Swinging open the door, she discovered perhaps the last person she would have expected to see. Still clad in the same garments in which she had last seen him, and clearly looking as if he had not slept, the man with whom she had collided peered pensively at her.
“You’re the Pathfinder Shiera Tristane?”
“I still am,” she managed, growing defensive. “If you think I did anything—”
He quickly raised a hand. “No! My apologies! I was remiss!”
While Shiera appreciated his change in demeanor, she still couldn’t fathom why he would seek her out to apologize. “Master…”
“Raffan. My name is Raffan. I am no master. I serve … I serve an elderly—and if I may be frank, eccentric—man of noble means. He has set me on a quest I thought I would never manage to even start, but with you at last I can—”
Shiera’s world swirled around her. She blinked, then interjected, “Please, Master—Raffan—step in.”
He eagerly obeyed. His new demeanor continued to confuse her. She gestured him toward a chair near the table, then hurried to put away the remains of her last meal.
When Shiera returned her attention to Raffan, it was to find him nervously fiddling with a silken handkerchief. At first she thought he took offense with his surroundings, but then she saw there was some tiny object wrapped in the handkerchief.
“I thought you had business with Venture-Captain Gwinn,” she commented, trying to surreptitiously see the piece.
“That was my hope. My master, who always dreamed of becoming a Pathfinder but because of the family name did not, has long admired Amadan Gwinn. Each time there was a local expedition, my master purchased all records published of it for his private collection.”
“Who is your master?”
Raffan gave her a look akin to the one from the other day. Shiera understood then that the one thing he would not discuss was his master’s identity. That was not entirely a surprise; many patrons preferred anonymity unless the expedition proved wildly successful. Others kept quiet due to their reputations in other fields. Not everyone respected the Society the way she did.
Raffan fiddled with the handkerchief’s contents. “My lord gave me authority to determine if Amadan Gwinn would indeed be the best recourse. Sad to say, I found that not to be the case.”
“He wasn’t interested?”
The man made a face. “I never let it get that far. I made inquiries with others around him and observed the festivities around his return from his latest journey. Far too much public interaction for my lord and master. Too much of a—of a—”
“Circus?”
“Exactly.”
Shiera did the polite thing and offered him some of her wine. He wrinkled his nose, which she took for a refusal. “And you come to me for what reason?”
More fiddling with the handkerchief. “In my inquiries, I learned that one of the reasons for Master Gwinn’s recent success was the hard work of one of his assistants, a full Pathfinder herself. One Shiera Tristane. You actually performed much of the work.”
“I discovered the damn thing, just to be clear,” she could not help blurting.
For the first time, Raffan responded with a smile. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear from you. Mistress Tristane—”
“Call me Shiera.”
“Mistress Tristane,” Raffan repeated with much emphasis. “From what I gather, you are an expert in script, in cartography, in—in intuitive thinking. You are also someone, I believe, who would be willing to keep your profile low as you set out on a search. Do I read you well?”
“Well enough, but I hope you’re going to get to the point about all this and what it has to do with whatever you have there.”
The smile briefly returned. “My master has for years had this dream. Ever since he came across this piece in a bazaar. He has so much knowledge at his disposal, yet none of it made mention of his discovery. That made him only more determined to find out the truth.”
You can talk and talk, can’t you? Shiera would have already shown Raffan the door, but her curiosity over what he held continued to grow.
“I am empowered to finance an expedition of moderate means in return for you or your team presenting any and all findings to my master upon your return and before you make any public announcement concerning those finds.”
All Shiera heard was “finance an expedition.” Raffan—or rather his unnamed employer—was offering Shiera her own expedition. She could finally go in search of whatever this eye was, finally be given the due she was meant for—
Calm yourself! Shiera reminded herself that Raffan’s employer had a specific focus for the expedition. If she tried to subvert the expedition for her own interests, she might soon find herself in chains. It had happened before.
Still, perhaps this expedition will provide a chance to go after Uhl-Adanar and the Eye.
“Of course,” Raffan went on, “that is assuming you can make something of this.”
He pulled back the handkerchief to expose a small coin. A ceremonial coin, Shiera saw. A token passed out as a blessing or a symbol marking members of a crusader order.
But as she took the coin from Raffan, the exact purpose for it became moot. Instead, all she could see were the marks on the one face.
The marks she had translated as Tzadn’s Eye.
3
THE WITCH
From under the deep hood of his cloak, the witch peered down at his workers. The diggers coughed as dust filled their lungs. For four months, the pitborn had obediently broken through rock and baked earth in search of the tomb his studies insisted lay here. Three other shafts in the vicinity marked earlier aborted attempts. This time, though, he was certain he had found the location.
The only question remaining was whether what he wanted would be in the tomb. Time was precious. Too precious.
Without meaning to, Grigor touched his cheek with one white-gloved hand. Even through the glove he could feel the incredible dryness of his skin. Yes, for Grigor Dolch, time was definitely too precious.
With swiftly growing impatience, the mustached figure stepped to the very edge of the dig. Deep in the hole, a dozen pitborn of various forms toiled without pause.
Find it. They will find it. They must find it. Eyes glistening, Grigor focused on the most exhausted of the workers.
