Pathfinder Tales--Through the Gate in the Sea
Page 17
“Very true, m’lady.”
“And I’m not entirely sure you’ll still be of use to me,” she said, swinging the wand negligently. Still, when she extended a glove hand, he was glad the wand wasn’t pointed in his direction. At her whispered words, sleep rolled over him. He sank to the floor, wondering why it suddenly looked so comfortable and why anyone in the world would ever want a bed.
18
PEOPLE OF THE VAULT
MIRIAN
Gruff male voices muttered to one another as their footsteps scuffed the old stone, and lantern light shifted in the corridors from which Mirian and her group had come. The intruders spoke with the coastal accents of colonials, so she could be sure it wasn’t the Mzali again. And if she’d had any doubt at all as to them being the pirates, they were quashed as she heard one of them curse Ensara for sending them down into this maze.
With only lights to judge their numbers by it was difficult to count them, but Mirian thought there were less than a half dozen, which were pretty good odds, considering she had the wand. More concerning was what might have happened upstairs. Clearly Tradan’s local guard force was compromised, incompetent, outmatched, or dead. But then, she supposed a wizard of Rajana’s power might have enough spells up her sleeve to quickly weaken the perimeter and exploit the damage.
Since the pirates were in the house, Charlyn was in danger. And they had probably taken Jekka’s map and ship eyes, which meant Jekka’s search for his homeland was in jeopardy.
Mirian motioned to Jekka. She knew his vision was better than hers, but she couldn’t be sure he saw the hand signal to hold his action.
She aimed the wand and concentrated, her target not the man in the front, but the man at the back, one of the two holding lanterns. She whispered the activation word and the wand’s tip glowed a fiendish emerald before a line of deadly energy streamed forth and took the poor sod in the wrist.
He screamed and dropped the lantern. It shattered and the light dimmed to nothing.
The other pirates erupted in alarm, and the remaining lantern-bearer naturally shined his light toward her.
“It’s her—it’s Raas!”
“Get her!”
She dropped to one knee, targeted the lantern-bearer’s chest. He clutched at the wound, screaming as the acid ate through his shirt and then fingertips. His cries of pain rose shrilly as he sank. His lantern struck the floor and cracked. It lay on its side, still burning feebly. The pirates swiftly called a retreat, recognizing there was no safe way forward down the long corridor.
Or at least that’s what she thought until she saw the floating bead of red energy that careened into the room where the pirates lay dying. Eyes wide, she sprinted and threw herself around a corner.
There was a terrific explosion behind her and a blast of heat, as though someone had just thrown open a blazing oven.
The screaming stopped but there came the nauseating smell of cooked flesh.
And then there was a woman’s voice.
“Mirian Raas,” it called. “I don’t really think I need you anymore.”
Mirian didn’t answer. She knew from past experience that Rajana was deadly and capable.
“You are still alive back there, aren’t you?”
She knew Jeneta and Tradan were safe, but she wondered if Jekka had managed to escape the flames. If he’d been wounded, he was remaining completely silent. She wondered morosely if she’d be able to detect the difference between the smell of cooked human flesh and cooked lizard flesh.
“I was thinking about trading you for your sister, but I’ve decided I don’t really care. I’ve given your sister to one of my men. I’ve got your books and gems, and I’ll get whatever else I need from your writer friend. But first I’m going to burn down this house and everyone else who’s in it. What do you think of that?”
“I think,” Mirian said, forcing calm into her voice, “you’re making a mistake.”
Rajana laughed. “Really.”
“You might have the map and the seeing stones, but you don’t have the gate compass.”
“You’re a poor liar, Mirian.”
Tradan called out then, from deeper in the catacombs. His voice was hollow, weak. “I’ll give you whatever you desire,” he cried, “if you’ll let my wife go free! She’s not involved in any of this—”
“You have nothing I want!” Rajana called back.
Mirian spoke quickly. “The only safe way beyond the gate is with the compass. Why do you think I’m down here in the catacombs? I came here to get it out of storage!”
