Pathfinder Tales--Reaper's Eye

by Richard A. Knaak

  Unlike the other chambers, no stones illuminated this area. Shiera tripped more than once over unseen articles that she had no doubt included bones.

  Behind her, a hard thump warned that whatever pursued was attempting to follow her into the darkness. She suspected the creature would probably have more acute senses than her.

  Shiera continued down the passage, hoping that it would not end in some wall. She located a corner and turned, then paused to listen. Despite hearing nothing, she picked up her pace.

  Her right foot came down on air.

  In desperation, Shiera reached out with her free hand for anything to grab. She briefly managed to snag some carving on the wall, but not enough to prevent her from landing hard on what she now knew were crude steps.

  She rolled several steps before managing to stop herself. As she sat on the steps trying to catch her breath and get over her pain, she heard the crush of rock and bone that warned her that whatever followed was getting closer again.

  Shiera stumbled to her feet and continued down the steps. More than three dozen steps later, she was still continuing down, something that began to disturb her. Yes, Kenabres was on a cliff, yet even if there was a river exit at the bottom, going down just meant she’d have come up again.

  It took another three dozen steps before Shiera reached the bottom. There, to her relief, a few stones lit the immediate path ahead. While it was true that the lights might also alert the creature of her location, she was grateful to have any illumination.

  She reached into the pouch at her side and withdrew her other weapon. Although it was dark, practiced hands enabled her to set it up quickly. She cocked the bow and set into it one of the small bolts.

  The hand crossbow was a weapon her father had first taught her to use, although he had soon admitted that she had a far better eye than he did. The same acute senses that enabled Shiera to puzzle out the intricacies of ancient script also made her an excellent shot.

  The walls and floor were of a gray stone she assumed was granite. Here and there, a hint of fungus marked the vicinity, but for the most part this ancient passage was neat and tidy. Shiera wondered if it was still used. That made her tighten her grip even more on the crossbow. She could not imagine that anyone down here would be friendly, especially if they kept some sort of monstrous guard around. Shiera entered the hallway … then stopped.

  Illuminated by the stones was another line of script.

  This was different than her previous discovery. This script had been scrawled on the wall in clear haste. Leaning close, she tried to make out the first few markings. “‘City lost,’” she murmured, translating. “‘Word of One wrong.’” She moved to her right, causing the next stone to illuminate. “‘The Reaper watching fear—’”

  Shiera stepped back in confusion. She understood nothing. City lost? Word of One wrong? The Reaper watching fear?

  Why can’t people ever just leave clear notes? Why is the past always be so damned vague? Shiera considered how the note had been written. Someone familiar with the lost language, likely a native speaker, but from toward the end of the mysterious civilization. Someone who had come here in search of a truth, if she read the line as it was intended. Someone—

  There was movement in the darkness behind her.

  She spun about, firing. The bolt struck something not made of stone. There was an angry—not pained—grunt and increased movement toward her. At the same time, the passage darkened.

  As Shiera reached for another bolt, she leaned back against the wall. There was another click. Suddenly, she was falling backward and down again. At the last moment, she caught sight of a long, twisted hand with talons reaching for her. There was a hint of a face at the edge of the darkness, a face that was a macabre, almost canine parody of a human’s.

  Then the door shut. Shiera continued to drop, falling through what felt like a tingling membrane, light filling her vision..

  She landed on soft grass. Natural light shone through from somewhere, revealing the wall through which she had slipped now shutting again.

  Quickly rising, Shiera reloaded as she surveyed where the path had now led her. She was indeed outside, but not just of the old passages. Somehow, she had ended up beyond the city walls.

  Looking back and forth, she estimated that she if she headed to her right then she was a good half hour from Southgate. Grimacing, Shiera started off.

  However, she had only gone a few steps when the distant sound of hoofbeats made her pause. She crouched in the shadows of the wall just as three riders came into sight.

