Even when he had first sworn himself to his previous patron, Grigor had already been searching for a greater source of power. He had been forced to research the possibilities surreptitiously, but still he had at last stumbled across the lost legend of the demon god.
There had been little enough about how Uhl-Adanar had come to be built, only that those who had once worshiped Tzadn as a god had in the end sought to cast him into an eternal prison of darkness. Grigor had never been able to verify everything, but he had verified enough to believe the demon did exist and was a prisoner in the tomb.
As Daryus picked up the unconscious familiar, Grigor tested the other door.
“I wouldn’t—” Daryus warned.
Toy’s foul chuckle resounded in the witch’s ears.
The door opened of its own accord … and the floor fell away just as the previous one had for the Pathfinder.
Both Grigor and Daryus slid forward, the latter losing his sword in the process. At the same time, Toy—treacherous, cunning Toy—wriggled free from Daryus’s grip. The weasel leapt onto Grigor’s back, then scurried down it.
Grigor righted himself as he slid. He tried to grab Toy, but first the familiar and then Daryus abruptly slid in a different direction.
Grigor landed hard in front of a huge stone door left ajar, one with a very different version of the wolf symbol. All thought of Toy and Daryus vanished as the witch plunged through it into the chamber beyond.
And finally, after so very long, Grigor stood within yards of the Reaper’s Eye.
“If you’d like to live a little bit longer, I’d recommend you not take another step,” Shiera murmured from elsewhere. “I’d really recommend it.”
Grigor glanced around, only then seeing the opposing walls. Walls radiating the same blue energy usually stored inside the small stones. Walls in flux, shifting from plain stone to two great rows of paintings of mummified priests.
Mummified priests already trying to free themselves.
26
WITCH’S TRIUMPH
It was all Daryus could do to keep from landing headfirst. As he hit stone, out of the corner of his eye he saw Toy had landed ahead of him. The weasel let out a grunt, then rolled toward a dark form nearby.
Only when Daryus managed to come to a halt did he see that the dark form was a body. Raffan’s body.
The former crusader tried to rise, but suddenly an ominous weariness seeming to originate from his right side overtook him. Daryus slipped a hand over to the spot and found a small dart there.
“Damn you, Toy!” How the familiar had managed to stick him with one of Raffan’s needles, Daryus could not say. The needle hadn’t gone deep, which gave him hope he could overcome its influence. Unfortunately, at the moment, all he could do was slowly crawl.
Toy lay as if frozen next to Raffan. It was clear from the expression and pallor that Raffan was dead, which made it all the more startling when the corpse’s hands suddenly slid back and, with jerking motions, pushed itself to a kneeling position.
Mouth agape, the corpse stumbled to its feet. Once there, it reached into a pouch at its side and pulled out the artifact Raffan had used against the giant wasps. Replacing the item in the pouch, the corpse looked at Daryus.
“Not yet…” it croaked in what was not Raffan’s voice, but a twisted version of Toy’s. “Not yet … Daryus Gaunt.”
The animated body twisted around to the familiar’s body, picking it up. The corpse set Toy on its shoulder, whose paws and tail instinctively seized hold.
Again, the corpse’s gaze shifted to the stricken fighter. “Always with more than one plan, the patron ordered! Always to keep the eye on the game.”
“Damn you, Toy … just come close enough so … so I can wring your little neck…”
“Raffan” winked. As he did, the eye that winked briefly became Toy’s demonic orb. “Rest now, Daryus Gaunt. I’ll need your life later.”
The mouth smiled, again somehow mirroring Toy. If Daryus had not already suspected the familiar somehow controlled the body—most likely through the artifact Raffan still had on him—then these brief expressions would have been enough to reveal the terrible truth.
The body moved on, stepping past the struggling fighter to the wall. Raffan’s hand touched a spot and the wall opened.
Without another word, the familiar and the animated corpse vanished into the passage within.
Daryus continued to try to crawl, hoping that by exerting himself he would get his blood circulating and flush the drug from his system faster. He relied on the fact that Toy did not know much, if anything, about Daryus’s mixed heritage. Elves were immune to magical sleep, and while he suspected these darts used a more mundane poison, he hoped that similarity—or his sheer body mass—would carry him through.
As he pushed himself on, he caught glimpses of the outside. At first, Daryus paid them no mind—the only part of the temple-city important to him being the part where Shiera was—but then, in the distance, he noticed a figure moving carefully around one of the buildings beyond.
Harricka Morn.
How she had gotten to Uhl-Adanar did not disturb Daryus half so much as the very fact that she was here. He knew Harricka well enough to assume that her primary concern would remain him, even despite Grigor Dolch’s plot.
Harricka suddenly looked in his direction, as if noticing him. Daryus started to swear … only to see Harricka’s gaze shift above him. She stood poised, then began climbing up a wall with the clear intention of getting to whatever she had just noticed.
While grateful she had not seen him after all, Daryus worried that Harricka had noticed some activity on Shiera’s part. Yes, she would willingly face the witch if it meant helping Shiera escape, but for some reason Daryus feared his former comrade’s intrusion would only cause further chaos—
Toy! While Daryus could not actually verify his suspicions, he knew in his gut that the weasel must be the reason for Harricka Morn’s shocking arrival. Somehow, the familiar had utilized the same magic that had dragged Daryus and Raffan here to also bring along the captain.
