Rodrick nodded, smiling, absorbing the not-so-subtle reminder that Manius knew he was a thief, and would be watchful. Manius handed the sword off to Rodrick and strode out of the room, a busy man with big plans.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Four: Illusions of Ice
"Have you ever slain a demon, sword?" Manius addressed Hrym directly for the first time.
"Probably," Hrym said. "I can't be expected to remember every kind of thing I've slain. Listen, Manius, before we begin our crusade, do you mind giving me a few moments alone with Rodrick here?"
Manius narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"We faced horrors together in that tomb," Hrym said. "Monstrous serpentine creatures of darkness—"
"And an angry dwarf," Rodrick chimed in.
"Yes, that too," Hrym said. "We became blooded comrades in arms together, and while I'm eager to join you in your battle, Manius, I wish to give my fellow warrior Rodrick my blessing before he goes on his way."
"Ah, certainly, the camaraderie of battle, I understand." Manius nodded sagely, with the full understanding of someone who'd never been anywhere near a real battle. "I shall return shortly. I have men waiting in the hallway, Rodrick, if you need anything in the meantime."
Rodrick nodded, smiling, absorbing the not-so-subtle reminder that Manius knew he was a thief, and would be watchful. Manius handed the sword off to Rodrick and strode out of the room, a busy man with big plans.
"I was promised a bed of gold," Hrym said. "Not a one-way trip into the heart of demon country! This fool will get himself killed, and I'll rot in some fecal swamp!"
"That does seem a likely outcome," Rodrick admitted. "I'm sorry—Manius didn't share his ambitions with me when he hired me to break into the barrow and bring you back. I assumed you were just going to be another collector's item. But don't despair. You're immortal. Someone will come along and pick you up from the battlefield eventually, and—"
"Piss on that," Hrym said. "Get me out of here."
Rodrick shook his head. "I don't see how I can. Manius doesn't trust me—he hired me to steal you, so he's prepared for me to try to steal you again. Short of using you to kill everyone between me and the outskirts of his property, I don't see how—"
"Then start thinking," Hrym said. "Remember what I said about how you'd need to become more cunning? Now's your chance."
"I appreciate the difficulty of your situation, but I'm afraid—"
Hrym is no ordinary magic sword.
"I have no intention of going to the Worldwound, Rodrick. If you don't save me, then I'll wait until Marius assembles his crusaders to start marching, and I will freeze every single one of them in place. They will be a forest of dead statues. And when that grim site is discovered, I'll start screaming 'Rodrick made me do it'!"
They sat together in silence for a moment. Then Rodrick said, not without admiration: "That's blackmail, Hrym."
"I prefer to think of it as forceful persuasion."
"Perhaps..." Rodrick murmured. "Listen, Hrym, this might take me a few days. But tell Manius you're going to stop talking until you reach the Worldwound—a vow of silence, or a period of meditation to help you prepare for the rigors of the struggle to come—whatever. The point is that you have to shut up. Can you do that?"
"I didn't say a word for years in that barrow. Silence is within my considerable capabilities. But I don't see why—"
"I know this is a laughable statement on the face of it, but: just trust me."
"And you trust me," Hrym said. "If you don't come back for me, remember: a field of frozen crusaders."
"Consider me motivated."
∗∗∗
Rodrick took his money—beautiful money, of which he suspected he'd have to spend nearly all of it—and then took his leave of Manius. He headed to Carpenden, the nearest town of size, and began making some inquiries.
Carpenden was prosperous, home to wealthy landowners and the merchants who catered to them, but it was also a military town, housing a large portion of Andoran's army. The real military types Rodrick encountered didn't give Manius's planned expedition great odds of success. They allowed that even a well-prepared force of hardened paladins led by a veteran warrior couldn't expect to win any decisive battles in the Worldwound. As for a mixture of unaffiliated crusaders and mercenaries led by a gentleman farmer who'd read a few textbooks on military tactics? A noble undertaking, in a way, yes—but hopeless.
Like anyone in his line of work, Rodrick knew people, and the people he knew knew other people, and so two days after leaving Manius's house he sat down in the back room of small gambling house with an illusionist named Horwick. The illusionist was fat, and wore a threadbare red velvet robe, and picked at his teeth endlessly with his over-long pinky fingernail.
"Do you know the goldbrick trick?" Rodrick said.
The illusionist considered the smear of old food stuck on his fingernail and grunted. "You offer to sell someone a gold brick, and at the last minute, you switch it with a lead brick covered in a thin coating of gold leaf. But you don't need an illusionist for that. You barely need a paintbrush."
"I'm working a sort of... variation," Rodrick said. He explained the two things he needed.
Horwick allowed that he could provide those items, if the price was right.
The right price, as Rodrick had expected, was ruinously expensive.
∗∗∗
Rodrick returned to Manius's house with an old sword strapped to his back and a pair of wands tucked away in his shirt. The crusaders were more organized now, clearly preparing for departure, but they still paid no attention to him as he rode up to the front steps. He wandered into the house again—depressed at the lack of small, valuable objects to steal—found the chamberlain, and requested an audience with Manius.
After a while, Manius appeared in the sitting room, which now contained only a single chair, the other having presumably been sold for sword polish or something. Rodrick rose to greet him, noting Hrym's hilt sticking up from scabbard at Manius's belt. "Your talk of crusade moved me," Rodrick said. "I'd like to join your party."
Manius grunted. "We're not on a quest for gold, Rodrick. Only glory."
Rodrick pressed a hand to his chest and put on his most sincere face, one that had charmed the coinpurses off men and the underclothes off women many times. "I've spent the past three days thinking about the empty hollowness of my life, and my need for a greater purpose. Please. Allow me to join you."
"It does my heart good to see you make that choice. My hope for humanity has never been stronger." Manius stroked his chin. "I could send you to report to one of the crusader leaders... but I think I'd like to keep you closer, as part of my personal retinue."
Rodrick beamed. "That would be an honor." He knew it was more likely because Manius didn't trust him and wanted to make sure he didn't steal the horses and provisions, but that was fine. If Rodrick was sleeping in the house, it would spare him having to sneak in later. "How are you, Hrym?"
"The sword is spending the foreseeable future in silent contemplation, marshaling its powers for the great battles ahead," Manius said. "It's just as well—it strikes me as a bit unseemly, having a sword speak."
He can still hear you, Rodrick thought, amazed at the man's arrogance. He seemed to think Hrym was just a curiosity, when the sword was really—
Well, not a person in the normal sense, obviously. But he was still a person.
"We could all probably do with a little less talking," Rodrick said.
∗∗∗
Late that night, Rodrick slipped from his bedroll in the corner of an empty storage closet and crept through the house to Manius's chamber. The door was unguarded, and why not? There was literally an army on the grounds. Rodrick opened the door and slipped in, then waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, listening to the rich man's snores from the overstuffed bed in the center of the room. The only light came from the fires outside shining faintly in the windows.
Rodrick was making a terrible habit of sneaking into places where dangerous creatures were sleeping in order to retrieve a magical sword. At least this time he was armed, though he desperately hoped he wouldn't have to stab anyone with the sword on his back.
"Psst," Hrym said. "Rodrick? Is that you? I'm over here."
Rodrick crouch-walked over to a large wooden wardrobe. Hrym was still in his scabbard, slung over the back of a chair. Not even a bed of coins. Rodrick eased the blade out of the scabbard.
"Let me out of this thing, I can't see—" Hrym began, and Rodrick shushed him, listening to Manius mutter in his bed for a moment before deciding he wasn't waking up.
Rodrick drew the old, battered longsword from the sheath on his back and laid it on the ground before him. He felt in his shirt for the right wand—it had a golden band around one end, while the other was plain wood—and withdrew the slim and expensive bit of magic. He touched the wand to the sword, and watched the illusion take hold.
The beaten sword shimmered and turned bluish-white. In a moment, it was a perfect copy of Hrym, sparkling like ice. He then took Hrym out of the scabbard.
"You sly bastard," Hrym said. "It's my spitting image—"
"Your turn," Rodrick whispered, and touched Hrym with the other wand. The sword was transformed into a battered, notched longsword, decidedly unmagical. He shoved the disguised Hrym into his scabbard, ignoring the sword's outraged squawk. Then he placed the false Hrym in Manius's scabbard and hung it back over the chair. Horwick had assured Rodrick that the illusions were long-lasting enough to let Rodrick escape undiscovered with time to spare, but he didn't want to test that.
Rodrick was nearly to the door when he heard the mattress creak. "Who's there?" Manius demanded.
The thief stopped breathing, and tried to think like a shadow. Manius padded over to the chair, drew the false Hrym halfway from the sheath, and grunted. "Still not talking?" He rattled the sword and then shoved it back in the scabbard, sighed, and returned to bed.
Rodrick counted to a hundred fifteen times before he was convinced Manius was asleep again, then slipped into the hallway and away.
∗∗∗
"Do you think he'll realize the sword is fake before or after he tries to charge directly at a demon lord?" Hrym asked as they dawdled along a road many miles south the next day. He'd instructed Rodrick to stick him on the outside of the scabbard on Rodrick's back, and Hrym had frozen himself in place there—that way Hrym could see. Drawing Hrym was a lot easier when he wasn't actually in the scabbard, too. Wearing a longsword strapped on your back made you look impressively dangerous, but it was practically difficult to draw four feet of icy blade from a sheath on your back in a hurry, unless you had freakishly long arms.
"Before, if he's lucky." Rodrick jingled his coinpurse, or tried to; it contained three pieces of copper and one of silver, which didn't make for much of a jingle. He'd had to sell his lovely blue boots, too, and he'd never even walked on water with them. "Wands are damnably expensive, Hrym. I wish I was sure you're worth it."
"The wands still work, don't they? Can't they cast the same spell dozens of time?"
"Well, I suppose, but—" He paused. "You're a genius, sword. I could sell you. Over and over again."
"You could use me to put on a dazzling demonstration, then sell worthless hunks of metal that looked like me," Hrym said.
"Oh, this could work out," Rodrick said.
"We just have to settle how to divvy up the profits," Hrym said. "Since without me there would be no profits, I suggest a ninety-ten split, in my favor."
"Ha! More like ninety-ten in my favor. I'd like to see how much gold you'd make on your own if I stuck you in the bottom of a bog, sword."
They rode on, bickering amicably, into their golden future.
Coming Next Week: A look inside one of Andoran's oddest military units in Neal F. Litherland's "The Irregulars."
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
Rodrick threw the lantern at the dwarf's head. It bounced off the miner's helmet, but didn't deter the attack.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Three: Rich Man's Crusade
Rodrick threw the lantern at the dwarf's head. It bounced off the miner's helmet, but didn't deter the attack.
"Use me!" Hrym shouted.
Rodrick lifted the sword defensively. As he swung the blade, an arc of whiteness flew from its tip and struck the dwarf just below the knees. The miner's forward movement instantly halted, and he swayed like a young sapling, his boots and calves frozen to the tunnel floor—which didn't stop him from swinging his axe wildly, to the limit of his reach.
"I'll just, ah, be going." Rodrick moved carefully around the dwarf, then followed the slanting tunnel upward at a brisk jog.
What other miners they encountered were quick to drop their swords and flee, and a short while later Rodrick and Hrym emerged into a bustling mining camp. They sidled toward the edge of the settlement and then hared off into the trees, following a ridgeline up and away. Once they'd reached high-ish ground, Rodrick looked around in hopes of finding his bearings. The barrow was in the hills of northern Andoran, east of Darkmoon Vale, but he wasn't sure how far he'd gone underground. But if the gloomy spire of Droskar's Crag was over there, then that was west, and so...
"Are you lost?" Hrym said.
"Only until I find a road," Rodrick replied, and set off downhill in what he suspected to be the direction most likely to lead to civilization. After a while they hooked up with a dirt track—probably the one that led to the mining camp—and Rodrick proceeded with more confidence. They were sure to encounter a village soon, or someone they could beg a ride from.
"So what are you really?" Hrym said as they—or, rather, Rodrick—trudged along.
"I can't imagine what you mean."
"You say you're an adventurer. You're certainly no fighter, though—when holding a sword in one hand and a lantern in the other, your first instinct is to defend yourself with the lantern? I would therefore assume you're a thief, but I saw you skulking in the cavern, and you're equally awful at stealth—"
"Please, your flattery will overwhelm me. I do wish I had a scabbard to shove you into." He switched Hrym to his left hand and stretched out the cramped fingers of his right. Carrying a sword for this long was grueling, even if Hrym was lighter than most blades his size. "As you can see, I look like a fighter—"
"Humans look mostly like fuzzy blobs of varying hues to me, I'm afraid."
Rodrick sighed. "Take me at my word, then—I am long of limb, broad of shoulder, wide of chest, mighty of thew, and so on. Reasonably mighty, anyway. I am blessed with a certain natural athleticism, though admittedly devoid of skill or training in battle, because people get hurt in battles, and I have no interest in getting hurt. But looking as I do makes it easy for me to be hired as a caravan guard, or personal bodyguard, or member of an adventuring party—"
"And once there, in the midst of your trusted allies, you wait for the opportune moment to steal whatever you can and escape in the night?"
"Do I detect a note of judgment in your voice, sword?"
Many nobles fancy themselves warriors, but most warriors would rather be nobles.
"Not at all. I'm interested in ends, not means. And I'm only interested in ends when those ends are gold."
Rodrick laughed. "You and I could get along, sword. A shame I've promised you to someone else."
"You could just steal me, though," Hrym said reasonably. "In fact, by not stealing me, you're violating your own habits. You might even be accused of doing an honest day's labor."
"Oh, I had to cheat a few people to get into the barrow, don't worry—I kept in practice. And what are you saying, anyway? You'd give up your spot in a rich man's treasure-heap?"
"I'm not volunteering to join you, no, though this has been entertaining—at least compared to being jammed beneath a linnorm's belly. I'm just wondering why you don't seize an object of my obvious value. An intelligent sword of living ice, capable of speech and great feats of magic—whatever this rich man's paying you, I'm worth more in your hand."
"Ah, and if I were truly a fighter and adventurer, I'm sure I'd never dream of giving you up. But to succeed in my chosen venture, I benefit from a certain amount of anonymity. I can easily disappear into a crowd after committing a morally questionable act—assuming it's a sufficiently handsome crowd—and alter my speech, mannerisms, and mode of dress well enough to elude detection. But if I started carrying around a loud-mouthed sword with a blade of shimmering blue-white crystal, word would get around. I might even, allow me to shudder at the thought, become famous."
