Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes

by Dave Gross

  She kept her chin up, but the little Varisian looked tiny between a pair of Kaid’s big Maidens.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” said the boss.

  “Your hellspawn has his cards back, and all of my money is in that purse. There’s nothing more to take.”

  “What of the items you stole from Professor Ygresta’s laboratory?”

  She opened her mouth to speak but shut it again. Her teeth clacked so loud I felt my own teeth hurt.

  “For whom did you commit these thefts?”

  Again with the mouth, open and shut. Clack! She winced.

  The boss and Eando cast spells at the same time. Not different spells, I could tell by the words and gestures, but exactly the same spell. They squinted at Zora, looking so much alike it would have been comical another time.

  The boss said, “She is bound by a geas.”

  Eando turned to the rest of us and explained. “A geas is a magical compulsion. It prevents her from speaking on certain subjects, or forbids her from performing specific deeds.”

  “I know what a geas is,” I said. It was true!

  Eando turned to the boss. “I can’t break a geas. Can you?”

  The boss shook his head. “Nor can Lady Illyria, I fear. Do you know someone in Kaer Maga who can?”

  Eando cocked his head to the side. “As a matter of fact, I might, and it’s someone you already want to meet. But we’ll have to go without these mercenaries.”

  “Fine by me,” said Kaid. She put a hand out to the boss. “My job is done.”

  The boss fished a pair of heavy purses from his satchel and handed them to me. I passed them to Kaid. She passed them to Stiletto, who started counting right there in the ruined courtyard of the Brothers of the Seal, which I didn’t think was a very good idea. She was fast, anyway, and she nodded at Kaid.

  “A pleasure to serve you, Excellency,” said Kaid. “If you need anything else, you can always find one of my women at the Meeting Post.”

  Janneke slapped a pair of manacles on Zora’s wrists.

  “Not so rough, you hill giant,” said Zora.

  “Yeah, take it easy,” I said.

  Janneke gave me the shut-up face and turned back to Zora. “So you can talk after all. Where are the things you stole?”

  “I hid them. Let me go, and I’ll split the money with you.”

  “Maybe we’ll do that later. Were you working for Ygresta or somebody else?”

  She opened her mouth and snapped it shut again.

  “There is no point questioning her before we can break the geas,” said the boss. “Dare I hope this oracle can break my curse as well?”

  “He might. He’s very old.” Eando peered at the boss. “Not as old as you, of course.”

  The boss didn’t react. A remark like that usually got at least a death stare.

  “Was that a crack?” I asked. “That sounded like a crack.”

  “You’re were right about him.” Eando patted me on the shoulder. “He’s smarter than he looks.”

  “He’d have to be,” said Janneke. “Wouldn’t he?”

  11

  The Bottoms

  Varian

  My companions’ chatter ebbed at the shore of my perception. They did not distract me so much as serve as a reminder that I was not alone, despite my growing fear of solitude in a world I only now began to realize I never understood.

  Combined with the Kardosian Codex, the Bone Grimoire offered me a surprising new perspective on the continuum of life and death. Though I pored over the combined texts, I had still only barely glimpsed the truth. What I had previously perceived in stark terms of darkness and light, I now saw as the nadir and acme of all energies in the universe, extremes between which all truths lay.

  Compared with such pure ideas, the exotic sights, smells, and sounds of Kaer Maga were nuisances—even the voices of my companions.

  “To the Shoanti, we’re all tshamek,” Kline was saying. As we walked through the noisy avenues of the Bottoms, he prepared the others for our meeting with the oracle. “That means ‘outsider,’ but not in a good way.”

  “What’s the good way to be an outsider?” said Radovan.

  “Shut up,” said Janneke. “I’m listening to this.”

  He winked at her. “You take off your helmet, you hear all kinds of things.”

  To ensure that none of the residents of the Bottoms would mistake Janneke for one of Kaid’s Band, who were known to raid the district for escaped slaves, I insisted she buy a change of clothing. A mercenary’s excuse would do little to calm the hatred the residents held for their former owners and those hired to recover their property.

