The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline

by James L Sutter (ed) (epub)

Looking up from his seat behind the desk was a bizarre figure. While obviously once tall and broad-shouldered, the orc's thin frame was hunched and bent, and long, stringy white hair hung around his face. I realized with a start that this was the first truly aged orc I had ever seen—I suppose their society isn't conducive to long lifespans.

  "This him?" the old one inquired with a rasping wheeze.

  In response, one of my handlers pulled the Broken Spine standard from my pack and tossed it on the table. The white-hair nodded in approval.

  "Good. Go." The two guards turned and left without any salute that I could notice—apparently obedience was obeisance enough in this place. I was left standing alone, unhindered, while the old orc fondled the banner and chuckled to himself. After a moment, he looked at me again.

  "Tell me how you got this," he demanded.

  "I'm an emissary and trader from lands west of here," I said. "The Broken Spine clan allows me to carry this to prove I act with their blessings."

  "Really," the orc said, and the word was not a question. Faster than I could blink, the old one scooped a dagger off the table and whipped it overhand, sending it whistling past my ear and burying it deep in the wooden door. Apparently you don't make it that long as an orc without quick reflexes.

  "Are you sure that's your answer?" he asked, voice flat.

  As a rule, I don't like to tell anyone more than they need to know, but with the dagger still humming softly behind me, this seemed like a good time to make an exception. Too tired to lie, I told him the entire story of my travels since entering Belkzen, leaving out only my quest with the wayfinder. The old orc listened quietly, eyes shining with delight at my description of Chief Kroghut's humiliation and Joskan's betrayal. When I was finished, he chuckled again.

  "Another Pathfinder come to Urgir—Chief Uldeth's dream is coming true. Urgir will grow fat, and the Empty Hand will be first among tribes." He tapped the ornate black-fist emblem that hung from a necklace of teeth and sinew.

  "Another?" I asked.

  "So you didn't know," the old one replied. "Interesting. Yes, one of yours came through several months ago."

  "Do you know where he went?" I pressed, thinking of my wayfinder. The orc cackled.

  "Straight to the palace, upon order of Grask Uldeth himself. He never came out."

  I pondered that for a moment, while the orc stroked the banner once again. Finally, he spoke.

  "Your tale is good, pinkskin," he said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were one of us."

  He hefted the banner. "This is not a token, manchild. This is an insult to the entire Broken Spine clan. Which is why I'm going to trade you a token for it. The Broken Spine cowards are no friends of the Empty Hand, and to see Kroghut shamed by a pinkskin is priceless. In exchange, you will be free to wander Urgir as you see fit, unmolested. Agreed?"

  Seeing little choice, I nodded, and the old one tossed me a thong bearing a horn plaque, different than his own but still blazoned with the black fist. I slipped it over my head.

  "Thank you, constable…?" I ventured

  The orc snorted. "Just Ardax," he said. "Ardax the White-Hair. Titles are for those without reputations." Raising his voice, he called out to the two guards who had brought me in, who appeared immediately.

  "Take this one out to the street and release him into the care of his own kind," he ordered.

  Grabbing my arms, the two guards marched me out to the front of the building, then stopped and scanned the crowds of bustling passersby until they saw the telltale flash of pale flesh. With a whistle and a gesture, they summoned over a slightly portly man just shy of middle age, well dressed and with his own token prominently displayed. He bowed low as he approached, cringing.

  "Y-yes, lords?" he quavered.

  "Take this one," they ordered, gesturing for me to go with the newcomer. "Keep him out of trouble." I needed little urging, and quickly moved to the man's side, following him as he backed away with another series of low bows.

  The stranger turned out to be a merchant of a fairly decent sort, an antiquities trader from Nirmathas named Brunoe. Once back in the markets where he felt more at home, he lost some of his sheepish demeanor and explained in low tones how things worked in the city. Apparently Grask Uldeth, leader of the Empty Hand tribe, had held the city unequivocally for the last two decades, and had recently raised his aim even higher. Envying the way monarchs in human lands sat back and let wealth come to them through taxes and trade, he began instituting a series of heavy-handed policies designed to make the city more appealing to foreigners. Chief among these programs were the badges we now wore—while human slaves might be a hot commodity in Urgir, anyone bearing a token was not to be touched except by order of Uldeth himself.

