Stone and frame spread apart, creating enough room for him to pass.
Instead of entering, the witch gestured to the two nearest pitborn. “You first.”
With obvious trepidation, the horned warriors entered. When Grigor did not hear screams, he followed. Four more of the pitborn trailed, while the rest waited where ordered.
Once inside, the witch surveyed his surroundings. He briefly admired the corpse, the robes of which marked the dead figure as a spellcaster.
“Not patient enough, were you? Tsk.” He moved on to the rockfall. “This will not do.”
The pitborn started forward with the obvious intention of trying to remove the rocks, but Grigor shook his head. Instead, he turned to one of the walls.
“Even a Pathfinder, as astute as she is, can miss a few tricks.” He ran his hand along the wall farthest from the corpse. “Of course, no one knows those of Uhl-Adanar as I do.”
The witch paused at a tiny crack. He removed his glove and dug one nail into it.
With a harsh grating noise, the wall separated.
Grigor put the glove back on. “Come.”
They entered another empty passage that ran perpendicular to the one they had left. Grigor allowed a bit of light ahead of them, which revealed only more dust.
The passage arced to the left as they journeyed. After a few moments, Grigor estimated that they were now underneath the rest of his band. The path continued on for a bit longer, then turned right.
At that point, he silently raised the staff to call a halt. She is near. Very near.
A bat would have been too obvious down here, which forced Grigor to use another spell. He eyed the staff before doing so, aware that he had grown reckless. If it turned out he was wrong as to her progress, then he risked more than a simple loss of power.
Thinking of that, the witch touched his cheek. Even through the glove, he could feel the skin stiffening, as if all the moisture in his flesh was rapidly evaporating.
It had taken more than just blood to reach the demon he had sought. It had taken additional costs to garner the bargain he desired. For that price, he had gained himself a patron who had granted him the power for which he had hoped.
But with demons, there was always a catch. Once bound to his patron, Grigor Dolch had to be willing to pay more and more to keep what he had. Each time, the price grew greater. Grigor had resisted for a time, and because of that resistance, he had been easy to capture by his kin. His patron had naturally kept him alive, but barely. At that point, Grigor had been willing to give anything to not only survive, but get his revenge. Over the years that followed, however, he began to resent his pact, the idea that his patron could control him. He began looking for alternatives.
Unfortunately, he had not counted on Toy betraying him to their patron. He had assumed that his familiar would remain loyal to him.
Shaking off both the memories and his worries about his flesh, Grigor raised the staff over his eyes. He concentrated, focusing on the Pathfinder. His view suddenly shot forward, racing through the long passage, down another, and into a final corridor … where he at last found Shiera Tristane.
She stood before a vast carving so familiar to Grigor. To his frustration, the Pathfinder just stood there staring. Grigor waited a minute, then finally decided to investigate the image himself through the staff. He probed the wolf, inspected every mark for some hint of just what the symbol meant, yet, after a short but exhausting study, the witch could find nothing. To him, this was merely a large carving.
What am I missing? What?
His failure went against everything he knew about the builders of Uhl-Adanar. They had had the habit of meshing the magical and the mundane together to achieve their goals, most of which concerned keeping secret the location of the temple-city.
While he was caught up in his thoughts, Shiera Tristane reached up to the wolf’s eye. The size of the carving meant the woman had to actually crawl up a small part of the way using a narrow gap carved in the wall that Grigor had somehow not seen before.
The Pathfinder ran her index finger along the right side of the orb. She seemed to be searching for something in particular, something that, despite magnifying his view, the witch could not make out.
The eye shifted … then swung open, floating free from the wall as if on invisible strings.
Grigor let out a gasp he was glad distance kept the woman from hearing. Understanding began to dawn. As he watched the Pathfinder continue probing the now-open orb, the witch noticed he was still unable to sense anything in and around her discovery.
I am blind to what they did to hide this key—but it can’t just be mechanical! It must be hidden from wielders of magic. How cunning …
He had never come across such a thing before—neither magic nor mundane. Most assumed that one was the opposite of the other, but in his studies, Grigor had come to believe differently. The opposite of magic was an emptiness of magic, an antithesis of magic.
Somehow, the builders of Uhl-Adanar had learned how to harness the power of that antithesis, that un-magic. Perhaps only someone with no magical abilities, no magical tendencies, would be able to see or detect it.
With fascination, Grigor watched her efforts. Now his earlier respect for the woman and her knowledge of the ancients returned. It appears I have chosen well after all. I’ll see to it that your death is swift and painless … once you find me the tomb.
* * *
Shiera could not shake the feeling that she was being watched. More than once, she peered over her shoulder to see if someone was back there. It was such a strong sensation that the Pathfinder actually felt chills down her spine.
It’s this place, Shiera finally decided. It must be this place.
She tried to focus on the eye. Although she had discovered much about it, managed to make the crystalline top of it float free to display the mechanism inside, she was still missing the final key to how to reach the temple-city.
Shiera wished that she had better light, but there were other ways to see. She had learned one of those ways from her second teacher, Yosen. Yosen had been born blind, but he had learned not only the raised script his people had developed, but also how to do the reverse … read what was carved into stone.
