Nightblade

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Nightblade Page 7

by Liane Merciel


  He wished, belatedly, that he'd chosen a less ominous appearance for the beast. It might be seen as a challenge to some of his companions, and that was the last thing he wanted. "That's another thing I thought you had to do: carry a golden sword and a silver shield and inspire the world with your shining example."

  Kyril lifted a dark red eyebrow. "You don't know much about paladins, do you?"

  "Up until recently, I've not had the opportunity to meet many."

  "You're wrong about that, but understandably so. The ones you might have known would have tried to avoid you."

  "What do you mean?"

  The others were departing, Ena at their head. All around them, the black and red stones of Devil's Perch rose in crooked towers. Somewhere among those eerie wind-carved spires, the strix were keeping a wary eye on Pezzack—and perhaps on them, too.

  Isiem couldn't see any of the winged watchers, though. To his eye, the desert sky was a bare, hard blue.

  Below that cloudless sky, the land was as desolate as ever. Elsewhere on Golarion, ripening apples were weighing down the boughs of their trees; heavy stalks of grain were nodding in the wind. In fields of rich black earth, turnips and carrots and radishes fattened under drowsy green crowns, while in sturdy whitewashed houses, farmers sharpened their scythes for harvest.

  Not in Devil's Perch. The only harvest here would be of scorpions and dust. Although the desert had a flinty kind of beauty, Isiem wouldn't miss its desolation. He had found freedom in western Cheliax, yet he was glad to leave the place behind. A year was enough of his life spent among these stones.

  Kyril nudged her heavy draft horse to follow the rest of their party, lagging behind to avoid being overwhelmed by the cloud of dust that their pack wagon left in its wake. That, at least, was drawn by real horses—a pair of handsome red geldings that had been orphaned when their former master met some misfortune in Devil's Perch.

  "You served in Westcrown as a member of the Midnight Guard." It wasn't a question, and the paladin kept her eyes on the road as she said it, but neither was it an accusation.

  Isiem guided his horse to fall in alongside hers. "I did."

  "I was born there. I grew up under Thrune rule. Westcrown was where I had my awakening, and where I began my life as a servant of the Inheritor." She glanced at him, but only briefly. Dust smudged her cheekbones and dotted her brow where it clung to tiny beads of perspiration. Her expression gave away nothing. "There are many paladins in Westcrown. The injustice and the need in that wounded city act as a magnet for those of our calling. But we do our work subtly, because the powers that rule Cheliax today do not tolerate drastic intervention, and we have learned not to draw attention we don't need."

  "Were you there when I was?" Isiem asked. It seemed important, somehow, that the answer be ‘no.' He didn't like to think he might have worked against her, even inadvertently.

  "It's possible." Kyril shrugged. "I left four years ago. But I tried not to cross paths with the Midnight Guard. Most of us did."

  "I'm glad you've changed that rule."

  She flashed him a quick smile, then urged her horse forward to catch up with the main group. "You're not a Midnight Guard anymore. And you chose to join the resistance, so there might be some hope for you yet."

  He let her go, watching her vanish into the dust cloud and reappear on the other side. The sunlight caught her hair, bringing out strands of brightness in the red and sparking a reluctant gleam from her dulled armor. Isiem found himself hoping she would look back, but she didn't.

  The wizard smiled ruefully, spurring his own horse toward Ascaros and Teglias, who were riding beside the pack wagon. It had been some time since he'd felt the pleasant discomfort of attraction. A paladin of Iomedae seemed an unlikely object for his affections, but he couldn't deny that he was drawn to her.

  There was no sign that she reciprocated his feelings, though, which was something of a relief. It kept things cleaner.

  Teglias and Ascaros were engaged in an animated discussion when Isiem reached them. They paused as he came within earshot, but only for a moment.

  "His key," Ascaros said, his black eyes alight with more excitement than Isiem had seen in them since their first days in the Dusk Hall. He waved Isiem closer so that he could join their conversation. "The one that opens Eledwyn's stronghold. Teglias says you've seen it."

  "I have," Isiem said. "He showed it to you?"

