Another steel twitch, and he cowered. "No! No special way. No gimmicks, no rigging, no finger waggling. They knew the game—probably thought they had it all worked out—and they lost bad. We threw them out once they started getting... impolite. But they came back."
He paused, waiting for me to urge him on. His discomfort in the resulting silence did that for him soon enough.
"The bastards jumped us as we were headed back into town. They wanted their money and everything else back. Scum like them's why I hire protection and keep it well paid." He flashed mangled teeth, momentarily forgetting I wasn't some taproom floozy. When I remained silent, he quickly came back to the moment. "But before we'd even seen those two Sczarni saddle boys one of my men was fishing a bolt out of his side. I sure wasn't polite about it, but I gave them their coin back. Then they got greedy and took the rest—the entire night's haul." He'd gotten his dander up. "I told them that wasn't going to be the end of it, and it sure as hell wasn't!"
"You and your men tracked them down." I still hadn't heard anything leading me to reconsider my condemnation.
A Gray Maiden's armor is as much a part of her as her skin.
"No," he said, sounding almost offended. "There's people for that kind of work."
"Hired killers. Assassins." But of course I knew that nearly anyone in the old city would cut a man's throat for contemptibly low prices.
"Nah. There's a man who's been lurking around here the last few weeks—a nasty sort. Unpredictable, but thorough."
"You paid him to kill the Calavettis." It wasn't a question.
"Why pay when he does the work for free? I just had one of my boys find him, explain what happened, give him the name of the sty they spend most of their nights in, and he tracked them down himself. Those two were dead the next morning." He nodded purposefully, gloating over the revenge he'd had another take for him. "But I still don't have my money back! You can see I'm kind of like the victim in all this."
"What's this killer's name?"
"Damned if I know," he said. He was getting some of his spirit back. I let it pass for the moment. "He's some crazy who's shacked up on the Slug's Trail."
"You're still the reason they're dead."
"They robbed me! That much silver was worth plenty more than the lives of two Sczarni sleazes."
"Your crooked game lures in the desperate. Your accomplices spread lies and prey upon the hopes of the poor. You bully and rob those who come. You kill any who try to take back what you steal. You are a cheater, a thief, a murderer, and a coward."
"What!? I don't force anyone to come here!" His excuses sounded like a piglet's squeals as he scooted back against and up the curved wall, trying to regain his feet. "And it's not my fault if they don't have the money to play. I'm no murderer!"
"You are."
It wasn't as clean as that. The dead men's sister hadn't muddied her brothers' memories with unflattering truths. And Quil hadn't murdered them with his own hand. His confession had even pointed me toward someone who might be even more dangerous. But being a lesser evil didn't make him innocent.
My steel flashed again. This time Quil didn't whimper.
∗∗∗
The back alleys and forgotten streets of the old city wound together into a singularly wretched urban quagmire. At times I found myself wading waist-deep through piles of trash, the wreckage of broken lives, and the filth mountains of rodent despots. At others I had to retrace my steps entirely to avoid a collapsed building or a gang's territorial barrier. Fortunately, the prisoners of this labyrinth didn't bother me—those who even roused at my passing knew well enough to squeeze their eyes back closed and hastily forget. But some things were bolder, and knew or cared less about my armor's infamous reputation. More than once a hail of loose shakes clattered onto the cobbles behind me as something skidded upon the rooftops. I never saw more than a dash of shadows or the reflection of the moon off oily eyes, but I knew that more than men preyed upon those lost among these streets. In the old city, garbage collected in the gutters along both streets and shingles.
Despite the debris and denizens of the slums, I soon reached my destination. The Slug's Trail was little more than a blind alley leading to the walled-in courtyard of a half-collapsed insula. It took its name from both its short length and the years of discarded oils and cooking greases that coated its walls, thrown from the rear stoop of a long-emptied fish fry. Flies congregated here in droning plagues, and the squirming things they spawned weren't slugs. But despite the swarms of shit-eaters, this had also become a kind of wretched safe house for the most pitiable street dwellers. No gang or roof crawler cared to contest the flies for their home, and the high walls of the surrounding buildings sheltered against much of the wind and weather. The alley was filthy, infested, and disgusting, but still preferable to many of the hunting grounds where gangs of self-proclaimed slumlords insisted upon rents paid in either silver or skin.
Tonight, though, the Slug's Trail was something other than a glimpse of urban Hell. It was empty.
Narrow and largely uncluttered, its shadows shallow, the alley's rough stone formed an unobstructed channel to a sagging entryway, the inner yard beyond visible in ghostly shades as moonlight filtered through the night's pooling mist. Barely noticeable in the dark, a narrow, uneven window watched from just above that opening, a single lazy eye lolling over the ugly alley.
It wasn't difficult to recognize this for what it was—not just a dirty cul-de-sac, but a killing ground. Anyone attempting to enter the insula would have to pass beneath that window and whoever might be lurking amid the shadows within. I considered that I might be paranoid, but if I was hunting a killer, I preferred not to give my quarry any undue opportunity.
Somewhere over the buildings and across the nearby docks, a ship's bell rang out the meager hour. By the time its echo had faded I'd found another of the insula's exterior walls and, using slanting bricks as handholds, climbed through the window into a second-story apartment. There were few who could move as I did in full armor—but then, few had their armor specially fitted to their body's every angle, the skin they were born with overridden by steel. I could hardly call it a blessing, but I am the creature I am, and tonight steel moved as soundlessly as silk.
The apartments within obviously hadn't been rented for years, but also hadn't wanted for residents in that time. Broken glass, shattered furniture, and other garbage littered the floor, while layers of crass graffiti and outdated gang symbols covered what remained of cheap plaster walls. The rats had been at the place as well. I didn't see them, but their smell was thick in the air. Time and violence had thoroughly devastated the interior, reducing the multiple apartments into a broken hall, cornering at right angles around the central courtyard and divided only by the low remnants of walls and splintering supports.
Slipping through the wreckage as stealthily as the irritable floorboards allowed, I reached a corner and looked down another row of rooms. Here would be the one with the window overlooking the Slug's Trail. There was more, though. By weather, shoddy construction, or more deliberate violence, much of the inner wall had fallen away, calving in great pieces into the courtyard below.
A figure in black, his form concealed by shadow, knelt at the window, his head resting upon the sill. I jerked back into the dark, not eager to lose my advantage if he looked over his shoulder. It seemed my caution had proved warranted. If I'd come down the alley, the hiss of a crossbow bolt would likely have been the last thing I heard.
A momentary gap in the night's clouds threw a weak wave of moonlight over the figure. At first I thought he was much bigger than a man, his shoulders impossibly broad, but a glint of steel suggested that heavy spaulders had inflated my impression. The shoulder guards weren't out of place, either, as plates weighty enough to bring the unaccustomed to their knees girded all but his head.
This was something I hadn't expected. I thought for sure that Quil had lied to me, or gotten lucky by finding some thug with actual skill, but here was something else—someone either trained to wear that armor or suffering the worst kind of madness. Of his features, I could see little, the outline of a head shaved nearly bald being the only hint of a man beneath the steel plates. If he was armed, I couldn't tell, the night and his dark steel conspiring to make him a shadow only slightly more lustrous than the rest crowding the wreckage.
At first I thought he was waiting—perhaps even for me. Could he be a guard, and this some elaborate trap? But as I waited and watched from the darkness, I began to see his head nod almost imperceptibly, slowly, with even breaths. He was asleep. This didn't seem careless, though, with his vantage over the best approach and armor still fastened. He seemed more like a soldier in hostile territory, as ready as he could be while still at rest. Or it was a ruse.
Either way, I moved cautiously as I slipped around the corner, picking through the ruin to come upon him from behind. During my nearly silent approach he hadn't moved. That changed quickly as I clamped one hand around his neck, digging my thumb into a tender point, my other lifting his chin with the cold length of my dagger.
"Who are you?" I demanded, the rasp echoing hollowly within my locked helm.
I could feel him jar to wakefulness and tense with surprise, but that passed in an instant—not a good sign. He'd been trained to control his shock, his instinct to go rigid. Without a word he reversed his balance, throwing his weight against my chest.
My own training countermanded my curiosity, and my blade slid across his throat. But instead of being gripped by the slight resistance of separating skin, the dagger screeched across a gorget hidden in the dark, doing nothing to slow the armored figure's rearward charge. I suddenly became aware of the crumbled inner wall behind me, my legs kicking backward to keep me upright, heels skidding on glass and garbage. The remains of a plaster window frame caught me in the small of my back, and I reflexively released my grip, lashing out for any handhold in reach. I snagged a piece of wooden beam, only to have it crumble like a chunk of clay.
A vision of clouds made ghostly by moonlight blurred through my vision as I toppled backward through the air.
Coming Next Week: Two of the most notorious knightly orders in Golarion go toe-to-toe in the final chapter of F. Wesley Schneider's "Shattered Steel."
F. Wesley Schneider is the Editor-in-Chief of Paizo Publishing and co-creator of the Pathfinder campaign setting. He is the award-winning author of numerous RPG adventures and sourcebooks, including Rule of Fear, Book of the Damned Vol. 1: Princes of Darkness, Seven Days to the Grave, and Endless Night, as well as the Pathfinder's Journal Guilty Blood.
... Shattered Steelby F. Wesley Schneider ... Chapter One: Holding an EdgeNight's the only time I risk the streets. Dingy streetlamps are far easier to avoid than the sun—not that the ways I frequent ever have streetlamps. ... My face isn't a welcome one here. Too many have seen it too recently and too often. Everyone has their bad memories, their reasonable hatreds, and many of those injustices look like me. I'd started out hoping that maybe I could change that, but a year of stinking...
Shattered Steel
by F. Wesley Schneider
Chapter One: Holding an Edge
Night's the only time I risk the streets. Dingy streetlamps are far easier to avoid than the sun—not that the ways I frequent ever have streetlamps.
My face isn't a welcome one here. Too many have seen it too recently and too often. Everyone has their bad memories, their reasonable hatreds, and many of those injustices look like me. I'd started out hoping that maybe I could change that, but a year of stinking alleys, tear-soaked streets, and steel rusted by blood made me doubt.
Those with coin have ways to solve their problems; in the light of day, with the new law, with a few words in the right ears. Those without… they've got the real problems, the messy ones no one cares enough to handle. The ones there's never a law for. Copper and bruised flesh buys a far less reliable brand of justice, and everything gets muddy down on the old city's streets. Those who live there know it so well it's not worth explaining. Those who don't will never understand.
I'm no expert. I wasn't born to those flophouses, sweaty basements, and alley shanties. I didn't ask to come, either—but I guess no one does. The difference between me and most of the players in that rehearsal for Hell was that when I arrived, whoever threw me there thought they finished me. They might have scarred my body, stolen my respect, and broken everything I was going to be, but I came through. I wasn't some sword straight from the fire, but sometimes even dross holds an edge.
Someone like the Varisian girl couldn't afford a sword. That's why she followed the rumors no guardsman would ever gamble on and found me. She said her brothers had been murdered. She knew by who but not why. That seemed convenient, but her people lied as easily as they spoke. The city watch would have dismissed her for that reason alone. For a moment I was tempted to do the same, but tears had dug twin graves in that soft face—a face that would never be as pretty as it was before. So I named my price.
She tried to bargain. I stopped her before she embarrassed us both. She went ahead anyway, and I was the only one embarrassed. She took my silence for disgust—an easy mistake; it's difficult to read expressions through steel—and forked over some bauble of hemp and cracked beads that wouldn't buy me a meal. I stayed quiet, and her desperation urged her further, but she had nothing left but words, the promise of future promises. It would have to do—favors seemed in short supply these days anyway.
I waited until well after midnight, until an hour when anyone with honest business was long since abed, before heading into the street. Even then I kept to the alleys. I didn't care if the drunks and alley rats saw me—their kind only survived because they'd learned to keep their mouths shut. No one would believe them anyway. Most didn't even believe their own senses, dismissing my steps as too soundless on the crumbling cobbles, doubting the metal glimpsed beneath my close-drawn cloak, disbelieving my face as a nightmare conjured by booze more poison than liquor.
It didn't take long for the streets to give way to boards, and then from boards to muck. I hated the docks, not just because of rust and my obvious wariness of water, but for the constant noise. It compounded a disadvantage. Much of the world was muffled thanks to my helm, and the constant rasp of water over trash beaches and the clunking of moored boats didn't help. But her directions had been specific.
If the Caterwaul had seen better days, no one ever visited to reminisce. I'd never spent a day of my life on a boat, so I couldn't say why such a capable-looking fishing trawler had been abandoned in the first place, but it surely wasn't leaving port again. Mold draped what rigging had survived, moss collected upon much of the wood, and though the masts still stood, the sails had disappeared as surely as the ship's crew. What remained of a vandalized figurehead, ruggedly carved as a mangy cat, stared inland, yowling for its absentee captain's return.
Light flickered through the ship's bowed timbers, and a burst of nasty guffaws preceded a long string of repetitive curses, verifying rumors that the Caterwaul had a new crew.
Supposedly a gambler called Quil ran a nightly game of cheaters' dice in the wreck's hold. This particular game was widely known in Old Dock's shadier watering holes as having relatively square dice and life-changing stakes. But those who sat and listened to the stories long enough eventually heard them repeated, and always from the same loudmouths—publicizers doubtlessly on Quil's payroll. No doubt a game played out here nightly, but it wasn't just this Mr. Quil gambling.
With the tide low, the Caterwaul leaned against the dilapidated dock, its hull sunk deep into the rancid muck. The noise and light drifted up from below the pier, as though the game were taking place right in the surf. Good. I wasn't eager to try and creep across the ship's deck, guessing at which rotted timber might give me away. Slipping across the muddy boardwalk, I dropped onto the dark of the beach below.
The forgotten temple of some imaginary goddess of sea-junk sprang up around me. Pilings marched in almost even rows parallel to the shore, their crusty coverings of muck and barnacles suggesting elaborate religious reliefs. Piles of discarded crates, small wrecked boats, and other unidentifiable heaps became the inhuman artistry of this weird sanctuary, while the heavy scents of wood rot and sewage made do as incense. Fortunately, the local congregation didn't seem to be terribly devout.
Ahead, the hold of the Caterwaul gaped open, the terminal gash explaining the end of its days at sea. Within, five figures surrounded a crate making do as a table, dice and the coins of fresh bets scattered beneath a lantern wobbling overhead. None looked like sailors.
Despite the unlikelihood that anyone within could see me, I stuck to the deepest recesses of the under-docks. It wouldn't look like it to most, but this was a classic Sczarni trap. In this trick, you make yourself the bait, setting up in the open so the guards, or thieves, or whoever you've pissed off this week think they've got the drop on you. That way most don't even bother to look for the cutthroat hidden away in the dark. I'd fallen for it once before and almost got knifed. Lesson learned, I waited now, letting my eyes adjust, searching through the motion of the flickering shadows and lazy roll of the shallow surf.
I counted time in the rolls of dice. Two complete games passed as I stared into the dark, until finally a lean, excitable fellow won a significant pot. A wave of shouts, curses, and banged bottles rose and ebbed, rattling the lantern above and upsetting the shadows leaning away from the broken ship. One shadow craned its neck from behind an algae-draped stanchion, light flickering for an instant across the quarrel set in its crossbow.
Just one guard. Mr. Quil shouldn't be so frugal with his security.
Quil should have brought more than a crossbow.
My response came faster than thought, and my armor immediately rebelled at the twitch of that old reflex. Three escapee syllables whispered within my helm, turning harsh inside my metal mask. Intonations that once came as easily as a child's prayer tripped over my lips, becoming jumbled upon hearing themselves spoken by an unfamiliar voice. They sounded like lost faith.
I choked back the rest of what I would have once called magic, but it was only for the sake of stealth. If there had still been power in those noises, I would have felt some twinge, some hint of it building like steam in a kettle. Instead, all I felt was rust, biting leather, and my own tired muscles. The words—or the memory of what they should have been—made me feel weak, and I shoved them back into the scabbed over recesses of my mind, down with all the other wounds of what I used to be. I hadn't chosen them, but I had other, more direct solutions now.
Suddenly eager to move, I slipped between the pilings, darkness masking my steel and the waves drowning the sound of my steps. His attention more on the game than his watch, the guard's first hint of my presence came as I snapped upon him like the jaws of a hunter's trap. My free arm locked around his chest and arms as my mailed hand dug into his face, slamming his head back against my pauldron. Hair muffled the clang of his skull striking metal, his body tensing for an instant before going limp. I let him drop into the muck. If he woke up, he'd have a nasty knot to nurse. If.
Gliding up to the hull, I slunk close to the hole that served as the entrance to the makeshift gambling den. Again I waited for a distraction, and this time it didn't take long. Cheating was actually part of cheaters' dice, so you couldn't really call an opponent a cheater and have it mean anything. But at a game usually played with bare knives upon the table, part of the challenge was knowing how far you could push your opponents' tolerance. Someone had just gone too far.
The dice clattered. Shouts rose without the accompanying laughter. A fist pounded the table, and a stool skidded across the floor. More shouts and thuds.
I drew my sword and stepped into the light.
My entrance was the flood that stopped the house fire. Suddenly no one was seated. A beast of a man was already grabbing for a whip-thin braggart wearing the melting traces of a gloating smile—I don't think either of them even saw me as brutal intention drove them toward the hold's shadowed stern. But others did. Doing a double-take as he looked past the brawlers, a formerly bored man with hair the greasy gray of pigeon feathers jolted to his feet, cursing and sweeping dice and coins into the pockets of a once-fine violet vest. A pair of less swift players—wet old stevedores, their leathery faces incapable of showing surprise—rose slowly amid the confusion. Over the clatter of silver, the coin collector pointed at me and shouted to the brawlers. Had a twenty-foot-long sea snake just washed into the room, he couldn't have looked more startled. I singled him out as Mr. Quil.
I went directly for him. As I strode in, the coinless dockworkers clambered out, the hurried slaps of their steps soon receding in the muddy surf. Pointing my blade at Quil's throat, only a stride away, I made my intention clear.
To his credit, he didn't flinch, instead yanking up a crossbow from behind the crate-table. Although loaded, it was little more than a toy. Still, he fired, and the miniature bolt struck me solidly in the chest. Had I been some thug in scavenged rags, I'd be retching up my lifeblood.
I wasn't. The bolt ricocheted away harmlessly, and a kick shattered the crate between us. The crossbow in Quil's hands followed suit a half-moment later, my blade swiping it from his hands and crushing it against the ship's sweating timbers. Quil pressed himself against those same moist boards, unsuccessfully trying to find some crevice wide enough to squeeze through and escape.
Something struck the small of my back. It shattered, and a man's high-pitched scream rang out. I twisted away from the impact. Harsh words came to my lips, both curses and something more. I bit them back.
The smaller of the two thugs, his face already blossoming where it had caught three or four of the larger man's punches, was stumbling back away from me. In one shaking hand he barely balanced the handle of a rusty chef's knife, the shattered slivers of blade running deep between his fingers and into the meat of a lacerated palm. He tripped backward, whimpering, and bolted out through the broken hull.
Unfortunately, he had been the big fellow's only distraction. Shuffling from the rear of the ship, the apelike goon had to duck to keep his head from scraping the deck above. He paused as he reentered the ring of lantern light, obviously not sure what to make of me. Quil shrieked at the brute.
"She's one of the mad queen's guards, you dolt! A Gray Maiden!"
I winced at the old name. Something in my head, something I still couldn't banish, swelled with pride even as my teeth clenched and a spark of rage flared deep in my guts.
"Take her down!" Quil continued. "When you're done with her, we'll turn what's left over to the guard for a prize!"
The bewilderment on the brute's thick features peeled back in a lecherous smile, his eyes tracing the curves of my armor. A lewd chuckle croaked from over-plump lips.
There's little I wouldn't do for another day back in the life I had before my abduction. Before my armor. Before the queen. But occasionally a situation arises where I loathe my condition perhaps less than I should.
If the brute could see the smirk locked behind my visor, he might have rethought his intentions. But he couldn't, and didn't.
He rushed in, his hairy, broad-knuckled hands outstretched. My sword wheeled, a ribbon of silver, and a hand slapped a curved wall far from where anyone stood.
The breathy bellow that followed filled the hold. The big man's face flushed, and the stump of his hand shoved across his chest into the cloth of his armpit, the yellow stains there swiftly overwhelmed by another shade. Too enraged to realize how lucky he'd been, the giant channeled his wrath into a howl and charged, his remaining hand reaching as if he hoped to crush my neck in a singlehanded grip. By the time his momentum carried him to the spot where I'd been standing, the light was already fading from his eyes, his prodigious belly split like a wet sack. What followed sounded like a fisherman slopping his haul onto the planks, but I had already turned. With a jerk, I again leveled my sword at Quil, blood whipping from the blade to spray the wall and his face with a line of sharp crimson. He flinched, and I grabbed him by his neck, pulling him close to the featureless plane of steel that was my face.
He gazed into the hollows of my helm. Whether he could see my eyes locked away beneath the mask or just the stifling darkness, he didn't find what he was desperately hoping for—some sign of mercy. Of humanity.
All he could do was whimper.
Coming Next Week: A Gray Maiden's take on interrogation in Chapter Two of F. Wesley Schneider's "Shattered Steel."
F. Wesley Schneider is the Editor-in-Chief of Paizo Publishing and co-creator of the Pathfinder campaign setting. He is the award-winning author of numerous RPG adventures and sourcebooks, including Rule of Fear, Book of the Damned Vol. 1: Princes of Darkness, Seven Days to the Grave, and Endless Night, as well as the Pathfinder's Journal Guilty Blood.
... In the Event of My Untimely Demiseby Robin D. Laws ... Chapter Four: ReckoningNeed I remind you? Naphrax asked his prisoner. ... Tears further wet Gaval's bloodied cheeks. Of what? ... Of what we know. ... You're wrong. ... Jordyar jabbed the poker in Gaval's face. You've replaced Aruhal in his comely wife's bed, haven't you? ... Gaval held his chin up. I love Seriza, and Seriza loves me. That doesn't mean I've heard of this treasure. ... She spoke nothing of it? Naphrax snorted. ......
In the Event of My Untimely Demise
by Robin D. Laws
Chapter Four: Reckoning
"Need I remind you?" Naphrax asked his prisoner.
Tears further wet Gaval's bloodied cheeks. "Of what?"
"Of what we know."
"You're wrong."
Jordyar jabbed the poker in Gaval's face. "You've replaced Aruhal in his comely wife's bed, haven't you?"
Gaval held his chin up. "I love Seriza, and Seriza loves me. That doesn't mean I've heard of this treasure."
"She spoke nothing of it?" Naphrax snorted.
Outrage stirred Gaval from his agonized stupor. "She and Aruhal had nothing. She'll be better off with my takings, humble as they are!"
"Liar," Naphrax spat.
Holding the poker out of sight behind him, the dwarf sidled up to Gaval, grimacing out a rotten-toothed smile. "What Aruhal did to us is not your fault, boy. But by standing in our way, feeding us ridiculous untruths, it becomes your fault. Don't you see that?"
"How many times do I have to tell you?"
"If you won't spill," Naphrax said, "we'll take the woman, and do the same to her."
Jordyar pressed the glowing poker to the prisoner's leg. Gaval screamed, the smoke of burning fabric giving way to the steam of blackening flesh.
At the window, Ontor looked to Luma, his expression asking: are we going to let this happen?
Luma waved him to silence, then reached into the citysong for the vein of venom that pulsed below the city's skin. Magnimar's settlers brought with them their Chelish tradition of settling affairs with arsenic, belladonna, and kingsleep. Luma took in this dark harmony and projected it outward, to the blood-spotted tunic worn by the howling Gaval. In this town, to hear that a man was an apothecary was to think not only of healing, but its opposite.
Luma's magic-inflamed senses confirmed it: tiny speckles of poison dotted his tunic, were ground as grime into his fingerprints. She couldn't tell what variety, with so little of it still left. But she would bet it was the kind that made an already sick man die from seeming natural causes–of pleurisy, say.
"We need him," said Luma. With a turn of her head she indicated an opposite window, not far from the second imprisoned man, the cleric Rieslan. "It will help if you can get him free–that will make it three against two."
Ontor nodded and was gone. Moments later she saw him appear at the other window. Jordyar once more laid the poker on Gaval, this time applying it to his chest. Naphrax watched with stoic attention. Fully occupied by Gaval's shrieking and squirming, neither man noticed Ontor's acrobatic contortions as he fit himself, legs first, through the tiny window. He dropped to the floor with a muffled thud that at last turned their heads, but only in time to see him draw his knife and slash open the ropes binding Rieslan. Then he bounded up to grab the holy symbol from the rafter, tossed it to the priest, and threw his knife at Naphrax. The spellcaster only barely managed to duck out of the way, yet the blade succeeded in interrupting his gesticulations and spoiling whatever spell he meant to cast.
Luma, meanwhile, shifted her awareness to another vault of the city's memory. Her mind traveled to the spires and rooftops, from the heights of the Arvensoar barracks tower to the great stone snake encircling the Hippodrome. From the mystic vibrations of these structures she pulled out the countless times they'd been struck by lightning. Converting them from past thought to present memory, she brought into being a vertical bolt of blue energy. It materialized above the dwarf, striking the crown of his bald head. He sizzled and convulsed, the poker flying out of his hands.
Naphrax started to cast a spell at her, but Rieslan, holy symbol clutched between gnarled fingers, came up behind him, chanting. He shoved his hand past the sorcerer's vest and onto his bare skin. A swirl of angry energy shunted from the old priest's fingers into Naphrax's breastbone. The sorcerer staggered back, clutching his chest, his arm going stiff.
A wolfish look came over the priest. "That sluggish heart of yours can't take another of those. Can it, Naphrax?"
"I should have killed you in Kaer Maga," said the sorcerer, sweating.
"I should have killed you in that awful tavern, the moment we met," said Rieslan.
Jordyar, his clothes still steaming slightly, staggered and reached for his axe, positioning himself for a lunge against Ontor. Luma called down another lightning bolt, striking him as before, and he dropped to one knee, panting.
Luma crawled through her window, a few last tendrils of summoned fog purling away from her. "Are we done here, gentlemen?"
Naphrax still hadn't caught his breath. "He hasn't told us."
Ontor cut Gaval's bonds.
The freed prisoner rose, quaking; Luma indicated his soiled trousers. "You terrified him. You think he wouldn't have sold out the widow in a heartbeat, if he thought it would spare him?"
Gaval struggled to form words. "I take exception to—"
Luma cut him off. "This is not a good time for you to talk."
He hung his head.
"My brother and I," Luma said, "are leaving, with Gaval. He and I have a separate matter to discuss. What the three of you do is of no concern to us. You have nothing to gain from further hostilities, and would not prevail. Are we agreed, or shall I punctuate that with a lightning bolt?"
"Agreed," grunted Naphrax. The others said nothing, so, each holding one of the quaking man's arms, Luma and Ontor withdrew–through the front door, this time.
"Where do you live, apothecary?" Luma asked.
"Above my uncle's shop, in Vista."
To the southeast lay the Seerspring Gardens, where they could hire a hansom, and get him to his home in the Summit.
"So," said Luma, "let me guess. When you began to console her, Seriza was not yet a widow."
"I would never..." Gaval tried to pull away, but she held him tight, as did her brother.
"If we ask her neighbors how often they saw you around before Aruhal died, will they tell the same story?"
Gaval slumped into her. "Very well. But I beg your discretion. Calumnize me all you like, but spare the lady's reputation."
As they crossed an intersection, Luma saw a lurker one street down, paralleling their progress. She stopped and waved Rieslan over. The river-priest hesitated, then complied, his gait sheepish. "Never was much for sneaking," he said, joining the others.
"That was Aruhal's job," said Luma, moving on. "Your old comrades have patched up their grievances, it would seem."
Rieslan fell into step, at her elbow. "It won't last. Are you sure you haven't guessed where the treasure is?"
She shook her head; lying was easier when confined to gesture alone. "When did the four of you have your falling out, precisely?"
"We learned to hate one another long before the Demonsweald. But it was after we captured the reliquary that Naphrax and Jordyar decided it would be better if Aruhal were cut out of the deal."
Luma raised her faint auburn eyebrow. "And you had nothing to do with that?"
Rieslan made a sour face. "Let's say, I absented myself from discussions."
"A sin of omission, then."
The old priest laughed. "My god hungers for the last breaths of the drowning. His moral demands are flexible."
"And how did they inform Aruhal of the new arrangement?"
"With axe and spell." The priest's chuckle suggested that it hardly needed saying.
"One more question," said Luma. "Who researched this treasure? Aruhal?"
"Another correct surmise, my dear."
They parted with him at the gardens, and rode with Gaval in the cab. As soon as he was seated, the tortured man passed out.
"You were good back there," said Ontor.
Nothing phases Ontor—not even death.
If only the others had seen it, thought Luma. Maybe Ontor would tell them. She considered asking him to, but knew it would spoil the effect.
Arriving at Derexhi House, Luma went straight to the library, which smelled of leather, wine, and her father's olibanum cologne. Muttering curses at Randred's haphazard reshelving habits, she hunted until she found the folio labeled "Acts and Legends of the Holy." Giving silent thanks for its alphabetical arrangement, she found the entry for the holy warrior Lovag, whose reliquary had so muddled her assignment. To Ontor she read aloud:
"And Lovag was betrayed by his companions, and slain. Lo, his last loyal servants did burn his body and entomb his bones, placing it in a golden reliquary. Even reduced to ashes, Lovag's passion for the justice of his great god Aroden burned bright. When the traitor priests beheld the shining vessel, he rose from his celestial rest to smite them."
"What does that mean?" her brother asked.
Luma closed the book with a thump. "It means I think we just found the treasure they've all been looking for."
