Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Creelisk descended the ladder from the battlement and made his way to the small cabin he shared with his son. Built of logs and roofed with wooden shingles, the cabin had none of the elegance to which the baron had long since become accustomed. A row of pegs in the wall served as a wardrobe. He slept on a straw-stuffed mattress resting on a wood and rope frame. A small fireplace built into one wall was enough to heat water for tea, but would hardly warm the place in the winter.

  He dropped to a knee at the foot of his bed and unlocked his wooden traveling chest. He moved aside papers and books and found the small velvet satchel in which he kept the ring. He opened the bag and slipped the ring on. Locking the chest again, he stretched out on his bed and covered his right hand with his left, hiding the ring.

  Closing his eyes, he arranged the pieces of the ring's magic. This one formed a complex puzzle. The pieces fit into an amorphous capsule which shifted in shape and color. He build it around an image of the ogre's hair, slowly trapping it, then used the hair to cocoon the fragment of bone he'd obtained to increase the magic's power. Then, when finished, the capsule shrank around the lock so tightly that individual strands of hair stood out.

  Creelisk watched light glow from the black capsule, then pushed his consciousness into it. The magic, which the necromancer had insisted couldn't be done until Creelisk had doubled his fee, accepted him. A black tunnel opened to swallow him. He fell into it, drawn by an unseen current. He rolled and spun, with the tunnel corkscrewing around, or curving so sharply he thought certain his spine must crack.

  Then he plunged completely into a turgid bubble, thicker than blood, but not as stiff as egg white. He found himself suspended in it, like an insect trapped in amber. It had an unpleasant chill to it, but he knew that the temperature was an illusion.

  The chill marked the hatred all ogrekin had for men.

  Hanging there, Creelisk breathed in. The unseen fluid flowed into his nose. It filled his mouth and throat, then lungs. He forced himself to breathe, purposely pumping fluid in and out of his chest.

  And many miles away, the undead ogrekin began to breathe. The creature knew enough to know this was good. It didn't really understand the concept of being dead and then resurrected. It simply knew something wasn't right, but breathing was. It opened its good eye, and its momentary pleasure was enough to let Baron Creelisk in.

  Creelisk held a part of himself back. He would have found it easy to fully engage with the ogre. He could revel in the incredible physical power. Even the altered perspective of looking out through eyes two feet above his own would have amused him. He could have learned much and accomplished much.

  Once my plan is complete, I will have more than enough time to explore.

  Creelisk forced the monster to its feet and got it moving forward. Following the orders he'd given it when he resurrected it, the creature had returned to Mosswater, but had hidden itself away until summoned again. It chose to sink itself in a pond at the heart of Mosswater—a good choice, since that eliminated notice and predation. It was no good to have the creature discovered before the right moment.

  The ogre emerged from the lake and stood. It threw its head back and howled—which came out as a horrid gurgling until it had expelled the water from its lungs. Creelisk made it roar in anger, and whimper. He would have had it stamp its feet, but Tyressa's handiwork made that difficult. Instead he just limped the ogre around in a circle, looking for any signs of life through the one good eye it had left.

  Finally some giant shapes squeezed through alleys and crawled along streets. Creelisk accessed another aspect of the ring's magic so he could converse with the ogres. He got nothing very useful from the sounds they were making—expressions of surprise, mostly, and nothing even hinting at sympathy.

  The undead ogre spread its arms. "I am come as a warning. At Silvershade Lake there is a village. Not like this one, but a new one, of wooden walls and wooden homes. Not like this one. Small. So small the goblins decided they would take it. And because it was not a town like this one, and because goblins are not as we are, I went to take what I could. I am an ogre. All is mine to take."

  Creelisk let the ogre's hands drop limp to his side. "The humans of Silverlake are not like the humans of this town. They took all that I was. They cut me and stabbed me and killed me. Fearing what you would do if you learned of what they did, they sank me in the lake they now claim as their own."

  A very large ogre strode around from Creelisk's blind side. "We chased you away long ago. You are dead, Grakka. How are you here now?"

