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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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."

"Not quite," Tarrant said. "Doreset's stronghold: Hawkthorne's Shield."

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

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!

For More of Alaeron's adventures, check out City of the Fallen Sky, available now!

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa.

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—"

"Linnorms aren't dragons, exactly," Alaeron said. "Related, probably, but—"

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."

For More of Alaeron's adventures, check out City of the Fallen Sky, available now!

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa.

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."

For More of Alaeron's adventures, check out City of the Fallen Sky, available now!

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.

Illustration by Carlos Villa.

The Perfumer's Apprentice

by Kevin Andrew Murphy

Chapter Four: The Scent of Honeysuckle

The hag or ogre wife or whatever she was stepped into the room, still looking like a sweet grandmother with her knitting bag and little spectacles. Then she saw the dead spider lying on the hearthrug.

She screamed in horror, rushing over. “You fiendish little pig! What have you done?” She picked up the corpse. “My baby! My poor precious one! Speak to me!”

Her knitting bag fell to the floor, Norret’s glove on top. While I was frozen with fear, my spirit wasn’t. It grabbed the glove and pulled it on.

The unicorn’s jewel shone on the back, glowing with ruby light.

But I wasn’t the only one using more hands than he rightfully should. “Oh no, none of that,” snapped Madame Eglantine. Just like she sometimes seemed to have more eyes, she now definitely had more arms. While two were cradling the dead spider, two more appeared and wove a magic pattern in the air. Then I was looking at not one Madame Eglantine but five, each as monstrous as the last.

I swung the poker at the nearest one and she shattered like a soap bubble. The rest laughed mockingly like a chorus of schoolgirls. My spirit swung at another. The glove’s jewel blazed with light as that illusion vanished as well.

“What are you, you horrid brat?” snarled the three remaining Eglantines. “A sorcerer? An oracle? Some halfling wizard masquerading as a child?”

I swung again, but missed. “I’m the one who’s going to stop you, you cannibal witch!”

A ghostly wind began to blow. The cobwebs fluttered and another bell jar toppled from the mantel, its head bowling across the floor.

“Oh, I’m not the cannibal,” laughed Madame Eglantine. “I have never eaten my own kind. All my husbands were human, and while I ate every last one after he violated my private sanctum, the only true cannibal here is you...”

As she said this, she became fatter and squatter, her body becoming more hunched and spidery, until all that was left was a garden spider the size of a woman, a cross-shaped marking on her back big enough to protect a wedding cake from a whole troop of dancing pixies. It was the mother of the horrible little spider I’d killed, mirrored three times, moving around one another like walnut shells shuffled by a charlatan hiding a pea.

I screamed and ran at them, hitting one with the poker while my spirit swung at another. The illusion before me popped on contact with the iron bar, but my spirit felt the glove slap the spider’s flesh, burning it, antitoxin meeting toxin.

Madame Eglantine hissed and reared. Then the sound of ladylike laughter issued from her horrible spidery maw and webbing shot from her abdomen, a great net like you’d throw to snare songbirds for a pie, thick and sticky as bird lime.

It covered me and I was stuck fast, both me and the fireplace poker, her web pulling taut against the walls as it dried. But my spirit’s hand was still free and I slapped at her again with the glove.

The last illusion vanished with a flare of ruby light. Then the spider shifted back to the form of the spider-armed woman. She reached into her bag and drew forth one of her knitting needles, ebony capped with silver. She waved it about like a wand, weaving magical patterns in the air and clicking her tongue like a Mwangi witch out of a story. A gray ray shot from the tip, hitting the glove.

The light of the unicorn’s jewel died, the spider woman smothering its good Galtan magic with her evil foreign spell. I felt my soul’s hand slapped back as the glove fell to the floor.

She picked the glove up with the tip of her knitting needle as if it were a dead rat. “Just what are you?” She flipped the glove into her knitting bag, stuffing it down to the bottom with the wand. “I’m curious to find out...”

She shifted back to the form of the giant spider. Then she crawled over me, her huge bloated mass avoiding the sticky strands the web. She leaned close, her horrible fangs dripping venom, and bit me.

I felt pain, and then nothing, the poison numbing, putting my limbs to sleep and freezing them, like when you wake from a nightmare but still can’t move.

But the nightmare was not over. The spider woman tenderly, carefully, bit through the strands holding me on the left and the right. She freed the fireplace poker and threw it to the floor. Then she put her claws on me and began to spin me, like a woman twirls a drop spindle. Webbing flew from her abdomen, smooth and soft as silk, wrapping around me, cocooning me as she had Norret.

At last she stopped spinning me. I was terribly dizzy, but my eyes focused as she turned back into a woman. But not all the way. She still had eight eyes and six arms. Then the most horrible thing—her bottommost pair of arms reached into her bag, pulled out a half-finished stocking, and began to knit as if nothing were odd at all.

“Now what are we going to do with you, Orlin?” she mused. “You’re a bit young for husband material, though your brother’s comely enough, if a trifle thin.” She poked Norret’s middle with one long-fingered hand. “Yes, too thin for my tastes. But I’ll plump him up once I have the right charms brewed...”

She picked up the two heads tumbled on the floor, placing them back on the mantel. Norret moaned. Madame Eglantine paid no mind. She looked into her bag and selected a different knitting needle. She mumbled a charm and waved it over a pile of broken glass. Half the pieces flew up and reformed into a bell jar. She repeated the charm and the other was restored as well.

Norret opened his eyes halfway and saw me. “Orlin...” he whispered. “Her bag... bottle... spiderbane...”

He was delirious, but my body was paralyzed by poison, and my spirit as well. A fine time for it to be properly tethered to my body.

But I was not the only spirit about. While I couldn’t feel my jaw, I could sense it opening. “Rhodel...” I croaked.

"Galt’s people don’t take kindly to monsters in their midst."

Madame Eglantine fussed with her dead husbands’ hair and so didn’t see the knitting bag behind her tip on its side. One by one the balls of yarn rolled out, as if an invisible kitten were investigating them. She replaced one of the jars as Norret’s glove appeared, the unicorn’s jewel still dead from the spell. Then as the second jar was being replaced, a crystal flask rolled free. Pretty and faceted, it was a treasure that once belonged to the duchess of Dabril. It was filled with a golden liquid.

“There, much better.” Madame Eglantine looked at her husbands’ heads, now back in their places. Then she looked mournfully at the dead spider. “Poor little dear. I’ll have to put her in the garden and plant a fruit tree. Maybe a sour cherry.” She turned. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Then she saw the bottle floating up.

She dropped both the dead spider and the half-finished sock as she sprang forward, grabbing the flask with all her hands before Rhodel could work the stopper free.

“Oh, tricky,” she said admiringly. “Very tricky. But not tricky enough. Your brother said this held my doom, but he talks too much. I got the jump on him, and the same with you, Orlin. But I do wonder what it is. A poison for spiders, perhaps? Maybe some grand mithridate like the glove, or an antivenin to sour my venom in its sacks? I suppose I—”

A girl appeared next to her, a beautiful young woman dressed in the livery of a page of House Devore.

“Who are you?” asked Madame Eglantine, shocked.

“Death,” replied Rhodel. She ripped the bottle from the spider woman’s hands with the strength only the dead could possess and pulled the stopper free. “Never trouble a child of Dabril!” She threw the contents into the witch’s face.

Rhodel disappeared, the empty bottle and stopper clattering to the floor as Madame Eglantine screamed, clawing her eight eyes with all six hands. Then she stopped screaming as the room became filled with the overwhelming scent of honeysuckle.

“Perfume?” Madame Eglantine gasped. “Perfume? That’s all you have?” She exploded into gales of laughter. “Oh, that’s rich! That’s the cream of the jest! Two riddles solved for the price of one! You, my child, are nothing more than a baby bone oracle! And your brother? Not even an alchemist! A mere puffer who thought to bluff me with a bottle of perfume!”

With that, the windows began to spring open, one by one, the cobwebs ripping free as Rhodel let in the fresh air of the garden outside.

The fresh air—and the wasps and bees from the garlands of eglantine that hung about the house.

Madame Eglantine screamed as the insects swarmed her, stinging her as she shifted into her monstrous spider form. She sprayed webbing as quickly as a magician conjures scarves, but still more came, drawn by the pure scent of honeysuckle absolute.

Then came a droning buzz loud enough to be a roar. Bumblebees the size of lapdogs and wasps the size of small ponies came through the windows, the pets of Calistria, goddess of trickery and vengeance.

The spider woman played her own tricks, multiplying her form with one illusion, turning herself invisible with another. But the swarm was too great for the decoys to last, and the scent of Norret’s perfume unerringly guided the wasps to their prey. Madame Eglantine was stung again and again, until at last she was as paralyzed as Norret and I, trapped as a bloated spider with a woman’s head.

It was then that the wasps did as they always do when they win a battle: They returned to their nest with their prey, as well as the bodies of their fallen comrades—for to a wasp, meat is meat—and any other meat they can find.

The corpse on the table was carried off. The heads of Madame Eglantine’s husbands as well. Even the slab of half-smoked man-bacon from the hook at the back of the hob.

Lastly, the wasps looked at Norret and myself, still paralyzed and caught in the spider’s webs. They bit us free, picked us up in their claws, and carried us back to the nest as well.

Meat is meat, after all.

∗∗∗

Fortunately for us, their nest was the temple of Calistria, and Mistress Philomela knew us.

We were cut free from the webs with Calistrian daggers, had the poison neutralized with one spell and our wounds healed with another.

There was no balm for the horrors I’d seen save holding my brother’s hand. I knew he must have seen worse during the wars, and I understood why he had to bring me back.

Family is worth more than any gold, even if you come back wrong.

“Gingerbread?” offered Mistress Philomela. We were back on her balcony, sitting beside each other on the yellow divan. She held out a plate. On it were three gilded figures: a wasp, a dagger, and a beautiful elven woman.

I took the dagger. I didn’t want to have anything to do with cannibalism, even in the form of gingerbread.

Norret must have felt the same, since he took the wasp.

Mistress Philomela took the one in the shape of her goddess and delicately nibbled her ear. “The only thing sweeter than the cakes of Calistria is the taste of revenge.”

A great cry of exultation came up from the crowd. Rather than a load of fresh prisoners being delivered by tumbrel cart, there was only one late arrival, but arriving in style: a gilded, magical chariot borne by giant wasps hove into view, driven by one of the priests of Calistria, dressed in a golden loincloth that left little to the imagination, especially when it flapped aside. But hanging from the back of the chariot was what truly captured the interest of the crowd: a horrible monster, half woman, half spider, paralyzed by wasp venom, a look of terror on her eight-eyed face because she knew what her fate would be.

The priest did three laps of the street, to greater cries of bloodlust each time, until at last the Gray Gardener on the guillotine’s platform signaled for him to land. He did.

There was then the usual dry speech about the values of Liberty and the enemies of the people, as well as the thanks of the people for those who’d apprehended the enemies of the Revolution, especially fiends and monsters. It was then that I realized I was supposed to stand.

Norret squeezed my hand and I stood next to him. Mistress Philomela stepped aside and applauded us and the rest of the crowd below followed suit. I also realized I was still holding the barely nibbled gingerbread dagger. I raised it over my head. “Victory!” I cried.

“Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!” responded the crowd.

“Vengeance,” added Mistress Philomela with an amused smile.

The execution of Madame Eglantine was very much like any other. Madame Margaery’s blade was hoisted up. Madame Margaery’s blade came down. A woman’s head bounced into the basket. A giant spider’s body lay on the stage. The crowd cheered, all except a group of women in the front row who for once stopped their knitting, looking at the head in the basket, then at each other with expressions of mute horror. The Gray Gardener standing on the stage looked down at them with his gray mask.

You know he was thinking exactly what they were thinking.

There would be questions for Madame Eglantine’s head. Questions for the heads of her husbands. Questions for myself and Norret.

I already knew my answers. We had rehearsed them before.

We were two brothers from Dabril. My brother was a veteran who had returned from the war. My father and brother had died, so my mother remarried, and my brother had taken me with him to be his apprentice when he returned to the capital. Any peculiarities about me were likely just a bit of sorcery unlocked when I was ill. Nothing more.

Norret squeezed my hand. I looked at him. He smiled and bit off the wings of his gingerbread wasp. I smiled back.

Mistress Philomela was wrong. Revenge was sweet, but the sweetest thing was fraternity—having a brother there for you.

Coming Next Week: A sample chapter from Hugh Matthews’ upcoming Pathfinder Tales novel, Song of the Serpent, plus a fantastic new illustration from Eric Belisle!

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" (also starring Norret) and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.

Illustration by Carlos Villa.

The Perfumer's Apprentice

by Kevin Andrew Murphy

Chapter Three: The Garland of Eglantine

The innwife woke me at dawn. I’d spent the night beside the fire. Someone had picked my pocket during the night, so the gold Norret had given me was gone. All I had left was the little horn spoon.

The innwife made it clear that if I bought breakfast or even ale, I could stay, but if not, I should go. I left, stepping out into the cold morning.

Cries of “Gardyloo!” came from up and down the street. Maids and goodwives threw open windows, emptying chamber pots. Piss and night soil spattered the cobbles, running down to the grate that led to the sewers below. Horrible stories were told about those sewers, but nothing could be more awful than the stench. I wished I had one of the paper nosegays Norret and I had spent hours making, but had to make do with the woodsmoke on my clothes.

A moment later, I realized I was crying.

I bit my lip and forced the tears back. Life in Galt was harsh, and I had no illusions. Madame Eglantine was a witch, and she’d warned us not to pry into her business. What that business was, I could only guess. Summoning devils like the vile Chelaxians? Worshiping nightmares from beyond the stars? Smuggling nobles out of Galt?

Whatever it was, it was awful enough that my brother had decided to do something about it. But the witch had won.

How she had won was the question. My brother could be injured, dead, drugged, or even turned into a toad for the witch to feed flies and taunt.

Given Madame Eglantine’s ties with the Revolutionary Council, the cruelest possibility was that he would join the next cart of condemned to feed the guillotine.

The window of the uppermost gable of the house at the top of the street popped open and a familiar female voice cried out a warning. The night soil flew down and the window snapped shut, the little diamond panes frosted from the inside to ensure the old woman’s privacy.

She was unusually late. Normally Madame Eglantine would have done this before dawn, giving her time to go down to the kitchen and fix breakfast for the guests.

I steeled my courage and made my way back to the familiar house. I slipped in as one of the other boarders stepped out—the old wizard Norret had got the manuscript from, off to take his morning constitutional before returning for breakfast.

The rooms Norret and I had shared were bare as when we moved in. The only change was a pile of ashes in the grate. The air smelled strongly of irises and alchemist’s fire.

I made my way to the dining room. The other boarders greeted me kindly, inquiring as to when Norret would be by and how his research was going. I shrugged. The old wizard returned shortly, reeking of cherry tobacco and snuff.

A half-hour late, Madame Eglantine came in, bearing a tray heavy with pork pies and mirabelle plums. “My pardon, gentlemen. There will be no croissants this morning. I missed the baker’s boy when—”

“Where’s my brother?”

The old witch looked at me, shocked, but quickly regained her composure. “My dear child, you’re still here? I thought you left with him last night. Your brother gave notice and cleaned out all his things.”

“I waited at the tavern. He never came.”

A look passed among the guests, a sad one, and the old wizard turned to me and said, “Did he leave you no money?”

“A little. My pocket was picked.”

There were more sad looks and tut-tutting. The old wizard produced a few silver coins and pressed them into my hand. “You must take care of yourself now, Orlin.”

Madame agreed. “I’m not in the business of charity. You’re welcome to stay for breakfast, but you’re almost a grown man. Inquire at the workhouse, or perhaps with the army.”

“My brother would not abandon me.”

She looked very sad, but it was an actress’s look from a melodrama, a practiced expression of grief that had nothing to do with the cold glittering little black eyes behind the half-moon spectacles. “I’m sorry, but you are not the first child in Isarn to believe that, nor will you be the last.”

“People are only human,” the old wizard agreed sadly.

I did not mention that my brother had given up a fortune to bring me back to life. I only burst into tears and ran from that house, unable to think how to save Norret.

I had no way of knowing that he was not already dead. But if you’re from Galt, you know that the only truly final death comes from one of the Final Blades.

No one knows that better than myself. Even coming back wrong is better than not coming back at all.

My handkerchief fluttered out of my pocket, drying my tears without me touching it.
“Th-thank you, Rhodel,” I snuffled, retrieving it. I blew my nose and put it away.

I still had hope. The witch had gone with the lie that Norret had abandoned me, not that he’d pried into whatever awful thing went on in her attic. That meant that she’d have trouble having him arrested and sent off to meet Madame Margaery.

The Gray Gardeners always asked questions, sometimes even after people died.

I thought about what I knew of Madame Eglantine. The only way into her apartment was the door at the end of the upstairs hall, set with many locks and charms. Once I’d glimpsed a spiral stair beyond it, thick with cobwebs. I could only guess that there would be another door with far more dangerous locks at the top of the stair. All the windows locked from the inside. To get up to the gables would mean scaling three stories and a slate roof. The boarding house also had a climbing rose—an eglantine, like its owner. The vine was heavy with little white blossoms, thick with thorns, and infested with famished bees, the fat little garden spiders that preyed upon them, and the wasps that preyed upon them in turn.

Madame only left her attic to fix breakfast and supper, meet with tradesmen, and tend her beloved garden. The only time she left the house was to attend an execution, which was a general holiday. That was also the only time the cook fires were banked.

I saw a halfling walking down the street. He was wearing a short cap and a pair of heavy gloves, and had a wire brush over his shoulder. The only parts of him that weren’t covered with soot were the gilded buttons on his coat.

I stepped into his path. “Teach me your trade.”

The halfling looked up at me and laughed. “Not that I ain’t always lookin’ fer apprentices, but ye’re too tall, lad, and y’look like ye’re gonna get a dem site bigger before ye’re done.” He then turned more serious. “Parents tossed ye out? Tell y’wot. Y’can touch me buttons fer luck fer free and be on yer way with me best wishes. Sound right?”