∗∗∗
In the marbled mausoleum, Luma and Ontor searched the shelves for Aruhal's name. Near the iron-gated entrance, a callow attendant held himself in a posture of bland discretion. He held in his hand the document authorizing the disinterment.
"Grave-robbing's just not the same when you have the deceased's permission," Ontor whispered.
Luma found the brass nameplate bearing the client's name. With the key supplied by the attendant, she opened the wood-paneled door to Aruhal's niche. Inside rested a large ceramic urn. Luma removed it and set it on the marble table in the middle of the crypt's vestibule, where flowers and offerings of incense were placed.
"That's not made of gold," Ontor said. "I thought the book said Lovag's reliquary was made of gold?"
Luma pulled out her sickle and bashed its hilt against the urn. The porcelain crumbled into shards, revealing the golden, gem-encrusted reliquary hidden within.
Ontor addressed the attendant. "You must have seen this when you poured the ashes in. Aruhal trusted you not to switch it?"
The crypt-keeper placed a hand over his heart. "Terrible oaths to the death-goddess bar us from such chicanery."
Again Luma opened her mind to the strain of citysong that ran thick with toxin. She wasn't sure if the spell would work on a man's ashes, but it did–they lit up with the same malicious speckles she'd perceived on Gaval's tunic.
She smiled. "Got you," she whispered.
∗∗∗
Seriza and Gaval perched together, agitated, spines straight, on the edge of the divan in the widow's sitting room. Though the swelling had gone down on his face, Gaval still showed the signs of his beating and torture the day before. Luma almost felt pity for them. If they'd been smart, they wouldn't be here, but rather on a boat to anywhere else right this moment.
"So the dwarf was right?" Seriza said, trembling. "Aruhal did have a treasure after all?"
Luma gestured to the furniture crate she'd pressed into service as temporary transport for the urn. "As I said in my message, he left an inheritance. But we were to perform an investigation before giving it to you."
They deserved this, she reminded herself. When Aruhal discarded the saint's remains to make room for his own, he no doubt assumed it would be his erstwhile companions who'd face this fate. To be murdered for the oldest reason of all–a spouse clearing the way for a new lover–felt too cheap, too ordinary, for the complex effort Aruhal had expended for his prearranged revenge.
Luma hauled loose the crate's lid. She picked up the urn and placed it in front of Aruhal's killers, setting it down on a low table.
Seriza lit up with avarice; she squeezed Gaval's hand, squealing her delight. Her excitement overcame his wariness, and he reached out to caress the urn's lid.
Bursts of green steam vented from holes in the urn. The widow and her lover reared back as the unearthly vapor coalesced into a blob of floating ectoplasm, and then into an eerie, translucent specter in the shape of an old man. It surging through the urn and table into Gaval, where bony fingers unfurled and locked around the startled man's throat.
Gaval's skin whitened and flaked; his hair turned from brown to gray to shocking white. His face a mask of terror, he pitched over onto the divan, drained of life. The groaning spirit then turned on Seriza.
"No!" the widow shrieked, scrabbling backward on the couch. "Not you!"
Then all words were cut off by those glowing, ephemeral fingers. For a moment, the sitting room was filled with the sound of flailing limbs—and then two corpses lay on the divan.
The spirit twisted, spiraling toward Luma, who prepared herself to call down lightning against it. As it hung in the air before her, its contorted face calmed. Then the entire apparition dissipated and was gone.
Luma waited until it was clear that the manifestation had concluded, then called out to the man hidden in the hope chest behind the divan. "I thought you weren't much for sneaking."
"You detected my presence, did you?" Rieslan lifted the lid and poked his head out. He stared at the urn, still sitting on the low table.
Luma put her hands on her hips. "Do you want it? It should go back to the mausoleum, but my family wasn't hired to protect it forever. Our contract is complete."
Rieslan scratched at his beard. "Those are Aruhal's ashes in there, and not the saint's?"
"That's right."
"That quite diminishes its value. Still..." He reached out for the urn—then pulled up short, gazing at the shriveled corpses splayed on the divan. "You know, I think I've abruptly lost my desire for this object." He unfolded the rest of long frame out of the chest and stepped around the couch. He doffed his skullcap and bowed to Luma.
"To your health, my lady."
Then he let himself out.
When he'd been gone for a slow count of ten, the door to the kitchen swung open. Ontor, hand on the hilt of a knife, sauntered in and leaned over the two ash-skinned corpses, inspecting their terrified expressions. "So the old priest left without making a play for it, huh?"
"He's apparently learned a new appreciation for caution."
Ontor whistled. "I guess you're never too old to learn, but still—what do you want to bet that in a few days we hear reports of an old sorcerer and a bald dwarf found dead in Aruhal's crypt?"
"I won't put any money against that," Luma said, but her mind wasn't on the banter. Inside, she was already thinking of the praise she would receive when they returned home—from her father, who would give it willingly, and from the rest of her siblings, who would finally be able to see what an indispensable part of the team she was. Even they would have to admit that she'd executed the mission to perfection.
Surely they would.
Coming Next Week: A "Where are they now?" story regarding the infamous Gray Maidens of Korvosa in the wake of events from Curse of the Crimson Throne, by F. Wesley Schneider. A perfect preview for those GMs and players running Pathfinder Adventure Path #62: Curse of the Lady's Light!
If you like this story, consider picking up the further adventures of Luma and her family in Robin D. Laws' Blood of the City!
Robin D. Laws is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Blood of the City and The Worldwound Gambit, as well as the Pathfinder's Journals for the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path and the Skull & Shackles Adventure Path. In addition, he's written six other novels; various short stories, web serials, and comic books; and a long list of roleplaying game products. His novels include Pierced Heart, The Rough and the Smooth, and the Angelika Fleischer series for the Black Library. Robin created the classic RPG Feng Shui and such recent titles as Mutant City Blues, Skulduggery, and the newly redesigned HeroQuest 2. Those interested in learning more about Robin are advised to check out his blog.
... In the Event of My Untimely Demiseby Robin D. Laws ... Chapter Three: Old ComradesThe trim, white-haired man responded with seasoned stillness to Luma's knee and sickle. His foreign-accented voice purred soothingly, with a hint of disarming irony. Who am I and why I am I following you? I might equally ask whose blade caresses my jugular. ... Depending on your answer, Luma replied, I might tell you. She glanced at the alleyway's mouth. The street it jutted onto was not such a quiet one....
In the Event of My Untimely Demise
by Robin D. Laws
Chapter Three: Old Comrades
The trim, white-haired man responded with seasoned stillness to Luma's knee and sickle. His foreign-accented voice purred soothingly, with a hint of disarming irony. "Who am I and why I am I following you? I might equally ask whose blade caresses my jugular."
"Depending on your answer," Luma replied, "I might tell you." She glanced at the alleyway's mouth. The street it jutted onto was not such a quiet one. This was in Dockway, where most folk would note a waylaying in an alley and keep going, unblinking. But trouble only took one busybody.
Prominent veins ran like engorged streams across the man's papery, spotted hands. Around his wrist coiled a silver chain bearing a charm—a rat perched on a raft. From her reading, Luma vaguely recalled this as the symbol of an obscure river god from the faraway River Kingdoms. The man was likely a priest, able to call down magic from his deity, much as Luma did from the city itself.
"What would you say, young lady, if I told you I wasn't following you?"
Luma couldn't help finding him likeable—and resenting people who projected charm so readily. "I'm not that young, and a lady only by the skin of my nails."
"When you get to my age, you'll consider everyone young. And I wasn't following you, I was following the dwarf."
"Jordyar."
"You've met my truculent former colleague, then. Honestly, my dear, let me up. We may discover common goals."
"Introduce yourself first."
"I am Rieslan, once known as Rieslan the Drowner, now sadly diminished."
Luma relaxed the pressure of her knee on his spine. "And let me guess. You went with Jordyar and Aruhal into the Demonsweald, in search of a valuable reliquary."
Rieslan sighed. "He told you about that, did he? Dear fellow's grown talkative in his dotage."
"I'm going to let you up, Rieslan. Try anything and you'll—"
"No need to complete the threat," said the river cleric. "I've had a long career, and heard them all."
Luma got up, her sickle still ready. "You shadowed him in case he was pursued?"
Rieslan rose, brushing gravel from his leggings. "That's what I thought you were doing, my dear. Jordyar and I have had a falling out, shall we say, since the old days. I know why I'm chasing him. Why are you?"
"I'll ask the questions," Luma said, watching him rub his creaking finger joints. "I suppose you've heard that, too."
The old priest twinkled at her. "Very well."
"I care about the reliquary only insofar as it might have led to my client's murder."
"Your client?" Rieslan interjected. "You work for Aruhal's estate?"
Luma nodded.
Rieslan steadied himself against the wall. "Someone might have hastened his demise for it. But it wouldn't be me. Or Jordyar, for that matter."
"Why not?"
"Haven't you found it notable that we waited till we got word of Aruhal's death to come for it? He had a curse placed on himself. Whosoever slays Aruhal will himself be slain." The priest studied Luma's expression. "You look like someone who's just had an epiphany."
Luma flushed. She hated it when others saw through her. "How did you hear of this curse?"
"He sent a messenger, to warn us, back when we still stalked him for our share of the loot."
"He told you he had a curse placed on himself, and you accepted it as truth?"
Rieslan held his hands together, as if in prayer. "I asked my god, Hanspur, and was told it was true."
"But, as in the way of gods, received no clearer details."
Rieslan winced.
"What is it?" Luma asked.
He waved her question away. "I get headaches. It is nothing."
"So you and your comrades—"
"Former comrades," Rieslan said.
"You all waited until you learned of his death, then came for the treasure. How did you hear of it?"
"Naphrax posted a spy, who sent word that Aruhal was sick. Jordyar had Naphrax's dogsbody in his pay, and so learned that Naphrax had broken from his seclusion and was bound for Magnimar. And of course I have been keeping an eye on Jordyar."
"This Naphrax, he's your party's other survivor? Let me guess—a wizard?"
A vein pulsed on Rieslan's forehead. "Sorcerer, but let's not make fine distinctions."
A spell-slinger complicated the possibilities. He might have found a way to break the curse, and killed Aruhal off despite it. But then, why wait until he was sick?
Luma caught herself playing with her hair again and stopped. "Let see where that leaves us. I don't care about the treasure. You have no particular reason to protect Aruhal's killer—if indeed he was killed at all. Does that about sum it up?"
Rieslan crinkled aged dimples at her. "Much gold is at stake. You'll excuse me if I greet your disinterest in it with a certain skepticism."
Luma, affronted, tried to cover it up with a smile. "Ask around about the Derexhi family. Our reputation for honesty is worth more than your treasure."
Rieslan is charming—which doesn't make him innocent.
"A thousand pardons, my dear."
Don't call me dear, Luma wanted to say. "At any rate, we have each spoiled the other's attempt to follow Jordyar. I suggest we part, with no hard feelings."
The priest bowed deep, and went on his way.
Luma signaled to her brother Ontor, who for several minutes had been standing across the way. He'd appeared in her peripheral vision, sauntering down the street, looking for her. Seeing her occupied, he'd dropped into a pose, engaging in conversation with loitering dockworkers.
It never surprised Luma to see one of her siblings appear out of the blue like this. Her sister Iskola could see from afar, and whisper into distant ears. Wherever she was in Magnimar, one of the others could always find her.
Ontor required no further instructions. Adopting a languid lope, he pushed off after Rieslan.
Iskola's spells didn't permit them to communicate with one another, so Luma would find a rendezvous and wait. She ambled for the closest of the Derexhi haunts, a spot named after its proprietor, Chanda, who specialized in bream broth and walnut bread. Luma claimed the darkest corner, where Chanda, unbidden, brought her soup, half a loaf of the bread, and a bowl of sea snails in red garlic sauce. Luma paid Chanda the usual premium for a lengthy stay and settled in.
An hour later, Ontor slid into the seat across from her, a sea snail bowl already in one hand and a half-filled ale flagon in the other. "You'll be happy to hear I was also deemed too much a black sheep for the Vitellus job."
Family politics could wait, Luma decided. There was a mystery to solve. Even if the answer was that there was no mystery at all. "Where did he go?"
Ontor threw his head back, dropped a sea snail in, and swallowed, pleased with his show of downmarket manners. The stevedores filling the restaurant ate the same way. "He's staking out a hovel down in Rag's End. Waiting for someone to show. Since I have no idea of the situation, I figured I'd come and collect you, and we'd check the place out together."
Luma dunked a final bread crust into the remnants of her broth.
Ontor wiped ale-foam from his lips. "That was a hint, by the way. A request for context."
Luma briefed him on the case to date: the prearranged, posthumous assignment; the widow and her pleurisy story; Jordyar the dwarf and then Rieslan the river-cleric and their tangled, treacherous history with Aruhal.
Ontor gobbled the rest of his food. "So you reckon this Rieslan knows where Jordyar is staying, and, having lost him in Dockway, has gone there to wait for him?"
Luma hadn't so reckoned, but would have, given one more moment's thought. The two half-siblings set out for Rag's End.
∗∗∗
As ramshackle as its name suggested, Rag's End stretched out before them as an expanse of hovels and shanties. Luma and Ontor strode with dispatch past a crowd gathered for an impromptu match between a mastiff and a crab spider half again its size. Sensing a form of authority approaching, the bettors hunched and turned their faces away. A jagged laneway sloped gently into a depression. As Ontor led Luma down its length, a gathering fog grew from scattered wisps to an obscuring mass.
At the end of the cul-de-sac a two-story structure held itself with lordly remove from the surrounding shacks. To its left, a cloud of flies buzzed around a heap of rotting trash. Piles of rubble, wood and masonry mostly, formed an unintended fence around the building's right side.
"That's where your old duffer was waiting," Ontor said.
Luma peered into the twilight. There was no immediate sign of Rieslan now. Lamplight issued from an open window facing the debris wall.
"He's either gone in," Ontor whispered, "or gone entirely. But someone must be in there." He wasn't so much stating the obvious as asking: do we go in and see?
In reply, Luma nodded. Hunching, the two of them covered the distance to the wall, and then to the side of the house.
Luma let in the citysong, hearing the whispers and shushes of the billowing fog. Cozened by her spell, it pooled around them, its protective mantle blending naturally with the mist flowing through the neighborhood. They could see into the house, while anyone looking out would see only swirling vapor.
Inside Luma saw two familiar individuals, and two unfamiliar.
Jordyar sat atop a wooden table, picking at his rotting teeth with his fingers. Rieslan slumped in a chair, shoved in a corner. Ropes bound his waist, arms, and ankles. Wet blood reddened his goatee. His divine charm, with its rat and raft motif, swung from a rafter, a good twenty feet away. Without it, Luma knew, he wouldn't be able to shape his appeals to the realms beyond, and would receive no magic from his god.
A second, much younger man was also tied to a chair, this one positioned in the center of the room. Muscular and tanned, he would have been handsome, prior to the beating he'd taken. His face swelled and purpled; scorched holes in his tunic revealed burned skin beneath. Still conscious, the man seemed to be willing himself to pass out, and failing at it.
Over him stood a creased, leathery man dressed in a suede robe dotted with turquoise and agate beads. He wore a vest with no shirt beneath it, showing off the puffy muscles of a fit but elderly man. Greasy black hair hung straight from his scalp down to his shoulders. A long mustache drooped from his upper lip to his protruding clavicles.
He grunted at Jordyar, who approached him carrying a poker, which he held out at arm's length with the aid of his thick hide glove. The mustached man spoke arcane syllables, evoking a cone-shape blast of flame, which flew from his fingertips to the poker. The poker's iron tip glowed red.
"Please," the prisoner sobbed. "I'm begging you."
Jordyar hefted the red-hot poker. "You're doing to this yourself, Gaval."
Gaval shuddered. "I can't tell you anything about it. Seriza never mentioned such a thing! And Aruhal—I barely spoke a hundred words to him my entire life. I'm just an apothecary."
Jordyar's partner—who had to be the sorcerer, Naphrax—turned to the terrified young man in the chair. "Tell us," he said.
The dwarf advanced with the poker.
"Tell us," repeated Naphrax.
Coming Next Week: Revelations and old grudges in the final chapter of Robin Laws' "In the Event of My Untimely Demise."
If you like this story, consider picking up the further adventures of Luma and her family in Robin D. Laws' Blood of the City!
Robin D. Laws is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Blood of the City and The Worldwound Gambit, as well as the Pathfinder's Journals for the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path and the Skull & Shackles Adventure Path. In addition, he's written six other novels; various short stories, web serials, and comic books; and a long list of roleplaying game products. His novels include Pierced Heart, The Rough and the Smooth, and the Angelika Fleischer series for the Black Library. Robin created the classic RPG Feng Shui and such recent titles as Mutant City Blues, Skulduggery, and the newly redesigned HeroQuest 2. Those interested in learning more about Robin are advised to check out his blog.
... In the Event of My Untimely Demiseby Robin D. Laws ... Chapter Two: TreasureWhere is what? Luma asked, withdrawing her hand from her trickbag. If it came to a fight, she could reach out to Magnimar's spires and towers, gather their memories of the lightning that struck them with every thunderstorm, and from this summon a bolt of energy to strike the dwarf down. Unlike some of her other magics, it required no props, just concentration, a gesture, and a few words of entreaty to the city....
In the Event of My Untimely Demise
by Robin D. Laws
Chapter Two: Treasure
"Where is what?" Luma asked, withdrawing her hand from her trickbag. If it came to a fight, she could reach out to Magnimar's spires and towers, gather their memories of the lightning that struck them with every thunderstorm, and from this summon a bolt of energy to strike the dwarf down. Unlike some of her other magics, it required no props, just concentration, a gesture, and a few words of entreaty to the city. But she was here to learn, not to do battle.
"Don't play stupid with me." The dwarf showed a mouth full of jagged, rotting teeth. "You know very well what." He shook his axe for emphasis.
"I would like nothing more than to understand what you're talking about." Luma edged in front of the cabinet behind which Seriza cowered. "Start at the beginning, maybe?"
The dwarf peered past her at the widow. "You aren't Aruhal's wife?"
"I am Luma of House Derexhi, hired to perform a service on his behalf."
The intruder elevated an eyebrow. He pointed his weapon at the cabinet. "She's the widow?"
"Lay out your grievance, dwarf." Luma spoke evenly, her confidence steady, as it always was when her siblings weren't watching. She'd sooner face this frothing dwarf, outweighing her by two to one and bristling with menace, than a single exasperated glance from one of her sisters. "Perhaps I can sort it out."
"You address Jordyar, warrior of the First Stone, son of Jordgar, true inheritor of the axe of Skrellim." He hefted it again, this time as an expression of pride. "To speak ill of the dead is not my wont. But that woman's husband was a liar, a cheat, a betrayer, and a thief from his own friends. Did you know Aruhal?"
Luma shook her head.
"Then you missed the chance to acquaint yourself with a kill-stealer and a credit-grabber. A blasphemer against the gods, a drunkard on watch, a coward in a scrap, and a tent-farter of the worst order."
"So you were comrades."
Jordyar stalked over to the divan, as if wondering whether sitting would show weakness. "For three years, two decades ago, we strove together as treasure-seekers. We plumbed the depths of the Riddle Canals, scoured the Haunted Hills, and stormed the Citadel of Xerkas Xaan. But the day after our greatest triumph, he deserted us—taking the treasure with him."
"And this treasure is what you think he had when he died?"
Warming to the subject, the dwarf puffed out his chest and paced the room, gesticulating with the axe. "Oh, what that cost us! We fought giants, demons, mind-eaters. Upon entering the Demonsweald's innermost crypt, the best of us all, Corin the Bright, was beheaded by a trap. Which Aruhal thereupon disarmed." Jordyar stomped into the hallway, then returned, holding aloft the strange doorknocker that had tweaked Luma's curiosity on her way in. "This! This is the flying ring that sliced through Corin's neck. I can't believe that he would take that and display it on his door, as if mocking the memory—" A frustrated groan caught in Jordyar's throat. He backhanded the ring away; it lodged, quivering, in the wooden lintel of the sitting room's doorway. A fresh flush of crimson rose through his face. "So yes, Aruhal owes me. This treasure, we had a deal to sell it for a wagonload of gold. Enough to forever conclude my grubbing and sweating, sleeping in cold crypts with the doors spiked shut, fighting for rest as ghouls and bloodsuckers scratch at the sill. To retire for good and all, on the one great score every looter dreams of. That is the life Jordyar deserved. The life that Aruhal plucked from my grasp!"
He lunged at the cabinet where Seriza quietly wept.
Luma stepped up, her sickle drawn. After a moment of tension, the dwarf relented, sticking his axe in his belt. He stretched out open hands, as if ready to grab Luma by the front of her tunic. His eyes glistened. "You must let me question her. He must have told her. Our customer never bought it from him."
"Or so they told you," Luma ventured.
Jordyar wiped his nose with the back of his liver-spotted hand. "Or so they did. But they say that even now they will buy it, if I can produce it. It changes nothing—he either sold it and has the gold, or kept it. And it is mine."
"And if he did keep it, what is it, exactly? A magical relic?"
"Scarcely. A historical curio—a reliquary containing the ashes and bones of a saint: the holy warrior Lovag. A globe of gold, studded with gems. It would be worth much to a collector, but more to the church."
"Which church?"
Jordyar's glory days are behind him.
Jordyar's snort sent spittle flying. "So you can sell it to them when you find it? You take me for a fool, girl." He twitched, as if realizing he'd given away too much already by naming the saint.
"I'm not here for this treasure," Luma said. "I'm here to find out who killed Aruhal."
"No one killed Aruhal," Seriza sobbed, white fingers clutched around the cabinet. "I told you that already. It was pleurisy—a pain when he breathed. It just got worse, until..." She trailed off into another burst of tears.
Jordyar angled for a better view of her. "You look a pretty creature. You don't propose to tell me a wretch like Aruhal caught a wench like you without a great bag of gold swinging over his shoulder?"
The widow's face froze into a wordless plea directed at Luma. Its meaning was clear: please get him out of here.
Luma again stepped between the widow and the dwarf. "It sounds like you had all the reason in the world to kill Aruhal."
"You speak truth there." He spat onto the bare floor, just missing the boar's hide rug.
Luma crossed her arms. "But you want me to believe you didn't."
"I'm done answering your questions. That one will tell me where it is—gold or relic, I'm taking it now."
"I don't know anything about any relic," Seriza sniffled. "And as for gold—look around you. I can't see how I'll afford to fix that door."
"Aruhal never had money?" the dwarf asked.
"A little. At first. He worked as a locksmith. It wasn't money I loved him for."
Jordyar bellowed out a laugh. "Then he was holding out on you, too."
Luma crowded him. "So why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?"
"Kill him."
Trepidation flashed across the dwarf's face. "I'm not the swine he was." He flexed his shoulders, regaining his composure.
Luma twined a lock of her hair between her fingers—a habit her family's scolding had never quite cured her of. "I don't think that's it."
"Matters not to me what you think." Jordyar knocked on the nearest wall. "I should tear this place apart."
"You're not going to do that," Luma said.
Jordyar stiffened. "Is that so?"
Luma let her fingers brush against her trickbag.
The dwarf took it in. "A magicker, are we? What kind?"
"You don't want to find out," said Luma. Depending on how tough the dwarf was, it was either a well-calibrated act of intimidation, or a reckless bluff.
Jordyar wove past her to address Seriza. "This is all a shock to you. Your husband dying and now this." He gestured to the broken door as if it were a catastrophe unconnected to himself. "I approached this too strong, didn't I? I believe you when you say you had no inkling of the relic. Or the gold your rodent of a spouse sold it for. So I'm telling you this." He jabbed his leather-gloved finger at her. "You cogitate long and hard on where Aruhal might have stashed a pile of gold, or a treasure about yay big." With open hands about a foot apart, he mimed a roughly globular object. "Because there's no chance in hell that he doesn't have it. Maybe he tried to tell you, when he was sick. Search your mind for clues of that nature. Because in forty-eight hours, I'll be back, and I'll take what Aruhal stole from me. Or you'll have more to mourn than your husband. Understand?"
Seriza said nothing—a rabbit transfixed by a snake.
He poked Luma's shoulder. "And if you want to test your spells against my axe then, you're welcome to try." He stamped for the door, reclaiming the sharpened ring from the lintel on the way out.
Luma rushed to the window. Jordyar had turned westward, toward a main thoroughfare, the Avenue of Honors. He proceeded with the attentive uncertainty of a visitor. Consulting her mental map of the city, Luma plotted a route of alleyways. If she got going right away, she might well beat him to the high street, and trail him unseen from there. She plunged into Seriza's kitchen and out the back exit. The widow called after her, either asking why she was following the dwarf, or asking who would pay for the door. Luma didn't attempt a reply.
On the second question, it was not up to the Derexhi family to pay Jordyar's reparations. As to the first, the old adventurer knew more than he was saying. Were there anything here to investigate, the path to it could well lead through him. Missing treasure certainly sounded like a motive for murder.
There was more to hear from the widow, too, but that would have to wait. Luma knew where to find her.
Reaching the Avenue, she spotted Jordyar's head bobbing between a pair of laggardly porters carrying wine crates for a doddering master. Luma wished she had her brother Ontor with her—shadowing was both safer and easier with two. Still, her street-honed instincts kept the dwarf in sight, and he showed little propensity for looking back. The fat-purses and liveried servants who populated the street at this hour gave wide berth to her battle-ready, fuming subject. Picking up speed as he stomped along, he passed hawkers, criers, and store guards, merchants, traders, and grandees. He traversed the length of the avenue, turning at the Pediment Building and continuing down the long stone slope that served as the bypass for the Seacleft, the great cliff dividing the city into high and low, the Summit and the Shore.
From its base, the dwarf wended through the clamorous Bazaar of Sails, bypassing stalls and skirting around tents. A trio of urchins, in the sparkling glad-rags of the Varisian minority, chased a fist-sized jewel bug into his path. Jordyar roared at them, sending them scattering. Luma halted; his swivel to shout curses at the children placed her in his line of sight. But he seemed not to notice her, and continued on. Heedless of Luma's pursuit, he plunged into Dockway's narrow streets, lined by salt-crusted depots and sturdy taverns.
Abruptly abandoning her chase, Luma darted into an alleyway between an alehouse and a whorehouse and drew her sickle. As soon as she was past its threshold, she pressed her back against the crumbling brick of the tavern wall. A rake-thin man clad all in black, from boots to leggings to tunic to skullcap, hustled in after her. She thrust out the sickle, wrapping its curving edge around his ankle. As she pulled it up, she twisted the blade, so that it would trip him without cutting into his leg. He fell into the wall, bashing his snowy-bearded chin against the brick, and tumbled to the ground. Luma leapt onto his back, pinning him with her knee, and pressed her blade around his throat, positioned for a slaughtering cut.
"Who are you?" she asked, "and why are you following me?"
Coming Next Week: Wheels within wheels in Chapter Three of Robin Laws' "In the Event of My Untimely Demise."
If you like this story, consider picking up the further adventures of Luma and her family in Robin D. Laws' Blood of the City!
Robin D. Laws is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Blood of the City and The Worldwound Gambit, as well as the Pathfinder's Journals for the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path and the Skull & Shackles Adventure Path. In addition, he's written six other novels; various short stories, web serials, and comic books; and a long list of roleplaying game products. His novels include Pierced Heart, The Rough and the Smooth, and the Angelika Fleischer series for the Black Library. Robin created the classic RPG Feng Shui and such recent titles as Mutant City Blues, Skulduggery, and the newly redesigned HeroQuest 2. Those interested in learning more about Robin are advised to check out his blog.
... In the Event of My Untimely Demiseby Robin D. Laws ... Chapter One: The Dead ClientNo, said the wizard Iskola, pointing a polished fingernail toward her half-sister, Luma. Not you. ... Luma sank further into her characteristic shoulder-slump. Though older than Iskola, she looked younger. She owed her callow appearance, at least in part, to the elven blood which her five siblings, children of her father and stepmother, did not share. Together, her lithe frame, wide eyes, and boyish figure...
In the Event of My Untimely Demise
by Robin D. Laws
Chapter One: The Dead Client
"No," said the wizard Iskola, pointing a polished fingernail toward her half-sister, Luma. "Not you."
Luma sank further into her characteristic shoulder-slump. Though older than Iskola, she looked younger. She owed her callow appearance, at least in part, to the elven blood which her five siblings, children of her father and stepmother, did not share. Together, her lithe frame, wide eyes, and boyish figure conspired to hang about her neck an unshakable air of adolescence. Her siblings, who were also her teammates, had learned—or perhaps been taught, by her unkempt red hair, her shrinking posture, her downcast gaze—to treat her not as a woman, but as the runt of the litter. It was her own damn fault, but that realization had so far not helped her one whit in altering the way they regarded her.
Iskola, her black-clad body a thin and twisted reed, towered over Luma. Her headpiece, a complex of lacquered, intertwining loops constructed from her own raven hair, magnified the imperious effect. A stiff laced collar and dark fingerless gloves, also of lace, completed the outre look the city of Magnimar relished in its highborn magicians.
Luma forced herself into a rigid posture. "We're to guard a gem from thieves, and you want to leave behind the mind-reader?"
Iskola sighed. "No one wants a mind-reader, and you'd be best to stop describing yourself as such. Go back to calling yourself a streetseer if you must. Or citywalker. Or cobblestone druid. Those are all strange enough."
"I wasn't proposing to introduce myself, period."
Iskola's hand flitted out, as if tempted to seize one of Luma's stray hanks of hair and tuck it back into place. She aborted the gesture, locking hands behind her narrow waist. "When Lord Vetillus hires Magnimar's most expensive city warriors to stand sentry at his soiree, we are as much a signal of his prestige as is the Bandu Emerald. Were any of his guests to so much as infer that one of us was busy trawling their innermost mental wanderings, we would be failing our duty."
"And giving cause for a refund." Arrus, the squad's swordsman and Iskola's twin, squared his broad shoulders and jutted his blocky chin.