  "And that actually works?" I asked, having difficulty imagining the typically anarchic orcs succumbing to such comparatively harsh restrictions.

  "See for yourself," Brunoe replied, gesturing skyward. For the first time I took a moment to stop and observe the strange crenellations on many of the surrounding rooftops, staring long enough to note they weren't stonework at all, but rather dozens of green-skinned orc heads impaled on spikes. The grisly display continued all the way down the central strip of the marketplace.

  "Comforting," I said.

  "Isn't it, though?"

  Two heads, and not half a brain between them.

  Unfortunately, Brunoe explained, just because the orcs weren't allowed to enslave and eat you didn't mean life in Urgir was all pie and roses. As with any city, foreigners were a target. Merchants tried to cheat you. Thieves stole your goods. Locals blamed you for their problems. And of course, though you couldn't legally be slaughtered, that didn't mean you were any less likely to be stabbed in the back and robbed, just like any other citizen. Even as he accompanied me in re-supplying, I began to see what he meant. Children threw stones and then disappeared into allies. Passersby made a point of slamming into me with their meaty shoulders, several times almost sending me to the ground. After one particularly obvious jostling, I turned to pursue the laughing orc, but Brunoe's hand stopped me.

  "Just keep your head down and don't make trouble," he said. "This is what they do. Shrug it off." I gritted my teeth, but said nothing. Soon we came to a stall that sold some of the basics of outdoor life—I could replace things like rope and tindertwigs, which the giant insects had carried off and scattered—and I waited patiently as an orc before me cursed, shouted, and threatened violence before finally paying for his goods and leaving, not appearing overly dissatisfied. Stepping up to the counter, I had the surly shopkeeper lay out a nearly identical package, for which he quoted me an outrageous price.

  "I'll take the same price as the orc who just left," I said.

  "Try it, runt," the merchant countered. Before I could go on, Brunoe stepped easily between us and took over the bargaining. Though he was masterful—going from pleasant tones to high rage and back again in instants—he was unable to get the price lower than double what the orc had paid. Reluctantly, I accepted, handed over the coins, and turned to leave. Behind us, there was a hacking noise, and something wet hit the back of my neck.

  "Pinkskins."

  I turned back toward the grinning shopkeeper, my sword halfway out of its scabbard, but again Brunoe stopped me.

  "Head down," he said, his own eyes lowered and studiously staring off into the distance as he wiped the greasy spittle from his cheek. "Walk away."

  It took every ounce of my strength, but finally my gratitude to the little man won out and I did as he said. Together we returned to Brunoe's own stall, a display of rare and sometimes magical works of art from throughout the ages, guarded by a several silent but effective orc mercenaries. While there were few in Urgir looking to buy such wares, numerous unsavory characters found the city a treasure trove of dwarven artifacts, and were eager to unload
such items for coppers. Sharing a similar passion for history, if not the adventurous manner in which I pursued it, the merchant was eager to hear stories of my life as a Pathfinder, and I regaled him gladly in exchange for lunch.

  At one point during our repast, we were interrupted by a deep rumble, a bass growl that seemed to come from the stones themselves. In the streets, people stopped, many of them taking cover in nearby buildings as the ground began to shake. After a moment it passed, and people resumed going about their business as if nothing had happened.

  "Earthquake," Brunoe explained. "Happens all the time. Occasionally something collapses, but for the most part, they're not dangerous."

  He continued to press me for stories of my wanderings, but all the talk succeeded in reminding me of my original intentions in Urgir. Checking my wayfinder, I saw that it pointed due east down the wide boulevard, past the market strip and out of the light entirely, into the subterranean warren of structures hidden by the rising towers. As he'd already come in handy once that day, I asked Brunoe to be my guide. He agreed readily, then promptly choked on his bread and cheese as I pointed into the darkness.

