Battle Barrow: This metal-shielded wheelbarrow provides complete cover for the archer hidden inside. The orc conscripted to push it is rarely as lucky.
Crushing Wheel: In close-packed battles, few weapons are as feared as this massive steel rolling pin. Whether pushed by orc or beast, it can be counted on to flatten everything in its path.
Earthmaul: This enormous hammer functions like a sideways-mounted catapult, and is capable of clearing wide swaths of enemies.
Harvester: This aurochs-pulled threshing machine is a long line of whirling blades that can be pulled through battle with great effect.
Manticore's Tail: This massive ballista fires a dozen or more spears at once in a devastating, if wildly inaccurate, rain of steel.
A Friend in Need
By James L. Sutter
07 Lamashan, 4707 ar
If this was ever a good idea—and I'm not saying it was—that time has long since passed. At this point, all that keeps me going is my stubborn desire for completion, a trait that has defined my life and will almost certainly be my death. But not, as it turns out, today.
Between the frothing raiders at the dragon monument and the narrow escape from the clashing orc tribes in the valley, Joskan and I have finally learned our lesson. Forsaking speed for safety, we've resigned ourselves to traveling primarily through the inhospitable foothills of the Mindspins during the day and hiding ourselves well before making camp each night. It's rough going, but we dare not brave the easier (and hence more densely inhabited) plains. As if that weren't trial enough, three days ago the dark gray thunderhead that's loomed over us since we crossed into Belkzen finally opened up and released an unceasing deluge, an ocean of rain that washes the pebbles from beneath our feet and soaks us clear through to the bone. At first we welcomed it, as after the tinder-dry plains of the Storval Plateau I had worried seriously about our water supply, but as the hours turned into days of walking, eating, and sleeping in permanently wet gear, the novelty soon wore off. But there's nothing for it except to turn up our hoods and trudge on. At least we can rest a bit easier where the orcs are concerned—only a complete fool (or, in our case, a pair of them) would be out in this weather, and the raindrops fill the air so thick that anything more than a hundred feet away might as well be invisible.
Joskan has been in a strange mood ever since our encounter with the feuding orc tribes. Never much for talking, the half-orc has grown even more reticent, and rarely responds to questions with more than a grunt. He also occasionally has trouble meeting my eyes, and if I didn't know better, I'd say he almost feels embarrassed. Why is anyone's guess, but I have my theories. Maybe running into the lowland orcs—not just the crazy mountain cannibals, but the more "civilized" tribes of the plains—has reminded him uncomfortably of the heritage he left behind in his flight to Varisia. Maybe he's just ashamed that he, the burly gladiator and supposed expert on the region, had his bacon saved back at the dragon mountain by a comparatively scrawny, bookish Pathfinder.
Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. The fact is, even my monosyllabic comrade has been enough to raise my spirits higher than they've been since I left the Sklar-Quah. The life of a Pathfinder is one of freedom, of being blown on the wind and riding it wherever the whisper of fame and knowledge calls you, yet it is solitary. Contacts in every town, friends in every city, but a home in none of them. It seems as soon as I start to care for someone, I'm spun away again, and count myself lucky if my brief stay hasn't cost them dearly. Gav. Tomast. Sascha, who gave her life for mine. Not a day goes by that I don't think of them.
Joskan may be brusque and uncouth, but he's a comrade. Someone to watch my back while I sleep, to help tend the fire at night, to laugh when I trip and slide halfway down a mountain on my face, and in doing so make me laugh as well. It's not much, but it's enough. Perhaps I've been alone too long.
In this bleak and unforgiving landscape, it's good to have a friend.
