Pathfinder Tales--Through the Gate in the Sea

by Paizo Publishing LLC.

  With instinct born of many hunts, Jekka leapt forward and drove his spear through his enemy’s heart.

  By then lights were shining farther down the passage and Mirian had appeared, dressed only in a robe but carrying her sword.

  “What’s happening out there?” Tradan’s voice shouted. “Charlyn, where are you?”

  “Enemies sent a message,” Jekka reported to Mirian. “I say we send one back.”

  “What message did they send?”

  “The guard captain’s head.”

  There was more stomping about, and Ivrian, shirtless but sword bared, appeared in the hallway.

  “And your idea?” Mirian asked Jekka.

  Charlyn had crept out of the room where he’d told her to remain and stood poised behind Ivrian. And it occurred to him that humans of this house might not wish him to cut the heads from enemies and send them rolling out the door. Such an act might also make a larger stain than had already appeared on the carpet.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “it is enough of a message that the warriors they sent do not return.”

  10

  WARNINGS FROM THE DARK

  MIRIAN

  Mirian had retreated with Tradan to his study, across the hall from the dining room. As she moved to open windows so she could close the shutters, she saw the lanterns blazing upon all the poles set beside the walkway from fountain to house to stable. As if the light alone would hold back the attacks.

  While her brother-in-law paced, Mirian stood with arms crossed over her white nightgown. Her unsheathed sword leaned point-down against one of the display cases.

  There’d been a knife impaled in the mercenary captain’s head, almost incidentally jammed through a note that now lay crumpled and blood-smeared on Tradan’s desk. Its message was plain enough. In bold, stark Taldane characters it read, Leave the ruins or die.

  “I don’t understand,” Tradan mumbled again. “Those ruins have lain there for millennia. And they’re clearly not Mzali. It’s lizardfolk work.”

  “Well, those two dead men are Mzali, and there’s something in the ruins they don’t want us to have, or don’t want disturbed. Why don’t we start from the beginning, Tradan? Over dinner you said that it’s hard to keep the workers from wandering away.”

  He nodded. The colonial looked haggard and older in the lantern light, his hair a little wild both from rising without seeing to it and because he kept raking it back with his fingers.

  “Has it been difficult digging from the start,” she asked, “or did you find something?”

  “I just don’t understand,” Tradan continued. “We pay them quite reasonably, you know, and I provide them with food and water—”

  “Tradan.” Mirian put a snap in her voice and this time her brother-in-law seemed to see her again. He was, she understood, in a mild state of shock. She supposed this sort of violence, and in the sanctity of his home, wasn’t just new, it was incredibly frightening.

  “I think the first troubles began when we found the murals. Up until then the workers talked about eyes watching them from the jungle, but I paid no heed. They’re full of superstitious nonsense like that.”

  “What’s on the murals?”

  “All sorts of things. Lizardfolk striking poses, like they’re kings or queens. They probably are. Huge black ships—towers and buildings. And lots and lots of lizardfolk writing. I’m sure Jekka will be able to make out a lot more of it than I have, although I do have some—”

  Desna grant me patience. He talked in circles. “Tradan,” Mirian said, “what have you been able to read?”

  He cleared his throat and shuffled papers about on his desk uncertainly, then finally raised one and bent closer to the light. “Here we go. You see, there’s talk of this ruler. That’s what these sigils mean—‘great one’ actually, but it means ruler.”

  “Named Reklaniss?” Mirian asked.

  Tradan nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! And he sent out a ship and, if I understand correctly, built a city on an island, although the phrasing is odd.”

  “What’s the phrasing?”

  “Here, I’ve written it down.” He came over to her side and ran a finger along the glyphs he’d painstakingly copied. She would say this for Tradan, he had a deft hand. Mirian had seen lizardfolk carvings before, and looking at Tradan’s work and the precision of it she guessed he’d copied it exactly.