  "You don't know it, but you're insane," the merchant said. "The outer city is bad enough, but to go inside the warrens—that's their ghetto, where the orcs who don't have the money or temperament to interact with the rest of the world live. It's dark, it's dangerous, and it's absolutely out of the question."

  "I'll pay you," I offered.

  "I appreciate the offer," he replied, "but taking you through there would be instant death, token or no. I flatly refuse to die for anything less than ten gold."

  "Eight."

  Orcs rarely live to reach old age.

  "Sold. I'll get some torches."

  Lights in hand, we walked east along the broad street, quickly passing into the shadows of the buildings above us. Before long, their foundations arched over our heads and met, turning the road into a massive tunnel beneath the many layers of city above. Inside, things were closely packed, dirtier, more like Urglin. It was clear that this section was not visited by outsiders often, and many were the hard stares and catcalls we received as we progressed. The architecture here was a strange mishmash—obviously the dwarves, being creatures of the earth themselves, had built these tunnels with care, carving out great vaulted halls and chambers that were just as much part of the city as the sunlit streets. Yet alongside the monuments sat newer, ragtag constructions, lean-tos and shanties assembled from broken chunks of masonry and debris. Refuse covered the streets, and at one point I narrowly escaped a rain of offal from an upper-story gallery, the contents of someone's chamber pot spattering my shoes. Judging by the ensuing laugh, I doubted it was an accident. Jaw tense, I kept walking. Shortly thereafter, Brunoe stopped at a crossroads where several tunnels met, orcs traveling this way and that with more purpose than before. At the corners, vast spiral staircases led up into the ceiling, presumably to the other layers of city I'd viewed from afar.

  "This is the central crossing for this level," my guide informed me. "Choose your direction—everything leads back out into the light, and I could stand to be done with the smell in here sooner rather than later."

  Nodding my agreement, I withdrew my wayfinder and checked the needle, which still pointed due east. "It seems we may have passed through here for nothing," I said. "We're still head—"

  A heavy shoulder slamming into mine combined with an outthrust leg to knock me to the floor, my pack falling open and disgorging some of its contents onto the filthy stone.

  "Watch it, pinkskin," the orc snickered, not even breaking stride.

  For a brief second, everything froze. Onlookers smirked at my fall. Brunoe's mouth was open, no doubt choked with platitudes. My heart beat loud in my ears, pulse making the veins in my temples throb. I took a single, deep breath. And then I was on him.

  The orc didn't expect it, and so he didn't see it. Cocking my legs, I launched myself at him, colliding with the center of his back in a flying tackle that took us both to the ground. His hands found my shirt and tore at me, but I tangled my own in his long, greasy hair and began to methodically slam his face into the stone floor, each hit punctuating my fevered words.

  "That's right," I yelled. "That's right, you son of a bitch! That's what you get for messing with a godsdamned pinkskin." With a heave I rolled him over and began to work him with my fists, sending blow after blow into the bloody ruin of his face as he wailed and attempted to choke me. "Who's the pinkskin now?!" I asked, smearing blood across green skin with my knuckles. Then I found a rhythm and settled into it, closing my eyes and seeing different faces. Joskan. Devoren. The hellknight who killed Sascha.

  From behind me, Brunoe made a feeble cry, and I looked up to see him standing off to the side with a hand over his mouth. All around us, orcs were moving in toward the fight. I paused in my pummeling long enough to rise up on my knees, still straddling the orc's waist, and lift the blood-spattered token from my chest.

  "You know what this means!" I roared. "It means you can't touch me!" I brandished it like a holy symbol, and the onlookers fell back obligingly. I howled with pure, animalistic delight, my rage and shame and frustration with everything that had happened since leaving Magnimar boiling out in that cry.

  "Diplomatic immunity, you bastards!" I screamed, and slammed my fist home one last time, then knelt there breathing heavily, head down and shaking. A moment later, I felt Brunoe's tentative hand on my shoulder.

  "Eando? You alright?" he asked.