  It was all Shiera could do to stifle a call as she recognized the trio. Galifar’s men. The three appeared intent on the landscape, as if they were searching for something in particular.

  Or somebody.

  Shiera could think of no possible way the three would know she was nearby, nor why she should hide from Raffan’s hirelings, and yet still she kept quiet and in the shadows.

  The foremost of the trio reined his horse to a halt. As the others pulled up next to him, he dismounted. The others followed suit.

  Shiera decided to move on. She crept along the towering wall.

  Nearby, a branch snapped. She looked back at the trio to discover one of the three peering at her.

  The choice taken from her, Shiera straightened, then waved at the trio. The lead rider said something to the others, then mounted. He urged his horse to a gallop and quickly reached her.

  “The dandy was lookin’ for you,” the mercenary, a hawk-faced man, remarked more companionably than Shiera liked. “Captain thought you might be outside the city. Guess he was right. ‘Course, he chose the wrong direction, which means I win the bet on who’d find you first.”

  “I was following some of Master Raffan’s research,” Shiera quickly responded as she put away the crossbow. The weapon implied fear, and she needed to project confidence. “It led me outside.”

  He offered a mailed hand. “We’ll bring you back.”

  “I can make my way—”

  He shook the hand once, signaling that Shiera had no choice but to take it. With reluctance, she did so.

  The mercenary pulled her up as if she weighed nothing. He helped her sit behind him, then returned with her to the other pair. At her companion’s signal, they fell in behind.

  The ride back toward the gate was a silent one. Shiera wondered what Raffan wanted of her now. He had only just sent her off on this hunt. She wondered if he had discovered some other clue to his master’s research. Otherwise, Shiera had no interest in dealing with Raffan at this moment, even if he was the one footing the bill for—

  Her companion suddenly raised his hand. Peeking around him, Shiera saw another rider coming from the direction of the city. Captain Galifar.

  As Galifar rode up, he caught sight of Shiera. “Where’d you come from?”

  “She was by the wall,” her rider replied before she could. “That way. I win.”

  Ignoring the last comment, Galifar looked the way he pointed. “That so?” He looked back at Shiera. “Following Raffan’s work?”

  “Yes,” she replied cautiously.

  “Find anything?”

  Shiera’s mind raced as she tried to decide what would be the best answer. Galifar had no need to know, not just yet. “I didn’t have a chance. I followed a trail and it led me outside instead of where I thought.”

  Captain Galifar squinted at her, then shrugged. “Too bad.”

  Shiera allowed herself the slightest exhalation of relief.

  Galifar shifted his horse, only halting the animal when it blocked her view of the gate … and vice versa.

  “Raffan’s getting suspicious,” he said. “We’ve no choice. Bind her.”

  Shiera gaped, yet instinct immediately took over. She shoved herself to the right, away from Galifar and the man with whom she rode.

  Unfortunately, one of the other mercenaries grabbed her arm just as she leapt. Shiera ended up dangling halfway off the horse.

  “
Let’s not have that happen again,” snarled Galifar, nodding to the man who had caught Shiera’s arm.

  An armored fist came down on her jaw.

  11

  WITCH IN THE WORLDWOUND

  The solution is no longer sufficient. Grigor touched his cheek, where the flesh had already dried to the point of crumbling. Even though he had applied the unguent again only scant hours ago, it was as if he had never used it. I must take stronger action.

  The mounts needed a rest, and certainly the pitborn did, too. Those concerns were minor to Grigor, of course, and if not for this terrible discovery, he would have pushed both animals and servants until they fell. Now, though, his own existence was at stake.

  A full moon hung low over the desolate landscape. Something howled in the distance. For the Worldwound—or at least this part of it—the night had proven relatively quiet. The landscape had not unexpectedly shifted. No army of demons came scuttling their direction. Twice today, he had been forced to use power to fend off creatures who saw the column as food. True, the amount needed had not been much, but it still left him with an ever-decreasing reserve from which to draw. Now, he not only required that energy for his quest, but also to sustain himself.