  “You see, here.” He tapped with his finger. “It says Reklaniss sent away a city with a gate upon the sea. And there is a bright star shining above the mural to guide the way. Interestingly, the lizardfolk don’t call them stars, they call them tears. The tears of the goddess.”

  Mirian knew a sudden chill. “And did you share this with anyone?”

  “Er … I read it aloud to my assistant,” Tradan went on, “when I found it at the site.”

  “And after that is when people started disappearing? When the problems started?”

  Tradan mulled that over for a moment, nodding. “You know, some of those natives I’d hired were about, clearing jungle away. Do you suppose some of them might be Mzali spies?”

  “Or your assistant. Or they coerced one or the other into talking.”

  “Venthan’s no spy. He’s a good fellow.”

  “Your assistant? How long have you known him?”

  “Four years now. And if the Mzali had paid him to spy on me, they must be able to see into the future. Besides, would the Mzali really work with a colonial?”

  “They might, if it served their ends. And they might not have paid him,” Mirian said. “They could simply have frightened him.”

  “I don’t think so. You can judge for yourself when you meet him in the morning. But what’s so important about this particular mural?”

  “That star may be what’s known by wizards as a dragon’s tear. An ancient magical artifact created by lizardfolk.”

  “By the gods. They really were clever fellows, weren’t they?”

  “Yes,” she said dryly. “If the Mzali have a sorcerer among them, they might think the ruins hold that tear. How many men do you have with you on the dig?”

  “I started out with three assistants and a few dozen native laborers. I think we’re down to about fourteen. And only Venthan stayed with me.”

  “How many of the workers do you trust?”

  Tradan rubbed a hand along his hairline. “I can’t say as I really trust any of them, now. I don’t know them. I mean—they’re just laborers.”

  “And your assistant?”

  “I trust him, of course. He’s a good chap.”

  “How about your guards?”

  “Oh—now Captain N’bala and his men come highly recommended. Poor fellow. I hope Charlyn didn’t see what had happened to him.”

  “I’m pretty sure she did.”

  “Barbarous! And think of the mess it made of the floor! Our dining table may be ruined now, not to mention the carpet where the poor captain’s head rolled.”

  “Yes,” Mirian said drolly. “Too bad about that.”

  His eyes flicked up and he was blinking rapidly. “Don’t think me inhuman, Mirian. I sympathize with the poor captain and his family. But there are other practicalities to consider. The least of which is the impact this will have on my wife. She’s already in a fragile state—how will she feel if there’s blood all over the room where she eats? A person’s dining room table should not remind them of an assault or violence. A home should be a place of safety.”

  “Fairly said,” Mirian said. “What do you mean her ‘fragile state’?”

  “Ah. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.”

  She thought she understood. “Is she pregnant, Tradan?”

  His face fell a little. “No, Mirian.” All bluster was gone from him now. “She was. She lost the child only months ago and she hasn’t come to grips with the poor little fellow’s death. My son,” he added simply. “Lost to us before birth, I’m afraid. Not like our daughter…”

  “I’m so sorry, Tradan.” He
r anger began melting away. “No one ever told me. And you lost a daughter as well?”

  “A fever carried her away three years ago. She wasn’t quite two.”

  Mirian felt as though she had been gut-struck. “Desna have mercy. I had no idea.”

  Tradan smiled sourly. “If not for losing our son, Charlyn and I would otherwise have come to Kellic’s funeral, you understand. It was just too much all at once.”

  Mirian nodded slowly. As she mulled over her changed understanding of both her extended family and the situation before her she found herself wishing she’d brought Gombe and Rendak along. It would be reassuring to have a few more people about whom she could really depend upon. “I think we’d best leave most of your guards here tomorrow, rather than have them escort us. For Charlyn’s safety, and peace of mind.”

  “Don’t you think that it’s those of us who’re going into the ruins who’ll be in graver danger?”

  “Undoubtedly. But I think we can watch out for ourselves. Charlyn can’t. And let’s not bother with a whole team of native workers. We’ll just take your assistant for a look around.”