  "It is the magic of the wood. They hurt the wood. If we do not stop them, they will destroy the wood. They will destroy us."

  "You are a trick of the wood."

  "I am a gift to you from the wood. Know this. It was one of their people who came to Mosswater and slew two ogres. Here. In Mosswater, back under the new moon."

  The ogres exchanged glances and whispered comments.

  Creelisk's inquisitor pounded a fist into the ground. "A trick would know that. The wood knows."

  "And gives you this knowledge as a gift. The wood's first gift. But the wood does not ask you to believe me. Send goblins as spies. The Bonedancers must know." Creelisk brought the ogrekin down to one knee. "And you should know this: in two months, on a night of the full moon, they shall feast. Their guard will be down. You can end the threat to Mosswater in a night of blood and killing."

  "The family shall speak on this."

  "You will destroy them. You must. The wood demands it."

  "The wood should do it."

  "Through you, it will." The ogrekin rose again and threw its arms wide. "And the wood gives you me for strength."

  To guarantee my plan will come to fruition.

  Creelisk sent the ogrekin lurching toward the others. He'd heard legends of cannibalism among ogres, and had made his plans accordingly. He headed straight for his inquisitor, fists raised in an overhand blow. He commanded the fists to fall, starting the fight that would end in a flesh-rending frenzy and feasting.

  He moved to pull his consciousness free—

  And failed. He pulled again, but the ogre flesh held him.

  He was trapped.

  His target slouched sideways, letting the blow glance off a shoulder, then shoved the ogrekin to the side. Other ogres sprang in, grabbing his arms and yanking him forward. More hands grabbed his ankles. Their powerful grips crushed bone. His shoulders ached as they twisted his arms around. Those holding his legs began to pull them apart. He tried to fight, but a femur popped free of the pelvis. Then the leg came off.

  The large ogre filled his vision. Firmly grasping a handful of hair, he tugged the ogrekin's head up. Creelisk looked into the ogre's eyes, seeking sympathy or compassion, but saw only fury and hunger. The ogre reached out, grabbed the dead ogrekin's head in both hands. He twisted it left and right. Vertebrae cracked, then the ogre tore his head clean off.

  Creelisk screamed.

  "Father, what is it?" Ranall appeared at his bedside, shaking him by the shoulders. "What's wrong? You were thrashing in bed."

  "It was nothing." The baron shook his head, glad to find it still attached. His arms felt numb from the shoulder down, and his neck ached fiercely. And my hip... I'll limp for a while. "A bad dream. Ogres."

  "You're not alone in that." Ranall sat on the cabin's wooden floor. "Having heard the stories, there are times I can't sleep."

  Creelisk forced a smile onto his face. "Those stories are designed to create sleepless nights or entertain children."

  "And Echo Wood is rife with them." Ranall smiled. "I've already been told to stay inside the settlement tonight because the full moon summons creatures that run and howl like wolves, but aren't wolves at all."

  Creelisk kept his smile in place. "As if Echo Wood isn't dangerous enough, the settlers import stories of werewolves from Ustalav. Perhaps they find comfort in the familiar horrors."

  "You're likely correct, Father."

  The baron raised an e
yebrow. "I don't believe it was my crying out that summoned you. You were already coming to see me."

  "I was."

  "Because?"

  His son rose and began to pace—which had always been a sign of something which had been bothering him for a long time. "Silverlake will be hold its harvest feast in two months. I know you have your heart set on returning home before then."

  "We have no choice, Ranall. All the signs suggest an early winter. We don't want to be caught on the road when the snows howl down from the north. That's what killed your grandfather. I won't have it happen to you."

  "I know. I've heard the story." He turned to face his father. "I'd like to ask you to let me stay. Let me winter here."

  Creelisk drew himself up against the cabin's back wall. "Is this about the girl?"