But why?
Always with more than one plan, Toy had said through Raffan. The weasel knew he had to catch his former master off guard—no small task. Usurping parts of those plots already hatched by Dolch had enabled Toy to make use of Shiera and the pitborn assassins, while adding Daryus, Harricka, and Raffan had offered different paths.
Daryus pushed himself to a sitting position just as Harricka vanished from view. He accepted his minor victory as a good sign. The drug was fading from his system, surely at a faster rate than Toy would assume.
“Always with more than one plan,” Daryus whispered, smiling grimly. “You’re absolutely right, Toy.”
Straining, he managed to get to his knees. Then, after taking a deep breath, Daryus shoved himself up on his feet. His attempt was only slightly less elegant than that of Raffan’s corpse, but still he succeeded in remaining standing.
There was no weapon, of course, but Daryus still had the small blade in his boot, which he had put away when he had come across Shiera under attack. Daryus yearned for one of the sturdy old weapons wielded by the undead, yet was more than willing to do with what he had with him. He had not survived so long after escaping the order without being able to adjust to the lack of a sword or axe at the worst of times.
He dared a step. When that worked, he dared another. That second did not go as well, but at least Daryus was able to keep standing. Inhaling deeply, he forced his other foot forward again.
It worked … and with less stress than before. Daryus pressed, taking three more.
“Always with more than one plan,” he repeated with more relish. “Let’s see how your plans fare against mine, Toy.”
With only one more stumble, he returned to the part of the wall where Raffan’s corpse had stepped. Having watched, Daryus readily located the switch.
Keeping in mind that Harricka was also loose in the ancient structure, Daryus ke
pt his eye out for something better than the dagger. If he ran across her first, he wanted to have the upper hand immediately. Then, he might have a chance to convince her there was something far more dangerous than him.
The blue stones kept his way lit, which at times frustrated him. Darkness would have served him better, but there seemed no way by which to douse the crystals. The only benefit was that he would be able to tell if someone else was—
Daryus froze. In the otherwise deep darkness ahead, a single blue stone lit, then faded away.
Keeping the dagger ready, Daryus pursued. He had no idea just how fast Raffan’s corpse could move, but he would have assumed that it would be far beyond the spot ahead. Doubting that Shiera was the source, Daryus wondered if Harricka’s path had somehow brought her to this corridor. That seemed unlikely considering where she would have entered, but the ancients had created what he considered a very strange labyrinth that made anything possible.
A short scraping sound echoed ahead. Daryus paused yet again. The scraping repeated, this time slightly closer.
Daryus had a very bad feeling. He took a step back, then eyed one of the stones.
Limbs still stiffer than he would have liked, he worked quickly to pry the stone from the wall. As he hoped, it continued to glow in his hand.
Daryus threw the stone as hard as he could into the darkness.
It started to fade as it flew from him, but, as he had hoped, enough of a glow remained through the flight that he was able to see a greater distance ahead.
And one of the undead priests.
Swearing, Daryus retreated farther. Prying off another stone, he tossed it after the first.
The priest was even closer. The empty eye sockets stared his way. One hand gripped a long sword.
With nothing else to do, Daryus started back. However, as he moved, he heard another scraping sound from the direction of the mummified figure. This time it reminded Daryus of metal rubbing against stone.
Aware that each hesitation increased the risk, he nonetheless removed one more stone. As soon as it was free, Daryus tossed it.
The stone clattered to the floor, the corridor empty.
No, not empty, Daryus saw. In the last glimmer of light, he made out the sword still there, only now propped against the wall to his left.
Suspecting a trap, Daryus broke off yet another stone, then threw it after the others. Nothing changed. The priest was gone, but the sword remained, propped against the left wall.
Cautiously—very cautiously—Daryus approached the weapon. Other stones lit up, enabling him to verify the absence of the ghoul and the curious presence of the weapon.
Seeing no visible threat, he reached for the hilt. As he took up the weapon, though, the wall upon which it had been set slid open.
Another, better-lit passage beckoned, with no sign of the priest.
Hefting the sword, Daryus noted the balance and weight. Had he not known better, he might have thought it had been chosen just for him. Not at all certain that he liked where that thought led, Daryus stepped into the new corridor, and saw immediately there only one direction to go.
With each passing second, his strength returned more and more. He put away the dagger. Having the sword helped much, but Daryus was still aware he would likely face magic in some form, especially from the witch and Toy. Daryus would have to strike as quickly and as accurately as he could.
If, he admitted, he even had a chance to strike at all.
* * *
Shiera wished she had been given at least a few more minutes before Grigor’s intrusion. At least then, there might have been a chance to compensate for the trap she had half-sprung. The ancients had made a cunning, two-level trap. Despite her caution, she had set the first part in motion. Logic would have said that she should retreat, but logic often proved the death of the unwary. Shiera believed the ancients wanted any intruder to do just that. If she understood what they desired, a single step back would be all that was needed to unleash the tomb’s protectors.