"You might have to change your ways a bit, I suppose," Hrym said.
"You wouldn't suggest I try actually being a fighter."
"No, no. You'd just have to get better at cheating people and stealing from them—ideally leaving them unaware they'd been cheated at all, at least until you'd said your farewells and ridden into the next country. I'd be good for you. I'd force you to become more cunning, and elevate your practice."
"Alas, we'll never know." Rodrick shaded his eyes and looked down the ridge. "Aha! I know that village. I can get a sheath for you there, and a horse, and room for the night." He yawned. "And then take advantage of a bed. Being drugged in a barrow doesn't count as a good night's sleep."
"I don't like sheathes," Hrym said. "And you'd better not spend all the gold you stole on horses and beds and things—you'll need to scatter a nice layer of coins for me to rest upon while you sleep."
"You are a very odd weapon, Hrym."
∗∗∗
The sword drew quite a few glances before Rodrick bought a sheathe and convinced Hrym it was better to be temporarily hidden than to become a target for ambitious bandits. They settled in an inn Rodrick had visited before and bedded down for the night. Normally when so flush with coin Rodrick would not have been alone in that bed, but the thought of inviting one of the village's more adventurous ladies up to his room while Hrym rested in a drawer on a thin scattering of coins was too embarrassing to contemplate. Yet another good reason he and the sword shouldn't travel together.
And yet, they stayed up into the night, talking. In the dark, it wasn't so strange to chat with an intelligent sword; they were just a couple of rogues swapping stories of past exploits. Rodrick's tales were mostly wildly exaggerated, and he assumed Hrym's were, too. Even so, the sword's laziness and avarice—and the heroic efforts he was willing to expend in hopes of future laziness, while wielded by men far more ambitious than Hrym himself—were truly inspiring.
The last thing Hrym said before Rodrick fell asleep was, "My great tragedy is that I'm so attractive to conquerors, crusaders, and heroes, when by temperament I'd be a better companion for a treacherous, self-interested hedonist like you."
"You say the nicest things, sword," Rodrick said, and closed his eyes.
∗∗∗
The next day Rodrick bought a sweet-tempered horse and they rode down out of the hills east of Darkmoon Vale, toward the fertile valleys south of the Andoshen River, where Rodrick's employer Manius lived. The rich man's family had been nobility back in the days when Andoran had such things, and in the years since had managed to recreate the conditions of nobility by buying up farm- and timberland, amassing quite a fortune. He lived in a grand house surrounded by green fields, with a stand of personal forest spreading green and wild beyond—
Or at least he had last time Rodrick was here. Rodrick reined in his horse and stood staring across the fields.
"What?" Hrym said, voice muffled inside the scabbard. "Are we there yet?"
"Ah, nearly," Rodrick said.
The fields were trampled and full of tents, with armored men milling among them. The miniature forest was greatly reduced, and the sounds of hammering and sawing and cart-building suggested what had become of those noble old trees. Smoke rose from the house's four chimneys, and from at least two makeshift forges. Rodrick, never comfortable entering camps of armed men without a good reason, eased his horse forward. None of the soldiers challenged him, even as he passed among the tents and proceeded to the house. A harried-looking man stood near the front door, directing various servants, and Rodrick recognized him as Manius's head of household.
"Hail," Rodrick said. "I've returned from my mission—"
The chamberlain—or whatever his title was—squinted at Rodrick, then brightened. "Ah! The master was just wondering if you ever intended to return. We'll see to your horse—you go on inside. The butler will arrange an audience."
"If you don't mind me asking," Rodrick began, "why is there an army on the—" But the man had already hurried away.
The butler didn't open the door at Rodrick's knock, so the thief just let himself in. The interior of the place had changed greatly, too—the beautiful rugs were gone, leaving bare wood behind, and the artwork was gone from the walls. He wandered on the first floor until he found the butler, who stuck him in a drawing room that still possessed a couple of chairs and told him to wait. Hrym complained of being in the sheath, so Rodrick drew him forth and leaned him against the other chair.
"This doesn't look like the opulent palace you led me to expect," Hrym said suspiciously.
Rodrick spread his hands. "It was a rich man's mansion last time I was here, I assure you. I can't speak for what's going on now—"
"What's going on," said Manius, stepping in and shutting the door after him, "is preparation for a crusade." Manius was in his early fifties, with graying hair, a lined and serious face; and the bearing of a warrior ascetic. He wore the sort of clothes that seemed ordinary unless you noticed how perfectly they were cut and tailored to his form. His eyes fell upon Hrym, and widened. "Rodrick. You succeeded. You brought me the blade of ice!"
"I did," Rodrick said. "With great effort and considerable peril, and even loss of life among the hirelings who assisted me, and—"
"You will be duly compensated." Manius stepped forward, then paused. "Does, ah—does it truly speak?"
"I do," Hrym said. "You may address me directly."
"Remarkable!" Manius said, still talking to Rodrick. "One of my ancestors saw this blade in battle, wielded by Brant Selmy—"
"Oh, I hated him," Hrym said. "Never knew how to relax. Until he died. Buried me in his tomb with him. But I suppose you know that."
Manius knelt, took Hrym by the hilt, and raised him up, staring at the shimmering blade. Rodrick felt an unexpected twinge at seeing the sword in another man's hand.
"Beautiful," Manius murmured. "You will be the death of many a demon."
"Demons?" Hrym and Rodrick said at the same time.
"Oh, yes," Manius said. "It's the reason I wanted this sword. My life has been one of idleness and pointless pleasure for far too long. I decided that I need to make my mark on the world before I die. And so I've spent every penny I've inherited and earned to gather and provision an army of crusaders to go north, where we will face the demon-infested nightmare land men call the Worldwound." He held up Hrym. "We leave in one week. And with this sword, I hope to slay a demon lord with my own hand."
Coming Next Week: The final chapter of Tim Pratt's "Bastard, Sword"!
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
Rodrick dropped the bell and scrambled toward the slope that led back to the barrow. The linnorm uncoiled with impossible speed, and suddenly its head filled Rodrick's vision, blocking his route to the treasure room.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Two: Serpent and Bow
Rodrick dropped the bell and scrambled toward the slope that led back to the barrow. The linnorm uncoiled with impossible speed, and suddenly its head filled Rodrick's vision, blocking his route to the treasure room.
The miniature snowstorm Rodrick had accidentally spawned with the bell sent snowflakes spiraling all around, limiting visibility, but not enough to matter at this range. The coins and stones beneath the soles of his feet were icy, so cold Rodrick worried he'd lose his toes to frostbite—and then realized such a worry was the least of his problems, as he was standing nose-to-snout with a linnorm.
Rodrick had never seen a dragon or dragon-type creature in person, but this one looked more or less like the statues and drawings of such creatures: a huge reptilian head with twisted horns, immense black eyes, and a mouth full of teeth like broken daggers. It was unmistakably an apex predator of such power and size that Rodrick would barely count as a mouthful.
He froze, still holding Hrym aloft, as the creature gazed at him. It opened its jaws, and Rodrick prepared himself to be bitten in half. The preparation mostly involved whimpering and trembling.
Instead, the creature began to draw in a vast breath. Rodrick's relief lasted only for an instant. Could linnorms breathe fire, or ice, or poison, as their less snakelike cousins the dragons did?
At least it would be a quick death, Rodrick thought. Not as good as no death, but better than many of the other alternatives.
"Point me at the beast!" Hrym shouted.
Rodrick complied, though it was more of an involuntary muscle spasm than a conscious effort.
A cone of swirling, bluish-white crystals shot forth from the point of the sword, and the blade sent up great billows of freezing white mist. The linnorm disappeared in the torrent of ice, and when Hrym ceased his frigid attack, the beast's head was encased in an irregular ball of ice the size of a boulder. The linnorm's body began to whip around wildly, and Rodrick threw himself to one side—careful to keep his grip on the sword—to avoid being crushed by the creature's coils. The boots wrapped around his neck nearly strangled him in the process, but he managed to cram himself against the cavern wall.
The linnorm's ice-encrusted head slammed into the wall that led to the treasure room, smashing down enough rocks to block access to the barrow. Rodrick whimpered again—he was doing a lot of that lately. Trapped in a cavern, in a magical ice storm, barefoot, with a furious linnorm lashing around. The day just got better and better.
The torch he'd jammed into the coins was dislodged by the beast's lashings, and it came sliding down the mound of treasure toward Rodrick. He scooted away on his butt to avoid having his feet set on fire, then picked up the torch. It flickered weakly, its fuel nearly extinguished. The thought of being trapped here blind was too horrible to contemplate.
The linnorm continued to bash its head against the cavern wall, trying to break the armor of ice before it suffocated. Rodrick wondered if it would die or escape before causing the entire cavern to cave in.
"Good thing it's a mountain linnorm," Hrym said. "They breathe fire—or, actually, molten rock. Ice linnorms are immune to my powers."
"How fortunate," Rodrick rasped. He struggled to his feet, shivering in the cold. "We have to kill the beast before it collapses the whole cavern on top of us."
"I wouldn't recommend that," Hrym said. "When linnorms die, they curse their killers. Don't you think your luck is bad enough already?"
"I'd rather be cursed and alive than blessed and dead, sword."
"Hmm," Hrym said. "You make a point. Being an immortal magical sword, I don't usually see things in those terms. There is another option, though."
The ball of ice encrusting the linnorm's head began to glow deeply red, like an immense ruby. Rodrick realized the monster was trying to use its breath weapon—magical lava-breath versus magical ice. Which would prevail?
"Don't you want to hear about the other option—"
"Yes, yes, of course!" Rodrick shouted.
"We could just leave."
"The monster has sealed off the entry to the barrow—"
Never get between a dwarf and his ore.
"Yes, I can see, you know, even if I don't have eyes. I don't mean we can leave that way. There's a tunnel toward the back of the chamber, probably too small for the linnorm to fit through. But a tiny little humanoid like you—"
Rodrick was moving before the sword even finished speaking. The cavern was brighter now, with the monster's fiery breath shining through the prism of ice around its head, casting rays of ruby light all around—and revealing a spot of deeper shadow in one wall, a tunnel big enough for Rodrick to fit through if he crouched.
Once outside the main cavern, the horrible biting cold diminished. Rodrick's spine protested as he shuffled along bent forward, torch in one hand, icy sword in the other, following the curving contours of the tunnel. Behind him there was a great thump, and the sound of cascading rock. He paused and looked back in time to see the mouth of the tunnel go totally black, sealed off by a cave collapse.
"Is it dead?" he asked.
"I don't know," Hrym said. "Do you feel cursed?"
"Now that you mention it... But wouldn't you be the one to get cursed?"
"I believe traditionally the wielder of a weapon is held to be the responsible party, not the weapon itself."
Rodrick grunted. He leaned Hrym against the tunnel wall, jammed the spluttering torch into a scree of small stones, and sat down on a flattish outcropping of rock. He crammed his feet—they felt like lumps of ice—into the magical boots, which shifted and squirmed to fit his feet perfectly. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed and exhaled. "It's good to be alive."
"I wouldn't know."
The thief opened one eye. "You can shoot ice, then. That's handy."
"Oh, that's just a small part of what I can do. I hail from the north, and all things of frost, ice, and cold are within my power."
"I don't suppose you can withdraw cold? My ears are freezing."
"No, but I could make the rest of you even colder, to make the ears seem warm in comparison."
"I think I'll pass," Rodrick said. "Do you have any other tricks? Glowing in the presence of evil, flying around and fighting on your own, things like that?"
"Total elemental mastery of ice isn't enough for you?"
"Yes, well. Hmm. So you can't move on your own, then. You need a wielder. Someone to carry you around."
"Yes, humans are to me as horses are to humans."
"Ha. Horses aren't the ones who decide where to go, though."
The sword's voice grew harder. "A man who tries to take me somewhere I don't wish to go will find himself with his hand frozen off, adventurer. And now that we're on the subject, I don't want to be carried around—I want to rest on a heap of treasure. Specifically the untold riches I was promised. Shouldn't we be on our way?"
"Do you know a way out of this black cave, then?"
"I barely knew there was a tunnel. I just remembered glimpsing this one when the linnorm dragged me into his hoard. Aren't you living creatures attuned to subtle drafts and currents of air and so forth?"
"Not especially." Rodrick stood up, his head brushing the top of the tunnel. "But it's not as if we're faced with a wealth of choices. This tunnel only goes in one direction."
"If you die and leave me stuck in some dark hole with no gold I will be very annoyed."
"I'm sure knowledge of your unhappiness will make my afterlife miserable, sword."
Rodrick picked up the sword and the torch and made his way along the tunnel, trying in vain to feel a waft of air suggesting a route to the upper world. He also did his best to avoid facing the possibility that he might simply be sealed in the dark forever, plunging ever deeper, eventually starving to death. The torch's light grew ever more inconstant and flickering as he progressed, and he wondered how long he'd be able to force himself to keep going once the light was gone, and he was inching along by feel—
"Do you hear that?" Hrym said.
Rodrick cocked his head. He did hear something—a distant sort of knocking, seemingly coming from the rock wall before him. "It's not the linnorm," he said. "That's still behind us, unless I've become hopelessly turned around."
"Jam me in that crack in the rock," Hrym said. "As far in as you can."
"As you wish." Rodrick shoved the point of the sword into a fissure in the wall. "Now what—"
The exposed length of sword began to steam and billow mist, and ice crystals poured out of the hole. Cracks spread across the wall, like thin ice breaking over a pond, as magical frost filled every minute fissure and pushed it wider.
"If you bury me, you stupid sword—"
The wall collapsed inward in a cascade of frozen stone, and Hrym stopped steaming mist. A hole three feet across yawned open at chest height, light glowing on the other side. A man with a filthy face, holding a pickaxe, gaped in astonishment at Rodrick.
"Hi there," the thief said, clambering through the hole, leaving the torch behind. "A miner, are you? Good man. I have only the greatest admiration for those who wrestle wealth from the very bowels of the world—"
"Are you mining for gold?" Hrym said. "Answer me, man!"
The miner stared, wide-eyed, at the talking sword, then dropped his pickaxe and ran away, leaving a sack and a lantern behind with his tools.
"Hmm," Rodrick said. "We may as well follow him. I doubt he's running in terror deeper into the mine, so he's probably headed for the surface."
