by Dave Gross
A century of Abyssal corruption had transformed the once-beautiful land into a living nightmare.
The volcanic sky glowered down through brown and yellow clouds. Sporadic eruptions of thunder echoed across the plain. Where pure sunlight shone upon the land, it exposed patches of russet slime drowning the early summer grass. Stagnant water pooled in ravines and sinkholes. Lonely trees reached out with too-human limbs, fingers blossoming with cankers.
As I gazed upon the strange flora, revulsion wrestled with curiosity. I yearned to collect samples for later study. Perhaps through means alchemical or arcane, I might discover a method to purge the land of its demonic plague.
Yet that was not my present errand.
Setting aside my pen, I took up a pencil. I removed the most current map of southern Sarkoris from my journal and covered it with a sheet of paper no thicker than an onion's skin. Through the carriage windows, I saw the vast and changing land to either side, where my Kellid guards rode on my left, Oparal's crusaders on my right.
Beyond the crusaders to the north, where the dense Forest of Soldiers once stood, only sparse stands of blighted trees remained. Elsewhere, mounds of shrieking fungus had overtaken the woods.
Past the Kellids on the south, the withered remains of the Shudderwood concealed the Moutray River, whose winding course formed a natural division between Sarkoris and Ustalav. Blackened trails through the forest marked the wake of great demons leading their slaves into the land of mists and restless graves.
I mused that the arrival of the horde should precipitate recrimination among the counts serving Prince Aduard, whose ancestor had turned away the Kellid refugees. The descendants of those hearty folk might otherwise have bolstered the defense of Ustalav.
The plains fared no better than the woods. Herds of plague aurochs roamed the grassland, unchallenged by unafflicted fauna. Most of the other surviving creatures had also grown tainted by proximity to the mouth of the Abyss. Giant scabrous hares chased flightless birds and tore them to pieces. Fiendish carrion birds wheeled in the sky, descending not to devour but to taunt the dying before feeding on their carcasses.
A few hours earlier, we had spied cultists leading chains of captives north toward the Sarkora River. When I asked Captain Oparal whether she wished to pursue the slavers, she hesitated but ultimately declined. A shadow of regret darkened her steel-colored eyes, but she was resolved to pursue her mission over all else.
Oparal was the first to offer me consolation after the fight at the Splinter, the aftermath of which troubled me as much as the prospect of abandoning slaves to demons troubled her.
Once Oparal had cut a path to the door and removed the bar, Sergeant Aprian and another paladin joined the fray. I felt more grateful than ever for their company. Without the garlic we had left on the river barge, my people had no protection from the fledgling vampires. Yet paladins, like priests, could fend off the undead with the power of their own faith.
Rather than withdraw to the paladin's protection, however, Radovan leaped to the attack—despite my repeated warnings to avoid the vampires' touch.
Still enraged by his own killing of the succubus Shal, Radovan plunged the big knife into one vampire spawn's heart, stabbing another with one of the sharp elbow spurs that were the second-most-distinctive feature of his Hell-crossed ancestry. After his savage attack, he frowned, disappointed at the result. Contrary to popular myth, the strike to the heart was not sufficient to reduce his foe to dust.
Fortunately for Radovan, as I snapped off a riffle scroll and blasted out the still-fresh brains of one of his assailants, Jelani did the same to the other. The Thuvian sorceress favored me with an appreciative nod as she noted the relative power of our spells. She was no apprentice, but as the paladins destroyed the remaining spawn with the radiance of their goddess, I took a certain pride in Jelani's acknowledgment.
With the vampire's spawn died our last hope of establishing a base of operations in Gundrun. Rather than remain to explain why we were obliged to slay Martolls Clefthorn's kin, I deemed it best to depart at once.
Oparal and I brought our forces back to the carriage, the wagons, and the horses. We could not rest in Gundrun that night, nor anywhere close enough for a vengeful Martolls Clefthorn to spy us. While a tear-faced Whalt dragged the body of his demonic barmaid into the street for burning, I had Radovan fetch him a heavy purse from the carriage. It was more than enough to repair the physical damage to his establishment, even to rebuild the ruined upper floor. As restitution for the deeper harm we had inflicted on him, it was a paltry gesture.