  “Are you certain that’s the wisest course?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Tomorrow’s going to be dangerous. I’m just hoping we can get in, find what we’re looking for, and get out with having to wade through a sea of blood.”

  11

  THE NEWCOMERS

  IVRIAN

  We arrived at last. I had thought the jungle city of Jekka’s forebears from our last adventure had been a magnificent site. But it could not compare to the jungle-shrouded remnant of the city of Reklaniss that lay before us. There were acres of vine-choked walls, each covered in decaying but colorful murals.

  Yet the outside was nothing as to the wonders, and horrors, we discovered once we made our way to the city’s heart, and found what had been lying in wait for two thousand years …

  —From The City in the Mist

  After all the commotion, Ivrian returned to bed and tried to sleep. He felt a little guilty he hadn’t been faster on the scene. Maybe he wasn’t the seasoned adventurer he thought he’d become. Mirian had been out far more swiftly, and Jekka so alert he’d already dealt with the entire situation. Probably it was to be expected. Jekka was a creature of the wilds and Mirian had honed her survival skills for years, so it probably wasn’t fair to hold himself up to the same expectations.

  Despite those rational conclusions, he lay staring at the dark ceiling despairing of his own abilities and wondering whether a city-born aristocrat could ever truly be Mirian’s equal. His mother had, but then Mother had wandered the wilds for years. He needed to be of better service to his friends now, not years from now.

  Breakfast was a somber affair held in a drawing room, probably so there’d be no reminder of the conflict from the night before. Or bloodstains. Charlyn and Mirian seemed to have come to some sort of understanding, for they talked softly at a separate table, leaning in toward one another in a way that would have seemed unlikely just last night. Jekka and Tradan were looking over some notes and the lord said “by the gods” every now and then. He said it often enough that Ivrian supposed one could make a drinking game of it.

  Jeneta sat near him, saying little but watching him with large dark eyes whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. She tended to do that, which always made him a little uncomfortable. He liked her well enough, but frankly wished she’d stayed aboard the ship, or better, at the temple of Iomedae. If she was going to be a permanent member of the team, he hoped she’d learn not to stare at him like he was a specimen. He already knew he didn’t really belong.

  Near the end of breakfast they were joined by Tradan’s assistant Venthan Krole, who’d ridden his horse in from Port Freedom. He was a handsome, somewhat fey young colonial in tailored jungle gear, complete with brimmed cap boasting a black feather. After expressing surprise and horror about last night’s attack, he sat down at the little table Ivrian and Jeneta shared and fell to the breakfast repast with great relish.

  Venthan finished his plate and set it aside, shaking his head sympathetically as Ivrian finished his full account of the previous night’s events. The young man had an infectious energy and winning smile. “The Mzali are a beastly bunch. But then, they have a beastly leader. Do you believe those stories about him being an undying god?”

  “I’ve seen some pretty strange things,” Ivrian said, “but I know a little about exaggerating a story to make a point. Walkena’s a figurehead the priests replace with a new child whenever he gets too old.”

  “Well, they’re all monsters,” Venthan said.

  Jeneta chimed in with her own opinion. “Is it monstrous to want your own land?”

  “Eh?” Venthan asked.

  Jeneta briefly met Ivrian’s eyes before turning on Venthan. “This was our land before you colonials came. How would you feel if we came north, landed on your shores, and drove you out?”

  “But that’s not how it worked,” Venthan objected. “Your people didn’t have civilizations, at least not as advanced as Chelish civilization. You needed us.”

  Ivrian groaned, but it was too late.

  “Needed you?” Jeneta’s voice rose in disgust. “Fah—we needed you the way a tree needs the dry rot! Are you honestly going to let him say these things, Ivrian?”

  Venthan didn’t wait for him to answer. “Are you honestly telling me you approve of the Mzali taking that man’s head off and sneaking into Lord ven Goleman house last night?”

  “No! But I’m saying the Mzali have a right to be angry.”