08 Lamashan, 4707 ar
We had crested the easternmost spur of the mountains and were following it southward through a scraggly grove of trees, already barren with winter's approach, when the rain stopped. As dazed as we were, heads bowed against the weight of our packs and locked into the rhythm of our mile-eating shuffle, it took us both a moment to notice. The sudden silence lay thick and heavy on the land. Then somewhere, off in the distance, a bird gave a single, tentative chirp. As if on cue, the clouds above us broke and spilled light over the landscape. I looked at Joskan, and we both stared at each other in disbelief. Throwing back my hood, I shrugged off my pack and leaned my face into the sun, eyes closed, reveling in its warmth. Joskan didn't even bother to remove his gear, just flopped spread-eagled on his back in the mud as if making snow angels, grinning like a dog. We stayed like that for long minutes, feeling the heat travel slowly though our steaming clothes and into their bones. Finally I broke the silence.
"Gods, Joskan, did you ever think such a simple thing as rain could—"
But Joskan wasn't listening to me. Eyes wide, one ear to the ground, he motioned for me to be silent. I froze.
When it came, it was less heard than felt, a low buzzing rumble that traveled up from the ground, through the feet and into the bones, making them vibrate. It was not the rhythmic tramp of an army, nor the pounding clomp of hooves, but rather something different—the sound of a thousand tiny feet stepping lightly, combined with a high-pitched chittering.
I began to ask Joskan about it, but before the words were halfway out of my mouth he was up and running, making for the tallest tree in the copse. "Come on!" he screamed. Without knowing why, I ditched my pack and fled in his wake.
On the horizon, uncomfortably near, a shadow appeared. It spread down the hills toward us at the speed of a galloping horse, flowing like water, filling the valley. As it approached I began to make out individual creatures: huge brown ant-like things, each the size of a full-grown aurochs and bearing a massive pair of scything mandibles.
"Move it, Eando!" Ahead of me, Joskan had already reached the tree and flung himself into its lower branches. Putting on an extra burst of speed, I reached the tree and leapt, barely catching the half-orc's outstretched hand. With a heave, he pulled me up onto the same branch. Below us, the creatures had reached the southernmost edge of the forest, the frantic, scuttling wave breaking and seething through the trees, knocking down some of the smaller ones. I ascended a few more branches to make sure I was safely out of reach, then clung, fascinated, to the trunk as the beasts ran beneath us. They were not exactly like giant ants—too chitinous, and they didn't work together, running right over the top of each other as the stampede swept forward at speed. My pack disappeared beneath them, and I cursed, but was brought out of my reverie by Joskan's scream from above me.
"What are you doing, you idiot? Climb! Climb!"
"But wha—" And then I saw it. A stone's throw away, one of the creatures reared up and snapped its head forward, flinging a line of streaming spittle some thirty feet in the air. Where it landed, plants and ground sizzled and bubbled, melting away to nothing.
I climbed.
Following Joskan's lead, I swung upward with heedless abandon, brachiating like a monkey as I strove to put distance between me and the terror beneath us. Finally, when the branches grew thin and we could go no higher, Joskan and I sat with arms and legs curled around the trunk like sailors in the maintop.
Suddenly the trunk shuddered. Below us, one of the creatures had slammed headlong into it. Despite my most fervent prayers, it looked up, its beady little eyes focusing on us as it circled the trunk. Twice it spat, the line of greasy gray-black acid stripping away entire branches. And then, to our horror, it began to climb the tree with ease.
Joskan groaned, a pitiful sound that frightened me more than anything I'd seen yet. And suddenly, with a clarity born of desperation, the answer came to me.
Ignoring the half
-orc's stares, I thrust my hand into my belt pouch, navigating by feel until my questing fingers found the slimy lump of bacon fat. Rubbing it quickly but deliberately between my fingers, I began whispering to the tree in low tones. Finally I withdrew my hand, spat on fingers shiny with fat, and grasped the trunk.
Twenty feet below us, the tree's bole suddenly took on a black, greasy sheen, its sides slick with oil. The ant-beast never had a chance. Scrambling with all six legs, it lost its purchase and fell, landing on its back with a cracking noise. Instantly its fellows were upon it, devouring it before it had a chance to right itself. Then the tide swept onward, and within moments the creatures were gone, racing off into the hills, leaving not a shrub standing.