“How about I buy you a glass of wine and you tell me about your trade?”

“Halfling size or human size?”

“Your choice.”

He grinned. “That’d be halfling size. It’s bigger.”

I ended up buying the whole bottle with a couple of the wizard’s silver pieces, but found I what I needed to know. Most of what I needed I already had—a cap and a pair of stout gloves. What I didn’t have, I didn’t need either. I had no interest in cleaning Madame Eglantine’s chimney, with or without a wire brush.

The halfling did an excellent impression of the mistress of the boarding house: “‘Yes, citizen, I am quite aware of the perils of chimney fires. Be that as it may, I have spells to clean my chimney, and I’m more limber than I appear. Indeed, I think you’d be quite surprised at how small a space I can fit into...’” He snorted. “Nasty old harridan. Lost a few snakesmen to her back in the day. Steer clear of that one if’n y’know what’s good.”

“Snakesmen?”

“Burglars,” the halfling confessed drunkenly. “Second-story men. Never seen hide nor hair of ’em ag’in. Bet she turned ’em inta mice an’ fed ’em to the cat.”

Feeding someone to a familiar was awful magic, but Madame Eglantine did not have a cat that I knew of. The only pets Madame appeared to have were garden spiders.

There were a great many of them in the garlands of eglantine that twined around the boarding house. I climbed the rose the next day, after watching Madame and half her boarders leave for the executions. I couldn’t believe my luck—the windows of Norret’s and my old rooms had been left open to air. They still smelled very strongly of iris.

I brushed the little spiders from my clothes, then went to the fireplace. It was still warm. The hearth fire had been banked in the kitchen. But not for long.

I took the wine bottle from the inn, reached up the flue, and dropped it down the chimney.

There was dim tinkle and the sound of a small explosion. Norret had taught me the formula for extinguisher grenades. It had taken the last of the wizard’s silver at the apothecary, but was worth it.

I waited for the fumes to clear, then stuck my head up the flue. It was dark, and soot drifted down over my face. I did as the chimneysweep had told me. I tied my scarf over my face and pulled my cap low over my eyes, then worked my way up slowly.

There were handholds in the brick, but the safest way up was bracing my back against the back of the chimney and my feet against the front. I wormed my way upward, higher and higher, until I found the next flue, the one that led to Madame Eglantine’s attic apartment.

I came down carefully, expecting that I might step directly into a cauldron, but her fireplace only had an iron hook at the back. It held a slab of Madame’s delicious bacon smoking over the hob. Another hook held a kettle for Madame’s tea. The fire was out save for a few banked coals, but the ashes smelled of applewood.

"Madame Eglantine is more than she appears."

I moved the fire screen aside and ducked out into the apartment, shaking the soot off onto the hearthrug. The apartment was the most cobwebbed place I’d ever seen. Madame might want her guests to tidy up after themselves, but had clearly never seen fit to clean her own rooms. What I had taken for frosted glass was a thick film of cobwebs on the inside of all the windows. It made the light far dimmer than day, but still brighter than it had been in the chimney.

There were cases of books and bric-a-brac, shelves containing the oddments and curios of a lifetime. Then I turned and saw the mantel. My heart stopped cold.

Where a scholar might keep the bust of a great philosopher, or an artist might place a single skull for still lifes, Madame Eglantine had done them one better. On the mantel was a row of bell jars like you’d use for growing vegetables or protecting mantel clocks. But under each jar was a severed head, preserved by magic or alchemy, fresh as they day they were chopped. Their eyes were wide and staring, their mouths half open. I expected them to start speaking any moment.

They did not, but as I stumbled away, I wished they had, for they could have warned me not to look at what I saw next.

Stretched out on a table was a corpse—without its head, without its hands, without a great many parts. At first I thought Madame Eglantine must be an anatomy student or necromancer, but then I saw the chart, like a doctor might use, but marked like a butcher’s with notes like brisket and good for paté. I realized that Madame Eglantine must be some horrible hag or ogre wife like in the stories. Suddenly the bacon hanging on the hob didn’t seem so appealing.

Then I saw Norret.

He was poisoned. I sensed it immediately. He was hanging in a great spiderweb strung in one corner. I rushed to him, but before I touched him, I stopped, remembering the terrible stickiness of such webs from the bard’s stories. I ran and got the fireplace poker and used it to rip the webs away.

He was still alive, but paralyzed and poisoned. And it was then that I sensed poison again. But this poison was moving.

It was a spider. A garden spider like the little ones in the roses outside, squat and brown and marked with a cross like a festival cake frosted to keep pixies from dancing on it. But this spider was the size of a crab.

It scuttled toward me. I smashed it with the fireplace poker, hitting it with the hook. It hissed like a pastry dropped into hot fat and scuttled away. I stepped back. Then the hearth broom levitated, swatting at it—Rhodel trying to help, but only swatting it on the backside.

It leapt at me.

I swung the poker, but it went wild. I lost my grip, the iron bar striking one of the bell jars.

It shattered. The head bowled across the floor, eyes blinking.

I caught the spider. It bit at me, drooling poison, but my gloves were stout. I shoved it against the mantel with one hand. With the other, I reached for my belt knife, hoping to stab it. My hand closed around something smaller than expected, and I realized that I had grabbed the little horn spoon instead.

It didn’t matter. The handle was ivory and pointed, and had come from a unicorn. I jammed it in, point first, again and again, stabbing it over and over until the horrible monster vomited blancmange. It died with a shudder.

I was crying again. I went and got the poker and used it to rip the webs away from Norret. Somewhere in his gear he had a jewel that had once belonged to Dabril’s duke, a magic ruby set in a glove that could neutralize poison. If I could just find it, I might heal him, and we could both escape this chamber of horrors.

“I believe,” said a voice behind me, “you are looking for this.”

I turned. Madame Eglantine stood framed in the doorway, taking Norret’s jeweled glove out of her knitting bag.

Coming Next Week: Further horrors in the final chapter of Kevin Andrew Murphy’s “The Perfumer’s Apprentice.”

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" (also starring Norret) and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.

Illustration by Carlos Villa.

The Perfumer's Apprentice

by Kevin Andrew Murphy

Chapter Two: The Iris of Isarn

Norret had theories, but then my brother always had theories. It’s part of an alchemist’s job. He’d heard some story about assassins wanting to kill an ancient king, and rather than do something obvious like stab him, they got a girl and slowly fed her poison until she was immune but it oozed out her pores. The plan was that once the king made love to this girl, he’d die.

It seemed rather unlikely to me, since it hinged on the king actually wanting this one girl, but the assassins in bards' stories were never the ones who came up with practical plans. In any case, Norret wondered what happened to the “poison maiden” after that. It might also explain how Madame Eglantine’s husbands died.

He also mentioned something called an upas tree, a poisonous mulberry travelers said grew in Tian Xia. The perfume from its branches was supposedly so deadly that it would kill everything in fourteen miles. Were such a tree to have a dryad, that fey woman would undoubtedly be just as toxic.

This was a rather frightening thought, but as I remarked, if there were an upas tree growing somewhere in Isarn, someone would have noticed by now.

Norret’s third theory was that maybe Madame Eglantine was a toad witch like the legendary Crapaudine, mother of Coco the cockatrice, who everyone sang dirty songs about back in Dabril. If she’d used witchcraft to turn herself human, she still might detect as poison to my unicorn-horn senses.

I didn’t think Madame Eglantine had enough warts to be a toad. I also couldn’t picture a toad knitting. But being a witch and brewing so many poisons that some of them stuck to her? That seemed likely.

In any case, her food wasn’t poisoned and she was quite a good cook. It was hard to get food in Isarn, especially meat, but evidently proximity to the Revolutionary Council had its benefits. For our first supper there, there was a beautiful pork roast with gravy, fresh bread to sop it up, and baked apples. After months eating at second-rate inns or choking down my brother’s cooking, it was the sweetest meal I’d ever tasted.

My brother is a very good man and a good alchemist, but not a good cook. It’s a horrible thing to say about a Galtan, but it’s true. If you gave Norret a chicken, he’d be more likely to blow it up or bring it back to life than turn it into anything decent to eat.

The other boarders were mostly scholars, and while they were also appreciative of Madame’s cooking, they told us to get used to pork. There was occasionally goose for holidays, but meat mainly consisted of pork roasts, stews, dumplings, sausages, and even wonderful things like smoked ham and bacon and pork-liver paté, all accompanied by bread from the baker and fresh produce from the garden. The working theory was that Madame Eglantine had a longstanding affair with a high-ranking member of the hog butcher’s guild. There were also jokes about sympathetic magic and Madame using witchcraft to turn men into pigs, but the resident wizards all agreed there was no more magic in the meat than good Galtan cooking, and the only way anyone was going to turn into a pig was through gluttony.

Norret was a bit more worried because the elixir that brought me back from the dead was philosophic mercury, the same magic quicksilver that had gotten into his eye when he cracked the philosopher’s stone hidden in the duchess’s basement. “It’s an amalgam,” Norret explained. “The philosophic mercury mixes with natural magic and enhances it. I used eyebright to heal my eye, so the mercury fumes bonded with the residue. The unicorn’s horn is suffused with healing magic, so it brought you back to life and also let you detect poison. If the mercury were to alloy with other substances...”

I was horrified. “You mean if I eat enough pork I’m going to turn into a pig?”

Norret looked thoughtful. We were back in our chambers with the door locked, so he had his eye patch flipped up. The iris of his left eye was shimmering and silver like a mirror. “Probably not all at once,” he said at last. “You’d probably just grow orc tusks first. They’d actually be boar tusks, but everyone would think you were a half-orc, so it would still come to much the same thing.” I was even more horrified until he tousled my hair and I realized he was making fun of me. “Relax. I’ve got a present for you. I know you’ve been complaining about my cooking, and there was trouble getting food before, so I made this...”

He reached into his pocket and took out a silver nutmeg grater. He flipped the catch and inside it were little ivory nuts. They were part of the unicorn horn that had resurrected me. There was also a longer bit, the tip of a spiraled horn. Norret had shaved it down even further. As he took it out, I realized that he’d carved it into a horn spoon like you’d use to eat eggs.

“Watch.” Norret took one of his alchemist’s bowls and placed the spoon inside. All at once it began to leak white fluid. It rose up, higher and higher, thick and pasty until it threatened to overflow the sides, at which point Norret removed the spoon and pushed the bowl toward me. “Here, taste it.” He handed me the spoon.

I half expected it to crawl out of the bowl, some horrible animate pudding or jelly like they told nightmare stories about late at night in the taverns, but while it quivered, it stayed where it was. At last I put the spoon in and took a taste of the white pudding. It tasted... like paper maché, with maybe a bit of goat’s milk.

“Do you like it?” my brother asked proudly. “It’s blancmange. Your favorite!”

I remembered. Our mother used to make blancmange for Crystalhue. It was a pudding of rice and almonds with maybe a bit of shredded white chicken breast if we were lucky, flavored with rosewater and once a pinch of cinnamon smuggled in from Katapesh. “It could maybe use a little rosewater...”

Norret gave a wry smile. “I tried to add that, but it wouldn’t take. But at least we do have plenty of rose oil on hand.”

While my brother couldn’t cook, he could make rosewater. It made the pudding taste better, if not much.

That said, the ivory spoon was a very thoughtful gift, and amazing magic besides. “How does it work?”

“Spontaneous generation.” Norret said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The same way that barnacles drop into the sea to become geese, the alicorn produces unicorn milk and bone porridge.” He grinned proudly. “It should be very nourishing. My friend Melzec once told me about a dwarf whose son was suckled by a unicorn and grew to become a giant.”

I stopped eating. “So if I eat this I’m going to turn into a giant?”

“Well, probably not all at once.” My brother looked thoughtful. “I’m tall so you’ll probably be tall anyway, and you could always stoop. And it’s better than boar’s tusks.”

All at once the bowl levitated into the air and the spoon flew out of my hand. Norret opened his mouth to say something more, but the spoon flew in, feeding him a spoonful of bland blancmange like he was a very large baby.

Sometimes being haunted by a dead strumpet isn’t that bad.

“Maybe you could find a way for us to see Rhodel,” I suggested.

Norret opened his mouth again, but every time he did, he got another spoonful of pudding. Eventually he just nodded.

Another thing you should know about my brother is that when he’s given a task or a puzzle, he sets to it with a single-minded passion. He’d already talked to enough necromancers about my condition, so he knew about folk who could see into Pharasma’s realm. Finding an alchemical formula to do that, however, was the trick.

As much as I love my country, I also have to admit that many of Galt’s best wizards died or fled during the Revolution and took their books with them. What’s left are fragments, but fortunately Madame Eglantine’s boarding house had a number of residents with some of these fragments, and Norret was able to trade secrets. One wizard sold him a formula for a costly ointment that was supposed to allow one to see through illusions and deceptions. A bard told a story about another salve that allowed a midwife to peer into the First World of the fey.

There was no recipe for that second salve, but while inquiring about it, Norret was able to bargain for a copy of a manuscript the wizard claimed had come all the way from the Library of Leng.

I’d never heard of Leng, but Norret was certainly excited about it, so I guessed Leng was some dead noble.

In any case, the manuscript was partially burned and written in strange runes, but Norret was able to translate the most important bit: a method to see through the doors of reality into the chambers beyond.

There were pages of complicated illustrations showing rays coming out of eyes like Calistria’s daggers, pictures of all sorts of undead—horrible things like glowing skeletons and men flayed alive—and requirements for everything from alchemically purified pitchblende to the perfume of “the flower of the messengers.” There were even partial instructions for forging a magic ring.

Norret thought that wizards were always overcomplicating things with rings, which he thought they used for status more than anything else. Beyond that, the iris of the eye was a ring already. The “flower of the messengers,” it turned out, was another iris, as “a message” is what an iris meant in the language of flowers.

The iris was also the flower of Isarn, the ancient crest of the city. Set into the curve of the river, Isarn had a huge number of the flowers fluttering along her banks like yellow flags. Before the Revolution, the royal irises could only be picked with the king’s permission, on penalty of death. After the Revolution, there was no king, but the penalty was the same.

It was a deed that could have cost us our heads many times over, so Norret and I gathered the armloads we needed in the dead of night. Dodging the city watch and patrols of the Gray Gardeners, we took the flowers back to the boarding house. We wrapped them in greased cloths so they would breathe their perfume into the fat as they died, then cleaned ourselves up and went and ate the leftovers from Madame Eglantine’s excellent supper.

Three days later, the iris pomade was washed with alcohol, then evaporated down to a golden perfume absolute. Norret mixed this with the yellow powder he’d extracted from the pitchblende. “All right,” my brother said, holding up the few precious golden drops, “let’s see if the librarians of Leng had their manuscripts in order...”

"Orlin is no ordinary child."

He tilted his head back and dripped the drops into his left eye, blinked a few times, then looked at me. His left eye changed from quicksilver to gold and began to glow. “Orlin, are you all right?” He took a step back, a shocked expression on his face.

“I’m fine, Norret.”

He continued to look disturbed, then looked at the door. He stepped toward it, then bumped into it. “Is there a door here?”

“Uh, yes...”

He began to look at his hand then, clearly fascinated, looking at it as if he’d never seen it before. “I’m... not undead now, am I, Orlin?”

“I hope not.” Honestly, my brother’s left eye was glowing like they say the eyes of liches do in all the stories.

He stepped back toward the worktable, bumping into it. “Fetch me the lead foil. It’s right there.” He pointed at his backpack, but I had to sort through several inner pouches before I found the one he wanted. Norret took it from me quickly and held it up, covering his eye, then breathed a sigh of relief. “There, that’s better...”

“What’s better?” I asked.

“Those old wizards, they weren’t as foolish as I thought. This phenomenon would be much better with a ring you could take off...” He took the lead sheet away from his glowing eye and looked at me, then moved it back. “Hand me the tin snips, would you?”

I found them, and the metal punch too, and Norret quickly fashioned an eye patch from the lead, which he placed over his regular eye patch.

“So you’re not seeing Rhodel?”

Norret chuckled darkly. “No. Very much not so. I’m so used to looking at alchemical allegories and metaphors that I failed to read the literal meaning. The wizard’s method for looking through doors into the chambers beyond? It’s not for looking into Pharasma’s realm, or the First World either. It’s for looking through actual doors into literal chambers beyond. It also lets you see bones through flesh, or even look through walls.”

He paused then, glancing at the ceiling. Our rooms were on the uppermost story of the boarding house, and on the other side of the ceiling was Madame Eglantine’s attic apartment.

Norret flipped his lead eye patch up, then went pale. He stepped about, looking, then looked back at me. “We can’t stay here, Orlin. We have to go.” He covered his eye back up, almost as an afterthought.

“What?” I said. “And miss supper? Madame said she was serving croque-monsieur with ham!”

Norret looked like he might never want supper again. “No. We won’t be having supper here. Gather your things and go wait for me at the tavern at the bottom of the street. There is something I must do here first.”

“What’s going on? What did you see?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What? I’m not a child. I’m almost twelve! I’ve even been dead!”

“Yes,” Norret said, “but I’ve been to war and you have not.” He took me by the shoulders and looked me squarely in the eyes. “Trust me, there are some things you see that can never be unseen, and will haunt you worse than any spirit.” He glanced apologetically to the air. “Present company excepted.”

The last time I had seen my older brother this serious was when I asked what had become of our father and our brother Ceron. I knew he was trying to protect me. I trusted that he’d give me an answer in his own time, so I went to the tavern at the bottom of the street and waited.

He never came.

Coming Next Week: Mysterious disappearances in Chapter Three of Kevin Andrew Murphy’s “The Perfumer’s Apprentice.”

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" (also starring Norret) and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.

Illustration by Carlos Villa.

The Perfumer's Apprentice

by Kevin Andrew Murphy

Chapter One: The Flowers of Calistria

They say the wickedest thing about the old nobles was that they were always coming back from the dead, 'cause folk never came back quite right.

