No forest. Iron fence. Dry leaves not wet leaves. Not good.
The sun had begun to sink in the west. The long shadows thrown by tall buildings stabbed toward him. He was looking at buildings that hadn't been at the base of the hill, or anywhere close to it. Not within a dozen miles, in fact...
Jerrad's breath remained locked in his chest. Echo Wood wanted me to follow the ogrekin. I did, but apparently not fast enough. So the wood gave me a little push... He shivered.
All the way to the middle of Mosswater.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Twenty-One
A Lovely Place to Visit
Baron Blackshield is going to be very angry. And that is the least of my worries.
Jerrad lay very still. Every stupid thing he'd done to get him flat on his back and bleeding in the middle of a city which ogres had conquered two generations ago pummeled him. Every single step he'd taken in the ogrekin's wake counted as a stupid thing. And his decision to revisit the goblin site and to start studying magic went for bonus dumb.
Stupid Mouse. Really, really stupid.
The only reason he didn't cry in frustration was because that would be stupider than everything else combined.
I am dead. I am so dead. He pressed a hand to the back of his head to slow the bleeding. When I die here, my mother will hire a necromancer to bring me back to life, just so she can punish me.
He looked to the right and left. He lay at the base of a cemetery hill. Most of the markers had been knocked over, and several of the graves lay open. He found it easy to imagine corpses digging themselves out of the ground. Stories he'd heard of Mosswater suggested the ogres ruled it by day, but at night the bodies of those who hadn't escaped wandered the streets. That included adventurers who had died there since, which, as nearly as he could remember, pretty much consisted of every adventurer who had ventured into Mosswater searching for treasure.
He couldn't solve the big problem of being in Mosswater, so he focused on the little problems. He needed to bandage his head and get somewhere with less exposure. No reason to make this easy for the ogres.
As he focused, he found it a bit easier to keep his fear under control. The ache in his head became a bit more apparent, but taking care of that would have to play second fiddle to his getting out of the graveyard.
Without lifting his head too much, he surveyed the street. Where the cobblestones had subsided, the dry, cracked surface of mud puddles provided plants some purchase. In the last fifty years trees had grown up, splitting foundation stones in several place. Ivy clawed at walls. Some plants had even grown up through building roofs, loosening clay tiles that had shattered on the street below. A little wind whipped dust into a tiny cyclone that skittered along the road.
Things looked pretty well wrecked, save for one squat, round building with a slender, cylindrical tower rising from its middle. The sun silhouetted the tower, but in its shadow Jerrad couldn't see any debris or other major signs of destruction. If things hadn't despoiled the building, it probably meant it was protected somehow. He might not be able to get in, but he was willing to imagine other things had learned to stay away.
He studied the street, then came up on a knee. His head swam, but things came back into focus again. He staggered over to a monument, hid behind it, then continued on toward the cemetery's ruined gate. He huddled down against a thick stone pillar and watched the streets again.
His new vantage point afforded him a better view up and down the road at the cemetery edge. West and east, at the road's far ends, ogres patrolled singly or occasionally in pairs. They looked less like military than stray dogs poking about. The problem was that even as far away as they were, they still looked huge.
He watched a little longer and waited. Once it looked as if the coast was clear, he darted across the street and into shadows. He huddled beneath a window. His left hand came away bloody from his head, so he put more pressure on the wound. He checked behind him for any signs of a blood trail. He didn't see anything, but he was pretty sure plenty of things in Mosswater could smell him out easily enough.
I'm not getting out past roving ogres with an open wound. What I need right now is a place with an entrance small enough that an ogre can't follow.
He came up and looked inside the window. The shutters had been shattered, but the casement remained intact. It still had patches of the bright blue paint that had decorated it. Sunlight slanted in from west-facing windows, revealing five skeletons lying side by side. They'd died holding hands. A sixth skeleton had most of its bones arranged in a chair. The arms had fallen off, scattering bones around the chair's legs.
They couldn't escape, so he killed his family and then killed himself. Jerrad closed his eyes and murmured a silent prayer for mercy on the man's soul. If the ogres come to Silverlake, I hope no one has to make that sort of decision.
He crouched again. He'd come as far as he had not because he wanted to, but because he'd wanted to protect Silverlake and Nelsa. If I give up, if I allow myself to die here, people will have to make that sort of decision. He pictured families in the longhouses all lying down together and his mother being the one to dispatch the last survivors before taking her own life.
"That's not going to happen."
Jerrad worked his way west for half a block, remaining low and in shadow until he stood across the street from the unmolested tower and its open arched doorway. Blue tiles defined the arch, and the wall's light brown paint had barely faded. More curiously, scattered bones and detritus described an arc roughly ten feet out from the wall. The bones of heavier creatures had gotten closer to the wall, but none had penetrated to within three feet of the arch. Jerrad spotted bones from a variety of vermin, goblins, humans, and ogres. All the bones had a glassy sheen to them, as if they'd been polished by a jeweler.