  The lowering of his hand was accompanied by a slight cracking sound. Grigor did not have to roll up his sleeve to know the flesh and bone there was also drying out. His entire body was growing more and more desiccated with each passing minute.

  It must be done here. Done immediately.

  Raising the staff, he brought the column to a halt. One of the pitborn rushed to aid him, but the witch waved him off. Dismounting, Grigor sought out the highest point in the vicinity, a squat hill on which the remnants of some ancient well still stood. With long strides, the witch reached the top.

  A glance down the well revealed no hiding beast, nor even a trace of the water for which it had been built. Holding the staff over the well, Grigor muttered under his breath.

  The runes along the staff flared as he spoke. A soft light emanated from them.

  The ground at the bottom of the well stirred, as did a handful of spots surrounding the vicinity. Still muttering, the witch tapped the edge of the ancient well with the bottom of the staff.

  The ground stirred more. Something began to bubble up from the bottom of the well. A thick, brown substance.

  Grigor Dolch ceased his incantation. Brow furrowed in impatience, he tapped the staff against the well again.

  The well filled to the brim, then overflowed. Now at last it became clear to the watching pitborn that what poured forth was not water, but rather molten clay. The thick, bubbling mass spilled out on all sides, but immediately began to converge on the witch.

  Grigor spread his arms and looked up to the sky. As he did, the edge of the flow touched his boots. However, rather than flow around, the molten clay crawled up over the edge of the boots. In seconds, the feet were encased. Yet, the clay, its speed increasing with each passing second, continued up past the ankles and kept going.

  The witch remained still throughout it all, welcoming the clay that engulfed him. Within a minute, he stood covered up to his shoulders. Even then, the clay persisted, crawling up his neck, pouring over his chin and sealing first his mouth and then his nostrils.

  Only when all of Grigor stood enveloped in clay did the flow cease. The remaining molten earth simply melted away, leaving the living statue.

  Then, just as some of the pitborn shifted nervously, the layer of clay encasing the witch thinned. Slowly but surely, it faded, almost as if absorbed from within.

  Before the eyes of the pitborn, the molten clay vanished into Grigor’s skin in the manner of a tiny puddle of water dwindling in the sun.

  When it was done, Grigor opened his eyes and smiled. He did not have to see himself to know the difference. His dry, jaundiced skin was no more; now he had the fresh, supple skin of the age he appeared. The witch touched his cheek and felt it give and rebound as healthy flesh should.

  I’m me again! Grigor allowed himself a chuckle. I am as I once was and will be again!

  Grigor laughed louder, then faced the pitborn. Arms still spread wide, he displayed himself for his servants. The pitborn, well aware of the witch’s moods, quickly dropped to their knees and dipped their heads forward.

  “Yes, bow to me,” Grigor mocked under his breath. “Bow…”

  Suddenly, all humor left him as he noticed a change on the staff. All of the runes had taken on a dark blue hue. To one unversed in the magical arts, the change might have seemed like nothing more than what it appeared—a simple alteration in the staff’s appearance.

  They could not have been more wrong.

  This was not the first time Grigor had utilized the staff as he had. Twice prior, he had been forced to summon from the bowels of the world the rich, healing clay, a perversion of the natural renewal of life. With the staff’s assistance, Grigor’s body had devoured the clay as he might a plate of meat. For a time, he would once more be the Grigor of more than a hundred years past, the young, vital witch just into his power.

  The young vital witch who, nearly nine decades past, had made his pact with a demonic patron—one he had eventually betrayed.

  Twice more. I can only attempt this twice more before it destroys the staff. I cannot let that happen before I find the temple-city … and him …

  Kenabres still lay a few days ahead. Although now fully restored to his great self, Grigor knew he could not wait until then to follow one of his other leads. If he could verify one more thing, it would not only help guide him to his goal, but guarantee he would at last be able to rid himself of the accursed weasel, the last but most dangerous link to the patron Grigor had betrayed.