"Honestly, Luma." Iskola bustled in her whickering skirt toward the squad room door. "When people learn you perform the magic of the streets, they assume you were born on them. Until you learn to present yourself as a scion of a founding house, simple wisdom forces us to exclude you from certain missions."
Luma scanned the others for flickers of sympathy. Eibadon, the family ecclesiast, settled his jowly features into an imperturbable dullness. Ulisa, robed master of the unarmed fighting arts, held fast to her serenity, even as a yellow moth flitted around her shaved head. Only Ontor—top-knotted, leather-clad—let a glimmer of feeling hint across his long and hawkish face.
"Mouse," he said, "Think of it as being excused from an evening of apocalyptic boredom."
"Read one of your books," Arrus said, and departed, carrying the others in his wake.
Luma followed him into the manor hallway, hung with portraits of each Lord Derexhi, from its legendary founding warrior Aitin to her father, Randred. Next to the painting of a heroic, virile Randred stood the real man, his brow creased, his beard now gray and wild.
"Let them go," he said, voice feather-soft. Father and daughter watched the rest of the squad troop down the stuccoed hallway. "Ontor may have been right. About the boredom of that assignment."
"Listening in, I see."
Dimples broke across the old warrior's face. "The successful man of arms pays close heed to his forces. Doubly so when they're his children." He patted her shoulder. "What say we show them up, and give you a juicy task?"
Luma rarely gets the respect she deserves.
Randred guided her to the library, where he poured her a goblet of Riverspire red and topped up his own to match.
Luma sipped. The wine was subtle and deep, with a caky finish. "Juicy, you say?"
"Well..." Randred eased into his favorite chair. "No doubt I exaggerate. But you'll be working for a dead man. That's a novelty, at least."
Luma perched on the arm of his chair. "Who's the dead man, and what am I to do for him?"
Randred reached over to a side table for a contract inscribed on a sheet of vellum. "The client's name is—or was—Aruhal. A retired explorer of some kind. One with enemies, apparently. Several years ago, he placed a standing order for us to perform an investigation for him, to be triggered in, quote, "the event of my untimely demise," unquote. We are to ascertain if his death was natural or not. Further instructions apply if we find he was in fact murdered."
"Which are?"
"An agent of House Derexhi is to secure the funerary urn containing his ashes and place it in front of his killer."
∗∗∗
As Luma stepped out onto the Derexhi House portico, the citysong came to her, its manifold voices rushing to fill her mystic awareness. Its harmonies manifested not only sounds, transmitted through magical connection to her mind's ear, but accompanying sensations as well. The dominant notes were those of her own neighborhood and present location, the Marble District. Among them she sensed the whispering tread of servants' slippers, steam rising from laundry kettles, the barbed laughter of wits and gossips, and the old-fashioned spiced perfumes of its wealthy matrons.
Underneath these rang distant melodies from other quarters of her beloved city. Clanking counting-house coins in Naos percussed against the scratching quills of Capital District scribes. Waves lapped against Dockway piers, dueting with the tapping chisels of the Golemworks. Soldiers drilled in Arvensoar Plaza, their grunts and footfalls joining the wafting strains of cornets and tambourines from raucous Lowcleft. The hunger of Rag's End wretches crashed against the excess of Alabaster's gourmands. Priests doubted, thieves shared their takes with beggars, and whores fell in love. Below all of these thrummed the ancient bass drone of the Irespan, the great and ruined stone bridge said to house a legion of monsters within its hollow depths.
Together the contradictions somehow made a whole—the city Luma loved, and which loved her in turn. Periodically, it proved its affections with a gift, a new trick it would teach her. A polyglot town of foreign traders, it showed her the key to understanding any language. It had taught her to borrow the jumpings of its spiders, to mantle herself in morning fog, and to always find her way.
Luma needed no such magic to reach her destination. She strode the Boulevard of Messengers, passing gilded carriages and brocaded bravos atop high-strung white steeds. On the Way of Arches, an honor guard of bleached statues loomed, dwarfing her and the city functionaries in their ink-stained tunics. Buyers and sellers choked the Avenue of Honors, and then she was turning down smaller streets, weaving through alleys with no markers to proclaim their names, led only by her flawless recollection of the city. At last the map in her head told her that she'd reached Barrel Way—Aruhal's address as of five years ago, when he'd paid for the services she would now render.
It was a common enough scene. Here huddled residences of Magnimar's striving class—the merchants, burghers, and brokers who fattened the city treasury and sought approval from old families like the Vetilluses, the Scarnettis, and indeed, the Derexhi. Built tall and thin, the buildings adjoined, as if uniting for support. Small plots of land in front of each served as battlegrounds for a competition of decoration. Tiny gardens overflowing with tangled, exotic flowers encroached on sparer arrangements of rocks and statues.
Luma was about to stop a hustling fat-purse in an ermine-trimmed cloak to ask where Aruhal lived when she spotted windows draped with black mourning bunting. The house that went with them hunkered like a poor relation next to its well-kept neighbors. Paint peeled from the trim. Oilskin stood in for several windowpanes. Instead of a garden or collection of stone figures, its front yard boasted only broken paving stones.
Unlatching and swinging open the rust-kissed iron gate, Luma made her way to the door. Its knocker twigged her curiosity. A metallic ring about a foot and a half in diameter, it was formed with an unusual precision. Beveled outer edges had been dulled with a file, scratching the ring's smooth surface, and Luma guessed that they had once been razor-sharp. Clearly, knocking on doors had not been the object's original purpose. Luma used it anyway.
After some shuffling from inside the house, the door opened a crack. Luma saw a fraction of a pale face peering out at her. The eye, like hers, was enlarged compared to a full-blooded human, but still showed a white sclera, as a full elf's would not.
Its owner spoke in a husky rasp. "What is it?"
Luma adopted her most authoritative posture, aped from her brother Arrus. "I am Luma, of House Derexhi. May I come in?"
The Derexhi and their retainers were not official lawkeepers, but because Magnimar employed few of these, citizens sometimes treated them as such. If Luma were lucky, this woman would take the cue, overlooking the ‘quasi' in their quasi-official status.
She didn't. "What for?"
"Your husband hired us for a job."
"My husband's dead."
"That's why I'm here. If you let me in, I'll explain."
"I don't know." The woman, Luma saw, wasn't so much looking at her as past her, into the street.
"You appear anxious."
"My husband had enemies."
"That's what I'm here for. To protect you." This was not so much a lie, Luma consoled herself, as something that might turn out to be true, depending.
The door swung open; Luma slipped inside.
The house smelled of yeast and cinnamon. Flour spotted an apron slung around the woman's waist. Sweat glistened on her brow, sticking loose strains of white-blond hair to her prominent forehead. Her lips joined together in a worried bow, exposing a slight overbite. Though scarcely a judge of feminine allure, Luma reckoned that these were the sorts of imperfections that would attract rather than repel male assessment. Her beauty had a wildness about it, but it was beauty all the same.
The widow gestured Luma toward a sitting room. Luma rejected a scuffed chair in favor of a divan, tufts of batting poking through tears in its upholstery. "I know your husband's name, but not yours," she started.
"Seriza." The woman stood wavering in the middle of the room, feet planted on a worn boarskin rug. "You said Aruhal hired you?"
Luma nodded. "Five years ago. You said he had enemies. Apparently he worried that one of them would do him in. So he paid us to investigate his death."
She parted the black bunting to peer out a window. "Then you're not here to protect me at all."
"Why is that?"
"He wasn't done in. It was pleurisy."
Luma craned to try to see what Seriza was looking at, but the angle was wrong. "If he died of natural causes, why are you so fearful?"
Seriza ducked down behind a cabinet.
A loud report came from the hallway, followed by the splintering of wood and then a louder thump. Luma leapt from the divan, fingers plunging into the soft leather pouch she wore at her hip—her trickbag, containing the objects she needed to work her street magic.
A florid-cheeked dwarf clad in heavy battle gear stood in the ruins of the shattered door. He stepped into the sitting room, brandishing a jagged war-axe.
"Where is it?" he demanded.
Coming Next Week: Old friends and enemies in Magnimar in Chapter Two of Robin Laws' "In the Event of My Untimely Demise."
If you like this story, consider picking up the further adventures of Luma and her family in Robin D. Laws' Blood of the City!
Robin D. Laws is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Blood of the City and The Worldwound Gambit, as well as the Pathfinder's Journals for the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path and the Skull & Shackles Adventure Path. In addition, he's written six other novels; various short stories, web serials, and comic books; and a long list of roleplaying game products. His novels include Pierced Heart, The Rough and the Smooth, and the Angelika Fleischer series for the Black Library. Robin created the classic RPG Feng Shui and such recent titles as Mutant City Blues, Skulduggery, and the newly redesigned HeroQuest 2. Those interested in learning more about Robin are advised to check out his blog.
... The Twelve-Hour Statueby Michael Kortes ... It was quite certain. Xaven's next step would kill him. ... The halfling tomb raider had been doing this long enough to know that he was standing on a pressure plate. In fact, Xaven had known of his predicament for over eleven hours now, a fact carefully measured by the notched candle to his left, now slowly burning down to a stump. During that time, he had been left to stand in as near perfect stillness as he could manage. A stretch, a sneeze,...
The Twelve-Hour Statue
by Michael Kortes
It was quite certain. Xaven's next step would kill him.
The halfling tomb raider had been doing this long enough to know that he was standing on a pressure plate. In fact, Xaven had known of his predicament for over eleven hours now, a fact carefully measured by the notched candle to his left, now slowly burning down to a stump. During that time, he had been left to stand in as near perfect stillness as he could manage. A stretch, a sneeze, a momentary lapse of concentration—one of these things would eventually kill him. Judging by the fatigue of his aching muscles, it would be sooner rather than later. Xaven had had plenty of time to contemplate the trap's mechanism. Indeed, he had experimented with a disarmed deathplate once before, a year prior. As soon as any portion of his weight came off the plate, the ceiling arches would collapse. And judging by the placement of those arches, a hundred feet of stone corridor would come down on top of him, cascading all the way back to the entrance.
Xaven blamed himself. If he had been a split-second sharper, he wouldn't be standing in the exact spot his long-dead killer had anticipated. Admittedly, he noted with twisted pride, a split second slower and he would already be dead. Yet that particular achievement was soon to be regrettably academic.
The issue now was what would happen when he finally hit the twelve-hour mark and the candle went out, plunging him into darkness. At that point, keeping his center of balance would become exponentially harder. The candle had been left by his fellow tomb raider, Hrokon—a half-orc who should have been back seven hours ago. The reality of the situation was quickly becoming clear: that either Hrokon wasn't coming back in time, or he wasn't coming back at all. Technically, it wouldn't really matter which was the case, but the former pointed to incompetence, while the later was betrayal. Xaven had already decided that if it was a betrayal, he owed the half-orc a serious pummeling in the afterlife.
And vengeance in the afterlife would be his only option for revenge. As a successful tomb robber, Xaven had enough gold stashed away to be revived. But with his body buried under a thousand tons of rubble, his corpse would never be retrieved. This life, his first, was going to be his last on Golarion after all. Perhaps Hrokon was off somewhere spending their revival funds right now. The damned half-orc was a lot smarter than he like to let on. Admittedly, if their situations were reversed, Xaven would also have given desertion some serious thought.
In any event, Xaven estimated he had less than a half-hour to go before the candle burned its last, at which point he would have a decision to make. He could either play it out until he inevitably slipped or fainted from exhaustion, or he could pick his moment, step off the plate, and welcome the rock shower in the last of the dying light. Presently, Xaven was leaning towards controlling his destiny and stepping off, but he still hadn't come up with a sufficiently clever line for his final words.
The fact that an appropriate zinger eluded him was, for Xaven, a strong argument that he wasn't meant to let things end just yet. The halfling considered whether the ordeal was driving him crazy. Then again, debatably Xaven had lost his sanity a long time ago. Anyone who robs the dead, fully knowing they leave traps of this nature, couldn't be quite right in the head.
Yet here he was. Forgotten temples had always been one of the halfling's most cherished targets, both for their relics and for their inevitable death traps—two items that, until about eleven and a half hours ago, had been among Xaven's favorite things.
A voice came from above: "Well, the ceiling is still here. Are you down there, little buddy?"
It was Hrokon, calling from above and ahead, near the temple's entrance. Xaven stilled himself, fighting the sudden rush of excitement. Every movement had to stay under control.
The powerful half-orc slid down the carved stone ladder from the temple's foyer to the arched corridor below. He loped toward Xaven, covering the hall's hundred-foot length with remarkable casualness. But then, he knew that Xaven had disabled all the traps in that section.
"Of course I'm still here, you idiot! What took you so long?"
"Aroden's nostrils! Your shopping list was long."
"Start by bringing the water! And hurry, I'm losing my light here."
"Coming up." Hrokon dug out a tiny folded-paper cup and filled it with water from his canteen. He moved slowly now, taking care to avoid coming close enough to touch the pressure plate. Xaven had made Hroken draw a wide circle around the plate with chalk before he left. "And I got more candles too."
"Good. Light 'em up." The halfling slowly accepted the cup and brought it to his lips to drink. Sensation began to return, first to his tongue and then to his throat. "We've gotta get you building the sled right away."
"Already done, Xaven. I had a smith put it together for us."
"What? You brought someone in?" Xaven almost snorted his precious water out of his nose. "What if he starts asking questions?!"
Hroken made that strange crackling sound that passed for his laugh. "You really want to concern yourself with that kind of detail right now?" He grinned and began lighting candles, waiting for them to heat up so he could drip their wax and secure them to the floor.
"No, I guess not," Xaven admitted after some thought. "But cut me some slack here. I've been playing statue for twelve hours!"
"Easy, little buddy. We'll get you out of here shortly." Hrokon cast his gaze up at the ceiling 20 feet above. "Now stay focused. You've come this far, I don't want you bringing the temple down on both of us.
Xaven steadied himself once more. "Right. Then go get the sled and lay out the rope. Are you sure you understand the layout?"
"Stop worrying about me for once. Just focus on your part." Hrokon lit the last of the candles. "I'll be right back."
Xaven concentrated on his breathing while he waited. With four new candles, both his world and his outlook were already brighter. Minutes later he could hear Hrokon steadily working away, uncoiling a pair of thin but hopefully sturdy ropes. Once Hrokon lit a dozen more candles to line the corridor's length, Xaven could see the ropes dangling from the top of the ladder at the mouth of the temple foyer down to the flagstones of the corridor he was trapped in. From there, Hrokon carefully laid rope all the way back to the edge of the chalk line. The half-orc then made a further trip topside, returning with his final item, a flat rectangular board with four wheels and a handle.
As he returned he asked, "I still don't see why the better plan isn't to just substitute a big rock for your weight on the deathplate."
"Believe me, I thought about it," answered Xaven, "But it won't work—that split second of too much or too little weight will set the scale off. It's a crazy risk."
Hrokon rolled his eyes. "And this plan of yours is much more sane."
Xaven ignored him, squinting his eyes as he appraised the sled. "Have the wheels been oiled like we talked about?"
"Of course."
"Spin 'em. Let me see."
Hrokon patiently spun each wheel for Xaven, one at a time. Xaven had to admit they looked pretty damned good—especially for a custom job made in the middle of the night. If this worked, Xaven would have to give a sizable tip to Hrokon's smith, and not just to shut him up.
"Nice work, Hrokon."
"Thanks."
"You know, for a minute or two there, I kinda thought maybe you weren't coming back for me. Maybe you just grabbed the altar chest and left."
Hrokon let loose with his crackle laugh once more. "Really? I'm hurt."
"Never crossed your mind?"
"Of course it did, but then I thought to myself: ‘how will I get to see if Xaven's idea might actually work?'"
"So you did think about deserting!"
"Xaven, do you think maybe we can tend to your insecurities after we get us out of this deathtrap?"
"Okay, okay. Let's go over the timing once more."
Hrokon repeated the final steps once more for Xaven as he pulled out a pair of manacles from his pack. He knew by now that the halfling trusted no one, even at the best of times. "When I hear the ‘ready,' I count to three. On three exactly, I whip the horse team and we race as fast as we possibly can. There's a bit of a downward slope from the entrance, actually, so we'll get a good start. You ready?"
"I've been ready for twelve hours," Xaven said, slowly holding out his left arm for the manacle.
"Good," said Hrokon, snapping one clasp around Xaven's wrist and then the other to the sled's metal handle. The key was left in the lock. "Now don't miss the sled with your jump off the plate or you'll lose your arm."
"My arm?" Xaven snorted. "Hrokon, if I miss the sled, the Pathfinders will be digging up my pulverized skeleton a hundred years from now."
The half-orc grinned. "Then don't miss it." He paused. "You've been still an awful long while, Xaven. Your muscles won't react quite like they should."
Xaven grit his teeth. "I won't miss. You just make sure the horses accelerate to a gallop right out of the gate. How many did you get?"
"Eight. I already told you, I got everything on the list. They're good ones too—Andoren breeds, mostly."
"Alright then, let's do this. Head topside and call me for the countdown when you're in position."
And then Xaven was alone again. He breathed and sweated in the newly bright corridor. That's all he had done for the last twelve hours, but apparently he still had more sweat to give. He hadn't told the half-orc how poor the odds were that his plan would actually work. If the ceiling came down all at once, it wouldn't matter how fast the horses were.
But if there was anything Xaven knew, it was how trapsmiths worked, and temple engineers always had a flair for the dramatic. The ceiling would come down in sections. If he could just stay ahead of each chunk, it was possible he could make it to the bottom of the ladder in time.
The half-orc's shout reverberated down the hall. "I'm in position. The horses are ready to run!"
Xaven used to really enjoy working with traps...
Xaven closed his eyes, then slowly opened them again. This was it. He sucked in a breath to respond, hoping his throat was up to it.
"Ready!" he called. "Go!"
At first he wasn't sure the half-orc heard him. Then he heard the count.
Xaven dove for the sled. If he was too early, he was dead. If he missed it, he was dead.
The sled shot forward as soon as Xaven crashed down on its wooden bed. He clawed for the handle with both hands and felt a tear in the sockets of his arms.
Pulled by the horse team above, the ropes connected to the sled had gone taut instantly, and the sled was now flying down the corridor. Rather than rolling across the ground as planned, it bounced off the flagstones. A half-moment later, Xaven's world became infinitely smaller as a cascade of granite blocks suddenly fell from the ceiling in massive chunks. The deadfalls exploded right behind him with a shock wave of deafening force.
Xaven's sled flipped over. The halfling hung on for his life. He was still flying forward, the stone floor scraping his back raw as he slid. As best he could determine, he was fractionally ahead of the falling rock. A split-second later he was enveloped by a cloud of dust, and could see nothing.
There was a huge crash as the sled smashed into the end of the hall, slamming straight into the ladder. At the same instant, the ceiling directly above Xaven came loose and began to fall apart above him. Even the walls gave way.
Still dragged by the unseen horse team, the battered sled shot upward toward the hole in the ceiling. The sudden torque wrenched Xaven's hands free from the handle, but the heavy manacles dragged him behind the sled like a rag doll. He flew up the shaft through a hail of falling rock.
Once the sled reached the now-disintegrating foyer, it changed direction for the second time, this time shooting out the temple entrance. With his right hand, Xaven flailed at his shackled wrist, catching the key in its lock long enough to turn it and release himself from the sled. He was vaguely aware that his left shoulder had dislocated and his muscle had torn. Worse, now free from the flying sled, Xaven came crashing down on the temple's outer steps, breaking what felt like every remaining bone in his body. Behind him, a geyser of dust exploded outward as the temple entrance collapsed into rubble. The dust enveloped him once more, filling his lungs and sending him into a fit of spasmodic coughing.
Somehow, Xaven didn't seem to mind. His inability to breathe was a testament to the fact that his lungs had not been crushed in the rockfall. He would hurt—for a very long time—but he would live. His coughs were part laughter.
Hrokon arrived a few minutes later, racing up the hill on foot.
"You alive, little buddy?"
Xaven's head was the only thing he could manage to turn toward the half-orc. "Where are the horses?"
"I'd say lost forever. Once we got a good clip, I jumped off of the wagon and let 'em go—didn't want my weight to slow it down."
Xaven smiled. "You jumped off a wagon pulled by galloping horses going down a hill? Not bad."
There was an awkward silence as Hrokon dug through his pack for his healer's kit. He wasn't much of a doctor. "You know, Xaven, one of these days you'll decide you can trust me."
Xaven lay on his back, looking up at the rising sun while his pain washed over him.
Hrokon had a point. If not for the big half-orc, Xaven would be dead. Since he wasn't, perhaps this was a fine time to start reevaluating some things. Sensing awkwardness, Hrokon changed the subject. He rummaged through his kit, producing the emergency potion. "Here, drink this. It should get you well enough for us to get back to Yanmass and find a decent healer. We just made a lot of noise—could be there's somebody around to hear it, in which case we'll want to be well away by the time they arrive. Tell me where you stashed that chest from that altar in the first room, and I'll get it loaded up. You work on getting that mud out of your lungs."
"Right." Xaven coughed, suddenly appreciating that their job was still far from over. "I hid it for us just over there before we went back inside." He motioned to a copse of pine and eucalyptus further down the slope, away from the shattered temple. "Under the blackened boulder."
"Good." Hrokon clapped Xaven on the shoulder and headed off to collect the spoils, leaving his kit with the halfling. Xaven, for his part, lay still, slowly flexing fingers and toes as the potion gradually brought feeling back to the numb and buzzing digits. He closed his eyes.
He was going to be okay. More than okay, in fact—he was going to be rich. From behind the trees, he could hear Hrokon loading the altar chest onto a horse. It was forward thinking on the half-orc's part to have brought an extra steed beyond the team Xaven requested. The half-orc really was smarter than anyone gave him credit for—including Xaven. He would make a worthy partner. And maybe, in time, a friend.
Xaven heard hoofbeats and rolled onto his side. Farther down the slope, Hrokon was riding away at full gallop, the altar chest strapped securely behind him on the saddle.
Xaven gave a choking laugh. "Smarter than anyone gave him credit for," indeed. Xaven had clearly taught the half-orc better than he'd thought. Yet thanks to Hrokon, Xaven was still alive. He'd even left the halfling his kit, which looked to have just enough food and water for him to make it back to civilization. Perhaps, all things considered, it was a fair trade.
Xaven lay his head back, closed his eyes, and listened to the retreating sounds of his partner.
Coming Next Week: A dapper gnome and a swashbuckling sample chapter of Robin D. Laws' upcoming Pathfinder Tales novel, Blood of the City!
Michael Kortes is the author of numerous Pathfinder adventures, including "A History of Ashes," "Entombed with the Pharaohs," "The Haunting of Harrowstone," and more. His previous Pathfinder fiction includes "The Burn Run" in Pathfinder #7, collected in The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline.
Misery's Mirror—Chapter Four: The Burdens of History
... Misery's Mirrorby Liane Merciel ... Chapter Four: The Burdens of HistoryThey left the midnight mirror without speaking. ... Once on the other side, safely back in the Cathedral of Bones, Isiem snatched up the fallen shroud of silk and swept it back over the glass. Then he sat heavily on the bed, shuddering, as Ascaros sank to the floor beside him. ... You can't go back, Isiem said. ... Ascaros did not reply. He laid his staff across his lap, thumbing its silver adornments over and over in...
Misery's Mirror
by Liane Merciel
Chapter Four: The Burdens of History
They left the midnight mirror without speaking.
Once on the other side, safely back in the Cathedral of Bones, Isiem snatched up the fallen shroud of silk and swept it back over the glass. Then he sat heavily on the bed, shuddering, as Ascaros sank to the floor beside him.
"You can't go back," Isiem said.
Ascaros did not reply. He laid his staff across his lap, thumbing its silver adornments over and over in repetitive circles.
"You can't," Isiem repeated, more urgently. "Silence is a trap."
"Is he?" Ascaros asked, as if the answer were of no great concern.
"Everything he said was meant to bait you. His false candor, the sly promises of power, the allusions to your predecessors' failures, even the mention that two others had refused his offer, so that you wouldn't be tempted by pride to be the first to say no... it is all calculated to bring you into his grasp."
"My ancestor's gifts are all curses," Ascaros replied. He raised his bad arm in its sling, plucking at the linen bandages that concealed the dead gray flesh. "He left hundreds of children, the shae said... and of those hundreds, I am the last. What an honor. How proud he must be." He shook his head bitterly. "The sorcery in my blood is killing me already. What does it matter, then, if Silence wants to do the same?"
"Is that what you want? A quicker end?"
"No. What I want is a way out. From all of this." Ascaros gestured to the cathedral's walls, to all the decades upon decades of human bones that hemmed them in. "Perhaps the shae can give me that. One way or another. Failing that, I'll take a better chance of surviving the Dusk Hall."
"You don't need him for that."
"You don't need him for that." Ascaros's smile was brief and weary. "We've discussed this before, Isiem. You truly have no idea what the Dusk Hall is like for someone without your gifts. It'll only get worse now that we're working individually with the masters. You can't help me anymore. But Silence can."
"Even if that help is not freely given?" Isiem pressed. "You would be the same as our masters, then. Forcing another to do your will with no regard for its own."
Ascaros's lips thinned. He looked away, feigning an intense interest in the arrangement of the bones upon their door. "I could offer him a limited term. Ten years, then a guarantee of freedom. After millennia in the mirror, that would be nothing to him. But for me... it might be enough to find a way out of Mesandroth's curse. By embracing undeath, maybe. Finishing the transformation that began before I was born." He shook his head in frustration. "I don't know if that's the right path, or if it would work. But the shae might."
"What about Voraic?"
The punishment for betrayal in Nidal is far worse than death.
"We should talk to him again." Ascaros stood, leaning on his staff. "In here. I want to see him face the mirror."
Isiem inclined his head. He left his friend in their room and went to find one of the Over-Diocesan's lackeys. "Bring us the apprentice, Voraic," he said when he found one. He took a seat on a bench of bones in the hallway until the acolyte returned with the man.
Voraic looked worse than he had the last time Isiem had seen him. His skin was almost as gray as his clothing. His fingers trembled visibly with exhaustion; weariness had scored deep lines across his face. And yet even through his bone-deep tiredness and guarded caution, the fear in him was plain.
"My time is precious," Voraic said as soon as Isiem rose to greet him. "I have work."
"We won't keep you from it for long," Isiem said, ushering him smoothly into the room. He locked the door behind their guest with a quiet click.
"What are you doing?" Voraic asked, turning back in alarm as Isiem turned the key. There were many locks on their door, and Isiem turned them all.
"Asking questions," Ascaros answered coolly. He pointed the silver-capped head of his staff at the mirror behind its veil. "What do you know about that?"
"Nothing," Voraic stammered. He knotted his hands together, wringing them in unconscious circles.
Ascaros gave him a thin, humorless smile. He wound the spiked chain of his holy symbol through his fingers and folded his hands in prayer, squeezing the barbs between his palms until both hands were studded with crimson droplets. A pulse of magic emanated from his maimed hands, filling the room with a flare of muddy red light and then receding. Isiem could still feel the enchantment in the air, however, and he knew the other two could as well.
"Try it again," Ascaros said, unbinding his hand. The wounds had faded to small pink dots. "What do you know about the mirror?"
Voraic's tongue flicked out nervously to wet his lips. His hands moved faster, over and over each other, strangling his fingers in fear. Silently his mouth moved, forming a protest that Ascaros's spell quashed—
—no, Isiem realized in a flash of sudden terror, that's not a lie. That's a spell.
Fire exploded at Voraic's feet. Isiem flung himself away to escape it. In the corner of his eye, he saw Ascaros do the same, taking cover behind the midnight mirror. It fell to the floor with a resounding crash, although the sight was obscured behind a rush of scarlet flames. The fireball Voraic had summoned was a sickly crimson thing, its colors murky and uncertain.
There was nothing uncertain about its heat. The mirror's shroud burst into flames and, almost as quickly, into ash. The bed shielded Isiem from the worst of the explosion, but he still felt the blaze through his clothes and the incongruously gentle drift of his own burning hair against his cheek.
Through it all, Voraic stood still in a pillar of torment, engulfed in clinging fire and screaming wildly as he burned. His spell had not been directed at the shadowcallers, not really; it was meant for himself. The agony of burning alive was nothing compared to what the Kuthite inquisitors would do to him if he were taken alive. This was his escape.
Ascaros stopped it. He tore one of the heavy black drapes from the walls and knocked the burning wizard to the ground. The shadowcaller tossed the drape over Voraic and held it down to smother the flames, adding a few kicks for good measure.
"Misery take the fool," he snarled, shoving a hand in through the drapes to pull Voraic back from death's brink. Sweat and soot blackened his brow, but Ascaros's concentration was untouched. "Help me," he snapped at Isiem. "Hurry. The Over-Diocesan's minions will be here soon. The idiot's attempt was hardly subtle."
Isiem nodded and fumbled through the drapes, ignoring his own pain. He caught hold of the man's hands: a sticky, sloughed mess of raw flesh and bubbled skin. Several of the fingers were gone; he couldn't tell how many. He closed his hands over Voraic's, pressing each ruined mass into a ball, and prayed for Zon-Kuthon's cruel mercy.
The Midnight Lord answered, and Voraic's mangled hand healed. Isiem continued to press down, fusing the man's remaining fingers—dead or alive—into the pulp of his palms. The flesh healed over itself, trapping the fingers like flies in amber. It was an effective, if grisly, safeguard against spellcasting. There would be no further surprises.
Slowly Voraic came back to consciousness as the healing magic flowed through him. The flames had ruined him. One of his eyes was gone, its socket a molten pit. His nose was a scab of charred meat pocked by two holes. The silver hoops in his ears had been blasted into globs of bubbled metal that dripped onto his shoulders. If he lived, he would be a monster... but there was no one in this room, Isiem thought, who intended for him to live long.