Jerrad invoked the spell that allowed him to recognize magic. Instantly a bold image pulsed out from the tower. Metaphysically, it felt like a stiff wind, and in his mind it appeared as a stout wall of stone. He reached a hand out and could feel the breeze, even though it didn't disturb the hairs on the back of his hand. From the way the bones lay in the street, it appeared as if the most force came through the archway.
He took another look at it and noticed something curious about the tiles. They appeared almost identical, white on dark blue, in an odd sort of floral pattern. The only difference between them occurred in the pattern of the leaves on the interior side of the design. At a casual glance they might just have been an artistic flourish by the artisan who made them, but the pattern repeated itself on the right and left without being mirrored.
Jerrad cast a spell—not the one for finding magic, nor the one that let him understand other languages, but a minor one that combined elements of the two. The book had claimed it would help him read magical writing, but so far, given that his was the only magical text in Silverlake, he hadn't had the opportunity to try it out.
Sure enough, the anomalous squiggles resolved themselves into letters. He read it carefully and whispered to himself. "You may not enter."
Jerrad stared at the words and mulled them over. The presence of the tiles suggested the spell was of long standing. When casting it to protect the tower from marauding ogres, would the wizard really take the time to decorate?
He wouldn't. The spell effect extends into the street, which is impractical in a thriving city. What if the breeze would just keep people out when he didn't want to be disturbed? And when the ogres came and the city fell, the wizard just intensified the spell?
Jerrad, though he knew comparatively little about magic, felt certain the spell had been cast by a wizard. It felt familiar, and sounded proper. He imagined that any creature approaching the tower would feel the wind. It would blow harder and harder until it knocked him back or, by picking up dust and grit, would scour flesh from bones. The smaller creatures likely had been tossed at the building by ogres or others trying to work their way in
. For fun or testing.
He remembered the expression on the ogrekin's face. Definitely for fun.
Jerrad sighed. He had two problems. First, the spell was enormously powerful, and he couldn't match it. Second, his arsenal of spells didn't include any counter-magic. I don't think card tricks are going to work, and making myself look like an ogre might fool ogres, but the tower's magic doesn't seem to like them very much.
Something snarled down the road. Jerrad looked back toward the cemetery. Two ogres, every bit as lumpen and ugly as the ogrekin that had died at Silverlake, and yet half-again as large, had gotten down on all fours and were sniffing the ground. One touched a bulbous finger to a spot on the road, then stuffed the finger into its nose and rubbed it around. It looked up and pointed.
At me.
Panic burst through Jerrad, crushing his heart, freezing his lungs. The ogres sniffed again, then began sidling forward. They had his blood scent. He couldn't outrun them, and even if he'd not lost his sticks, he couldn't fight them. And hiding mouselike isn't going to work.
"But maybe there's a chance I can get them to reconsider." Jerrad stood and concentrated, weaving a spell he'd not practiced much, but one which had impressed his mother when he'd showed it to her. As he emerged into the sun's dying light, magic transformed him. As far as the ogres could see, he was a tall man with a shaved head, wearing a golden robe with inset panels of lapis. Golden rings glittered on every finger. The jewels set in them cast rainbows. He was handsome and stern, hawk-nosed and scowling.
This better work. His stomach in knots, Jerrad spread his arms and faced the ogres. "Come on. It's taken you long enough to find me." He didn't mind that his voice didn't match the image. That would likely confuse the ogres even more. He didn't want them thinking, he just wanted them scared halfway to death.
He beckoned them toward him, all while inching his way back toward the tower's arch. The wind whistled in his ears. Dust kicked up, stinging his eyes. He stopped before the magic could shred his clothes and peel the flesh from his bones, but hoped the rising howl would convince the ogre that he was working the magic, not the tower.
"Why are you so slow? Are you cowards?" Jerrad screamed at the top of his lungs. "Cowards!"
The ogres glanced at each other, then turned toward him and roared defiantly. They rumbled forward, running on feet and knuckles. Cobblestones shattered, shards dancing behind them. They leaped over holes in the road and jostled each other to win the race. One ogre had a third eye, bloodshot and tiny, below its left one. The other had only one, about the size of a dinner plate, save that it wasn't entirely round. Nor was it centered—the opposite side of its face was all a bulging tumor. Each ogre snarled, flashing twisted teeth.
Next time, scare them to death, not just halfway.
The lead ogre shrieked at him.
Jerrad couldn't help it. He'd tried to be brave, but his nerve broke. Yelping, he leaped back. He knew the tower would kill him, but better that than the ogres. The wind pressed hard against his back as he raised his hands in a feeble gesture to ward off certain death.
One ogre lunged at him. The other leaped high, fingers reaching. They'd likely collide in their haste, but that wouldn't do Jerrad any good.
I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry I wasn't more like my father.
The three-eyed ogre reached him a heartbeat before the other ogre, arms outstretched. The magical wind howled. Gray flesh burst into a red mist. The wind devoured the first ogre's arms up to the elbows. Wet bones danced off the cobblestones in time with the wind's howl. The ogre bounced back, triple-gaze darting from one stump to another. Blood jetted from the ragged openings. It beat its arms against its chest, coating itself with blood, then slumped down and twitched.