"I don't see anything shiny at all," Hrym said. "They must be mining something boring here."
Rodrick picked up the lantern and began to walk, whistling, through the tunnel. "Things are looking up, sword. You'll be resting on a bed of gold in no time, and more importantly, so will I—"
A dwarf stepped from a side tunnel and into Rodrick's path. He wore a miner's helmet set with a magical glowing gem, and held a battleaxe with a head approximately as large as his own chest.
"Breaking into my mine?" he rumbled. "Trying to steal from me? Nobody steals from me! This mine is mine!"
"You don't—" Rodrick began, but then the dwarf was coming at him, axe held high.
Coming Next Week: Finder's fees and disillusionment in Chapter Three of Tim Pratt's "Bastard, Sword"!
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
Rodrick—pragmatist, opportunist, and occasional outright thief—groaned and tried to sit up, but only managed to half-lean against the wall of a lightless cavern. His head had felt like this many times before, but usually only after a night of drinking and wenching. His memories of the prior hours were fuzzy, but they didn't involve taverns and winsome (or buxom, or both; he wasn't picky) maids.
Bastard, Sword
by Tim Pratt
Chapter One: Ill Met by Torchlight
Rodrick—pragmatist, opportunist, and occasional outright thief—groaned and tried to sit up, but only managed to half-lean against the wall of a lightless cavern. His head had felt like this many times before, but usually only after a night of drinking and wenching. His memories of the prior hours were fuzzy, but they didn't involve taverns and winsome (or buxom, or both; he wasn't picky) maids.
Images bobbed in his mind like rotting apples in a pond. A body, crushed in a trap. A man with a weaselly narrow face and a pack full of potions. A creature that looked like a beautiful woman from one side, and a gnarled, hollowed-out tree from the other. A room full of shattered treasure chests, and a suit of ancient black armor, and a distressingly large hole in the back wall—
Then he remembered. Sneaking into a barrow rumored to be full of treasure, accompanied by a fool named Simeon who'd gotten himself killed in a trap before they were even well begun. Disabling traps and killing a monster, assisted by a treacherous alchemist named Alaeron. They'd had a small disagreement about how to proceed, and so the alchemist had drugged Rodrick, knocking him unconscious and leaving him here to die.
Or, more accurately, to wake up with a headache.
Rodrick patted his pockets and discovered that all of his knives were gone, even the ones in his boots. No surprise, really, since his boots were also gone. The alchemist had stolen his shoes. That was nicer than stabbing Rodrick in the neck, admittedly, but still quite rude.
Now he sat slumped on a sloping hill, in a dark cavern that stank of something rank and reptilian, which Alaeron had claimed was a linnorm—a great slumbering beast that wasn't exactly the same as a dragon, but close enough. This barrow of treasures plundered from the North had included a linnorm egg, which had, at some point, hatched and grown to full size. The beast had smashed through the tomb wall into a system of caves and constructed a lair there, complete with a hoard made from the gold and gems and magical geegaws Rodrick had come to steal.
The linnorm had been the source of Rodrick's disagreement with the alchemist. Rodrick had advocated sneaking into the linnorm's cave and stealing everything, while Alaeron had favored running away and living to loot another day. Rodrick had insisted on his course of action, using a sword to advance his argument, and Alaeron had replied with a potion.
Rodrick began to crawl up the slope, quietly, toward the hole in the wall. There should have been torches lit in there. Either they'd burned out, or Alaeron had doused them when he left.
Having groped his way back into the mostly-empty treasure room, Rodrick crawled without success along the floor, looking for the lantern. No luck—the alchemist had taken it—but he did find an unlit torch, and he still had his flint and steel, at least. He got the torch lit and breathed a shaky sigh of relief as light blossomed in the dark.
After lighting the other torches on the walls, he sat in a carved wooden throne and considered his options. He was tempted to pursue Alaeron and exact revenge, but there was a more pressing concern: acquisition.
The most important thing was the sword. The alchemist had used a potion of darkvision to look over the sleeping linnorm and its hoard, and had claimed to see a sword, so that was promising. Rodrick had spun a tale for the alchemist about discovering the existence of this barrow and deciding to pillage it with his friend Simeon, but that was only partly true. Rodrick had actually been hired by a wealthy collector to break into this place and retrieve the sword, rumored to be an artifact of great power. Anything else he could steal was his to keep, in addition to a hefty payment in coinage.
Returning to Manius without the sword wasn't really an option if Rodrick wanted to keep his head. He could flee, with the collector's up-front payment in his pockets—but no, damn it, Alaeron had stolen his coin purse too—and probably escape any unpleasant consequences by changing his name again and heading south.
Escape was tempting. He was no dragon-slayer, even if linnorms weren't exactly dragons. But the treasure... the treasure was even more tempting.
He sighed, rose, lifted a torch from its sconce, and slowly approached the hole in the wall. He stepped through carefully, the torch held out in front of him.
The light immediately returned to him, shining from a shimmering lake of golden coins and glimmering jewels. As always, the sight of large quantities of wealth took his breath away. Alas, he could also see the pale scaled belly of something immense coiled atop the hoard. He'd hesitated to bring light into this chamber before, for fear of waking the beast, but then he'd had an alchemist on hand, with potions that would let them see in the dark. Circumstances had changed, and necessity demanded a certain amount of risk.
He crept down the slope, to the more-or-less level bottom of the chamber, just a few feet from the outlying spill of gold and gems. In this case, being barefoot was actually a boon—his footing was more sure, and he could move through the coins far less noisily. Rodrick mostly watched his feet, carefully sliding coins aside to find secure footing underneath, but occasionally he glanced up and saw more and more of the linnorm revealed. The thing was large enough that he couldn't apprehend it as a whole—it seemed serpentine, wrapped around and around itself. At least its head wasn't visible. Alaeron had said the creatures could hibernate for centuries, so Rodrick hoped a little torchlight wouldn't serve to wake it up.
His circle of light continued to advance. At last, it touched the hilt and first foot or so of a longsword's blade. Unfortunately, the remainder of the sword was firmly wedged beneath the linnorm itself, both resting atop a bed of coins. Perhaps if Rodrick undermined the coins—
"Do you mind?" The voice was deep, faintly annoyed, and slightly muffled, as if the speaker were wrapped in a blanket.
Rodrick froze. "I... beg your pardon?" he whispered.
The voice didn't bother to whisper. "As well you should. Do I come creeping into your bedchamber at night and shine a light in your face? Well?"
Rodrick is cunning, but that doesn't make him wise.
"Uh, who is this speaking?"
"Me," the voice replied unhelpfully. "What are you doing in here? In case you haven't noticed, there's a linnorm sleeping a few feet from your face. You wouldn't enjoy waking it up. If it even rolls over in its sleep you'll be crushed by its coils. The thing must be sixty feet long."
"I'd love to discuss my motivations, but I'd like to know who I'm talking to—"
"I'm the sword, idiot," the sword said. "Call me Hrym, if you must call me something."
"Ah." Rodrick closed his eyes, but only briefly. "The sword. Of course. I'd heard rumors that you could speak, but I didn't entirely believe them."
"I'm a rare breed," Hrym said. His voice was muffled—presumably because he was jammed beneath several tons of sleeping monster. "Who're you?"
"Rodrick. An adventurer."
"Stay here too long and you're sure to have an adventure, though it's likely to be your last. Why don't you have any shoes on?"
"I had a disagreement with a, ah, fellow adventurer, and he stole them."
"Mmm. There's a pair of boots there, about a foot to your right."
Rodrick turned his head slightly and moved the torch. A pair of pale blue boots were indeed jumbled in with the gold and gems. "Are they magical?"
"No," Hrym said, the sarcasm unmistakable. "They're perfectly ordinary boots, sealed up in a warlord's barrow with all his other treasures."
"Ah. Do you know how they're magical?"
"They let you walk on water, if I recall," Hrym said.
Rodrick sighed. "Hardly helpful in my current circumstances."
"They are also quite functional as ordinary boots."
"A fair point." Rodrick slid over the gold, wincing as a small cascade of coins tinkled and chimed together. He stuck the torch down in the heap of gold—a bit like shoving a stick into sand—to free his hands, tied the laces of the boots together, and hung them around his neck like an unwieldy scarf.
"Most people wear those on their feet," Hrym said. "But I'm sure your bold new fashion will soon be all the rage. Away with you, adventurer! I doubt the linnorm will notice the absence of the boots—they were just sort of swept along with the rest of the treasure. As long as you don't try to remove anything shiny from the hoard, you can probably escape."
Rodrick thought of the gems and rings he'd already dropped into his pockets along the way and decided to pretend he hadn't heard that last part. "The boots are nice, but I'd rather hoped to leave with a bit more."
"Don't be greedy," Hrym said. "It's unseemly in a human. Why, think of the money you could make ferrying people across rivers. You've got nice broad shoulders and strong arms—you could probably carry two, maybe three people at a time. If they didn't have any luggage."
"Sword—Hrym—I'm here to rescue you."
"Rescue," the sword said. "Rescue? Would you ask me to rescue you from a brothel or a barroom?"
Rodrick frowned. "I suppose it depends on the circumstances—"
"I love it here, human. Do you know my fondest aspiration in this world? It's to sleep on a bed of gold. And do you know what I'm doing just this very moment? Sleeping on a bed of gold! Or I was sleeping, until you shone a light in my face."
"You don't have a face."
"And you don't have a very good grasp of metaphor. Fine, then, you shone a light on my hilt—"
"Which I assume would be less akin to your face and more akin to your—"
"My point," the sword said, loudly, "is that I don't need to be rescued. What you really mean is 'stolen.' Now go away before I wake the linnorm."
Rodrick considered. Stealing a sword should have been a lot simpler than this. But the sword had a mind—of sorts—which meant that it could be manipulated. And Rodrick was far better at manipulation than he was a burglary.
"Suit yourself," he said. "My client will be disappointed."
"Oh, to know I caused the disappointment of some human I've never met or heard of, how will I stand the pain? Now, go. This beast is hibernating, but I have ways of stirring it into consciousness very quickly."
"All right, fine. You're missing out, though. I mean, you call this a pile of gold? Pfft."
"Pfft?" Hrym said. "These are the all the riches acquired by the warrior Brant, slayer of beasts and men, despoiler of vaults—"
"Oh, I mean, it's alright," Rodrick said. "I wouldn't mind having this lot in my house, certainly. But my employer doesn't pillage. He invests. He owns half of Andoran, including the banks, and he believes in keeping a ready supply of coin on hand. There's a basement in his house that's so full of gold and gems that he has ten clerks working full-time just to inventory it all, and they can't keep up with the fresh cartloads of coins that arrive every day. He loves money, but more than that, he's a collector of rare and precious magical items and relics. You, of course, are one of the most rare and precious in the world—"
"This is true," Hrym said.
"—and he desires greatly to add you to his collection. Why, he's paying me more gold than I see here just to deliver you to him! Hrym, you could rest in a place of pride atop a mound of treasure that makes this look like the dregs of a drunkard's coinpurse after a holiday. Or you can stay wedged under the ass of a monster, if you prefer."
"Hmmm," Hrym said. "If this is a trick, you'll regret it. I have powers beyond mere speech."
"I'm sure you do," Rodrick said. "Shall we?"
"Very well. Draw me forth. But slowly, so I don't slice the beast."
Rodrick moved toward the sword, grasped the hilt, and gently drew out the blade. The linnorm didn't so much as shift—it might have been carved of stone.
Hrym's blade was dazzling. It was made not of steel, but rather of some bluish-white crystal, gleaming like a faceted diamond in the torchlight. The substance resembled nothing so much as—
"Ice," Rodrick whispered. "I'd heard you were a blade of living ice, but I didn't know what that meant."
"You still don't," Hrym said. "Now go, quickly."
Rodrick held Hrym aloft and carefully worked his way down the slope, moving in a low crouch, away from the light of the torch. He paused halfway down, spying what looked like a silver bell as big as a man's head, half-buried in coins. "Is that—is that the bell that summons blizzards?" he whispered. "I heard there was such a thing here."
"Oh, probably," Hrym said.
"I can carry that too," Rodrick said, and moved carefully sideways.
"I wouldn't do that." Hrym said.
"In that respect, we differ." Rodrick reached for the bell, brushing away coins with his free hand, and grasped the ring at the top. He lifted the bell up, carefully, slowly—
And as it came free from the heap of gold, the clapper struck a deep, low note so loud it brought back Rodrick's headache in full force. An icy wind suddenly blew through the cavern, and the great coils of the linnorm began to move.
Coming Next Week: The perils of waking a linnorm in Chapter Two of Tim Pratt's "Bastard, Sword"!
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novelsLiar's BladeandCity of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
In Liar's Blade, Rodrick is handsome, charming, quick-witted—and totally devoid of morals. Fortunately for him, his best friend Hrym—a talking sword with a blade of living ice—is just as single-minded when it comes to acquiring gold. The pair prefer to win their money by tricking those less deserving of it—which is to say, everyone else—while expending as little effort as possible. Yet when a mysterious patron offers them a lucrative job far to the north, the dastardly duo may find themselves in over their heads (or hilts)....
Liar's Blade Sample Chapter
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
In Liar's Blade, Rodrick is handsome, charming, quick-witted—and totally devoid of morals. Fortunately for him, his best friend Hrym—a talking sword with a blade of living ice—is just as single-minded when it comes to acquiring gold. The pair prefer to win their money by tricking those less deserving of it—which is to say, everyone else—while expending as little effort as possible. Yet when a mysterious patron offers them a lucrative job far to the north, the dastardly duo may find themselves in over their heads (or hilts)....
Chapter One: Two Sought Employment
Why would anyone want to meet at a circle of standing stones?" Rodrick leaned against one of the mossy monoliths and gazed up at the darkening sky. "Who wants to talk business out in the woods? I prefer taverns for this sort of thing. Taverns are traditional. It's easy to get a drink in them. Also, I live above one. Very convenient."
"Our mysterious prospective employer obviously doesn't want to be seen in public with you," Hrym said from behind Rodrick, voice muffled. "I can't say I blame him."
"Possibly he doesn't want to be seen at all." Rodrick rubbed the faint scratches on his cheek where one of the tavern wenches had raked him with her fingernails yesterday. He'd only made a suggestion—and he'd even offered a fair price. How was he to know she was a newlywed who took her vows seriously? At least she was married to a milkwater shopkeeper and not one of Tymon's countless over-muscled gladiators, or Rodrick might have faced more serious injury. "Maybe he's a fugitive from justice or something. We do have some history of working with criminals."