Ascaros dug his fingers savagely into the apprentice's cheek, yanking his face up so that their gazes met. "What do you know about the mirror?"
Voraic's mouth twitched. His shoulders sank under the weight of the drapes that still covered his body. "I have been inside," he admitted in a feeble croak. "I have spoken to the shae."
Ascaros jerked his fingers, flopping Voraic's head as though he were a fish on a hook. "You killed my aunt at his instigation."
"No. Not at the shae's instigation." The wizard rolled his good eye at the toppled mirror, staring at it without seeming to really see it. "Silence offered to help. He gave me the tools and the opportunity. But I would have done it on my own eventually, with or without him."
"Why?" Ascaros released his grip and stepped back. He sounded genuinely curious. "Misanthe saved you. She plucked you from the Hovels and gave you not just survival, but a chance at greatness."
"Should I be grateful for that? She took me from one hell to another. A worse one, I think." Voraic's burned lip curled, cracking at the edges. "And she murdered my mother."
"How did you do it?" Isiem asked.
"Silence taught me the spell. It was Misanthe's secret sorcery; no one knew that magic but her. Her refusal to teach it to anyone else—even her apprentice—was famous. It was a traceless weapon, or as near to one as I could manage." Voraic grimaced, shifting under the drapes in a futile attempt to find a less painful position. "But I would have done it even if I'd known I would be caught."
"Did he teach you anything else?" Ascaros demanded.
"Yes." Voraic's remaining eye squinted at the shadowcaller for a moment. Then he wheezed a strangled, mirthless sound that might have been a laugh. "Why, did he promise to share those secrets with you? It's tempting, isn't it? Centuries of lore at your beck and call. He isn't lying. He has the knowledge. But if you’re asking whether it's worth dealing with the shae..."
"Is it?"
Voraic closed his eye and let his head loll back. The ribboned flesh of his cheek blew in and out with each breath he took. "Look what became of your aunt. Look what became of me. All Silence says is true: he invites you to destruction."
Isiem glanced at his friend, but Ascaros did not return his look. "How did you get into the mirror?" Ascaros pressed, still intent on the apprentice. "It only admits those of my blood."
"The blood doesn't have to be in you." Weakly, Voraic reached for a blackened chain around his neck. The links had become stuck to the man's melted flesh, but Ascaros plucked it away with callous ease. Attached to the chain was a small vial, its glass shattered by the dying apprentice’s convulsions. A charred rime clung to the inner surfaces of the few fragments that remained. "I wore hers, and it was enough."
Ascaros's face hardened. He jerked the broken vial off Voraic's neck, snapping the damaged chain. "Does anyone else know this?"
"No. Misanthe might have suspected... but it was a routine task for me to clean her tools after her prayers, so unless Silence told her, she would not have known that I kept the blood, or why." Voraic coughed out another miserable laugh. "Kill me and the secret dies too. But you will have to hurry. The Over-Diocesan's servants are coming. Give me a quick death, and I won't shout your secret loudly enough for them to hear."
"Consider it done." Ascaros drew the dagger at his belt and plunged it into the empty socket of Voraic's missing eye. The apprentice thrashed under the heavy drape, kicking spasmodically for several seconds and then stopping.
Ascaros withdrew the dagger and wiped it off on the thick black cloth. Before he could sheathe it, a sharp knock sounded at their door.
"Open," a woman's voice ordered, "or suffer."
"Of course," Ascaros called back, standing. He turned toward the door, but before he could take two steps, Isiem caught his arm.
"What will you tell them?" Isiem whispered. He canted his head meaningfully toward the overturned mirror. Resting lopsided on its halo of chains, the mirror seemed almost ordinary, by the standards of Nidalese decor. Yet one needed only a glance at its response to Ascaros's reflection to see that it was anything but.
"The truth," Ascaros whispered back. "Voraic murdered my aunt as revenge for his mother's death. She allowed him to learn the spell that he used to kill her. He attacked us when we confronted him, and we killed him in self-defense. The mirror is useless to anyone not of its creator's line, so there is nothing for them to gain by taking it."
"That isn't the truth," Isiem protested.
Another knock struck their door. This one sounded like it had been delivered by a mailed fist, not a bare hand. "Open."
"It is," Ascaros hissed back. He yanked his arm free and hurried to the door, making a noisy show of struggling with the locks. Several had been damaged by the fiery blast, so his efforts were not entirely feigned. "It is true enough to pass the clerics' spells, and true enough to keep us safe. What greater truth could you want?"
Unable to find an answer quickly, Isiem changed tacks. "What of the mirror? Silence? Do you still intend to offer him a term of ten years?"
Ascaros hesitated. He turned back halfway, his expression caught somewhere between desperate hope and desperate terror. He gripped the misshapen knob of the bottom lock as tightly as a drowning man clinging to a final frayed strand of rope.
Then the practiced mask of stoicism slid back over his face, and he forced the last lock free.
"It's not your burden, Isiem," he said, standing aside for the Over-Diocesan's agents to open their door. "Silence is mine."
Coming Next Week: A quick trip inside an ancient tomb with veteran Pathfinder author Mike Kortes in "The Twelve-Hour Statue."
For More of Isiem's adventures, check out Nightglass, available now!
Liane Merciel is the critically acclaimed author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Nightglass—also starring Isiem—as well as the short Pathfinder Tales story "Certainty." In addition, she's published two dark fantasy novels set in her own world of Ithelas: The River Kings' Road and Heaven's Needle. For more information, visit lianemerciel.com.
... Misery's Mirrorby Liane Merciel ... Chapter Three: SilenceWhat would spur someone to kill her? Isiem wondered aloud as they left the dead shadowcaller on her bier. Not rebellion, surely. In Westcrown, perhaps, but not Nisroch. ... The mirror, Ascaros answered. He swept up the stairs from the chamber of the dead to their temporary quarters, where the Over-Diocesan's lackeys were to have delivered Misanthe's belongings. Blue-flamed candles in sconces of bone flickered as he went past. Of...
Misery's Mirror
by Liane Merciel
Chapter Three: Silence
"What would spur someone to kill her?" Isiem wondered aloud as they left the dead shadowcaller on her bier. "Not rebellion, surely. In Westcrown, perhaps, but not Nisroch."
"The mirror," Ascaros answered. He swept up the stairs from the chamber of the dead to their temporary quarters, where the Over-Diocesan's lackeys were to have delivered Misanthe's belongings. Blue-flamed candles in sconces of bone flickered as he went past. "Of course it's the mirror. It could be nothing else."
Isiem hurried after his friend. "You don't even know what the mirror is."
"True." Ascaros paused on the stairs, waiting until a black-robed Kuthite acolyte passed out of earshot. "But I know the Dusk Hall wants it badly enough to send us all the way from Pangolais to fetch it. If they would do that, others would do more."
They had reached the door to their room. It, too, was built of bone, arranged in ornate patterns that drew the eye in and did not easily let go. The same patterns repeated within the room, crawling over its walls and ceiling. Black drapes muffled some of the walls, softening sounds that would otherwise have reverberated harshly against the bones, but otherwise they were surrounded by the leavings of the dead. Even the desk and chairs were built of bone. The bedframe was an embrace of dead arms crowned with an arch of skulls.
On that gray-blanketed bed, illumined by a flickering host of blue-flamed tapers, Misanthe's belongings waited for them: A silver necklace holding a clear, many-faceted stone within which ghostly snowflakes swirled. A staff of smooth, glassy white wood that seemed almost ethereal in the cathedral's gloom.
And the mirror, hulking and ominous, its edge just peeping out from under a shroud of night-blue silk. The mirror towered higher than either of the shadowcallers' heads. A tangled hoop of chains served as its frame; the links of the chain had been bent and battered until they resembled curved hooks gouging the air.
"It's an ugly piece of work," Ascaros said, pulling aside the silken cover. The hooks caught the fine cloth and tore it; judging from the tatters that fringed the shroud, that was not the first time the mirror had ripped its veil.
A chill seemed to come over the room as the torn silk fell away, revealing the milky, impenetrable grayness of the mirror's glass. Voices seemed to whisper softly from its depths—not addressing the shadowcallers, but talking to each other or themselves, unaware of those who listened from outside. Their accents were archaic, their desire clear. One and all, they pleaded for freedom.
"It's not a nightglass," Isiem said. "That's a midnight mirror. A prison."
"Yes." Ascaros's face was unreadable. Isiem couldn't tell whether his friend was relieved or dismayed that he recognized the midnight mirror for what it was, but he was sure that Ascaros was not surprised. "It's an heirloom of my line."
"You knew this was what the Dusk Hall wanted."
"I suspected that it might be." Ascaros's grip tightened on his silver-capped staff. His knuckles went white under the candles' blue glow. "But I wasn't sure, because if the lore of my family is true, it wouldn't do them any good. It only functions for my kin."
"Explain."
"That mirror has been passed down from father to daughter, aunt to nephew, through the generations of my family since time immemorial. It goes to the magically gifted scions of the line... to sorcerers, always and only." Ascaros gazed into the mirror as if he could read his own future—or his ancestors' past—within the rippling fog. "Misanthe was the last of those, except for myself. She told me that much of its history, but not what it does or why we keep it. All she ever said was that it was part of our curse." He touched his linen-wrapped arm, grimacing faintly. "As if the rest of it weren't enough."
Isiem nodded minutely. He knew the curse that ran through Ascaros's blood. It gave him magic, but it also sapped his life, killing him slowly with every spell he cast. His family's curse had already claimed his arm. In time, unchecked, it would take the rest too.
But none of that answered the immediate question. A midnight mirror was a planar prison, sacred to the followers of the Prince of Pain. There was no clear reason that a Kuthite artifact should be bound to one particular bloodline, much less a sorcerous family that had no special ties to the faith. Nor was there any reason the Dusk Hall should want such a thing. "What's in the mirror?"
"I don't know."
"You should find out."
"Yes." Ascaros made a small, miserable huff of a laugh. "I suppose I should. That's what this is about, isn't it? Misanthe's death, the Dusk Hall sending us out here... probably the Over-Diocesan's hospitality, too. It's all about whatever is in that mirror."
"Whoever." Isiem walked toward it and held his right hand up facing the glass. The whispering voices went silent as he approached, and the ghostly mist within the mirror swirled away, leaving a blank opacity facing him. "You don't have any idea?"
"None."
"Then you must go in. Or let whoever is in there out... but anyone powerful enough to be of interest to the Dusk Hall will not be easily controlled or contained."
"We'll go in." Leaning on his staff, Ascaros straightened and stepped toward the mirror. He brushed a palm over the pockets containing his spell components, as if reassuring himself that they were all there. "Not because of that. Because I don't want the Over-Diocesan seeing who waits inside."
The mists swirled before Ascaros. Instead of the flat, empty space that faced Isiem, a spectral staircase appeared opposite the sorcerer. Built of ghostly, translucent bones that recalled the construction of the cathedral, it spiraled up into an infinity of gray.
"It knows you," Isiem murmured, troubled and awed. "Your blood is the key."
Even under the best circumstances, a shae is a dangerous ally.
"Let's hope it works as easily from the other side." Leading with the head of his staff, Ascaros stepped in. The mirror's glass scarcely shivered as he passed through, and it offered no more resistance than mist.
On the other side, Ascaros's figure receded rapidly up the stairs. He was ascending far faster than he could ever have climbed a real staircase, as though the mirror itself were pulling him in. At the top, a speck of blackness had appeared and was swiftly expanding. It opened like the yawning, shadowy mouth of some enormous lamprey, hovering hungrily in the air.
The sight of it spurred Isiem out of his distracted trance. He plunged through the mirror, hurrying to catch his friend.
Entering the midnight mirror was curiously simple. The weight of Isiem's body seemed to lift from his feet. Walking felt like floating, although he could see no change in the outward appearance of his gait. A deep hush settled over him, and a gentle but profound chill, as if he had walked into one of the Uskwood's sacred glens.
Zon-Kuthon's power was strong here. Bowing his head in silent submission to his god's presence, Isiem began walking up the staircase.
As he reached the halfway point, he saw Ascaros vanish through the portal at its top. The toothy fringes of the portal quavered and spiraled inward, as if the lamprey mouth were swallowing its prey. An instant later, it pulsed and then steadied, open again.
Ready for another meal. The thought brought a quick flicker of fear, but Isiem damped it down and continued his climb. Under him stretched an infinite gray abyss. There seemed to be no solid ground in this netherworld, or at least none that he could see. Only the stairs... and wherever they led.
Far faster than he would have believed possible, Isiem reached the apex. Just ahead, the portal waited, its ragged edges weeping blackness around the central void. He had expected to feel some pull into its depths, but there was none.
He went in. Electricity prickled along the small hairs of his body; a soundless gust flattened his clothes against him. Then the darkness parted, and Isiem found himself standing on a field of stars.
All around him, black grass swayed under a black dome of sky. The seed heads of the grass were white as snow, echoing the frosty stars high above. The pale bones of horse and man, half-buried by the grass, gleamed like pearls amidst the ebon stalks.
The vastness of the nighttime plain was broken only by a single hut of felted horsehair, a hundred yards before him. In front of the hut, a campfire burned, its flames oddly colorless in this strange gray world.
Two figures sat beside the fire. One of them was Ascaros. The other Isiem did not know. It wore a black horsehide cape in the style of the ancient Nidalese horselords, and a featureless mask of white porcelain covered its face. Countless silver pins studded the cape, glittering in yet another echo of the starry sky.
"What is this place?" Isiem asked, walking toward the tiny fire. As he got closer, he could see that Ascaros's face was white and frozen, as if his friend had received some devastating news and was still struggling to understand.
It was the other who answered. Up close, it was apparent that their host—if host he was—was not human. Wisps of shadow trailed around his form, constantly merging with and breaking from his body. The mask and cape seemed to be the only points anchoring his body; other than those form-granting garments, he was as ill-defined as a cloud of smoke.
A shae. One of the true children of the Plane of Shadow. Isiem had read of their kind, but never seen one before—the shadow-people had few dealings with the Dusk Hall.
"An illusion," the shae said in a voice accented with the melodically guttural inflections of old Nidalese. "Some is of my making. Some is the mirror's. But none of it, since you set foot on the stairs, has been real."
"I thought this was a prison," Isiem said. He sat on a horsehide-covered log near the fire, next to Ascaros. His friend shifted slightly to make space for him, but did not look up. He continued to stare blankly into the smoke-gray flames.
"It is." The masked creature raised a hand and tilted it to and fro, as if to undercut his own words. "It was. Its nature has... changed, somewhat, over the years. I am hardly the rebel I once was, and the mirror has, accordingly, granted me a certain degree of comfort. Eternal torment has not proven to be my lot after all. But the place is still unkind to look upon, in its natural state, and so I have chosen to render it more appealing. A prison of infinity, not walls."
"Who are you?" Isiem asked.
"Call me Silence." The porcelain mask was incapable of showing expression, but the voice behind it was rich with amusement. "My captor was fond of shouting that word at me, so I took it as a name."
"Your captor?"
Ascaros stirred. "Mesandroth," he said. "My ancestor. Founder of my line."
"A wizard of enormous power. One obsessed with immortality." The shae shrugged. The silver pins threaded into his black cape gleamed in the cool gray firelight. "Whether he found it, I could not say. His offspring proved to be sorcerers, imbued with the magic and death in his blood. He himself was not. He had no insight into their magic and no interest in their lesser gifts. So he captured a sorcerer—me—and tasked me with teaching his children. He imprisoned me in here, because although the shaes are long-lived, we do die eventually. Mesandroth intended that I should live forever, serving his line. So he told me. Then he left."
"And you've been in here ever since, teaching every sorcerer in the line," Ascaros said.
"Not every one," Silence corrected him. "In the early days, there were too many. Mesandroth had hopes that one of his sons or daughters might become a worthy apprentice. Not an heir—he had no intention of dying—but someone who might stand at his side. He had many, many children. Far too many for me to tutor.
"For centuries, I was a... prize." A wry note crept into the shae's voice, and under it a hint of age-old pain and anger. "They fought over me, his children. Dozens killed each other. The victors sought to learn my secrets. Some of them were kind, others cruel, but all wanted the same thing. Magic. I gave it to them, for I had no choice. And when each one died, I rejoiced, and added a pin to my cape."
"I'm the last of them," Ascaros said softly. He looked at Isiem. "The last with any gift for sorcery, anyway. My death wins his freedom. Silence has been engineering the destruction of Mesandroth's descendants for thousands of years... and I'm the last one."
"Yes." The shae laughed quietly. "It troubles him, knowing that. As well it should. When he is dead, the terms of my bondage will be complete, and I will finally be free."
"You just told him that?" Isiem asked.
"I always tell them. I give them all the same choice." Silence stood, turning his back on them. He raised his hands to the illusory sky. "I am bound to serve, but I do not do so gladly. Walk away—release me from your part in your forefather's sin—and I will have no opportunity to hurt you. But take this poisoned gift, and I will do my utmost to destroy you."
The shae let his hands fall, but kept his back to the shadowcallers. "Every time a new would-be master enters the mirror, I repeat the same offer. I have done this hundreds of times over the centuries. In all that time, two have refused Mesandroth's gift. Two. The others have all tried to evade their doom while using me. The master's children do not give up their ambitions easily, and my knowledge is vast. The temptation is too great.
"Some try to beat me into submission. Some try to bribe me. Some try to seduce. I have seen all their stratagems over the years. But I am a creature captured and kept in a midnight mirror of Zon-Kuthon; pain holds no fear and no surprises. There is nothing I desire more than an end to my bondage, and bribes are meaningless in this place. The seductions I always accept. I lie with them, and enthrall them, and ensure they will leave no mortal children who might perpetuate my suffering."
"You killed Misanthe?" Isiem asked.
The shae looked back at them. The eyeholes of his mask appeared to be blank black spaces, yet Isiem had the fleeting impression that laughter twinkled in those hollow gaps. "I did not. I am not permitted to cause harm to Mesandroth's blood."
"But you know who did." That was Ascaros.
"Of course." Now the laughter was clearly visible, a roiling in the shae's smoky form. "It was her apprentice, puffed with ambition. An old story."
"But you did the puffing," Isiem said.
"And taught him the shadow garrote." Ascaros's voice was brittle ice.
Silence held his hands out in wordless acknowledgement. "And when the apprentice comes back to claim me as his reward, he will die, because nothing prevents me from slaughtering him. It's an absurdly simple plan. Utterly predictable. Yet it rarely fails."
"We could stop you," Isiem said.
"You could," Silence agreed, "but you won't. Or rather, he won't." The shae pointed at Ascaros, who was once more staring into the fire. "No, he will do as his kind always does. Even knowing that it will doom him, even knowing that he will die, your friend will claim his inheritance."
Coming Next Week: Accusations and decisions in the final chapter of Liane Merciel's "Misery's Mirror."
For More of Isiem's adventures, check out Nightglass, available now!
Liane Merciel is the critically acclaimed author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Nightglass—also starring Isiem—as well as the short Pathfinder Tales story "Certainty." In addition, she's published two dark fantasy novels set in her own world of Ithelas: The River Kings' Road and Heaven's Needle. For more information, visit lianemerciel.com.
... Misery's Mirrorby Liane Merciel ... Chapter Two: HovelsThe Hovels lived up to their name. ... The poorest and most wretched of Nisroch's people did not live in the city. They huddled outside its walls, clustered in a miserable, mud-drenched shantytown by the Leper's Gate. There was little stable ground to support them, so the denizens of the Hovels built high and dense, creating a teetering warren of sticks that seemed a sneeze away from collapse at any moment. ... Swaths of sucking mud...
Misery's Mirror
by Liane Merciel
Chapter Two: Hovels
The Hovels lived up to their name.
The poorest and most wretched of Nisroch's people did not live in the city. They huddled outside its walls, clustered in a miserable, mud-drenched shantytown by the Leper's Gate. There was little stable ground to support them, so the denizens of the Hovels built high and dense, creating a teetering warren of sticks that seemed a sneeze away from collapse at any moment.
Swaths of sucking mud surrounded the Hovels, filling the entire tangled labyrinth with the stench of rotting fish and worse. Isiem saw paupers picking through the filth in search of food or usable refuse. They wore stilts and masks of wadded rags in a futile attempt to protect themselves from disease as they poked through the city's garbage.
Other paupers bore the sigil of the Morbidium—three links of heavy chain run through by a scalpel—scarred or branded on their skin. The mark signified that they had sold their bodies to the scholars of the Morbidium for experimentation. It allowed them temporary safe passage through Nisroch's walls... until the scholars were done with them.
For a handful of gold, they sold their flesh, their bones, their sanity. Then, stripped of everything that interested the scholars, they were discarded. They drifted to the Hovels and stayed there for whatever days or weeks were left to them. The unlucky ones, Isiem had heard, could persist for years.
"Why would anyone choose to live here?" Ascaros muttered through the sleeve pressed over his face. He lagged behind as Voraic led them through the Leper's Gate, eyeing the damaged souls who wandered the slums.
"Because they want to live, and there is nowhere else for them to do it," Voraic said. There was an odd note of sympathy in his voice. Behind his back, Ascaros and Isiem exchanged a look. Proper Nidalese did not express pity for their inferiors.
"I'd sooner die than live like this," Isiem said. He meant it. The Kuthite church taught that beggars and paupers were parasites on society; the only reason they were not purged immediately was because their sufferings pleased Zon-Kuthon. It was not a doctrine that lent itself to charity.
"The rest of them should too," Ascaros said. "Have some shred of dignity. There's none in living in the Hovels, and there's no way out."
"There is," Voraic said, pushing open the creaking gate. He stepped through the gap in Nisroch's great black walls, passing from rainy gloom into midnight and back into rain.
Again the shadowcallers exchanged a glance as they followed him. Then Ascaros said, carefully neutral: "You speak from experience?"
"I do."
For a time it seemed that he would not elaborate. The gate closed behind them. Isiem watched a knot of small children, some thirty feet away, fight one another for the corpse of a starved orange tomcat. Their struggle was as grimly silent as it was vicious. Beggars' get they might be, but these children were still Nidalese.
A scrawny boy, bleeding from the temple, ran off with the dead cat. The others scattered from the shadowcallers' approach. Clearly they had learned to be wary of visitors coming from the city.
"I was like him, once," Voraic said softly, lifting a sleeved hand toward the boy with the cat. "Desperate. Starving. Willing to fight—to kill—for a meal like that. Most days, I didn't have the chance. I lived in the mud with my mother and four siblings. By the time I was ten, two of those four were dead, and my mother had had two more. I don't remember any of our fathers."
"A terribly sad story," Ascaros said aridly.
"How did you get out?" Isiem asked.
"Misanthe lifted me from the Hovels," Voraic said. His robes quivered and he hunched a little further down, keeping his back toward his companions. "It was during one of the burnings. Ten... fifteen burnings ago. I don't remember. They happen every year, twice a year sometimes. It's hard to keep count. I was ten. It was summertime, and the smell was bad. The Over-Diocesan sent her faithful to cleanse the Hovels. Their poisoned fires tore through the buildings, and they marched through the streets, killing anyone who managed to survive the smoke.
"My mother pushed me through the flames toward them. I knew what she was doing; she wasn't the only one to try it. Children who are stoic enough—Nidalese enough—to endure extraordinary pain without crying sometimes find acceptance among the ranks of the faithful. My siblings were too weak to have a chance. But I endured the fire without flinching, and when I stumbled back to my feet in front of the masters, I saw a glimmering of respect.
"Misanthe stopped the others from killing me. She said I had promise. She tested that promise before she took me, but I passed. And so I became her apprentice."
"Tested it how?" Isiem asked.
Ascaros would do well to guard his emotions.
A small shrug rippled Voraic's rain-soaked robes. His voice was steady but toneless. "She found my mother. She killed her. Then and there, in the smoke. There were screams all around us from others burning in the Hovels. My friends, some of them. My brothers and sisters. But Misanthe told me not to take my eyes off what she was doing, no matter what went on around us. I obeyed. And I did not cry. At the end of it, she said I had proven myself well enough to be worthy of magic... eventually. She did not want a useless child. So I trained in Nisroch, first, and in time she came back for me."
A path of broken planks sunk into the mud served as stepping stones to the Hovels. Ascaros lifted the hem of his charcoal-gray shadowcaller's robes away from the filth, grimacing as his boots squelched in the sodden earth. Ramshackle buildings closed around them, funneling the rainwater into tumbling rivers that slid from warped roof boards and splashed into the mud. "Were you with her in Westcrown?"
Voraic shook his head. "Only in Nisroch. I did not have permission to enter Cheliax." He paused, pointing to a crooked black spar that thrust up from the teetering buildings ahead. "That is where it happened. The burning always starts on the outer perimeter and pushes in toward the city, so that those fleeing the flames run into the archers on the walls."
"Wait here," Ascaros said. "See that we are not disturbed."
"'See that we are not disturbed'?" Isiem echoed as they strode deeper into the Hovels. Fearful eyes peered at them from the darkness within the shacks, but neither of the shadowcallers paid them any mind. Most of the Hovels' denizens fled or hid from their approach. A few were too damaged to do either, but even those would never dare confront them. Voraic was right: these people wanted to live. And confronting shadowcallers was no way to do that.
Ascaros shrugged. "Let him see the excuse for what it is. What difference does it make?"
"None, I suppose." Isiem watched a muttering idiot go by. The sigil of the Morbidium was branded on his brow, although it had been partly cut away. A row of large, careless stitches ran up the side of the man's neck and across his stubbly head. The wound they'd once closed had healed long ago, but the stitches remained, red and inflamed with infection. The man stumbled into a doorless shack and vanished from view, although Isiem could still hear him mumbling deliriously to his invisible friends or foes. "Does his tale ring true?"
"That he was plucked from the Hovels by my aunt? Perhaps. It isn't a story I'd brag about, but perhaps he wanted to deflect our suspicions."
"Do you suspect him?" Isiem asked.
"Maybe." Scowling, Ascaros stepped over an insensible woman lying sprawled across the alley. A cracked board served as her bed, or bier—Isiem wasn't sure which. She had no legs. The empty cloth of her skirts had been trampled into the mud so deeply that the garments were barely more than ripples in the puddled filth. The stench of wine-sweat fogged the air around her.
Forty yards past the legless woman, the Hovels opened to the sky. Spell-driven firestorms had blasted away the buildings. The mud around them was black and gritty with the coarser leavings of the flames: chunks of charred wood, a knot of melted pins embedded in a clump of burned hair, a few fragments of scorched bone. Nothing larger survived.
At the edges of the ruins, the Hovels were beginning to creep back, like vines stretching out after a forest fire. A mound of garbage here, a tangle of laundry lines there. Some of the rooms that had been cracked in half like gourds were patched up again. But no people.
"So this is where my aunt died," Ascaros said, surveying the desolation. "Useless. There's nothing here to examine."
"Witnesses don't seem likely either," Isiem said, "although I suppose we could knock on doors and see who answers. If they answer."
"They'll answer," Ascaros said grimly. Raising his silver-capped staff, he started for the nearest shack.
The fourth door they tried yielded a person with functional eyes and a mouth. He was another of the Morbidium's cast-offs; his fingers were reduced to three on each hand, and those three were unnaturally extended with stitched-in joints from the missing digits. Craters the size of cherries pocked his skull, collecting rain in little pools.
But he could see, and he could talk to them, and that made him better than the other creatures they'd found.
"What did you see when the fires came?" Ascaros demanded.
The wretch blinked at them from his doorway. Rain trickled down his dented scalp and ran down the sides of his nose, dripping into his slack toothless mouth. Behind him, a handful of children huddled in the dark. Isiem wondered if it was for their sake that this man had sold himself to the Morbidium—and what they must think if he had. What was a father like this worth?
"Fires," he managed at last.
"Yes," Ascaros said impatiently. "Fires. What happened? Who was here?"
"Many. Many in robes. With the fires."
"Was there a woman? One who looked like me?" Ascaros lifted his bad arm in its sling. "With an arm like this?"
The broken man nodded slowly. His fingers twitched strangely, as if the movement originated somehow in the sewn-on middle joints. "She was here."
"What happened to her?"
"The fires came down, and she walked into a house. Struggling. The fires ate her."
"Struggling?" Isiem repeated. He wondered if the man was confused. Those dents in his skull were very deep. "Against what?"
"Death." The broken man nodded emphatically. He drew his fingers across his throat. They wriggled spastically, like the convulsing legs of a crushed ant. "Fighting against death. She walked into the fires and they ate her."
"Thank you," Isiem said. He took Ascaros's sleeve gently and pulled his friend away from the door. The other shadowcaller's face had twisted into a scowl that suggested he was about to explode with rage, and Isiem didn’t think that would help them here.
"Worthless," Ascaros fumed, stabbing his staff into the stinking ground. He seemed angrier—and more afraid, Isiem thought—than the broken man's story warranted. "That idiot was worthless."
"Of course he was," Isiem said. "The Morbidium took everything of worth in him." He sighed, casting a glance up at the dull gray sky. The storm showed no signs of dissipating. "Do you want to try the other doors, or shall we pursue another lead?"
"There's no use talking to any of these lackwits. The ones that have tongues don't have eyes, and the ones that have eyes don't have brains." With one last snarl at the patched-up dwellings around the burned site, Ascaros turned back the way they'd come. This time he did not step over the legless woman in the mud; he jabbed his staff into her empty skirts and kicked her savagely in the side. The woman spluttered in the filth, struggling feebly.
"Control yourself," Isiem cautioned him quietly. "Voraic may see. Or some other Nisrochi. It would not do to damage our dignity."
Ascaros stiffened, breathing heavily, but after a moment he nodded and stepped over the sobbing, still-drunk cripple. He brushed a fleck of mud from his robes. "Yes."
"Do we have another lead?"