The pressure at Jerrad's back broke. The boy stumbled backward, arms flailing to keep his balance. What's happening?
The other ogre's leap had carried it high into what seemed to be dead air, for it flew over Jerrad's head. Then it descended. The wind buffeted it, bouncing it up, removing a layer of hide as it did so. The ogre flailed, then came down again. Flesh dissolved, muscle evaporated, then the wind lofted it high. Each descent hastened the ogre's destruction. Soon bone showed, and shortly thereafter the ogre's struggles ceased. The wind's play did not, however, until the bones had flown into dust which flowed down the street.
Jerrad stared at where the first ogre twitched in the street. Looking up again, the youth found himself beneath the arch. The wind's tune still echoed, but as he took another step backward, the sound trailed off. He retreated a few more steps and found himself in a courtyard garden with a small fountain burbling away.
"Why am I not dead?" He'd foolishly hoped he could frighten the ogres. With a moment to think, he found he couldn't recall a single story where ogres had ever been afraid of anything. The piles of bones outside should have told you they weren't afraid of this tower. That he wasn't dead made him happy, though he felt close to dying of mortification at how stupid he'd been.
I don't understand. He walked to the fountain and bent over to drink. The water's surface shimmered, showing him as himself one moment, then as he appeared in the illusion he'd cast.
He sat on the fountain's edge. "It couldn't have been as simple as disguising myself with an illusion, could it? ‘You may not enter'—was that a clue? Can you only get past if you aren't yourself? Did no one else ever puzzle that out before?"
He tore the left sleeve off his tunic, soaked it in the fountain, and pressed it against the back of his head. The cool water trickled down his back, prompting a smile. I'm still alive. That counts.
He refused to believe so powerful a magic would have so simple a key. He returned to his original premise, that the spell was a warning for people not to disturb the tower's resident. Yet the presence of a clue suggested he didn't mind some people coming in. And, as keys went, casting that simple a spell meant almost anyone who knew magic could have made it through the arch—which pretty much negated the arch's usefulness.
Unless.
Jerrad stood and looked up at the tower. It occurred to him that perhaps his safety wasn't due to a simple disguise spell, but rather to that specific spell, taught the way he'd learned it. "The grimoires—the wizard who wrote it lived here. I got in because the tower thinks I'm one of his pupils."
That also explained the nature of his illusion. He'd not had time to think, so he pulled together an image that felt right. Based on the sense of the author he'd gotten while reading and studying, he'd imagined what his mentor must have looked like, and clothed himself in that image.
His mind raced. Had it been dumb luck that brought him to the tower? Or had the wizard distributed copies of the grimoire assuming his students, at a certain point, would find him? He wondered if the wizard was still alive, or if casting the guardian spell had been his last act.
Jerrad looked over at an open doorway further along through the garden. Only one way to find out. He knotted the sleeve around his head. I'm sure there are lessons here for me to learn. I only hope I'll survive them.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Lovelier Place to Escape
Jerrad stopped at the open doorway. Blue tiles decorated it, but they contained no hidden message. He still had a sense of magic all around him, but it was impossible to pinpoint anything.
He moved slowly as he entered the tower. Everything appeared remarkably clean—the magic wind apparently had the added benefit of keeping the dust down. The main floor had fairly open architecture in the front half. Furnished with an eclectic mix of dark wood and light, some things heavy and others delicately wrought, the decor's unifying feature was gold and lapis trim. It matched the image Jerrad had conjured, further confirming in his mind that the tower belonged to his invisible mentor. As nearly as Jerrad could tell, the tower's treasures came from all over the world.
Whoever he was, he traveled widely or bought from those who did.
Jerrad had to imagine the wizard had chosen every piece himself, simply because some things looked so junky that no one in his right mind would pay for them. Then again, nothing about this collection suggests he was in his right mind.
The only aspect of the decorations Jerrad couldn't figure out were the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The big, brassy affairs were designed to move along a circular track that started at a wide hole in the ceiling and curved around from the left all the way to the right. Even standing on his tip-toes he couldn't touch one of the lamps. He figured they went around on the track and disappeared up through the hole, only to appear again down it and around to complete the circuit. At the moment, however, all were still.
At the room's heart, a bit forward of the hole, a staircase spiraled up to the towers other floors. Jerrad wended a twisted path toward it, passing here and there as items caught his eye. Though the collection featured all sorts of items, he didn't see anything that would provide him an immediate means of escaping Mosswater. The only weapons proved to be ceremonial or miniatures, none of which would be the least bit useful against the ogres.
Jerrad really had no desire to ascend the stairs, but the main floor had no books on it. Given that he'd decided the tower had been home to his magical mentor, he hoped he could find another grimoire which could teach him a spell or two that would get him out of Mosswater and back to Silverlake. He was willing to settle for even a magic gem or bottle or anything that could produce a localized version of the guardian spell, which he could use for personal defense.
He reached the base of the stairs and something rattled above. It was a small sound—not the clank of armor, or the sound chains made as some creature tested its strength against them. At first he thought one of lanterns nearest the stairs had made the sound, but they all remained still.
Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road Page 18