They don't know the half of it.

I swore.

"None of that, Orlin," my brother corrected. "We're in Isarn now. Remember your manners."

"But Norret!" I pointed. "Look! She's at it again!"

Indeed she was. One of the little bouquets from my tray had floated in the air, high over the crowd waiting for the executions, and up to one of the windows of the House of Joy.

That's what they call the temple of Calistria in Isarn. Back in Dabril, Calistria's temple was just the beekeeper's house, and no one besides him did much in the way of worship. In Isarn it was one of the old palaces. But instead of nobles, each window had a beautiful woman or a half-dressed man.

Each also had a window box of carrots instead of flowers, since the Revolutionary Council had recently declared that everyone, even the temple of Calistria, had to grow vegetables, and use horse manure besides.

It made the city stink even worse than usual. That's why we were selling nosegays.

Norret swore too, an expression I'd never heard before. I guessed he'd picked it up soldiering. He followed it with a growl: "Rhodel..."

That was the name of the old strumpet back in our town before I died. Before she died, too, and went off to serve Dabril's patron goddess, Shelyn.

I should probably have mentioned the dying bit.

I died, I guess. All I know is I had a fever and I had this dream. There was a beautiful lady who wanted me to come with her, and a grave lady who said that I couldn't because there was someone else coming for me. Then the beautiful lady made me a bed of roses, told me to sleep, and I did.

I swear they were Shelyn and Pharasma, the actual goddesses. I mean, who else could they be?

The next thing I knew, I was being woken up by a pretty girl a little older than me, maybe sixteen summers, and she definitely wasn't Shelyn or Pharasma. She said she was Rhodel, and she looked sort of like the old Dabril prostitute, only young and pretty. Rhodel told me she was a friend of my brother's, and I should come because he was waiting for me.

So Rhodel took my hand, and next thing I'm standing in the town graveyard, it's winter, and Norret's there, but he's all grown up. Last I saw him, he was barely older than I am.

He used to be fun, too, but now he's all learned and trained in alchemy, which is what he used to bring me back. Of course my brother doesn't know everything, since he didn't expect he'd get Rhodel in the bargain.

He spent what coin we had to talk to some necromancers, and they told him stuff about "psychopomps" and "spirit guides." Even Norret was confused by all of it, which is saying something. Me? All I know is that I came back from the dead and now I'm being haunted by a dead harlot.

A dead harlot, I should add, who was currently taking one of our boquets to a living one. Not that you're supposed to call the priestesses of Calistria that, since they're "sacred prostitutes," and when they're not turning tricks or playing them, they're getting revenge, and they ride around on wasps the size of ponies. This one was tarted up in a gown of yellow-and-black oiled silk, and even had a fuzzy black-and-gold-striped muff to match. Except that it wasn't. It took wing, and I realized the muff was a bumblebee the size of a lapdog.

The bumblebee bumbled around the nosegay, caught it with its claws, then brought it back to its mistress. She took a whiff, smiled, then looked down from her balcony and gestured for Norret and me to come up.

The guards let us use the outside stair, and next thing the sacred dollymop was rising from her divan. Excepting my dream-Shelyn, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, with honey-blonde hair done up in patriotic Galtan braids and three patches shaped like daggers rayed around her right eye. She was dressed a lot sluttier, too.

"What a delightful tussie-mussie." She smelled the flowers again. "These blossoms are mere tissue paper, but their scent is fair enough to fool a bee." Hers sat on her shoulder, eyeing the bouquet with eyes like perfume-bottle stoppers. "How can this be?"

I half expected Norret to explain how he'd found the secrets of the perfumers' guild hidden in the diary of the Duke of Dabril, and how we'd been using them to make fake flowers, but all he said was, "Ah, fair lady, the flowers are false but the scents are true. Floral essences from the fields of Dabril..."

She laughed lightly. "I've heard tell of the legendary artisans of some Mwangi queen, able to craft false blossoms so lifelike that they fooled all but Calistria's bees. You, it seems, have done them one better. But I wonder... can your false flowers be used to encode a message like a true tussie-mussie?" She looked at the bouquet, inspecting the blossoms. "Ah yes, here's honeysuckle, for ‘the bonds of love'... And vervain—that's ‘sorcery,' yes?" She looked at Norret and then at me. Rhodel had picked up another of the nosegays, and it was floating. I reached out and grabbed it back. "Ah yes, definitely ‘sorcery.' Your assistant is far too young to be a wizard, but definitely has the mage's hand."

She was wrong on both counts, but not by much as I realized both of my actual hands were still steadying the tray, while my spirit's hand was on the tussie-mussie and was playing tug-of-war for it with Rhodel. It must have looked like two invisible bridesmaids wrestling for the right to be the next one married.

Like I said, people never come back from the dead quite right. The overpriced necromancers told Norret stuff about spectral hands and phantom limbs. All I know is that my soul isn't tied to my body as tightly as it should be and that's not good.

The Calistrian dollymop sniffed her bouquet. "And lavender... That's either ‘devotion' or ‘distrust'... I forget which. I'd have to check my floral dictionary." She looked closer. "Or is this sea lavender? And what is that?"

"‘Sympathy,'" Norret supplied quickly. "And you are correct. It is sea lavender."

"The ‘sympathy' that's used by sorcerers or the type that goes with tea?"

"Does it matter?"

She dimpled. "Always." She tucked the nosegay into the front of her bodice, between breasts each bigger than her giant bee. "A worshiper of Blackfingers, I take it?"

"What makes you say that?"

She winked and gestured to Norret's face. "It's not a mask, but a patched eyed gives an air of mystery..."

"Just a war wound," my brother explained self-consciously, leaving important bits out, like the fact that he'd since used alchemy to heal it, or that he'd also got some magic mercury in it, making it look a bit odd. And in Galt, odd was not good unless you were looking for a place in one of the tumbrel carts headed for the guillotine.

One of those was finally headed through the crowd now, and a cheer went up.

"Oh come, join me," the woman said. "Only the tricoteuses have a better seat..."

"The knitters," Norret explained to my baffled expression. "The market women there."

I looked. Right in front of the Monolith, Isarn's prison and Hall of Justice, was the guillotine with its famous Final Blade known as Madame Margaery. And right there before Margaery's basket with the very best front-row seats was a group of women like you'd see at any market, with aprons and white caps fitted with ribbons. Every last one of them was knitting.

"How might we address our hostess, O beauteous demimondaine?"

Norret liked big words and flowery talk, but from the way she laughed and smiled, I guessed that this was a really nice word for ‘dollymop.' "You may call me ‘Mistress Philomela.' And this," she said gesturing to her giant bumblebee, "is Honeybun."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Philomela. I am Norret Gantier and this is my brother and apprentice, Orlin."

"A Calistrian priestess can be a good friend to have, but you don't want to get on her bad side."

I tugged my forelock. "Pleased to meet you."

She made space for us on the divan, which was feathery soft and upholstered in yellow silk, the brocade done with a pattern of vines and blossoms and what looked like skulls. "The fell and fabled creeper," Mistress Philomela explained, seeing Norret's interest in the floral theme. "The pollen produces the most fabulous yellow dye and is of great use in charms of passion and fascination."

"Truly?" asked Norret, touching the silk.

"So I've been told," the dollymondaine admitted. "It's from before the Revolution. It might be saffron from Jalmeray or just common dyer's weld." She smiled conspiratorially. "I've also been told that if you can obtain honey from that particular vine, you can make a mead that acts as a love philtre." She reached for a decanter filled with a pale golden liquid and poured each of us a crystal flute full, as well as a shallow dish for Honeybun. The bee crawled off her shoulder and began to lap it up. "This hydromel comes from the flowers of Calistria, the honeysuckle that we... used to grow here," she finished lamely, looking at the window boxes filled with carrots and horse apples.

Her look continued beyond. Ever heard the expression "to look daggers" at someone? Well, these weren't just normal daggers, but Calistria's, tipped with all of the revenge goddess's wasp venom, and they were aimed straight at the line of knitting women in front of the guillotine. I half expected the three little patches on Mistress Philomela's face to go flying after them.

"A toast," she said, raising her glass, "to the wisdom of the market wives who convinced the Revolutionary Council that every citizen, regardless of station or vows, should grow a victory garden of vegetables, to feed themselves and the hungry folk of Isarn..."

"To victory," said Norret, raising his glass.

"And horse apples," I said, raising mine.

Mistress Philomela nearly choked, then added smoothly, "Yes, and to the wisdom to use the effluence of the streets to fertilize our gardens..."

She and Norret both drank, and I did too, after checking for poison.

I don't quite understand it, but Norret said he used unicorn horn in the potion to bring me back to life, so some of the unicorn's magic must have stuck to me. Which means I can tell if there's poison in something.

There wasn't any poison in the hydromel beyond a bit of alcohol, so I drank it. Then I drank some more. And a little more after that. It was good. I was only able to watch a couple beheadings before my own head hit the pillow at the top of the divan and I fell sound asleep.

I awoke in a room that was definitely not the balcony of the temple of Calistria. Instead of soft silk and swansdown, my pillow was linen over bedstraw, and the room was plain and a little cobwebbed. My brother was there as well, talking to one of the market women. She had her knitting put away, but the bag was by her feet, and she looked very old—at least fifty.

"So who told you I had a room for let?" the woman asked.

"Someone in the crowd," Norret lied. I know when my brother lies—the corners of his eyes go all crinkly. "I gave them a nosegay and they gave me some advice. Said you ran a boarding house with good food and weren't averse to alchemy or magic since you had some skill yourself."

The woman clicked her front teeth together. "Well, that much is true, but—" She paused, and then her small black eyes met mine, magnified and multiplied by little half-moon spectacles that made her look like she had four or more eyes. "Ah, he's awake."

She turned to me and I became acutely aware that my bed was in the corner of the room. "Young citizen, your brother informs me you're called ‘Orlin.' You may address me as ‘Madame Eglantine' or ‘Grandmother Eglantine,' as you prefer, or just as ‘Madame' or ‘Grandmother.' I will not answer to ‘Eglantine' by itself, for only my husbands addressed me as such, and they are all now dead." She smoothed her skirts. "Aside from that, a few other rules: I serve breakfast a half hour after sunrise and supper an hour before sundown. If you arrive at other times, you must make do with what's on the sideboard. The only exception is on days when there is an execution, when I shall be joining my fellow ladies for our knitting circle. On execution days, I set out a cold buffet. Take what you need but leave the rest for the other guests. Don't be greedy but don't expect there will be anything left by suppertime either."

She placed her hands on her hips, her long fingers digging into the fabric of her apron. "As you're from Dabril, I also expect you to be of great help to me in the garden." She fixed me with a steely glare. "Beyond that, both I and my guests value our privacy. That means that locked doors are to be respected and keyholes are not to be peeped through. This goes especially true for my private apartments in the attic. If you pry, you may get what you deserve. That said, if someone breaks into your chambers and blows themselves up with, say, an exploding book, you are responsible for both the damage and the cleaning."

She paused then, placing a finger to her lips, then added, "As for cleaning, I expect you to tidy up after yourselves. The only thing I forbid is harming the spiders, both in the garden and in the house. They are here to catch the dirty flies and those nasty wasps. Leave their webs alone and let the little darlings do their work. Any questions?"

I could only shake my head dumbly.

"Good," she said. "Welcome to my house. I expect to see you tomorrow at breakfast."

With that, she left, and the door latch clicked shut behind her.

Norret turned to me and I said one word. "Poison."

"What?" said Norret.

"Poison," I repeated. "I'm detecting poison."

Norret didn't normally question the new sense I'd picked up, but he glanced to the door and then back. "The old lady? She has poison, or she's been poisoned?"

"Neither," I said. "She is poison."

Coming Next Week: Magical investigations gone awry in Chapter Two of Kevin Andrew Murphy's "The Perfumer's Apprentice."

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" (also starring Norret) and "The Fifth River Freedom," the fourth chapter of Prodigal Sons in the Kingmaker Pathfinder's Journal. For more information, visit his website.

Illustration by Carlos Villa.

Plow and Sword

by Robert E. Vardeman

Chapter Four: Last Stands

"We should leave," Beeah said, tears in her eyes. "If what you say is true, we can't fight Lord Suvarian."

"Who is he?" piped up young Rayallan. The boy looked around curiously. Rorr caught his breath looking into the boy's face. He saw Ulane there, never quite sure what was going on but interested all the same. And usually wrong when he decided.

"He thinks he's got the right to take our property," Fren said.

Rorr wasn't sure about his older stepson. Some of Beeah shone through, but none of her fearfulness. And Fren lacked the wide-eyed wonder Rayallan showed. He wished the boy were older. He could use a strong arm protecting his back.

"He is a petty lord, like—" He bit off the rest. There was no point describing Suvarian in terms they wouldn't understand. "I've seen men like him. Thievery is always their first move."

"He's got a lot of armed men," Rayallan said. "Fren said there were half-orcs. I've never seen one." The longing in the boy's voice also reminded Rorr of his brother. Never quite brave enough to explore his world, but always certain something lay just beyond the horizon. Ulane had died unfulfilled in so many ways.

But he'd had a loving wife and two fine sons. Rorr let out breath he hadn't realized he held.

"If we run, we will have nothing. The harvest will be lost. The house and everything in it will be destroyed."

"We can take some things..." Beeah looked around in despair.

"The Torvans probably thought the same. If they got away, it was with little more than what they wore."

"That was a lot of grain that burned," Fren said. A wild light came to his eyes. "You should have seen it blow up. It was like—"

"Like what will happen to our grain, to our house and barn unless we fortify," Rorr said. At some point listening to his sons and watching his wife agonize over losing hard-won furniture and keepsakes, he had decided. They would fight.

"How?"

"Board the windows. Rayallan, you're good with a hammer. See to using that pile of cut planks out back."

"I'm good with a hammer? You mean it? Yes!" He rushed off, excited at being praised—and needed. Rorr hoped that the boy would live to brag about it.

"What can we do?" Beeah asked. Fren scowled at his mother as she wrapped her arms around him in a fiercely protective hug. "Fren and I can help."

"They use fire arrows. Water will keep anything surrounding the arrow from burning, but the arrow itself cannot be extinguished."

"Tongs," Fren said suddenly. "Fire tongs. And heavy gloves. I can pluck the arrows out that way!"

Rorr nodded. It wasn't likely to work the way his son thought, but it might save some damage.

"What are you going to do?" Beeah wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold. She shook. Rorr moved to comfort her, then realized there was no time. He heard the pounding of hooves in the distance.

He swung about and went to the oak where the hole among its roots still beckoned. Dropping to his knees, he pulled the final oilcloth-wrapped package from the ground. He stripped away the thick cloth and gripped the sword within. It felt familiar in his hand, bringing with it memories of other times. He settled the buckler on his left arm, adjusted his greaves, then went out to face the riders before they had a chance to set fire to his house.

A quick glance over his shoulder showed his younger son hammering furiously to fasten the wood over the windows. Rayallan paid attention to nothing but his work. Every blow of his hammer drove a nail in. Some took two strikes, but Rorr approved. Through the open door he saw his wife and other son moving furniture so the doorway could be blocked in a few seconds.

He had no more time to consider how the defense went. A dozen riders approached, slowing and finally coming to a halt.

"You're still here," the lead rider called. He urged his horse forward a few yards, cutting the distance between them in half. He wore light plate armor emblazoned with the sigil the others had worn. An articulated glove on his right hand curved around the saddle horn. His ungloved left hand dangled free at his side but was only inches away from a large shield, also decorated with the gerfalcon rampant.

"It's my land." Rorr held his sword at his side and partially behind him to hide it from the man.

	"Lord or no, Suvarian is far from noble."

"I'm Lord Suvarian."

Rorr knew the lord expected a reply. He remained silent.

Suvarian bristled and drew his sword, brandishing it over his head.

"You defy me, man of dirt. You are a farmer. I am lord of all these lands! Go to your knee! Show me respect."

"You're a cattle herder who takes on airs," Rorr shot back. "Are you truly royalty? Or are you some squire's bastard son out to make a name for himself?"

Suvarian roared and galloped forward, sword slashing. Rorr stepped to the left side of the lord's horse, forcing the man to awkwardly reach across his body in a futile attempt to land a blow. Before he could gauge the proper distance, he was past Rorr and fighting to wheel his horse about.

Rorr looked at the other soldiers. They wore heavier armor than the men he had killed. None carried a bow and arrow. That brought a slow smile to his lips. He might have destroyed all their bowstrings, or perhaps these were Suvarian's personal guard and fancied themselves swordsmen. They sat awkwardly on their horses and seemed uneasy with their weapons.

"These are back-stabbers, not fighters," Rorr said. He pointedly turned his back on the dozen soldiers and faced Suvarian. "Take them and go. I have work to do."

Rorr widened his stance as Suvarian prepared for another attack.

"I have wasted enough time. Leave or die!"

"How many of your men have I killed already? I lost count. A battle scribe will be needed for the tally if you refuse to leave now."

"You? You, a farmer?" Suvarian barked the words, but a hint of uncertainty came and he looked over at his guardsmen. He boasted for them—and to bolster his own courage. The failed first attack had obviously unsettled him. "Give this whelp a sword. I would fight him."

"After I kill you," Rorr asked, "your men will depart?"

Suvarian laughed. It carried a hint of madness in it.

"You cannot slay an armored knight. I am lord of these lands and a master swordsman!"

A rider came up with a sheathed sword. He threw it to the ground beside Rorr.

"Then your death will be mourned near and far." Rorr kicked the sword aside without looking at it. "I prefer to use my own."

He lifted the sword from where he had held it at his side. Sunlight glinted off the intricate hilt, the fine etching on the blade, the wicked, slightly curved tip and the edge so sharp that it cut through the air without even the softest whisper.

The soldier who had dropped the sheathed sword moved away a few yards. He called to the others, "He has an Aldori dueling sword!"

This caused momentary furor among the men.