  "Of course. I recognized it at once. It belonged to Khorsaveir of the Fangs—one of my forefather's more infamous apprentices, and as his name suggests, one of the first to step into undeath. Shortly after embracing vampirism, Khorsaveir led the assault into Eledwyn's stronghold. He died not long after, and his belongings were stolen by one of the survivors, who sold them secretly to avoid Mesandroth's wrath for the theft."

  "One of the pieces he sold was the diamond that's missing from the key's bow," Teglias said. He, too, was dressed plainly for the road, in a belted tunic and breeches under a light cloak of beige cotton. A well-worn pack was bundled behind his saddle, and he wore his scimitar with the ease of long habit. The scholar, it seemed, was no stranger to the adventuring life. "Your friend believes he knows where it might be found."

  "It's not far from the path we'll be taking already." Unlike the others in their group, Ascaros had done nothing to deter the curiosity of passersby. He wore the umbral robes and spiked chain of his office openly, and his night-black horse was fairly dripping in onyx and silver. The fearful glances of Pezzack's townspeople, and Ganoven's lackeys, seemed to amuse him. "Seventy years ago, the jewel was lost near what are now called the Trilmsgitt Towers. I think there's a good chance it's still there."

  "Why?" Isiem asked.

  "Because it was one of my relatives who lost it. Sukorya of the Dusk Hall. She was a formidable sorceress, and she held Silence's mirror before it came to my aunt's mother. The shae spent decades plotting against her, but Sukorya was as canny as she was powerful, and all his schemes came to naught. Until Silence sent her off to hunt an unliving monster in the Backar Forest. He claimed another of my kin had died there—one of Mesandroth's early apprentices, perhaps Khorsaveir himself—and that Sukorya would find answers, and power, in the shade's hoard."

  "Instead, I presume, she found her demise," Isiem said.

  "Of course." Ascaros's smile was tight and grim. "Silence added another pin to his cloak, and the mirror fell to Misanthe's mother, then Misanthe, then me. But Sukorya had the diamond that belongs to that key, and I suspect it still lies with her bones. Worn as an amulet, it possesses considerable power in its own right, but she was a secretive woman and few knew she had it. Perhaps none, other than Silence. Given that the creature was deadly enough to destroy Sukorya, and Silence has been goading me toward its lair for months, I doubt anyone who might have stumbled upon the monster's haunt by accident would have survived to take the stone. It must be an uncommonly powerful beast."

  "I have full faith in our ability to confront the thing," Teglias said serenely, "particularly as we need not destroy it. Just distract it long enough to recover the diamond. The Trilmsgitt Towers are only a few days off the route we'd originally intended to take through the Backar Forest."

  "I repeat my earlier question," Isiem said. "Why? Why do we need the diamond at all?"

  Ascaros frowned. "Didn't you examine the key?"

  Isiem shrugged. "Enough to tell it was magical. And evil."

  "And incomplete." Ascaros shook his head. "Really, Isiem. The key bears several enchantments, but at least one of them requires the diamond as a key component. It may not even work without it."

  "Ascaros believes he may be able to use the magical resonances in the stone to help us locate Fiendslair," Teglias added.

  "Oh?" Isiem raised an eyebrow at Ascaros. "And you only mention this now?"

  "You said you knew where the lair was. Teglias has since clarified for me that you only suspect where it is. From what I've learned of Sukorya, she believed the stone could guide her to E
ledwyn's workshop, but hadn't yet made an attempt on it herself when she had her encounter with the beast."

  "Do we even know what this beast is?" Isiem asked. His horse tossed its head, mirroring his discomfort. "I'd like to know a little more before agreeing to go off on a hunt for mysterious sorcerer-slaying undead."

  "Not with any specificity," Ascaros admitted. "It's rumored to have been one of Khorsaveir's creations, but that's all I know, and even that is only rumor. It may not be true. But I believe I'm nearly what Sukorya was, and she challenged the beast alone."

  "With fatally unsuccessful results," Isiem pointed out. He was about to add more, but stopped when he saw Ena coming toward them in a plume of desert dust.

  The dwarf handled her spell-summoned horse with ease. She spun to a showy stop in front of Teglias, lowering the scarf that shielded the bottom half of her face when the dust had died down enough to breathe.

  Teglias coughed pointedly, wiping gritty dust away from his mouth and nose. "Yes?"