  “Bring me one of the fliers,” he ordered.

  It took but moments for a pitborn to bring him one of the four cages. When he had embarked on this quest, there had been eight. Grigor had been forced to use the creatures judiciously, well aware that he could not replace them if something went wrong. They had one flight in each of them. Only one.

  The cage had a cloth cover over it designed to keep the creature more at ease, but as the pitborn approached, the hissing from within warned Grigor that this flier was already in a foul mood.

  The witch opened the cage and reached in without looking. A set of claws immediately sank into his arm near the wrist. Grigor ignored the pain, not to mention the sensation of blood flowing, and pulled his arm out.

  The bat, its eyes shut, clung tight as he removed it from the cage. In all ways, it appeared to be one of the long-snouted variety the size of a very large rat that ate both insects and fruit. Indeed, when Grigor had obtained both it and its brethren, that had been exactly the case.

  Naturally, the witch could not leave what nature had wrought alone.

  Rubbing the bat under its jaw, Grigor whistled a note. The bat’s eyes opened.

  Two large crystalline orbs stared back at the witch. The bat’s long, forked tongue darted out, another adaptation on Grigor’s part. All from the days when he had been powerful, when he had been given his desires by his patron.

  Almost all his desires. Grigor grimaced. All he had done was ask for a few more things, experiment with the arts in a few ways that his former patron deemed insubordinate.

  “It’s your turn now,” the witch commanded. “Fly deep. Fly fast.”

  He lightly shook his arm. The bat spread its wings and released its hold. It dropped only a few inches before gaining enough momentum to rise up into the air.

  Grigor watched the bat dart high into the sky. The witch quickly surveyed the rest of the heavens. All clear. Safe to begin.

  Holding the staff over his eyes, Grigor focused.

  His view shifted. Suddenly, he saw the land from high above, through the bat’s eyes. Yet that view was not simply as the bat would have ordinarily seen the world. Rather, thanks to Grigor’s adjustments, the view expanded in every direction, giving the witch more than twice what should have been possible.


  Grigor surveyed the inner depths of the Worldwound.

  The blighted land lay covered in sulfurous mist and volcanic ash. Unsettling flashes of multicolored light emanated from an area far to the west. The rumble of either a stirring crater or an earth tremor warned the witch that his party could not linger for much longer, yet Grigor continued his study of the land. Ravines and crevices crisscrossed much of the ground within sight. Things shambled, crawled, ran, or scurried along the areas below. Here and there, ancient ruins rose above the murk, ruins these days acting as dwellings for some of the Worldwound’s more monstrous denizens.

  A scaled creature lumbering on six legs and possibly descended from something like a deer before generations of raw, dark magic had mutated it into its current state scurried toward a tangle of dead trees. By its movements, it apparently fled from some other creature. Only when it reached the first of the trees did it slow, as if losing its fear. The trees would hide it. The trees would—

  Several of the leafless branches lunged down. The sharp points of the branches pinned the beast with such swiftness that all the victim could do was squeal briefly before growing still.

  The branches drew the corpse up. As they did, individual branches pulled away, tearing off bits of flesh at the same time. Those bits quickly began seeping into the bark of each sinister limb.

  Grigor watched a moment more, just to learn the limits of the carnivorous plants, then urged his servant on. He knew that what he sought lay not in those directions. The bat continued to fly at a breakneck pace, seeking the signs Grigor needed to verify his intended steps beyond Kenabres. If he found them, then that would make the Pathfinder’s work all the easier … and enable Grigor to dispatch her all the sooner.

  A small rise to the northeast snared his attention. At his command, the bat dove down for a better look.

  Sure enough, just as Grigor had thought, the cracked foundation of a rectangular building came into view. One partial column thrust up on the left side, but otherwise nothing remained of what had surely been a proud edifice.