  "Yes, but not just her." Ranall glanced down, a smile stealing its way onto his face. "What you've done here, Father, is remarkable. So many people are amazed. You've worked hard and been generous. Some of the people are still afraid of you, but here, away from Ardis, they're seeing a new side of you. You wouldn't believe the number of people who never thought you would have joined to take a lash for Jerrad."

  "I couldn't let some bandit lordling believe he had the better of Ustalavs."

  "It's more than that." Ranall met his father's gaze. "You are my father. I have always loved you. I will always love you. What you have done for Silverlake has made me proud of you—prouder than I've ever been. It makes me work harder to be worthy of being your son."

  Creelisk froze. He heard the earnestness in his son's voice. He parsed the sentence, draining it of its true meaning. He understood it all, including what his son wanted to hear in reply.

  He just couldn't understand how his son could think that way.

  "Ranall, I am far from a perfect man. You've heard stories about me, I know. I've done things—none as bad as the stories would make them out to be, but perhaps not things that would make you proud. But what you've just said, it rewards me for all the aches and pains and, I hope, offsets the less-than-virtuous things I've done."

  "Father, if I winter here, I'll know, firsthand, what Silverlake needs. I can help you help Silverlake."

  "And you can get to know Serrana Vishov even better?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "This isn't a decision I can make on the spur of the moment. There are things to be considered—not the least of which is explaining to your mother why I abandoned you in some green hell."

  "I'll write her a long letter, I promise."

  "You'll do that either way, I know." Creelisk slid off of his bed, stood stiffly, and enfolded his son in a hug. "You make me proud, Ranall. I hope I can become the man worthy of being your father."

  His son tightened the embrace and hung on.

  Creelisk stroked his son's hair. And when I lead an army into Echo Wood, I shall see to it that you, my beloved son, are very well avenged.

  paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas , Aug 10, 2014

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Ritual

  Jerrad desperately wanted to be alone, but the second he escaped into the wood, he felt terribly lonely. That made absolutely no sense, and he knew it. He hated having his mood carom between the aloofness someone like Baron Creelisk exhibited and his sister at her neediest. He just didn't feel at home within his own skin, and there seemed no escaping that sensation.

  In Silverlake he felt like someone he wasn't. Part of that feeling came from his hiding his wizardry from the others. The magic aspects of things were easy enough to leave out of the story—his mother's version of it did just that. Still, he was deceiving people he liked, and feared their reaction when they learned the truth.

  Because he was hiding something from them, life with them became almost unbearable. The people looked up to him, and made wonderful comments about him. They talked about how brave he was, at his age, to face down ogres and Baron Blackshield. Others weren't even fazed by the level of heroism, "given who he came from." The same people who would never have accused him of being even worthy of standing in his father's shadow now talked about how both parents had bred true in the children.

  Despite what they all said, he didn't think what he'd done was heroic at all. He'd foolishly followed an undead monster and ended up in Mosswater by accident—or the wood's design, which was worse. He'd survived that first encounter with ogres by pure luck, and had escaped by doing little more than running fast. For him to be considered a hero for that was to consider a hare heroic for outrunning a wolf. No one had ever tried to push that view in his hearing, yet they were happy to make the case for him in that regard.

  As for standing up to Blackshield, he really hadn't had any choice. The man wasn't going to listen to any explanation Jerrad offered, and Jerrad couldn't tell him the truth. That would reveal his learning to be a wizard. His mother had revised his tale once he'd told it to her: it became his trailing something large and falling into an old magical portal, perhaps something left behind by the Azlanti even. No one had questioned her telling of the tale, and it remained close enough to the truth that Jerrad was able to answer questions without being caught in a lie.

  None of that mitigated the fact that Jerrad had been very foolish. He knew it from the first step. When the people of Silverlake were willing to fight to prevent him from being punished, he couldn't have allowed it. No one else should have been punished for my stupidity. So he said what he said, then Ranall stepped up, and all the others did. And Jerrad's claiming of the last lash, too, seemed only fair to him, but others saw it as the boldest move of all.

