paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Five
Reanimations
The shop stank of camphor, and beneath it the heavy copper tang of old blood. While the outside looked like a tomb, inside the place had clearly been a butcher shop in a previous life. A long counter along the right wall cordoned off the entrance to a hallway and a stained worktable, its heavy wood scarred deeply by countless cleaver blows. The shop would have been familiar anywhere, if it weren't for the eyes.
The eyes. All around the edges of the room, corpses in various states of decomposition hung from meat hooks threaded through the bones of their shoulders. Most were stiff, their half-decayed forms as lifeless as a man swinging from the gallows. Yet a few eyelids flicked open as Salim stepped in, settling on him. One body—a woman in a dressing gown several sizes too big for her, with doll-like circles of red paint on her sunken cheeks—let out a soft, unintelligible moan.
It took all Salim's self-control to let go of his sword. As he shut the door behind him, a cascade of knuckle bones strung up like a wind chime rattled against the wood.
"Coming!" a voice yelled from a back room. "One moment!"
A man emerged from the hallway. He was short, and thin except for a potbelly straining against the bloodstained butcher's apron. His hair was oily and sparse, slicked straight back across the white egg of his scalp. Around his neck hung at least a dozen heavy amulets, clinking and clattering against each other. He looked down as he walked, wiping his hands on his stomach, an oozing, servile smile plastered across rounded features. As he looked up and took in Salim's clothing, the smile dropped, replaced by naked irritation.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
Salim glanced around pointedly, taking in the collection of corpses. He noted several with mismatched limbs, an arm or leg that had clearly been sourced from some other individual and was significantly shorter than it ought to be. Sloppy black stitching held the disparate pieces together, or closed up wounds that had no doubt been the cause of death. "Nice place you've got here."
The shopkeeper snorted. "You want fresh ones, you can talk to Horus at Last Rites. That perfumed ponce won't buy anything without a respectable family tree, or dead more than a few hours. You want something affordable, you come to me."
"You're Mubb?"
"Aye." The man's already piggish eyes narrowed into slits. "And you have exactly one minute to explain why you're in my shop. You crows aren't welcome in Ankar-Te, and especially not in my place."
"Crows?"
Gerik Mubb looked Salim up and down, then came out from behind the counter and plucked at the sleeve of Salim's black Pharasmin robes. "Crows."
Salim nodded. "I see. I'm not from around here."
Gerik looked skeptical. "Well then, let me explain something. We've got a truce here. As long as we don't make no smart undead—nothing that thinks on its own—we're safe. Protected. And that truce is also the only thing that keeps us from bringing that pretty cathedral of yours down around your ears. Understand?" He crossed his arms. "Your minute's almost up."
"I'm not here to fight," Salim said. "I'm looking for some corpses. Specific corpses."
Gerik didn't change position. "Keep talking."
"I've been told that lately folks have been pulling bodies from the streams in the southern districts—people nobody cares much about. I heard you might have some of them."
"Might be." Gerik waited expectantly.
Salim dug into the folds of his robe and produced a coin. He flipped it at the necromancer, who uncrossed his arms long enough to catch it and take in the color of the gold before making it vanish. "It's true that I've bought a fair crop of bubblers recently. Poor shape—skin all loose. Took a bit of work. But they all sold."
"To who?" Salim withdrew another coin.
Gerik shook his head. "That's not how this works. I won't have you harassing my customers."
"What about the seller, then? Who pulled them from the river?"
The necromancer's lip curled, somewhere between a sneer and a smile. "I'm afraid that's private, too."
The man was baiting him, and enjoying it. Salim felt his hand drifting toward his sword hilt once more.
Gerik saw it too. "Uh-uh," he said, as if talking to a child. One hand came up to stroke a bone and brass talisman around his neck. On the back wall, a big zombie covered in tattoos levered himself off his hooks and thumped heavily to his feet. One hand was missing, but a misshapen mass of blades had replaced it. "Remember the truce, Master Crow. Nobody draws steel in my shop. Though if you still want to try, I won't stop you—my inventory's down, and your southlander skin might fetch a premium. Maybe I'll make your church buy you back."
