For most people, the time needed to dispose of one body, let alone three, would have been measured in hours. Daryus managed to remove the first two in such quick order that he surprised himself. Only then did he realize just how well he had eased into his current life. His earlier existence suddenly seemed farther away than ever.
Gritting his teeth, Daryus returned for the last. Not once had he seen anyone on the street, but he doubted his luck would hold much longer. With growing impatience, Daryus returned to the scene of the struggle … and found no trace of the last corpse.
What he did find was a small and curious-looking animal sitting near where he had last seen the body. The long, sinewy mammal licked one of its forepaws, upon which Daryus noted small bits of dark moisture.
The brown-furred creature raised its head to look at him. Daryus had not seen many weasels in this region, but knew what they looked like. This one was average in size and slightly wide in the mouth. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it save that its left eye seemed injured and twisted shut.
Without warning, it scampered over to Daryus and started up his leg. Thrusting the dagger in his belt, the former crusader seized the vermin by the scruff of the neck and brought it to eye level.
The weasel wrinkled its nose, but otherwise didn’t react. It seemed perfectly at ease dangling several feet above the ground as it stared with the one eye at Daryus.
A quick survey of the area revealed no sign of either the intended victim or the last body. Daryus knew he had risked himself far too long for what he now felt was no good reason. Indeed, he began to wonder if perhaps he had been set up by someone intending either robbery or vengeance. Perhaps he had been the target all along.
Remaining wary, Daryus abandoned the area, taking what precautions he could to keep from being followed. If in fact he had been set up by a rival, or had simply become the object of some thieving gang’s attention, he didn’t want company joining him at home.
Not certain what else to do with the weasel, Daryus set it down and started off. He didn’t get far before realizing that the creature was following close.
Daryus waved it off, but the weasel continued to follow. Its lack of concern for the dead or missing assassins suggested it hadn’t been a pet of theirs. Yet if it had belonged to whoever had cried out—assuming there had actually been someone in the first place—Daryus wondered why the animal’s owner had left it behind.
Daryus’s abode was little more than a shack attached to the back of a warehouse. In the early days of the city, the shack had probably acted as the warehouse guard’s quarters. The warehouse had changed hands and functions over the generations, becoming now the front for a merchant of disreputable means. Daryus paid the man’s scarecrow of a daughter a month’s lodging at a time. He knew that they also saw him as an unpaid guard for their goods, for if something happened to the warehouse, then Daryus would lose his dwelling and the money he had paid out that month.
Other than a creaking oak bed with a blanket to act as mattress, the lone room had only two other pieces of furniture. The well-stained table and accompanying bench were where Daryus spent his time when not sleeping. A half-empty bottle of foul-tasting red wine that reminded Daryus of the swill he had once drank in faraway Sauerton sat atop the table, looking inviting despite his familiarity with its sharply acidic taste.
Just as he shut the door behind him, the weasel slipped through into the room.
“No you don’t!” He made a swipe for the sinewy creature, but the weasel twisted out of range. It darted to the bench, leapt atop it, then made its way to the table and the waiting wine bottle.
Daryus pursued, only to pull up short as the weasel suddenly turned its one-eyed gaze back at him. The stare was so intense that the renegade crusader almost expected the animal to talk.
Which it did.
“You save Toy’s life!” it piped in the voice Daryus immediately recognized as the one that had called for help. “You save Toy’s life, but now we must beware! They will seek to obey their master’s will! They will come again with more! We must leave this city!”
Daryus reached for his sword. “What are you?”
Toy impatiently shook its head, its single open eye never leaving Daryus. “No time to waste on foolish questions! Must act! Must act before he acts!”
“Who?”
The weasel hissed. It reared, revealing that it was definitely male. “An evil walking on two legs! An evil that will now come looking for both of us, Master … unless Toy and Master stop him first!”
And then, without warning, the weasel opened his other eye as well—an eye simultaneously of fire and ice, blood red and bone ivory.
A demon’s eye.
2
THE ARTIFACT
Shiera burst from the building, her frustration fueling an unreasoning anger. She been the one who had climbed through a crevice so narrow no one else had imagined it could be used as an entrance to the ancient shrine. She had been the one to find the crystalline artifact. She had been the one to dig it out, then scurry back through the crevice with a horde of rats behind her.
But she had not been the head of the expedition. She had only been a late addition to its ranks, chosen because of her adeptness—even among those of her calling—for puzzling out and translating ancient languages and codes.
And so, the credit for Shiera Tristane’s find—along with the lesser finds of other Pathfinders involved in the expedition—had gone instead to Venture-Captain Amadan Gwinn. Gwinn, who had not left his tent save to oversee the cataloging of items as they were brought out.
Running her fingers through her short bangs, Shiera paused in the street to take a breath and calm her nerves. Amadan Gwinn had not earned his status through a lack of effort in his early days. His early expeditions had been what had first inspired the lone child of a court scribe to turn her father’s devotion to ancient writings into her chance to enter as an apprentice Pathfinder. Everything Shiera had learned from her father she had built upon with a natural aptitude that had seen her rising rapidly in the Pathfinder Society.