  "I think we're far enough." She nodded absently at Isiem and Ascaros, still scanning the rest of the group and the landscape around them. There had been no one else on the road since they left sight of Pezzack, and the skies remained empty of even a cloud, but that did not lessen the dwarf's vigilance. "If you two are ready, I'll round up the others."

  "Go," Ascaros said, dismounting. He straightened his robes and lifted his pack from behind the black mare's saddle. As he slipped it onto his shoulders, the beast and its trappings vanished into spiraling threads of smoke. Ena flicked the shaggy pony's reins and trotted off to collect the rest of their party.

  Pulcher had been sleeping on the wagon, a hat pulled over his face and his wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the hat's brim. He'd taken off his boots and propped his feet over the wagon's side, where his bare toes wiggled occasionally as he dreamed. A piece of straw dangled loosely from his bottom lip, rattling every time he snored. Copple, who was driving the wagon, regarded his companion with an ill-concealed mixture of envy and disgust, and did nothing to warn him when Ena rode up and slapped the taller thug smartly on the bottom of each foot.

  "Get up," she said, as Pulcher startled awake. He clapped a hand to his hat, crushing the brim but saving his spectacles, and nearly toppled onto the ground in his surprise. Copple doubled over, wheezing malicious laughter. "We're heading to Molthune."

  "I knew that. You didn't have to hit me. We're already riding that way." Pulcher spat the straw onto the ground, put his spectacles back on, and tried to straighten his rumpled hat.

  "No," the dwarf said patiently. "We're riding so everyone would see us go. Now if anyone comes to investigate what happened at the warehouse, the townspeople will be able to tell them truthfully that the malcontents who were probably responsible have left Pezzack, riding east. It gives them a little cover, maybe protects them from being accused of complicity. If Desna smiles on us, it might even lure the devilers out to the desert on a goblin hunt. But we are not riding to Molthune. Do you have any idea how long that would take? Besides, we'd have to cross all northern Cheliax, and that's more trouble than I want to invite."

  "Then how are we getting there?" Pulcher regarded his unsalvageable hat for another moment, sulking, then turned it around and put it on with the crushed brim facing the back.

  Ena rolled her eyes. "Walking. Obviously. Get ready."

  "What's the plan?" Kyril asked, coming around the wagon's other side. She shook gritty dust from the bottom of her cloak.

  "We're heading to Cettigne," Ena answered, checking over her myriad hidden weapons. "Well, not into Cettigne exactly. We'll be stopping at a little village outside the city. Some of Ganoven's friends are waiting to meet us with a job offer."

  "Merchants," the Aspis agent supplied. "They make a regular run through the Umbral Basin into Nidal once a month, carrying trade goods. The caravan employs hundreds of guards, and they're always in need of more. There simply aren't enough brave souls willing to venture into the shadowlands."

  "We're posing as guards?" The dwarf laughed heartily. "Do they know how many time I've been arrested? That's delightful. How much do they pay, these friends of yours?"

  "A gold piece per day in Molthune, five per day once we cross into the shadowlands. Mostly they pay in Chelish coinage, but if you prefer another nation's, they'll accommodate. Or pay by weight in silver, if sufficient coins aren't to be had."

  "Generous," Ena allowed, still grinning. "For that, I might almost be tempted to stick with the caravan."

  "Well, you can't," Ganoven snapped. Unlike the others, the half-elf hadn't protected his head with a hood or hat, and his face was red with sunburn. Coupled with his pointed black goatee, it gave him an infernal look. It seemed to have given him an infernal temper, too. "We're splitting off once we reach the Umbral Basin. You're already under contract, don't forget."

  "They won't miss us?" Kyril asked.

  The Aspis agent shook his head curtly. "People vanish all the time in the shadowlands. It's why they have to pay the others so much. We'll just number among the disappeared."

  Ena cracked her knuckles. "I'd ask whether your friends would miss you, but ..." She gave Ganoven a smile that would have been cloying on a Taldan courtier.

  "Are we ready?" Teglias asked. Quiet as the question was, it cut through the others' chatter immediately. They gathered around the pack wagon, and one by one Isiem dismissed their horses. When only the two red geldings were left, still harnessed to the wagon, the wizard glanced at Ascaros.

