I nodded.
Together, we slipped through the shadows beneath the eaves, passing the door and going straight for the window. With me standing guard, Sascha quickly glued a piece of cloth to the glass, then shattered it silently with a rap of her dagger. With the window unlocked, we slid into the showroom. Everything was in its place: animal heads and bizarre weapons, knick-knacks and trinkets from the far corners of Golarion. Motioning me toward the counter, she slipped through the beaded curtain into the living chambers.
And screamed.
I was there in two long steps, tearing down beads as I lunged through the curtain, sword half-drawn, and slammed into Sascha's back, stopping short. There, in front of her, was the largest dog I had ever seen. Red eyes glowed above a muzzle of glistening teeth, and bladed spurs of bone punctured skin that looked burnt, and indeed still smoldered in places. From between the dripping fangs, wisps of smoke rose toward the ceiling. Behind the hound, seated incongruously on the rumpled bed, sat a massive figure in armor, his helm and breastplate worked into elaborate demonic devices.
The Order of the Nail gladly uses any means necessary to enforce the law.
"All prey is the same," boomed a voice from within the helmet. "The hunter's greatest asset is patience, the ability to remain still. Eventually, the quarry always comes."
He stood, and his spiked helm nearly brushed the ceiling. In front of me, Sascha let out a little moan.
"Hellknight," she whispered, eyes still wide.
"Correct," the deep voice intoned, inclining its head in a mocking bow. "Of the Order of the Nail. Both of you will surrender yourselves to me for judgment."
"And who are you to judge us?" I blustered, moving around Sascha. "You're no guardsman, so you have no authority. We haven't broken any of your laws."
"All laws are my laws."
And then several things happened very quickly. With a gesture from the hellknight, the hound sprang, the smoke sucked back into its maw as it inhaled mightily. As I raised my sword in a futile thrust, Sascha grabbed me and threw something past my shoulder, drawing me backward with one hand over my eyes. Suddenly there was a massive flash and a noise like thunder, and then a wave of heat as flames erupted from the spot I had stood a moment before. As we sprinted through the shopfront, we could hear muffled curses behind us, and a long excited howl. We had barely reached the door when the hound emerged from the back room, fur ablaze. Silently, it leapt for us, but as we passed the final display case, Sascha grabbed a nondescript pouch and flung it. There was a wet popping noise, and then a snort of surprise as the hound found itself glued to the floorboards by a mess of sticky strands. Without looking back, we exploded out into the street.
"What the hell is going on here?" I screamed as we rounded the first corner.
"Shut up and run!" was Sascha's only response.
Behind us, the hound bayed again.
28 Erastus, 4707 ar
Damn it, Sascha. You were supposed to be retired.
With the trap at Sascha's shop sprung unsuccessfully, the powers that be in Korvosa forsook any pretense of subtlety. At guard posts around the city, handbills with our names and likenesses were tacked to walls. At the gates, carts were searched, and anyone near our size and shape detained and questioned. It appeared that Briasus had the ear of someone high up in the Guard, and the reward offered for our capture was more than generous.
I'd have been flattered, if we weren't totally screwed.
When we had finally collapsed after our initial escape from the shop, I lay gasping against the side of a crumbling warehouse and refused to move until Sascha explained things.
"That," she panted, "was a hellknight—one of the Order of the Nail. I trust you've heard of them?"
I had run across mentions of them in the past, but had never paid them any mind, as they were primarily a Chelaxian affair. I nodded, unable to speak.
"They're independents, beholden to no one here, but they occasionally take up bounties and other tasks for the city. They're militant freaks, worship nothing except absolute law, but they're good—very good. Sooner or later, he'll find us."
"And the hound?"
"A fiend in a dog's skin, called up from the Pit itself to track us. Why do you think they call them hellknights?"
For close to a week, we dared not even take a room in a flophouse for fear of recognition, and we slept in stables and beneath carts, once even in the Vaults. Everywhere we went, it seemed the eyes of the crowd followed our movements, and several nights we heard from far off the sound of the terrible hound's baying. Finally, after a particularly despicable evening, Sascha had enough.
"That's it," she said, throwing down the half-cooked rat we had been contemplating for supper. "There's nothing for it. We have to get out of the city."
"Oh?" I asked, scooping up the steaming carcass and wiping it on my pants. "And how do you propose we do that?"
"It's time to call in some favors," she said, standing. Without another word, she strode off into the darkness, and I followed, munching the rat philosophically. Again we slunk through the streets, furtively in shadows and boldly where anything else would draw attention. Dawn was kissing the rooftops as we stopped at a hovel in the depths of Bridgefront. Sascha pounded three times on the scavenged steel grating that made up the door. From inside came a faint scrabbling, as of tiny feet, which suddenly changed timbre to that of someone stumbling around.
"Whassat?" a man's voice called.
"Open up, Irvine," Sascha whispered. "It's Sascha."
Waymerchants may be useful, but I still don't trust them.
The door cracked open to reveal a beady eye, then was thrown open as a greasy little man with a pinched, rat-like face opened rag-clad arms in welcome, ushering us inside.