  The bounty hunter had left her crossbow and armor behind, carrying only a single club at her hip while wearing tough leathers. The reinforced shoulders of her jacket had been dyed blue, and the craftsman had sewn a tooled patch of a firepelt cougar on the back. The feline image combined with Janneke’s towering stature to give the impression of one of Taldor’s Ulfen Guard, famous across Avistan for their sole duty: protecting the Grand Prince from his own disgruntled subjects.

  “I think she looks beautiful,” said Lady Illyria. Amaranthine perched on the shoulder of the lady’s own new jacket, which I noted had been reinforced for exactly that purpose. “It was quite a challenge to find becoming clothes for a woman of such … heroic proportions.”

  “It was a nice change of pace,” said Janneke. “And you were generous to pay for me, my lady. Thank you.”

  “Call me Illyria, won’t you?”

  When I entrusted Illyria with helping Janneke, I had not anticipated the women would spend the better part of a day among the stalls of Downmarket and the shops of Tarheel Promenade. Perhaps the drake’s attention was not the only prize Lady Illyria intended to wrest from me. Now I would have to take care that I said nothing in Janneke’s presence that I did not wish Lady Illyria to know.

  While the women perused the markets, Radovan and Kline acquired the gifts for our introduction to the oracle, leaving me and Arnisant to guard the prisoner. Arnisant’s mere presence so intimidated Zora that—apart from an ill-conceived experiment with a letter opener to confirm Kline’s warning that the curse I had usurped from him prevented magical healing (it did)—I spent the time engrossed in the theories of the Bone Grimoire.

  “I think you both look real nice.”

  “Why, thank you, Radovan.” Illyria favored him with a smile. Despite my faith in Radovan’s loyalty, I disliked her flirtatious attention to him. She did not realize how susceptible he was to feminine charms. Or so I hoped.

  “Aren’t you also a tshamek, Eando?” said Radovan.

  “I’m the nalharest of Tomast from the Sklar-Quah.”

  “What’s a nalharest?” said Radovan. “What’s a Tomast? What’s a Sklar-Quah?”

  “Nalharest is a word more or less equivalent to ‘blood brother.’ Tomast is a warrior of the Sun Clan, the Sklar-Quah. The oracle we’re going to see is an elder of the Skoan-Quah, or Skull Clan.”

  “Skull Clan?” said Janneke. “That sounds ominous.”

  “Not the way you might think. The Skoan-Quah are guardians of the Shoanti burial grounds. They commune with their ancestors through animal spirits. They’re fierce when defending their people, but they aren’t necromancers.”

  Lady Illyria cleared her throat. It was a practiced sound. Musical. Rather fetching.

  “Begging the lady’s pardon,” said Kline.

  “Considering the circumstances, the lady pardons you.”

  “The Skoan-Quah are destroyers of the undead, so it might be best if you don’t mention your specialty.”

  “But of course,” said Illyria. “On first acquaintance, a lady never talks politics, religion, or the dark arts.”

  The conversation waned as we passed a clamorous smithy. It seemed every second building in the Bottoms housed a cobbler, wainwright, cooper, or other artisan. It was no coincidence that many of the district’s residents were escaped sla
ves who sought refuge among those who called themselves Freemen, defenders of those who escaped the slavery permitted elsewhere in the city.

  Kline had already explained the conflict between the slavers and Freemen, but I watched Radovan for a reaction. His mother had sold him into slavery as a child. One of the reasons he had agreed to work for me was that, unlike my peers, I had never owned a person and never would. In Egorian, Radovan tended to treat slaves with a certain wounded scorn. I often wondered whether that disdain was sincere or a cover for rebellious yearnings. His expression offered me no clue.

  In its own hideous way, Gluttonous Tome was making a slave of me. The thought that I could no longer trust my appetites and desires horrified me. Yet before I could long dwell on that comparison, I realized its fault. A book of arcane secrets enthralled my imagination and compelled me toward gluttony. My captor was the power of a long-dead necromancer, my shackles formed of magic. Fellow humans had claimed ownership over Radovan. I had been trapped by a curse, but he had been betrayed by his own family. No matter how wretched my current predicament, I could not compare it to his.

  “What’s this oracle’s name?” said Radovan.

  “I don’t know. Many Shoanti don’t share their birth names with tshamek. They have names based on their role in the Quah, or from some memorable deed. The oracle’s daughter Kazyah, for example, is ‘the Night Bear.’”

