"Looks like it's just going to be six against Razorbite after all. Very well! On with the game!" Moving nimbly for his size, Ploog clambered back up the stairs to take his seat of honor overlooking the battlefield below while his orcs followed. A few minutes passed, giving the audience time to jeer at the slaves on the field below. Five of them huddled together, but the sixth, that same half-orc I'd noticed earlier with the smirk, cast aside his Ploog-issued buckler, walked over to the suicide, and took up the dead man's sword in his off-hand to compliment the hatchet he wielded in his other. Sounds of something big roaring and thrashing around inside the wooden castle became apparent, and then Ploog's bodyguards began turning a pair of winches to either side of the fat orc's throne. Below, the massive doors began to open.
The land sharks are as vicious as they are stupid.
With a crash, the immense, battle-scarred monstrosity within threw the doors wide as it thundered onto the battleground, much to the delight of the crowd. The bulette was immense, thirty feet long if it was an inch, and combining the worst features of a shark and some horrific armored reptile.
The nature of what was to come became quickly apparent as the bulette leapt the twenty feet between the doors and the unconscious slave. It tore into him with a ravenous wrath—although it could have easily swallowed him whole, the monster seemed to take a particular delight in tearing him apart first. Its dorsal plate was standing at full height, indicating its excitement.
To their credit, the slaves held out a lot longer against the monster than I thought they would. Of course, they spent most of the battle running away from the bulette, who in turned seemed to be enjoying the chase. Now and then, its leaps would carry it close enough for its claws to lash out and maul a slave, giving the dwindling number of survivors a few moments to put some distance between themselves and the terror. Only the grinning half-orc seemed interested in fighting—his skill at dodging aside to take swipes at the monster's flanks as it raced past him even started to garner some cheers from the audience, although they still seemed to be more interested in watching the bulette tear things up.
It didn't take the bulette long to tire of the half-orc's tactics. The third time it happened, the beast stopped short and spun to face him, swiping at him with a forelimb capable of cutting a horse in half. The lucky half-orc dodged aside from the claws, but was still struck by the backswing of the creature's paw. Sent hurtling through the air, the half-orc landed with a grunt against the support pole on which I leaned, his head lolling back so that, for a moment, our eyes met.
It's impossible to say what I saw in those pain-clouded eyes—a ferocious need to survive, yes, but tempered with a calculated acceptance of the situation. Then his gaze shifted to my left. I turned to follow it and saw what he had seen: the support pillar just to my left had split at some time in the past, likely from a different titanic clash here in the Bloodworks. Ploog had apparently never bothered to have it fixed. Now it leaned outward at an angle, and its splintered tip protruded into the ring like a lance set to receive a charge.
I glanced back at the half-orc and was astonished to see him smiling through the pain. He mouthed two words to me—"Watch this!"—then sprang back to his feet to return to the fray. The bulette had pinned the last two slaves to the ground and was tearing them to ribbons, but its back was to us. The half-orc took aim, and with a single powerful throw, hurled his hatchet at the tender flesh that had been exposed by the bulette's extended dorsal plate. His aim was true; the hatchet buried itself in the monster's back, causing it to roar in pain and spin again to face him. The creature charged, a stampede of razor teeth and talons. The half-orc turned and ran directly at the leaning pole—at me—and I realized that I was sitting in the most dangerous seat in the house. So, apparently, did the other men seated in my area—with an eruption of profanity, they scrambled to the left and right, looking for cover. Not me. Maybe the half-orc and I had shared something in that brief moment, recognition of another born survivor, or maybe I'd just seen enough men torn limb from limb that day. I stood my ground and reached quickly into one of my pouches, drawing forth a handful of ground mica. Bringing it close to my mouth with both hands, I whispered an incantation, then blew.
An eruption of glittering dust exploded from my cupped hands, engulfing the charging bulette. The golden powder coated its body, causing it to glow brightly, and gathered thick in its tiny eyes, blinding the beast. Yet its momentum remained. I dove aside, down and into the pit, just as the creature made an ill-advised leap that I'm sure it thought would bring its four taloned legs down square on the fleeing half-orc. Instead, it brought its throat down on the jagged tip of the leaning scaffolding support.
What happened next is a blur. That the bulette hadn't been killed by its self-impalement—only angered—was a shock. Apparently those things are too stupid to even know when they're dead. The ensuing carnage undoubtedly saved my life, however—even though the entire audience, Ploog included, had doubtless seen me casting the spell, there wasn't time to do anything about it with a bleeding, enraged, and blinded set of teeth attached to several tons of monster tearing its way through the audience. The bulette's talons allow it to burrow through the earth with shocking speed. Through crowds of orcs and wooden scaffolding, it goes even faster.
The half-orc is nobody's slave.
I felt a hand grab mine and tug me aside. It was the half-orc.
"Thanks for that," he said in a low, guttural voice. "But I'm afraid you just signed up for a whole lot of pain. We need to get out of the city. Come with me. I know a place we can hide in the hills east of town."