The skill was a difficult one, but Shiera had persevered. Shutting her eyes, she moved her index finger along the left side. At last, she felt the markings. Her mind raced as she matched what her finger ran along with what she already knew of the ancients’ written language.
And what she read startled her so much she nearly lost her footing.
“Thank you, Yosen,” she murmured. Too many of her counterparts—Amadan Gwinn included—did not appreciate the intricate learning techniques needed by the blind or the deaf. Shiera had chosen her teachers with care … and now those choices were paying off.
Then, running her finger over the last part in a slightly different direction, she suddenly saw another meaning. Once again, it amazed her how the builders could write so much with so little—
Another chill went through her. She was being watched. She was certain of it.
Glancing back, the Pathfinder called, “Who’s out there? Show yourself?”
There was no answer. Still, someone was there.
And then …
“Please. Don’t let me stop your work. Do continue.”
A shape formed in the dim illumination, a robed figure Shiera pegged as younger than her but with oddly colored skin. He carried a four-foot-long staff that she recognized as no mere wooden stick.
Behind him arose the patter of booted feet and the clink of armor. The spellcaster—Shiera could not yet determine his calling—paid those sounds no mind, which meant that whoever rushed toward them served him.
As he approached her, Shiera suddenly realized he was much older than she had first thought. Indeed, there was something unreal about his countenance, as if it were more a mask than living flesh.
“Do continue,” he repeated. “You’ve
more than impressed me thus far. You’ve been worth all the effort it took to get you here.”
She did not care for the way he said that.
“You’ve done more with that coin than the last three fools who dared called themselves Pathfinders.” He tapped one end of the staff on the ground. “I can assure you that they will never disgrace your calling again.”
As she faced him, Shiera continued to run her finger over the side of the orb. Based on what she had read thus far, there had to be one more find to make, one she had been looking for before the spellcaster’s appearance, and one she needed to find even quicker now.
“Who are you?”
He bowed. “Grigor Dolch—a simple witch, on a quest for knowledge. Not unlike your own, Shiera Tristane. Now, please remove your hand from the orb. I would hate to have to inflict pain on you when we have been working together so well thus far.”
As he spoke, a small party of pitborn entered behind him. Weapons bristling, the horned demonspawn spread around the chamber.
The witch smiled. “Please. I mean you no harm.”
Shiera didn’t believe that for a second. Once he gained what he desired, Shiera would be a burden.
Her finger finally grazed what she had been looking for. Shiera swallowed, hoping she had read everything correctly.
“All right,” she answered. “I’m going.”
Shiera pressed the stone under her finger.
The chamber shook violently. Shiera smiled. As she’d expected, the builders had been very protective of their city.
“‘Going?’” Grigor’s false smile turned into a scowl as he realized what she had done. “No, you don’t—”
The staff glowed—
Shiera’s surroundings faded away.
* * *
The pitborn waiting above had no chance. The ground beneath their feet sank with such swiftness that most perished immediately as they fell into the great gaps yawning open.
Two of those still alive tried in vain to reach the horses. The animals, farther from the destruction, wasted no time in breaking their tethers and running.
One of the pitborn slipped. The ground cracked open beneath him. He fell into the gap, which almost instantly closed.
The other pitborn took one more step, and then what remained of the ground crumbled, swallowing up the last of Grigor’s followers.
* * *
Grigor used the staff to protect himself as soon as the shaking began. The very reason he had chosen Shiera Tristane in the first place had now brought him to this precarious moment. Still, the witch was not as perturbed as his followers, who tried to run for the passage as the complex began to sink and collapse.
“Stay with me, you fools!” Grigor commanded. A pair of the pitborn had sense enough to listen, but the rest sought escape.
What they received instead was death. The ceiling near the passage broke apart, sending tons of rock and earth spilling down. The four pitborn vanished in an instant, bodies crushed to a pulp.
Grigor led the remaining pair to the wall where the huge image remained untouched. The ancients would have given themselves a safety area just in case some accidental touch caused everything to collapse while they were still working on things. Indeed, as he suspected, once the trio got within half a dozen feet from the wall, they ceased being threatened by the devastation.
“Against the wall!” the witch ordered. He and the two pitborn planted themselves against the wolf image. Once there, Grigor waited. At some point soon, the quake would cease. Then, the witch would turn his attention to the wolf’s eye. He had been watching the Pathfinder’s hand very carefully. Despite all the ancients’ plans, Grigor suspected that if he found the very same spot Shiera Tristane had touched, he and his servants would be transported to wherever she had been sent.
The quake began to subside.
Grigor Dolch smiled.
* * *
Shiera fell forward, striking the ground hard. The force of the collision left her stunned, every bone vibrating. She moaned, all the while hoping that Grigor Dolch was not at her heels.
Silence surrounded her. Slowly, Shiera’s head cleared. Her bones ceased screaming.
She tried to rise, but discovered it was too soon. Her arms and legs refused to support her. Shiera slipped to the ground again, only just managing to keep her face from hitting.