  Teleporting their companions was a matter of little difficulty; although it was complicated by the fact that neither Isiem nor Ascaros had ever seen Molthune, they had scryed one of Ganoven's contacts the night before, which had enabled them to familiarize themselves with the surrounding environs. Both believed they could reach it. Once that was settled, it was no harder to bring additional people than to teleport themselves. Even the horses were only slightly more challenging. The wagon, however, posed a greater obstacle. Isiem had never tried to teleport such a heavy object, and wasn't sure it could be done. "Can you transport the conveyance?"

  "Of course." Ascaros took a delicate silver chain from a pocket and wound it around his fingers. The chain was spiked with innumerable barbs, and they bit into his skin as he pulled it tight upon his hand. Dark carnelian beads threaded upon the chain mimicked the drops of blood that welled from the barbs and trickled onto the silver strand, where they hung suspended.

  Isiem nodded toward the chain. "A magnifier?"

  "You shouldn't have left Pangolais, my friend." Ascaros spoke softly, raising his bloodied hand to the sky. A spasm of pleasure and pain wracked his features, then faded back into his usual self-possessed detachment. "You turned your back on many useful tools."

  "I didn't care for their cost."

  "What cost? I have freedom, power, privilege. The only cost I chafe at bearing is the one Mesandroth imposed. The Umbral Court gives much and asks little."

  "The boy I knew in Crosspine would have felt differently."

  "The boy you knew in Crosspine was a child. And an idiot." Ascaros flicked his hand, shedding the beads of blood in a spray. He unwound the spiked chain, wiped it clean, and tucked it back into its pocket. Then, flexing his wounded fist, he moved toward the center of their group. "From a height the world looks very different, Isiem. I've fought to get here. Unlike you, I don't intend to give it up."

  The shadowcaller passed Kyril on his way. From the paladin's stony face, it was clear she'd overheard him. Silently, she went to stand beside Ascaros, never once looking at the black-robed man, while Teglias stayed near Isiem.

  Ganoven quickly followed the Sarenite, even as he thrust an imperious finger at his underlings. "Pulcher. Copple. Stay with the wagon."

  "Guess that means I'm with you," Ena said with a chuckle, going over to Isiem. She held out a stubby-fingered hand, closing it around his with a grip solid as rock. It was reassuring in its warmth, although Isiem caught himself wishing that it wer
e Kyril holding his hand rather than the dwarf.

  It was a foolish thought. A distraction. He dismissed it, focusing on building his spell. Teglias took his other hand, and Ganoven cautiously took the Sarenite's, but Isiem scarcely noticed either of them. He was lost in the magic.

  Through the ether, Isiem reached for the seen greenery of Molthune. He conjured the memory of the scene he'd scryed with Ascaros: the dense looming trees of the Backar Forest, its southeastern edge gnawed to blackened stumps by Cettigne's appetite for farmland and firewood. The city itself was visible only as a constant plume of smoke down the Nosam River. Fields of ripening wheat and low, sprawling potato mounds rolled out under tidy farmhouses south of the immense forest, and a broad road traced the river's course down from Lake Encarthan.

  It seemed an idyllic, peaceful place, untroubled by the darkness that draped Nidal and threatened Cheliax. From conversations with Ena and Kyril, he knew it was not so—that Molthune, like any nation on Golarion, had its own troubles—but those troubles seemed less intractable, and the perils to Molthune's people less grave, than the dangers besetting its neighbors.

  When he had the vision steady in his thoughts, Isiem spoke the word that would finish his spell and stepped through. Distantly he heard Ena grunt and Ganoven suck in a sharp breath, but his companions' alarm registered only at the fading periphery of his awareness. The magic thrumming through his veins was all.

  And then it was gone. He stood in a tangle of potato vines, soil crumbling under his feet and the Backar Forest at his side. On a nearby hillside, white-faced sheep growing into their autumn coats stared at him while their shepherd, a boy of fifteen or sixteen years, snored under the shade of a green-burred chestnut tree.

  Ena, Teglias, and Ganoven popped out of the air around him, stumbling on the uneven potato rows. The wagon was already there, squared perfectly on the road, the horses in their traces and the Aspis toughs still in their seats. Kyril stood beside the animals, looking down the road toward the far-off city with one hand on the hilt of her sword.

 

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