"The apprentice. He might owe her everything, but when has that stopped treachery? And my aunt's remains. They are being kept at the cathedral."
"We have to collect them anyway," Isiem said. "Let's begin there. No need to let Voraic know we suspect him until we must—and if we glean anything from Misanthe's remains, it will let us question him more carefully."
"To the cathedral, then," Ascaros said.
∗ ∗ ∗
Misanthe's corpse was laid on a table alongside several others in a small room under the Cathedral of Bones. Isiem had seen similar rooms, and similar tables, beneath the Dusk Hall. They served alternately as torture beds, dissection tables, and biers—sometimes all three in quick succession.
Copper pieces rested atop each of Misanthe's eyes, signifying that a spell had been used to delay the decomposition of her body. Not that there was much to preserve. The flames had not been gentle; Ascaros's aunt was barely recognizable as human. She had suffered from the same family curse as her nephew, and the peculiar decay it inflicted left her corpse even harder to study. Much of her body had been dead and withered even while she was living, and the curse-desiccated flesh had burned like kindling in the fire.
But there was enough left to look at. Isiem pushed up his sleeves and began his examination. Ascaros hovered by his shoulder, following his work.
Most of the injuries were straightforward, but one...
"Do you see this?" Isiem asked, pointing to a dark ring that encircled Misanthe's throat. Burns obscured some of it, but nevertheless it was clear that the mark made a perfect circle around her neck. It looked like a bruise, almost, but the evenness of the color and its peculiar grayish hue spoke to an unnatural origin. No human hand could produce such perfect uniformity.
"Yes." Ascaros looked paler than usual. The tension that had been in him since their conversation with the dented man in the Hovels seemed to have snapped, as if the sight of the corpse confirmed some suspicion he'd been nursing since then.
"What is it?"
"The mark of a spell. She called it the shadow garrote." Ascaros paused, fiddling with the wrappings on his bad arm. His mouth twisted slightly. "That was one of her most powerful spells, and the most secret. She wouldn't have taught it to anyone. She refused to teach it to me—and I wouldn't have had the strength to cast it if she had. Not many people even know it exists."
"What are you saying?"
"That Misanthe was the only one in the world who had that spell. Unless she used it for a suicide, that means someone else reflected her own magic against her. And that means..."
"...that she wasn't killed by an apprentice," Isiem finished for him. Turning a spell against its creator was a feat of extraordinary magic. It was far beyond either of them; it was likely beyond their masters at the Dusk Hall. "That's an archmage."
Coming Next Week: Deepening shadows—and their residents—in Chapter Three of "Misery's Mirror."
For More of Isiem's adventures, check out Nightglass, available now!
Liane Merciel is the critically acclaimed author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Nightglass—also starring Isiem—as well as the short Pathfinder Tales story "Certainty." In addition, she's published two dark fantasy novels set in her own world of Ithelas: The River Kings' Road and Heaven's Needle. For more information, visit lianemerciel.com.
... Misery's Mirrorby Liane Merciel ... Chapter One: A Death in NisrochI need a favor, Ascaros whispered, stopping before Isiem's library table. ... Of course you do, Isiem murmured back, unsurprised. He did not lift his head from the scroll he was copying. ... Once, he and Ascaros had been friends. As children in the village of Crosspine, they had been almost brothers. That friendship had survived the early years of their tutelage in the Dusk Hall of Pangolais... but only the early years....
Misery's Mirror
by Liane Merciel
Chapter One: A Death in Nisroch
"I need a favor," Ascaros whispered, stopping before Isiem's library table.
"Of course you do," Isiem murmured back, unsurprised. He did not lift his head from the scroll he was copying.
Once, he and Ascaros had been friends. As children in the village of Crosspine, they had been almost brothers. That friendship had survived the early years of their tutelage in the Dusk Hall of Pangolais... but only the early years. The isolating influence of Zon-Kuthon's faith and the weight of their respective sins of survival had pushed them apart. Now, as they neared the end of their time as students, that childhood friendship seemed nearly as distant as childhood itself.
The last time they had spoken seriously, almost two years ago, it had been Isiem who asked a favor of Ascaros. His friend had refused him then, Isiem reflected. It was tempting to do the same in turn.
But there was real fear in Ascaros's voice, under his Nidalese reserve, and Isiem had never been one to abandon his friends—even old friends, even strained ones—in times of need.
Besides, he was curious. What could be so important that it would drive Ascaros to this desperate attempt at reconciliation?
Isiem put his pen aside and looked up. Ascaros was still standing before his table, unmoving. His left arm, wrapped from fingers to elbow in white linen, rested useless in a sling, as it had for years; his right hand gripped the incense-filled Osirian staff he used to mask the odor from that ruined arm. The dim silver magelights of the Dusk Hall's library made it difficult to read Ascaros's expression, but Isiem would not have expected to see much anyway. No Nidalese worth his name let pain show on his face.
"What do you need?" he asked.
Ascaros ran his good hand through his dark, curly hair. In Crosspine that hair had been a rich russet, but years of living under the shadow of Pangolais had drained the ruddy warmth from the boy's locks. Now his hair was almost black, with only the barest hint of red remaining. Compared to some of the other changes the Dusk Hall had wrought in them, Ascaros's hair was a small thing, but Isiem's eye was often drawn back to it. They were not who they had been, either of them.
"Not here," Ascaros said after a long hesitation. He glanced down the hushed rows of shelves. "Can we talk in your room?"
"If you like," Isiem said. He was due to begin an apprenticeship with a Chelish wizard soon, but his new mistress had not yet come to claim him, so he still had student's quarters in the Dusk Hall. Although small and spare, they offered more privacy than the library did.
He stood, closed his scroll case, and led the way back to his room.
With the door locked behind them, Ascaros relaxed. He leaned the silver staff against Isiem's wall and sank into a black iron chair, leaning into its spike-filigreed back as if the thorny metal were a silk cushion. Eyes closed, he said: "I'm going to Nisroch."
"Nisroch?" Isiem echoed. "Why?"
"Misanthe. My aunt. The one who served in the Midnight Guard. She... died." Ascaros rubbed his dead arm through its wrappings. "I don't have many details, but it happened in Nisroch, two days past. The Dusk Hall wants me to investigate."
"Why you?" Isiem asked quietly.
"Because she was my aunt, I suppose." Ascaros shrugged. "And because I am a student here, and they have some measure of control over me. Misanthe had several objects of value, and I imagine the Dusk Hall intends to claim them. I am her last living relative—or the last with any standing, which amounts to the same—so if I do not object..."
"Will you object?"
Isiem no longer puts much stock in friendship.
"I don't even know what she had." Ascaros pursed his lips unhappily. "An enchanted staff, a silver necklace. I remember a black mirror, too. It might have been a nightglass."
"Yes, that could cause trouble," Isiem murmured. Nightglasses were powerful tools, and dangerous ones. An apprentice with a nightglass could summon shadowbeasts that would strike fear into a master wizard's heart. The Dusk Hall held the largest collection of nightglasses in Nidal, and it coveted more. It was not difficult to believe that their superiors would send a student to retrieve one—even from that student's dead kin.
Whether the Dusk Hall had any legitimate claim to the glass almost didn't matter. The Hall wanted it. Ascaros would therefore have to retrieve it, or risk facing their masters' wrath. After years of seeing the scars that their teachers inflicted for far lesser transgressions, Isiem doubted his friend would be eager to disobey.
"When do you leave?" he asked.
Ascaros raised his head and looked at him. "Tomorrow. I am allowed one companion. One of the masters offered, but... I would feel better if I had a friend. Will you come?"
"Of course," Isiem said.
∗∗∗
Black and swollen and slow, the Usk River poured from the hinterlands of Nidal into the sea. It carried the shadowcallers' vessel from the Uskwood to the coast, and it bore them past the massive, rust-streaked Rivergate that filtered incoming traffic. At the Rivergate their documents were checked three times, their identities questioned, every parcel in their belongings opened and examined—but all of it was done in under twenty minutes. Nisroch saw more merchants and travelers than any other city in Nidal, and its sternly efficient officials kept its traffic moving.
Isiem's first impression of the city, as their boat passed through the rain-swept walls, was of towering gloom. Nisroch was known as the Maw of Shadow, and while it did not have Pangolais's black trees to cast its inhabitants into an eternal twilight, its dense gray storm clouds had much the same effect. He wondered whether the hand of Zon-Kuthon kept those massed clouds hanging over the city; surely no natural storm would linger so long.
Spires and mausoleums crowded the banks of the city's wealthy northern quarters, throwing jagged shadows across the river. To the south, the city's laborers and commoners lived in smaller homes of basalt and dark wood. Two immense bridges, their wet black stone carved into lovingly detailed depictions of tormented petitioners, connected the halves of the city. Rainwater cascaded down the bridges' sides in shivering cascades, drenching the boats that passed below.
High above the Nisrochi nobles' silver-edged towers and iron-gated mansions, the Cathedral of Bone loomed. Sixty feet high and raised even higher on an artificial hill of stepped stone, the cathedral was a gleaming white pearl in a grim black city. It was built entirely of human bone—and the building, legend claimed, was never done. Squinting through the rain, Isiem thought he could make out a lattice of scaffolding clinging to the west side. Somewhere nearby, he knew, Kuthite torturers would be stripping more bones from victims' bodies and washing them in acid to cleanse them for the faith.
"We'll go there first," Ascaros said. "We must report to the Over-Diocesan and be formally welcomed into the city."
"And if we don't?"
"It isn't a choice."
Ascaros's prediction proved correct. No sooner had their boat docked than five Nisrochi officials approached them on the pier. Three wore the harbormaster's silver pin over their plain black robes. Two wore the spiked chain of Zon-Kuthon.
"We welcome you to Nisroch," one of the Kuthites said. She was a short, round woman, her fingernails gnawed to uneven stubs. Her eyebrows were plucked completely bald, an affectation that Isiem had noticed among several of the harbor officials as well.
The other Kuthite was a man. He seemed younger than his companion, or perhaps merely subservient to her. His eyebrows, too, were plucked bare, and his head was shaved clean—a look that did not flatter his bumpy scalp or pallid gray complexion. Although he was not fat, the skin of his jowls hung around his chin in loose, sagging folds. He carried himself hunched inward, as if perpetually cringing away from the unseen blows of fate.
Isiem disliked him instantly. But the shadowcaller kept his manner neutral as he replied: "We are grateful for your welcome."
"The Over-Diocesan invites you to pay your respects at the Cathedral," the woman said.
"We are honored to accept," Ascaros said.
"I'll have your belongings brought up shortly," the boat's captain called behind them as his passengers departed. Neither the shadowcallers nor the Kuthite clerics acknowledged his words as they crossed the rain-slick pier. All knew the captain would have been badly beaten if he had failed to observe the proper courtesies. Impoliteness was not tolerated in Nidal, least of all impoliteness to one's betters.
It was a thought that loomed large in Isiem's mind as they approached the Cathedral of Bone. A single steep, narrow staircase led to the cathedral, slicing through the immense stone steps that supported the macabre edifice.
Small shrines flanked the stairs, each attended by one to three black-clad Kuthite dedicants and an equal number of petitioners offering themselves up for a show of piety in pain. The oldest of the shrines were built entirely of human bone; the newer and poorer ones still had animal bones woven into their walls.
The suffering that took place within those shrines was voluntary—mostly—but the screams and whimpers echoed in Isiem's ears as he walked past, keeping his gaze fixed on the church's doors so he would not have to see. Iron pincers, liars' masks, thumbscrews, salt knives, branding by frost and fire... and those were the tortures people chose to undergo. There were worse things in the dungeons under the Dusk Hall, and Isiem did not doubt that there were worse yet in the depths of the cathedral. The ascent was a pointed reminder of what a breach of etiquette could cost.
It was not the Over-Diocesan who met them at the cathedral's ornate bone doors, however, but a younger priestess wrapped in a clanking mantle of chains. Deep red scratches covered every inch of her skin except for her face, creating the impression of a flayed undead creature wearing a perfect porcelain mask.
"You will be Ascaros of the Dusk Hall," she said. "Your companion?"
"Isiem, also of the Dusk Hall." Ascaros inclined his head slightly over his folded hands. Beside him, Isiem did the same. "We thank you for your welcome, but we are eager to begin our work."
"Yes. Of course. The death of Misanthe." The cleric raised her bald eyebrows. "A member of the Midnight Guard, was she not? Remind me, please: what is the Dusk Hall's interest in that?"
"She was a Midnight Guard," Ascaros said. "But she was also one of our masters. Assignment to the Midnight Guard is temporary; membership in the Dusk Hall is not. She had finished her assignment in Cheliax and was on her way back to us when she died. And," he added, as though it were an afterthought, "she was my aunt."
The priestess dismissed that bit of information with a grunt. "I suppose the Dusk Hall does have some stake in it, then. Very well. She died while clearing the Hovels. The vermin were fighting back this time, so we asked if she would assist our own efforts. She kindly agreed to assist us. Unfortunately, it seems the vermin had a nastier bite than she realized."
"My aunt was slain by... paupers?" Ascaros sounded strangled.
"Calling them paupers would be kinder than they deserve. They are wretches. Human filth. They cling to our city like barnacles to a ship, and like barnacles, they must be scraped off." The priestess shrugged. "In any case, you are welcome to go to the Hovels if you like, although no guard can be spared for you. You may also collect her belongings. They are being held in storage at the cathedral. Voraic will show you the way." She gestured to the bald, stooped man who had accompanied them from the pier. "There may be more he can tell you. He was her apprentice, and the last to see her alive."
"Were you," Ascaros said flatly, turning to the man. By his tone, he liked Voraic even less than Isiem did.
The bald Kuthite bowed his head. The silver hoops threaded through his ears clinked against one another. "Yes."
"How did she die?"
"Bravely." Voraic kept his gaze fixed downward, looking at none of them, but Isiem still caught the grimace that wracked the gray man's face as he spoke. "But badly." He hesitated. "I can take you there, if you would like to see the place."
"Show us," Ascaros said.
Coming Next Week: Further glimpses of life in one of Golarion's most horrifying cities in Chapter Two of "Misery's Mirror."
For More of Isiem's adventures, check out Nightglass, available now!
Liane Merciel is the critically acclaimed author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Nightglass—also starring Isiem—as well as the short Pathfinder Tales story "Certainty." In addition, she's published two dark fantasy novels set in her own world of Ithelas: The River Kings' Road and Heaven's Needle. For more information, visit lianemerciel.com.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter Four: Poison and Knives
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter Four: Poison and KnivesI will not, Alaeron said. I won't risk my life to enrich you. ... Rodrick clucked his tongue in disappointment. Ah, you misunderstand me! To go down into the linnorm's treasure chamber is to risk death, certainly. But to refuse is to ensure your death. Because if you do not, I will cut you down where you stand. Ah, ah! Don't reach for any of your little vials or potions, please. Then I'd have to cut off your hands,...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Four: Poison and Knives
"I will not," Alaeron said. "I won't risk my life to enrich you."
Rodrick clucked his tongue in disappointment. "Ah, you misunderstand me! To go down into the linnorm's treasure chamber is to risk death, certainly. But to refuse is to ensure your death. Because if you do not, I will cut you down where you stand. Ah, ah! Don't reach for any of your little vials or potions, please. Then I'd have to cut off your hands, and you'd have a terrible time gathering riches for me with your stumps."
"We can divide the coins and gems that remain here," Alaeron said, feeling desperate but trying to sound reasonable. "We can take the armor off Uncle Brant, that's valuable, surely—"
"The sword is the most important thing, I think," Rodrick said. "I've heard great things about that sword—it has a blade of living ice, Simeon said, whatever that means, and was reputed to possess its own intelligence and give wise counsel. If you see any rings or cloaks or helms, I'll need those too. Feel free to scoop up any particularly fine gems—they're worth more than gold by weight."
"What if I wake the linnorm?" Alaeron said. "Then you risk your own death as well."
"I suspect the beast will spend long enough killing you to allow me to escape," Rodrick said. "I'm good at escapes. But I have great faith in you, alchemist! Surely you have some tinctures there that will allow you to move silently, to be fleet of foot, and so on?"
Alaeron did, of course, but who knew how perceptive the linnorm was, or how deeply it slumbered?
But what choice did he have? "All right," he said finally. "But what proof do I have that you'll let me live when I return with your treasure?"
"I'll have no particular reason to kill you, then," Rodrick said. "I don't have any particular qualms about killing people, but it's not something I go out of my way to do—it's messy and unpleasant. I'll settle for knocking you out and leaving you in the tomb, fear not. And even if I'm lying... what choice do you have?"
Alaeron looked at the hole gaping in the wall, and crept inside.
He crawled partway down the slope, then paused. He wouldn't be able to take Rodrick in a fight, and the thief wasn't nearly as stupid as Alaeron would have preferred, but the alchemist might still win in a battle of wits. "Make yourself comfortable, Rodrick," he said, raising his voice just enough for it to carry. "You should be feeling the effects soon."
Rodrick's voice drifted down from above. "You're wasting time, alchemist. Hurry along and bring me back my sword."
"It's not a terribly fast-acting poison," Alaeron went on, crouched in the tunnel, watching the opening at the top. "But it's not the slowest, either."
"What poison? There were no poison traps here."
"That 'potion' I gave you. It was a toxin, of course. That's why it didn't allow you to see in the dark. That's not what it's meant to do. It's meant to kill."
Rodrick snorted. "A sad attempt at a bluff. You drank from the same vial."
"Yes, and after we came down into the dark, I also drank the antidote, along with a real potion of night vision."
"You lie," Rodrick said, but there was just a hint of doubt. "Why would you poison me? We were working well together, you said so yourself."
"I decided to poison you the moment you murdered that poor huldra girl," Alaeron said. "You were clearly dangerous, and needed to be stopped."
"Listen, you can't trick me, I'm a trickster, I—"
"The first symptoms are fairly subtle," Alaeron said, allowing his voice to take on a lecturing, pedantic tone. "Slight tremors in the hands and lips. A sensation of cold in the hands and feet, though for some, the hands and feet sweat instead. Racing thoughts, and difficulty concentrating. Some nausea. The need to urinate. An unusually rapid heartbeat."
Alaeron was experiencing most of those symptoms himself—understandably, as they were the effects of stress and physical exertion—and it was a fair bet that Rodrick would be feeling them, too.
"I suppose this is where you tell me that if I race back to my horse and up to the retreat, a dip in the healing waters will cure me?" Rodrick said.
"Oh, no. You'd be dead long before you make it that far. Possibly before you reached your horse. I'll just wait you out, I think. It's quite cozy here, in a rabbit-in-a-burrow sort of way."
"All right. Say I believe you. What do you want in exchange for the antidote?"
Alaeron considered. "Nothing. I can't say your death would bother me overmuch. I'm not a murderer, but at this point the poisoning could be construed as self-defense, albeit a bit... retroactive."
"I can come down there and kill you and take the antidote."
"You're welcome to drink from every vial in my pack," Alaeron said. "The antidote is in one of them. Though none of the vials are too clearly marked—I use an organizational system of my own devising." Alaeron felt in his pack until his fingers touched a vial with the shape of a spiral cut into the cork stopper. He took that silently from his pack, opened it, and took a sip. The extract made his tongue tingle, and his heart immediately began to race even faster. His senses grew sharper, every root and speck of dirt in the tunnel appearing in crystal clarity, almost seeming to vibrate.
Rodrick came sliding down the tunnel, a dagger in each hand, and tumbled into Alaeron, bowling him over. The stopped halfway down the slope, having rolled sideways in the narrow space. Alaeron's head pointed downward, with Rodrick on top of him, one knife to Alaeron's throat, and the point of the other near his belly.
"I am faster and more agile than any mixer of potions, alchemist." Rodrick’s face, rendered in black and white and shades of gray by Alaeron's altered eyes, was sweaty and smeared with dirt. "You will give me the antidote, or I will slice open your belly and leave you for the linnorm—I'm sure the stink of your entrails will wake him just as well as the scent of frying bacon wakes me."
"I find your argument compelling," Alaeron said, trying hard not to talk as fast as he wanted to. His muscles thrummed with excess energy, like wires under tension. The potion he'd taken was a powerful stimulant, one he used to fuel days-long sessions in the lab, conducting his researches. "If you'll climb off me, and let me get my pack..."
Rodrick rolled aside but kept the knife near Alaeron's belly as the alchemist sat up. Alaeron felt in the pack and withdrew a small metal flask, one of the few potions he'd brewed that would work on people other than himself. "Here you are."
"Ha." Rodrick wiggled the dagger, making Alaeron wince. "Drink from it yourself first."
"The problem among modern adventurers," he said, "is a lamentable lack of trust." He took a swig from the potion.
"Now give me your pack," Rodrick said, "so you can't drink another antidote, hmm?"
"No trust at all." Alaeron slipped out of his pack and handed it over.
Rodrick shoved the pack up the tunnel behind him, then plucked the flask from Alaeron's hand. He took a drink. "Huh. This tastes like..."
"Lavender, mainly," Alaeron said. "Which doesn't taste as good as it smells."
Rodrick yawned, then looked alarmed. "What? What have you..." His eyes drooped, and he slumped over, cheek pressed against the dirt of the tunnel floor, knives falling from his hands.
The sleeping potion would keep him deeply unconscious for a couple of hours, at least. Alaeron's sip of the potion had acted to counteract the powerful stimulant he'd ingested earlier, with the result that he was now just a little bit sleepy, instead of dead to the world.
He listened hard, but heard no sound of stirring from the linnorm's chamber. Alaeron searched Rodrick—the man had an astonishing quantity of knives hidden about his person—and helped himself to all the smaller weapons, as well as Rodrick’s coin purse, adding them to his own pack.
He considered how nasty he wanted to be. He could cut the man's throat—but Alaeron had never killed a man in cold blood before, and didn't savor the prospect. A time-delay bomb placed near the linnorm's chamber would give Alaeron time to get away, and serve to wake the beast, which was another way to take care of Rodrick—but that was still murder, just more indirectly, and the linnorm would certainly rise from the earth, lay waste to the countryside, and so on. Better to let sleeping wyrms lie.
That went for Rodrick, too. The thief didn't even know Alaeron's name, and had only seen his face in flickering torchlight. The odds were good they would never meet again, and the alchemist could take steps to improve those odds.
Alaeron settled for stealing Rodrick's boots, tying the man's ankles and wrists with the laces, and climbing back out of the tunnel as silently as possible. In the upper chamber, he collected the jewels and gold the linnorm had left behind. There was enough to buy him another night at the retreat, and give him another opportunity to steal a sample of the waters... but Rodrick would wake up eventually, and Alaeron would be better off leaving the vicinity before then.
He considered Uncle Brant's armor, but the prospect of taking it off the skeleton and then dragging it out of the tomb was both unpleasant and daunting, as sleepy as Alaeron was. He doused the torches and took the lantern with him, down the branching corridors, up toward the surface world's light. When he came upon the dead huldra, he cut a bit of her hair, and took a few scrapings of the bark from her hollow interior, for later study—the remains of the fey were hard to come by, and could be powerful reagents. He did his best not to get any of Simeon on his shoe when he passed into the entry chamber.
Best to let sleeping linnorms lie.
Alaeron emerged, blinking, into the late afternoon light. It was nearly dusk. He shouldered the door to the barrow closed, and though it didn't magically seal, it would, at least, keep passers-by from wandering in. He paused beside a nearby tree, chipped some of the bark away to reveal white wood, and carved the words "Beware the linnorm." There. That was the best he could do. Not that most graverobbers were terribly literate.
He stole Simeon and Rodrick's saddlebags and slapped the horses to send them running away, though he left a waterskin for Rodrick at the base of a tree—he wasn't a monster, and the gesture might mollify the thief's rage. Alaeron saddled his own horse and made his way south through the hills, heading in the general direction of Almas.
As night fell, he saw a campfire, and took a chance on introducing himself. The men around the fire greeted him warmly enough when he offered to share the fruit and dried meat he'd taken from the stolen saddlebags.
They were a motley lot of adventurers, a grizzled bearded veteran, a boy barely old enough to shave, a pale girl with tattooed cheeks reading by firelight, and a surly half-orc lurking off in the trees by himself. "Where are you bound?" Alaeron asked.
"The boy and I are going north," the old veteran said. "To the land of the linnorm kings. My old homeland."
"We're going to slay a linnorm," the boy said brightly. "Snowbeard says all you have to do to become a king there is carry the head of a linnorm through the gates of a village. His brother's a king, he stole the head of the monster Snowbeard killed when they were young, and—"
"He doesn't need to know our history," Snowbeard snapped.
Oh, my, Alaeron thought. He generally gave the gods little thought, but this certainly seemed like some deity's idea of a good jest. Alaeron considered telling Snowbeard there was a linnorm rather closer. But the practical difficulties of transporting the head of a dead monster all those leagues to the land of snow and ice would be hellish. Why, the stink alone, as the head began to rot... Better to let them make their own way.
"I'm thinking of going north myself," Alaeron said. "Farther east, though, to Numeria. I hear there are amazing relics just scattered all over the ground up there, amid the wreckage of some ancient cataclysm." He would have to go home first for provisions, but he'd been pondering a trip to Numeria's capital, Starfall, for a while, and it was even more tempting now. The Black Sovereign's realm was an unlikely destination... which meant even if Rodrick woke with a taste for vengeance, he wouldn't look for Alaeron there.
The tattooed woman closed her book and looked up for the first time. "Numeria? I am bound in that direction as well, though my destination is the Worldwound. We will likely travel the same route. Would you care to journey together?"
Alaeron hesitated. She was comely under those tattoos, and clearly quite intelligent, but... "I think, for now, I would prefer to pursue my quest with no company other than my own. I fear I am a... poor adventuring companion."
The woman shrugged and went back to her book.
Alaeron leaned back against a fallen log and looked up, watching the smoke from the fire drift up toward the stars, thinking of monsters, and holes in the earth, and the open sky.
Coming Next Week: A glimpse into the life of an elite Nidalese spellcaster and Cheliax’s pogroms against the strix in a sample chapter of Nightglass, Liane Merciel’s new Pathfinder Tales novel!
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter Three: Coils in the Dark
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter Three: Coils in the DarkRodrick struck off the dead girl's head with his sword, the blade clanging against the stone floor as it severed her neck cleanly. Her head rolled until the hilt of the dagger hit the floor and arrested its motion. Alaeron choked back a scream. Had the scoundrel gone mad? ... Rodrick turned the dead girl's torso over with his foot, flopping her over on her belly and revealing her back— ... —which was...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Three: Coils in the Dark
Rodrick struck off the dead girl's head with his sword, the blade clanging against the stone floor as it severed her neck cleanly. Her head rolled until the hilt of the dagger hit the floor and arrested its motion. Alaeron choked back a scream. Had the scoundrel gone mad?
Rodrick turned the dead girl's torso over with his foot, flopping her over on her belly and revealing her back—
—which was nothing but a hollow shell lined with wood, like the interior of a rotten tree or a walnut shell. She was an emptiness.
"Some kind of monster," Rodrick said. With the tip of his sword, he prodded at a lump in the back of the girl’s skirt, lifting its hem just far enough to reveal a tail like a fox’s. "Guarding the barrow, I'm sure. I knew there was something unnatural about her right away—I liked her, and wanted to protect her, and didn't think at all about how valuable she would be to certain slave traders of my acquaintance. I knew she must be bewitching me somehow." He glanced at Alaeron. "I'm too good at being charming to be easily charmed myself."
Rodrick, charming? Ha. "I've heard of creatures like this," Alaeron said. "She's fey. Huldra, I think they're called, or hilders—but they are creatures of the far north. She may not have been a guardian of this tomb, you know. She could have been a prisoner, her spirit bound to some cursed or magical object in the barrow—"
"Monster," Rodrick said. "Now a dead monster. Why are we still talking about her?"
"I just prefer not to kill, without provocation, creatures who are capable of holding a conversation with me," Alaeron said. "She may have been charming us because she needed help, and wanted us to save her—"
"I suppose that's why you didn't kill her, and I did. Let's go. There must be loot here somewhere."
"But why would a huldra be here at all?" Alaeron muttered. "They're from the north, the lands of the Mammoth Lords, or the White Witches, or the—"
"Linnorm Kings," Rodrick said, bending to retrieve his dagger from the huldra's eye. "Yes, Simeon said something about that. Apparently when Brant was a boy, raiders from the Land of the Linnorm Kings laid waste to his little fishing village. Brant survived, nursed vengeance in his heart, and so forth. When he was grown, he led an expedition to raid the raiders. You have to admire the old boy's confidence, don't you? Apparently they ended up exploring some ruin called the Spire of Snow or the Frostbite Citadel or something similar, slaying a dragon inside—"
Rodrick rolled his eyes. "Fine, they slew the linnorm, though it killed or cursed everyone else in the party, and Brant alone escaped unscathed. He came back with all manner of valuables, not just the gold and jewels that made the family fortune but rarer things: a sword with a blade of ice, a bell that summons blizzards, a petrified linnorm egg, a magical ring that lets you conjure a mystical twin to do your bidding, and other wonders. That's what old Brant took to the grave with him, along with a hoard of gold and jewels, or so the story goes. If even half of it's true, I'll be a very wealthy man."
"We will be, you mean."
"Of course." Rodrick didn't even bother trying to sound sincere.
"That explains the huldra, at least. She must have been bound here, or enslaved to serve Brant even in death, or—"
Uncle Brant hasn't aged so well.
"Dead monsters bore me," Rodrick said. "Live ones are more interesting. Let's see if we can find some."
They proceeded into the depths of the barrow, following the twisting corridors, and investigating a couple of dead-ends that terminated abruptly in deep pits. Even along what seemed to be the proper route there were traps, more ingenious than the spiked log, but Rodrick proved adept at spotting them. They encountered a shelf bearing stone skulls that spat acid, an ordinary-looking room that Rodrick said would have flensed them alive if he hadn't discovered and pressed some hidden buttons to deactivate the concealed blades in the walls, and a door that sprouted dozens of bone spears when Rodrick prodded the wood with his sword. Nothing Alaeron couldn't have coped with himself, of course, but it was nice to have a strapping thief to handle the stray acid droplets instead.