"Besides one another, you mean?" Hrym said. "And anyway, what justice? We're in the River Kingdoms. In Tymon, no less, where most arguments are settled by the parties mutually agreeing to beat each other bloody. But suppose it is some rank villain. Would you turn down the job?"
"I might. I'm an honest man now, Hrym—at least on this side of the border. And at this point in time. As far as anyone knows. It's easier to make a profit off a dishonest man, true. But you have to admit, this is a suspicious way to organize things, luring me out here all alone. Present company excepted." Rodrick was relatively comfortable with his position, standing with his back against a great huge block of stone, with sightlines as clear as he could get in the forest. At least no one would be able to stab him in the kidneys. But there were still too many shadows gathering for his liking. "Picking the lock and leaving a note on my pillow. Telling me to come here at dusk if I'd like to make some money. And leaving me that little bag of gold as, what, an incentive? A deposit? A retainer?"
"Lovely gold," Hrym said dreamily. "Just pile it up and let me sleep on it, I'll be happy as happy can be."
"Yes, I know. You have such simple tastes. I still say we should have just taken the bag of coin and scampered off. I'm tired of Tymon. The only reason I stayed around after we lost all those bets at the arena was because we were too poor to travel in style. But we've got a bit of money now—"
"Yes, but if we leave, we'll miss out on making more gold," Hrym said, practical as always. "It's not like we have any other prospects for gainful or illicit employment at the moment, and that little purse won't last long. Not with the way you run through money. You spent the last of our savings on the second-prettiest wench in the tavern, you may recall."
"The first prettiest was unavailable," Rodrick said absently. "But, look, don't you think anyone stupid enough to give me a bag of money in advance is, by definition, too stupid to work for? Trusting my reliability doesn't say much for their judgment."
"Or they could be stupid enough for us to make a lot of money off them," Hrym said.
Rodrick pondered. "Fair point. "
A moment later, the underbrush rustled, and a figure stepped forward from the shadows. Not quite short enough to be a halfling or dwarf, but definitely on the small side for a human, draped in a bulky cloak that seemed to hint at some concealed deformity—a hump, perhaps, or an off-center surplus head. The cloak was made of good fabric, though, dark green and richly embroidered along the edges with peculiar spiral patterns in dark blue thread.
"I am Zaqen," the figure said, voice pitched high enough that Rodrick guessed the speaker was female, though it was hard to be sure. "You are Rodrick, of Andoran?"
"I'm from all over," Rodrick said. "And I'm pleased to meet you." He gave her one of his more roguish smiles, because it never hurts to be charming.
Zaqen giggled, and Rodrick's smile slipped a notch. People who giggled for no reason worried him.
"Is it true," she said, "that those who hire you also hire ...your sword?"
"A warrior isn't much good without his sword." In truth, despite the rumors he'd caused to be spread throughout the region, Rodrick wasn't much of a fighter. He preferred to stab people from concealment if stabbing was called for—but one had to keep up appearances.
Zaqen sidled closer. "Yes, but ...you have a special sword?"
"Special is a good word for me," Hrym said. "Also ‘amazing' and ‘wonderful' and ‘amazingly wonderful'—"
There must be more to Zaqen than meets the eye.
"The sword talks!" Zaqen said. "How marvelous. I'd assumed that was an exaggeration." She craned her head, trying to get a glimpse of the magical weapon sheathed on Rodrick's back.
"I am no it," Hrym said. "‘He' would be better, or any honorifics you choose."
"Apologies, O mighty blade," Zaqen said, her tone deeply amused.
Rodrick sighed. Of course she'd heard about the sword. The only people who wanted Rodrick for himself alone in recent years were magistrates, city guards, and the occasional irate spouse.
"May I see it—I mean, him?" Zaqen scuttled a few steps closer, almost obscenely eager.
"Yes, let me out of this sheath," Hrym demanded. "I can't see anything."
"Your senses are magical," Rodrick said. "It's not as if you have eyes. I don't understand how a leather scabbard can possibly impede your vision." But he stepped away from the standing stone, reached over his right shoulder, grasped the hilt of the longsword, and drew Hrym smoothly from his scabbard, holding him aloft to sparkle in the ...well, twilight. Noonday sun would have been more dramatic.
Hrym was looking especially radiant tonight, though: a blade of living ice nearly four feet long, transparently crystalline at the impossibly sharp edges shading to milky white inward, and on through to a shimmering blue at the center, with steam rising in smoky tendrils from all along his length in the humid air.
"There," Rodrick said. "Meet Hrym, my partner. If this was all some elaborate ruse to lure me out here to steal my sword, you might wish to reconsider. The last person who picked up Hrym without permission lost half his arm to frostbite."
"Though if you offered me sufficient coin, say enough to fill the empty hollow of a medium-sized drained lake—" Hrym said.
"Hush, you," Rodrick said.
"No." Zaqen was suddenly businesslike. "I am not here to steal your blade. I am here to invite you to join me, and my patron, on a sacred quest."
"A quest!" Hrym said. For a sentient sword of living ice with no tongue, mouth, or even vocal cords, his voice was remarkably human. Hrym sounded like an old man who'd spent several decades running a shop that never offered credit, smoking a clay pipe on a porch and pontificating, and teaching his nephews dirty jokes. "I love quests. A sacred one, no less."
"A quest," Rodrick repeated, and sighed. "Well. It's not as if anyone's ever died horribly on one of those. Where is this patron of yours?"
"My master is busy with devotional matters. He is a very holy man."
"A holy man?" Now Rodrick did frown. "What variety of holy? The kind who disapproves of gambling and drinking, or the kind who likes sacrificing innocent virgins on altars of black stone, or ...?"
"The very wealthy kind of holy," Zaqen said. "And he has no interest in your morality, or lack thereof. As long as you can protect and aid us on our journey, he will be pleased, and you will be generously rewarded."
"And as for the other thing, you're hardly a virgin," Hrym said. "So let your mind rest easy on that point."
"Let's have a few details," Rodrick said. "Or even broad outlines. Where are we going, why are we going there, who's trying to kill us along the way, and what are you offering to pay?"
"We are going to Brevoy." Zaqen lifted her face to look at Hrym, still shining in the dusk. Her face was entirely human, though not particularly pretty: snub nose, thin lips, eyes of two different colors, one blue and one green—and the eyes looking in just slightly different directions, lending her gaze a fishlike quality. "To the very edge of any map you're likely to have seen. We seek a sacred artifact of great power, locked away for millennia. No one in particular is trying to kill us, but the River Kingdoms are dangerous places, and parts of Brevoy are little better. And, of course, where there are great treasures, there are often powerful guards, and other interested parties seeking the same prize ...My master and I are not without resources, but neither of us is particularly skilled with weapons, and simply having a strong man with a long blade in our party will act as a deterrent against many common bandits—"
"He asked about payment," Hrym said. "That's the one part I actually care about, so don't forget to address it, please."
Zaqen cocked her head, doubtless wondering—as many had before—what a magical sword could possibly want with gold. "My master is traditional. We will pay all expenses, of course. If you help us reach our goal, Rodrick, we offer your weight in gold as reward." She paused. "Or an equivalent value in gems, treasure, property, or a promissory note drawn on a leading bank of Absalom."
"His current weight in gold, or his weight at the end of the journey?" Hrym said sharply.
Zaqen blinked. "Excellent question. Astute. Forward-thinking. Let's say ...at the end of the journey?"
"Hmm," Hrym said. "I don't like it. Long overland journeys tend to cause weight loss. But he's hardly stout now, so I think we can do better. You'd better start eating richer foods, Rodrick. I want you so fat you can't sit on a horse by the time we reach Brevoy."
"Those terms are acceptable," Rodrick said calmly. His weight in treasure? That would be enough to fill a nice chest for Hrym to use as a bed, with plenty left over for Rodrick to live in the manner to which he devoutly hoped to become accustomed. And then there was the artifact she'd mentioned—surely that would be worth a bit of coin to the right buyer.
"What's the artifact?" Hrym asked. Rodrick suppressed a wince. Hrym had a bad habit of tipping their hand.
"It is a holy relic," Zaqen said. "Of no intrinsic value, and worthless to anyone but my master's particular sect."
Rodrick nodded. "I understand." Maybe what she said was even true. But if this holy man's cult could pay a man's weight in gold just for a chaperone, what would they pay in ransom for the relic itself?
"When do we leave?" Hrym said.
"Meet us here tomorrow," Zaqen said. "Two hours before twilight."
Rodrick frowned. "You want to travel by night?"
She shrugged, one shoulder dipping lower than the other. "My master sets the schedule. I gather there is a place to camp some two hours from here, where he wishes to spend the night."
"Who pays the coin calls the tune." Rodrick bowed. "I'll see you then."
Zaqen disappeared back into the underbrush, walking with a strange, hitching gait, but with surprising speed.
"Well then," Rodrick said. "I suppose that's settled. Let's head back to the Bloodied Flail and spend our advance money."
"You'd better keep enough gold to scatter over the bottom of a drawer in our rooms," Hrym said. "I don't intend to sleep on bare wood again."
"Sleep! As if you sleep." Rodrick slipped away from the standing stones, working his way along the old footpath in the direction of Tymon. The woods right around the city weren't especially dangerous—because of the gladiatorial arena, Tymon had the highest concentration of heavily armed warriors in the River Kingdoms, and they were all obliged to provide a certain amount of civil defense—but there were always bandits with no sense of self-preservation and skulking agents from the neighboring country of Razmiran, which coveted the wealth of Tymon. The value of caution was a lesson Rodrick had learned long ago. Though the exact lesson was more like, "Be cautious when no one is watching; if you want to impress someone, be ostentatiously bold, if the odds favor success."
Rodrick wasn't a coward, but he found that getting in too many fights tended to make his muscles hurt, which detracted from his enjoyment of sex, sleep, and other sensual pleasures.
They made it back to the main road without encountering thieves, thugs, spies, or mad wild beasts. Alive and walking with coins jingling in his pocket—what a pleasant sensation. Hrym was back in his sheath, keeping quiet. People tended to notice talking swords made of living ice. They gaped, or plotted to steal said magical sword, or just asked far too many tedious questions, so Hrym seldom spoke in public. There was also the element of surprise to consider. Discovering that your enemy was armed with another enemy had given many an opponent pause over the years.
Rodrick stopped by the gates to greet Chumley, the night guard he'd befriended on his first day in the city. That was one of Rodrick's little rules: if at all possible, get on friendly terms with the fellows capable of opening a gate and letting you slip out unnoticed in the middle of the night. The guard helped him tie Hrym's hilt to the scabbard with a bit of rough twine. In Tymon, ordinary people had to bind up their weapons or leave them with the guards while they were inside the walls, while full-fledged gladiators could use bare daggers for jewelry if they liked.
Rodrick strolled through the gate, nodding at the few familiar faces he saw, especially the heavily scarred ones. These were not people you wanted to have for enemies.
Most of the wooden and stone shops along the central thoroughfare were still open, though soon only the bars and betting parlors would be doing business. Off in the distance, the roughly palatial Champion's Fortress loomed above almost all the other buildings, overshadowed only by the Arena of Aroden, by far the largest structure in town. Rodrick had gone to a couple of the fights there—the ones he'd bet on most heavily—but his seats were so terrible he'd barely been able to see anything except the head of his "sure thing" rolling off across the sand at the match's conclusion. Blood sports weren't really his preferred game. Give him a nice bit of back-alley gambling instead, especially if he could provide the dice.
"Aroden." Rodrick paused to gaze at the arena. "Some god he turned out to be. Greatest scam ever perpetrated, don't you think? He claimed he was going to come back from the heavens and deliver us all from evil, and when the time came, he was a no-show. How many times have I pulled the same trick at an inn? ‘Oh, I'll come back tonight and settle my bill.' Ha! Of course, they say Aroden died, which is a fairly good reason to miss an appointment, as these things go."
"I met Aroden once." Hrym voice was low and muffled.
Rodrick frowned. "What? The Aroden? Didn't he stroll away from our mortal plane ten thousand years ago?"
Hrym was silent for a moment. "Maybe I'm thinking of someone else," the sword mumbled. "You humans all start to look the same after a while."
Rodrick shook his head. "He was Azlanti—the last Azlanti. I doubt he looked much like the rest of us—"
"Bipedal. One head, with hair on it. Two arms. Close enough."
Rodrick snorted. It was often impossible to tell if Hrym was boasting, lying, deluded, or genuinely ancient. Even the sword himself often seemed unsure of his true history. But what mattered now was their future. If they were off on a long, harsh journey tomorrow, they'd better enjoy tonight.
Their current home was a room above the Bloodied Flail, close enough to the arena to hear the screams of the crowd if the wind was right. Despite the tavern's name, and the sign bearing an image of a multi-headed whip dripping crimson paint, the Flail wasn't a particularly violent or rough tavern. That was just the aesthetic in Tymon, the city of gladiators: blood, weapons, severed heads dangling by their hair, and so forth. For all that the place was founded on blood, it was one of the more polite places Rodrick had spent time. Something about the fact that every third person you met was a seasoned arena fighter bristling with weapons prompted people to mind their manners.
Rodrick kicked the mud off his boots before pushing through into the Flail's common room—the owner had given him the rough side of her tongue the first time he tracked in muck, and he believed in staying on good terms with one's landlady, at least until it came time to skip out on the final bill.
It was only just nightfall, so the place wasn't too full yet, and he got a spot next to the bar. The prettiest waitress, Sonya—the one he'd propositioned, getting a slap complete with fingernails for his trouble—narrowed her eyes at him and disappeared into the back, but Sweet Jill approached with a smile and poured him a mug of beer. He took a sip and smacked his lips. "Much obliged. Have I told you how your hair reminds me of the embers of—"
"Save it." She kept smiling, but he saw now that her eyes were serious. "Flirt with me tomorrow, if you're still alive."
Rodrick raised one eyebrow in what he knew to be a charming and suggestive way. "Unless you're planning to ride me to death—"
"It's Sonya," she said. "She didn't like the way you talked to her."