"It's not my church," Salim said. "But thank you all the same. This simplifies things."
The necromancer never saw it coming. Despite his posturing, Gerik Mubb was a merchant at heart, and didn't really expect a fight. One moment he was standing there, arms still crossed, confident in his position and power. The next Salim's fist was slamming into his cheekbone, crunching bone and cartilage as it slid sideways and broke the nose. Blood bubbled and spattered, and the necromancer's feet gave way, dropping him onto his ass.
It felt wonderful. After the morning's frustration with Ceyanan and his cronies, it was a relief to be in control of a situation again. Salim had dealt with pompous little casters like Gerik Mubb a thousand times, and while he and Pharasma's angel didn't see eye to eye on many issues, the turning of innocent corpses into mindless slaves was one of them.
The wide-eyed necromancer reached for his talismans, but Salim got there first, snatching up the whole mess and twisting the cords tight around the spellcaster's neck. He lifted the choking man to his feet.
Cold shot up his arm, plus a tingling like the pins and needles after a limb's fallen asleep. A faint blue glow leaked out from between his closed fingers.
Around the two men, there was a sudden shuffle of movement, the slap of flesh and click of bone on stone as corpses dropped free of their display hooks. The woman in the doll dress moaned again, and several others joined her. As one, dead eyes turned to Salim, waiting.
Salim smiled. Well, why not?
With a savage yank, Salim snapped the cheap cords and chains that held the amulets, drawing blood as they dug into Mubb's soft flesh before giving way. He shoved, and the necromancer went sprawling.
He looked around at the expectant dead. They ignored the man on the floor, focusing instead on Salim—or rather, the amulets. Salim raised the charms to eye level.
"Pick him up," he said, gesturing at Mubb with his chin. "Hang him on the wall. Gently."
The zombies moved, and Salim felt a momentary twist of guilt. It was so easy to slip into the role of puppet master. How many men had he killed for doing the same?
But it wasn't the same. Salim would give these bodies their rest. First, though...
The necromancer screamed as the shambling corpses converged. He stretched out a hand and began to cast a spell, but it was too late. A dozen hands, skeletal and missing fingers, closed on his limbs, bearing him up into the air and over to the stone wall opposite the counter. Steel hooks tore through robes, and despite Salim's instructions, at least one emerged wet with blood. The necromancer's screaming grew shriller still. His former minions stood in a semicircle around him, watching.
There came a shuffling from the hallway. Two taxidermic dogs, one brown, one white, came limping past the counter. The brown one balanced awkwardly on two legs, one fore and one aft, while the white maneuvered in a skittering jumble, two extra brown legs sewn to the sides of its ribcage. Gray tongues lolled from smiling muzzles.
Behind them came a little girl. Her hair was blonde and long, her skin a bloodless porcelain white. While the other corpses were ragged, missing pieces here and there, this one was perfect and unblemished, save for the line of black thread stitching shut a vertical incision that started just below her throat and
disappeared beneath the neckline of her blue dress. She couldn't have been more than nine.
All three newcomers joined the crowd of watchers. As Gerik saw them, his panic took on a new aspect. He almost looked hurt. Betrayed.
Salim parted the crowd of zombies with a word and stood in front of the necromancer.
"Children?" he asked. "Animals?"
Gerik blinked hard and thrust out his jaw. "Ain't hurtin' no one. A man's got a right to a family. The truce—your church will—"
"They're not my church," Salim said. "Thus not my truce. Understand?"
"But—" the necromancer began, then clearly thought better of it. He swallowed hard and nodded.
Family. Salim didn't think too hard about that. There was work to be done. "The corpses, Mubb. The ones from the streams. I need to talk to them."
Gerik raised a shaking finger and pointed. "A ledger. In the back room. It's got all the records—I keep track of who buys what. But talking to them won't work. They're Twice-Born now."
Salim cursed. "All of them?"
The necromancer nodded. "I don't hold stock. They go bad too quick."