Then, Shiera had been given what at the time she had believed to be her most fortuitous break as a Pathfinder. One of Amadan Gwinn’s trusted assistants had had the misfortune of falling ill just before Gwinn’s latest expedition had been ready to depart for the Worldwound. Venture-Captain Gwinn had needed someone with her expertise to take his place. The first two weeks of the expedition had been all that she imagined, save for her realization that the famed Pathfinder no longer did any of his own work, but relied on younger, more able hands like hers. Even that, though, had not bothered her so much since she had finally been able to follow through on research that had—or so she believed at the time—coincided with Gwinn’s own.
Now too late she realized that the senior Pathfinder’s greatest talent these days was ferreting out those new to the calling whose abilities would most benefit his reputation.
“Unf!”
Caught up in her fury, Shiera had failed to notice the oncoming figure until they collided. Despite being small and slim, it was she who nearly bowled over the much taller, albeit lanky man. Only a quick grab by Shiera prevented the well-dressed blond man from toppling backward. Even then, the silken shirt under the crested blue jacket proved almost impossible to keep hooked in her clutching fingers.
Finally managing to right himself, the stranger glared down at her. He was not much older than Shiera—which was to say, he wasn’t very old at all—but his strong-jawed face held that expression that so many of the higher castes wore around all but their own. Shiera knew he wouldn’t be impressed with what he saw. With her short, nearly cropped red hair and leather pants, she hardly looked like one of the glamorous ladies of his station. Shiera didn’t consider herself ugly, but neither did she see herself as beautiful. She was who she was, and had no time to care what this jackanapes thought of her.
Releasing her grip, Shiera gave him curt nod. “Didn’t see you. Sorry about that
.”
A sneer was his only response. He started past her, only to abruptly pause and turn back. “I know you … I saw you when the expedition returned. You’re a Pathfinder, yes?”
“I am, sir.” Shiera tried hard to keep a civil tone as she uttered the last word. “Is there something I can help you with?”
He snorted. “Not you. Just tell me where I can find the abode of Venture-Captain Amadan Gwinn. He’s the one I need.”
Despite his arrogance, there was a hint of something else in his tone—an innate nervousness. Shiera briefly—and very seriously—considered sending him in the wrong direction, then relented. “You go that way, then to the right, sir. The building with the eagle statue out front. I’m sure you can’t possibly miss it.”
For her utter kindness, she received but a curt nod. The well-dressed young man turned from her as if she no longer existed.
Shiera glared at his back, then moved on herself. The interruption had caused some of her initial fury at how she had been wronged to subside. She was still angry, but knew that letting it get the best of her would change nothing. She had to concentrate on moving ahead.
She was grateful she had never had the opportunity to bring to Amadan Gwinn’s attention a fragment she had found on a previous expedition. Shiera had spent the better part of two years puzzling over it, but had been unable to locate any written records concerning it even in the vast archives of the Pathfinder Society. Scholars she had carefully questioned had shown no knowledge of what it represented. Shiera had been hoping that Venture-Captain Gwinn would have some answers, but fortunately for her, circumstances had prevented her from revealing it to him.
Shiera had barely left the area of her brief encounter before a disturbance arose from one of the main streets. With others, she paused to watch as a squadron of heavily armored crusaders from the Order of the Flaming Lance marched double-time past the onlookers. Their grim casts indicated that this was no exercise. She glanced the direction in which the crusaders headed, noting its close proximity to the seedier quarter of the city. Shiera’s interest waned at that point. Likely a fight had broken out among the darker elements in Tumbletown, a fairly common occurrence.
It took her only a few more minutes to return to her modest dwelling in Bitterwind, a staunchly middle-class neighborhood northwest of the city center. While not very large, her quarters were clean, comfortable, and in the midst of the district most frequented by artisans, professionals—and, of course, Pathfinders.
Shiera had few living relatives, all of them distant. Her mother had died when she was young, and her father had passed away shortly after Shiera had joined the Pathfinders. Family rumor had it that she had a much older half-brother by her father, but neither of her parents had ever spoken on that subject. Still, whether Shiera had had no siblings or a hundred, it wouldn’t have mattered to her. The Pathfinder Society was her family now.
A small shelf on the wall across from her cot displayed a few particular treasures from her career thus far, including an ivory vase emblazoned with the profile of an eagle from the Five Kings Mountains to the south and a fragment of bronze plate from a ruined citadel located in the midst of the barren regions near Brevoy to the east. However, it was to neither of these, nor any of the other prominent pieces she had gathered that Shiera now cast her attention. Instead, she headed to a large, oak travel case set in the far corner of the room. Kneeling, she pulled a key from the pouch at her waist and unlocked the case.
The tiny copper box she removed from the case was itself unremarkable, save that it had no discernible keyhole. Shiera shifted the box around, then touched two spots on opposing sides.
The lid flipped open. Her eyes fixed on the small fragment of parchment contained within. To Shiera, the parchment was more valuable than gold or diamonds. It represented all she lived for, all her role as a Pathfinder meant to her.