"I suppose I could apologize, though I can't imagine why her feelings should be hurt. I would hardly seek the company of a woman who wasn't beautiful and exceptional and amazing, present company most definitely included, so really it was a compliment when I asked—"
"You're from out of town." Jill sounded sad, which was worrisome. "You didn't know any better. I tried to tell her that, but she's still upset. Most of our patrons know better than to try and have it off with her."
"I didn't know she was married," Rodrick said. "Let alone newly married. I would have held my tongue if I'd realized." Not entirely true, but he would have approached things differently. "Why are we talking about such tedious things when I have a bag of gold and—"
"You should probably leave town." She tried to nudge him off his barstool with her hip.
"But why? Her husband is a fine man, I have no doubt, but he runs a shop, and it's not even something frightening like a weapon shop or a butcher shop. It's a general goods store. The man isn't likely going to challenge me to a—"
"No," said a voice from behind him, a deep bass rumble full of amusement. "But her brother might."
Coming Next Week: Tim Pratt brings us an all-new prequel story unveiling how Rodrick and Hrym first met and joined forces!
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Liar's Blade and City of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter Four: Poison and Knives
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter Four: Poison and KnivesI will not, Alaeron said. I won't risk my life to enrich you. ... Rodrick clucked his tongue in disappointment. Ah, you misunderstand me! To go down into the linnorm's treasure chamber is to risk death, certainly. But to refuse is to ensure your death. Because if you do not, I will cut you down where you stand. Ah, ah! Don't reach for any of your little vials or potions, please. Then I'd have to cut off your hands,...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Four: Poison and Knives
"I will not," Alaeron said. "I won't risk my life to enrich you."
Rodrick clucked his tongue in disappointment. "Ah, you misunderstand me! To go down into the linnorm's treasure chamber is to risk death, certainly. But to refuse is to ensure your death. Because if you do not, I will cut you down where you stand. Ah, ah! Don't reach for any of your little vials or potions, please. Then I'd have to cut off your hands, and you'd have a terrible time gathering riches for me with your stumps."
"We can divide the coins and gems that remain here," Alaeron said, feeling desperate but trying to sound reasonable. "We can take the armor off Uncle Brant, that's valuable, surely—"
"The sword is the most important thing, I think," Rodrick said. "I've heard great things about that sword—it has a blade of living ice, Simeon said, whatever that means, and was reputed to possess its own intelligence and give wise counsel. If you see any rings or cloaks or helms, I'll need those too. Feel free to scoop up any particularly fine gems—they're worth more than gold by weight."
"What if I wake the linnorm?" Alaeron said. "Then you risk your own death as well."
"I suspect the beast will spend long enough killing you to allow me to escape," Rodrick said. "I'm good at escapes. But I have great faith in you, alchemist! Surely you have some tinctures there that will allow you to move silently, to be fleet of foot, and so on?"
Alaeron did, of course, but who knew how perceptive the linnorm was, or how deeply it slumbered?
But what choice did he have? "All right," he said finally. "But what proof do I have that you'll let me live when I return with your treasure?"
"I'll have no particular reason to kill you, then," Rodrick said. "I don't have any particular qualms about killing people, but it's not something I go out of my way to do—it's messy and unpleasant. I'll settle for knocking you out and leaving you in the tomb, fear not. And even if I'm lying... what choice do you have?"
Alaeron looked at the hole gaping in the wall, and crept inside.
He crawled partway down the slope, then paused. He wouldn't be able to take Rodrick in a fight, and the thief wasn't nearly as stupid as Alaeron would have preferred, but the alchemist might still win in a battle of wits. "Make yourself comfortable, Rodrick," he said, raising his voice just enough for it to carry. "You should be feeling the effects soon."
Rodrick's voice drifted down from above. "You're wasting time, alchemist. Hurry along and bring me back my sword."
"It's not a terribly fast-acting poison," Alaeron went on, crouched in the tunnel, watching the opening at the top. "But it's not the slowest, either."
"What poison? There were no poison traps here."
"That 'potion' I gave you. It was a toxin, of course. That's why it didn't allow you to see in the dark. That's not what it's meant to do. It's meant to kill."
Rodrick snorted. "A sad attempt at a bluff. You drank from the same vial."
"Yes, and after we came down into the dark, I also drank the antidote, along with a real potion of night vision."
"You lie," Rodrick said, but there was just a hint of doubt. "Why would you poison me? We were working well together, you said so yourself."
"I decided to poison you the moment you murdered that poor huldra girl," Alaeron said. "You were clearly dangerous, and needed to be stopped."
"Listen, you can't trick me, I'm a trickster, I—"
"The first symptoms are fairly subtle," Alaeron said, allowing his voice to take on a lecturing, pedantic tone. "Slight tremors in the hands and lips. A sensation of cold in the hands and feet, though for some, the hands and feet sweat instead. Racing thoughts, and difficulty concentrating. Some nausea. The need to urinate. An unusually rapid heartbeat."
Alaeron was experiencing most of those symptoms himself—understandably, as they were the effects of stress and physical exertion—and it was a fair bet that Rodrick would be feeling them, too.
"I suppose this is where you tell me that if I race back to my horse and up to the retreat, a dip in the healing waters will cure me?" Rodrick said.
"Oh, no. You'd be dead long before you make it that far. Possibly before you reached your horse. I'll just wait you out, I think. It's quite cozy here, in a rabbit-in-a-burrow sort of way."
"All right. Say I believe you. What do you want in exchange for the antidote?"
Alaeron considered. "Nothing. I can't say your death would bother me overmuch. I'm not a murderer, but at this point the poisoning could be construed as self-defense, albeit a bit... retroactive."
"I can come down there and kill you and take the antidote."
"You're welcome to drink from every vial in my pack," Alaeron said. "The antidote is in one of them. Though none of the vials are too clearly marked—I use an organizational system of my own devising." Alaeron felt in his pack until his fingers touched a vial with the shape of a spiral cut into the cork stopper. He took that silently from his pack, opened it, and took a sip. The extract made his tongue tingle, and his heart immediately began to race even faster. His senses grew sharper, every root and speck of dirt in the tunnel appearing in crystal clarity, almost seeming to vibrate.
Rodrick came sliding down the tunnel, a dagger in each hand, and tumbled into Alaeron, bowling him over. The stopped halfway down the slope, having rolled sideways in the narrow space. Alaeron's head pointed downward, with Rodrick on top of him, one knife to Alaeron's throat, and the point of the other near his belly.
"I am faster and more agile than any mixer of potions, alchemist." Rodrick’s face, rendered in black and white and shades of gray by Alaeron's altered eyes, was sweaty and smeared with dirt. "You will give me the antidote, or I will slice open your belly and leave you for the linnorm—I'm sure the stink of your entrails will wake him just as well as the scent of frying bacon wakes me."
"I find your argument compelling," Alaeron said, trying hard not to talk as fast as he wanted to. His muscles thrummed with excess energy, like wires under tension. The potion he'd taken was a powerful stimulant, one he used to fuel days-long sessions in the lab, conducting his researches. "If you'll climb off me, and let me get my pack..."
Rodrick rolled aside but kept the knife near Alaeron's belly as the alchemist sat up. Alaeron felt in the pack and withdrew a small metal flask, one of the few potions he'd brewed that would work on people other than himself. "Here you are."
"Ha." Rodrick wiggled the dagger, making Alaeron wince. "Drink from it yourself first."
"The problem among modern adventurers," he said, "is a lamentable lack of trust." He took a swig from the potion.
"Now give me your pack," Rodrick said, "so you can't drink another antidote, hmm?"
"No trust at all." Alaeron slipped out of his pack and handed it over.
Rodrick shoved the pack up the tunnel behind him, then plucked the flask from Alaeron's hand. He took a drink. "Huh. This tastes like..."
"Lavender, mainly," Alaeron said. "Which doesn't taste as good as it smells."
Rodrick yawned, then looked alarmed. "What? What have you..." His eyes drooped, and he slumped over, cheek pressed against the dirt of the tunnel floor, knives falling from his hands.
The sleeping potion would keep him deeply unconscious for a couple of hours, at least. Alaeron's sip of the potion had acted to counteract the powerful stimulant he'd ingested earlier, with the result that he was now just a little bit sleepy, instead of dead to the world.
He listened hard, but heard no sound of stirring from the linnorm's chamber. Alaeron searched Rodrick—the man had an astonishing quantity of knives hidden about his person—and helped himself to all the smaller weapons, as well as Rodrick’s coin purse, adding them to his own pack.
He considered how nasty he wanted to be. He could cut the man's throat—but Alaeron had never killed a man in cold blood before, and didn't savor the prospect. A time-delay bomb placed near the linnorm's chamber would give Alaeron time to get away, and serve to wake the beast, which was another way to take care of Rodrick—but that was still murder, just more indirectly, and the linnorm would certainly rise from the earth, lay waste to the countryside, and so on. Better to let sleeping wyrms lie.
That went for Rodrick, too. The thief didn't even know Alaeron's name, and had only seen his face in flickering torchlight. The odds were good they would never meet again, and the alchemist could take steps to improve those odds.
Alaeron settled for stealing Rodrick's boots, tying the man's ankles and wrists with the laces, and climbing back out of the tunnel as silently as possible. In the upper chamber, he collected the jewels and gold the linnorm had left behind. There was enough to buy him another night at the retreat, and give him another opportunity to steal a sample of the waters... but Rodrick would wake up eventually, and Alaeron would be better off leaving the vicinity before then.
He considered Uncle Brant's armor, but the prospect of taking it off the skeleton and then dragging it out of the tomb was both unpleasant and daunting, as sleepy as Alaeron was. He doused the torches and took the lantern with him, down the branching corridors, up toward the surface world's light. When he came upon the dead huldra, he cut a bit of her hair, and took a few scrapings of the bark from her hollow interior, for later study—the remains of the fey were hard to come by, and could be powerful reagents. He did his best not to get any of Simeon on his shoe when he passed into the entry chamber.
Best to let sleeping linnorms lie.
Alaeron emerged, blinking, into the late afternoon light. It was nearly dusk. He shouldered the door to the barrow closed, and though it didn't magically seal, it would, at least, keep passers-by from wandering in. He paused beside a nearby tree, chipped some of the bark away to reveal white wood, and carved the words "Beware the linnorm." There. That was the best he could do. Not that most graverobbers were terribly literate.
He stole Simeon and Rodrick's saddlebags and slapped the horses to send them running away, though he left a waterskin for Rodrick at the base of a tree—he wasn't a monster, and the gesture might mollify the thief's rage. Alaeron saddled his own horse and made his way south through the hills, heading in the general direction of Almas.
As night fell, he saw a campfire, and took a chance on introducing himself. The men around the fire greeted him warmly enough when he offered to share the fruit and dried meat he'd taken from the stolen saddlebags.
They were a motley lot of adventurers, a grizzled bearded veteran, a boy barely old enough to shave, a pale girl with tattooed cheeks reading by firelight, and a surly half-orc lurking off in the trees by himself. "Where are you bound?" Alaeron asked.
"The boy and I are going north," the old veteran said. "To the land of the linnorm kings. My old homeland."
"We're going to slay a linnorm," the boy said brightly. "Snowbeard says all you have to do to become a king there is carry the head of a linnorm through the gates of a village. His brother's a king, he stole the head of the monster Snowbeard killed when they were young, and—"
"He doesn't need to know our history," Snowbeard snapped.
Oh, my, Alaeron thought. He generally gave the gods little thought, but this certainly seemed like some deity's idea of a good jest. Alaeron considered telling Snowbeard there was a linnorm rather closer. But the practical difficulties of transporting the head of a dead monster all those leagues to the land of snow and ice would be hellish. Why, the stink alone, as the head began to rot... Better to let them make their own way.
"I'm thinking of going north myself," Alaeron said. "Farther east, though, to Numeria. I hear there are amazing relics just scattered all over the ground up there, amid the wreckage of some ancient cataclysm." He would have to go home first for provisions, but he'd been pondering a trip to Numeria's capital, Starfall, for a while, and it was even more tempting now. The Black Sovereign's realm was an unlikely destination... which meant even if Rodrick woke with a taste for vengeance, he wouldn't look for Alaeron there.
The tattooed woman closed her book and looked up for the first time. "Numeria? I am bound in that direction as well, though my destination is the Worldwound. We will likely travel the same route. Would you care to journey together?"
Alaeron hesitated. She was comely under those tattoos, and clearly quite intelligent, but... "I think, for now, I would prefer to pursue my quest with no company other than my own. I fear I am a... poor adventuring companion."
The woman shrugged and went back to her book.
Alaeron leaned back against a fallen log and looked up, watching the smoke from the fire drift up toward the stars, thinking of monsters, and holes in the earth, and the open sky.
Coming Next Week: A glimpse into the life of an elite Nidalese spellcaster and Cheliax’s pogroms against the strix in a sample chapter of Nightglass, Liane Merciel’s new Pathfinder Tales novel!
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter Three: Coils in the Dark
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter Three: Coils in the DarkRodrick struck off the dead girl's head with his sword, the blade clanging against the stone floor as it severed her neck cleanly. Her head rolled until the hilt of the dagger hit the floor and arrested its motion. Alaeron choked back a scream. Had the scoundrel gone mad? ... Rodrick turned the dead girl's torso over with his foot, flopping her over on her belly and revealing her back— ... —which was...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Three: Coils in the Dark
Rodrick struck off the dead girl's head with his sword, the blade clanging against the stone floor as it severed her neck cleanly. Her head rolled until the hilt of the dagger hit the floor and arrested its motion. Alaeron choked back a scream. Had the scoundrel gone mad?
Rodrick turned the dead girl's torso over with his foot, flopping her over on her belly and revealing her back—
—which was nothing but a hollow shell lined with wood, like the interior of a rotten tree or a walnut shell. She was an emptiness.
"Some kind of monster," Rodrick said. With the tip of his sword, he prodded at a lump in the back of the girl’s skirt, lifting its hem just far enough to reveal a tail like a fox’s. "Guarding the barrow, I'm sure. I knew there was something unnatural about her right away—I liked her, and wanted to protect her, and didn't think at all about how valuable she would be to certain slave traders of my acquaintance. I knew she must be bewitching me somehow." He glanced at Alaeron. "I'm too good at being charming to be easily charmed myself."
Rodrick, charming? Ha. "I've heard of creatures like this," Alaeron said. "She's fey. Huldra, I think they're called, or hilders—but they are creatures of the far north. She may not have been a guardian of this tomb, you know. She could have been a prisoner, her spirit bound to some cursed or magical object in the barrow—"
"Monster," Rodrick said. "Now a dead monster. Why are we still talking about her?"