  “Are you angry?” Ivrian asked mildly. “You seem to enjoy the luxuries of Ch … Sargavan civilization. And Iomedae herself was Chelish.”

  “And so we Mwangi should be thankful for you taking our land?” Jeneta placed great emphasis upon the catchall word routinely used by aristocratic colonials to refer to any native, regardless of tribe. “Because my goddess started life as a white woman, she belongs to you?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Ivrian countered.

  Venthan joined in. “Lord ven Goleman is just saying that we brought benefits to you that many have enjoyed—”

  Ivrian spoke from the side of his mouth: “You’re not helping.”

  “Were we free to choose those,” Jeneta said, “maybe we would have accepted them. But you came with a sword, not an offer.”

  “So,” Venthan said, “you’d see all Sargavans killed in their sleep?”

  “No!”

  “Because that’s what the Mzali want.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Oh! Ivrian, do you actually agree with this oat-brained git?”

  Venthan blinked in astonishment. He was likely unused to having insults directed at him.

  “I understand what you’re saying about land,” Ivrian said gently. “Our forefathers arrived here and took what wasn’t theirs. But do you think we should simply give it back and sail away? Where would we go?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t think that the Mzali are completely without—”

  “They’re demon-worshiping savages,” Venthan insisted. “And I can’t believe for a moment that a priestess would identify with their position. Especially not after they violated the sanctity of his lordship’s home last night.”

  “They’re not savages,” Jeneta retorted. “And their civilization is every bit as ancient as the Chelaxians’. And they don’t happen to worship demons!”

  “They claim to worship a child-god who walks as the dead!”

  “Can we agree to this?” Ivrian said quickly. “That what the Mzali do is savage, even if they are not?”

  “I’m not even sure I can agree to that,” Jeneta said stiffly. “Are you saying that the Chelish colonists never committed atrocities?”

  “Our ancestors,” Venthan said. “Not us.”

  “Oh, how thoroughly you refuted my point.” Jeneta rose stiffly. “Your pardon. I must tend to my packing.”

  Venthan watched her departure in b
ewilderment. “Is she always like that?”

  “You shouldn’t have prodded her.”

  “Do you agree with her, m’lord, or are you just trying to stay on her good side? Or,” Venthan continued with a sly smile, “are you interested in her for other reasons?”

  “She’s not my type.”

  “And what is your type?”

  Stupid ass. Venthan was a good-looking man, and he knew it. Was he honestly flirting after he’d just insulted Ivrian’s friend badly enough to drive her from the table? Ivrian wasn’t used to thinking of Jeneta as a particularly close friend, but he’d been touched that she seemed to think so well of him, and he felt as though he’d let her down.

  “Venthan,” Ivrian said slowly, “be so kind as to treat my friends with more respect.”

  “Sorry, m’lord.” Venthan’s expression blanked.

  Ivrian sighed. “I’m not pulling title on you. I’m asking you, one human being to another, to be a little kinder, all right?”

  Venthan ran a hand through dark hair and studied Ivrian, then smiled tentatively. “All right, then. Is she really that important to you?”

  “She’s been there when it counted.”

  “Very good then. I think you’ll find I’m cut from reliable cloth myself.”

  Ivrian nodded. Venthan had a year or two on him, but somehow Ivrian felt a little older. Had he himself sounded so naive only a few months ago, before that expedition into the jungle?

  He supposed he had. Back then he’d believed all that nonsense in the adventure novels.

  They rode out within the next hour on sturdy Kalabuta horses from Tradan’s stable. The mounts were broad, powerful animals with high stamina. Their coloring tended toward gray and dun, their temperament stolid.

  Mirian rode point with Tradan; Jekka, inexpert as he was with horses, rode in the middle, with Jeneta to assist, and Ivrian brought up the rear with Venthan, who kept trying to chat with him about plays and playwrights. Normally Ivrian would have welcomed the attention, but he still felt inadequate after having failed to assist last night, so he kept his replies short. Nothing, he told himself, was going to creep up on them from the flanks.