  “Because she’s cuddly like a bear cub?”

  “Give it a rest.” Janneke punched him in the arm. Radovan grinned. Doubtless he had hoped for such a reaction.

  “Because when she was a teenage girl, her tribe sent her into a cavern deep in the Mindspin Mountains. They stood vigil for days, refusing to let her emerge until she’d killed an animal and brought back its skull. Most Shoanti braves bring back the skulls of lizards or giant bats, sometimes animals that were already dead. Kazyah brought back the head of a giant cave bear, its blood still dripping from her klar.”

  Radovan whistled his appreciation. “What’s a klar?”

  “Would you stop interrupting him?” said Janneke.

  “A klar is a Shoanti weapon. You’ll see one at the yurt.”

  “What’s a yur—? Ow! Not so hard!”

  “Go on, Kline,” said Janneke.

  “The oracle is very important, both among his people and in the Bottoms, where he helps the locals. Does everybody have the gifts I gave you?”

  Everyone else nodded.

  “What about me?” said Zora. She carried her cloak over her wrists to hide the manacles Janneke had placed on her. The bounty hunter remained close by her side.

  “You don’t need a gift. Until the oracle removes your geas, you’re skentok.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Literally, it’s a child who’s been kicked in the head by a goat. Still functional, just not very useful.”

  “Typical horsers,” spat Zora.

  “And none of your Korvosan slurs. We have to be polite. The good news is, polite for the Shoanti mostly means keeping your mouth shut. Don’t stare at Kazyah’s tattoos. Don’t look her in the eyes. And whatever you do, Radovan, don’t mention you’re from Cheliax. Apart from your spurs and those teeth, you look more Varisian, so you’ve got that going for you. Just don’t mention where you were raised.”

  “Not a problem,” he said. “But what about the boss?”

  “I’m hoping we can smooth that over.” He turned to me. “How’s your Shoanti?”

  “Good, but I speak a Lyrune-Quah dialect.”

  “That’s fine. The oracle’s father was from the Moon Clan, and the cave bear is one of their totems. Some mistake Kazyah for Lyrune-Quah because of her bearskin cloak and helm.”

  “Another helmet fancier.” Radovan nudged Janneke. “You two ought to get along.”

  Janneke pointed to a dome-shaped yurt. “Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” said Kline.

  A fence surrounded the aurochs-hide tent on three sides, creating a yard containing a cook fire, a water barrel, and a pair of tethered goats. Just outside the fence stood a man and a young girl, anxiously watching the closed yurt flap. Inside the fence, an enormous woman sat on a log beside the fire.

  Nearly my height, she appeared twice my weight, all of it muscle. She wore dark buckskins over a homespun tunic, both sleeveless. Her biceps would have shamed a stevedore. Behind her lay a bearskin cloak with a preserved head for a helmet. One of the massive mauls the Shoanti call earth breakers lay on its head beside her. From the butt of its handle hung a bladed buckler crafted from the head of a horned spirestalker gecko.

  “That is a klar,” I told Radovan.

  “I want one.” He was gazing at the woman, not the klar.

  “Don’t stare.”

  I could hardly stop myself from doing the same. Every inch of the woman’s exposed skin had been tattooed. Black ink made a death’s head of her face. Along her arms, Shoanti warriors and shamans battled armies of the undead. Great spirits of stone rose up to fight beside them as they summoned storms and earthquakes to devour their foes.

  We walked toward the yurt, careful to stop outside the unmarked fourth border of the fence.

  “I greet you, Kazyah, Night Bear.” Kline slapped his chest as he addressed her in Shoanti.

  “Be welcome, my cousin.” The woman rose from the log. Her long black hair spilled down to her waist. Her facial tattoos made it difficult to judge her age, but I estimated she had lived closer to fifty than forty years.

  “This is my friend, Varian Jeggare, a Pathfinder like me.”

  “Wielder of claw and thunder,” I spoke in her native tongue and proffered the pouch Kline had purchased. “I greet you with a gift of salt.”

  Kazyah regarded me. Her eyes lingered on my satchel, not my sword. She looked at Arnisant, who sat at my heel. With a barely perceptible nod, she accepted the parcel and said, “Be received, stranger.”