A long silence fell. The hand holding her wand rose reflectively, but she saw a brief flash of light—one of the glow stones going on and off—and glimpsed Jekka in a side corridor, signaling his presence to her. He must have found some connecting passage to retreat into. And if he could find a way, mightn’t the pirates do the same?
“I don’t need a compass,” Rajana assured her, sounding quite satisfied. “I found one in the ruins. But thank you for the tip. Enjoy the burning.”
Mirian retreated further, hoping Jekka would do the same. She banged her shin on the side of a warped plank table as she threw herself through an archway into another side room, cursing in pain at the same time as a titanic ball of fire exploded in the corridor outside. She heard Rajana laughing, and then a second explosion followed, for an instant transforming the entire hallway into a broiling furnace. Mirian averted her eyes. The heat even ten paces from the hallway was so intense it curled her eyebrows. She felt the pressure of the flame like a burning hand upon her neck.
The light faded, though it clung to the furniture now burning in the main hallway. Mirian clutched her wand, wondering if the wizard would be foolish enough to come in after them. She whispered a prayer to Desna.
Tradan shouted again. “Please, spare my wife! She’s done nothing! Take me instead!”
Rajana’s response was faint, as though she were far away. “If it’s death you want—”
Mirian peered out from her hiding place to see Jeneta yanking on Tradan’s arm in a frantic attempt to pull him to safety.
It did little good against the lightning blast that arced out from the dim recesses of the corridor. Even as Tradan fell backward, the lightning struck him.
The attack was followed by the sound of Rajana’s laughter, then the unmistakable thud of the vault door being slammed.
Mirian moved her head, her neck stabbing with pain. She caught her breath, reached into one of her pouches for the brass tube that contained the potion of healing.
Her first thought was to down it, but she checked herself. She wasn’t sure Jekka had brought any of his own gear, and Jeneta had probably used up most of her healing magic. If Tradan was still alive, he’d probably suffered more damage than Jeneta could handle. He’d need the potion.
She worked her way back to them and the storage room. The smell of seared stone, scorched mortar, and charred flesh hung rank in the air.
Jeneta bent over Tradan, calling in a loud, desperate voice upon the power of Iomedae. All Mirian could see of her brother-in-law were his legs, and she thought she should probably be glad for that. She’d seen a lot of death over the years, but she didn’t want to see Tradan burned and mutilated.
Jekka emerged out of the gloom and handed her his own vial of healing potion. “I’m going to make sure they’ve gone,” he said. “You look bad,” he added to Mirian before sliding away.
“I don’t know if I can keep him alive,” Jeneta confessed, her face twisted in anguish.
Tradan’s face didn’t actually look bad, but his shirt was burned away, revealing blackened flesh. Smoke twisted from the charred wound and twisted toward the ceiling.
Wordless, Mirian handed over the vial and Jeneta unstoppered it. “I’m just not powerful enough,” the young healer said. “My faith is strong, but…” She propped open Tradan’s mouth and poured in the full draught. He stirred, fitfully.
“It’s not enough,” Jeneta said, whereupon Mi
rian passed down the vial Jekka had given her. Upon its application Tradan blinked and raised hands to feel his chest.
“By the gods. I thought I was finished.” His voice was a hoarse croak.
“You were. Jeneta, can you take a look at me?”
“Yes. Turn. What are we going to do, Mirian? Do you think she’s really going to kill Ivrian?”
“Not if we can help it.”
Mirian’s injuries were more in line with the young woman’s skills, and after a whispered prayer and cool hands laid to her burning skin, most of the sting faded to minor irritation.
Tradan, naturally, was worried about his wife. “You heard that woman.” He still sounded terribly weak. “We’ve got to save my wife.”
“And Ivrian,” Jeneta said, then added, “and your servants and guards. Is there some other way out?”
“There is,” Tradan said. “Come on. We’ve got to hurry!” He pushed to his feet.
Jeneta rose and put an arm under his shoulder as he limped forward, her face grim with effort.
“Jekka,” Mirian called.