The only meaningful reparation I could make to Whalt or the people of Gundrun was to recover the Lexicon of Paradox. I consoled myself with a silent promise to do everything in my power to return Sarkoris to its rightful people.
Finding the book was not our ultimate goal. It was also necessary that we deliver the tome to those who could turn its powers against the demonic horde, to drive them back through the Abyssal rift and seal it forever.
My strengthened resolve raised two perturbing questions.
The first was whether I remained, as Radovan might put it, "up to the job." Since my miraculous resurrection in Tian Xia, I felt haler than I had in decades. Furthermore, I apparently had gained a vital resistance to the enervating touch of the undead, as Kasiya proved while failing to destroy me in Absalom.
Despite my regained vigor, I felt the weight of age upon my mind. Radovan's surprise at my use of a trick every apprentice learns was a painful reminder that I had forgotten the essentials of wizardry. Despite circumventing my disability, I had much to relearn.
Worse, for two years I had labored under the assumption that I could prepare only so many riffle scrolls as I could inscribe in a single day. After discovering a scroll wedged between the cushions of the carriage seat, I realized I could exceed that number simply by accumulating riffle scrolls on a daily basis. The only limiting factor was financial, which is of course no limitation to any Jeggare, much less to me.
Frustrated by my mistaken assumptions, I told myself I was trying too hard to discover exceptions that did not exist, to create new formulae for my unique condition when the old ones still applied. But gradually I accepted the truth: My problem was not that I was thinking too hard; it was that I was thinking too sloppily. My mind, my one true and private possession, had begun the inevitable spiral into entropy.
Chaos.
The very thought was too terrifying to contemplate. With an act of will—or perhaps of cowardice—I turned my mind to the second question.
It should not have been a question at all, but there it was: to whom should I deliver the Lexicon once I found it?
My sworn loyalty lay with Queen Abrogail. Throughout my long life I had surrendered so much to the ambition and authority of House Thrune that it was all but inconceivable I should deliver the Lexicon of Paradox to anyone else. And yet I knew in my heart, both the new half and the old, that Abrogail would reserve that power, watching as the demons burned nations and eradicated peoples, until the horde threatened the Empire. More than most living Chelaxians, I knew what the monarchs of House Thrune were capable of sacrificing in the service of their own glory and that of Cheliax.
Telandia of Kyonin, beauteous and serene, could be trusted little more than Abrogail to extend her aegis beyond those closest to her throne. Surely she would bend all her might and all the powers of her wizards against the horde. But would she do so before exorcising her own land of the fiend Treerazer? Would she, whose people constrained their half-breeds to isolated communities, fight as fiercely on behalf of humans as she would for the pure-blooded elves?
Ollysta Zadrian and her Silver Crusade, and by extension Queen Galfrey and her Mendevian Crusade, seemed at first blush the more altruistic patrons of my quest. And yet I was not ignorant of the pogroms launched by Galfrey's inquisitors, no less horrific for their official temple sanction. Would Galfrey have the courage and the will to hold back her servants from adding to the fien
ds' atrocities rather than end them?
Without certainty, I dared not defy Queen Abrogail.
Such thoughts did nothing to improve my hasty cartography. I put away the pencil and my journal. Slipping off my boots, I drew my legs up into the lotus position and rested my wrists upon my knees. I envisioned Irori's trigram of body, spirit, and mind. Mine were out of balance.
Allowing my body to follow the rocking motion of the carriage, I refused my mind entrance to both my memory library and my vault of dreams. Once banished from knowledge and desire, my thoughts lay on the shore of the void, and my spirit felt some echo of tranquility. Soon, I would feel the serene embrace of—
Bang bang bang bang bang!
The harsh clatter on the carriage window arrested me from my meditation. There was Radovan, his conjured steed pacing the carriage while he rapped his knuckles on the glass.