For a long moment, nobody breathed, then I cut loose with a triumphant whoop. "That's right!" I screamed in the direction the swarm had gone. "Nobody but nobody eats Eando Kline, you bastards!" If my laughter had a tinge of mania to it—well, such things happen. Above me, Joskan only breathed steadily, clutching the trunk. He looked down at me.
"That's the third time you've saved my life," he said.
"Don't worry about it," I replied. "If you hadn't hauled me into the tree, I'd be a smear on somebody's antennae right now. Let's call it even."
"Deal," he said.
But still he looked away.
11 Lamashan, 4707 ar
"I don't like this," I declared, not for the first time. From where we crouched, just shy of the hill's crest, we could see the half-crumbled walls of the castle, its narrow windows flickering with torchlight in the deepening dusk.
"I don't either," Joskan said. "Just trust me. I've got this handled."
According to my guide, the creatures that had overrun us in the grove were known locally as "ankhegs," and generally lived miles to the south in great colonies that the orcs referred to as the Skittermounds. For the most part, the overgrown insects were content to battle among themselves in their massive underground warrens, colony massacring colony in their eternal fight for dominance. Every few years, however, massive rains in the Mindspin Mountains would cause their tunnels to flood, and the ravenous bugs would pour over the landscape in an exodus that could stretch dozens of miles, devouring everything in their path before finally returning home.
No wonder orcs fear the Skittermounds.
In the wake of the swarm, we'd discovered my pack much where we'd left it, its tools half-melted and the foodstuffs scattered and ruined. Thank the gods that I keep both my journal and my wayfinder inside my shirt at all times. Upon seeing the condition of our gear, Joskan sat down heavily and made what was obviously an uncomfortable proposition (not to mention one of his longest uninterrupted speeches to date).
For days, he said, we had been traveling toward Urgir, Belkzen's nominal capital city. The good news was that, of all the settlements in the region, Urgir was the only one where a pinkskin like me could wander relatively unhindered, provided he bore a token from a chieftain granting him the tribe's protection. The bad news was that, in order to get that token, we were going to have to interact with one of the clans, of which his former tribe, the Broken Spine clan, was the closest, safest option.
I was skeptical at first—one might even have said "hysterical." I argued passionately against the idea, on the grounds that every orc we'd met thus far had tried to enslave and consume us, but Joskan was resolved. He wasn't happy about it either, he pointed out, considering he'd made his way to Varisia in order to leave this life behind, but we needed the chief's token, and furthermore, we weren't going to last long in the plains without supplies. Besides, he said, before he'd left, he'd brokered several beneficial deals for the tribe, so sentiment should run in our favor.
So now there we were, perched belly down on top of a hill, preparing to deliver ourselves directly into the hands of the enemy.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Not in the least," I said, but stood up anyway. Together we walked at a quick pace down the hill, feeling entirely too exposed.
The castle was of the standard Lastwall design, one of the many cookie-cutter fortifications stamped out by their government at the end of the Shining Crusade. Over the centuries, the borders of Lastwall have been pushed back several times by the encroaching orcs, but by the size of this fortress I reckoned we'd run across part of the Sunwall, the first great line of castles established after the defeat of the Whispering Tyrant. Either that, or part of Harchist's Blockade, a few centuries later. Several of its walls were crumbled now, the roof of one tower fallen in, and the lights indicated that only a portion of its many-storied bulk was actually in use by the orcs. Nonetheless, it made an impressive sight.
Despite our complete lack of stealth, the sentries at the gate didn't see us until we were practically on top of them, and we had to shout our presence like idiots lest we take a surprised guard's arrow in the gut. Shouts came from inside the walls.
"Hold your spears," Joskan growled in Orc. It was only the second time I'd heard him speak it, and I wondered if he knew that I understood. "It's Joskan. I need to see the chief."
"Joskan!" One of the guards grunted in surprise. "I thought you—"
"I demand to see Chief Kroghut immediately," my guide interrupted. "If it's important enough to bring me back, the chief will have your bowels on a stick for delaying it."