"I just prefer not to kill, without provocation, creatures who are capable of holding a conversation with me," Alaeron said. "She may have been charming us because she needed help, and wanted us to save her—"
"I suppose that's why you didn't kill her, and I did. Let's go. There must be loot here somewhere."
"But why would a huldra be here at all?" Alaeron muttered. "They're from the north, the lands of the Mammoth Lords, or the White Witches, or the—"
"Linnorm Kings," Rodrick said, bending to retrieve his dagger from the huldra's eye. "Yes, Simeon said something about that. Apparently when Brant was a boy, raiders from the Land of the Linnorm Kings laid waste to his little fishing village. Brant survived, nursed vengeance in his heart, and so forth. When he was grown, he led an expedition to raid the raiders. You have to admire the old boy's confidence, don't you? Apparently they ended up exploring some ruin called the Spire of Snow or the Frostbite Citadel or something similar, slaying a dragon inside—"
Rodrick rolled his eyes. "Fine, they slew the linnorm, though it killed or cursed everyone else in the party, and Brant alone escaped unscathed. He came back with all manner of valuables, not just the gold and jewels that made the family fortune but rarer things: a sword with a blade of ice, a bell that summons blizzards, a petrified linnorm egg, a magical ring that lets you conjure a mystical twin to do your bidding, and other wonders. That's what old Brant took to the grave with him, along with a hoard of gold and jewels, or so the story goes. If even half of it's true, I'll be a very wealthy man."
"We will be, you mean."
"Of course." Rodrick didn't even bother trying to sound sincere.
"That explains the huldra, at least. She must have been bound here, or enslaved to serve Brant even in death, or—"
Uncle Brant hasn't aged so well.
"Dead monsters bore me," Rodrick said. "Live ones are more interesting. Let's see if we can find some."
They proceeded into the depths of the barrow, following the twisting corridors, and investigating a couple of dead-ends that terminated abruptly in deep pits. Even along what seemed to be the proper route there were traps, more ingenious than the spiked log, but Rodrick proved adept at spotting them. They encountered a shelf bearing stone skulls that spat acid, an ordinary-looking room that Rodrick said would have flensed them alive if he hadn't discovered and pressed some hidden buttons to deactivate the concealed blades in the walls, and a door that sprouted dozens of bone spears when Rodrick prodded the wood with his sword. Nothing Alaeron couldn't have coped with himself, of course, but it was nice to have a strapping thief to handle the stray acid droplets instead.
"We make a fine team," Alaeron said, after Rodrick set off a bear trap with a tossed stone.
"You've done exactly nothing except open a door," Rodrick said. "In that respect, you're no worse a partner than Simeon was, I suppose." He slipped into another chamber, and whistled.
Alaeron joined him in the next room, and in the lantern's pool of light saw part of a massive stone throne, occupied by a skeleton dressed in elaborate black armor. They'd reached the main burial chamber, then, and after only a few hours—these modern tombs were so much more manageable than the vast crypts of the ancients.
"There are torches on the walls." Rodrick lit a taper from his lantern and carried it through the dark, igniting two torches and filling the room with flickering light.
The throne stood in the center of the room, and behind it were stone shelves and platforms holding... well, the wreckage of smashed treasure chests, mostly. Bits of shattered wood and twisted metal. A scattering of coins and precious gems remained, probably enough to buy a small house in Almas, but not the riches they'd expected. Alaeron wondered what sort of remarkable valuables the room had originally contained, if the original looters hadn't bothered to stoop to pick up these gold coins and jewels.
"Someone got here first!" Rodrick said. "But how? None of the traps were sprung, the doors were unbreached, I don't see how—"
Alaeron squinted at the shadows at the far end of the room, then picked up the lantern and advanced. "Look at the wall," he said, holding the lamp aloft.
He and Rodrick stared together at the great hole that had been smashed through the wall, a ragged circle easily ten feet to a side. Alaeron pushed the lantern through the hole, revealing a tunnel of packed dirt that angled down and away.
"Graverobbers digging a tunnel to break in, perhaps?" Rodrick said.
"Or it might be the work of interlopers from the Darklands," Alaeron said.
Rodrick chewed his lip. "We should investigate. If there's any chance of finding the treasure... But to take a light into those tunnels could be dangerous. If there are subterranean monsters down there, light would be a beacon to them."
"I have a potion that lets me see in the dark," Alaeron said. "It's rather more expensive than a torch, which is why I didn't use it before—"
"Excellent. We'll both drink it."
"I could go down on my own," Alaeron began, but Rodrick cut him off.
"Ha. And find the treasure and a convenient path to the surface? No. Let's take the potion together."
Alaeron shrugged, took a vial from his pack, drank down half of it—it tasted of carrots, mainly—and then handed it to Rodrick. The extract would have no effect on the thief, since like most alchemists' preparations it only worked for the creator, but he'd let Rodrick figure that out on his own. The thief drank, made a face, and handed back the vial.
"In we go," Alaeron said, and slipped into the tunnel.
"I'm not sure it's working," Rodrick said doubtfully behind him, but Alaeron shushed him. His own vision had already altered, allowing him to see the tunnel clearly, albeit in black-and-white. Roots poked down through the top of the tunnel, and an earthworm dropped from the ceiling before Alaeron's face and wriggled away.
The passage was angled steeply downward, and crumbling—it seemed more like an animal's burrow than a tunnel hewn by human hands. Alaeron had terrible visions of being buried in tons of dirt as he slid forward, going as silently as possible, trying not to lose his footing and roll down. The tunnel ended abruptly, in a huge cavern—occupied by something almost equally huge.
A great serpentine body filled almost the entirety of the space, its coils moving slowly in steady breath. Far above, Alaeron thought he could discern a head, its huge eyes closed in sleep. The chamber was filled with gold and gems and other things, most of them nestled under the great beast's body or its huge forelegs, each digit tipped with a claw like a greatsword.
After a long moment of staring, not even daring to breathe, Alaeron turned and scrambled back up the tunnel, pushing past Rodrick and clambering back into the burial chamber, where he knelt, gasping and trembling.
Rodrick arrived after him. "Your stupid potion never worked for me. What's wrong with you? What did you see down there?"
"Did you say one of the treasures Uncle Brant brought back was a petrified linnorm egg?" Alaeron said.
"So Simeon told me."
Alaeron lifted his head and looked into the rogue's eyes. "The egg hatched."
Rodrick blinked. "You're lying. You're trying to trick me—"
"Didn't you smell it?" Alaeron said. "The stink of a vast beast?"
"I thought that was you," Rodrick said, and gave a weak smile. Alaeron laughed despite himself. The thief sat down on one of the shelves of stone. "Well, then. Where do we go from here?"
"Out, and swiftly," Alaeron said.
"You corrected me earlier, when I called a linnorm a dragon," Rodrick said. "That suggests you know something about the beasts—more than I do, anyway."
"Just what I've read in books. I've never been farther north than the south shore of Lake Encarthan."
"Books about linnorms were presumably written by people who survived encounters with them," Rodrick said reasonably. "What did they have to say?"
Alaeron sighed. "They're huge, of course. Eighty, a hundred feet long? I think it depends on the variety, and no, I don't remember the different types, or have any idea which kind our linnorm is. It doesn't matter. A battleaxe can kill you just as well as a mace. The beasts are intelligent, but generally cruel—gluttonous, greedy, lovers of treasure, obviously, since it took everything from in here into its hole. The thing must have cleaned out this chamber when it was smaller. Made itself a nest, then grew." Alaeron shook his head. "I do remember reading that they can hibernate for centuries, for so long that people living nearby forget they're even there, until the linnorm bursts forth to devour everything in the surrounding landscape. For now, we’re lucky, and this one appears to be sleeping."
"I imagine news of this beast would drive down the price of property hereabouts," Rodrick said thoughtfully. "What sort of treasures did you see in its chamber?"
"I hardly took a complete inventory," Alaeron said. "I saw a sword hilt protruding from beneath its belly. Some sort of black cask, big as a sea chest, under one of its claws. Gold, jewels, ingots of precious metal, bits of statuary... I couldn't say more specifically. I was too busy trying to control my bowels."
Rodrick stroked his chin. "How deeply is it sleeping, do you think?"
Alaeron stared at him. "You can't possibly mean to go back down there and try to steal from the monster?"
"Of course not," Rodrick said. "I can't even see in the dark." He drew his sword and smiled, showing all his teeth. "I want you to go down there and steal from the monster for me."
Coming Next Week: Pilfering a linnorm's hoard in the final chapter of Tim Pratt's "A Tomb of Winter’s Plunder."
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter Two: A Damsel with the Dead
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter Two: A Damsel with the DeadAlaeron had been prepared for a violent reaction, and so when Rodrick drew his sword, he tossed back a vial of extract—the one he'd planned to use to help him creep through the barrow undetected. Rodrick was fast, and Alaeron's preparation might have been useless if the man hadn't been standing in the ruin of his dead friend, which necessitated careful footing rather than a headlong charge. ... Alaeron...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter Two: A Damsel with the Dead
Alaeron had been prepared for a violent reaction, and so when Rodrick drew his sword, he tossed back a vial of extract—the one he'd planned to use to help him creep through the barrow undetected. Rodrick was fast, and Alaeron's preparation might have been useless if the man hadn't been standing in the ruin of his dead friend, which necessitated careful footing rather than a headlong charge.
Alaeron shivered as the extract—which tasted strongly of wormwood—took effect. The only change from Alaeron's viewpoint was a certain fuzziness around his peripheral vision, but Rodrick paused, frowning, and Alaeron moved as silently as he could to the far side of the entry chamber.
"Invisibility," Alaeron said, and Rodrick snapped his head around, looking straight at the spot where Alaeron had spoken... which was why the alchemist never stopped moving, creeping back and forth as he talked. "I find it makes conversations with armed men more pleasant. I am not here to fight you. I was in the forest gathering botanical samples—I'm an alchemist, not a wizard, if you were wondering—when I noticed the barrow had been disturbed. I investigated, and heard your friend trigger the trap there."
Rodrick knelt and snuffed out the lantern, plunging the room into darkness, except for faint illumination around the door.
Alaeron moved toward the door, hoping Rodrick would hesitate to approach the light. "Ah, making yourself just as invisible as I am. That's good. I can tell already you'll be a great ally." He listened, but heard nothing, not the faintest scrape of leather on stone or the clink of shifting chainmail. "I gather from the blood on the barrow door that there was some magical ward your friend's blood was able to overcome?" Only more silence. "And that, with his death, you feel you cannot continue, as you have discovered another warded door? I only came in, you see, because I know how you can open that door—"
Something cold touched Alaeron's cheek, but he had the strength of will not to flinch. "Is that a dagger blade?" he said, moving his lips as little as possible when he spoke.
"It is," Rodrick breathed in his ear. "Tell me how you can open the door."
"If your friend's blood is the key... at the risk of being indelicate, he still has lots of blood, now more accessible than ever. It would be trivial to gather some and use it to loosen the wards."
The knife moved slightly, the flat of the blade against his cheek gradually becoming the stinging edge. "Of course I still have his blood," Rodrick said. "But I don't have his knowledge. Only Simeon knew which runes should be daubed with blood—and marking the wrong one could set off some horrible trap. But perhaps I can profit from this trip anyway. I'm sure some of your potions are valuable."
Most of Alaeron's potions would have no effect on anyone but himself, being fuelled by his own aura, and the few that could be used by others didn't have beneficial effects, but Alaeron didn't point that out. "Ah, well, of course," he said. "But I can read the runes, so I know where to put the blood."
After a long moment, Rodrick chuckled, and the knife withdrew. While Alaeron tried to decide whether or not he could move, the light of the lantern flared anew. "Prove it," Rodrick said, crouching by the inner door, sword sheathed, dagger in hand.
"We should formalize our arrangement," Alaeron said. "I will accompany you into the barrow, lending my considerable skills to your enterprise, and we will divide any relics or treasures we find equally."
Rodrick's ethics leave something to be desired.
"That's fine, if you can actually get us in."
"Move away from the door." Alaeron knelt and dabbed his handkerchief into a bit of Simeon's readily available blood. Rodrick narrowed his eyes. Seeing a bloody bit of rag floating through the air, moved by an invisible hand, was probably unsettling. "Bring the light closer," Alaeron said, and Rodrick held up the lantern while the alchemist squinted at the markings on the door. They were far less weathered on the interior barrier, which made them much easier to read.
Not that Alaeron could read them, really. The language seemed Northern, but the Mammoth Lords and Linnorm Kings didn't produce much written work, so Alaeron had never learned their writing. But he'd seen the runes Simeon daubed with blood outside, and now he saw the same pattern here, on a different part of the door, so he thought it was worth a try. It was strange to find Northern runes here, so close to the Inner Sea, and focusing on that anomaly was a nice alternative to thinking about how he might soon be pulped or fried by a magical trap.
But the door swung open at the touch of the blood, and Alaeron stepped back, keeping an eye on Rodrick in case the man decided to take a stab at Alaeron's invisible kidneys. "There. Do we have an agreement?"
"All right," Rodrick said. "But only because there may be more runes inside that need reading. I get first pick of the loot. You get my cast-offs."
"I woke up this morning expecting no profit beyond a few herbs," Alaeron said. "The prospect of any treasure at all is delightful to me." He was confident that he could manipulate Rodrick into taking shiny but less valuable items. Alaeron filled a vial with more of Simeon's blood, just in case there were further wards inside.
"In we go, invisible man." Rodrick stepped through the opening, lantern in hand. Alaeron followed, keeping an eye out for traps. The corridor, just wide enough for two men to go abreast, was angled steeply downward, suggesting that much of the barrow was dug into the ground, or built into natural caverns. There were faintly glowing lights ahead—luminous crystals or fungi, of the kind cultivated by builders of subterranean lairs. "You don't seem terribly upset by the death or your friend," Alaeron said.
"What? Oh, Simeon. I see. You're under the impression that I'm a rich idiot, like he was."
That was quite true. The fact that Rodrick knew that much was worrisome. Rich idiots were generally so used to being treated like brilliant paragons that they never doubted themselves, or expected anyone else to doubt them, either.