"Hey, boss, check it out! First try!"
Wincing at the painful intrusion, I waved him off. He rolled his eyes and shouted for Arnisant. "Come on, boy. Let's race!"
For a moment I wondered at my friend's resilience. Immediately after the attack at the Splinter, he seemed touched by Whalt's mourning over the death of the succubus.
Recrimination sprung its ambush: Would I have spared Radovan the painful task of killing Shal if I had the Shadowless Sword in hand when first I laid eyes upon the disguised succubus? Perhaps if I had indulged Radovan in his common gossip about women, we might have compared notes and suspected her deception. Only now did I realize that the Shal he saw differed so greatly from the illusion the fiend presented to me, likely as a function of the magical circlet I had taken from her corpse.
Such speculation reminded me that I had not asked Radovan just what he was communicating with the devil Viridio in Nekrasof Tower. It was apparent that they had reached some sort of understanding. On the previous occasion Viridio had "ridden" Radovan's soul, the devil remained incarnate and ferociously active for a much longer period.
I feared Radovan had struck a bargain without benefit of my counsel. Although I often assured him that he was smarter than he appeared, Radovan was by no means prepared for the scale and precision of intellectual subterfuge required to negotiate an infernal compact.
Until we found the opportunity to speak privately, there was no profit in uninformed speculation. Enough of such fruitless meanderings, I decided. Letting my eyelids sag, I relaxed my shoulders, and—
Bang bang bang bang bang!
Captain Oparal looked in through the other window. While keeping pace with my team of six Kyonin draft horses, Bastiel turned his head to gaze at me with a keen intelligence. Of course I understood that unicorns were sentient creatures, but I had also read they had the power of speech, which Bastiel seemed to lack.
"May I join you, Count?" shouted Oparal.
I nodded assent and reached for my boots, intending to call out for the driver to stop. Before I had donned the first boot, the carriage door opened, and Oparal swept through the door and into the opposite seat with the agility of a circus acrobat.
"My dear— Captain." I caught myself before saying "lady," since I did not know the station of Oparal's parents. Considering that she was born and raised outside of Kyonin, I could only assume they were of common rank. "You have become a swashbuckler."
She stared, perhaps wondering whether I had complimented or insulted her.
"Forgive my disarray," I said, tugging on my second boot while trying to maintain a modicum of decorum. "I was not prepared for such a swift arrival."
"Please pardon my impatience. I have questions."
"Certainly. May I offer you—"
"Nothing, thanks."
It was one thing to endure interruptions from Radovan and this Alase Brinz-Widowknife. I expected better manners from an officer of the crusade. Since she showed me so little courtesy, I felt free to pour myself a goblet of wine. After nosing the bouquet, I secured it to one of the clever latches built into the edges of the map table. For a brief moment, I mused on the genius of the creator of the Red Carriage.
"This Prince Kasiya," said Oparal. "What can you tell me of him?"
"Brother to Khemet II, the pharaoh known as the Crocodile King. He never had reason to believe he would ascend the throne of Osirion. Unwilling to live in his brother's shadow, he traveled the world. Near the end of his life, he fancied himself a Pathfinder."
"The story goes that you killed him in some personal feud."
"Kasiya blames me for his demise, but he died of his own greed and stupidity."
"Is that some clever way of saying you killed him without admitting it?"
I bristled. "It is not."
"One hears rumors."
"What you need to know about Kasiya is that, despite his intellectual limitations, he remains dangerous. Somehow he acquired the Lacuna Codex, another fell volume of arcana. No, not from me. I had delivered it safely to the Grand Lodge in Absalom." I did not share my suspicion that some party within the Decemvirate must have aided Kasiya in the theft—to what end, I could not yet imagine without further evidence.
"And now he's after the Lexicon. Why?"
"It's difficult to say. Kasiya is a creature of impulse, not design. In that sense, he is not unlike the demons of the Worldwound."
"Did he come here only to pursue his vendetta against you?" Oparal's gazed hardened. For a moment I felt the urge to explain myself. Then I reminded myself of my station. A count of Cheliax has no need to explain himself to a captain of the Mendevian Crusade.