  Part of him understood what was happening. The people had accepted punishment for him because they all felt united. What Blackshield was willing to do to him he could have done to any of them. They hoped that by standing with Jerrad, others of Silverlake would stand with them were the situation reversed. And Jerrad knew he would, simply because they were part of Silverlake.

  But to see him as a hero when he felt like anything but a hero—that just didn't work.

  He wasn't alone in being treated like a hero, of course. Ranall and Serrana had been elevated in the eyes of Silverlakers. Ranall's stepping up first simply cemented the position his demeanor and attitude had already won him. His affection for Serrana not only endeared him to those who wanted to believe in a fairy-tale romance, but was seen by many as what had saved Serrana.

  Before the goblin attack, Serrana had wanted nothing more than to be back in Ustalav. In the attack's aftermath, she focused on learning how to shoot a bow. She went from being moody and useless to focused and lethal. While that made her very useful in Silverlake, there were folks—Jerrad first among them—that weren't looking forward to the moodiness returning to mix with lethal.

  The fact that Ranall liked her for who she had become, and yet brought out the better bits of who she had been, gave Serrana a safe haven to discover herself. He gave her something else to focus upon. His willingness to pitch in and do almost anything, coupled with her desire to spend time with him, meant Serrana became a worthy heir to Tyressa's example. More than one person could imagine Silverlake growing into its fourth or fifth decade with Ranall and Serrana as its leaders.

  Jerrad picked up a crooked stick and sliced it through ferns as he walked along. He'd grown to like Ranall, and his sister was tolerable, but he couldn't spend too much time with them together. It wasn't that they were too affectionate. They might walk hand in hand in the moonlight, or sit together watching the sunset over the lake. That he didn't mind because they generally sought some privacy for those moments. What he couldn't stand was the longing glances they shared at other times. Their longing annoyed him—in a very large part because he really couldn't imagine anyone looking at him that way.

  Well, there's Nelsa, but she's different.

  An acorn plonked off the top of his head. He spun around, looking up at a chittering squirrel. Its tail twitched just as a root caught his heels. Flailing, but avoiding a seco
nd acorn, he tumbled backward and somersaulted down a hill.

  Not again! He covered the back of his head with his left hand and grabbed for anything with his right. Branches broke as he snatched at them. His fingernails scraped bark off roots. Leaves flew up in clouds, plastering themselves over his face. He barked a shin on a tree, which started him on a flat spin. That took him through a blackberry bush—a fact he learned from the scent of crushed berries and the fiery scratches of thorns raking his body.

  And there will be mud. There has to be mud.

  Finally he rolled to a stop on a flat greensward. Spitting out leaves and loam, he opened his eyes and found himself in a circle of mighty oaks. He glanced back over his shoulder, just to confirm what he already knew: there was no space between the trees to let him roll through there.

  Glowing lights swirled around amid the leaves, strobing on and off as they disappeared behind trunks and branches. He heard nothing, even as the lights descended. As the bottommost ranks got closer, others appeared from the shade above. Sprites, hundreds of sprites, spiraled down slowly.

  I think I would have preferred mud. He gathered himself into a sitting position, hugging his knees to his chest. This must be really bad.

  As the first sprites approached the ground, a ring of mushrooms sprang up. They looked sturdy enough—the biggest of them anyway—that he could have sat upon one. He'd never seen mushrooms of the red and purple and blue variety that these were before, and was pretty much certain each was deadlier than a viper.

  The first sprite landed atop a purple mushroom across the way. His flesh was the gray of a normal mushroom. His hair, wings, and long beard shared the brown of a dried leaf. Though his glow made it difficult to discern, Jerrad thought he saw wrinkles on the sprite's face. He didn't know what the signs of aging were among sprites, but he was willing to bet this sprite was heading toward the twilight of his existence.

  Other sprites seated themselves on the remaining mushrooms, while yet more landed on branches or hovered above the green. Jerrad couldn't begin to estimate how many there were, but felt sure that if they all shot as Lissa had, he'd look like a porcupine before very long.