Although her eyes would still not focus, she once more used her sensitive touch to study the ground. Not at all to her surprise, it proved to be of artificial make, and not merely the granite floor of the chamber she’d just fled. Indeed, as she ran her fingers along, she guessed it to be a polished marble, like that of the wolf temple, but untouched by the elements.
“Come on!” she growled at herself. “Come on!”
Shiera shook her head to clear the last haze. Her gaze started to normalize. Strength returned to her limbs.
She managed to push herself up to a sitting position. A dim illumination that reminded her of that in the ruined building in Kenabres gradually allowed her to see what lay around her … or at least for as far as the light permitted.
Shiera had hoped—no, expected—to find herself in a temple, or perhaps directly in the tomb of Tzadn himself.
What Shiera had not expected was to find herself sitting in the midst of a marble courtyard extending to a tall, arched structure, beyond which lay six more similar buildings, all in pristine condition. Around her, tall statues of solemn-looking men and women in robes peered down on her, statues so lifelike she could see every detail in the craggy faces.
When she stood, it was to have verified for her by a sudden flood of illumination the fact that she had not merely found the remains of Uhl-Adanar, but the entire temple-city.
A temple-city that not only stretched far beyond even the seven structures looming ahead, but also spread wide to left and right. Uhl-Adanar in all its glory lay around her for as far as the eye could see … as did the carefully carved ceiling running above the entire thing.
Like the ruined outpost temple she had just escaped, Uhl-Adanar was underground … and had apparently been built that way.
21
THE TRAITOR
“You made a deal, you little vermin, and if you don’t abide by it, I’ll feed you to him.”
“There is no lie! I have not lied!”
As Daryus slowly stirred, the two voices echoed in his head like a pair of bronze drums playing the Order of the Flaming Lance’s long, tedious hymns. He knew he had heard both voices before, although it did take him a moment to recall just who they were.
The second he identified first. Toy. Cunning, untrustworthy little Toy. Daryus imagined squeezing the weasel’s throat, a notion contrary to his usual manner, but quite pleasing at the moment. Toy appeared to bring out the worst in people. Such as the other speaker.
Raffan. The name finally came to him. Raffan, the constantly anxious agent of the unnamed noble. Raffan, who had shot Daryus with some sort of dart akin to what the assassins had used.
What the assassins had used.
Daryus tried to stretch his arms and legs to get rid of the burning sensation in them, only to realize he was bound tight. Moreover, it gradually dawned on him that he was sitting on a surface that kept shifting. With further consideration, Daryus determined that he was on horseback.
At about that time, he grew conscious enough to finally force his eyes open.
Not at all to Daryus’s surprise, he rode behind two other horses, the lead of which belonged to Raffan. In contrast to how the younger man had always presented himself, now Raffan rode with a visible arrogance in his bearing. Daryus could not decide whether his captor had been that good an actor or had simply grown more confident now that he had the upper hand against someone.
Then, the odd contraption strapped to the back of the third horse—a third horse that Daryus could only guess had followed his own—caught his attention. It was a cage.
In it, scurrying back and forth in clear frustration, was Toy.
The sight was enough to make Daryus chuckle. That made Raffan pull hard on the reins and twist around to view his prisoner. At the same time, Toy also turned to face Daryus.
“You’re a strong one,” Raffan muttered. “You should still be out for a few hours.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. I’ll try to do better next time.”
“You would be wise to remember your place, renegade. I could’ve left you for your former comrades.”
Daryus grunted. “But instead you’ve got something much more pleasant in mind for me, I suppose.”
Raffan frowned. “If we weren’t behind, I would slap that smirk off your face. You’re still important to the weasel here, and until I get what I want from him, you’re going to tag along.”
Brow arching, Daryus looked at Toy. He didn’t trust the familiar any more than he trusted Raffan. Toy hadn’t done anything to save Daryus for Daryus’s sake, but because, as Raffan indicated, the fighter was still of some use.
Toy said nothing, but the one eye narrowed. What the weasel tried to relay with that narrowed gaze, Daryus didn’t care. He was only concerned with escaping and then continuing on after Shiera.
Daryus shut his eyes as if seeking rest again. Instead, though, he thought about Shiera.
There was a very good chance that she was dead, the victim of some Worldwound monstrosity. If she was alive, it was likely she was the captive of the witch. Either way, it was doubtful that Daryus had any true hope of saving her … and yet he still hoped to do so.
Harricka would laugh at him, Daryus knew. She considered him an honorless creature. Daryus disagreed with that description, though he knew now that his idea of right and wrong differed from what he had first believed upon becoming a crusader. Then, he had seen things as the captain and his instructors had, in simple black and white. Unlike Harricka and the rest, however, Daryus had been changed by what he’d seen, and the way the acts of those who were supposed to be good and those who were supposed to be evil sometimes seemed reversed.
Memories rushed back. The sword falling. The screams. The pitborn children. The horrified pitborn mother. The pitborn father, trying to shield them all with his body.
Pathfinder Tales--Reaper's Eye Page 19