Still, we were allies, and not for the first time.
"Possibly. But it would be unwise to assume that is his only reason. Besides, even should he acquire the book, Kasiya is more apt to destroy himself with it than to imperil anyone else."
"Because he's not as clever as you?"
"You may be surprised to learn that I do not include myself among those who could wield the high rituals within the Lexicon of Paradox," I said. "Besides, even those who browse its pages risk madness, or so it is said."
"Please." Oparal's smile surprised me. For the first time since our reunion, she seemed to lower her guard. "Wizards say that about all their books to keep the apprentices from smudging the pages."
She knew more than I realized about the mundane tricks with which wizards exaggerate their true powers. I returned her smile. "That is often so, but not in this case. The name of the book itself reveals its nature: it is a sort of dictionary of impossibilities, detailing arcane reactions that cannot exist in our world but which somehow do in the chaotic realm of the Abyss."
"Hm." She seemed unconvinced.
"Remember, the Three who first opened the Worldwound did so with the knowledge in this book, among others. The spells and rituals within the Lexicon are capable of disrupting the very fabric of reality."
"Isn't that what magic does anyway?"
"Certainly not!"
Her slender eyebrows leaped at my unintended volume.
"Although magic may seem mysterious to those who do not wield it, there are rules to the arcane. One must first understand the formulae before evoking the elemental forces or conjuring beings from another plane of existence. It is a highly rational pursuit."
"I'm not disputing you, Count. It's just that Jelani describes her magic quite differently."
"Of course she does." I concealed my disdain, or hoped I did. "Many sorcerers confuse their hereditary affinity for the arcane with the fantasy that their talent is unbound by logic. But make no mistake: sorcerers, for all their romantic interpretations of the formulae, are as bound by the Laws of Arcana as any wizard."
"While this is very interesting, I didn't mean to change the subject. What I really—" She leaned toward the carriage window. "Oh, not again."
Drawing aside the curtain, I saw Radovan kicking the flanks of his phantom steed as it galloped through the screen of Kellid defenders. Hot on his heels, Bastiel charged after them, horn lowered.
"He won't actually harm Radovan, will h
e?"
"No," said Oparal. She frowned in consideration. "I don't think so."
The Kellids laughed and pointed. Astride the mighty Tonbarse, Alase whooped and cried out to the giant wolf to join the chase.
Before I could decide whether to intervene, Arnisant ran to intercept the unicorn. His ferocious barking startled the Kellids' horses and shied Bastiel off course.
"That dog is a marvel," said Oparal.
"He is," I said with some pride. Recalling my grandfather's advice, I had given the hound not just a good name but a great one. General Arnisant sacrificed his life to imprison the Whispering Tyrant. My hound had also proven unshakably brave and selfless.
A sharp whistle interrupted the commotion. The crusaders reined in their horses and repeated the signal, each whistling and holding up a fist. Ahead of us, I saw the outrider Naia atop her steed, standing stock-still with one fist raised and her lance pointing westward.
A sound of thunder echoed across the plains.
The carriage slowed as the drivers recognized the signal. The front window opened, and the driver peered in. "Orders?"
"Slow the carriage."
Watching us, the Kellid riders also slowed their mounts. What they lacked in the formal discipline of the crusaders, they compensated for with a keen instinct for danger.
Oparal was already out the left door as I opened the one on the right. Desiring a higher vantage, I jumped up, placing a foot on the lamp fixture to climb onto the roof. The carriage rocked, and I lost my grip.
Already standing atop the carriage roof, Oparal reached down to grasp my shoulder. She pulled me up with the barest of efforts. I murmured thanks but turned my face away to conceal my chagrin.
The thunder sounded again, this time not so distant. Oparal and I surveyed the western terrain, following the direction Naia indicated.
Perhaps half a mile distant, a herd of tainted aurochs stirred within a cloud of plague flies. I heard their deep, unsettled lowing beneath the rumble of thunder.