After a few moments her blood brother returned to confirm the exit sealed, and they started after the others. Mirian was silent, stunned by the turn of events. Even if they got out of here, how was she going to rescue Charlyn and Ivrian?
Mirian wasn’t given to blinding rages, but she burned with the urge to find Rajana and finish her properly. The wizard wasn’t invulnerable, no matter her skill.
They were closing on that eerie, silver glow Jekka had asked about earlier.
Tradan and Jeneta stopped short at the end of the hall and were conversing now in low, urgent tones.
Mirian and Jekka joined them. “What’s the hold up?”
“I didn’t expect to come here,” Tradan said. “I forgot the token.”
“The token?” Mirian prompted.
“A magical symbol. My grandfather told me never to enter here unless I had the Moon Token.”
“We can’t exactly go back,” she reminded him.
“This is an ancient crypt,” Tradan said, his voice rising in panic.
Jeneta put a hand to his arm, her voice calm. “Is the way out through here?”
“It is.” Tradan’s head bobbed rapidly. “But there are wards, unless you wear the symbol. I don’t know what to do!”
“You’re sure this is the way out?”
“Yes.” He nodded quickly. “It’s a door in the wall over there. But I don’t have the token—”
Mirian cut him off with a sour look. “Unless you can pull the token out of your backside, we’re going to have to chance the wards. Jeneta, is there anything you can do about this?”
“I’ll try,” the priestess said hesitantly. “It depends upon what sort of wards they are. I can pray to Iomedae to protect us from evil.”
“Do that, then.”
“Yes, Mirian.” The woman bowed her head then chanted in a clear, pretty voice. After a few moments, she nodded thoughtfully.
“Lead on, Tradan,” Mirian said, and then, at his hesitance, “I’ll walk right beside you.”
Jekka still carried the glow stone in one hand, but it wasn’t really necessary because of the round silvery glow in the midst of what proved an oval chamber, supported by arched pillars incised with crescent moons.
Apart from the superstructure, the space was crowded with statues of hooded, kneeling figures, their faces turned toward the orb radiating light in the chamber’s center. Each leaned upon lifelike hands sculpted with palms facing down toward the floor.
As they neared the gleaming sphere, light fell upon the figures facing it from the other side and cold fear suddenly surged through Mirian’s chest. Long gray hair escaped from some of the hoods, straggling down across dried and empty faces.
These were not statues, but bodies sheathed in plaster.
Mirian had no time to count their numbers, but guessed there must be forty or fifty of them, all bent around a glowing, pockmarked sphere set upon a flanged, head-high pillar.
A peculiar cracking noise rang through the empty space, as of porcelain being broken, or cement being chipped …
… or of the ancient dead pushing up from their positions of reverence in a rain of plaster.
Tradan gasped as the first of the figures rose and reached for them with clawlike fingers.
“Wards,” Mirian said in disgust as she ripped her sword from its sheath. She brought the blade crashing down through one ghastly arm and cut half through a lurching figure on her right.
Dozens more tottered to their feet. Tradan had increased to a sprint, his goal apparently an archway twenty feet farther ahead.
Mirian evaded one grasping hand, shrugged off fingers that grabbed at her shoulder, and swung precisely to the right and left as though she were hacking away jungle foliage. One figure bent low as it came in so Mirian sheared off the top of its head, complete with dried fabric, scalp, and dusty skull, which clattered into fragments against the pitted floor.
Jekka lashed out with his staff, tripping the awkward dead and slicing through ancient leg bones.
“Be gone, foul ones!” Jeneta called with conviction, her voice certain and rich with power. Iomedae’s symbol glowed in her hand. “Return to the sleep of ages! Cease this parody of life!
The shambling forms recoiled from her.
Mirian arrived at the door while Tradan fumbled at his keys. Jekka stood just behind, warding with his staff.
Jeneta came after. Only a few paces behind, more dark figures staggered on, reaching with skeletal arms.
“I…” Jeneta stammered. “I seem only to have affected the weaker ones.”