“Well?” rasped Grigor. “Do what needs to be done!”
Wishing she could trade places and let Grigor carve out his own destiny, Shiera put another foot forward.
“What are you—”
The walls shimmered brighter … and then not only did the priests return to being paintings, but the paintings themselves faded away to the empty walls Shiera had first come across.
The witch stepped up beside her. “Very clever, Pathfinder. Now how do we keep them from returning?”
“I think I have an idea, but it’ll take me a moment.”
“Take a moment. Take two. Just be certain they are very short moments.”
Shiera kept her expression neutral. More than ever, she could hear Grigor’s avarice. So close, it had to be difficult for him to remain still. She was tempted to tell him that the trap would not repeat, but doubted he would be so naive.
Besides, Shiera had to admit that she, too, was eager to see more.
Wishing that Daryus was here to add a more neutral perspective, Shiera studied the room. For the first time, she noted how there were slightly different shadings in the various tiles of marble making up the floor. It reminded her of what she had come across in not only her studies, but also Amadan Gwinn’s expedition.
A swift analysis revealed no pattern of dark and light tiles, nor one involving shapes. Yet Shiera remained certain there was a pattern. There was always a pattern.
Then it occurred to her that she was still not thinking in terms of the ancient builders. Being careful not to step any closer, she adjusted her view so that she saw the floor at approximately the same angle as that in which the builders’ script changed meaning.
And there she saw it. There was a slight difference in the spacing between the dark and light tiles. Shiera returned to her original location and checked again. Despite there being little difference in where she stood, the view altered significantly.
Grigor impatiently tapped the staff on the floor. “I hope you’re on to something.”
“We’re about to find out.” Shiera shifted to the second position, then noted how the tiles appeared arranged now. The builders of Uhl-Adanar had worked very precisely, but she thought she understood how she had to walk.
Without another word, Shiera took her first step. Behind her, the witch let out a slight gasp.
Nothing happened. The walls remained blank.
Feeling more confident, Shiera chose her second and more crucial step.
When again nothing happened, a sense of triumph filled her.
“You have it,” remarked Grigor with a hint of admiration.
“It’s all a matter of perspective.” She chose her next mark. So long as she kept her view at the proper angle, the path continued to be perfectly obvious. A simple trail of identically shaded tiles leading to the dais. Shiera knew that if she had tried to follow these same tiles while staring at them head-on, she would have gone a different direction and finally stepped on the wrong one.
Step by step, Shiera neared the dais. Finally, with one last, confident movement, she reached the raised platform.
“You’ve done it!” Grigor started after.
She thrust a hand out. “Wait!”
He eyed her distrustfully. “Why?”
“I have to make certain the pattern didn’t change after I completed it.” That was partially true. What Shiera didn’t say was that she was also still trying to buy time until she could think of something to prevent him from claiming the artifact and whatever else he thought the tomb could bring him.
“Rubbish! You’re trying to delay.” Grigor stepped onto the first tile.
Shiera stiffened. To her relief, nothing happened.
“You see?” Grigor prepared to take the next step.
“Not that one!” As her undesired companion eyed her, she pointed to his right. “That one there.”
“You put your foot on the one here,” he retorted, pointing with the staff at the tile nearest his foo
t.
“No. It only looked like that.”
He studied the two tiles. The tip of the staff swung back and forth over the choices. Each swing back to the wrong one made Shiera flinch. Now was not the time for her to attempt any trick against Grigor. She and possibly even Daryus would suffer along with the avaricious witch.
Grigor stopped the tip over the tile to his right, the wrong one.
He stepped forward … to the tile Shiera had chosen.
Shiera exhaled. She looked up to the heavens—or in this case, the ceiling—in silent thanks for the damned spellcaster listening to her.
“Where next?” the witch asked.
“Over there,” she replied, pointing again.
Brow arched, Grigor nevertheless obeyed. When all remained still, he smiled. “Very good, Pathfinder.”
“One more thing.”
Instantly, he brought the staff up to point at her.
She shook her head. “No. No betrayal. Just a warning. I never thought to look directly up until a second ago. Don’t move from the spot when you do, though.”
Shiera waited while Grigor looked up at the ceiling.
“I … see.” He stared. “Were they there all this time, do you think?”
“I doubt that they were just painted while we were occupied with other things.” She joined him in studying what lay above them. While the walls had returned to normal after briefly threatening to unleash more of the mummified priests, neither Shiera nor he had ever bothered to pay attention to the high ceiling.
A high ceiling covered in much-too-realistic images of more such guardians, these with webbed wings.
“Do you think—” Grigor began.
“I know. So try not to get us killed with your impatience.”
“Show me the path, then. No tricks, and I will leave you unharmed.”
Shiera doubted that, yet obeyed anyway. The guardians were unlikely to see any difference between her and her captor. Both were intruders.
Only when at last he joined her did Shiera breathe easier. Grigor had the gall to pat her on the shoulder.
“You did well, Pathfinder! Excellent, in fact.”
Pathfinder Tales--Reaper's Eye Page 25