"Such a pleasure!" the man crowed, and then slightly softer, "Sought by ev'ry guard in the city, and she visits m'self! Truly, an honor fit for a king."
"Can it, Irvine," Sascha said, shutting the door firmly behind us. "I take it you know why we're here."
"Of course, of course." The weaselly man stank even worse than we did. His hands moved nervously as he talked, picking bits of leaves from his hair, but his voice betrayed no anxiety.
"I'm not sure I do," I said. "Sascha, who is this guy?"
"Irvine's a Rat's Teat Boy," she said. "A second-story man. His gang knows every tunnel in the Vaults, and can get you into any house or shop in the city. Or out of it."
"It's a talent of my people," said Irvine proudly, his nose twitching.
"Wait a second," I pressed. "If he's such a fabulous burglar, why's he living in this hellhole?"
"Poor fiscal responsibility," he grinned.
"Irvine has something of a gambling problem," Sascha drawled. "Not to mention drinking and whoring problems."
"I'm a social animal, I am," Irvine added.
"Fine, whatever," I replied. "What'll it take to get us out of the city undetected?"
"Wells, now, seeing how we're friends and all, I reckon it'll be jus' a shade over the reward they're postin', to be paid no later than a month from now." He brazenly patted Sascha's bottom, and I was astonished to see that he kept his hand. "No worries. I knows yer good for it."
Through gritted teeth, Sascha growled, "Deal. And we leave now."
"As ye wish, m'lady," the little man bowed.
Pausing only to recover a grimy pack and a hooded lantern—"Fer ye 'n the missus," he explained—Irvine led us out of Bridgefront and back onto the mainland, finally stopping near a large drainage pipe at the water's edge, hidden by the wreckage of a burned-out cannery. Heaving aside several concealing boards, he said, "Here's yer out. Once upon a time, taxes was different, and this tunnel was used to sneak fish outta the city without paying. Then laws changed, and it was forgotten. It'll get ye past th
e wall and then some. Now if ye'll just follow me..."
He turned to enter the tunnel, and perhaps it was a blessing, for he never saw the hound that came flying over a crumbling wall to catch him in the back of the neck, jaws closing sickeningly over bone and sinew. It landed and turned, shaking the little man like a rag doll, and let loose a breath of flame that engulfed them both. As Sascha and I yelled and pawed at our weapons, an armored shape stepped out of the factory's wreckage, a massive sword held easily in one hand.
"So it goes," the hellknight intoned. "The prey that runs blindly might surprise you both, but once it calms enough to plan, its motions become predictable."
I drew my sword and started forward, but Sascha stopped me.
"No, Eando," she said, drawing her own blade. "I've got this one. You get going."
"What?!" I cried. "That's insane. Come on; together we can take him!"
"No," she said again. "You go first. I'm faster than you, and you know it—I'll buy us some time and catch you before you're halfway out. See if I don't."
I dodged to the side, but she moved with me, refusing to let me pass. I punched her back in frustration, but she stood firm. Tears sprung unbidden to my eyes.
"Sascha..." I pleaded.
"Godsdamn it, Eando, go!" She gave me a shove that sent me sprawling into the mud of the tunnel mouth. Outside, the hound moved to stand next to its master, who lifted one hand to Sascha.
"So be it," he said, and raised his sword.
At a flick of her wrist, Sascha's own blade ignited with blue flames, and she looked back at me one last time.
"Run!" she screamed, then turned and charged the hellknight.
I ran. I will not ask forgiveness, for I am owed none. When I meet my end and arrive before the gods for judgment, I will say only this: that when it all came down, I would not let my friend sacrifice herself in vain. For hours, I stumbled through the stinking tunnels, blind, sobbing, scarcely caring which turn I took, but when the end came and a circle of light burned my eyes, I found myself deposited in a grassy field. I lay there for some time, numb, then finally dragged myself up a small hill to look out over the city of Korvosa, its distant walls shot with gold in the morning light.
I don't know how long I stood there, but finally my responsibility to honor Sascha's gift returned, and I found myself faced with a new question: Where to next? I was hungry and alone, left with only my sword, my pack, my journal, and my wayfinder.
The wayfinder. Of course.
Tearing the pouch from around my neck, I shook it out into my hand. With the compass came the tiny green ioun stone from Kaer Maga, the one I should have identified weeks ago, should have analyzed to determine its function and if it was safe to use in a wayfinder. I stared at them both, then looked back once more toward the city.
Screw it.
Taking the compass in one hand and the ioun stone in another, I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, tensing my muscles for whatever was to come. Carefully, I fitted the stone into the wayfinder's empty slot.
Nothing happened.
After a long moment I opened my eyes. Nothing. No lightning shooting from my fingers, no dragons called down from the sky, no sudden inrush of knowledge or transformation into a dire bear. Nothing at all. I stared down at the compass.
And as I watched, totally still, the needle which had always pointed due north swung slowly to the east.
The Burn Run
By Michael Kortes
18 Arodus, 4707 ar
For someone who claims to be the captain of his own destiny, I seem to spend an awful lot of time taking orders from an inanimate object.