"Where did you find the sword, farmer?" Suvarian called. "You can hurt yourself with such fine steel."

"I never so much as nicked myself through three border wars." Rorr lifted the sword to display the intricately decorated boss at the end of the hilt.

"A swordlord's seal. Where did you steal that, plowboy?" Suvarian sounded less sure of himself.

"It has been my soul and companion for four years."

The lord's face drained of blood. "You are a thief and a liar!"

"I challenge you, Suvarian. Fight or leave my land now!"

The soldiers murmured when their lord did not instantly move to slay the impudent peasant.

"You," Lord Suvarian called to them. "Yorrial, Juston, Jerra—kill him! Fight him!"

"I challenged you, Suvarian."

"All of you, attack! Kill him!" Suvarian tried to force his horse to back away, but the animal balked.

His warriors milled about until one finally let out a battle cry and galloped forward. Rorr looked from Suvarian to the attacking soldier. He took a quick double step to the side, ducked, threw up his buckler to deflect the slash, and straightened his bowed legs. His sword tip found the spot at the vulnerable bottom of the rider's armor. Rorr felt first resistance, then none, then resistance again as the blade drove through internal organs. As the rider toppled, Rorr yanked back his blade. He held it high, letting the dead soldier's blood run down the small channels on the Aldori sword so the others could see.

A second warrior started an attack, then veered away.

Rorr turned his back on the tiny knot of fighters and faced Suvarian. The man fought to control his horse. Rorr walked forward, tongue clacking at a pace and frequency to unsettle the horse further. It had worked before during many battles where he had faced impossible odds. It worked again.

The horse reared and tossed Suvarian to the ground. The lord landed hard on his back and struggled to sit up. His armor wasn't full plate, but the pretender found it too heavy to move.

Rorr stopped a pace away, eyeing the fallen lord. Suvarian screeched like an owl as Rorr slashed. The shriek turned to a blubbering sob as Suvarian realized the cuts had done nothing but sever the leather straps holding his armor.

"Stand and fight," Rorr said coldly. "If you don't, I'll kill you like a rabid dog."

Suvarian rolled from side to side, then shucked off the armor like a snake molting its skin. He struggled to hands and knees, then forced himself to stand. He clutched his sword in a clumsy double-handed grip.

"I'll cut out your eyes and feed them to crows," Suvarian said in a shaky voice.

Rorr tapped his cheek with the boss at the end of his hilt in silent prayer to Gorum. Then he flashed the sword in a mocking salute.

Suvarian attacked. His assault was primitive, and Rorr hoped that his own untrained sons would have done better, had he handed them a sword.

A quick flurry of parries and a simple thrust sent Suvarian staggering away, a long cut across his torso.

"Kill him, you cowards! Do as I order!" Suvarian gripped his weapon fearfully, more like an ax than a sword. His eyes widened in fear as Rorr slashed the air. The lord switched from threatening to cajoling. "A thousand acres of pastureland to whoever kills him. Two thousand!"

Rorr heard nothing behind him to hint that any of Suvarian's soldiers found the offer intriguing enough to die for. He stamped his foot and sent Suvarian scuttling away.

"You don't deserve to die by my sword—not this sword, with so proud a history." Rorr thrust the blade into the ground so hard it quivered for several seconds. He saw calculation come to Suvarian's eyes. The lord's courage returned as Rorr advanced, weaponless.

"You are a fool, farmer." Suvarian screamed and charged.

Rorr watched, gauged where the pretender's foot would be planted, then swept up his shovel where it had been thrust into the ground at the middle of a plowed row. He swung the tool with his right hand as he parried Suvarian's thrust off the buckler. The tiny shield whined with the impact—and Suvarian fell facedown, tripped up by the shovel's shaft.

The man tried to rise, but Rorr's patience was at an end. He gripped the shovel handle with both hands and swung, batting the sword away. A foot in the middle of Suvarian's back forced him flat again and pinned him there.

A quick look up told Rorr what he needed. None of Suvarian's brigands made a move to aid their lord.

"You should not prey on those unable to fight back," Rorr said.

"I'll see you executed!"

"No, you won't." The shovel rose and fell. Suvarian's head rolled away and stared off down a plowed row, as if making a final examination before approving the straight furrow and deep, even cut.

Rorr left the shovel buried in the ground, walked deliberately back to where his sword thrust up. He withdrew it from the dirt, prepared for a fight against the remaining soldiers.

Only dust met his eyes. When the cloud settled, his view was unobstructed all the way to the trees at the far side of his land, save by the occasional bush or sapling. Those would be removed as autumn plowing went on.

He turned and saw Beeah and his two children. Fren and Rayallan stared openmouthed at Suvarian's body. His wife's eyes never left him.

"I'll tend to this," he said. "Go back to the house. You did a good job of fastening the planks over the windows, Rayallan. Now get your brother to help you remove them."

"There's no more?" Fren sounded disappointed.

"Go," Rorr said, but there was no crack of command in his voice. He was no longer a commander of men. A father directing his sons was more appropriate now.

"Aw, Pa," protested Fren. Then he punched his brother in the shoulder and challenged him to race back to the house. Only when they were halfway back did Beeah step up.

"I don't understand," she said. "How—?" She looked at Suvarian, then jerked away from the gory sight.

"No one threatens my family or my land."

Fear widened her eyes—fear of her husband.

"We have work to do."

She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut once more as she shook her head.

"I'll plow. When the boys are done with the house, send them back. There will be work for them in the fields."

"He was a lord," she said, her voice cracked with emotion. "He will have an heir."

"He was nothing but a brigand."

"Someone else will come. If not his heir, then another in his company. What will we do then?"

Rorr looked at his wife and held up the shovel. She recoiled. He drove the blade into the ground, then heaved the dirt high into the air. Wind caught the soil and scattered it. Beeah backed off, then almost ran to the farmhouse.

Rorr took a deep breath, threw the shovel aside, and went to harness the plow horse. It took close to a half-hour to return to the field with the horse dutifully pulling the plow. Rorr spit on his hands and bent forward to guide the plow. There was real work to be done.

He didn't even look up when the cougar howled in the distance.

Coming Next Week: A sneak peek at Dave Gross's latest Pathfinder Tales novel, Master of Devils.

Robert E. Vardeman is the author of more than fifty science fiction and fantasy novels, including both original series such as Cenotaph Road, War of Powers, and Swords of Raemllyn, as well as tie-in novels for such notable properties as Tom Swift, God of War, Battletech, Star Trek, and Magic: The Gathering. He has been nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer, and is one of the founders of the New Mexico science fiction convention Bubonicon. For more information, visit his website.

Art by Carlos Villa.

Plow and Sword

by Robert E. Vardeman

Chapter Three: Relics of the Past

Rorr used the shovel to turn dirt amid the tree roots until he struck the buried packages. He dropped to his knees and used his hands to brush away the remaining dirt, revealing several small packets and one larger one. That last one he ignored, instead pulling the oilcloth wrappings free from one of the smaller bundles.

Inside lay bronze wrist guards. He ran his fingers over their nicked, rough surfaces. At one time they had been smooth. Proper care demanded that he smooth down the deep cuts and curls peeled back from the surface.

Rorr settled them on his forearms without further consideration of proper appearance. They would do. Greaves followed. He sat with his legs thrust out as he adjusted them. A long-bladed knife came next, its keen edge gleaming in the starlight. Rorr had always taken better care of it than his wrist guards. The final package he drew forth, blowing off dust and dirt, was a small buckler. The faded sigil couldn't be discerned.

At one time, that would have bothered him. No longer.

Settling the strap around his left wrist, Rorr turned the buckler this way and that, feeling the strain on muscles unused for a year and longer. He picked up the knife and sheathed it behind the buckler, then stood.

The greaves felt awkward on his legs, and the right wrist guard chafed. If he had worn it earlier, the half-orc's arrow wouldn't have penetrated his flesh. More than once, the brass guards had safely turned away arrows or sword thrusts. They might have to again.

He returned to the bodies of Lord Suvarian's brigands. No matter that they claimed to be on a royal mission—Rorr knew them for what they were. Killers. Thieves. Highwaymen, and nothing more. He dragging the bodies out to the field where he had already plowed, laying them heel to head, then covered that row with dirt. It provided a sorry grave for the soldiers, and animals would come to dine on the carrion. Rorr wanted only to keep the corpses out of sight from his wife and children.

Soon enough they would see death. Of that he was certain, but until then he would shield them however he could.

With long strides, he went to the nearby coppice most likely to shelter the soldiers' horses. A small smile came to his lips when he saw the steeds. It took only a few minutes for the horses to accept him. Rorr selected one and mounted. The other would serve as a second plow horse afterward.

Afterward.

Rorr couldn't find the trail taken by the two soldiers, so he simply relaxed his hold on the reins and let the horse have its head. It would return to the camp it had left. If not, he suspected it would take him in the proper general direction. As he bounced along, he half slept, letting his mind settle. There had been other battles, and he knew the need to be rested.

Yet in those other battles, his wife and their children had not been at risk. This bored into Rorr's brain and rooted around, turning him uneasy. Some might say marrying his brother's widow was wrong, but he had known Beeah long before Ulane wed her, and he would not leave his brother's wife to starve, or take up with a lesser man. Their sons were strong and smart and would make good farmers one day. Ulane was the better farmer, but Rorr had not been a poor student. Life on their childhood farm near Gralton had been easier, with better soil, longer seasons, and access to irrigation. But for all the challenges here, Rorr knew this farm could be proved, and they would all flourish.

Asmodeus take upstarts like Suvarian, who thought to steal what he could not otherwise own.

Rorr perked up when he saw a pair of low campfires in the distance. Dawn was still two hours from arriving, fresh and cold. Again, he resented Lord Suvarian's intrusion on his schedule. The fields had to be properly prepared, and winter cover planted to ready them for spring.

As sharp as his eyesight was, he saw no movement in the camp. No dim shape passed in front of the glowing coals in the fire pits. Those in the camp slept. Did they follow military procedure enough to post sentries? What of warding spells? It wasn't unusual for a minor sorcerer or priest to travel with a war party and cast simple spells or offer healing. Putting out a simple ward spell was a moment's work, even for an apprentice.

The closer he rode, the more he doubted any magic had been employed. They thought they were safe in their numbers. Force of arms against dirt farmers was enough to correct any small misjudgment in that respect. What did they fear a man armed only with a pitchfork, when they had bows and arrows, swords and shields?

He slipped from horseback and grabbed the reins, leading the reluctant horse away from the rude corral at the far side of the camp. Undoubtedly the horse remembered being fed and watered there. Rorr secured the reins in such a way that the horse could nibble at tough grass and dying plants, then advanced on foot.

Buckler kept low and away from the fire to prevent a warning reflection, he moved to within a few paces of the sleeping men. A slow count of dark blanket-covered lumps told Rorr that six men slept. He backed away, circled the camp, and counted horses.

Eight.

Two sentries had been posted away from the camp, but neither had spotted him as he approached. Rorr considered his route to the camp and decided that the guards either slept on duty—a crime punishable by twenty lashes in most armies—or he had inadvertently chosen the proper direction where each picket thought the other had returned to camp.

If each sentry made a half circuit of the camp, he decided that the first had to be some distance from the camp amid a tangle of thorn bushes. No soldier waited at such a place. Rorr looked up into the tree above the thicket. A slow smile came to his lips. A dark knot lodged in the crook of the trunk and first limb could only be a large hunting cat—or a sleeping soldier.

	"A man may try to forget the past. But his arms remember."

Rorr slowly paced in the opposite direction. Pulling a guard from the tree was easy enough, but the noise would alert the others. Better to deal with the second guard, if he had remained on the ground.

He almost stumbled over the sleeping sentry. The man sat with his back against a tree trunk, legs drawn up and head resting on his knees. His sword lay at his right side where he could grab it in an instant.

If he were awake.

Rorr moved like a disembodied spirit, bent and silently lifted the sword from the ground. The guard stirred, sneezed and then returned to his dreams. Rorr backed from him, the captured sword gripped tightly. It fit his hand poorly. The guard's fingers were shorter, stubbier, the breadth of his hand far less than that Rorr's. Not the hand of a swordsman, but of a craftsman.

Suvarian sent pot-throwers to fight farmers. Rorr couldn't help sneering. He was about to throw the sword away when the guard sneezed again and looked up.

The man died on the point of his own sword, thrashing about noisily before having the good grace to die. Rorr left him impaled on the sword and returned to the camp. None of the soldiers had stirred from the commotion, but that didn't mean the other sentry hadn't been alerted. He circled the camp once more, approaching the distant picket high in the tree.

He heard snoring before he got close enough to reach up and grab the man's ankle. With a quick jerk, he dislodged the man, who fell heavily to land belly-down. Rorr dropped so his knee drove into the small of the man's back, pinning him. With a quick move, he reached around the struggling man's throat, caught his chin, and twisted hard to the side. The man died immediately.

Rorr stepped back, panting with the exertion. He felt a little sick to his stomach at the deaths, then remembered what these brigands had done to the Torvans. The entire family might have been murdered. If they hadn't, they had been driven away from their land and harvest. It was not a choice he would want to make.

He sighed. He knew how he would respond if it came to that. He would leave the homestead behind to save Beeah and the boys. Cursing Thom Torvan for making a similar decision did no good.

He looked through the trees and saw the first hint of dawn—it was likely false dawn, the lightening before a deeper darkness followed by the sun creeping above the horizon. Time crushed down on him as surely as he had thrust his knee into the dead soldier's back.

Moving faster, making more noise, he returned to the camp. Most of the sleeping men held their swords or lay alongside them, making removal difficult. He poked through the contents of their gear, taking each bowstring he found. The knife slid from its sheath on the back of his buckler and chopped the strings into short pieces. He found the longbows and similarly tended to their strings. Then he began sawing and hacking at the arrows in quivers. A hundred arrows he broke or cut the fletching off.

Only one arrow had been dipped in the oily black substance that had ignited Torvan's granary. Rorr lifted it from a separate quiver and peered at it in the darkness. A skin sheath prevented air from touching the incendiary liquid. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and settled the arrow, not sure how he could use it.

He took one last look around the camp and knew he had destroyed what he could. The remaining six fighters began to stir as daylight filtered through the trees. Rorr walked steadily to the horses tethered to a rope. His knife rose and came down, its sharp edge slicing through the restraining rope. He waved his arms and spooked the horses.

As they ran off, the men in camp realized something was seriously wrong. They drew swords and reached for bows.

Rorr laughed at the archers' impotence, but the swordsmen came for him, yelling to be sure all their companions were awake and alert to the danger.

He swung, used his buckler to deflect the nearest soldier's thrust, then stepped close and drove his blade up under the lowest rib and into a beating heart. Before he yanked the blade free, that heart ceased throbbing. The warrior fell to the ground.

He saw the other five note his expertise, coming to the realization that only through united action might they continue to live.

"To his flanks! Move, damn your eyes!" The soldier bellowing orders from the center was either an officer or someone the others obeyed without question.

Rorr reached into the quiver and used the edge of his blade to peel away the skin sheath around the fire arrow. He waved it around above his head until it ignited. For a moment, the fighters retreated.

He laughed loudly. The light from the fire arrow cast shadows on his face, turning him into something less than human. The instant of their hesitation would be short. He flung the arrow directly at the officer, forcing him to dance back.

In the confusion, Rorr stepped into the forest, found a trail, and fell into a ground-devouring stride. The brigands were slower following, giving him the chance to pop into a clearing, get his bearings off the rising sun, then strike out directly for his own horse.

He stepped up into the saddle and wheeled the mount around just as three pursuers burst out of the woods after him. Rorr had no reason to fight them. They were without horses, at least until they tracked them down.

His heels raked the horse's flanks and set it galloping in the direction of his farm.

This skirmish was not a battle. The true battle would come when Lord Suvarian learned of his men's failure. Rorr had to prepare his family for the final fracas. Either they would defeat Suvarian, or Rorr and his family would die.

He put his head down and rode faster for his farm.

Coming Next Week: Blood in the fields in the final installment of Robert E. Vardeman's "Plow and Sword."

Robert E. Vardeman is the author of more than fifty science fiction and fantasy novels, including both original series such as Cenotaph Road, War of Powers, and Swords of Raemllyn, as well as tie-in novels for such notable properties as Tom Swift, God of War, Battletech, Star Trek, and Magic: The Gathering. He has been nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer, and is one of the founders of the New Mexico science fiction convention Bubonicon. For more information, visit his website.

Art by Carlos Villa.

Plow and Sword

by Robert E. Vardeman

Chapter Two: The Lord's Due

Rorr exploded through the wall of flames and stumbled past, finding relative cool beyond. The fire arrow had not yet spread its fury deeper into the granary, but he knew that the building and its grain stores were already far past saving.

"Fren!"

"Pa! Over here!"

Rorr followed the faint sound, again grimly satisfied that his stepson once more called him father. That was an obstacle he had long sought to overcome. His brother's son was not his own. How could he be both uncle and father to the boy? Yet he wanted to. It had proven difficult for all of them—Beeah especially, since she had to see her children's father reflected in him. Rorr knew he was a pale reflection of Ulane, but the resemblance was still there.

"This way! I can't get the door open!"

Rorr coughed as he skirted the bin of grain. Torvan had the central bin filled and had left a path around it, possibly to afford easier access to the oldest grain first. He passed more than one portal that might open to pour out a steady flow of the harvest wheat.

Gasping for breath, he ran into Fren before he saw him. The smoke had become too thick, and his eyes watered.

"It's a door to the outside, but I can't open it. I tried to go back, but the flames—!"

Rorr threw back the latch, but the door refused to open. He hunkered down, then blasted out, shoulder smashing through the wood. For a moment he thought he would be held captive in the center of the door. Then the hinges broke and he tumbled outside. Smoke billowed out.

"Are you all right?" Fren laughed without humor. "The door swung inward, not out. We were—"

Rorr extracted himself from the wood, splinters poking from his body like porcupine quills. He scooped up his stepson and ran, ignoring the boy's frantic attempts to break from his grasp. Gasping from exhaustion, he finally dropped Fren and pointed.