That got a response, and the orcs on guard ushered us in without delay, though many of them kept their weapons ready. I decided I didn't like the way they were looking at us—some were clearly grinning at Joskan, and the smiles didn't seem friendly.
We were led through hall after stone hall, and I was amused to find that the fortress was indeed constructed exactly like Cartov Keep in Vellumis, where I'd once spent several months studying ancient texts. I could practically close my eyes and navigate it. Finally we emerged into a great columned audience chamber, complete with an elaborate throne on a marble dais.
Upon the throne sat a huge orc cradling an impressive spiked hammer, tusks protruding from beneath his lips. His chin rested on one enormous fist, giving him a brooding look, and behind him rose the Broken Spine standard with its gory depiction of the tribe's name, covered in fetishes and trophies.
"Joskan," the chieftain spat.
"Leave the talking to me," Joskan whispered in Taldane, then continued on in Orc. "Fearless, unchallengeable one," he intoned meekly. "May the number of slaves you take be bested only by the number of sons you beget upon them."
The orc chieftain appeared unimpressed. "Have you gone insane in the pinkskins' lands, then?" he asked. "Or have you forgotten that breaking exile means death—the slowest one I can find?"
"I know full well, lord," Joskan said. "But I bring you a gift. This pinkskin with me is a Pathfinder, one of their kind's most knowledgeable. He will undoubtedly be the most useful slave in your holdings. All I ask in return is your forgiveness, and to resume my rightful place in the tribe."
In the shock following his statement, the world around me grew distant, and my ears filled with a roaring that I dimly recognized as my own heartbeat. Betrayed. Impossible. My hands shook, but I kept my face blank as Joskan gave me a friendly smile and a thumbs-up.
"Hmm...." The chieftain considered the bargain for a long moment before finally saying, "Well enough. Take him to the slave pen, then return to me and we'll discuss the further terms of your penance."
"Thank you, lord," Joskan simpered pathetically, bowing low. Two guards approached to seize me.
"What's happening, Joskan?" I asked in Taldane, face still straight.
"They're going to take you to get the documents," he replied. His own face was damp with sweat.
So that was it. After all we'd been through, this was his decision.
"I don't think so," I said in Orc. His eyes widened.
In a single movement, I drew a knife with each hand and flung them hard into the fac
es of the approaching guards.
"I saved your life, and you sell me out?!" I yelled. To either side of me, the screaming orcs clutched their ruined eyes and fell to the floor in a fountain of gore.
"You said we were even." The big half-orc shrugged, drawing his axe. "It's nothing personal." But by that point I was already in motion.
You have to hand it to Lastwall's military—standardization certainly comes in handy. I doubt if the stupid, inobservant orcs had ever noticed that some of the castle's chambers weren't quite as big as they ought to be. By the time any of the guards knew the jig was up, I was doing the last thing they'd expected: running straight toward the throne where their chief sat. Or rather, just to the right of it. With a kick, the latch behind the loose stone released, and then I was through, the hidden door swinging closed behind me. In the darkness, I groped for the locking bar and found it, sliding it home as frantic pounding began to come from the other side. I gave my eyes a brief moment to adjust to the near-complete darkness, then found the ladder exactly where it was supposed to be and began to climb quickly down into the castle's depths.
Most castles have a bolt hole or priest hole for getting its leaders safely away in the event of the walls being overrun. But in a country like Lastwall, where you've spent generations laying siege to castles or being besieged yourself, you don't stop there. Every one of these castles was riddled with passages to help defenders harry the opposition down to the last man. In this case, that man was me.
While I trusted the door to the throne room to hold, I knew I needed to be careful—now that the orcs knew the passages were here, they'd be looking for them. Silently I moved down thin corridors between walls, passing up and down ladders, and peering through cracks in the stones so small that only the absolute darkness of my passage made the narrow streams of light visible.
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline Page 14