So much for that plan. If the corpses were still corpses—in the usual, non-moving sense—there were spells that would let him talk to them, find an echo of the departed soul. It wasn't something he enjoyed, but sometimes the memories left in a corpse were the only clues as to how they'd died. If they'd already been reanimated, those magics were useless. No soul would return to a body corrupted by undeath. "And you didn't ask them anything yourself? About how they died?"
Gerik shrugged as best he could while hanging from his own robes. "Why would I? Knowing that's just asking for trouble."
"Fine." Salim thought about it a moment. "What about the supplier? Who'd you buy them from?"
"Dunno."
"You don't know? Somehow I find that hard to believe."
Gerik scowled. "I don't care what you believe! It's true. Lots of folks want to do deals anonymously. I accommodate them. Keeps prices down. I don't ask a lot of questions."
It was a sound policy. It was also clearly a lie. Salim had been lied to too many times to miss the signs. Dilated pupils. A rise in vocal pitch. An inability to meet Salim's eyes. Everything about the man screamed his deceit.
Gerik cringed, as if expecting another blow. A bubble of blood and snot blew from his rapidly swelling nose.
Instead, Salim stepped back, clasping his hands behind him. "Now, Gerik, I realize we haven't gotten off to the best start, but we're going to need to trust each other in order for this to end well. I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth."
Gerik glared. "I already told you what I know. I don't care a furry fig for those corpses, and I didn't have anything to do with how they got that way. I'm just a shopkeeper, alright? I sell things people need."
"Of course," Salim said. "Which is why you're going to sell me what I need—information. In exchange, I'm prepared to offer you something exceptionally valuable."
"Oh?" Even through the haze of pain and fear, the glint of greed rose in Gerik's eyes.
Merchants. They were the same everywhere. Salim stepped close and took one of Gerik's hands, raising it in front of the necromancer's face. Delicately, the cluster of amulets still held tight in his right fist, he took the necromancer's index finger in both of his hands.
"Your fingers, Gerik." Salim bent the finger until the joint locked, then applied the slightest touch of pressure. "What could be more useful to a spellcaster like yourself?"
All color drained from the necromancer's already pale face. He started to sputter, but Salim held the captured finger to the man's lips.
"I know, I know. You could heal yourself as easily as you resurrected these poor people. A few broken digits is nothing to a brave man like you. But let me ask you, Gerik..." Salim let go with one hand and drew the dagger from his belt. With its tip, he gently tapped each of the necromancer's knuckles. "How much harder would it be to fix broken fingers if you had to find them first?"
It was enough. Salim stepped back and sheathed his blade as the man began blubbering.
Spellcasters were always easy to break. Lifetimes of bending the universe to their wills made them soft and arrogant. Scratch their sense of invulnerability just slightly, and they shattered like crystal goblets.
"It's kids," Gerik said. "Street kids, from down in Cavalcade and the Bottoms. A bunch of 'em. They bring me the corpses from the streams and the trash piles, me and other folks. Standing arrangement." He smiled hopefully through his tears. "Just trying to protect the children. Don't want nothin' bad to happen to them. Can't fault me for that, right?"
"Right," Salim said. "And who do the street kids work for?"
"No one," Gerik said, too quickly. "Just themselves."
Amazing. Despite his fear—and that, at least, was completely genuine—the man was still lying. Something about this business scared him worse than Salim. Worse than the idea of losing his fingers.
Well, Salim could fix that. He stepped over to one of the zombies, a bare-chested, emaciated man with the look of a junkie who'd died from one last ride on whatever poison he preferred. Salim tutted and shook his head.
"Gerik, Gerik...How are you ever going to sell these if you don't keep them in better condition?" He reached out a hand, felt the papery flesh covering protruding ribs. "You clearly haven't been feeding them enough."
The necromancer stared at him, uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened as he suddenly understood.
Almost there...Salim took a step forward until his cheek was almost touching Gerik's own tear-stained jowl. He raised the glowing amulets and stroked the man's face.
"Let's see if we can't fatten them up a little, shall we?"
"I'll tell!" The words were a teakettle shriek. "I'll tell, I'll tell! Oh gods. Urgathoa, Pallid Princess, Mistress of the Eternal Hunger, protect me in my..."