"We make a fine team," Alaeron said, after Rodrick set off a bear trap with a tossed stone.
"You've done exactly nothing except open a door," Rodrick said. "In that respect, you're no worse a partner than Simeon was, I suppose." He slipped into another chamber, and whistled.
Alaeron joined him in the next room, and in the lantern's pool of light saw part of a massive stone throne, occupied by a skeleton dressed in elaborate black armor. They'd reached the main burial chamber, then, and after only a few hours—these modern tombs were so much more manageable than the vast crypts of the ancients.
"There are torches on the walls." Rodrick lit a taper from his lantern and carried it through the dark, igniting two torches and filling the room with flickering light.
The throne stood in the center of the room, and behind it were stone shelves and platforms holding... well, the wreckage of smashed treasure chests, mostly. Bits of shattered wood and twisted metal. A scattering of coins and precious gems remained, probably enough to buy a small house in Almas, but not the riches they'd expected. Alaeron wondered what sort of remarkable valuables the room had originally contained, if the original looters hadn't bothered to stoop to pick up these gold coins and jewels.
"Someone got here first!" Rodrick said. "But how? None of the traps were sprung, the doors were unbreached, I don't see how—"
Alaeron squinted at the shadows at the far end of the room, then picked up the lantern and advanced. "Look at the wall," he said, holding the lamp aloft.
He and Rodrick stared together at the great hole that had been smashed through the wall, a ragged circle easily ten feet to a side. Alaeron pushed the lantern through the hole, revealing a tunnel of packed dirt that angled down and away.
"Graverobbers digging a tunnel to break in, perhaps?" Rodrick said.
"Or it might be the work of interlopers from the Darklands," Alaeron said.
Rodrick chewed his lip. "We should investigate. If there's any chance of finding the treasure... But to take a light into those tunnels could be dangerous. If there are subterranean monsters down there, light would be a beacon to them."
"I have a potion that lets me see in the dark," Alaeron said. "It's rather more expensive than a torch, which is why I didn't use it before—"
"Excellent. We'll both drink it."
"I could go down on my own," Alaeron began, but Rodrick cut him off.
"Ha. And find the treasure and a convenient path to the surface? No. Let's take the potion together."
Alaeron shrugged, took a vial from his pack, drank down half of it—it tasted of carrots, mainly—and then handed it to Rodrick. The extract would have no effect on the thief, since like most alchemists' preparations it only worked for the creator, but he'd let Rodrick figure that out on his own. The thief drank, made a face, and handed back the vial.
"In we go," Alaeron said, and slipped into the tunnel.
"I'm not sure it's working," Rodrick said doubtfully behind him, but Alaeron shushed him. His own vision had already altered, allowing him to see the tunnel clearly, albeit in black-and-white. Roots poked down through the top of the tunnel, and an earthworm dropped from the ceiling before Alaeron's face and wriggled away.
The passage was angled steeply downward, and crumbling—it seemed more like an animal's burrow than a tunnel hewn by human hands. Alaeron had terrible visions of being buried in tons of dirt as he slid forward, going as silently as possible, trying not to lose his footing and roll down. The tunnel ended abruptly, in a huge cavern—occupied by something almost equally huge.
A great serpentine body filled almost the entirety of the space, its coils moving slowly in steady breath. Far above, Alaeron thought he could discern a head, its huge eyes closed in sleep. The chamber was filled with gold and gems and other things, most of them nestled under the great beast's body or its huge forelegs, each digit tipped with a claw like a greatsword.
After a long moment of staring, not even daring to breathe, Alaeron turned and scrambled back up the tunnel, pushing past Rodrick and clambering back into the burial chamber, where he knelt, gasping and trembling.
Rodrick arrived after him. "Your stupid potion never worked for me. What's wrong with you? What did you see down there?"
"Did you say one of the treasures Uncle Brant brought back was a petrified linnorm egg?" Alaeron said.
"So Simeon told me."
Alaeron lifted his head and looked into the rogue's eyes. "The egg hatched."
Rodrick blinked. "You're lying. You're trying to trick me—"
"Didn't you smell it?" Alaeron said. "The stink of a vast beast?"
"I thought that was you," Rodrick said, and gave a weak smile. Alaeron laughed despite himself. The thief sat down on one of the shelves of stone. "Well, then. Where do we go from here?"
"Out, and swiftly," Alaeron said.
"You corrected me earlier, when I called a linnorm a dragon," Rodrick said. "That suggests you know something about the beasts—more than I do, anyway."
"Just what I've read in books. I've never been farther north than the south shore of Lake Encarthan."
"Books about linnorms were presumably written by people who survived encounters with them," Rodrick said reasonably. "What did they have to say?"
Alaeron sighed. "They're huge, of course. Eighty, a hundred feet long? I think it depends on the variety, and no, I don't remember the different types, or have any idea which kind our linnorm is. It doesn't matter. A battleaxe can kill you just as well as a mace. The beasts are intelligent, but generally cruel—gluttonous, greedy, lovers of treasure, obviously, since it took everything from in here into its hole. The thing must have cleaned out this chamber when it was smaller. Made itself a nest, then grew." Alaeron shook his head. "I do remember reading that they can hibernate for centuries, for so long that people living nearby forget they're even there, until the linnorm bursts forth to devour everything in the surrounding landscape. For now, we’re lucky, and this one appears to be sleeping."
"I imagine news of this beast would drive down the price of property hereabouts," Rodrick said thoughtfully. "What sort of treasures did you see in its chamber?"
"I hardly took a complete inventory," Alaeron said. "I saw a sword hilt protruding from beneath its belly. Some sort of black cask, big as a sea chest, under one of its claws. Gold, jewels, ingots of precious metal, bits of statuary... I couldn't say more specifically. I was too busy trying to control my bowels."
Rodrick stroked his chin. "How deeply is it sleeping, do you think?"
Alaeron stared at him. "You can't possibly mean to go back down there and try to steal from the monster?"
"Of course not," Rodrick said. "I can't even see in the dark." He drew his sword and smiled, showing all his teeth. "I want you to go down there and steal from the monster for me."
Coming Next Week: Pilfering a linnorm's hoard in the final chapter of Tim Pratt's "A Tomb of Winter’s Plunder."
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter Two: A Damsel with the Dead
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter Two: A Damsel with the DeadAlaeron had been prepared for a violent reaction, and so when Rodrick drew his sword, he tossed back a vial of extract—the one he'd planned to use to help him creep through the barrow undetected. Rodrick was fast, and Alaeron's preparation might have been useless if the man hadn't been standing in the ruin of his dead friend, which necessitated careful footing rather than a headlong charge. ... Alaeron...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Two: A Damsel with the Dead
Alaeron had been prepared for a violent reaction, and so when Rodrick drew his sword, he tossed back a vial of extract—the one he'd planned to use to help him creep through the barrow undetected. Rodrick was fast, and Alaeron's preparation might have been useless if the man hadn't been standing in the ruin of his dead friend, which necessitated careful footing rather than a headlong charge.
Alaeron shivered as the extract—which tasted strongly of wormwood—took effect. The only change from Alaeron's viewpoint was a certain fuzziness around his peripheral vision, but Rodrick paused, frowning, and Alaeron moved as silently as he could to the far side of the entry chamber.
"Invisibility," Alaeron said, and Rodrick snapped his head around, looking straight at the spot where Alaeron had spoken... which was why the alchemist never stopped moving, creeping back and forth as he talked. "I find it makes conversations with armed men more pleasant. I am not here to fight you. I was in the forest gathering botanical samples—I'm an alchemist, not a wizard, if you were wondering—when I noticed the barrow had been disturbed. I investigated, and heard your friend trigger the trap there."
Rodrick knelt and snuffed out the lantern, plunging the room into darkness, except for faint illumination around the door.
Alaeron moved toward the door, hoping Rodrick would hesitate to approach the light. "Ah, making yourself just as invisible as I am. That's good. I can tell already you'll be a great ally." He listened, but heard nothing, not the faintest scrape of leather on stone or the clink of shifting chainmail. "I gather from the blood on the barrow door that there was some magical ward your friend's blood was able to overcome?" Only more silence. "And that, with his death, you feel you cannot continue, as you have discovered another warded door? I only came in, you see, because I know how you can open that door—"
Something cold touched Alaeron's cheek, but he had the strength of will not to flinch. "Is that a dagger blade?" he said, moving his lips as little as possible when he spoke.
"It is," Rodrick breathed in his ear. "Tell me how you can open the door."
"If your friend's blood is the key... at the risk of being indelicate, he still has lots of blood, now more accessible than ever. It would be trivial to gather some and use it to loosen the wards."
The knife moved slightly, the flat of the blade against his cheek gradually becoming the stinging edge. "Of course I still have his blood," Rodrick said. "But I don't have his knowledge. Only Simeon knew which runes should be daubed with blood—and marking the wrong one could set off some horrible trap. But perhaps I can profit from this trip anyway. I'm sure some of your potions are valuable."
Most of Alaeron's potions would have no effect on anyone but himself, being fuelled by his own aura, and the few that could be used by others didn't have beneficial effects, but Alaeron didn't point that out. "Ah, well, of course," he said. "But I can read the runes, so I know where to put the blood."
After a long moment, Rodrick chuckled, and the knife withdrew. While Alaeron tried to decide whether or not he could move, the light of the lantern flared anew. "Prove it," Rodrick said, crouching by the inner door, sword sheathed, dagger in hand.
"We should formalize our arrangement," Alaeron said. "I will accompany you into the barrow, lending my considerable skills to your enterprise, and we will divide any relics or treasures we find equally."
Rodrick's ethics leave something to be desired.
"That's fine, if you can actually get us in."
"Move away from the door." Alaeron knelt and dabbed his handkerchief into a bit of Simeon's readily available blood. Rodrick narrowed his eyes. Seeing a bloody bit of rag floating through the air, moved by an invisible hand, was probably unsettling. "Bring the light closer," Alaeron said, and Rodrick held up the lantern while the alchemist squinted at the markings on the door. They were far less weathered on the interior barrier, which made them much easier to read.
Not that Alaeron could read them, really. The language seemed Northern, but the Mammoth Lords and Linnorm Kings didn't produce much written work, so Alaeron had never learned their writing. But he'd seen the runes Simeon daubed with blood outside, and now he saw the same pattern here, on a different part of the door, so he thought it was worth a try. It was strange to find Northern runes here, so close to the Inner Sea, and focusing on that anomaly was a nice alternative to thinking about how he might soon be pulped or fried by a magical trap.
But the door swung open at the touch of the blood, and Alaeron stepped back, keeping an eye on Rodrick in case the man decided to take a stab at Alaeron's invisible kidneys. "There. Do we have an agreement?"
"All right," Rodrick said. "But only because there may be more runes inside that need reading. I get first pick of the loot. You get my cast-offs."
"I woke up this morning expecting no profit beyond a few herbs," Alaeron said. "The prospect of any treasure at all is delightful to me." He was confident that he could manipulate Rodrick into taking shiny but less valuable items. Alaeron filled a vial with more of Simeon's blood, just in case there were further wards inside.
"In we go, invisible man." Rodrick stepped through the opening, lantern in hand. Alaeron followed, keeping an eye out for traps. The corridor, just wide enough for two men to go abreast, was angled steeply downward, suggesting that much of the barrow was dug into the ground, or built into natural caverns. There were faintly glowing lights ahead—luminous crystals or fungi, of the kind cultivated by builders of subterranean lairs. "You don't seem terribly upset by the death or your friend," Alaeron said.
"What? Oh, Simeon. I see. You're under the impression that I'm a rich idiot, like he was."
That was quite true. The fact that Rodrick knew that much was worrisome. Rich idiots were generally so used to being treated like brilliant paragons that they never doubted themselves, or expected anyone else to doubt them, either.
"I'm not a rich idiot," Rodrick said. "I'm an impoverished genius. I've been posing as a wealthy brat, and cultivating Simeon's friendship for weeks. I knew he was wealthy and had poor judgment, which meant some opportunity for profit would present itself. When he told me about the barrow of his avaricious uncle Brant, crammed with all the pillage Brant was too greedy to pass on, I knew that was my target. I convinced Simeon's parents to send him to the retreat—he was always sickly. The waters may even have done him some good, so at least he died in good health. But I wanted him at the retreat because it's so close to the barrow. "
Alaeron recalled that he wasn't supposed to know anything about these men, and tried to ask an appropriate question. "But if Simeon was wealthy, why would he agree to go graverobbing with you?"
"Oh, I lured him into a crooked card game at the tavern in the village south of the retreat, run by a man I know called the Ratter. Simon went deeply into debt, and his father's rather strict, and wouldn't have approved. I presented this as a convenient way of paying what he owed. I didn't expect him to die. I was going to play it straight. Why not? Ratter had agreed to split half of Simon's payment with me. But now that the poor boy is dead... at least I'll get a good price for his horse."
"You, sir, are a scoundrel," Alaeron said.
"There's no sort better to raid a tomb with," Rodrick said.
The corridor turned sharply, and something deeper in the tunnel whimpered. Rodrick put down the lantern, raised his dagger, and darted around the corner, Alaeron close behind him.
In a small alcove in the wall stood a petite young woman dressed in a blue-and-white checked dress, her blonde hair disarrayed, her face beautiful and smudged with tears, her eyes blue and wide.
"Have you come to save me?" she said. "I've been trapped here for so long!"
Rodrick lowered his dagger. "Of course," he said. "How did you come to be in this terrible place?"
"I can't remember." She shook her head, eyes spilling tears. "I was alone in the dark, I was so frightened..." She broke down in sobs.
"Would you like to escort her outside?" Alaeron said.
Rodrick snorted. "And leave you creeping through here on your own? I think not. We'll both take her."
"Please don't fight," she pleaded. She looked at Alaeron. "I only wish to be free of this dark and terrible place."
"Oh, am I visible again?" Alaeron said.
"As of a few moments ago," Rodrick said. "I assumed you knew."
"Yes, of course, I was just... distracted." Alaeron frowned. Something was... wrong. How had this woman gotten sealed inside the barrow? Had it been looted before, and then used as a headquarters by bandits with a penchant for kidnapping milkmaids? And why didn't any of those questions seem more urgent?
"I will lead," Rodrick said. "You, my dear, can follow me, and the alchemist will bring up the rear—"
"Oh, no, I'll go last. I don't wish to be in the way if there are dangers." She eased out of the alcove, sliding along the corridor with her back to the wall.
"Duck, alchemist." Rodrick said it casually. Alaeron acted without hesitation, dropping to the stone floor. Rodrick let fly with his dagger and put a hand on his sword. Alaeron scrambled to one side and turned to see the beautiful blonde crumpled on the floor of the corridor. She'd sprouted a dagger from her left eye socket.
"You killed her!" Alaeron shouted.
Roderick drew his sword. "Yes, of course I did. That was rather the point."
Coming Next Week: Frank discussions on the finer points of tomb raiding etiquette in Chapter Three of Tim Pratt's "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder."
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter One: Taking the Waters
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter One: Taking the WatersAlaeron sat, naked, on a natural stone bench in the sacred pool, the chest-deep water just a bit warmer than his own blood. He leaned into a fortuitous hollow in the rock, closed his eyes—hardly necessary, considering the depth of darkness in the cave—and let the healing waters soothe him. Or tried to. He'd paid enough to be soothed, at the very least. ... The Balneal Springs retreat, nestled in the northern hills of...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter One: Taking the Waters
Alaeron sat, naked, on a natural stone bench in the sacred pool, the chest-deep water just a bit warmer than his own blood. He leaned into a fortuitous hollow in the rock, closed his eyes—hardly necessary, considering the depth of darkness in the cave—and let the healing waters soothe him. Or tried to. He'd paid enough to be soothed, at the very least.
The Balneal Springs retreat, nestled in the northern hills of Andoran east of Darkmoon Vale, was home to legendary waters that reportedly cured arthritis, muscle atrophy, toothache, heavy metal poisoning, and spiritual malaise. Alaeron suffered from none of those ailments, which might have explained why he didn't feel particularly cured now. He was young, in good condition (being unusually physically active for an alchemist), blessed with fine teeth, always careful when handling quicksilver and other toxic materials, and possessed with a combination of curiosity and impulsiveness that insured he would never be bored. Despite his rosy health, he'd come to Balneal to take the waters anyway.
And by "take the waters," he meant take the waters. He'd gathered samples from all the other springs on the property already, many of the pools hellishly hot and stinking of rotten eggs (from sulfur, not magic, as some more ignorant folk supposed). The volcanic activity to the north presented itself in a somewhat gentler aspect here, with bubbling hot springs that were locally renowned, if not as famous as the Brimstone Springs of Nidal.
The final waters he needed to sample were here in, Hanspur's Bath—a sacred spring-fed pool deep in a black cave where the foreign river deity was reputed to have paused once, on a journey to the sea. Alaeron's visit to the retreat, and access to this cave, had cost a tidy sum of gold he'd earned translating a profane text for a deranged patron. The profiteering priests who ran the retreat guarded their secrets closely, but despite the enforced nudity in this sacred chamber, Alaeron had smuggled in a bag made of thin watertight material, wadded up and hidden in his cheek. Unfolded and filled, the bag would hold a few precious ounces of liquid. Once full it would be too large to smuggle out the same way, but he had a plan to stash the bag in a dark crevice by the entryway and return later to create a distraction—explosions were quite distracting, he'd found—which would enable him to duck inside the cave mouth and retrieve the bag.
The plan was a bit elaborate, and more than a little dangerous, but what matter was the risk of life and limb in the service of his art? If the waters really were as efficacious as the priests and satisfied customers claimed, their properties should prove useful in his work, and could be diluted to create a score of potions to cure—or cause—an impressive variety of ailments physical and spiritual.
He took the bag from his mouth and prepared to fill it—then froze when he heard a splash on the far side of the pool. He had not been promised a private visit to the healing waters (that option was far too expensive for him), but he'd deliberately come early in the morning, when most of the wealthy visitors to Balneal would be sleeping or gorging themselves at breakfast.
Alaeron wasn't sure whether he should speak, as the etiquette of sitting in a black pool of magical water was not something he'd ever had occasion to learn. Before he could decide, the newcomers began talking.
"It would be an adventure," a voice—male, hearty, and self-confident—said. "The sort of bold act that made the Selmy family great."
"I'm not sure breaking into my dead thrice-great-grand-uncle's crypt compares to traveling to far lands for pillage and war," a second voice said—also male, but rather less hearty and confident.
"Oh, come, your whole family is founded on ancestral fortunes anyway. Raiding your uncle's tomb would be much the same, just... more direct."
"The treasures are supposed to be fabulous," the second voice—presumably a Selmy—said. "But I can't imagine they'd be easy to carry out. Uncle Brant had all his favorite things buried with him. He left us his money, at least some of it, but he was particular about his things, by all accounts. I'm sure there must be protections against graverobbers. Traps, and so forth. I'd rather not die on this trip, Rodrick. I'm here for my health, after all."
Alaeron is more scholar than warrior, but explosives have a funny way of solving problems.
"Nonsense, Simeon," Rodrick replied. "We know about the wards he laid to protect his barrow—only the blood of a Selmy can open the door, isn't that right? The fact that he made it possible for you to open the door suggests he wanted some descendant to come take his treasures away someday, doesn't it?"
"More likely he just wanted someone capable of setting him free if he was accidentally entombed alive," Simeon said. "Or perhaps to return occasionally and leave treasure, or shoo away spiders, or do a bit of light cleaning." A long pause. "My great-grandfather remembered Uncle Brant, from when he was a child and Brant was ancient. He said Brant was the sort of man who'd steal the coins from a beggar's bowl, even though he was rich as Artokus of Thuvia. Brant couldn't remember the names of his own grandchildren, but he had particular favorites among his coins."
"Then it's time someone took a few of those coins off him. No sense letting such precious things go to waste in a hole in the ground. The treasures he looted were precious antiquities when he stole them, two hundred years ago. Imagine what they're worth now!" Rodrick paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was very low, barely audible above the gentle lapping of water. "Or you could ask your father for the money to pay the Ratter the money you owe—"
"Oh, yes, that would go over well," Simeon said dolefully. "You know about mother's gambling problem. If father found out I'd lost that much at Towers, after he'd already spent all this money sending me here to recuperate... Is there no other way? You couldn't loan me the money? You know I'm good for it."
"Alas, I lost my own allowance gambling—though I paid off my outstanding balance, so the Ratter doesn't want to take me in his jaws—and mother won't send another purse for a month. No, it's the barrow, Simeon, unless you'd like to try your luck at busking in the streets for coins?"
"You know someone who would buy the things we found?" Simeon said.
"Oh, yes, indeed. There's a man I know in Almas who pays buckets of gold for relics."
"We could at least look," Simeon said. "The barrow isn't far, less than a day's travel. We could nip inside, and if there don't seem to be any dangers, carry a few things away. I daresay Uncle Brant can rest just as easily less a vase or statuette or two."
"An adventure!" Rodrick said. "Though personally I hope we encounter a ghoul or two. I'd hate to think I sharpened my sword for nothing."
They sat in silence for a while longer, taking in the waters and discussing their plans for departure and the best route, then left to walk down the dark and twisting tunnel back to the light.
Alaeron let his little bag float away. Ah, well. The sacred waters weren't going anywhere. He could steal a dram of those another time. But a barrow full of ancient relics, that could be opened only by the blood of the dead inhabitant's relatives? That was the sort of opportunity that wasn't likely to come his way again.
∗∗∗
Alaeron wasn't much of a tracker—his natural habitat was the laboratory, the workshop, and the library, though he was surprisingly comfortable crawling into dark holes in the ground in search of treasure, both because he was fascinated by history and because a man had to fund his researches somehow. Fortunately, Simeon and Rodrick had said where they were going. Alaeron packed his bags and left his room, which was smaller than his sleeping quarters in Almas and cost as much for three nights as his entire workshop was worth. Only the very rich would consider it reasonable to pay so much for quarters so incredibly spare, presumably because austerity (and magical waters) were good for the soul—but only in moderation.
He walked along the crushed gravel paths, among the ancient weathered statues and small ornamental gardens, to the outer courtyard. The retreat was protected by high stone walls, because while they weren't too close to Darkmoon Vale, incursions from the dark forest weren't impossible.
One of the servants who bustled everywhere at the retreat brought him his horse, brushed and saddled and well fed, and helped Alaeron mount. He needed the help. He'd never been comfortable on horses, and would have hired a carriage (or at least a cart), but wheeled conveyances couldn't make it up the steep paths to the retreat. Alaeron cajoled the horse, a black pony he'd spent far too much money on, to amble northeast, through the lightly wooded foothills. This general area was fairly safe—the guards at the retreat kept the woods free of bandits and monsters, as rich people being eaten was bad for business. The barrow of Brant Selmy was half a day's ride away, at most, and Alaeron followed old colliers' paths through the forest, munching on dried meat and pausing occasionally to let the horse rest, though the pace was hardly punishing.
He didn't want to overtake Simeon and Rodrick. Better for them to arrive first, open the barrow, and delve deep inside. Alaeron was confident that, in the dark, with his experience and the advantage of his extracts and mutagens, he could move past the rich brats, snatch up some choice loot, and escape again unnoticed.
The barrow was unmistakable, an immense mound of earth and rock furred with moss and topped by gnarled, scraggly trees. Rodrick and Simeon had made some token attempt to hide their presence, tying up their horses in a copse some distance away, but this was a little-traveled part of the forest, and they hadn't worried overmuch about being discovered. Alaeron tied his own horse farther away and crept toward one side of the barrow. He hadn't expected this level of pillage when he'd set out for Balneal, and so hadn't packed his full adventuring packs, but he had enough in the way of reagents and elixirs and weapons to manage a brief delve into a crypt.
The door of the barrow was an immense oval stone, scratched a bit from past unsuccessful attempts by graverobbers to pry it open. The door was etched with runes that were faded and worn but still legible, though a few were smeared with what looked like fresh blood, and the stone was tilted to one side, revealing an opening just large enough for a man to slip through sideways. Alaeron crouched when he heard familiar voices inside.
"It's dark in here," Simeon complained.
"That's why we brought the lantern, isn't it?" Rodrick answered cheerfully.
Despite Alaeron's leisurely pace, the rich fools had only just arrived themselves. He was in awe at their slowness. Had they stopped to have a picnic lunch on the way? He decided to wait for them to make it a bit deeper into the barrow, then—
"Watch out!" Rodrick shouted. There was a peculiar sound—the twang of a taut wire snapping, if Alaeron was any judge—and then a horrific, meaty thunk, like a butcher bringing the weight of the cleaver down to crack open a cow's skull.
Rodrick swore, which meant he was still alive. Simeon didn't scream, which meant... something else. They'd triggered a trap. Apparently Uncle Brant wasn't so keen on having his descendants visit after all, or else Simeon hadn't been given the list of dangers to avoid.
"Simeon, you fool," Rodrick said. "Why didn't you look where you were—hold on. Damn it!"
Alaeron tensed, expecting the sound of another sprung trap—which would, at least, leave the barrow free for him to explore—but instead Rodrick just let loose a torrent of cursing. Alaeron slipped inside, hoping Rodrick would be too focused on his misery to notice the intrusion.
The light of Rodrick's lantern, set on a shelf of rock, revealed the barrow's interior to be typical of its kind: walls of timber and earth and stone, faintly rounded roof too low for comfort. A second door stood across the small room, directly opposite the exterior door, and that's where Simeon had met his fate: a length of timber as thick around as a man's waist, studded with stone spikes, had been hidden in a slot on the ceiling, doubtless connected to some tripwire in front of that interior door. Simeon's approach had set off the trap, dropping the log onto himself, and the result was a bit like what happened if you hit a tomato with a hammer. Alaeron realized that he'd never seen the boy in one piece, having only eavesdropped on him in the dark and from concealment.
Rodrick was standing over—or, rather, in—his dead friend, peering at the interior door. The surviving man was dressed in clothes too fine for dungeoneering, though he'd put on a mail shirt, and had a sword at his hip. His boots looked sturdy, at least. Alaeron couldn't see his face from here, but his shoulders were dismayingly wide, and in general he had the kind of muscular and well-proportioned physique the old poets called "thews."
"More runes," Rodrick muttered. "You died for nothing, Simeon—I can't even get in."
Well. There was no sneaking past him and snatching up a few treasures unawares now. Alaeron considered slinking away, but there was a barrow full of relics, with nothing between him and the treasures but a stone etched with magical writing, and he couldn't quite bring himself to leave.
He cleared his throat instead. "Excuse me," he said. "I couldn't help overhearing your problem. I think I can get the door open for you."
Rodrick rounded on him, sword in his hand before Alaeron even saw him start to draw, and roared.
Coming Next Week: Comrades of convenience in Chapter Two of Tim Pratt’s “A Tomb of Winter’s Plunder.”
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
... Mother Bearsby Wendy N. Wagner ... Chapter Three: Fires by DayJendara followed Tam's light, feeling the cave's blackness like velvet pressing against her skin, her nostrils. She wanted to run outside before the cave smothered her. But she couldn't stop thinking of that horrible wail. It wasn't Kran—he could make a few sounds, but none so loud or carrying. She reminded herself of that fact again and again. ... It still made her skin crawl. ... Remember, Tam called over his shoulder....
Mother Bears
by Wendy N. Wagner
Chapter Three: Fires by Day
Jendara followed Tam's light, feeling the cave's blackness like velvet pressing against her skin, her nostrils. She wanted to run outside before the cave smothered her. But she couldn't stop thinking of that horrible wail. It wasn't Kran—he could make a few sounds, but none so loud or carrying. She reminded herself of that fact again and again.
It still made her skin crawl.
"Remember," Tam called over his shoulder. "Keep an eye on the person ahead of you. The floor of these places isn't always—"
His voice cut off in a scream and his light disappeared.
Jendara darted forward. "Tam!"
"Jendara, stop!" Vorrin shouted.
She froze. By the glow of her lantern, she could see the sudden drop Tam hadn't. The tunnel opened into great mouthing darkness that her lantern barely began to light. "Are you all right?"
"My arm's caught." Tam grunted. "Caught bad."
Vorrin knelt beside her. "I can wrap a rope around this bit of stalagmite, lower you down. Be some work getting the two of you up again, but I can manage it."
Jendara held her lantern over the cliff’s edge, getting a glimpse of Tam's red hair about seven feet below her, just above the floor of what must be a vast cavern. The cliff broke up into long fingers of rock at the bottom, and he hung from the crotch of the two tallest. Jendara shook her head. "Damn, that's ugly. Let's do this fast before he loses an arm."
Somewhere in the darkness, the wail sounded again. Jendara felt gooseflesh prickle as she passed her length of rope to Vorrin.
"Make a good knot when you join those."
He brushed his fingers down her cheek. "The best."
She didn't watch him tie the two ropes together or wrap the rope around the rock, just moved her lantern out of the way and rubbed dirt into the palms of her hands. She didn't need any sweat to make climbing harder.
Vorrin wrapped the rope around her waist and tied it tight. She clambered over the cliff edge, and after only a moment's climbing could hear Tam's pained breathing below her. He was too much the islander to groan or whimper—the raw rasp of his inhalations was as bad as a scream. But there was no way to climb faster. No light, no ladder, just her fingers and toes searching out purchase on the cracked rocks.
Suddenly Jendara's palms went sweat-slick. Her fingers slipped off the narrow handhold, and for a sickening second she swung from the end of the rope, her face scraping the cavern wall.
"Jendara!" Vorrin yelled.
Then her foot found a hold, a rock spur of some kind. "I'm okay!"