“Too slow.” He held out his right hand. A black, wooden staff covered in runes formed in his grip. Its head was that of a hungry rat whose mouth gripped a dark red crystal.
Grigor pointed the staff at the pitborn in question. Behind him, the expedition’s mounts stirred nervously as they sensed the magic stirring.
Before he could finish, both his target and the other pitborn flanking him leapt back as if about to be eaten by something. Grigor had chosen among the hardiest and most vicious of the tainted for his workers, well aware that the faint of heart would not last on this quest. He had already lost a handful to the ancient traps and poisons left behind in some of the previous ruins he had investigated. Grigor cared not a whit how many of the demonspawn perished, though, only that enough survived until he was able to achieve his goal.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the damned familiar laughing at his efforts.
Growling at the thought, the witch dared pull his hood back a bit in order to better see what had struck such fear into the pitborn. What passed for the light of day in the Worldwound illuminated his face, revealing his smooth but oddly sallow complexion and magnifying the glassy glint in his eyes. Small, odd lines crisscrossed his entire face, as if someone had mapped out every inch. Not scars or wrinkles—lines.
“What have you got there?” he demanded in a voice much older than his youthful appearance. “Stand aside!”
The nearest pitborn were all too ready to acquiesce. Grigor immediately saw the reason for their fear. A demonic face carved in stone lay half unveiled by the axes and shovels. The face alone was not reason enough for his servants’ displays of fear; that had to
do with what the face symbolized. The face marked this tomb as that of a cursed being. It was not the first time Grigor and his servants had come across such images, and the memories of just what had happened to two of their fellow pitborn clearly remained with them.
“Never mind that!” the witch commanded. “You know the rewards awaiting you. Crack the seal. Hurry!”
“Master Grigor—” the pitborn in the center began.
Grigor Dolch tapped the bottom of the staff against the ground. The stone atop flared threateningly.
“Crack the seal,” Grigor repeated in a cold voice.
Although still obviously fearful of the tomb’s curse, the pitborn quickly went back to work. Raising pickaxes high, two of them attacked the partially seen entrance. Grigor’s servants were not without their own abilities, but the witch wanted no magic but his own involved. The more magic loosely thrown about, the more chance for disaster.
The clatter of metal against rock resounded in the otherwise empty region. Still, despite the apparent desolation, Grigor remained alert. Not only was the Worldwound full of threats; it also housed its share of potential rivals interested in taking what the witch found. Grigor did not fear his power against most foes, but he didn’t want to waste what magic was left to him.
But soon I will no longer have to ration it. Soon, I will have all the power I desire. He will surely grant me that.
That reminded him of the past he still needed to eliminate. He had heard nothing from the band he had sent to the city. They were all skilled killers, and all protected by masking spells so that they could infiltrate the crusader stronghold. Grigor had expected the leader to contact him through a small crystal Grigor had supplied. He wanted to know the moment that the foul beast was dead.
A sound like thunder erupted from the excavation. Despite the witch’s threats, the pitborn scrambled from the entrance as if a thousand witches threatened them.
A darkness escaped from the crack one of the pitborn had created. It shot forth, falling upon the nearest two servants with ease as they fought to climb out. Neither even had time to cry out. The darkness swallowed them, leaving no trace.
Grigor did nothing at first, instead watching as the last of the pitborn fled the excavation. He did not hold back out of any concern for them, but rather because he knew that this assault was only the beginning. His true target remained hidden within the darkness. Grigor had more than just the staff and his knowledge of witchcraft at his command. His journey into magic had begun in another calling. The witch wanted to conserve his power until the last moment.
The darkness shifted toward him as if it somehow knew that he was the true adversary. Grigor let the darkness draw near him, then tapped the staff on the ground again.
The stone flared. Its crimson light burned away the darkness, revealing something else hidden within.
The floating corpse had a desiccated appearance to it. A few wisps of long gray hair decorated the back of the skull. Worms and small insects crawled in and out of the mouth and eye sockets. Grigor recognized the fragments of garment still clinging to the bones as belonging to a priest of some sort.
Raising a shriveled hand, the corpse pointed at him. Already expecting such an attack, Grigor held his ground and cast his own spell.
A wall of fire formed atop the moving corpse before it could finish whatever foul spell it planned. The priest flung itself aside, but not before everything below its ribcage shriveled to ash.
As the creature struggled ineffectually to pull itself farther away from the flames with its bony hands, Grigor approached. “So, let us see what you might know.” He placed one boot on the creature’s chest, pinning it to the ground.
The fleshless jaw clacked open and closed in what Grigor thought was perhaps protest. The empty eye sockets somehow still managed to glare at the corpse’s captor.
“You know why I’m here!” Grigor Dolch shouted at the creature. “You know what I want from you!”
This only made the corpse struggle harder. Grigor thrust his staff’s tip into one of the skull’s empty orbits, and those struggles ceased—not dead, but waiting.
“The temple-city!” Grigor demanded. “You know where it lies! Speak!”
The jaw dropped open. A single word echoed in the witch’s head. Tzadn.
“Yes, I know to whom it is dedicated, thank you very much.”