"No!" Salim grabbed the man's jaw and squeezed, twisting so that the necromancer was looking him in the eyes. "No prayers. This is between us, Gerik. No gods. Just men." He paused to let the words sink in, then let go of the necromancer's jaw.
"Now, Gerik," he said softly. "Who's got you so scared?"
The necromancer's bloody nose had slowed to a trickle, but his lips were still red with blood and tears. Unexpectedly, his mouth curved up in a rueful half-smile.
"You know how they say there's no intelligent undead in Kaer Maga? Well, that's not entirely accurate."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Six
The Last Vampire
I can't say I'm particularly pleased to meet you," the man said. "But I suppose it was only a matter of time."
Lord Victae Cobaru leaned against a wrought-iron railing, its delicate latticework holding him above the bustling city. Below the narrow widow's walk, more balconies and the flat roofs of lower stories terraced the tower, patios and tables half hidden by gazebos and retractable canvas awnings. Past these outcroppings, the tower plunged straight down for easily a hundred feet, finally meeting the earth among the tents and stalls Salim had come through earlier, now lit by a sea of colorful lanterns in preparation for the encroaching night. Looking north, half of the city's stone ring was visible, catching the last rays of the setting sun and casting long shadows onto the plains of the Storval Plateau.
The tower's owner spared little attention for the view, or for Salim himself. Instead he leaned farther out over the railing, closing his eyes. This high, the evening wind was fierce and cold, whipping up around their precarious perch. It tugged at Cobaru's long black coat and shoulder-length black hair, blending them with the shadow of his backlit tower. The man looked about thirty, with a neat black beard, and cut a fine figure in his tailored clothes.
Eyes still closed, he spoke again. "I know who you are, Salim." When he got no response, he cracked one eye open and aimed it Salim's way. "Does that surprise you?"
"Not particularly
." Salim had been in the city less than twenty-four hours, but he knew how quickly word could spread, especially where he was concerned. Cobaru's secretary had made him wait two hours for a meeting, no doubt to buy his people time to make the necessary inquiries.
Cobaru smiled. "Good. Then you haven't underestimated me. That's a fine place to start." He waved a hand. "Do you know what these towers represent, Salim?"
Salim followed his gesture. The thin spire they stood on was one of perhaps two dozen, which the locals referred to as Highside Stacks—the same pillars of wood and stone Salim had used as a landmark earlier. No two were alike. Where Cobaru's sported the gothic steeples of mist-haunted Ustalav, others bore minarets or slate roofs, crenelations and domes. Many supported the green blotches of rooftop gardens, and gold and silver plating gleamed red in the dying sunset. Beneath the opulent penthouses with their fanciful eaves, smaller balconies and windows studded and spiraled around the towers' long shafts, all aglow with lamplight, growing smaller and closer together as they reached the densely packed roofs at the towers' feet.
"Power," Salim said simply. "Wealth."
"One and the same," Cobaru agreed. "Mating displays. Rich men thrusting phalluses at the sky. But they give us something else as well. Distance. Perspective." He lifted his bearded chin and took in the nearest of the structures, a cylindrical tower whose top ended in a complicated mess of alpine eaves. "Do you know there are many of us up here who never leave our aeries? We do all our business through servants, who employ servants of their own, and so on down the line. Some of my neighbors haven't touched soil in years, and take it as a point of pride that none of the groundlings ever see their faces. It's a common affectation."
"And a convenient way to hide," Salim noted.
"Just so." Cobaru smiled. It was an honest smile, rakish and self-aware, marred only slightly by two long, white fangs. He turned away from the vista and gestured back through the archway. "Shall we sit?"
Inside, the tower was as decadent as a caliph's seraglio. Cushions covered most surfaces, and in lieu of couches, a waist-deep pit like the pool in a public bath sat recessed into the floor, holding another multitude of cushions and three of the most beautiful women Salim had ever seen. All three wore silk dressing gowns, though none showed any particular indication to finish dressing. The young women lounged at one end of the pit, smoking from a crystalline hookah. As soon as Cobaru entered, they dropped their mouthpieces and sat up.
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 6