"Horse. Get on. "

"I'm not a child! You—"

Rorr once more engulfed his stepson in a powerful hug and clumsily mounted. Even before he had his seat, his heels raked at the horse's flanks, getting it moving. The horse had barely gone fifty yards when the granary exploded like the very sun. Burning grain cascaded down in fiery flutters around them. Rorr kept the horse trotting along at its top speed. Only when the roar diminished did he slow and turn to look back.

"What happened?" Fren coughed and wiped soot from his face. "The grain?"

"The dust catches fire easily. Trapped inside the granary, it exploded."

"You knew that would happen?"

"I've seen such things before." Rorr said. In truth, he had loosed such a ferocious storm on others before, for the same reason as the brigands.

"What are we going to do?"

Rorr let his stepson find a less awkward seat on the horse. He took a deep breath to clear his lungs, then said, "We search for the Torvans, but I don't think we will find them."

"Do you think they got away before the soldiers came?"

Rorr said nothing.

∗ ∗ ∗

"There was nothing you could do to save the grain?"

Rorr smiled a little at his wife's question. Always the practical one, Beeah. He shook his head.

"Since you found no trace of them, I can only assume they simply left."

"Ma, it wasn't like that. There were these soldiers, and Pa stood up to them." Fren looked at Rorr with a glimmer of respect. "He saved me when the granary caught fire."

Rorr hadn't bothered relating the details. Letting Beeah know only what was necessary seemed most prudent. Worry over brigands and the like served no purpose, now that the attackers lay dead.

"We need to finish plowing," he said. "As much fun as speculating about Thom Torvan and his family might be, it does nothing to prepare us for the winter."

"He's right," Beeah said, lips drawn into a disapproving line. "No time to waste now. We can sit around the fire this winter and spin wild tales of how Thom and Ganley are off somewhere with that brood of theirs, enjoying the fine weather on a southern beach."

"But Ma, those men were killers. They—"

"Work, young man. Now. You too, Rayallan. You weren't finished sorting through the onions."

"Aw, Ma, there aren't any rotten ones."

"Then start with the potatoes. Small ones in one pile, larger ones in another."

The two boys went off, but Beeah reached out and stopped her husband. He winced, just a little, as her fingers gripped his forearm.

"What really happened there?" She peeled back his bloody sleeve to reveal the wound he had field-bandaged before returning. "Are the Torvans dead?"

"Didn't find bodies. They might be dead." He forced a smile. "Or they might be relaxing on that southern beach, waiting for winter to freeze our bones so they'll have a laugh on us."

Beeah started to say something, hesitated, then muttered, "You're just like Ulane."

"We are—were—brothers," he said, unsure of what else to say.

"The plague did so much damage. I thought we were safe. The Torvans, not a one of them caught it. No one else this side of Pitax caught it."

"Except Ulane." Rorr hugged her, then pushed back as he became self-conscious about such a display of affection. He realized he was trying to convince himself that the past meant nothing, and that the future didn't hold a fate like the Torvans'. "There're fields to be plowed, and I don't trust Fren to cut a straight row."

"With that worthless horse, how could he? It wanders from side to side like a drunken gnome. Get on, now." Making her words light did nothing to brighten the darkness in Beeah's eyes. Rorr quickly left.

He could deal with a balky plow horse, or the annoying worms that gnawed at the roots of his crop. Even the brigands who had plundered the Torvan farm.

That last worried at him as he walked slowly to the field. Brigands would have stolen, not destroyed. Selling such bounty in Port Ice would have brought enough wealth to keep them in whores and ale for the entire winter. Something about the destruction wasn't right.

"All hitched and ready to plow," Fren called, seeing him approach.

"Why didn't you begin? There're miles of rows to be plowed." He bent, caught up a thick, dry clod and tossed it playfully at his stepson. Fren dodged it easily.

"The horse wants you and nobody else."

"That's an inventive excuse. Get to moving the rocks at the far side of the field into a stack so I can keep a straight row."

Rorr slid the reins over his shoulder, took the plow handles, and called to the horse to begin pulling. As terrible a riding horse as this one was, it had strength and surefootedness in the field, and more often than not it dropped a load to help with fertilizing. The first two long rows went well, with the brittle husks cut and turned under the soil to rot and give sustenance to new crops in the spring. On the third, Rorr stopped and stared.

His eyesight was keen, and the approaching riders became visible minutes before his son saw them. Then even the boy could not miss the riders.

"Who are they, Pa?"

"Don't say a word when they get here. No matter what I say, you obey instantly. Understood?"

"But—"

"Understand?" The edge in his voice made the boy recoil, then nod slowly.

	"A thief in livery is still a thief."

Rorr stepped away from the plow, wiped sweat from his forehead, then faced the four riders. All wore tabards with the same coat of arms he had seen on the brigand's shield. He started to order Fren to the house, but the lead rider motioned and another rode to a position where such retreat would be cut off.

"Stay close," Rorr said in a low voice. Louder, "Who might you be?"

"Soldiers of Lord Suvarian, peasant. Show respect for vassals of your lord."

"There's no lord to rule over this land. This stretch of the River Kingdoms hasn't had royalty to govern it since the last border war."

"That has changed. Suvarian claims this land all the way to Brevoy."

"The farm is mine. By edict of Duke Gessmen."

"Who is dead in a border skirmish. How is it you claim ownership through a duke long deceased, yet deny Lord Suvarian's rule?" The soldier rode closer. Soot lay heavy on his tabard, disguising much of the gerfalcon rampant coat of arms. The man wore leather armor beneath and carried his sword in a scabbard slung from his saddle and under his left leg. The scar on his face, his lean body and quick, nervous movements, told of a soldier anticipating battle.

"I want only to farm my land in peace."

"Peace," the rider said, sneering. "There can be none as long as you befoul Lord Suvarian's land."

"This is my land," Rorr said stubbornly.

"Pa, he—"

"Quiet," Rorr snapped. He saw the outrider's amused expression, but the soldier watched like the bird sigil on his chest. It would take but an instant to draw his sword and swoop down should Fren bolt for the house.

"My lord—your lord—claims all this land for grazing. He has a vast herd and supplies the war effort along the Sellen."

"Then grain would be in demand. I can sell—"

"Milord doesn't want your filthy grain. It's not even fit for his cattle. If you leave this land now, it will return to grass by the summer and provide proper fodder."

"Where would you have us go?" Fren pushed past Rorr and stared at the soldier, too young and foolish to understand fear.

"What does it matter? Leave. Your neighbors have departed."

"The Torvans? Where are they?" Rorr saw the smirk and how the warrior unconsciously touched the soot on his armor.

"It doesn't matter. Perhaps they have gone to the Boneyard. If you want to avoid meeting them in Pharasma's sweet embrace, leave."

"No!" Fren jerked free of his stepfather and moved forward, fists small and bony.

"One of them has sand in the gizzard," another soldier said, amused.

"Give him a sword, Darrotte," ordered the leader. "I would see if their skill matches their fine words."

The warrior reached behind his saddle and whipped out a short sword. He held it high to catch the sun, flashed it in Rorr's direction, then sent it wheeling through the air. It landed point down in the plowed ground at Rorr's feet.

Rorr held Fren back to keep him from seizing it. "We're farmers," he said. "What chance would we have against four warriors?"

"The best in Lord Suvarian's army," bragged the leader.

"It would be doubly foolish for a farmer to fight you, then."

"They would drive us from our land!" Fren showed his outrage, but Rorr tightened his grip to hold the boy back.

"Keep the sword. You might need it—as you leave Lord Suvarian's pastureland!" The leader laughed, pulled hard on his horse's reins and motioned for his men to follow. They galloped away.

Only when they were out of sight did Rorr release his stepson.

"You can't let them chase us away. This was my father's land! My real father!" Fren's eyes welled with unshed tears of rage.

"This is what I think of their weapons." Rorr yanked the sword from the dirt, placed the point at an angle against the ground, and stomped down hard. The blade broke raggedly a few inches above the hilt. Rorr flung the piece in his hand as far away from him as he could.

"Coward," Fren grated. He ran for the house.

Rorr let the boy go. It would do no good to explain that these four meant nothing. They were messengers only.

But messengers could be dangerous. Rorr heaved a deep sigh, then returned to his plowing. The cold wind blowing from the north chilled him more than ever.

∗ ∗ ∗

Rorr poked at the food on his plate. Both Fren and Rayallan had chosen not to sit at the table with him. He understood but did not approve. He looked up at Beeah and said, "This is our land."

"It's Ulane's," she said, not meeting his gaze. "There's no reason for you to fight for it."

"It's our land," he said harshly. "Ulane is dead. Would you have me die at the end of a sword wielded by those brigands?"

"Fren said they were a lord's officers. Knights."

"You would have me fight them? Or give in to them? Make up your mind."

"Do as you see fit. You always do." Beeah threw down her spoon and left Rorr alone at the table. He dropped his own spoon and went outside into the cold night air. The stars burned brightly above, and he made out the patterns he had used for so long to navigate. The pointers showing the route northward beckoned.

"This is my farm," he said as he looked over darkened fields. It mattered little to him whether the thief called himself a lord or a brigand. Theft was theft, and he would not be chased away.

He went to the barn, saw a shovel Fren had left out, and picked it up. The night's dew would cause the tool to rust, but he didn't put it away inside the barn. Instead he walked, slowly at first and then with longer strides, to the small hill a hundred yards behind the house. At the summit he looked down at the grave.

He had buried his brother here. Then he had married his brother's wife. Rorr had not intended that, but he had come to love Beeah. He was less sure of her affection for him. A widow with two young children faced a difficult life.

The past year had been good. Crops, improvement on barn and house, long days and enjoyable nights—he thought enjoyable for them both, though he could never tell.

This was his land. His family's.

Voices carried up from downslope. Swords glinting in the starlight, two men made their way toward his barn. Their words drifted up to him.

"...burn him out."

"We should kill them all, as we did the others. Suvarian would approve."

"You're a bloodthirsty one, Darrotte."

Rorr heard admiration, not denunciation, in that simple statement. He gripped his shovel with both hands and hurried down the hill toward the barn.

The two soldiers heard his approach and greeted him with leveled swords.

"The farmer must be sleepwalking," Darrotte said. "Why else would he confront two of Lord Suvarian's warriors?"

His companion chuckled. "We dare not tell the lord of this one's death. He would accuse us of drowning kittens."

"You have one chance only," Rorr said, squaring off and lifting the shovel. "Leave and I won't kill you."

"Ho! A threat! He won't hurt us!"

"I said I won't kill you," Rorr clarified.

Darrotte smiled. "No, plowboy. You won't."

The soldier with Darrotte rushed forward, sword lifted for the kill. Rorr saw flashes of light and shadow, but the path of the sword was obvious. He swung the shovel, deflecting the sword off its blade with a long blue spark. The impact staggered the soldier, letting Rorr sidestep, then thrust out his foot.

The soldier crashed to the ground and the cutting edge of the shovel descended, chopping into the back of his exposed neck. The slight resistance of the yielding spine signaled another death at Rorr's hand.

The farmer ducked, avoided Darrotte's savage circular slash, then drove forward, arms circling the warrior's waist. With a grunt, Rorr stood and squeezed. Hard. The sudden constriction caused Darrotte to drop his sword.

Rorr tightened his hold around the small of the man's back even more. Work-hardened muscles driven by fury powered his grip. The sound of thunder drowned out the man's cries. Rorr felt something give. He relaxed, dropped the still living man to the ground.

"My back. You broke it." Darrotte's voice was tight with pain and fear, but strangely calm. "You will die, farmer. My lord will kill you slowly."

"No," Rorr said, picking up the shovel. "He won't."

The edge of the blade rose and fell.

Rorr stepped back and looked at the two dead men. They should be buried, but to what purpose? Not to hide their deaths, certainly. Lord Suvarian had sent them on a mission. When they didn't return, others would be dispatched.

With these deaths, Rorr realized, the fight was not over. It had just begun.

Coming Next Week: Screams in the night in Chapter Three of Robert E. Vardeman's "Plow and Sword."

Robert E. Vardeman is the author of more than fifty science fiction and fantasy novels, including both original series such as Cenotaph Road, War of Powers, and Swords of Raemllyn, as well as tie-in novels for such notable properties as Tom Swift, God of War, Battletech, Star Trek, and Magic: The Gathering. He has been nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer, and is one of the founders of the New Mexico science fiction convention Bubonicon. For more information, visit his website.

Art by Carlos Villa.

Plow and Sword

by Robert E. Vardeman

Chapter One: Smoke on the Horizon

It took several minutes for the cougar's ululating screech to make Rorr look up from his autumn plowing. The day was unseasonably warm for Neth, and sweat trickled down his back. He knew the heat was an illusion—cutting through the dried brown chaff remaining in his field and plowing it under for spring fertilizer had to be completed soon, before snow buried the land. Already at night the wind off the distant Lake of Mists and Veils cut through even a well-padded jacket and brought tears to unprotected eyes. Soon enough a heavy doublet would be necessary when venturing outside the comforting warmth of his small farmhouse.

If he didn't complete the turning of the soil to provide composting, the thin, rocky dirt would be worthless in Pharast and he would be forced to grow a cover crop—perhaps oats—and let a valuable portion of his farm lie fallow if he wanted cash crops another year. Rorr cursed himself for not undersowing, but too much repair work had to be done on the barn to attend to every detail. After two of his plow horses died of the wasting disease, there had scarcely been time to plow the more productive of his two large fields. Even working his two stepsons until they moaned, he hadn't accomplished enough.

He dragged his arm over his forehead to mop sweat, then wanted to clap his hands over his battered ears—or what remained of them. The cougar refused to be quiet. Rorr stretched to his full height, but that was not enough by half to reveal the big cat that stayed just beyond his sight at the edge of the woods.

He walked around his remaining plow horse and patted the thick neck, noting how the coat had grown matted and tangled. He'd have to curry the burrs out of the mane—or better yet, have Fren or Rayallan do it. If either of his boys had shown any sign of slacking, he would have demanded the chore of them immediately, but both worked sunup to sundown, as he did.

It was going to be a cold winter.

The cougar's scream brought him around, all worry of the coming ice and frigid wind forgotten.

Grumbling, he unhitched the horse and vaulted easily onto its back. His bowed legs fit perfectly around the horse's bulging flanks. At least one creature on his farm ate well, and why not? With its two companions dead, there was no reason to withhold the horse's fodder.

"You are our salvation," he said, bending low and whispering in the horse's ear. The large ear flicked as if a fly had buzzed near. The horse turned a huge brown eye back and stared unblinking at him, as if wondering why he had mounted and didn't insist on plowing still more. Half the field remained to be turned under.

Rorr sat straight and used the added height to cast a sharp eye along the far line of trees. One day he would cut those trees and expand the field, but taking out stumps was tedious work, better left to days when the crops were growing and all the work consisted of plucking bugs off the green leaves and listening to the corn groan with the speed of its growth.

"Fren!" He looked around for his older son. At the far side of the field, the youth of fifteen summers leaned on the handle of a shovel. Rocks had migrated up during the past summer and required removal. "Fren, do you see it?"

He pointed to the trees and past.

"Smoke," the boy called back. "From the direction of the Torvan farm."

"Come on. We'll ride over to see if there's trouble." The Torvans were good neighbors, generous with seed and advice to a man who had long been away from the earth and growing. Rorr found Ganley Torvan, Thom's wife, abrasive—but then, with only one arm, life couldn't be easy for her. Their children were younger than even Rayallan's twelve years, and did little that he could see to help either their father or mother. Rorr felt blessed by Shelyn for his two boys, and for Beeah.

Fren ran, kicked hard, and vaulted up to land behind his stepfather. Rorr had to reach back and grab to keep the boy from toppling off the other side.

"Hang on," Rorr said, snapping the reins and putting his heels to the horse. It moved at a plow horse pace for a few yards, then began to trot at its top speed.

"You're not going to chastise me for almost falling off?" Fren hesitated to hold around Rorr's waist, though he did not easily adapt to the uneven gait.

"Some are natural horsemen. Others learn. You'll be one of the latter."

"Did you have to learn?" Fren asked. "Or did you race a courser before you married Ma?"

Rorr laughed. "Seldom have I ridden a horse better than this one, and always I was glad for it. It takes less time than you might imagine to become footsore."

The boy's hold improved, and Rorr urged the horse to pick up speed. The rising smoke was an ominous, greasy black.

They found the main road and made better time, but Rorr slowed when he came to Torvan's gate. It lay in the middle of the double-rutted road, ripped from the post. Several feet of fence had been trampled.

"Their cattle will get out," Fren said, not understanding what he saw.

"You should dismount, boy."

"Why, Pa?"

Rorr would normally have been pleased at hearing the term from his stepson, but just now he had other concerns.

"Do it." He swept his arm back and slid the boy off the horse's rump. Fren landed hard but kept his balance.

"You have no right—!" the boy began, but Fren was speaking to his back. Rorr trotted forward, the quickest gait the plow horse could muster.

	"Fren's a good boy, but he has a lot to learn about the world."

The main house was hidden from the road by a stand of trees desperately harboring leaves against the encroaching winter, but the instant he rode past their screen, heat from the burning house forced him to look away. Throwing up his arm to shade his eyes, he turned back toward the inferno. The building was already consumed—if anyone had been inside, they had found their own funeral pyre.

Riding a safe distance from the house, he circle around to the barn. A coldness settled in his belly when he saw the pigs and chickens slaughtered on the ground. Insects crawled up to feast, and carrion birds had already plucked delicate morsels from eye socket and haunch. The smell of death was hidden by the acrid smoke billowing from behind.

"Torvan!" His call was swallowed by the crackle and roar of the burning house. These flames had not been lit by some carelessly placed oil lamp or spark from a pipe. He called again, knowing there would be no reply but still hoping.