Our flight out of Scabtown and from there out of Urglin was swift, made easier by the fact that the news of the commotion at the Bloodworks was spreading fast and citizens were eager to get a free look at the carnage. By the time we made it to the gladiator's promised cave, a tiny but well-hidden nook at the edge of wide field of briars, the sun was rising, and we both collapsed into dreamless sleep. I woke often, starting at the slightest sound, but he seemed completely at peace, unconcerned with whatever dangers might threaten us. And why shouldn't he be? After last night, it seems clear to me that he might just be the most dangerous thing in this valley.
I wonder if he wants a job?
Thin Air
By Amber Scott
26 Rova, 4707 ar
There's a comfort to the wilderness I don't find in cities. Everywhere I travel I see life of all different types, each creature thriving in its own particular environment. From bogs to forests, mountain slopes to grassy plains, every living thing in Golarion has a place to call home.
Except, perhaps, in the mountains of Belkzen. Never have I seen such an inhospitable place. Peaks seem to spring fully formed from the rocky plains. Sheer cliffs drop so suddenly that I keep an incantation to slow my fall always at the forefront of my mind. The lower mountains slope sharply into points as menacing as a row of spearheads. Not a shrub or bush grows in this rocky soil, and crags of razored stone jut from the rock walls, sharp enough to tear a hole right through my cloak and shirt and into my skin. I think the only way this place could be less hospitable is if it were actually on fire.
My mood darkened steadily this morning as Joskan and I climbed further into the hills. The sun beat down in the empty sky, and I saw no birds, no snakes—not even any insects. I almost would have welcomed a dragonwasp. The lack of any activity made me anxious, and the vastness of the empty sky made it seem as if the sun weren't moving at all.
By the time dusk finally settled we had covered a good deal of ground. I took out my wayfinder, and though we'd had to wind and double back a bit due to the restrictive mountain trails, I guessed we had made progress.
There was no wood with which to build a fire, but the night air wasn't too cold. Joskan volunteered the first watch and I found the least rocky patch of ground on which to sleep. As I drifted off, a crag of rock digging into one sho
ulder and gritty mountain-dust clinging to my face, I thought a person would have to be utterly, raving insane to try and make a home in this wasteland.
I woke in darkness with terror gripping my heart. I scrabbled for a weapon without knowing what was going on. I knew only that I couldn't see, that I was cold and my shoulder ached, and that I was as frightened as I'd ever been.
"Shh!" Joskan's voice brought me back to reality. I crouched beside my guide, shivering and stiff, holding my blade in numb fingers. I scanned one direction, then another, but saw nothing but vague shapes in the blackness.
"What is—" I began.
Then a howling erupted that chilled the marrow in my bones. Not a scream, not a wail, but a vicious, wordless howl that rose from a chorus of throats to rattle over the slopes and peaks. The cacophony carried with it promises of death—and not a quick and heroic one, either. I crouched motionless, paralyzed with fear, until the howl died away. More mundane shrieks and the bangs of fists on drums followed, but the sounds did not seem to be drawing closer.
"Joskan!" My voice shook, and I wondered if I could blame it on the cold. "What in this blasted land was that?"
I could barely make out Joskan's features in the dark, but I thought I saw a look of revulsion and fear cross his face. "Mountain orcs," he spat.
A high-pitched screaming overlaid the savage roars. A mountain cat, perhaps, or an unfortunate traveler. I started to rise to my feet, but Joskan put a hand on my shoulder and shook his head.
"They travel in packs," he said, "and rip apart anything they find. When they can't find anything else, they rip apart each other. We wouldn't last a minute against a pack of mountain-dwellers. We'll circle around them after dawn. Can't risk moving in the dark."
"That's interesting," I managed to whisper.
"What?"
"Apparently, you do have to be totally insane to live here."
27 Rova, 4707 ar
Joskan told me more about the highland orcs the next day, as we ventured further into the mountains rather than risk exposure in the orc-infested foothills around the pass between Varisia and Belkzen. "Raving," "bloodthirsty," and "savage" were his favorite adjectives.
As always, Joskan was reluctant to provide details when asked direct questions. I inferred from his stories, though, that Joskan's people were lowlanders and somewhat more civilized—or at least organized—than their bestial cousins. "Some of them don't even enslave their prisoners before they eat them," he noted with a sniff. "Some say they made their homes so high on the slopes that they went mad from the thin air and from staring too long at the empty sky." I had noticed that the higher up we climbed, the harder I had to work to keep up with Joskan. I couldn't seem to get enough air, thin and lifeless as it was this high in the tors.
Joskan also pointed out the stirrings of life in this seemingly unlivable wasteland. What I had taken for barren earth contained burrows for the small mammals that lived in the area. Scrubby brush the color of slate clung to the ground, and once I spotted mangy mountain goats leaping from rock to rock.
I watched for the highland orcs from the night before, but saw no signs of pursuit. When I said as much to Joskan, he grunted in his particular way that I've yet to interpret. "What do we seek up here?" he asked. "I've no wish to stay any longer than we must."
The hard weight of the wayfinder swung inside my pocket. "Good question. I have a feeling I'll know it when I see it." I squinted up at the horizon, passed a hand in front of my eyes, and stopped. "Maybe that's it there."