With great care, Shiera removed the parchment and brought it to her table. From a small wooden tray on the corner of the table, she removed a circle of glass two inches wide. Placing it near her right eye, she peered at the well-worn script.
It had taken her all the time since discovering it by chance near the edge of the Worldwound for Shiera to even translate the first few “words.” While she was well aware that her translation might be off, she couldn’t help but believe that she had begun to understand the gist of what the writer had been trying to convey. The script was close to that of ancient Hallit—the nation of Sarkoris, lost in the Worldwound’s creation, had been one of the few places where the barbarian tongue had evolved a written form—but with significant variation that suggested it might precede most documents from that fabled kingdom.
“Uhl…” Shiera muttered. “Uhl-Adru. Uhl-Adrys. Uhl—” She paused to stare at the torn edge, where the rest of the word had fallen off into eternity. She considered every language and dialect with which she was familiar. Studying the curve of the script, Shiera tried to imagine how it extended to the missing piece.
Perhaps fueled by her recent experience with Amadan Gwinn, Shiera finally noticed the slight extra curving just disappearing in the rip. Suddenly, it matched with something Master Gwinn had shown her.
“Adanar!” Shiera blurted happily. “Adanar!” Her brow wrinkled. “Adanar?”
Her pleasure at translating the second part of the name was not at all muted by the fact that she had never heard of any location called Uhl-Adanar. Indeed, that only excited her more. She had uncovered mention of a lost settlement, likely a temple-city from what little else she had gleaned.
That thought brought her back to the other bit of the fragment that she had thus far translated. Here, her final choice remained even more questionable. The second part, as best as she could guess, meant eye, as in when one cried.
As for the first portion, of one thing she was certain: that it was meant to be a name. A very peculiar name, but still a name. She assumed it to be of some minor deity, perhaps the one for whom Uhl-Adanar was built. In that regard, the choice she had made for her final translation made as much sense as any. Tzadn.
Tzadn’s Eye. It had, she admitted to herself, a bit of a poetic touch to it, but that figured. Priests were always trying to romanticize elements of their religions. It was, in her mind, the only way some of the sects could survive. Certainly, it was not due to their seemingly endless sermons …
Shiera set the parchment and magnifying glass down, then leaned back. Exhaling, she chuckled at her earlier anger. Gwinn’s glory-hogging seemed a small thing now. If Uhl-Adanar was indeed a lost temple-city, she held the potential key to a discovery that overshadowed anything she might have gained from that expedition or her previous work.
“Uhl-Adanar,” Shiera murmured with pleasure. She leaned forward to inspect the script one more time … and then paused.
In setting down the parchment, she had left it slightly askew. To her surprise, at that angle, the name Tzadn became a word. Shiera mouthed it slowly in order to make certain she read it correctly.
Reaper.
Shiera shook her head to clear it. She plucked up the parchment and glass and studied the writing again. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t find the angle that made it spell out the odd word again.
After a few more futile attempts, Shiera gave up. She was certain she had only imagined the word. Shiera had heard stories of other Pathfinders following false trails they thought they had found in their research. She had no doubt as to the name of the artifact and the place where it was located. Those were facts. Those were what she needed to concentrate on.
Looking over the rest of the scrap, Shiera noted a couple of symbols she thought represented landmarks. If so, then she had a fair idea of where to look for this lost temple-city. It would be an arduous journey deep into the Worldwound, but well worth it if her deductions held true.
Fingers tapping on the table, Shiera pondered what to do next. If she had been a senior Pathfinder like Amadan Gwinn, all she would have had to do was contact the Grand
Lodge in Absalom and have the Society’s accountants pen a promissory note, or else strike a bargain with some noble relic hunter for any valuable but historically insignificant artifacts the expedition might run across. Gold would have poured in, more gold than Venture-Captain Gwinn needed, but less than he was always willing to accept.
The accepted routine for most younger Pathfinders such as herself when seeking to head an expedition was to approach a Pathfinder venture-captain and make a case for requisitioning Society funds set aside for that purpose. If that didn’t work, those with wealth or connections could always finance it themselves or try to find a patron. Shiera had neither, and the idea of begging Gwinn was far from appealing.
Somehow, she would have to find another method of financing at least a small party. Shiera considered herself clever and adaptable, but for the moment she had no idea where to start.
Her stomach growled. Caught up in her earlier anger, she had not bothered with dinner. Setting the parchment and glass aside, she rose to deal with her hunger. Food and rest would give her some perspective. Tomorrow, she would have a better idea of what to do.
* * *
Someone pounded on Shiera’s door.
She jerked to her feet, not at all able to recall how she had ended up fully clothed atop her bed. On the table still lay half a loaf bread and some meat and cheese. A partial bottle of wine stood on the smaller table next to her bed.
There was something in her left hand. The parchment. Fortunately, despite evidently having fallen asleep with it in her grip, Shiera had done it no apparent harm.
The pounding continued. Shiera set the parchment down and brushed herself off.
Pathfinder Tales--Reaper's Eye Page 2