He slid his leg over the horse's neck and hopped lightly to the ground. His bowed legs moved with precision and resolve as he quickly looked into the barn. More slaughtered animals. He let out a sigh when he saw how cruelly Torvan's plow horse had been mutilated. It had been strong and of an age to last a dozen more seasons. A waste.

Cries from behind the barn sent him racing around the two-story building. He stopped under a carefully painted hex sign supposed to turn away evil. If anything, it had attracted it.

Four men astride warhorses worked to light a torch, which they clearly intended to toss into the granary. None saw Rorr as he moved forward.

Torvan wasn't a good farmer, but he had six sons and twice the acreage Rorr did. Their harvest had been bountiful, yet these men with their leather armor and short, businesslike swords intended to destroy what could keep a family of eight alive through the cruel winter.

He reached the hindmost rider, grabbed and caught leather straps fastening the armor around his body. Powerful muscles bunched, and the warrior was lifted from the saddle and hurled through the air. The clank of his sword hitting the ground was as loud as the snapping of bones—almost.

The three remaining warriors turned at the unexpected disturbance. For an instant they didn't understand what had happened. Rorr stepped close to a second one—the warrior holding the torch—and caught his foot as it rested in the stirrup. He twisted viciously and forced the rider to the ground.

"We missed a plowboy," another warrior said sarcastically.

"You set fire to the house. Where's the family that lived there?" Rorr spoke but continued to move with deceptive slowness. He caught a third man's wrist as he reached to unsheathe his sword. That one joined his two companions on the ground.

The one who had spoken backed his horse from Rorr and swung a triangular shield about. Rorr didn't recognize the escutcheon, but he did know better than to reach for this soldier. The bottom edge of the shield had been honed like a razor, and could slice through flesh and bone easily.

Instead of attacking the rider, Rorr swept his leg about in a powerful circle and kicked the horse's front leg just above the cannon bone. From the way the horse reared, he had both frightened it and delivered great pain. It landed heavily on its front legs and bucked, throwing the rider. His shield flew through the air like a deadly silver blood kite and skidded in the dirt just shy of the granary.

"Where's the Torvan family?"

He grabbed one warrior as he struggled to stand and lifted him, fingers sliding expertly under his gorget to dig into his throat. He repeated the question but received only gurgles. Blood began trickling from the side of the man's mouth. Rorr tossed him away—he wasn't likely to get answers when the man had bitten through his own tongue.

"You will die," the shield-man spat. "No one attacks soldiers of our liege and lives!"

Rorr frowned. He knew of no lord holding sway over this land. The ebb and flow of royalty meant little to anyone plowing the land, fighting locusts and drought and wheat intermixed with water-hungry weeds.

The three who could still stand spread in front of him, drawing weapons and advancing.

"Does this lord of yours murder and pillage?" Rorr pointed to the still burning house.

"They refused to pay the taxes owed."

That settled it. Rorr had heard nothing of any lord demanding taxes, and his farm adjoined the Torvan acreage. These were brigands and nothing more. As they came closer, he studied their stance, how they held their weapons and the set to their bodies. They had military training and were used to fighting in unison. That elevated them above common highwaymen.

But not by much.

The one on Rorr's left attacked, thinking to distract him. Rorr knelt, used a leg sweep like the one that had brought down the horse and its rider, but didn't stop after he felt his heel strike the back of the fighter's knee. From his crouch, he launched himself at the man attacking from the right flank. His shoulder caught the man in the belly and bowled him over. As they hit the ground, locked together, Rorr clawed at the brawny wrist holding the sword and wrested it away. A quick roll and he came to his feet with the sword up in time to parry a two-handed overhead cut.

The blades collided and sent sparks dancing away. The impact jarred his attacker; Rorr twisted about and dropped his sword in favor of delivering a hard punch to the man's temple. Delicate bone crushed and drove into brain. The fighter sagged to the ground.

"Rorr!" Suddenly Fren was behind him, voice high and scared. "What's happening? Who are these men?"

Damn it—the boy was supposed to stay clear. "Get out of here, Fren. They're brigands. They killed the Torvans."

A whistling sound galvanized Rorr. He whirled and grabbed, fingers closing on an arrow in midair.

Fren's eyes went wide. The arrowhead with its wicked barbs had been halted only inches from his face.

Rorr broke the shaft and flung it from him. He turned to interpose himself between his stepson and two new combatants, these towering half-orcs.

"What have we here?" one said mockingly. "I thought we'd killed them all."

"These are new." The second half-orc nocked an arrow, drew back the bowstring, and let fly.

His bow had a heavier pull, and the arrow sang through the air at a higher pitch. There was no way Rorr could catch it before it spitted his stepson, but his arm flew up to block. He winced as the arrow drove through the muscle in his forearm. An involuntary reflex as he jerked away robbed the shaft of its power; the arrow remained embedded in his arm.

"Run, Fren. Go!"

Rorr lifted his right forearm and drew out the now-bloody arrow. He stabbed it in the half-orcs' direction. "You're not wanted here."

The pair laughed.

Rorr spun in a full circle and flung the arrow as if it were a spear. The broad head drove through one half-orc's eye.

"Impressive," the surviving warrior said, no fear in his voice.

"I missed. I'd aimed for his throat."

The half-orc laughed and fired another arrow, but Rorr drove hard, legs pumping furiously. He slid through the dirt and grabbed the fallen shield with the knife-sharp edge. The arrow missed him, but a new whistling sounded immediately. The half-orc was competent with his weapon.

Rorr rolled and used the shield to deflect two more arrows, then saw the half-orc had chosen a different attack. From a second quiver slung across his broad back, he brought forth an arrow dripping with black, oily fluid. The half-orc let fly. Rorr watched the arrow soar above him. As it passed, it exploded into flame and continued on to drive itself into the wooden door of the Torvan granary.

The brigand laughed again and reached for another.

Rorr gripped the upper edge of the shield and spun it outward in a glinting arc, then let go.

The sharpened side cut through the half-orc. The chest wound exploded in a bloody fountain, and the archer slid backward off his horse.

Rorr felt no triumph. He bent over and took a few quick steps away from the burning granary. The arrow and its black oil had ignited a fire as fearsome as the one devouring the farmhouse. Nothing could stand against it.

That was when he heard Fren's call for help—from inside the blazing building.

Putting his head down, Rorr charged like a bull, crashing through the door and into the inferno.

Coming Next Week: The dark side of manifest destiny in Robert E. Vardeman's "Plow and Sword."

Robert E. Vardeman is the author of more than fifty science fiction and fantasy novels, including both original series such as Cenotaph Road, War of Powers, and Swords of Raemllyn, as well as tie-in novels for such notable properties as Tom Swift, God of War, Battletech, Star Trek, and Magic: The Gathering. He has been nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer, and is one of the founders of the New Mexico science fiction convention Bubonicon. For more information, visit his website.

Art by Carlos Villa.

The Ghosts of Broken Blades

by Monte Cook

Chapter Four: A Terrible Choice

Roubris had no idea what to do with the information he'd just gained. The spirit trapped in the sword leading them to the temple in the Worldwound was not that of a slain warrior, but instead a demon. Can you trust a demon? Ever? It seemed like a bad idea.

Of course, Karatha might know. But at this point, telling her that Serth was a demon also seemed like a bad idea. She would, as likely as not, demand that they turn around and go home immediately. And maybe that would be the wise thing to do, but maybe it wouldn't. Maybe the treasure Serth promised him truly lay within the black ziggurat temple at the top of the rocky spire they climbed.

"I know what you're thinking," Serth's voice said in Roubris's mind. "Well, not literally of course. I can't tell what you're thinking unless you try to speak to me with your thoughts. But nevertheless, I'm certain you're worried that the fact that I wasn't once a mortal soul means I must be lying to you. That this is a trap. I can assure you that it is not. I may not have been what you assumed me to be, but I am still in the dire situation you perceive. I am still a slain spirit trapped against my will in the weapon I once wielded in battle. And only you can communicate with me. Only you can help me. So the treasure vault hidden in the temple ahead is most assuredly real. You get paid and I get freed. That's your standard mode of operation, is it not? This is no different."

Damn it all if that didn't make sense to Roubris. Demon or man, Serth wanted to be freed. Roubris had never thought about it before, but demons must have souls like mortals, right?

He had encountered the spirits of nonhumans trapped in weapons before. Orcs from Belkzen, mostly. Helping them had practically no potential for profit, so he never actually tried. But helping Serth had the potential for the greatest profit he'd ever earned. Or so Serth said.

Serth the demon.

He didn't like the sound of that.

"Your wellbeing is of utmost import to me, Roubris," Serth said mentally. "Without you, I never get out of this. I assure you, the path ahead of us is safe."

Roubris grinned. He still had the power in this situation. He still had leverage.

"All right," Roubris said aloud. "Let's go in." Still holding Serth in his hand, he took a few tentative steps toward the rune-girded doorway that led into the temple. Karatha followed. She drew her own sword, Severance.

To Roubris's surprise, the door bore a conventional lock. He smiled sheepishly at Karatha. "I can take care of that." He put the broken sword away and pulled his set of lock picks from his pack.

"It's a temple of Deskari. We should expect a trap. Or even a curse. Wait." With a brief wave of her hand and an invocation to Iomedae, she cast a very quick spell. She nodded and folded her arms. "There is indeed a ward or something more sinister on the door. Let me take care of it."

Roubris shrugged and backed away. "Be my guest."

Karatha cast another spell. This time, the gestures and prayers were far more involved. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. A golden glow limned the door. It brightened, faded, and then brightened again before disappearing. Karatha sighed.

"It was difficult, but whatever nastiness the clerics of Deskari had in mind is now dispelled."

"And the lock?"

"You'll still need to take care of that in the conventional manner." Karatha stumbled a bit over the word "conventional." Perhaps it was the irony.

Roubris nodded and got to work. He had been picking locks most of his life. His mother had him picking simple door locks since he was tall enough to reach them. Although the lock was difficult, his success was never in question. It took time, but as far as he knew, they were in no rush.

Once he finished with the lock, the door swung open, silently.

Roubris rolled backward. His hand went for his dagger. He looked for whoever had opened the door, but no one was there.

"It was probably just designed that way," Karatha said.

He pulled out Serth again. The weapon remained silent, and Roubris decided that he was fine with that. Karatha produced a small, smooth stone attached to a tiny hook and affixed it to her belt. Within seconds, the stone shone with a light as bright as sunshine coming in through a small window. This illumination extended into the dark recesses of the windowless temple. Roubris would have sworn that within that place, the light dimmed, as if intimidated.

As plain as the outside of the ziggurat was, the interior was elaborate. A black iron grillwork covered every surface, with leering metallic faces, claws, and twisted thorns jutting out all over it at unpredictable angles. Dust and cobwebs then covered this baroque, rusting skin.

Within this dangerous-looking environment lay a single altar fashioned entirely from black iron. Unlit candelabras seemed positioned randomly about the walls, and rusting chains ending in cruel hooks hung from the ceiling in similarly haphazard positions. A wall appeared to divide the interior of the small temple into halves, with a wide iron door fashioned to slide from side to side.

Finally Serth spoke up. "Beyond that door lies the treasure I've promised you, Roubris. There's likely more in there than you and your friend can carry, I'm afraid, but nevertheless you'll find yourself an extraordinarily wealthy man once you open that door."

Roubris's mouth watered. He stepped toward the door and heard Karatha hiss through her teeth. He looked back at her. "What is it?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'm just worried."

"I'll be careful."

Roubris stepped gingerly, easily avoiding the sharp protuberances here and there on the floor and giving the hanging chains a wide berth. He got to the door. Nothing happened.

"I told you," Serth's voice said in his head. "It's safe. I want you to get to that treasure as much as you do, my friend."

Still, Roubris's instincts forced him to search the sliding door for possible traps. He envisioned something that would make the metal spikes or other adornments into deadly projectiles. But he found nothing of the sort. Not even a lock. Instead, he just had a vague notion that opening the door would also do something else in the temple. An alarm, maybe? He couldn't tell. It was just a hunch, without evidence.

He considered telling Karatha, but he was afraid that here, so close to the treasure, she would try to get him to leave without opening the door. He couldn't let that happen. Not now.

"Everything all right?" Karatha said, her voice hushed and tense.

"Yes," Roubris said with all the confidence he could muster.

"Right, Serth?" He asked in his mind.

"Correct," the spirit replied. "I assure you that it is safe to open that door and take the treasure within. It is my payment to you for freeing my spirit from this sword." His voice seemed impatient, but perhaps that was understandable considering the situation.

Roubris slid open the door.

Karatha's magical stone sent a shaft of light into the room. Amid shelves of books, idols, and odd religious paraphernalia Roubris couldn't recognize lay a lidless trunk. Gold and silver coins, jewels of all varieties, and solid bars of precious metals filled the box to overflowing. Roubris gasped with the fulfillment of his highest expectations.

Behind him, however, Karatha exclaimed in tones other than delight. Over his shoulder he saw something had appeared in front of the iron altar. A doorway of red and gold flickering light. Screams of terror and pain issued from it like a wave. Almost immediately, something began to push its way through the doorway. It seemed vaguely humanoid in that it had two arms and two legs, and was girded in blackened armor. Beyond that, it resembled a fish or a toad more than a man. This creature moved slowly, as though pushing against some unseen membrane blocking the doorway.

Once over the initial shock, Roubris said aloud, "Serth? What is that?"

No reply came.

"Serth? You promised me no traps. No danger."

"And I shall keep that promise," the creature passing through the doorway of light hissed with Serth's voice. "I will cause you no harm, Roubris."

Roubris's eyes widened. That was Serth? Suddenly, a memory came to mind. Somewhere, someone had told him that when a powerful demon is slain in the material world, it's not really dead. It's just sent back to its home plane.

Serth didn't want to be freed to go on to some afterlife. He wanted to be free to roam the mortal world again. His spirit had been trapped in the sword like so many others Roubris had encountered, but opening the gate restored him to his physical form. And now Serth was entering the material world again. Opening the door to get at the treasure also opened the gate to whatever abysmal realm had spawned the demon.

	"Exactly how much is it worth to set Serth loose on the world?"

Even as Roubris stood motionless, mouth agape, Karatha sprang into action. Armed with Severance and the shield emblazoned with the symbol of Iomedae, she attacked Serth while the demon was still midway through the portal. Her blade pierced his scaly flesh, but a single swipe of one of his claws sent her staggering backward, a bloody gash marring her face.

Roubris didn't know what to do. Serth had promised him the treasure, and seemed to be willing to let him take it without issue. But that would loose him upon the mortal world to wreak unimaginable evils. Even if he could live with that, Karatha never would. She'd die before she allowed that to happen, and as he watched the mismatched battle, it seemed as though that was precisely what was about to happen.

Or, he could close the door to the room before him. It seemed keyed to the gateway. Opening the mundane door activated the otherworldly one. Closing it might deactivate it. Serth wasn't yet through the portal, but in mere moments he would be. And then all choice would be taken from him. Karatha would certainly die.

Damn it.

The farther Serth progressed through the doorway, the more his odor violated the air in the temple. Karatha staggered backward, coughing. Roubris's eyes watered. The demon's progress through the gate was slow, but that didn't stop him from lashing out at Karatha with terrible effectiveness. Already her chain shirt hung in bloody tatters and her shield was bent and broken. Still, Karatha's sword sliced across Serth's flesh again and again. Black bile issued forth from the wounds she inflicted. It seemed to only make the stench worse.

Still Roubris hesitated. So much wealth. Enough to keep Roubris in extravagant style for the rest of his life.

More thunderous blows pummeled at Karatha. Serth possessed an unearthly strength as well as razor-sharp claws. Once through the gate, he would likely be able to bite with his wide, toadlike mouth filled with teeth like iron spikes. With that hideous thing, he could bite a foe in half. Which would matter only if Karatha was even still alive at that point. Under the weight of Serth's blows, she fell to her knees, using Severance to protect herself as best she could.

"Roubris, help me." Her whisper was almost inaudible. She coughed blood.

Roubris made up his mind. His face painted with pain, he shut his eyes and slid the door closed.

But it slid only partway. He opened his eyes to see the ruddy light flickering. Nothing more. It caught Serth's attention, however. "Roubris! Don't be a fool. Take your payment and go!" The demon thrust himself against the portal with greater force. Roubris was grateful that the process of transition through this doorway took so long.

Karatha managed to get to her feet, both hands on the hilt of her sword. With all her remaining strength, she plunged it into Serth's slimy, scaly flesh.

The demon howled.

Roubris glanced once more at the glittering treasure in the room and forced the door. It still didn't close all the way, but the fiery glow faltered again.

"No!" The demon shouted. He slashed at Karatha, who toppled backward onto the floor. She landed on one of the many dangerous adornments on the metal grid.

Roubris cried out. Serth turned all his attention on him.

To his surprise, Roubris found himself calling upon Iomedae for strength. Closing his eyes again, he put all his weight into closing the sliding vault door.

At last, it gave way. The red and gold fire disappeared, and Serth's angry roar faded away as if he were falling from a fantastic height. Then it ceased entirely.

The iron door was closed. Behind it lay a hoard large enough to purchase a small town.

Roubris went to Karatha's side. He was both surprised and relieved to find her still breathing. Carefully, he brought her out of the dark temple. With only a modicum of skill, he tended to the most severe of her wounds. Eventually, he hoped, she would return to consciousness and use Iomedae's power to heal herself.

Roubris retrieved his friend's sword and broken shield. Then he went to the broken blade that had held Serth's spirit. Gingerly he touched it with a single finger and then pulled it away. Nothing happened, He lightly touched the hilt. "Serth?"

No reply. The spirit was no longer in the weapon.

After a fashion, he had kept his end of the bargain.

With the broken end of the blade, he scratched words upon the door: "Do not open." Then he tossed the sword to the floor and left, with no intention of ever returning.

∗ ∗ ∗

The road back home was long. Some of Karatha's wounds were beyond her ability to heal with magic, but she seemed confident that time would set her aright.