And wished she'd been quiet as a frenzied barking sounded out in the darkness.
"Gods," Tam groaned. Jendara could see what he saw, a brightening in the distance like flickering torchlight. She thought of the goblin dog scat on the boat and climbed faster.
The bottom of the cliff came as a surprise. Now that she was down, Vorrin's hands were free to hoist the lantern, lighting up Tam and the rocky ground.
The goblin dog's snarl echoed off the walls of the great cavern. Jendara loosened the rope from her waist and stretched on tiptoe to work it around Tam's. His breathing was just tiny gasps now. Every ounce of his body hung from the pinned arm.
Jendara locked her arms around his thighs, grunting as she lifted him up out of the vise. A horrible squeak choked in his throat, and the big man went limp. "Damn it," she whispered. She could only hope he'd regain consciousness soon. She couldn't get him back up that cliff on her own.
Pressing herself against the rock that had gripped him, she pushed off again, getting a little higher. Tam coughed and wriggled. Suddenly all his weight was on Jendara and she staggered.
"Vorrin, he's free!"
"Islander, pirate—but most of all, mother."
The light disappeared, and after a second some of the weight came off Jendara.
Behind the rocks, the goblin dog shrieked. Jendara stiffened as she heard a sound she knew only too well, the dry scrape of air moving in a throat that had never spoken. Kran's strange laugh.
"Kran!"
She pushed Tam back against the cliff face, propping him against the wall. She could smell the blood seeping from his scraped and mangled shoulder. "Be right back, friend."
Then she was off. She wished for her own lantern, but guttering torchlight guided her forward, as did a cacophony of sounds: the hollow wailing, a clatter of stones, the hideous sounds of goblin speech.
A goblin dog lay twitching on the cave floor, the end of a very familiar pocketknife jutting out of its eye socket. Its rider had rolled free, and swung a torch around its swollen gray head to block the volley of rocks Kran lobbed at its face. One goblin, alone. Jendara grinned to herself and felt for her belt axe. She could handle one goblin scout and a dead dog.
The belt axe soared through the air. The wet thud of it sinking into the goblin's skull was like music.
Kran dropped his rocks and ran to the dead dog. He jerked his knife free and began to cut at the black pack on the dog's back, which wailed and wriggled. Jendara reclaimed her axe and jogged to his side.
It was no pack, she realized. The glossy black hide belonged to a bear cub, a cut seeping blood along its side. She held its paws as Kran struggled to cut the last of its ties. The white blaze on its nose triggered prickles on the back of her neck.
A grizzly rampaging last night. An island under attack this afternoon.
A goblin scout here right now.
"We've got to get out of here." She tucked the bear cub under her arm and grabbed Kran by the hand, racing for Tam and the only way she knew out of the cave.
"Vorrin! Hurry up!" she bellowed. She didn't wait for him to begin pulling. She slapped Kran on the butt and urged him up the cliff, scurrying behind him. One-handed, weighed down by the bear, she still made it up before Vorrin finished hauling Tam.
They worked together to half-drag Tam out of the tunnel and down to the beach. By the time they hit the sand, they could see the goblin torches flickering at the mouth of the cave, brighter than the faint orange of sunset over the sea.
"How did you know there were more?" Vorrin asked.
"The bear," Jendara grunted, shifting Tam's weight against herself. "The goblins must have scared it last night when they took to the caves. The attack on Black Bay Island was a distraction."
Oric jerked awake from his post on a washed-up log. "Wha—"
But Jendara cut him off. "Run back to your village. If there's trouble, let us know."
His eyes were huge as he nodded and dashed away.
Jendara could already smell smoke. Her stomach sank as they rounded the headland. Flames stained the sky. Oric stood frozen, staring at his burning village.
Behind them, goblin riders whooped and cheered.
Jendara passed her son the injured bear cub. "Kran, run to the Milady and arm yourself. Help the crew protect the docks. And take Oric!"
The boy looked pale, but did as he was told. Jendara smiled up at Tam. "I sure hope you can fight left-handed."
He gave a weak laugh and took up a fighting stance. Jendara felt heat course through her veins, the ice that gripped her all day melting away. She rubbed the tattoos on the backs of her hands and chuckled to herself.
"Little bastards don't know what they're in for."
∗∗∗
Jendara stood beside the mound of goblin dead and waited for Vorrin to pass her the torch. Her arms ached with exhaustion, but she felt proud: proud of herself and the people she'd helped defend. A group of women stood close by, and at least one smiled at her. She'd forgotten that, whatever other duties the women of the islands might have, they could still fight. They weren't so different, she and them.
A great roar came up from the docks as the villagers cheered for their returning kin. But many minutes passed before Jendara made out the shapes of the returning war party, and even in the moonlight, she could see a grimness in their approach. The man in front led a shorter figure on a rope.
Oric jumped up from his seat beside Kran. "Father! You're home!" He dashed toward the men but stopped as the torchlight revealed the scowl on his father's face.
"What happened?" Morul growled. "Smoke fills the sky above the island. We found this filth looting the tavern on Black Bay. And all the village gathers here to make a bonfire?"
Vorrin handed the torch to Jendara, and she held it a moment above the goblins. "Not just any bonfire. While you fought the fires on Black Bay Island, the main goblin troop prepared to attack your village under the cover of darkness. They would have succeeded, too, if not for our sons and their furry friend here."
Kran hugged the bear cub, who made a sleepy grumble.
"Bears? Boys? I don't understand."
The wise woman stepped forward. "Know that we only lost one building—the meeting house—and have only two wounded. Jendara and her people helped greatly."
Morul tugged the rope lead hard enough to send the small, dirty man at its end sprawling. "And what of this trash?" Gorg groaned from the sand, but didn't move.
Jendara smiled. "I have an idea." She beckoned to Morul and, when he joined her beside the bonfire, murmured quietly for a moment.
He looked from the cowering Gorg to the villagers to the pile of dead goblins. And then to Jendara. "You truly are Erik Eriksson's daughter, aren't you?"
She laughed and lit the bonfire.
∗∗∗
Vorrin watched Jendara finish tucking the blankets around a sleeping Kran and a snoring baby bear. He waited for her to close the cabin door behind her and join him on the deck. The night was clear and the stars brilliant.
Jendara could tell he wanted to say something—something meaningful and true about the day, about helping the village women fight off the goblins, about finding Kran, about everything they had done. But he knew better. Instead, he settled for standing with her and grinning as they watched a small boat row out of the harbor. "Nice of Gorg to chip in like that. Glad he didn't have any hard feelings after that beating we gave him."
"You'd think he'd need his ship, but it was thoughtful of him to leave it to the village for rebuilding materials." Jendara laughed, then sobered.
She reached out to the grizzly fur, still sitting on the deck. "You know, it's funny how this bear saved so many people. If the goblins hadn't driven her out of the caves, she would never have lost her baby or attacked Yul's sheep. Kran wouldn't have followed his ears down into that cavern. Right now, we'd be sailing for the mainland, and a lot of people would be dead."
"That's some bear." Vorrin studied the moon a moment. "Are you disappointed that we missed the tide?"
She shook her head. "No. Not one bit. It felt nice tonight. Like being part of someplace. Like having a home."
He reached for his pipe and lit it, puffing until the coals glowed red. "You know, when we get done selling this load, maybe we should come back here. It'd make for a nice summer harbor."
Jendara looked sideways at him. "You saying we should tie up for summer?"
He puffed the pipe again. "There should be a place we can take the ship for repairs and supplies. A place to let Kran get his land legs. What do you think?"
She nodded, and felt herself begin to smile. Behind his pipe, Vorrin was doing the same.
Neither of them had used the word "home." But for two retired pirates, it was a pretty good first step.
Coming Next Week: Scaly adventures in the Sodden Lands in Ari Marmell's "Hell or High Water"
Wendy N. Wagner is the author of short stories in such anthologies and magazines as Armored, Way of the Wizard, Rigor Amortis, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and more. She is a regular contributor to inkpunks.com, and can be found online at winniewoohoo.com.
... Mother Bearsby Wendy N. Wagner ... Chapter Two: Ill TideWhere's my son? Jendara's voice rumbled like a great beast's growl. Vorrin gripped her elbow, hard. ... The boys stared back at her for a second, then bolted. ... Come back! Jendara yanked her arm, but Vorrin kept his grip. ... They won't talk to you, he snapped. Hell, you scare me. ... Yul chuckled. You're right, mainlander. The boys will run home to hide. We'll go door to door. I know their fathers. ... But as he led them deeper...
Mother Bears
by Wendy N. Wagner
Chapter Two: Ill Tide
"Where's my son?" Jendara's voice rumbled like a great beast's growl. Vorrin gripped her elbow, hard.
The boys stared back at her for a second, then bolted.
"Come back!" Jendara yanked her arm, but Vorrin kept his grip.
"They won't talk to you," he snapped. "Hell, you scare me."
Yul chuckled. "You're right, mainlander. The boys will run home to hide. We'll go door to door. I know their fathers."
But as he led them deeper into the village, a hunting horn blew a long blast, then two short. Yul stiffened. "That's the call to town meeting. The emergency signal."
"We'll come," Vorrin said, and tightened his grip on Jendara's arm. She could feel her heart pick up its beat. An emergency, and Kran missing...
The narrow walkways filled with people, all chattering in high, tense tones. Everyone hurried toward the peak-roofed structure at the center of the village, the only building unclad by turf, and painted in dizzying shades of reds and blues. The church and meeting house. Jendara's family had practiced no faith, but town business was serious religion for anyone in a small town. She'd spent plenty of time in her own village's meeting hall. Just looking at it made her feel smaller and younger.
But her shoulders stiffened as she stepped inside. An elder in a wise woman's black kirtle and chemise stood beside a bandaged man, who alone sat on a wooden bench. The right side of his beard was blackened, in some places singed to the skin. The woman offered him a mug, and he sipped at it with a grimace.
Yul leaned to whisper at Jendara and her friends: "That's Birn, the chief's son from our neighbormost island. Their best fighter."
The cold prickling on Jendara's neck intensified. Instinct told her that whatever trouble had beset Birn somehow touched her son.
Another man stepped onto a podium. His red cloak proclaimed him a leader of some kind, and his craggy face bore more than a passing resemblance to Yul's. "Grave news, my friends. A goblin raiding party attacked our neighbors. Birn here rowed an hour to bring half a dozen wounded children to be treated by our wise woman."
Birn looked up, unflinching as the woman in question tightened a bandage around his right hand. "Most of our warriors are away, on a trading expedition. Our women and older children even now fight the fires the creatures have set. Our own wise woman was ripped apart by their dogs."
Jendara shook her head. This was bad news. With the benefit of surprise, a crew of goblins could wreck an entire village. Those people needed help. But she didn't have time to go on a rescue mission. She had a son to find. She began to turn away from the speakers, but paused as her eye caught movement at the front of the room. A towheaded boy hurried toward the man in the red cloak. She would have recognized him anywhere.
She tugged Yul's fur vest. "That's the one who stole my boy's tassel."
He frowned. "My nephew, Oric. We'll have to wait for the meeting to finish before we approach my brother."
Jendara shifted on impatient feet, listening as the warriors around her suggested and discarded course after course of action. Several of the women spoke quietly to the wise woman and then hurried off to their duties: preparing the warriors' fighting gear, gathering medicine, darting over to the wise woman's cottage to tend the injured children. Even if this was her home village, Jendara knew she wouldn't be joining them. She had taken on a warrior's life when she joined the pirate crew, closing the door on such domestic fellowship.
Yul caught her attention and they pushed forward through the crowd. His brother had neatly divided the group into parties, and now he clasped wrists with each of the men he'd commanded to lead. For a moment, Jendara pitied the goblins. These men knew battle, with their seamed faces and silvered scars. Most islanders practiced trade as the seasons turned, but in a land of quick tempers and fierce pride, everyone brought their shields and belt axes to the trading table.
"Yul." The leader clapped his brother on the shoulder. "I thought you'd stay with your wife. Her belly is fit to burst."
"Ayuh, her time is near." Yul leaned closer to his brother's ear. "I didn't come to volunteer, Morul. I came to ask you about your boy. I fear he brought harm to a visitor, the son of my new friend Jendara."
"Islanders give little credit to a mainlander like Vorrin."
The light-haired boy crept back into the shadows behind his father. Jendara narrowed her eyes at him.
Morul grunted. "There's a boatload of injured here to tend, and a second to follow. There are goblins on Black Bay Island and no idea how they got there. I've got a war party to lead and defenses ready. I've no time to talk about children."
"I'll help with your goblins if you help with my boy," Jendara interjected. "Just need a word with your son, that's all. Get my boy back safe."
Morul looked Jendara from head to toe. He could be Yul's twin, he looked so much like the craggy farmer, and a sharp intelligence flared behind his blue eyes. The islanders followed him not just for his brawn, but his brain. "Why are you so worried about your boy, woman?"
She set her jaw. "He's a mute. Plenty of folks reckon that's reason enough to give him trouble."
Morul nodded. "Ayuh, that's reason to worry." He glanced at her belt axe. "You any good with that thing?"
Vorrin spoke first. "I served beside her in many battles. She's faster and meaner than any man I've ever sailed with." Beside him, Tam nodded.
The leader of the islanders looked unimpressed.
Jendara tried not to shift impatiently. Her father would have never taken Vorrin's word, either. "My father led the men of his island in twenty-five battles and never lost a one. He trained me like I was his son, and kept me at his right hand for six trading parlays."
"And his name?"
"Erik Eriksson the White."
Both Yul and Morul looked pleased. It was not a great or famous name, but well traveled. Like her abilities with axe and sword, trade was in Jendara's blood naturally. Everyone knew Erik Eriksson the White.
"A fine man and long missed. I will accept your offer of help against the goblins." Morul turned to the boy. "Oric is a boy for pranks. Come here, lad."
The tow-headed boy slunk toward them, his hands twisted behind his back.
"Show me the tassel," Jendara snapped. Kran would have been familiar with the steely tone.
Oric put out his hand, the yellow tassel sitting on his palm. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Morul cuffed the side of the boy's head. "An islander speaks with pride even if he fears his punishment."
"I'm sorry!" Oric barked, stiffening his spine.
Jendara took the tassel. "Do you know where the mute boy—my son—went?"
Oric nodded. He cleared his throat. "Some visitor men on the pier told us you were a pirate. So we told Kran he ought to visit the pirate caves at the end of the island. That's all."
Jendara glanced at the tassel and raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, we took his hat and we messed around with it. And we told him he was nothing but a chicken liver if he didn't go down to the caves and come back with gold to prove he'd been there. But that's it! He even took his hat back." He looked up at her, then added in a mumble, "He gave my cousin a black eye."
Jendara felt a moment's pride for her boy, quickly overrun by anxiety. "Caves?"
Morul's lips thinned. "I doubt he went too far in, but it's an extensive network. Oric, take the visitors to our home. Get lights and rope."
Jendara nodded. "We'll join you as soon as we can. Thank you for your help."
She followed Oric out of the meetinghouse, the others following behind. Yul tapped her shoulder, his face troubled.
"I must go home to my wife now, but I wish you luck in your mission."
She thanked him for his help, and clapped him on the arm before hurrying after the others. Oric moved swiftly, gathering supplies from the family storehouse and then leading the rescue party down the beach. The sun's rays cast long, pale fingers of light across the sea, their touch failing to ease the chill in Jendara's heart. Goblins to fight, her son exploring in the darkness—it all felt like bad omens.
They rounded the headland of the beach, and she could see the caves cut into the cliffs at its end. There were multiple openings at different points in the rock face, and for the first time, her own fear touched her, freezing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She was a child of open farmland and open sea. She had never been in a cave before.
"Kran!"
Tam shook his head. "Spare your voice, lady. The way the waves echo in there, ain't no point shouting." He turned to Vorrin. "You mind if I lead? I grew up playing in caves like these."
Vorrin happily agreed.
Tam stopped a moment to light the lanterns Oric had brought for them. He smiled at the boy, who looked anxious. "Why don't you be our lookout, lad? If we need help, we'll shout for you, and you can run back to the village."
"I can do that, sir."
"Great. Then let's go into the first cave. It looks like it's right at the water line and the easiest to get into."
Jendara eyeballed the rocks flanking the cave's entrance. They looked rough and slick, the waves spitting up foam that clung to their dark flanks. One misstep, and a boy would tumble into the water. A boy or his mother, she reminded herself. She was glad she had a good sense of balance after working on ships all these years.
The yellow glow of Tam's lantern lit up the dark hollow of the cave, and as Jendara followed behind him, her own light redoubled the glow. It wasn't much of a cave, just ten or twelve feet gnawed into the cliff wall. A battered rowboat bobbed on the waves, as if sheltering peacefully while waiting for its owner.
"What's this?" Tam murmured, peering inside. He jumped back, nearly toppling off the rock he'd been balancing on.
"What is it?" Vorrin asked.
But Jendara could see for herself the still figure at the bottom of the boat, the long white hair and singed black cloak. The wise woman from Black Bay Island.
Tam leaned over again, his nose wrinkling as he pointed out a smear of dung on the gunwale. "I'm not sure, but this looks like goblin dog to me."
Jendara balled her hands into fists. The sliver of ice burning down the back of her neck had been a true warning, not the trite discomfort of an overprotective mother. There were goblins on this island, and given goblins' love for dark holes in the ground, the little bastards were probably exploring the same damn cave her son was.
"Well, whatever it is, one thing's for sure," Tam said slowly.
"What?" Jendara growled.
"No one's in this cave."
They picked their way out of the lowest sea cave and stared up at the other entrances. The cave mouths looked far above the beach, dark and unwelcoming. The sun sank another degree lower in the sky.
"Time to climb." Jendara slung her length of rope over her shoulder and reached for the first handhold in the cliff face.
Somewhere above, something wailed, its voice hollow and unbearably sad.
Coming Next Week: The stunning conclusion of Wendy Wagner's "Mother Bears."
Wendy N. Wagner is the author of short stories in such anthologies and magazines as Armored, Way of the Wizard, Rigor Amortis, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and more. She is a regular contributor to inkpunks.com, and can be found online at winniewoohoo.com.
... Mother Bearsby Wendy N. Wagner ... Chapter One: Waking the BearKran tapped his slate, louder this time, and Jendara gave in, looking up from her ledger. The boy's blue eyes gleamed as his chalk squeaked, underlining the word please a second time—his equivalent of begging. Jendara's lips moved as she read the note. ... You want to play marbles on the beach? With some village boys? ... He nodded his head, making the yellow tassels of his cap dance. The tip of his nose was pink from...
Mother Bears
by Wendy N. Wagner
Chapter One: Waking the Bear
Kran tapped his slate, louder this time, and Jendara gave in, looking up from her ledger. The boy's blue eyes gleamed as his chalk squeaked, underlining the word "please" a second time—his equivalent of begging. Jendara's lips moved as she read the note.
"You want to play marbles on the beach? With some village boys?"
He nodded his head, making the yellow tassels of his cap dance. The tip of his nose was pink from the cold sea air.
She grunted. "Just don't take too long. Captain Vorrin wants to catch the outgoing tide, and that means all packed up by sunset."
He swiped his slate with his sleeve, scribbled a thanks, and then darted down the gangplank. Jendara's eyes followed him along the pier until he cut over to the small strip of beach. She trusted Kran more than most mothers trusted their eight-year-olds, but she liked knowing where he was. He didn't get social invitations very often. There weren't many on the islands who could read, or who'd go near a god-touched boy with no speech.
She realized she was holding her quill too tightly, and put it down. Anyway, someone was approaching the ship-turned-market square: a big man with the dung-crusted boots of an island farmer. He reminded Jendara of her father, and she tried not to smile at him. Bad enough being a woman in this business; it wouldn't do to look soft.
"You got something real heavy in that pack of yours." She cleared the ledger and writing case off the table to make room for his wares. She'd been buying lots of ivory and whalebone this trip—always in high demand on the mainland—but whatever he carried in his pack looked soft. Furs, maybe.
"Ayuh. It's a load alright." The man dropped his bag with a thud that made the table creak. He undid the knotted ties and the sack slid open, revealing a pile of deep brown furs.
"What did you catch?" The fur felt sleek and oily beneath her fingers, the hairs coarse.
He didn't answer at first, working with the bag. Now Jendara could see that this great mass wasn't a stack of pelts, but one magnificent hide, and her heart quickened. This could be worth a lot of gold to the right buyer.
He began unfolding the hide. "It's big."
"Grizzly?"
"Ayuh." He shifted on his feet, frowning as he recollected. "It was in with the sheep, killing anything that moved. Had to protect my stock."
A paw hit the ship's deck, and she could see claws longer than her own hand. She couldn't imagine facing something so huge gone on a killing spree. "How'd you kill it?"
"Arrow through the eye. Then I jumped on its back and cut its throat." He'd uncovered the head, well cured and massive, but marred by a white patch of fur like a lightning bolt down the nose. "Woulda kept it, but the wife said it was probably unlucky, way it was acting. Figured you'd give me a fair price for it."
Jendara mentally calculated a few figures. It was a good pelt, and she knew a dealer in Magnimar looking for quality winter furs. She named her price, and the farmer grinned hugely. He spat on his palm and stuck it out, just as her father had done every deal he ever struck. She spat on her own and shook as fiercely as he did.
"We should drink. This deal is good for both of us."
"Yul is a typical islander—gruff and hard, but kind all the same."
She looked out at the docks. No one else approached, and the sun was already low in the sky. She doubted anyone further would be looking to trade with her. "All right."
Someone laid a hand on her shoulder. "You two mind a little company?"
Jendara shrugged. She hadn't heard Vorrin behind her, but wasn't surprised by his sudden appearance. Her husband, Ikran, had asked Vorrin to look after her and Kran as he'd lain bleeding out on the deck of a captured caravel. She couldn't hold it against either of them, much as she wanted to.
"You have a name, Bear Hunter?" Vorrin put out his hand. "I'm Vorrin, captain of this ship."
The farmer's lips thinned as he took Vorrin's measure. Vorrin's close-cropped black hair and thin mustache were a strike against him here on the archipelago. His accent, city-fine, didn't help. The farmer hooked his thumbs in his belt, a conspicuous rejection of the hand. "I am Yul."
"Lead us to the nearest ale, friend." Jendara stepped between the two men, hurrying Yul down the gangplank. She could feel Vorrin's eyes on her back, and could easily imagine the irritated expression. He abided the Ironbound Archipelago because she wanted to do business here, because he loved his nephew and believed in keeping his word. But he didn't like this cold, rough land.
The crunch of gravel beneath her boots made Jendara smile. It had been one thing to leave the islands for the man she loved, but she'd never felt right when she was away. Here the stone lay just beneath the tough heath, and the beaches were long stretches of gray rock and gravel. Even the land was hard here. It went without saying that the people worked hard, fought hard, and grew hard as frozen leather under the wind's cold buffeting.
But business had been brisk in this town, and the wind a constant reminder that she had a trade route to finish before the winter sea grew too rough for Vorrin's ship, the Milady. Jendara hadn't taken a moment to visit the village. It wasn't so different from the place where she'd grown up. The steep peaks of the house roofs stood out from the green turf climbing up the walls, the houses themselves snuggled down into the earth. They could withstand any storm, stay warm in any gale—little tough houses for big tough people.
A donkey huffed at her as they passed a lean-to where animals could wait out of the weather. Jendara patted its shaggy head and then hurried to catch up as Yul pushed opened the nearest door, releasing the pungent tang of peat smoke and spilled ale.
Jendara stepped inside and was struck by the realization that she had been here before. She could remember sitting at the little bar, rubbing oils into the backs of her still-itching hands, tossing back drinks that burned her throat but eased the fresh sting of the tattoos. She touched the back of her hand, the now-old ink covered by fingerless gloves. She could easily imagine the black jolly rogers beneath the wool, puffy and peeling as they had that night. So it must have been the end of her first pirate tour, pockets loaded and a lust to prove herself filling her heart.
Yul nodded at the barkeep, a shaven-headed man as broad as Yul and just as bearded. The man filled three tankards in quick succession, sliding them down the bar without a word. Jendara drank a long pull of the foaming stuff.
"Well, well, if it ain't the famous Jendara. I thought the rumors of you turning respectable were gullshit, but look at you out here, drinking with the farmers."
Jendara put down her tankard with deliberate softness. She turned to face the voice—one of those nasty, thin voices she'd come to associate with cowards. There was no point ignoring it: men like this only responded to intimidation. She folded her arms across her sheepskin vest and let her ice-blue eyes speak for her.
A short and dirty man stood in front of the nearest table, where a knot of men sat drinking. The little man sneered. He wasn't a native—the brown hair and narrow jaw, far too small for all his yellow teeth, proved that. From the waves of fish stench wafting off his layered sweaters, she imagined him a very minor pirate who made ends meet by fishing.
The worst kind of pirate. The jolly rogers on the back of her hands felt suddenly hot, as if Besmara, chief bitch and goddess of all pirates, agreed with Jendara's pronouncement.
She peeled off her gloves slowly, letting everyone in the bar see the tattoos.
"Jenny, Jenny, Jenny." The weasely man took a swig of beer and grinned down at her. She remembered him now. He'd once asked Ikran for a position on their boat, and she'd had to throw him overboard when he didn't like Ikran's answer. Gorg. That was his name.
Gorg's grin grew wider as he leaned toward her. "You still watching over that mute brat of yours?"
The jolly roger seemed to laugh as her knuckles connected with Gorg's face, splitting the skin over his cheekbone with the force of the blow. He screamed and dropped to his knees—not incapacitated, but going for his boot knife. Jendara lashed out with her heel, launching the man backward across the room.
She hadn't paid attention to other men at the table, but they must have been Gorg's friends, because they exploded up from their seats, snarling. Men screamed. Knives hissed free of their scabbards. Jendara laughed and slipped her axe free of her belt.
The weapon's haft shook with its own mirth as she brought the blunt end down on a man's skull, then jerked her arm backward, slamming the handle's butt into another man's solar plexus. Both sailors dropped. Jendara looked around for more, but Grog was already draped senseless across a chair, and the last of his companions was currently dangling from Vorrin's fist, toes not quite touching the floor.
The tavern door flew open, the low light of afternoon like a lighthouse beam cutting through the thick air. A man stood framed in the doorway. Jendara recognized him as Vorrin's first mate. Silence filled the room.
Vorrin released the man he'd been holding up by the sweater-front. The sailor crumpled to the ground. "Tam? Something the matter?"
"Ayuh." The word reminded Jendara that Tam was a fellow islander. He hesitated in the doorway.
"Well what, man?"
"It's the boy." Tam stepped inside, bobbing his head uncomfortably. "I saw a whole group of lads come racing up from the beach, laughing like loons. But Kran weren't with 'em."
Jendara felt her knees go soft, and she put her hand down on the bar to steady herself.
"Looked down the beach, but there weren't no sign of the boy. Figured we ought to go look for him."
Jendara sheathed her axe and moved toward the door. Vorrin clapped his hand on her shoulder. "Don't go off half-cocked."
She shook his hand loose. "I've got to find my son."
"No purpose going by yourself," Yul warned. "Folks don't tolerate strangers around here."
Jendara's lips thinned. She knew it was true—knew the close-knittedness of islanders—but resented it anyway. "He isn't like other boys. There's been trouble other places."
Yul didn't ask for details, but opened the door. "I'll help you look for him."
Jendara nodded curtly, rage boiling her veins, some of it residual, some of it the goddess's, and most of it for anyone who might hurt her child. Beyond Yul's shoulder, a knot of sniggering boys huddled under the lean-to where the donkey had waited. A growl bubbled up in Jendara's throat.
But she did, just from their wicked laughter, their covert glances. She did know, from the hush that fell over the little group as they saw the strangers coming their way. A shiver of cold warning ran down her spine.
One of the boys held a yellow tassel between his fingers. A yellow tassel just like the ones she'd sewn onto Kran's hat.
Coming Next Week: A mother's fury in Chapter Two of Wendy Wagner's "Mother Bears."
Wendy N. Wagner is the author of short stories in such anthologies and magazines as Armored, Way of the Wizard, Rigor Amortis, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and more. She is a regular contributor to inkpunks.com, and can be found online at winniewoohoo.com.
... Krunzle the Quickby Hugh Matthews ... Chapter Five: A DiversionHurt a little? Krunzle began. Then perhaps we could— He was unable to continue because his senses were now reporting that his insides and outsides had apparently changed places, and that his entire carcass had subsequently been consumed by a raging firestorm wrapped in a freezing blizzard, then crushed to the size of an ant—and not a very big ant, at that. ... He was next conscious of screaming hoarsely, and then vision...
Krunzle the Quick
by Hugh Matthews
Chapter Five: A Diversion
"Hurt a little?" Krunzle began. "Then perhaps we could—" He was unable to continue because his senses were now reporting that his insides and outsides had apparently changed places, and that his entire carcass had subsequently been consumed by a raging firestorm wrapped in a freezing blizzard, then crushed to the size of an ant—and not a very big ant, at that.
He was next conscious of screaming hoarsely, and then vision returned, along with the rest of his sensorium, which advised him that all his systems were now running normally—except for his fear-measuring capacity, which was strained to its limit. He closed his mouth and took in a long, shaky breath through his nostrils. "Please," he said, "don't do that again."
"Typical," said the woman. "I free you from a serious enchantment—a service, I want to point out, that I perform at no charge. And do I see gratitude? Do I hear so much as a murmur of thanks?"
"Thank you," Krunzle murmured.
"Too late now," she said, picking up the knucklebones and rolling them expertly between her palms. "Now let's see what you can do for me in return."
"I thought you said there was no charge."
"Typical," she said again, shaking her blonde locks. She threw the bones onto the tabletop, regarded them for a long moment, then said, "Apparently, the answer is: nothing. You're not part of my future at all."