The corpse briefly stirred again. The jaw shut.
The reaction only served to encourage the witch. “Ah! You thought that bit of knowledge beyond me, did you? I surprised you, didn’t I?”
Tzadn, the undead finally repeated.
“Yes … Tzadn. I think we’ve already established that much. Now, show me the way to the tomb. Show me the path to him.”
The jaw opened and closed. The spirit within still fought back, but now Grigor was confident of his victory. The corpse would tell him all he needed to know.
Tzadn, the ghoul rasped again. Hajak di … Hajak di …
Hajak di. The witch’s mind raced as he tried to translate the ancient phrase.
At that moment, the corpse crooked one hand in an arcane gesture, shrieking a magical command. Grigor leapt back, preparing a protective shield.
But the attack wasn’t aimed at him. The corpse’s already blackened jawbone broke off. The ghoul’s bones crackled, then crumbled to ash that spilled out onto the ground before Grigor. The skull was the last to go, perched atop the scorched robes until both collapsed into dust.
Exhaling, the witch nodded. The tomb would be open to him now, not that he suspected he truly needed the contents anymore. The priest may have managed to end itself, yet with those last two words, it had still told Grigor something worth knowing.
The staff had once again served him well. It had already been strong with spells when he had appropriated it from a colleague. Overconfidence was a common trait among spellcasters, one that Grigor had played upon when both stealing the staff and slaughtering the witch. Fortunately, unlike his former mentors, he had more control over himself. He would not fall victim to overconfidence, not—
Grigor felt an irritation on his left cheek. Shoving aside his long, ebony hair, he touched the spot.
“The amber solution!” he snapped. “Now!”
A pitborn rushed to the horses, returning a moment later with an emerald jar. The horned servant gingerly opened the jar.
Dismissing the staff, Grigor removed one glove. A hand with the same sallow, lined skin dipped into the jar. As he did that, the anxious pitborn held up the lid so that the underside faced the witch.
Glittering silver-blue eyes that seemed more artifice than flesh stared into the mirrored bottom of the lid at the angular features. Grigor studied the spot on his cheek. There, his dry, patterned skin had begun to peel away, as if from a dead body as desiccated as that of the creature Grigor had just destroyed. Visible beneath the skin was rotted yellow flesh.
He quickly applied the amber solution. The alchemical mixture seeped into his skin, making it supple and helping it to adhere to the flesh beneath. The yellowish tone grew more pronounced.
Too soon, the witch thought bitterly as he wiped his fingers and replaced his glove. Too soon. I will have to make more of the solution before long, and use some more of the staff’s stored power to do it. Curse that Toy!
Waving away the pitborn, Grigor pictured the weasel. If he had been able to seize his treacherous familiar and drain the demon’s magic from the beast, then there would have been much more power in the staff from which to draw. Grigor also would have severed the last dangerous link between himself and his former patron. So long as Toy lived, the witch remained in danger.
You cannot do much yourself, Toy, but what will you do? Find another dupe like the fool who thought his sword through my heart would end me? Grigor Dolch still kept the eyes of the would-be assassin for possible later use. The witch had an affinity—some would have said obsession—for eyes and their potential magical uses.
Of course, that over
whelming affinity for power had been what had finally caused all of Grigor’s earlier plans for power to go awry. First with his former master, when he had been a promising apprentice in the field of wizardry—and murdered that same master in the process of stealing his secrets. And then as a witch, when seeking to amend his deal with the demon to whom he had sworn himself.
Before Grigor could delve further into his past excesses, a cry from above turned the witch’s attention to the sky. There, a raven cawed three more times.
The pitborn assigned to Grigor’s messengers quickly held up his arm. The raven dropped down, then alighted. The fiery-eyed demonspawn removed a small parchment from a tiny leather pouch strapped to the creature’s leg. The servant ran over to Grigor and knelt, then cautiously handed the witch the parchment.
Grigor snatched up the note and read it eagerly.
Trap failed. Experienced sword. Two dead. One dying. Orders?
Rage filled Grigor Dolch, a blinding rage.
“Toy…” he growled. “Toy…”
Without thinking, he summoned the staff once more. His baleful gaze washed over the pitborn who had brought him the message.
Quicker of wit than the demonspawn, the raven fled to the air. That finally warned the pitborn of the imminent danger.
“Master!” the horned servant rumbled. “I did noth—”
The stone glowed. The rat’s eyes narrowed.
It was not out of any sympathy that Grigor finally held back, only the knowledge that he needed to conserve power. The spells he had used against the undead had taken enough toll on his body. If things took longer than he intended, he’d need the staff’s power to preserve him until he achieved his goals.
Fighting down his anger, Grigor glared at the missive. Only then did he see there was more written below.
The bait is taken.
The witch grinned. It was a sight that left the nearest pitborn even more anxious, an expression as grotesque in its own way as the fleshless grin of the tomb’s animated protector.
The bait was taken.
“At last…” Soon, so very soon, he would not have to concern himself with either Toy or the demon the familiar still served. Soon, Grigor would have more power than any other witch or wizard.
Pathfinder Tales--Reaper's Eye Page 3