"I'm proud of you," Karatha said. "And grateful. You saved my life, and I know what you had to give up to do it. It must have been a difficult choice."

Roubris wasn't ready to tell her that he had prayed to Iomedae there, at the end. He would have to deal with that surprising act on his own, at least for now. Instead, he just gave his most charming smile and said, "Not so difficult, my friend."

When Karatha turned back to the road, Roubris's hand went to the leather pouch on his belt. The one that contained a handful of newly acquired, glistening jewels. He smiled even more broadly at the feel of them. A man in Roubris's line of work needed to be fast on his feet as well as quick-witted. Fast enough to duck into a room and grab a handful of choice loot before closing a door.

"Not so difficult," he repeated.

Coming Next Week: The first installment of a rollicking, all-new prequel story to the new Pathfinder Tales novel Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones—now shipping from our warehouse!

As one of the primary architects of the third edition of Dungeons & Dragons, Dark Matter, the d20 Call of Cthulhu system, and Monte Cook's World of Darkness, as well as the author of such notable supplements as Arcana Unearthed, The Book of Eldritch Might, Dead Gods, and more, Monte Cook has left an indelible mark on the history of fantasy gaming. In addition, he has published two novels, Of Aged Angels and The Glass Prison, and his short fiction has been featured in such venues as Amazing Stories and Game Trade Magazine. For more information, visit montecook.com.

Art by Carlos Villa.

The Ghosts of Broken Blades

by Monte Cook

Chapter Three: Into Demon-Haunted Lands

The beast fluttered the ramshackle wings on its back, far too small to support its weight. Many toothy sphincter-maws along its wormlike form screamed shrilly. Just as many eyes peered from wrinkled folds of its flesh, seemingly randomly scattered across its body.

"Lady of Valor!" Karatha shouted, drawing her silver-bladed longsword, Severance. Roubris struggled to keep his horse from throwing him onto the ground.

The creature descended toward them, obscene mouths opening to bite. Chew. Devour.

"Run!" Karatha yelled.

Roubris couldn't get control of his horse. It veered back and forth, as if it were caught in a bathing tub with the plug pulled from the drain. The thing loomed closer and closer. It stank of oily leather and burnt coffee.

Karatha slashed in the air above her, but the beast was not yet close enough to strike. "Roubris, run!"

"I know that creature," a voice said in Roubris's head. It was Serth, the spirit within the broken sword.

"What?" Roubris shouted out loud.

"Run!" Karatha screamed.

"I know that creature," Serth repeated. "You must find its one red eye. All of its eyes are green but one. The red eye is its weakness. That is where its dark soul resides. Strike it there."

This sudden information confused Roubris. He hadn't heard from Serth in some time, and he was unaccustomed to getting advice from the spirits that he spoke to. His panic, however, wouldn't allow him too much time to process it all. Instead, he yelled to Karatha, "Strike it in its red eye! Find the red eye!"

Karatha glanced his way. She heard him, although clearly was just as confused at this sudden revelation. Still, she didn't take the time to question him. Instead, she began looking around at the creature's bulbous, pulsating form and all its multitudinous eyes.

Roubris, meanwhile, still moved randomly in circles, carried by his panicked mount. Rather than focus on that issue—which had accomplished little anyway—he also began looking at the monstrosity and its eyes.

The thing was closer than ever, screaming mouths snapping hideous jaws at both of them. Roubris ducked and moved, while Karatha used her blade to defend herself. The stench was almost unbearable.

A mouth slashed Roubris's shoulder like a mass of razors. His leather jerkin tore open as if it were paper—as did his flesh. He cried out. The horse bolted. He lost his grip and crashed to the ground.

Karatha's sword bit into the creature's flesh again and again, but drew no blood. It was as if she slashed at empty burlap sacks.

Roubris looked up, certain of his own demise. Prone on the ground, his leg twisted beneath him, his shoulder bleeding profusely, he had little hope.

"The red eye," Serth whispered in his mind.

Roubris looked up and saw it, gleaming like a ruby among the black and gray flesh of the thing.

He pointed. "There!"

Karatha gave him an urgent look. He saw that now she, too, bore wounds from the thing's mouths. Barely keeping to her saddle, hugging her horse's neck to keep low, she rode toward where Roubris lay.

"There!" He shouted again. The monster's screams made him unsure if she heard him.

She must have, however, for she struck upward with her blade at the glaring red eye. She stabbed again and again. No blood. No effect at all.

Another of the beast's mouths bit her arm in a flash of red. With a scream of pain, she dropped her sword.

"Don't panic," Serth told Roubris, the sword throbbing at his side. "Get that sword. The eyes are difficult to hurt. A lot of flesh surrounds them. She needs to keep trying."

At some point—Roubris wasn't sure when—Karatha had managed to get her shield strapped to her left arm. She used it to batter away the beast's many maws attempting to bite her. She could no longer afford to pay Roubris any attention.

He started to pull the weapon Serth inhabited from where he had tucked it. "No," the spirit in the sword told him. "This sword is old. Broken and unwieldy. She needs to use her blade. It's sturdy. Get it!"

On the ground, Roubris swallowed and exhaled the breath from his lungs. He rolled toward where the sword lay. He grasped it and called to Karatha. "Keep trying!" Roubris struggled to his feet, but only managed his knees. So he knelt. Roubris held the weapon as high as he could reach.

	"Serth looks like an ordinary sword, but he's clearly more. Much more."

Karatha heard his shout. Her arm soaked in blood, she stretched down and grasped her sword once again. She cried out incoherently, her pain and exhaustion clear. Using the shield to protect herself, she straightened in the saddle and lunged at the glaring red eye.

A burst of red light and black ichor exploded from the creature. The mouths of the hideous thing all screamed in a cacophonous unison. It rose fifty feet or more above them, shuddering. Wings twisting, it wormed its way through the air, as if to escape. The wound, however, was too grievous. The beast collapsed in upon itself and crashed to the ground well into the distance.

Karatha and Roubris watched in silence.

"Excellent," Serth whispered in Roubris's mind.

∗ ∗ ∗

Karatha's spells repaired most of the wounds the two of them suffered. A hot meal of quail eggs, cured ham, and fried bread cooked over a pleasant fire helped too.

"How did you know about the eye?" Karatha asked Roubris while they ate. "How did you know that attacking the red eye would slay it? I didn't even know what that thing was."

"Neither did I," Roubris replied. "The spirit in the sword told me."

"How did you know about that?" Roubris asked aloud, looking at the sword, which lay next to him near the fire.

He heard Serth's voice in his mind. "I'd encountered a creature like that before."

Roubris relayed that to Karatha and then asked, "What was it?"

"I don't know, exactly. I am not an expert on such things."

"You seem like one to me."

"Well, regardless. It's dead now, and you're safe."

"It was demonic in nature," Karatha said knowledgably. "A thing of fiendish blood. Such horrors dwell to the north, in the Worldwound."

Roubris nodded and munched on another piece of bread. He stared at the sword, but said nothing further.

∗ ∗ ∗

The road offered little for two more days. Serth's directions were not difficult to follow. The occasional traveler passed them by, but the folk of northern Ustalav were unfriendly and wary. Roubris could hardly blame them. The landscape turned decidedly darker and more lifeless as they proceeded.

"We near the Worldwound," Karatha said in hushed tones.

Roubris didn't know much about the place. Only what he'd heard when he was young—a terrible place where the mortal realm intersected an otherworldly realm of demonkind.

"This is where the temple lies?" Roubris asked Serth.

"Yes. It is still a day's travel north."

"That's going to take us close, I think. Close to the Worldwound."

Roubris's half of the conversation attracted Karatha's attention. It was the only half she could hear, but it was enough.

"Yes," Serth said.

"Who builds a temple there?"

"Worshipers of Deskari," the spirit replied.

"Who or what is Deskari?"

"What?" Karatha said. "Deskari the demon lord?"

This gave Roubris a start. Demon lord? He had forgotten he was speaking to the sword out loud.

"Roubris, where is the sword leading us?" Karatha seemed equal parts angry and terrified.

"All he told me originally was that he would lead me to an old, abandoned temple. And that it wasn't dedicated to a good god."

"And you never asked which temple? Or where it lay, exactly? Or which cult built it to which god? I asked you to get that information before we left. I don't know if I would have come had I known we were going to such a place."

"It never occurred to me. I thought..." His voice trailed off.

"You thought what?"

"I thought all temples were the same."

Karatha scowled. Then her expression changed to one of disappointment. Roubris disliked the latter even more than the former. She looked away.

Serth spoke again. "Don't worry about whose temple it is. It doesn't matter. The place should be deserted. You're very close now, Roubris. Just convince her to keep going. Or better yet, send her back home."

The spirit's words made Roubris more uncomfortable than ever. Karatha's friendship was important to him, and he wasn't going to let her go home without him. Besides, he was afraid, and Karatha's skill with her sword as well as her Iomedae-granted magic made her very useful. She was also quite wise. Serth worried him. What if the spirit was leading him into a trap? Not only could she help him in such a situation, but she might see it coming.

"Karatha, I'm sorry," Roubris said. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm an idiot. Please forgive me."

Karatha spun. "We should go back to Vigil. This land is dangerous, and we've no business in a temple to Deskari."

"But the spirit assures me that the temple is abandoned. There's just a treasure hoard left behind there."

Karatha scowled again. At least it was better than the look of quiet disappointment.

"We could destroy it," Roubris said suddenly. "We could destroy this evil temple after we've looted it. Wouldn't that be the will of Iomedae? Wouldn't that be justice? Wouldn't that bring honor to those wronged by the cult's evil?"

Karatha stared. Finally, she gave a soft smile. "You've been listening," she said.

Roubris returned her smile with the most charming one in his arsenal. "Of course."

She kept smiling, so he asked her, "Does that mean you'll go with me?"

"Treasure hoard, eh?"

He nodded.

"My church could use a hefty donation."

He smiled and nodded again.

∗ ∗ ∗

Serth led the pair up a rocky slope. A cold wind blew steadily through the region of bare gray stone. The landscape was twisted into odd spires and irregular gullies. A few plants struggled to live, but appeared the worse for their efforts.

When the slope became particularly steep, Roubris saw that crude stone steps had been carved into the rock, slick with moisture from a chilling rain that had fallen within the last hour. Although the sky remained dark, it would get much darker in an hour or so when twilight came. Roubris didn't relish the idea of spending a night here. He urged them forward. The two of them dismounted and left their horses at the base of the staircase. Serth assured him that the temple lay very close, despite the fact that it was still out of sight.

Roubris was cautious. But why would the spirit lead them into a trap? What could Serth have to gain? Only by helping them would he achieve his eternal rest. They were his only hope of being freed from his imprisonment within the sword.

Roubris knew that while Serth knew more than he did about what lay ahead, Roubris had leverage. He wouldn't be undertaking this if he didn't. That leverage was what had made his "business" so successful for so long.

The staircase was surprisingly long and steep, winding around ancient boulders of great size and the occasional withered tree with black, drooping branches.

"There it is," Serth said.

At the top of the stairs, rising out of the misty gloom, was the temple. A small ziggurat of large obsidian blocks, the temple perched atop a narrow pinnacle. Roubris had no idea how someone would go about building such a structure in such a precarious place. The entrance appeared to be an uninviting stone door surrounded by serpentine runes.

"I don't like the look of this," Karatha said quietly.

Roubris pulled the broken sword and held it in both hands. He whispered, "If this is a trap, Serth, you'll never get out of that sword. You know that, right?"

"Yes," Serth hissed. Roubris thought the spirit sounded indignant.

Roubris remained unsatisfied. He thought back to the demonic creature they fought a few days earlier. The one Serth knew so much about. He considered how Serth knew unusual amounts about Roubris himself, how much more aware of his situation Serth was than any other trapped spirit Roubris had encountered. Roubris looked up at the malevolent temple that lay ahead of him, and then back at the broken sword that held Serth within it. He chewed his lip.

"Serth," he said only in his mind, "you knew a lot about that creature earlier."

"Yes?"

"And now you've led me here, to the edge of the Worldwound itself."

"Yes?"

"You're not the spirit of a man, are you?"

"No."

"You're the spirit of a slain demon."

"Yes."

Roubris cursed.

Coming Next Week: Difficult choices in the final chapter of Monte Cook's "The Ghosts of Broken Blades."

As one of the primary architects of the third edition of Dungeons & Dragons, Dark Matter, the d20 Call of Cthulhu system, and Monte Cook's World of Darkness, as well as the author of such notable supplements as Arcana Unearthed, The Book of Eldritch Might, Dead Gods, and more, Monte Cook has left an indelible mark on the history of fantasy gaming. In addition, he has published two novels, Of Aged Angels and The Glass Prison, and his short fiction has been featured in such venues as Amazing Stories and Game Trade Magazine. For more information, visit montecook.com.

Art by Carlos Villa.

The Ghosts of Broken Blades

by Monte Cook

Chapter Two: A Broken Sword's Quest

Roubris held the broken longsword in both hands, his mouth agape as it spoke to him.

"It took you long enough, Roubris."

Roubris heard the sword's voice in his head, like how the moon at midnight would sound if it could speak.

"How do you know my name?" Roubris was no stranger to talking weapons, but this was the first time one seemed to know more about what was going on than he did.

"I've been watching you. You've been traipsing all over this battlefield rescuing the dead souls of those trapped in the weapons they wielded. Well, I'm just such a soul."

The tarnished sword had been designed for a warrior with large hands. If it were whole, Roubris would likely have had difficulty lifting it, but most of the blade was missing. Even though the sword's voice was only in his head, Roubris spoke aloud. "What's your name?"

"Serth."

"And you know your situation? You remember the battle?"

"Of course."

This was all very odd. For the first time, Roubris's prepared speech about how the spirit of one that falls in battle is sometimes trapped in a weapon that has slain a foe held no importance. Serth already knew all about that. He knew he was trapped in the sword, and that Roubris's special talents could help him.

"Well, I can arrange to have you sent to your proper afterlife, Serth. I can assure that you get your just reward."

"And what do you need in return, young Roubris?"

Serth's tone suggested to Roubris that he knew very well what was needed. "Serth, how do you know so much? Trapped spirits so rarely do." In fact, they never did.

"Is that really important? You're here to get me to tell you some secret that will earn you a handful of gold coins. Payment for services rendered, correct? Isn't that really the issue here?"

In fact, it was. Roubris was unnerved, but ultimately he was not a particularly curious man. Despite the fact that he dealt with the supernatural on a routine basis, he really didn't care about the nature of spirits or the afterlife beyond what he needed to ply his trade. He had never even questioned the source of his special ability. Was it necromantic magic? Some psychic gift passed down from a distant ancestor? A blessing from the gods? A curse? Were the spirits even there at all until he came along, or did his ability somehow summon them back? It didn't matter. All that concerned him was that it worked and that he got paid for using it. "All right, Serth. You know the routine. Do you have something for me that will cover my expenses? Restoring a trapped soul isn't an easy business. It doesn't come cheaply."

"Ah, there's the Roubris Chor I was expecting. Excellent."

Roubris winced.

Serth's slick, dark voice continued on in Roubris's mind. "My friend, I value my destiny very highly. I am eager to escape my unfortunate imprisonment here. So much so that I am willing to tell you about a treasure hoard well beyond the half-full coin pouches you used to get. What value to me are such things now?"

"A hoard?"

"A temple treasury, my friend. I don't know the exact value, but it is surely the equivalent of tens of thousands of gold coins, as sure as I'm talking to you now. It's some distance away, but I'll guide you."

"Were you a priest when you were alive, Serth?"

"Something like that. Rest assured that the temple with this treasure has been sitting empty for quite some time. No one there will prevent your entry."

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Serth?" Spirits trapped in the weapons he found rarely tried to deceive him. Too much lay at stake to risk it. But there was something about Serth's voice, his all-too-ready and all-too-knowledgeable demeanor. Every warning bell in Roubris's head was ringing with a loud peal.

"What value would there be in lying to you? If you get no payment, I am denied my freedom, right? I value that liberty more than you can know, Roubris. I am willing to pay highly for it. Besides, the temple treasury is what I have to offer. Even if I wanted to offer you something less, I could not. Either way, it hardly matters to me in this form. My concerns are now far less terrestrial."

True, thought Roubris. Serth's grasp of the situation certainly seemed logical and straightforward. He likely had a great deal of time to dwell on it. In the end, this was all quite refreshing compared to the coercion and convincing Roubris typically had to do when speaking with a spirit in a discarded weapon. And if the treasure hoard was even half what Serth claimed... If it was even a quarter or a tenth, it was still the greatest payment he had gained for the rescue of a single soul.

"Well, Serth, why don't you tell me where we need to go?"

∗ ∗ ∗

Roubris carried Serth through the busy city streets wrapped in burlap. People passed by him carrying baskets of fresh bread loaves, sacks of flour, or other items purchased in the nearby market. No one paid him any attention, which was just fine by him. Even the lovelier ladies that he saw did not prompt him to stop and chat, as would normally be his way.

Well, the sight of one young woman with sparkling green eyes did encourage him to stop, bow, and smile, but when she ignored him he did not pursue the matter.

	"No one is truly selfless, but Karatha comes close."

When Roubris reached the steps of the temple of Iomedae, he straightened his tunic and brushed the dust from his pants and boots. When he opened the door he paused, reverently, and then walked silently inside. The weapon throbbed in his hands, but he heard nothing.

Karatha walked up to him, wiping her hands on a rag. She wore an atypical smock covered in brightly colored stains. She'd clearly been painting something. "Roubris, how good to see you. Another weapon already?"

Roubris spoke quietly. "Yes. Can we put it in the sacred storage area, like we normally do?"

Karatha furrowed her brow. There was no such area, and it was nothing they normally did. Roubris raised his eyebrows and motioned his head slightly to the right. Karatha, wise as ever, caught at least a portion of his meaning. "Yes, of course."

The two of them walked to a small vestibule where Roubris placed the wrapped sword on a bench. Then the two of them left that area and went back into the main chapel, Roubris closing the door behind them.