Mirian tried to keep her voice level. “Tradan, you planning to open that door soon?”
“I may not have the key.”
Mirian cursed, sheathed her sword, and pushed Tradan out of the way. She tore off her utility pouches and dug out her picks, all the time trying not to focus on the clack of long-dead feet against stone, the frightened breaths of her allies.
The trick to lockpicking was concentration and a steady hand—a little challenging with all the chaos behind her. How long would they be able to keep the dead things at bay? And what kind of madman would have allowed them to stay in his basement anyway?
Fortunately, the lock was a simple affair with two large tumblers and it took only a few moments of manipulation before she heard the proper click. The door swung outward.
Mirian grabbed her pack and, still holding the two picks in her other hand, shouted to her friends. “Come on!”
Jeneta was the first through, the symbol of Iomedae in one hand and the sword in the other.
Tradan followed. Jekka made a final sweep with his scythe blade, dropping one of the crowding forms by shearing off its ankle. The attack left him open from the side, and swift though he was, one of the dead women latched on to his left arm.
Mirian drew her cutlass and darted back out, sword slashing in a graceless overhand swing.
One blow cut through dried limbs, cloth, mummified skin, and bone. They smashed into the floor. Mirian grabbed Jekka by the shoulder and brutally snatched him back. As soon as they were through the archway Jeneta pulled the door shut. It slammed to with a click. The four of them then stood panting in the narrow hallway. Jeneta played her glowing symbol over the stone walls and they listened for their pursuers.
“They’re scratching at the door,” Jeneta said.
Mirian turned to Tradan, her glow stone shining on him. “You mean to tell me,” she said, breathing heavily, “you slept in a house with those things in your basement?” The rough-hewn stones in the narrow hallway threw back her voice with a metallic ring.
Tradan’s voice rose weakly in objection. “They’re perfectly safe so long as you have the ward. They’re sort of a family alarm system, if someone tries to break into the vaul—”
“That’s insane,” Mirian snapped.
Tradan sounded offended. “My great-great-grandfather swore to preserve the
ancient sisters when he purchased this land from the natives. My family are not thieves,” he went on proudly. “We keep our word.”
“Table this for later. Is there anything past here to worry about?”
“No. An ancient tunnel that leads down near the river.” His voice fell. “It was to be an escape tunnel … should anything ever happen to the family.”
“Let’s move then, and see what we can do.”
They hurried ahead, Mirian leading. Wide stones formed walls and ceiling. The tunnel was so low that Jekka had to hunch.
Cobwebs filled the place, and puffs of dust rose with every step. As they progressed, Mirian swept the webs away with her cutlass. At one spot they reached a point where the right wall had fallen in, but there was enough room to press past the debris. The tunnel went on and on, and Mirian began to wonder if it might stretch for miles.
“How long is this tunnel?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.” Tradan, twice injured and already exhausted, paused for breath after every word.
It was hard to gauge the time down there. Mirian reckoned it was at least a half hour before they arrived at an upward flight of stairs and she paused to brush away another mass of webbing. Beyond she heard the distinctive sound of a snake hiss, and her glow stone reflected upon the eyes of a large mamba coiled at the top of the steps.
Mambas were one of the most poisonous snakes on Golarion, as dangerous or more than any lurking horror, each bite capable of killing a full-grown human in minutes.
She brought her sword up by instinct, sidestepping and swinging wide.
She caught the thing on the end of its lunge, cutting it just a finger span on the back of its head. The head soared on to bounce off Jeneta’s skirt and lie on the dirty stone, spasmodically biting the air again and again.
The headless corpse flailed wildly, tumbling down the stairs, and it was only then that Mirian felt a surge of adrenaline.
Jekka slipped past and took the steps himself. There was the sound of another strike into flesh, and then another.
“There were more,” Jekka’s voice came back, “but they’re dead now.”
She ignored the twitching bodies of the additional mambas and considered the hexagonal chamber with its weathered metal panels framed in dark stone. A ceiling buttressed with rusty metal stretched a few feet overhead.