"I'm not a rich idiot," Rodrick said. "I'm an impoverished genius. I've been posing as a wealthy brat, and cultivating Simeon's friendship for weeks. I knew he was wealthy and had poor judgment, which meant some opportunity for profit would present itself. When he told me about the barrow of his avaricious uncle Brant, crammed with all the pillage Brant was too greedy to pass on, I knew that was my target. I convinced Simeon's parents to send him to the retreat—he was always sickly. The waters may even have done him some good, so at least he died in good health. But I wanted him at the retreat because it's so close to the barrow. "
Alaeron recalled that he wasn't supposed to know anything about these men, and tried to ask an appropriate question. "But if Simeon was wealthy, why would he agree to go graverobbing with you?"
"Oh, I lured him into a crooked card game at the tavern in the village south of the retreat, run by a man I know called the Ratter. Simon went deeply into debt, and his father's rather strict, and wouldn't have approved. I presented this as a convenient way of paying what he owed. I didn't expect him to die. I was going to play it straight. Why not? Ratter had agreed to split half of Simon's payment with me. But now that the poor boy is dead... at least I'll get a good price for his horse."
"You, sir, are a scoundrel," Alaeron said.
"There's no sort better to raid a tomb with," Rodrick said.
The corridor turned sharply, and something deeper in the tunnel whimpered. Rodrick put down the lantern, raised his dagger, and darted around the corner, Alaeron close behind him.
In a small alcove in the wall stood a petite young woman dressed in a blue-and-white checked dress, her blonde hair disarrayed, her face beautiful and smudged with tears, her eyes blue and wide.
"Have you come to save me?" she said. "I've been trapped here for so long!"
Rodrick lowered his dagger. "Of course," he said. "How did you come to be in this terrible place?"
"I can't remember." She shook her head, eyes spilling tears. "I was alone in the dark, I was so frightened..." She broke down in sobs.
"Would you like to escort her outside?" Alaeron said.
Rodrick snorted. "And leave you creeping through here on your own? I think not. We'll both take her."
"Please don't fight," she pleaded. She looked at Alaeron. "I only wish to be free of this dark and terrible place."
"Oh, am I visible again?" Alaeron said.
"As of a few moments ago," Rodrick said. "I assumed you knew."
"Yes, of course, I was just... distracted." Alaeron frowned. Something was... wrong. How had this woman gotten sealed inside the barrow? Had it been looted before, and then used as a headquarters by bandits with a penchant for kidnapping milkmaids? And why didn't any of those questions seem more urgent?
"I will lead," Rodrick said. "You, my dear, can follow me, and the alchemist will bring up the rear—"
"Oh, no, I'll go last. I don't wish to be in the way if there are dangers." She eased out of the alcove, sliding along the corridor with her back to the wall.
"Duck, alchemist." Rodrick said it casually. Alaeron acted without hesitation, dropping to the stone floor. Rodrick let fly with his dagger and put a hand on his sword. Alaeron scrambled to one side and turned to see the beautiful blonde crumpled on the floor of the corridor. She'd sprouted a dagger from her left eye socket.
"You killed her!" Alaeron shouted.
Roderick drew his sword. "Yes, of course I did. That was rather the point."
Coming Next Week: Frank discussions on the finer points of tomb raiding etiquette in Chapter Three of Tim Pratt's "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder."
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder—Chapter One: Taking the Waters
... A Tomb of Winter's Plunderby Tim Pratt ... Chapter One: Taking the WatersAlaeron sat, naked, on a natural stone bench in the sacred pool, the chest-deep water just a bit warmer than his own blood. He leaned into a fortuitous hollow in the rock, closed his eyes—hardly necessary, considering the depth of darkness in the cave—and let the healing waters soothe him. Or tried to. He'd paid enough to be soothed, at the very least. ... The Balneal Springs retreat, nestled in the northern hills of...
A Tomb of Winter's Plunder
by Tim Pratt
Chapter One: Taking the Waters
Alaeron sat, naked, on a natural stone bench in the sacred pool, the chest-deep water just a bit warmer than his own blood. He leaned into a fortuitous hollow in the rock, closed his eyes—hardly necessary, considering the depth of darkness in the cave—and let the healing waters soothe him. Or tried to. He'd paid enough to be soothed, at the very least.
The Balneal Springs retreat, nestled in the northern hills of Andoran east of Darkmoon Vale, was home to legendary waters that reportedly cured arthritis, muscle atrophy, toothache, heavy metal poisoning, and spiritual malaise. Alaeron suffered from none of those ailments, which might have explained why he didn't feel particularly cured now. He was young, in good condition (being unusually physically active for an alchemist), blessed with fine teeth, always careful when handling quicksilver and other toxic materials, and possessed with a combination of curiosity and impulsiveness that insured he would never be bored. Despite his rosy health, he'd come to Balneal to take the waters anyway.
And by "take the waters," he meant take the waters. He'd gathered samples from all the other springs on the property already, many of the pools hellishly hot and stinking of rotten eggs (from sulfur, not magic, as some more ignorant folk supposed). The volcanic activity to the north presented itself in a somewhat gentler aspect here, with bubbling hot springs that were locally renowned, if not as famous as the Brimstone Springs of Nidal.
The final waters he needed to sample were here in, Hanspur's Bath—a sacred spring-fed pool deep in a black cave where the foreign river deity was reputed to have paused once, on a journey to the sea. Alaeron's visit to the retreat, and access to this cave, had cost a tidy sum of gold he'd earned translating a profane text for a deranged patron. The profiteering priests who ran the retreat guarded their secrets closely, but despite the enforced nudity in this sacred chamber, Alaeron had smuggled in a bag made of thin watertight material, wadded up and hidden in his cheek. Unfolded and filled, the bag would hold a few precious ounces of liquid. Once full it would be too large to smuggle out the same way, but he had a plan to stash the bag in a dark crevice by the entryway and return later to create a distraction—explosions were quite distracting, he'd found—which would enable him to duck inside the cave mouth and retrieve the bag.
The plan was a bit elaborate, and more than a little dangerous, but what matter was the risk of life and limb in the service of his art? If the waters really were as efficacious as the priests and satisfied customers claimed, their properties should prove useful in his work, and could be diluted to create a score of potions to cure—or cause—an impressive variety of ailments physical and spiritual.
He took the bag from his mouth and prepared to fill it—then froze when he heard a splash on the far side of the pool. He had not been promised a private visit to the healing waters (that option was far too expensive for him), but he'd deliberately come early in the morning, when most of the wealthy visitors to Balneal would be sleeping or gorging themselves at breakfast.
Alaeron wasn't sure whether he should speak, as the etiquette of sitting in a black pool of magical water was not something he'd ever had occasion to learn. Before he could decide, the newcomers began talking.
"It would be an adventure," a voice—male, hearty, and self-confident—said. "The sort of bold act that made the Selmy family great."
"I'm not sure breaking into my dead thrice-great-grand-uncle's crypt compares to traveling to far lands for pillage and war," a second voice said—also male, but rather less hearty and confident.
"Oh, come, your whole family is founded on ancestral fortunes anyway. Raiding your uncle's tomb would be much the same, just... more direct."
"The treasures are supposed to be fabulous," the second voice—presumably a Selmy—said. "But I can't imagine they'd be easy to carry out. Uncle Brant had all his favorite things buried with him. He left us his money, at least some of it, but he was particular about his things, by all accounts. I'm sure there must be protections against graverobbers. Traps, and so forth. I'd rather not die on this trip, Rodrick. I'm here for my health, after all."
Alaeron is more scholar than warrior, but explosives have a funny way of solving problems.
"Nonsense, Simeon," Rodrick replied. "We know about the wards he laid to protect his barrow—only the blood of a Selmy can open the door, isn't that right? The fact that he made it possible for you to open the door suggests he wanted some descendant to come take his treasures away someday, doesn't it?"
"More likely he just wanted someone capable of setting him free if he was accidentally entombed alive," Simeon said. "Or perhaps to return occasionally and leave treasure, or shoo away spiders, or do a bit of light cleaning." A long pause. "My great-grandfather remembered Uncle Brant, from when he was a child and Brant was ancient. He said Brant was the sort of man who'd steal the coins from a beggar's bowl, even though he was rich as Artokus of Thuvia. Brant couldn't remember the names of his own grandchildren, but he had particular favorites among his coins."
"Then it's time someone took a few of those coins off him. No sense letting such precious things go to waste in a hole in the ground. The treasures he looted were precious antiquities when he stole them, two hundred years ago. Imagine what they're worth now!" Rodrick paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was very low, barely audible above the gentle lapping of water. "Or you could ask your father for the money to pay the Ratter the money you owe—"
"Oh, yes, that would go over well," Simeon said dolefully. "You know about mother's gambling problem. If father found out I'd lost that much at Towers, after he'd already spent all this money sending me here to recuperate... Is there no other way? You couldn't loan me the money? You know I'm good for it."
"Alas, I lost my own allowance gambling—though I paid off my outstanding balance, so the Ratter doesn't want to take me in his jaws—and mother won't send another purse for a month. No, it's the barrow, Simeon, unless you'd like to try your luck at busking in the streets for coins?"
"You know someone who would buy the things we found?" Simeon said.
"Oh, yes, indeed. There's a man I know in Almas who pays buckets of gold for relics."
"We could at least look," Simeon said. "The barrow isn't far, less than a day's travel. We could nip inside, and if there don't seem to be any dangers, carry a few things away. I daresay Uncle Brant can rest just as easily less a vase or statuette or two."
"An adventure!" Rodrick said. "Though personally I hope we encounter a ghoul or two. I'd hate to think I sharpened my sword for nothing."
They sat in silence for a while longer, taking in the waters and discussing their plans for departure and the best route, then left to walk down the dark and twisting tunnel back to the light.
Alaeron let his little bag float away. Ah, well. The sacred waters weren't going anywhere. He could steal a dram of those another time. But a barrow full of ancient relics, that could be opened only by the blood of the dead inhabitant's relatives? That was the sort of opportunity that wasn't likely to come his way again.
∗∗∗
Alaeron wasn't much of a tracker—his natural habitat was the laboratory, the workshop, and the library, though he was surprisingly comfortable crawling into dark holes in the ground in search of treasure, both because he was fascinated by history and because a man had to fund his researches somehow. Fortunately, Simeon and Rodrick had said where they were going. Alaeron packed his bags and left his room, which was smaller than his sleeping quarters in Almas and cost as much for three nights as his entire workshop was worth. Only the very rich would consider it reasonable to pay so much for quarters so incredibly spare, presumably because austerity (and magical waters) were good for the soul—but only in moderation.
He walked along the crushed gravel paths, among the ancient weathered statues and small ornamental gardens, to the outer courtyard. The retreat was protected by high stone walls, because while they weren't too close to Darkmoon Vale, incursions from the dark forest weren't impossible.
One of the servants who bustled everywhere at the retreat brought him his horse, brushed and saddled and well fed, and helped Alaeron mount. He needed the help. He'd never been comfortable on horses, and would have hired a carriage (or at least a cart), but wheeled conveyances couldn't make it up the steep paths to the retreat. Alaeron cajoled the horse, a black pony he'd spent far too much money on, to amble northeast, through the lightly wooded foothills. This general area was fairly safe—the guards at the retreat kept the woods free of bandits and monsters, as rich people being eaten was bad for business. The barrow of Brant Selmy was half a day's ride away, at most, and Alaeron followed old colliers' paths through the forest, munching on dried meat and pausing occasionally to let the horse rest, though the pace was hardly punishing.
He didn't want to overtake Simeon and Rodrick. Better for them to arrive first, open the barrow, and delve deep inside. Alaeron was confident that, in the dark, with his experience and the advantage of his extracts and mutagens, he could move past the rich brats, snatch up some choice loot, and escape again unnoticed.
The barrow was unmistakable, an immense mound of earth and rock furred with moss and topped by gnarled, scraggly trees. Rodrick and Simeon had made some token attempt to hide their presence, tying up their horses in a copse some distance away, but this was a little-traveled part of the forest, and they hadn't worried overmuch about being discovered. Alaeron tied his own horse farther away and crept toward one side of the barrow. He hadn't expected this level of pillage when he'd set out for Balneal, and so hadn't packed his full adventuring packs, but he had enough in the way of reagents and elixirs and weapons to manage a brief delve into a crypt.
The door of the barrow was an immense oval stone, scratched a bit from past unsuccessful attempts by graverobbers to pry it open. The door was etched with runes that were faded and worn but still legible, though a few were smeared with what looked like fresh blood, and the stone was tilted to one side, revealing an opening just large enough for a man to slip through sideways. Alaeron crouched when he heard familiar voices inside.
"It's dark in here," Simeon complained.
"That's why we brought the lantern, isn't it?" Rodrick answered cheerfully.
Despite Alaeron's leisurely pace, the rich fools had only just arrived themselves. He was in awe at their slowness. Had they stopped to have a picnic lunch on the way? He decided to wait for them to make it a bit deeper into the barrow, then—
"Watch out!" Rodrick shouted. There was a peculiar sound—the twang of a taut wire snapping, if Alaeron was any judge—and then a horrific, meaty thunk, like a butcher bringing the weight of the cleaver down to crack open a cow's skull.
Rodrick swore, which meant he was still alive. Simeon didn't scream, which meant... something else. They'd triggered a trap. Apparently Uncle Brant wasn't so keen on having his descendants visit after all, or else Simeon hadn't been given the list of dangers to avoid.
"Simeon, you fool," Rodrick said. "Why didn't you look where you were—hold on. Damn it!"
Alaeron tensed, expecting the sound of another sprung trap—which would, at least, leave the barrow free for him to explore—but instead Rodrick just let loose a torrent of cursing. Alaeron slipped inside, hoping Rodrick would be too focused on his misery to notice the intrusion.
The light of Rodrick's lantern, set on a shelf of rock, revealed the barrow's interior to be typical of its kind: walls of timber and earth and stone, faintly rounded roof too low for comfort. A second door stood across the small room, directly opposite the exterior door, and that's where Simeon had met his fate: a length of timber as thick around as a man's waist, studded with stone spikes, had been hidden in a slot on the ceiling, doubtless connected to some tripwire in front of that interior door. Simeon's approach had set off the trap, dropping the log onto himself, and the result was a bit like what happened if you hit a tomato with a hammer. Alaeron realized that he'd never seen the boy in one piece, having only eavesdropped on him in the dark and from concealment.