"What's going on?" Karatha asked.

"I wanted to talk to you, and I didn't want the sword to overhear."

"Coming from anyone else, those would sound like the words of a madman," Karatha said with a smirk.

Roubris rolled his eyes and gave a wry smile. "Seriously," he told her, "this weapon is different. It's smart. It knows things."

"You mean the spirit trapped inside is smart and knows things."

"Yes, yes. Whatever. You know what I mean."

"What kinds of things does it know?"

"When I found it, it knew its situation, which is usually not the case. Plus, it knew that I'd be looking for it, and what you and I could offer it."

"Fascinating."

Roubris rubbed his chin. "Yes, I suppose so. But it's also a bit unnerving. I don't like it when things are out of the ordinary."

Karatha nodded. "I understand. Well, let's see about sending the soul to its proper afterlife, and then it won't matter anymore."

"Well, we can't. Not yet."

"No?"

"He hasn't led me to my... reward yet. It's a long journey, apparently, and he has to guide me."

Karatha just nodded and stared, not asking the obvious question: then why was he here?

"The treasure is apparently in an old abandoned temple. I don't know much about such things, Karatha. I was wondering if you would accompany me. Or rather, us. I'd feel safer. I could make a special donation to your church on your behalf once we find the gold to compensate you for your time and trouble."

Karatha smiled warmly. "Very generous of you, Roubris. But what temple is this? How far away is it?"

Roubris realized then that it never occurred to him to even ask what god or gods the temple represented. "I'm not exactly sure. I'll try to get the details."

"Well, obviously, I cannot consider defiling the temple of any of the gods of light or justice in any way, nor could I in good conscience allow you to do so either. And I couldn't be gone from my duties here for more than, say, two weeks."

Roubris nodded. He hoped that Serth wasn't going to lead him to such a temple, either. That would be awkward. "I'm led to understand that the temple is abandoned."

"Nevertheless."

"All right. I understand. I'll find out."

"Please do. Once we know, I'll accompany you if I can. Some time on the road could offer us a good opportunity to talk in depth."

Karatha would want to work on him, attempting to get him to see the ways of Iomedae. She was always encouraging him to think about concepts like justice and honor. It's not that he could see no value in such things, just that rigid definitions of either or both sometimes became... inconvenient. Still, talking with her about such things wasn't really all that arduous. She wasn't overbearing about it. And even if she was, it would be a small price to pay for her aid. Roubris was worried—those warning bells were still tolling in his head.

So, however, was the sound of tens of thousands of gold pieces jangling as they cascaded all around him like some beautiful rain shower.

Roubris thanked his friend and fetched Serth. He removed the burlap wrap and held the sword by the pommel. He didn't speak aloud, but kept the conversation entirely in his mind. "Serth?"

"What?" The oily voice sounded annoyed.

"The temple where the treasure is—whose temple is it?"

"Why?"

"It's important. I can't steal from the temple of a benevolent deity."

"You won't be stealing from anyone. The temple is long abandoned."

Roubris sighed. "I know. But before that, what god was the temple's patron?"

"No 'benevolent deity' to be sure. That should be enough for you."

It was. "And how far away is it? We have only a couple of weeks or so."

"That should be fine if you procure some decent horses."

Roubris nodded. Serth was in a foul mood. He found the voice in his head unpleasant. "Thanks, my friend. We'll hopefully make it quick and get you to where you're going."

Serth didn't reply.

∗ ∗ ∗

The first day's travel north took them into a land of rolling hills and isolated copses as they headed toward towering, snow-capped peaks. The horses Karatha procured had been expensive, but even Roubris's untrained eye could see that they were of quality. The day's ride was quiet and the roads lonely, which they agreed was for the best. Neither Roubris nor Karatha was thrilled to ride into the unruly land of Ustalav with its feuding nobles and the dangers of the Hungry Mountains looming above and ahead of them.

After a brief stay in a public house found at a crossroads, they continued on. They proceeded through narrow mountain passes and rocky ravines, over majestic hilltops and down deep gullies, always keeping to the road. The days grew dark. On the third day a storm steeped on the horizon. By that evening, it plagued them with wind and rain. Even after they coped with its torments and it passed them by, the sky remained overcast and grim, as if scarred by the storm. Serth remained tucked into Roubris's saddle, silent. Karatha asked Roubris a few questions now and again about how he felt when he helped the trapped spirits. He told her he didn't do it for the feeling, he did it for the payment.

"People who do good deeds because it makes them feel better about themselves just display a different kind of selfishness," he told her on the fifth day of their journey. "Even if they're not doing it for money, they're doing it to get something they want."

She nodded, then countered. "That might be a consequence, but it's not always the motivation. Some do good and spread justice for its own sake."

Roubris chuckled. "That might be what they say, but people can't truly be selfless. There's no such thing as selflessness. It's right there in the word. If you're a 'self' you can't be selfless. It doesn't even make sense. No one does anything that doesn't benefit them in some way. It just doesn't make sense."

Before she could respond, the dark morning sky filled with angry shrieking and the dull fluttering of large wings. Roubris looked up to see a horrific creature looming above them on batlike wings of flesh. It was like a worm, and like a slug, and yet like neither. Multiple mouths screamed promises of destruction. Multiple eyes glared with malevolent intent.

There was nowhere to run. No time to escape.

Coming Next Week: Monstrous battles and philosophical quandaries in Chapter Three of Monte Cook's "The Ghosts of Broken Blades."

As one of the primary architects of the third edition of Dungeons & Dragons, Dark Matter, the d20 Call of Cthulhu system, and Monte Cook's World of Darkness, as well as the author of such notable supplements as Arcana Unearthed, The Book of Eldritch Might, Dead Gods, and more, Monte Cook has left an indelible mark on the history of fantasy gaming. In addition, he has published two novels, Of Aged Angels and The Glass Prison, and his short fiction has been featured in such venues as Amazing Stories and Game Trade Magazine. For more information, visit montecook.com. .

Art by Carlos Villa.

Monte Cook and Pathfinder Tales: Together At Last

Thursday, February 3, 2011

A few weeks ago, it was my honor to introduce Ed Greenwood and his Alkenstar story, talking about how one of the best parts of this job is getting to work with industry superstars who want to add their two cents to Golarion. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I'm going to have to do roughly the same thing this week. Because this week, we started a new story by none other than Mr. Monte Cook.

I'm going to go ahead and presume that Monte needs no introduction, but if the name sounds familiar and you're not sure why, go take a look at the gaming section of your bookshelf. Dark Matter? The d20 Call of Cthulhu book? The Book of Experimental Might? Arcana Unearthed? The third edition of Dungeons & Dragons? Yeah, that's him. As it turns out, in between (literally) game-changing RPG releases, he's also written a couple of novels and a bunch of short stories. And now he's come to show us what he can do for Pathfinder Tales, starting with this week's entry in the free Wednesday web fiction.

	Illustration by Carlos Villa

He doesn't waste any time, either. "The Ghosts of Broken Blades" starts out with a bang as we meet Roubris, a somewhat shady character with the apparently unique gift of speaking to souls trapped within the blades of fallen warriors. (Before you ask: yes, we know how that works in game terms, and no, we're not ready to reveal the answer—yet.) For Roubris, it seems only natural to use his ability to make a few coins here and there, "saving" the souls in exchange for a modest fee. Yet something big is about to come into Roubris's life that could change his worldview forever...

Of course, I'd be remiss to launch us into a new story without putting the spotlight on a fabulous new artist who starts illustrating the web fiction this week. Carlos Villa has done an amazing job of bringing Roubris to life in all his shiftless glory, and if you think this is good, just wait until you see next week's cleric of Iomedae....

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

The Ghosts of Broken Blades

by Monte Cook

Chapter One: Scouring the Field of Battle

When Roubris Chor picked up the corroded battleaxe, it didn't tell him its name. Even when he asked. In fact, it didn't speak at all. So he dropped it carelessly to the ground and walked on, his eyes resuming their scan of the field. He saw broken bits of armor and bones picked clean amid the tall grass, but he ignored them. He needed weapons. Specifically, a weapon that had taken a life or two.

The open field of green grass and wildflowers hid the fact that he stood upon the site of a furious battle from just a year earlier. Such battlefields covered the land of Lastwall like a pox, but it was a pox of which Roubris could make very good use with his unique talent.

A glint of metal caught the man's eye and he stooped low to get a better look. A short sword lay amid weeds and grass. Its blade bore a significant notch. If it were to ever be used in combat again, it would certainly snap in two. The hilt was simple, and the leather strips bound around it were frayed and rotten after likely spending a winter there on the ground. A semiprecious stone sat loosely within a rusted setting in the pommel. He though it likely jasper, but Roubris didn't care about much about it, for the weapon might hold a far greater value. The crossguard bore an inscription: "Never again."

Smiths were always putting meaningless nonsense on weapons. Roubris ignored the inscription and the pommel stone and instead whispered, "Hello?"

"Who? Who is there?" The voice was only in Roubris's mind, but it was clearly not his own. Though a profound baritone, the voice's female characteristics were unmistakable. As usual, it seemed far away at first, and confused, as though the speaker had awakened from a long and deep slumber.

"My name is Roubris Chor," Roubris said aloud. He didn't need to speak aloud for the spirit inhabiting the blade to hear him, but it was easier for him to manage the conversation if at least one of them was truly audible. An entire conversation in one's own head could quickly become confusing, he had found. This was certainly not his first time doing this. "I'm here to help you."

"Help me?" The voice seemed closer now. Clearly coming from the sword. The weapon, in fact, almost thrummed with its words. As always.

"Yes. I can help put you to rest."

A pause in the conversation suggested that the voice from the blade spent some time considering.

"You may not realize your situation," Roubris said. "Many of you don't. You're confused. It's understandable. You're the spirit of someone who died in battle. Do you remember your name?"

Again a pause. Then, "Nivua. Nivua Aranash." She said it as though Roubris should have heard of her. He hadn't. He never did.

"All right, Nivua. Pleasure to meet you. Here's the short version of the story, just so you know what's going on. You need to know that you died here wielding this sword. Probably about a year ago. I know, that's not easy to hear. It may not even make a lot of sense to you. You see, your weapon was primed to store a part of your soul because you used it to kill one or more of your foes before you yourself fell in battle. Now you're trapped in the sword. It doesn't happen a lot, of course, but maybe more often than you'd think.

"Don't worry," he added quickly. "I can get you out of there."

"I remember the battle," the voice said, tentatively. "I felled several of the savage orcs. They were monstrous and many, but unskilled. I remember."

"I'm sure you do," Roubris soothed. "It's the last thing that happened to you."

"Is my... is my body around here somewhere?"

Roubris looked around. "Doubtful. Sorry. The battle was a year ago. A lot can happen to a body in a year." Eaten by bugs and worms, devoured by wild dogs... "It's likely that you were pulled from the field after it was all over by your comrades or loved ones or something. They probably had a funeral for you. I'm... sure it was very nice. I'm sure you were well honored."

	"Everybody has a gift. How they use it is up to them."

The voice sighed in Roubris's head. He wasn't sure if it was wistful, sad, or just trying to take it all in. Then she began muttering to herself, for lack of a better term, although it was all in Roubris's mind. He ran a hand through his curly brown hair and then across his unshaven jaw. It didn't pay to spend too much time consoling the dead spirit at this point. He needed to get to business.

Besides, the muttering was damned irritating.

"Nivua, if I'm going to help you, I need something."

Her voice sharpened. "What?"

"I need funds. Restoring you is a costly process."

"How can I... I can't pay you. How can I provide you with money at a time like this? Shouldn't a priest such as yourself help a... lost soul... simply to serve the will of the gods? How can you ask me for payment?"

"I'm not a cleric. But I know one. My talent is that I can talk to you, Nivua. No one else can."

"But I have no money. Not like this. I have nothing."

Roubris spoke in a full, forceful voice. He was alone on the field. There was no one else to hear. "You must remember something of value, Nivua. Some spoils of war secreted away for a rainy day."

Again she sighed, then remained silent for a time. Roubris waited. Finally she said, "No. No, nothing."

Now Roubris sighed. He looked into the late afternoon sky, at the billowing clouds overhead, and then at the mountains in the distance. "Well," he said, again in a whisper, "then we're going to have to do this another way."

"What does that mean?"

"Nivua, you probably took some kind of secrets with you to the grave. Everyone does."

She didn't reply.

"You probably know something about someone that he or she wouldn't want anyone to know. Some dark little secret. Everyone's got them. Trust me. Everyone. Tell me something like that, and how to find the person in question. I'll take care of the rest."

"What?" Nivua's voice shouted in Roubris's head. The small sword nearly shook out of his hand. "You want me to betray someone so that you can extort them for money?"

"They won't know it was you. They'd never suspect you. Obviously."

"I can't do that."

"I know it's hard, but you have to understand. The process for restoring you to your proper afterlife is costly, Nivua. I don't like this any more than you do, but don't you want your just reward? Don't you want to see your loved ones again in eternity? I can't help you if you don't do this. To me, getting you to the paradise you deserve is more important than squeezing a few coins out of someone who's likely not as deserving as you."

"Perhaps you could just go to my family. Ask them for money."

That never worked. "They wouldn't believe me. They'd think I was a con artist. They can't hear you, Nivua. Only I can. It's my gift. You have to trust me. I'm the only one that can save you. And you have to do it my way. I've helped people like you before. I know what I'm doing."

Roubris was patient through the next long silence. Eventually, he felt the sword throb. "All right," Nivua's voice said quietly. "I can tell you something. Give you something you can use. It's not someone's secret. I won't do that. It's a hidden cache of gold my family keeps for emergencies."

"Good, good," Roubris said aloud. "That will work fine. This is an emergency, after all. They'd be happy to know how it was spent if they truly understood."

"I still think that if you just went to them and explained—"

"No, Nivua. They wouldn't believe me, and they'd take the sword as a keepsake. You'd be trapped on the family mantle for who knows how long. You might spend eternity as a knick-knack. A keepsake they'd eventually forget to even dust. Worse, after a generation or so, you could be sold to a junk dealer by some great nephew who didn't remember who you were. You'd be melted down as scrap. At that point, I don't even know what becomes of you. Maybe you fade into nothingness with no weapon to hold your soul."

He poured it on thick, but Roubris knew that this kind of treatment usually worked.

And it did. "All right," Nivua said. "It's hidden in a box behind a loose stone in the well behind my old house. I'll tell you how to get there."

"Excellent."

∗ ∗ ∗

Roubris pushed open the massive oak doors and walked into the temple of Iomedae, goddess of valor and justice. "I've got another one for you, Karatha."

The young priestess looked up from where she knelt in prayer. "Hello, Roubris," she said in a gentle voice. She wore the traditional white robes of her order, which did nothing to conceal her broad shoulders and muscular frame. Her long brown hair was straight and pulled back behind her head. She had an angular face. Her eyes were a soft but piercing blue. Karatha Obbaros stood and approached him.

Roubris held the notched short sword in both hands. His pants were still muddy from where he'd knelt to get at the box of gold coins hidden in the well. His jerkin was likewise filthy. He probably should have cleaned up. Probably should have entered the temple more humbly and quietly. Probably should have shown a little more reverence. He had been here so many times before that he didn't think of it. In truth, he hardly thought of the place as a temple. It was just a resource for his "business." Roubris wasn't a religious man, but Karatha was a friend and he respected her devotion. Besides, there were never worshipers or other clerics here at this time of day. He knew Karatha would be here alone.

His behavior didn't seem to put off Karatha. But then, it never did. He knew that she was aware of his activities—although perhaps not the full extent of them. She knew that he got payment from the spirits trapped in old weapons, but she probably didn't know that he sometimes extorted money from people based on the secrets he learned. At least, he hoped she didn't. And after all, he donated some of that money to the temple so that she could perform the needed rites to see the captive souls put to rest. Not all that he earned, of course, but didn't he deserve payment for his trouble? He had to eat like anyone else.

Karatha smiled and said, "A truly honorable thing. You do these lost, imprisoned souls a great service, Roubris."

Roubris felt the familiar twinge of guilt when she said that. He'd become quite adept at ignoring such twinges. He wondered for a moment if Karatha said that in order to make him feel guilty, or if she really meant it.

Probably both.

∗ ∗ ∗

Roubris took advantage of the clear skies and warm temperatures to return to the battlefield he had explored earlier. As the site of a struggle between the orcs of Belkzen and the human Lastwall defenders, it offered plenty of potential opportunities to use his talents.

He spent the better part of the afternoon without success. The broken and discarded weapons left behind by previous scroungers offered not so much as a whisper when he tried to speak to them. None contained a spirit.

He sat down on the grass amid a thick patch of wildflowers to eat the lunch he had brought. From his leather satchel he took out the end of a loaf of honey-baked bread, some blue cheese, and a few slices of dried venison. He ate them slowly, enjoying the flavors, and considered where to search next. Roubris washed down the meal with cold water and felt quite content. He stood, wiped his hands on his cloth trousers—and glimpsed something metallic not far away in the grass, framed by golden blooming flowers.

He stepped forward and saw that it was a longsword, designed to be wielded by a warrior of great size. The portion of the blade remaining was tarnished. Most had been broken off. He grasped it by the large hilt and lifted it to eye level to examine it more closely.

The sword spoke immediately. "I've been waiting for you."

Coming Next Week: Business takes a turn for the weird in Chapter Two of Monte Cook's "The Ghosts of Broken Blades."

As one of the primary architects of the third edition of Dungeons & Dragons, Dark Matter, the d20 Call of Cthulhu system, and Monte Cook's World of Darkness, as well as the author of such notable supplements as Arcana Unearthed, The Book of Eldritch Might, Dead Gods, and more, Monte Cook has left an indelible mark on the history of fantasy gaming. In addition, he has published two novels, Of Aged Angels and The Glass Prison, and his short fiction has been featured in such venues as Amazing Stories and Game Trade Magazine. For more information, visit montecook.com.

Art by Carlos Villa.