  I sighed, one long breath of letting go.

  "Yeah," I said. "Sorry. Bastard had it coming."

  "Of course," he replied. "And you certainly showed her."

  My eyes flew open.

  "What did you say?" I asked, but even as I did, I was looking down, past the green skin and armor, the bulky clothes and corded muscle, seeking the telltale curves.

  "Just that I bet she'll think twice before picking on a pinkskin again."

  A woman. Gods.

  Standing slowly, I moved away from the groaning form on the ground, leaning on Brunoe for support.

  "Come on, Brunoe," I said. "Let's get out of here."

  Walking quickly, heedless of the stares at my bloodied clothes, the two of us followed the wayfinder's heading east, through another long tunnel. At last we emerged on the other side of the city, stepping out into a wide plaza that stretched for hundreds of yards before ending in a towering keep, larger than any of the buildings I'd seen so far.

  "That's the great palace, the chieftain's seat," Brunoe said, gesturing at the structure. "That's where Grask Uldeth lives and rules. This," he said, gesturing to the immense stretch of flat marble, unbroken by so much as a bench, "is the Plaza of Sky." He pointed at my feet, and I saw that though the entire thing could be called white, slight gradations in the coloring formed a vast mosaic depicting scenes of caverns and subterranean cities, dwarves and other underground creatures. "This represents the past, everything over which the dwarves triumphed to burst forth and build this place." He paused. "For a time, anyway. The orcs have left it untouched, as in a way, it represents their own struggle."

  Fascinating as it was, I couldn't quite bring myself to get excited over the history. Instead, I pulled forth my wayfinder to take another reading. And blinked.

  The needle was spinning free.

  "Impossible," I breathed. While Brunoe looked on, I scampered back and forth across the plaza like a madman, attempting to get some sort of reading. Nothing. Not so much as a quiver.

  "So what do I do now?" I asked nobody in particular. Throwing my head back, I screamed at the sky. "I'm here!" I announced. "Now what?" In response, I received only Brunoe's concerned expression.

  "Sorry," I said, slumping back against the tunnel entrance and letting the wayfinder drop, its thong swinging it against my chest with a thump. "It'
s just that I've just been following this thing for so long.…"

  "Maybe you still can," Brunoe offered. I glanced up, and he gestured toward my chest.

  I looked down at the wayfinder, held vertical against my shirt by the thong around my neck. From this angle, the needle was indeed pointing again.

  Straight down.

  "Oh," I said.

  Fear in a Handful of Rust

  By Jay Thompson

  22 Lamashan, 4707 ar

  Never let it be said that we Pathfinders are an impractical lot. Charmed and cursed, often at the same stroke—yes. Dropped time and again into unfortunate situations—sure. But if I were to write my own epitaph (and this journal might be just that), it would read, He followed his luck, and did what he had to.

  The streets thickened with midday crowds as I approached the gates of Grask Uldeth's palace. After that confusing moment in which my wayfinder had spun free in the Plaza of the Sky, only to end up pointing straight down, I had quickly concluded that my course now required me to find a way beneath the city proper, perhaps into the Darklands themselves. The rumor mill might grind slow, but it grinds fine, and after a few days of asking questions I got what might be the best tip and the worst news of this whole adventure—that, in all of Urgir, the only known remaining entrance to the Darklands opened beneath the orc chieftain's palace itself. It had taken several barrels of pricey rotgut and a few favors for a wealthy orc war-machine supplier to glean even that much. (The favors I'll leave out for the time being, save to say that stealing from the worshipers of Rovagug is not something I'd recommend for those who value their skins.)

  Uldeth's palace still showed its dwarven origin. Its vaulting walls, with barred windows and arrow-notch defense points, rose above the filthy chattering throng of orcs, humans and slaves in the creeping half-light of Urgir. Its torch-burnt facade and its ragged banners, fastened by brass rings to the palace's turrets with war-rhino horns, spoke to its new ownership, and suggested an orc's idea of grandeur. The orc weapon-monger had told me that I should arrive at midday, and that an escort would announce itself.