This morning, I crossed into the Cinderlands, the needle on my wayfinder continuing to point me north-northeast. Even though stopping in Kaer Maga again was no picnic, I think I miss it already. There's a reason I've put off going to the Cinderlands ever since I came to Varisia: according to every source I've consulted, it's reputed to be a hellhole, a desert-like scrubland with little to offer but parched earth, grueling heat, and predators. It's only the first day, and it's already living up to its reputation. With the shelter from the surrounding mountains, only the rare wind from the south brings any moisture, and I've come to understand that the Cinderlands are a land of collective patience: everything here—the bugs, the birds, the patchy blades of grass—are all quietly waiting for their miracle.
20 Arodus, 4707 ar
I caught sight of my first aurochs today. I had heard tales of these massive razor-horned bison, and having now seen them for myself I can report that the stories do them no justice. Crossing the land in their great herds, they appear as a storm cloud rushing low over the earth, the thunderous rumble of their hooves felt long before it's even heard. From a safe distance, I watched a group of Shoanti horsemen strategically isolate two aurochs from the herd, the tattooed barbarians bringing down the enormous animals one at a time with their short bows at exhilaratingly close range. Fortunately, I had been well warned that the Shoanti care little for outsiders in their land—depending on which tribe you encounter, contact just might be the last mistake you make. I kept my head down and waited for the impressive spectacle to pass.
Also, I have decided to alter my course slightly to the west, despite the dictate of my wayfinder. It has become harder and harder to refill my canteen out here, and if I don't stick close to the Yondabakari, my journey might end prematurely of its own accord.
21 Arodus, 4707 ar
I am afraid my journey has hit a small snag. Namely, my being burned alive as soon as the wind picks up. So it goes—hopefully I can secret this journal somewhere safe before it's time.
Like everything in the Cinderlands, it began with the heat—this time in the form of a wildfire. Having approached the banks of the Yondabakari, I found the succor of the grasslands once again. I cannot express how grateful my steed, Solitaire, became at the opportunity to graze until she was full. I admit I was somewhat jealous; my rations had been growing ever poorer.
But then suddenly there it was: a massive sheet of flame, driven by the wind. I've seen fire spread before, but never like this. Leapfrogging west from one patch of dry grass to the next, the fire was like a charging beast, swallowing everything in its path. Immediately I kicked Solitaire into motion and we headed for the safety of the river.
It was only a few moments later that I spotted a young Shoanti brave on foot. Just like me, he was making a beeline for the river, but without a horse there was no way he would make it.
I'm no hero, but watching a boy burned to death for no reason is beyond even me. With some cajoling of Solitaire I altered course to come up alongside the young brave and motioned for him to take my hand. By this point the flames were already licking his body, and the heat coming off of the blaze was incredible. Half-crazed, the brave seemed not to understand, so I took matters into my own hands, throwing him over my saddle and racing for the river. Hitting its banks, Solitaire plunged into the shallows, and not a moment too soon—behind us the wildfire tore a path straight up to the bank, whereupon it split to the left and right, continuing to eat every last blade of grass and shrub on the river's eastern side. Even in water up to Solitaire's flank, the flames were terrifying. Exultant, I shouted my defiance into the flames.
That's when the boy wrapped both hands around my throat and tried to crush my windpipe. Caught off guard, I flailed helplessly for several moments before recovering my wits enough to land a solid punch to his temple, dropping him into the river. He came up sputtering and screaming, cries of pure frustration, and launched himself at me again, attempting to tear me from my horse.
As I kicked at the boy to try and keep him away from Solitaire, a stampede of a dozen Shoanti horsemen burst from the flames along the bank and dashed into the water, plucking up the boy much as I had moments before. Yet instead of the expected gratitude at saving t
he child's life, I found myself surrounded by spearheads. I sat motionless as they tied my hands to my saddlehorn and took my reins. They swam our horses downstream as though it were no feat at all. Finding a suitable exit point, we rode in silence until we were safely beyond the wildfire's reach.
I am out of light, and will finish this tomorrow, presuming I see it. I am reasonably certain I will. Reasonably.
23 Arodus, 4707 ar
The Sun is sacred to all members of the Sklar-Quah.
I was their prisoner, yet they did not bother to disarm me. Such was the imposing presence and confidence of these Shoanti horsemen I know now as Burn Riders. From the river they paraded me into their village. A nomadic people, everything about their encampment is designed to be picked up and moved on a moment's notice—a necessity when one lives in a land subject to periodic emberstorms. Their portable aurochs-skin yurts radiated around a central ring of stones that housed a massive communal bonfire. Bordering the fire's sitting area were great woven totems, each topped with a blazing sun carving. As soon as I saw the totems, I knew I was inside a camp of Sklar-Quah, people of the Sun Clan, and my stomach clenched. According to the stories, the Sun Clan is in contention for the most warlike of all the Shoanti, and the least tolerant of foreigners.
The lead brave whistled, and soon the camp's center was filled with curious Shoanti of all ages. It is a testament to my ego that I assumed they had gathered to discuss my fate. Yet instead, all of the attention seemed focused on the boy I had rescued. Seeing my obvious interest in the proceedings, one of my captors was kind enough to explain.
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline Page 8