Krunzle heaved a sigh of relief, until the thought occurred that the bones might be saying he was not part of anybody's future. The demon worshipers next door could likely use a spare body. And he knew that some of the uses to which the bodies were put rendered them useless for any future employment.
She had picked up the amulet again. "So he sends in a thief to steal this piece of gimcrack, which the idiot Didmus gave to the equal idiotic Galathea as some sort of mawkish love-token."
Krunzle dared to interrupt. "Who," he said, "are Didmus and Galathea?"
Again, that look that his teachers used to give him, then she shook her head as one does who accepts that some shortcomings must be borne with. She said, "Galathea is the girl from whom you took the apprentice's eye. She is my daughter. And Baalariot's, for that matter. Didmus is a half-grown half-wit of a sorcerer's apprentice. They think they are in love."
"You and Baalariot are married?" he said.
Again, the look of disbelief. "Men and women do not have to be married to produce children," she said. "Baalariot wants to wed her to one of Hedvand's courtiers. I have a better plan: she will train to become a priestess of Nocticula, cementing my relationship with the cult."
"And Didmus," the thief said, his mind beginning to form the picture into whose frame he had been pressed, "what does he want?"
She assumed an exasperated look. "What does any young man want?"
"He doesn't happen," Krunzle said, "to play the zither?"
"I wouldn't put it past him."
For all its academic shortfalls, Krunzle's intellect was adept at plans and schemes, his own and others'. The pieces now fell into place. He debated for a moment as to whether he should voice his conclusions—but only for a moment. If he was right, events would shortly reveal the facts for themselves, and he would gain nothing by too late a revelation.
"I believe," he said, "that I am here as a diversion."
Hortenza's brows consulted each other, then her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment a heavy concussion sounded from downstairs. The building shook, and shards of plaster sifted down from the hole in the corner of the ceiling.
The priestess recovered quickly. "The bastard!" she said, reaching for the ebony rod and striding to the door. She slammed it behind her and he heard the click of the lock. He gave her a moment to clear the corridor outside then went to kneel at the keyhole, reaching for his picks.
But, even in her hurry, Hortenza had been thinking a step ahead of him. The pick would not engage the tumblers. He went to the table, where she had left the apprentice's eye, and brought it to bear on the door. The lock made the stone glow bright red.
Krunzle said a short and pungent word, then turned to the hole in the ceiling. He pushed a small table underneath, then leapt atop it. When he stood upright, his head and shoulder poked through the opening, so that his eyes rose just above the level of the packed-earth roof.
The open space was in darkness and silence, except for the sound of a zither being inexpertly tuned. Then the thief heard a noise like sand rushing through a giant hourglass, as the great blind snake slithered across the roof toward him. He ducked down and, after a moment, the sound ceased.
The lock clicked. The door opened. In the moment between the two events, Krunzle put the table back where he had found it and himself where Hortenza had left him. The witch stepped through the doorway, panting from the stairs and presumably from the effort of dragging an unwilling young woman all the way up from the sub-basement.
"A good thief knows when to make himself scarce, and Krunzle is better than most."
She flung Galathea into the room. "You stay here, or so help me..." She left the threat implied as she turned to the thief and said, with a meaningful glance at the hole in the ceiling, "Keep her here, and I will make it worth your while. Let her go, and...” She pointed a tapered fingernail at him and left the rest to Krunzle's imagination.
Then she was gone, the door slammed. The girl tried the opener, found it locked, and stamped her foot, saying under her breath a word that was not supposed to be available to gently reared maidens. She looked at Krunzle, and the thief recognized the parents in the child.
"You're thinking," he told her, just to get the process rolling, "what it will cost you to secure my assistance."
She folded her arms. "Well?"
"What have you got?"
She showed her fingers, unringed, her wrists unbraceleted, her neck unlaced. "I had only one thing, an amulet with a green stone."
He patted a bulge in his upper garment. "I already have that."
She stared at him for a moment, then sighed and slipped one arm out of her shift, followed by the other. A loud detonation from outside in the street caused her to pause, then she continued, slipping the garment down to her waist.
"This is scarcely the time," Krunzle said.
She had been about to wriggle the shift down over her hips. "Then what?"
"How well do you know the snake?"
"Hothet? He used to guard me in the cradle."
"Will he obey you?"
She casually signaled an affirmative, as if serpent-commanding was a universal skill.
"Then get dressed and get up on the table."
She looked up at the hole. "The roof is too low, the walls to either side sheer."
"Leave that," he said, "to me."
He boosted her through the gap, then fluidly followed. He crouched next to the hole, ready to duck back down, but then he saw the great reptile coiled at her feet, its spade-sized head rubbing against one thigh.
From the side of building that faced the street came another crump! accompanied by a brief yellow glare. Almost immediately, there followed a metallic rattling sound, like iron hail striking cobblestones. The thief crept to the parapet and looked over. Below in the street, Baalariot stood, legs spread, a nimbus of red light about his head like a halo, one hand holding a carved staff whose upper tip ended in an amorphous cloud of stygian darkness which kept spitting out little zig-zags of white lightning. He raised the implement and pointed it at where the front door would be—with Hortenza presumably in it.
From the blackness at the end of the staff rushed a torrent of colorless force, flecked with sparks of gold and black. The angle of his view prevented Krunzle from seeing where it struck, but he knew the effect must be less than overwhelming when he heard a hiss of rage from directly below him, followed by a rumbling, trundling sound, as of iron-shod wheels on stone. Now a shimmering wall, blue and almost transparent, moved outward from the shrine toward the wizard, rolling back his rush of energy until Baalariot gestured with his staff and the outflow ceased.
The wall moved on, however, even picking up speed, and its outer edges began to curve inward so that soon it would form a tube around the wizard. He made a downward chopping gesture with one hand, while speaking a stream of syllables, and the center of the approaching barrier began to melt and dissolve. A moment later it winked out of existence.
Krunzle heard another hissed curse from below him, and a snarling sound from her opponent. He thought it best to withdraw before either parent became aware of him. Something was now snarling and bellowing in the street below, accompanied by the stamp of heavy, hoofed feet on the cobbles. The animal roars were soon met by a chittering sound, as if ten thousand maddened insects were clashing their mandibles. The tramp of iron-shod hooves was overlaid by a skittering, whispering noise. Krunzle imagined a horde of chitinous scorpions, their pincers clicking, flooding across the street to swarm up some rough beast.
Then he decided there was no profit in imagining such unpleasantness. He crept back across the roof to Galathea, finding the snake asleep in a coil and the girl indulging in some impatient toe-tapping. He felt a brief twinge of compassion for poor, love-sick Didmus, who must eventually learn that the girl's parent's temperaments had bred true in their offspring.
But that was not his concern. "This way," he said, and led her to where his grapnel and knotted rope still hung from the neighboring roof. As she took hold of the cord, the love song from above began again. She went up quickly, and the thief after her. They followed their ears to a corner of the tenement roof sheltered by movable walls of plaited bamboo.
A tender moment ensued, then Krunzle intervened to say, "It would be wise to leave here before the battle below ends and the winner—assuming there is one—comes looking for the prize."
Didmus, a gawky youth with ears almost large enough to serve as wings, said, "I have a carriage. We'll go to my uncle's manse. A priest of Erastil lives next door. We'll be married before midnight."
Galathea looked down at her shift, its hem soiled from the unswept roof. "Married?" she said. "In this?"
Krunzle felt another brief spasm of sympathy for the apprentice wizard, but said, "In what quarter of the city is your uncle's manse?"
The youth's cracked voice said, "By the night market, near the Druma Road Gate."
"Then let us go."
And so, with eldritch lights and harsh sounds fading behind them, they fled the lower city. Didmus, a generous sort for a budding wizard, pressed into Krunzle's hand a small purse of gratitude when they dropped him off at the market. The thief used the funds to buy a change of clothing and a broad-brimmed hat that would obscure and shadow his face.
He pinned the apprentice's eye to his new headgear, then settled himself beside an untenanted booth at the edge of the market. When the gate opened in the morning, he would be first out of it and on the road to Druma and its capital, Kerse, where the streets were literally paved with gold and the walls of the houses inset with gems.
Krunzle had long had a hankering to see Druma. He sat with arms resting on his knees, and head resting on arms, and dreamed of easy locks and unlatched windows.
Follow the rest of Krunzle's adventures in the new Pathfinder Tales novel Song of the Serpent!
Coming Next Week: Piracy and parenthood in the Ironbound Archipelago in Chapter One of Wendy Wagner's "Mother Bears."
Hugh Matthews is a pseudonym of critically acclaimed science-fantasy author Matthew Hughes, who is responsible for more than a dozen novels and is often called the "heir apparent" to the legacy of Jack Vance, particularly for his Archonate series. His novel Template was republished by Planet Stories, and his first Pathfinder Tales novel, Song of the Serpent, also features intrepid thief and confidence man Krunzle the Quick.
... Krunzle the Quickby Hugh Matthews ... Chapter Four: CaughtHis first awareness was of the ache in his ribs, that swelled every time he took a breath. He cursed the pain, then thought, No, wait, I'm still breathing. That has to go on the positive side of the ledger. He took a deeper breath and groaned, his emotions mixed. ... Get up, said a voice from somewhere above him: female, but without the girlish tone of the amulet-wearer. This was a mature contralto, with strong overtones of I am...
Krunzle the Quick
by Hugh Matthews
Chapter Four: Caught
His first awareness was of the ache in his ribs, that swelled every time he took a breath. He cursed the pain, then thought, No, wait, I'm still breathing. That has to go on the positive side of the ledger. He took a deeper breath and groaned, his emotions mixed.
"Get up," said a voice from somewhere above him: female, but without the girlish tone of the amulet-wearer. This was a mature contralto, with strong overtones of I am used to being obeyed. Krunzle opened his eyes and discovered he was lying on a thick carpet. He recognized the hole in the ceiling.
A toe nudged his sore ribs—bruised, not broken, he deduced—and the voice said, "Up."
From this vantage, she seemed extraordinarily tall, an impression that did not diminish when he struggled painfully to his feet and found that she still overtopped him so that he had to crane his neck to meet her eyes. In doing so he discovered that his neck was joining his ribs in registering a complaint of maltreatment. "Ow," he said, rubbing it.
She looked to be of middle years, except for a face as smooth and ageless as magic could make it. She wore a complex headpiece of entwined snakes fashioned from some pale metal, inset with eyes of polished opal. Hair the same shade as that of the girl in the cell cascaded down onto a robe of pale silk, marked in red and black arcane symbols.
"I am Hortenza, and this is my house," she said. "Name yourself."
He did so, without resorting to sleights or subterfuges. She did not look the type to enjoy a frivolous puzzle.
She studied the thief. Krunzle had seen much the same expression on the faces of farmwives deciding which chicken would have its neck wrung for the stewpot. As if interested in the decor, he looked about him. The room was still windowless; there was one exit, besides the one he had made.
"Meddling in the affairs of spellcasters is rarely advisable."
As if she could read his thoughts—and perhaps she could—she said, "The door is locked and the snake is on the roof. He likes to take sleeping birds. But he'd rather have you."
Krunzle thought of several things he could say, but none of them seemed likely to profit him. He remained silent while she studied him some more. Meanwhile, the geas was urging him to escape, and to do so loudly. He focused mentally on the impossibility of doing so, and the urge quieted. Thanks to Cardimion for making it discriminating, he thought.
By now, his new captor seemed to have seen all there was to see. She said, "Baalariot sent you."
Again, the thief saw nothing to be gained by speaking. After a moment, she said, "Answer."
"I did not hear a question."
Her hard face hardened further. She raised a finger whose nail tapered to a black lacquered point and pointed it at him. The air around him crackled and he smelled a whiff of sulfur, then he became aware that every bone in his body had suddenly become hot enough to scald the flesh that touched it. The pain lasted only moments, but the memory of it lingered after she lowered the digit.
"Oh, yes," he said, "that question. Indeed, Baalariot sent me."
"To steal Galathea."
His eyebrows knitted themselves in confusion. "He called it something else."
That brought him a quizzical look. She studied him again, then said, "What, exactly, did he call her?"
Krunzle blinked. Her? But he was in no position to offer a correction. "He called it an apprentice's eye."
As a young student, the thief had never risen to the top of any class in literature, history, or philosophy. His was a practical intelligence, best expressed through his hands, whose remarkable deftness at eye-bamboozling speed had won him his nickname. But his inability to recite even the best-known dates and precedents used to win him a certain look from the preceptors at the day school, a look that said, Can this oaf really be that much of a thimble-wit?
He was seeing that look again, on the face of the witch. Now she looked down at the carpet, where the amulet with the color-changing cabochon lay, the polished, uncut stone now green again. The snake's coiled embrace must have pressed it to him. Indeed, he suspected the hard stone was responsible for one of the bruises on his ribs. The moment he noticed it, he involuntarily stooped and picked it up.
"That?" she said. "You want me to believe he sent you for that?"
The darkening expression on her face told Krunzle that he needed her to believe it, because it was the only explanation for his conduct that he was able to offer.
She was studying him even more closely now. "You're not one of his coterie."
"I have never been a joiner," Krunzle said.
"A hireling?"
"Not as such."
She picked up the amulet and held it to him. The green stone turned red. "Ah," she said.
"Why does it do that?" he said.
"It is an apprentice wizard's tool," she said. "It perceives the energies involved in magic, and mostly serves to prevent the inexperienced from touching that which might do them harm. Right now, it tells me that you have been ensorcelled."
She tilted her head in thought then added, "Which might make you dangerous. Don't move."
She went to a cupboard that stood against the wall, opened a door, and selected an object from several that were stored there. She brought it back and he saw that it was a tube carved from black crystal. She put it to her eye and inspected him through it.
"Ah, Baalariot," she said. "Always the obvious. Of course it would be Cardimion's Discriminating Geas." She went back to the cupboard, chose other items from its contents and brought them to a table. Then she moved a brazier to the same part of the room and, with a mere motion of one hand, ignited its charcoal. She inspected the things she had arranged on the table—Krunzle saw scrimshawed ivory, an ebony rod, some old, time-worn knuckle bones, a scrap of pale hide tattooed with blue runes, a diminutive, oddly shaped skull—then she began to perform actions beyond his comprehension.
"If we were out in the street," she said, touching this and elevating that, "I could scarcely make a dent. But I have an arrangement with Our Lady's sanctuary next door, and that gives me access to a power that..." She broke off, concentrating while she tapped the black rod a precise three times on the top of the skull, then covered the bone with the tattooed skin. The air inside the room was suddenly charged with energy. Kunzle felt a crackling in his ears. Then she looked over at him and aimed the rod in his direction, saying, "This will probably hurt a little."
Coming Next Week: The final chapter of Hugh Matthews's "Krunzle the Quick."
Hugh Matthews is a pseudonym of critically acclaimed science-fantasy author Matthew Hughes, who is responsible for more than a dozen novels and is often called the "heir apparent" to the legacy of Jack Vance, particularly for his Archonate series. His novel Template was republished by Planet Stories, and his first Pathfinder Tales novel, Song of the Serpent, also features intrepid thief and confidence man Krunzle the Quick.
Krunzle the Quick—Chapter Three: The Apprentice's Eye
... Krunzle the Quickby Hugh Matthews ... Chapter Three: The Apprentice's EyeHe descended several flights of steps, took a number of turns along torch-lit corridors, and came at last to the threshold of a windowless cell deep below ground. The glowing orb entered and Krunzle did likewise. Once within, the light blinked out, and he had a momentary glimpse of a small, winged man fluttering out through the open doorway and disappearing along the corridor. ... Krunzle made to put his head through...
Krunzle the Quick
by Hugh Matthews
Chapter Three: The Apprentice's Eye
He descended several flights of steps, took a number of turns along torch-lit corridors, and came at last to the threshold of a windowless cell deep below ground. The glowing orb entered and Krunzle did likewise. Once within, the light blinked out, and he had a momentary glimpse of a small, winged man fluttering out through the open doorway and disappearing along the corridor.
Krunzle made to put his head through the opening to see the creature more clearly, but the air that filled the exit now demonstrated the ability to become a clear, springy substance that flung him back into the room. By the light from the corridor, he looked around and found an ill-smelling pallet, a rough stool, and a terra cotta oil lamp with a wick of greasy wool. He was able to just reach this last item around the edge of the door to meet the torch ensconced in the passageway and, with the lamp's feeble light, sat down on the stool and took out the scroll.
It was written in a script that he could read, and he quickly took in what it had to tell him. He was to wait until the pixie returned to lead him out of his cell. Then he must go to a house in the lower town—a map to find the place, an image of its exterior, and a second, multi-leveled map of its interior were provided. He was to find his best way in, locate something called an "apprentice's eye"; the note said that the geas he was under would ensure that he recognized the object when he saw it.
You may use whatever means and procedures you deem appropriate, said the note, but if you offer violence against any persons within the house, the hand you raise will instead strike you where you have already felt a blow.
Once he had achieved the goal of the mission he was to bring the apprentice's eye back to Baalariot. The note said that while exiting the target area he was encouraged to make as much noise and commotion as possible.
"Why would I do that?" he asked the walls of his cell. He received no answer.
Krunzle turned over the single sheet of parchment, but there was nothing on the other side. He reread the note again and, when he realized that the letters were steadily fading away, applied himself to memorizing the map before it disappeared.
A few moments later, he was left with two things: a blank piece of scraped sheepskin and a question. The question was: what was an apprentice's eye?
Then came a third: an overwhelming urge to sleep.
∗∗∗
He awoke to find that his various pains had faded. He was also hungry, and was glad to find that while he slept someone had brought him a platter of bread and cheese, as well as a stoneware jug that proved to contain an almost drinkable wine. He refreshed himself, then sat on the stool and contemplated his predicament. He failed to see any immediate advantage to being the slave of a spied-upon wizard. Nor did he envision that his situation would much improve: as he understood these things, spellslingers tended to rely on conjured assistants, like the pixie, for their domestic needs. They generally kept no slaves—which meant that upon successful completion of his mission, he would become surplus to Baalariot's requirements. The wizard would cast around for some useful purpose that a superfluous thief-slave could serve. Several images came to Krunzle's mind, none of them encouraging.
His early education at a rather prestigious rogue’s academy had taught him the cardinal rule of the thief's life: always have a plan. He quickly devised a scheme that had two parts. Part one: break the enchantment that bound him to Baalariot's will. Part two: depart Elidir at maximum speed.
He was sure he could execute part two with energy and dispatch. Part one, however, remained a problem. His mind failed to gain traction, and soon he lacked the leisure to pursue the matter, because now the winged manlet returned, hovering in the corridor at the center of his globe of light.
Krunzle stood and the light moved away. He was able to exit the cell as if the air in the doorway was nothing but air. He strode after the guide, and noticed that he was not retracing the route that had brought him down from Baalariot's chamber. Instead, he and the winged fairy-man proceeded deeper into the warren of dark rooms and barely lit corridors beneath the wizard's manse, until he came to a narrow space which contained a spiral iron staircase leading up and a rough table on which were spread several items Krunzle recognized.
They had all be taken from his person after he had been delivered to the Gyve, and they constituted the tools of his trade: picks and slips; grapples and cords; a double-bent tube with mirrors inside that bent light and allowed him to peek around corners, under doors, and through windows without being seen; and a handful of other objects.
Krunzle was glad to recover them. Not only were they useful, but as part of his first tasks as a journeyman, he had personally made each one of them. Thieves could not usually afford much sentimentality, but an exception was made for the toolkit. He disposed of them in the various concealed pockets and loops that abounded in his garments, and felt slightly better about the course of events.
He was given little time for satisfaction, however. No sooner had he stowed the last implement, than the pixie flew up the staircase, illuminating the darkness above. Krunzle experienced a strong desire to follow and began to climb. He noted, with faint gratitude, that his groin no longer pained him with every lift of a foot.
No sooner had he risen out of the small room—it turned out to have been the bottom of a shaft—than the globe of light disappeared. In complete blackness, Krunzle felt the flying creature flutter past him as it went back to wherever it perched when not on duty. He was unable to do likewise and continued to ascend until he arrived at a confined space that offered not the slightest glimmer of light. He felt in front of him and found a wooden surface which, when he explored further and discovered a simple latch, turned out to be a door.
But thieves' caution prevented him from opening the portal until his searching fingers discovered what he expected to find: another moving part at eye level that, when he slid it aside, uncovered a peephole. He peered out and saw a darkened Elidiran alley, lit only by a few gleams leaking through the closed shutters of houses that turned blank walls to the narrow passage.
He opened the door and stepped out, then looked up at the evening stars to orient himself. The map appeared on the screen in his mind—no magic there, but the mental discipline learned in the academy and practiced ever since—and he set off for the lower town. His route avoided the city's major thoroughfares and plazas, leading him instead along narrow, twisting alleys and down flights of stone steps that reeked of urine and rotting vegetables. Clearly, he thought, whoever occupied the house to which he was headed did not enjoy the elevated social status of the wizard who was sending him.
The building, when he came to it, was not imposing. Mud brick rather than stone, it stood two stories high, with a flat roof; he knew from the map, though, that its foundations had been dug down three levels, creating sub-basements and even a bottomless pit. Baalariot hadn't said anything, but Krunzle knew enough about magic-wielders to have reasoned out that anyone who could steal from a wizard was likely to be another practitioner of the arcane arts. Wizardry and subterranean chambers seemed to be an infallible combination. Maybe it was a matter of containing unruly powers; or maybe it was just that depth muffled the screams.
His urge to get to the target eased when he came to the mouth of an unlit passageway that met the sloping street on which the house stood. His vantage point was several doors down from the entrance, which featured a sturdy-looking front door between tapered pillars, all carved with some complex design he was too far away to see clearly, flanked by two torches that burned with a green flame. There was something about the arrangement of the portal that argued less for decor than for defense.
He would not be going through that door. Some thieves preferred the direct and obvious approach—get in, grab it, and get out while they're still blinking—but Krunzle was an old-fashioned practitioner of the full art.
He wondered how much leeway Cardimion's Discriminatory Geas would grant him. Experimentation revealed that he could move a certain distance from the target structure, but only enough to circumnavigate it. If he tried to go farther, he experienced shaking limbs, nausea, and a sense of impending dread. When he struggled to overcome the resistance, his fist swung up and struck him sharply in an eye whose surrounding flesh was still tender from the wart-nosed torturer's attentions.
Trial and error over, the thief turned his attention to the house that contained the apprentice's eye. The memorized map had highlighted an area in a lower, though not lowest, level of the building. There was probably a concealed entrance much like the one through which he had made his exit from Baalariot's manse, but it would be a waste of time to look for it. He worked his way around the building and its neighbors again, seeking the opportunity that would make the task easier.
The house had not been constructed as a detached structure; its sides abutted directly against the neighboring buildings; its front was two stories of sheer, unbroken mud brick; its rear was separated from the alley behind by a walled courtyard, also lit by green flames.
The courtyard presented easier access but too much light, the thief decided; besides, the rear wall was as unwindowed as the front.
He examined the buildings to either side: one was of stone, tall and solid as a bank, but a half-hidden glyph near the door identified it in the language of thieves and street people as a temple of the demon Nocticula, which meant that its main use was as a brothel, and not a particularly safe one. The other building was a rickety, three-story tenement, with a wooden staircase running up the rear wall to give the residents false hope that they'd be able to escape in the event of a fire.
A lifetime of professional experience told Krunzle that a mud-brick building's greatest weakness was in its roof. He went up the fire steps with practiced quiet, slipping past the noises of clattering pots, squalling babies, and arguing couples, all overlaid by what sounded like a semi-skilled musician singing a maudlin love song while endeavoring to accompany his cracked voice on an out-of-tune zither. At the top of the stairs, a wooden ladder led to the tenement's flat roof. He scaled it and rolled silently onto a surface of dried mud overlying matted reeds.
The zither player was up there, somewhere. But the shadows were thick enough. Krunzle rose to a crouch and made his way to the lip of the roof where it overlooked the mud-brick house, paused to listen for any sounds that indicated someone might be enjoying the upper air—though he was fairly sure the zither-player's amelodic strains would have driven indoors all but the profoundly deaf. He slowly raised his head above the low parapet until he could see down. The flat space was empty and unlit. Krunzle readied a grapnel and its knotted cord.
Moments later, he was crouched in darkness. He had chosen one of the corners of the roof above the front wall. He knew that rooms at the rear of a building were more likely to contain servants busy at their tasks; front rooms were for the quality, who more frequently left them empty while they sashayed out to enjoy privileges denied their underlings.
He took a small, sharp blade from his toolkit and applied its point to the roof's packed-earth surface. The desiccated soil broke into powdery flakes, and soon he had exposed a layer of dried reeds laid over a network of thin laths of wood. He removed a patch of reeds and beneath it saw the pale gleam of plaster.
New tools came to his hands. He drilled a tiny hole through the plaster, inserted a thin tube fitted with an eyepiece, and a moment later he was seeing a fly's eye-view of a sitting room illuminated by brass lamps whose wicks were turned low. The decor tended toward erotically curved furnishings and draped swathes of faux-soie. The room was otherwise empty.
Busy seconds passed, then the thief was standing on the thick-pile carpet beneath a Krunzle-sized hole in the ceiling.
He padded silently to the closed door, opened it, and saw a corridor ending in a downward-leading staircase lit from below. He crept to the top of the stairs and listened, hearing a faint bustle of kitchen noises and beneath it a female voice half-raised in a monotonous chant.
He went down to the ground floor. The clatter of pots and pans grew louder; it came from somewhere to the rear of the building and down another level. The chanting also increased in volume; it originated from behind a pair of large, ornate doors that must lead into a room that took up all of the ground floor's front. A wizard would have his study there, he thought. Or perhaps a witch.
Krunzle looked about. So far he had seen nothing worth stealing, even if this had been a burglary of his own devising. It was possible the apprentice's eye, whatever it was, was in the front chamber, being chanted over right this minute. If not, it would be somewhere it could be kept safe and perhaps guarded. Again, experience told him that somewhere would probably be below ground, behind layers of defense.
He searched his memory for the image of the map Baalariot had provided. He recalled the symbols for more downward-leading steps and soon found them, through they were behind a double-locked door, strongly made, itself concealed behind a wall hanging that depicted a decidedly female person making an intimate though unlikely connection with a snake at least twice her length. Krunzle swiftly picked the locks, opened the door, and stepped through to a small landing above a set of narrow stone steps that circled down into darkness.
"So this is the apprentice's eye."
A rank smell wafted up from the stairwell. Krunzle didn’t recognize the odor, but some part of him decided that it was the kind of reek that ought to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Cautiously, ears straining the silent darkness, he began to descend.
He counted fifty steps before his outstretched hand encountered a barrier: another door, also well locked. He again deployed his picks and with small effort soon had the way clear. Beyond was yet more darkness, but here the acrid stench was far stronger.
Krunzle put his head through the doorway and looked to either side. There was a dim glow, enough to show him that the door opened onto a vaulted subterranean passage. The source of the illumination was a thin bar of yellow light that he took to be a leak of lamplight from under a door at one end of the corridor. The other end was unlit and ended in a blank wall with what seemed to be a pool of stygian black at its foot. The pit, Krunzle thought. The stench came from there.
Krunzle went on silent feet to the source of the light. It was definitely another door, but there were no locks, only a thick iron bar that slid into a slot in the stone wall. And, his fingers told him, another peephole.
The thief peeped, and saw a windowless cell not much bigger than the one in which he had spent part of the day, but with a good carpet on the floor, a three-wick oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, a narrow cot (though with pillow and quilt), and a table and chair.
Seated on the chair, back turned to the door, was a small figure in a plain white shift—by the narrowness of the shoulders and the fineness of the golden, collar-length hair, either a young woman or an older child. She (or he) was concentrating on something in her (or his) lap.
Krunzle studied the scene, angling to look through the peephole into the corners of the room. He saw no intimations of danger. After one last visual sweep, he slid the latch and eased open the door.
The figure in the chair turned and looked up at him over one shoulder—a girl on the cusp of becoming a woman, startled in the act of reading poetry from the small book now visible in her grasp. Then surprise turned to excitement tinged with pleasure. "Did he send you," she said, "to rescue me?"
Krunzle ignored the girl's question. You will recognize it when you see it, Baalariot's note had said. And now, as the thief looked at the slim, young figure, and especially at the chain around her neck, and most especially at the amulet that hung from it, he knew.
He stepped into the cell, reaching for the apprentice's eye. It looked like nothing all that special. It was a palm-sized circle of some shiny metal, in the center of which was set a large green cabochon. Around the rim ran a legend carved in a script he could not read.
The young woman stood, her face showing alarm. "Wait!" she said.
"I can't," he said, and took hold of the gaudy thing, giving it a yank that expertly parted the chain. As he did so, two events occurred: the unfaceted green gem in the center turned red; and something cold and strong curled itself around one of his ankles and rapidly rose up his leg. The stench that had been so powerful in the corridor was overwhelming now.
Krunzle held tightly to the amulet—the geas made sure of that—at the same time as he tried to shake his leg free of whatever had seized it. He looked down and saw a broad, triangular head, clad in leprous white scales, its eyes filmed and blind but its forked tongue aflickering. The head connected to a thigh-thick, limbless body that continued to slither toward him along the floor of the corridor, even as it slid upward and addressed its huge strength to the task of squeezing air and life from his torso.
He toppled headlong onto the carpet as the great snake opened its fanged maw and hissed into his face.
"Oh dear," said the girl in white.
Coming Next Week: The perils of working for wizards in Chapter Four of Hugh Matthews's "Krunzle the Quick."
Hugh Matthews is a pseudonym of critically acclaimed science-fantasy author Matthew Hughes, who is responsible for more than a dozen novels and is often called the "heir apparent" to the legacy of Jack Vance, particularly for his Archonate series. His novel Template was republished by Planet Stories, and his first Pathfinder Tales novel, Song of the Serpent, also features intrepid thief and confidence man Krunzle the Quick.