Rodrick was standing over—or, rather, in—his dead friend, peering at the interior door. The surviving man was dressed in clothes too fine for dungeoneering, though he'd put on a mail shirt, and had a sword at his hip. His boots looked sturdy, at least. Alaeron couldn't see his face from here, but his shoulders were dismayingly wide, and in general he had the kind of muscular and well-proportioned physique the old poets called "thews."
"More runes," Rodrick muttered. "You died for nothing, Simeon—I can't even get in."
Well. There was no sneaking past him and snatching up a few treasures unawares now. Alaeron considered slinking away, but there was a barrow full of relics, with nothing between him and the treasures but a stone etched with magical writing, and he couldn't quite bring himself to leave.
He cleared his throat instead. "Excuse me," he said. "I couldn't help overhearing your problem. I think I can get the door open for you."
Rodrick rounded on him, sword in his hand before Alaeron even saw him start to draw, and roared.
Coming Next Week: Comrades of convenience in Chapter Two of Tim Pratt’s “A Tomb of Winter’s Plunder.”
Tim Pratt's writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. He novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.
City of the Fallen Sky Sample Chapter—Chapter Five
... City of the Fallen Sky Sample Chapter Wednesday, May 23, 2012In City of the Fallen Sky, a young alchemist named Alaeron flees an apprenticeship with the dark scholars of Numeria's Technic League, only to find himself in trouble once more as a chance encounter sends him and several reluctant companions into the jungles of the Mwangi Expanse. Tracked by a high-tech assassin, and armed only with his inquisitive nature—and a few mysterious artifacts stolen from the Technic...
City of the Fallen Sky Sample Chapter
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
In City of the Fallen Sky, a young alchemist named Alaeron flees an apprenticeship with the dark scholars of Numeria's Technic League, only to find himself in trouble once more as a chance encounter sends him and several reluctant companions into the jungles of the Mwangi Expanse. Tracked by a high-tech assassin, and armed only with his inquisitive nature—and a few mysterious artifacts stolen from the Technic League—Alaeron must find the ruins of a legendary flying city, or face the wrath of a cruel crime lord...
Chapter Five
A Vote of No Confidence
It's necessary if I'm to do the best possible work for you," Alaeron said, speaking quickly enough, he hoped, to stave off violence. "I just need to return to my workshop and get some of my supplies. An alchemist without his tools is nothing more—as you've so recently pointed out—than a man who stinks of sulfur."
"I can have whatever supplies you need brought here," Vadim said. "Just make a list and give it to Skiver."
"No—no, sir, I'm afraid that won't work, I need my formula book at the very least. It holds all the recipes for my potions and ...other items ...and that's something no alchemist would sell. An alchemist's formulas are highly personal and individual, as important to my work as a wizard's spellbooks, and—"
"I can take him," Skiver said. "It would shut him up, at least."
"Are you sure you want to be out on the street, given your current situation?" Vadim said.
Skiver laughed. "No one's looking for me yet. I've got a few days before I need to worry about showing my face. I can babysit the scholar a bit."
"Fine, fine," Vadim said, "I've spent too much time on this already, just deal with it." He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, and Alaeron felt a brief and ultimately ridiculous stab of sympathy—the old man looked tired now, and clearly had larger problems than this on his mind. "A speculative venture to the ruins of Kho!" Vadim boomed. "What can I be thinking?"
"It's a gamble, right enough," Skiver said. "Most likely it'll come to nothing. But it could pay off big, and the buy-in's right: all it costs you is leaving three shallow graves empty for a while longer. Seems like a decent gamble. And I've always wanted to see the world."
"I'm hardly likely to take gambling advice from you, old friend," Vadim said, clapping Skiver on the shoulder. "Given your current circumstances. Eh?"
Skiver's smile slipped, just slightly, and his eyes narrowed, but only for a moment. "I can slit their throats and dump them by the docks if you're having second thoughts, boss," he said.
"No, no, by all means, set off on your journey, have your adventure. Just bring me back a souvenir. Say, a chest full of treasures." He jerked his thumb at Alaeron and Jaya. "Or else their heads in a sack."
"The perfect gift for the man who has everything," Skiver said, grin at full breadth again.
"Come on, Jaya," Vadim said. "One of my men will show you your brother." She cast a worried glance at Alaeron, and an even more worried one at Skiver, and then followed Vadim out of the room.
When they were gone, Skiver turned his attention to Alaeron. "All right, scholar. Let's go." He led the way out of the storeroom, through a number of narrow hallways paneled in dark wood. Alaeron considered trying to hit his guide over the head and run away. After all, he didn't have a brother locked up in a cage—there was nothing holding him here but a gentleman's agreement, and Vadim had already proven he was no gentleman. But the fact was, he had to go back to his workshop before he could flee more permanently, and Vadim knew where that workshop was, so giving Skiver the slip now wouldn't help him much: there might very well be armed men waiting for him when he arrived home. But once he was at his lab, in possession of his tools, then the equation would change. It should be trivial to incapacitate Skiver and make a run for it.
Certainly, the possibility of seeing the ruins of Kho was tantalizing, and the chance to spend more time with Jaya had its own temptations. She was treacherous and untrustworthy, certainly, but there was much about her Alaeron couldn't begin to understand ...and he loved nothing so much as the chance to strip a mystery bare. So to speak.
But he had to be practical. Such an expedition would be treacherous, necessitating a voyage across the Inner Sea, a trek across the burning sands of Osirion, and then on into the mountains, and once they got there, they were likely to be slaughtered by monsters in the high passes, or murdered by Jaya's savage relatives—assuming they even existed. If their team beat the odds and actually found the ruins of Kho, who knew what sort of horrors would lurk inside? All that knowledge...but, no, Alaeron had already had his adventure, and returned with his hard-won prizes. He should settle down for a quiet chance at study. He just had to escape from his current predicament first.
Skiver unlocked a heavy wooden door that led outside to a stable smelling of fresh hay and old manure. Judging by the sky, it was late afternoon. Alaeron felt adrift in both time and space.
"Skiver is strangely amiable for a cutthroat."
"Thinking of trying to escape?" Skiver said conversationally. "Can't say I blame you. There's never been a fish on a hook that didn't do its damndest to wriggle free. But even if you did get away from me—which you won't—Vadim's got connections everywhere. He's not a man you want to cross, at least not unless you're in a position to make sure he can't cross you back."
"I will take your words under advisement." Alaeron put all the snobbery and superiority at his disposal into his tone.
"No, you won't," Skiver said, almost mournfully. "But that's all right. No one ever does." They passed through another gate—locked, but unguarded—and into a cobbled side street, and Alaeron's mental map oriented itself: they were in the old part of the city, where some of the great houses of the deposed aristocracy had become private residences for wealthy merchants, or else been chopped up into dozens of apartments for poorer sorts. His workshop was off to the east, not an impossible distance, but a longish walk. "I don't suppose Vadim has a carriage we could use," he said. "Only I'm a bit sore from being beaten over the head and tied to a chair."
"Good for you to walk and work the kinks out, then," Skiver said cheerfully, strolling along the gently curving street past the gates of once-stately residences. "You'd best get used to it, anyway. I'd bet we're going places sensible animals like horses won't go near, so we'll be doing a lot of walking. Your soft little feet will have to get toughened up."
"I think you misunderstand me, sir," Alaeron said with icy dignity. "Perhaps Vadim didn't tell you, but I've traveled to Numeria in the far north, and talked my way into the Technic League, and seen the terrible secrets of the Silver Mount—"
"Oh, Vadim mentioned," Skiver interrupted. "I know what you say you did. But people say all sorts of things. I know a man says he went to Absalom and saw that great cathedral there and someone bet he wouldn't go inside. Now that man, he likes a bit of a gamble, so he couldn't resist. He says he made his way to the center of the cathedral and looked upon the Starstone with his own eyes, that he could have reached out and touched it—but then he decided he didn't want to be a god after all, sounded too much like hard work, so he walked on out again, collected his winnings, and lost it all betting on a pit fight the next day." He gave Alaeron a sly sidelong look. "He says all that. Don't mean it happened. My old mother had a saying for people like him, and for anybody who puts on airs and claims more than they have a right to—‘He's all pointy hat and no magic,' she'd say."
"If you're implying—" Alaeron began.
"Can't say as I blame you. Your back was up against it back there, and no mistake. I'd have said just about anything to keep my thumbs. You just did what you had to do."
"Ah," Alaeron said, hope stirring. "Then would you mind if I, hmm, slipped away? I promise I'd never come within a day's travel of the city—"
Skiver spat on the cobbles. "I said I understood, scholar. I didn't say it was worth my life to get you out of the trouble you got yourself into. No, you'll come along with us. If you're really an alchemist maybe you can at least pour me the occasional drink. Let's get to this laboratory of yours."
They continued walking in silence. Skiver never asked the way to the laboratory, but he kept taking all the right turnings, which meant Vadim and his people were entirely too familiar with the details of Alaeron's life. As they walked, Alaeron looked around the city, trying to memorize every brick and board of its buildings, every twist of its streets, every drifting scent in the air. There was a good chance he'd never see Almas again, and that thought left a hollowness in his chest as echoing as the great chamber he'd discovered in the depths of the Silver Mount.
"Here we are," Skiver said, rapping on the door to Alaeron's workshop. "Guess you'd better open it up."
Alaeron opened the lock, but didn't perform the necessary steps to deactivate the gas trap. It wouldn't kill Skiver, but it would knock him out, and give Alaeron time to gather his things and make his escape before the alarm was raised. "After you," he said, stepping back.
Skiver snorted and drew his long, thin knife. "I don't think so, scholar. Never go through an unknown door first if you can help it. After you." He gestured with his knife.
Alaeron cleared his throat. "Of course. Just, ah, I think I forgot to ..." He hurriedly twisted the lock again, deactivating the trap, while Skiver chuckled behind him.
"What was it?" the man asked. "Crossbow tied to a string?"
"Of course not. Nothing lethal. I don't want dead men in my doorway. Just a trap to release a chemical composition of my own devising."
Skiver shrugged. "Nice try, anyway. But you can still go in first."
Alaeron opened the door and ducked inside. Skiver followed a moment later, eyes taking in every corner of the room, knife in his hand. He slammed the door all the way open, hard, presumably to break the nose of anyone hiding behind it. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, he tucked his knife away, hooked a stool with his foot, dragged it over to one of the dirty windows, and sat down. He licked his thumb and cleared away a little patch of grime on the glass so he could see outside, and alternated between watching Alaeron and watching the street.
The alchemist's travel pack was already prepared. It was just a matter of tucking in the formula books he'd been using most recently, checking the multitude of pockets in his coat to make sure all the appropriate items were in their proper places—it wouldn't do to reach for a flash-bomb and get a stink-bomb instead—and making sure he hadn't left any overly volatile chemicals sitting too close to their reagents. He might never come back here again, but that didn't mean he wanted his father's laboratory to explode.
There was only one little problem. He needed to get his relics from the Silver Mount. And he didn't especially want Skiver to know he had them. He was well armed with weapons now—better armed than Skiver could imagine, Alaeron was sure—but they didn't do him much good in such enclosed quarters. The laboratory was essentially one large room, and tossing a bomb here would hurt him as much as it would Skiver. Damn it, if only the man had walked into the gas trap—
"Who's this?" Skiver said. "There's a big man in the street, he's walked past three times now. You have an appointment today? Somebody come to buy one of your love potions?"
Alaeron closed his eyes. The Technic League enforcer, Kormak. Almost certainly. "I, ah—"
"He's coming to the door," Skiver said, stepping back from his stool. "You got that trap you laid for me all ready to go?"
Alaeron swore and hurried to the door, attaching delicate wires to carefully placed hooks on the door frame, glancing up at the apparatus bolted to a roof beam. "Get away from the door," Alaeron whispered. "The gas is fairly dense, almost a mist, so it shouldn't drift too far, but we don't want to be close to it." Alaeron scurried to the far corner. Skiver gave him a thoughtful look, then went to the other corner, where Alaeron had hung a curtain to separate his sleeping pallet from the workshop proper. Skiver ducked behind the curtain and out of sight.
Alaeron did a rapid calculation of risk. Skiver was probably watching the door and not Alaeron, who was partially screened from view by a battered wooden cupboard full of reagents anyway. The timing hardly seemed ideal, but when would he have another unobserved moment? Alaeron knelt and lifted up a floorboard near the wall. His father had kept an emergency sack of coin in the little space underneath, once upon a time, but Alaeron used it for more precious things. The hole appeared to be empty, but that was a minor illusion purchased from a wizard, so he reached in anyway and drew out a drawstring bag, no bigger than a wineskin, that clinked gently when it moved. Alaeron took the cloth-wrapped items from inside the bag and secreted them in various pockets of his traveling coat before replacing the board.
The door rattled ominously a few times while Alaeron was retrieving his stolen relics, and then there was a horrible squeal as Kormak broke in, prying the door away from the frame. The door popped open and a shadow loomed, filling the entryway.
The canister attached to the roof beam hissed as one of the pulled wires activated it, spraying a dense greenish mist toward the intruder's face. Kormak reached up with one huge hand and wiped at his cheek, grunted, and then fell forward as suddenly and solidly as a chopped-down tree. Alaeron smiled—he'd never actually seen the trap work before, and it was gratifying to know it behaved as designed. He waited a moment for the mist to dissipate, then stepped toward the Kellid. The gas should render Kormak unconscious for a few hours, at least, which was ample time to go through that clanking coat of his and see what kind of devices the Technic League had armed him with. Why, with luck, Alaeron could find items valuable enough to buy himself out of this problem with Ralen Vadim—or even to overwhelm the old adventurer by force, rescue Jaya, and earn her no doubt plentiful gratitude.
He knelt, reached out for Kormak's coat—
And the Kellid lifted his head, gave Alaeron a smirk full of contempt, and seized the alchemist by the throat. As Alaeron choked and scrabbled hopelessly at the man's fingers—how could mere flesh grip tight as iron?—he noticed flashes of silver, like tiny metal corks, in each of Kormak's nostrils. The Technic League used such filters to traverse some of the more poisonous rooms in the Silver Mount—they allowed the wearer to breathe, more or less, while preventing more noxious substances from entering the body.
"Greetings, runaway," Kormak said, and despite sounding nasal and strange from the nose plugs, there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice.
Coming Next Week: A brand new, standalone story featuring Alaeron!
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.