  Kline named the others, except for Zora. In turn, each offered a gift of corn, leather, and smoke. Kazyah showed more interest in Amaranthine than in Lady Illyria. She locked eyes with Janneke, but the bounty hunter looked away first, for which I credited her professionalism. At last, Radovan lit the pipe and drew on it before passing it to Kazyah.

  Kazyah puffed on the pipe and eyed Radovan before completing the ritual and accepting the pouch he held out, which he had filled with coins rather than tobacco. She felt its weight and said, “I accept your gifts. Sit. The oracle will see you soon.”

  She sat on the log, leaving enough room for someone to join her. While the rest of us sat on the ground, Radovan looked to me. The Shoanti protocol eluded me, so I replied with a subtle shrug. With a shrug of his own, Radovan sat beside Kazyah. He nodded at her weapons and said, “Nice klar.”

  Beside me, Eando choked.

  Kazyah leaned over, looming over Radovan more by mass than by stature. She peered over his shoulder down the back of his jacket. “Nice tail.”

  Radovan pulled the big knife from its built-in sheath. He offered it to her grip-first. “Want to hold it?”

  I glanced at Kline to see whether Radovan was insulting the oracle’s daughter. Kline looked back, equally nonplussed. By the time I had exchanged similar glances with Lady Illyria, Janneke, and even Zora, Radovan was examining Kazyah’s klar while she studied the scarred and spell-inscribed surface of his blade.

  A pregnant woman emerged from the yurt, bowing thanks to the occupant before rejoining her family at the fence. Kazyah returned Radovan’s knife and said, “Wait here.”

  She went into the yurt and closed the flap. All eyes turned back to Radovan, who appeared puzzled by our attention. “What?”

  The rest of us could only shake our heads. We sat in silence until Kazyah opened the tent flap and beckoned us to enter. I bade Arnisant to sit outside the yurt.

  Inside, an old man sat across a circle of stones. He looked perhaps seventy, but the lines of his face indicated a weight of hardship as well as years. Beside him, an aromatic ste
am rose from a simmering pot. On the other lay jars of colored sand and three stacks of books bound in tooled leather.

  Within the circle lay a sand painting. Its colored patterns formed the image of a sunset over red hills. At intervals around the circle lay six wolf pelts. Kazyah knelt beside the old man and fanned the steam toward his face. He leaned in to breathe deep as we took our places.

  Hide shields and fetishes of dyed string and bone hung from the yurt walls. Above our heads, gourds dangled among glowing glass spheres in nets. The smell of roast meat and soured goat’s milk lingered in the yurt, along with a fainter scent of tobacco.

  The oracle spoke in a reedy voice.

  “I have prepared for this day since first meeting this skentok.” He nodded toward Zora, who jutted a resentful chin at the term. I had not even considered that the thief would have visited the oracle, but it made sense if she had been sent to find the Kardosian Codex.

  The oracle waved a leathery brown hand above the sand painting. With a soft hiss, the colors shifted to form an image of a bearded man standing before the yurt, holding out an empty hand. Zora’s distinctive scarf betrayed the figure’s true identity. “She came to me with a false face. She gave me a false name. She had stolen one part of the terrible book, and she wished to know where to find the others. I warned her of its dangers, but she would not hear me. I sent her away.”

  He waved his hand. The yurt remained, but the visitor changed into the stylized but unmistakable likeness of Eando Kline.

  “Later Eando Kline came to me. He too had found a part of the book and wished to be rid of it. Because he is nalharest to the Sklar-Quah, I tried to help. But the curse of the azghat was too strong for me to break.”

  “What’s an azghat?” said Radovan.

  “Hush,” Illyria whispered in his ear.

  I said, “Azghat is the Shoanti name for the runelords.”

  “They are demons,” said Zora. All eyes turned to her. She looked away, appearing to regret drawing our attention.

  The oracle gestured above the circle of sand. “When Eando Kline left my yurt, my ancestors kept watch over him.” The sands shifted to depict Kline reading books from the Therassic Spire. They shifted again to show him consulting sages in Widdershins. They changed again, this time showing me and Kline as we struggled to hold onto the Codex and the Grimoire. “When I saw the reunion of two parts of the terrible book, I knew you would come to me.”