Joskan looked up and also stopped.
Wrapped around the mountain peak ahead of us was
a dragon.
It was so large that, had it hunched up between peaks, I might have mistaken it for another mountain. Its immense size allowed me to see the beast in exquisite detail, even at this distance. Scales as large as a man covered its sinuous body. Claws as long and thick as trees dug into solid rock, shearing aside the ancient stone as if it were flesh. Its mouth, large enough to fit a house in, was open, and its tongue unfurled as if tasting prey on the wind. White smoke drifted from its mouth as the monster breathed.
Its hide was stone-colored as if in a pitiful mockery of camouflage. Nothing could disguise this beast. Beside me, Joskan clutched fruitlessly at the haft of his axe.
We stood there for several breaths. Finally I relaxed, realizing that the great beast couldn't possibly care about prey as small as we, and had not seemed to notice us. In fact, it didn't seem to notice anything, not even the lone bird that circled near its head. Its gaze remained fixed and unblinking, its tongue still unfurled, and although the white smoke issued from its mouth, its sides did not move with each breath.
"It's a statue," I murmured.
Joskan grunted again, but it lacked the usual implied disdain. He pointedly released his axe and folded his arms, as if feeling more confident against a few thousand tons of rock.
I shook loose of my awe and took a few steps forward. "Come on!" I shouted as I resumed the climb. "I want to get a better view."
With a final grunt and a shake of his head, Joskan stalked after me.
"That's the spirit," I said. "Just keep your eyes out for trouble and try not to think about golems."
"I'm not thinking about golems," Joskan said. He spat into a pile of scrub and joined me in the climb. "I'm thinking about what could have built something like that, and if the sculptor's still here."
He does have a knack for snuffing my enthusiasm.
28 Rova, 4707 ar
We spent most of the day climbing and camped another night without incident. Joskan found trails I admit I would have missed—steep, narrow, and rock-strewn, to be sure, but they eased our passage nonetheless.
I focused on the scenery as we passed, and the more I looked, the more I discovered. Belkzen came to life around me. Rust-red lichen blended into the rock face so perfectly, I only discovered it when I put my hand out to steady myself and felt its stiff-soft bristles. Dun-colored shrews huddled among the rocks and scurried off once we'd passed. My cloak caught on a thorny, dead bramble, and when I paused to untangle myself I saw the black wood oozing oily sap; what I'd taken for thorns were seed-pods, tightly screwed to pointy tips.
Every now and then I looked up and caught sight of the massive, fantastic dragon coiled on his mountainous throne. Each time, the sight sent a shiver running through me and refreshed my awe.
"I take back what I said before," I commented. We halted for a moment so I could catch my breath, and to allow a mountain cat the size of a sheep to prowl by. She snarled at us but had no desire to tangle with such large prey. "This place is beautiful, once you get used to it."
By this time, we had left the narrow, treacherous trail for the broader and more comfortable mountain slope. I felt nervous with no stone walls on either side. Although the slope was gradual and a fall would bring nothing worse than a skinned knee, I couldn't shake the sensation that I was extraordinarily, dangerously high up. I looked up at the dragon again, at the stretch of sky above and around. No clouds marred the azure expanse, nor birds—only miles of blue nothing. For a moment I felt dizzy, and I could well imagine a man going mad with too much time staring up.
Then movement caught my eye. Another bird circled by the dragon. Even though I knew the monster to be a statue, I half expected it to come to life and snap up the intruder in its jaws.
I frowned. The bird was far away and indistinct, but it seemed to be the same type as the one I'd seen before. The enormity of the dragon skewed all proportions, but it seemed the bird was too large. It struck me, too, that I'd seen no other birds of any type, and now that I knew life indeed thrived in this barren place, their omission seemed odd.
I turned to Joskan to comment about the birds. He was stopped, body rigid, and looking over his shoulder with a face as gray as campfire ashes.
"
Joskan?"
"We're being followed."
Joskan and I raced up the mountain slope with as much speed as we could muster. Unfortunately for us, our mustering was embarrassing.
"It's hard... to hurry... this high up," I panted. I leaned forward as I climbed, grabbing rocks and shrubs to pull myself higher and ease some of the burden on my legs and lungs.
"I've been away... too long." Joskan huffed. "Takes time to... get used to moving like this again."
Retreat was impossible. The five orcs had waited until we were midway up the slope, exposed and trapped, before they ventured out from the rocks below. I glanced back only once, but that was enough.
Crude tattoos, brands, and scars covered their bodies in chaotic patterns. They wore tattered outfits that they must have assembled from mismatched bits and pieces of their victims' armor. Each bristled with as many weapons as he could carry. Bone and metal needles pierced their ears, nostrils, and cheeks. Now that they were in the open, they screamed and caterwauled with the same terrifying yells that woke me my first night here.
"Bad luck... we only notice them now," I gasped as we struggled onward. "Earlier we might have... doubled back... lost them..."
"No chance," Joskan said. "They chose now... to be seen. To trap us."
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline Page 11
