The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline

by James L Sutter (ed) (epub)

  I must've passed out for a moment, because I awoke to the feel of something trying to scrape the charred flesh from my scalp. Opening my eyes, I found my vision had cleared enough to realize that one of the larval slime crawlers was sitting on my face making a feast of my scorched flesh. I could feel another making its slimy way up my arm. Somehow, having these ridiculously vile little worms on me was the worst thing of all, and I spent some time rolling frantically and smashing them flat. There may have been screaming involved, but I couldn't say for sure—there was a lot going on at the time.

  When all was said and done, I rubbed my hand through my hair, which succeeded only in painfully irritating the scorched stubble. Fortunately, I still had a few minor potions I had brought along just in case, and one of them managed to heal the worst of the burns, leaving only pink, tender flesh. The hair was another matter, and probably made my head look decidedly lopsided. Not that anyone was here to see it. I decided I really didn't care and went about gathering my things and repairing my charred cloak as best I could.

  The inside of the pyramid was still thick and smoky, the spider-thing little more than a curled ball of char on the floor. I retrieved my fallen sword and the sunrod and went to examine the beheaded skeleton now lying on the ground. It appeared human enough at first glance, but a closer look revealed some inconsistencies: its head was narrower with elongated eye sockets, its lower jaw was long and able to come unhinged, and its ribs were lighter and finer than any human's—and there were far too many of them for any man or humanoid race I knew of. The creature bore a distinct serpentine look, which made sense in light of the snake motifs on the pyramid and bier.

  As I examined the cadaver, a curl of smoke near my head in the still-cloudy confines of the pyramid caught my attention. A current of air was flowing through the smoke, and it wasn't issuing from the doorway or the opening overhead. A sudden thought occurred to me. I pushed on the bier's stone lip as hard as I could, and the stone gave a little with a grating rasp. Bracing myself against the corbelled walls of the chamber, I heaved with all my leverage and the stone top of the pedestal slid free, revealing a stairwell descending from the bier's hollow interior. My wayfinder quickly confirmed that this was the route I sought.

  05 Neth, 4707 ar

  After a cold camp to rest and gather my wits about me, including taking inventory of what equipment had survived my misadventure, I descended into the hidden stairway. It continued down some ways before finally leveling off into a passage that extended away in what appeared to be a straight shot but after careful examination proved to be long, sinuous curves, like the undulations of a giant serpent.

  The tunnel was high-ceilinged and obviously carved by skilled artisans—probably the same who had constructed the pyramid above—and it had no sharp corners or edges. All was rounded into smooth contours. The walls and ceiling bore long serpentine designs that endlessly repeated themselves without beginning or end. Intertwined with them were actual carvings of snakes of all sizes and varieties. The walls were broken in places by alcoves that held ten-foot statues of vaguely anthropomorphic snake creatures, some with humanoid bodies and dozens of snake heads on long necks, others of giant serpents with wings and humanoid faces, and still others of beautiful women whose lovely torsos merged into scaly monstrosities. The supply of these varied monsters seemed endless as the corridor went on and on, and I never saw any two alike.

  As I traversed this long, majestic hallway, frantically sketching the statues in my journal, one of my footfalls suddenly sounded different than the rest. I looked down, only to find ripples extending out through the stone floor like water in a still pond. The strange wavelets climbed the walls and seemed to sink into one of the alcoves. Therein stood one of the large statues, this one a creature with a humanoid torso and arms but the coiled tail of a giant snake extending downward from its waist. Where its head should have been were a half-dozen fanged, serpentine heads atop elongated, scaly necks with patterns of snake scales. Grasped in its hands was a great axe of ornately carved stone. With a rumble and a crack, a thin patina of dust fell away and the statue slithered from the alcove. Its heads wove menacingly atop sinuous stone necks, and it raised its great axe to swing.

  Luck was with me. As the axe swung down, I leaped aside into a convenient alcove across the hallway that held a statue of a hooded snake with a bearded man's face, coiled and arching forward as if to strike. The golem's stroke narrowly missed me as I found cover behind the other statue, thrusting my journal into my shirt. As it recoiled for another strike I cast a quick cantrip to send a spray of acid sizzling toward the narrow base of the statue behind which I hid.

  Upon completing the spell, I jumped up behind the statue and grabbed the edges of its hood with my fingers. This sudden move fooled the golem again, and its great axe crashed into the base of the statue near where I had stood. The blow, combined with the hissing acid, created a crack across the statue's base that I capitalized on by bracing myself against the wall with my feet and pushing outward. The top-heavy statue and damaged base were just enough that, with a groan, the entire construction toppled forward as the golem brought its axe down for another blow.

  The falling statue caught the golem's axe in mid-swing, and momentum carried the golem down beneath the statue. Before it could react, I was already up and clutching the very item I had sought in vain the previous day. I flung the small leather bag as the golem lunged and snapped futilely, and it exploded amidst the many necks of the statue, coating them in an impenetrable web of expanding ooze that quickly hardened and immobilized them, sticking the golem fast to the floor, its lower half still partially pinned beneath the fallen statue.

  Moving quickly, I scooped up the fallen stone axe that had been dropped when the golem fell. I was barely able to lift it, but its weight was sufficient to shatter one of the serpentine necks. In moments it was over, the last snake head falling free, along with both arms for good measure. Exhausted, I dropped the stone axe and paused; for a moment, I had thought I heard a sound from up the tunnel. I waited, holding my breath, but heard nothing more, and decided that it was perhaps merely a strange echo from the falling stone axe. I hastily gathered my things and continued on my way, once more keeping a watchful eye on my back trail.

  I don't normally deface statues, but I enjoyed this one.

  The tunnel stretched on, though the décor eventually changed. There were no more alcoves, but new and more varied serpent patterns began to appear on the walls, floor, and ceiling. I finally came to a place where the left wall was embossed to look like the back of a giant serpent's throat, while the floor was decorated like the interior of the lower jaw of a snake's mouth complete with forked tongue, and the ceiling bore the image of the snake's upper jaw. This was not the first such bas-relief I had come upon, and while they had made me distinctly uncomfortable, none had proven to be dangerous. Something was different about this one, though, and made my hackles rise.

  I studied the thing for some time before I realized what it was: the stone floor of the tunnel upon the snake's carven tongue was smoother and brighter than the rest of the stone, as if the surface of the stone had been polished away. Slime crawlers had been down here and consumed whatever organic substance that covered the carved tongue, stripping the tiniest layer of the stone beneath in the process—probably some sort of poison or grease. It seemed like a fairly obvious tell for someone looking for a trap, but then again, most creatures of the Darklands didn't seem to use conventional vision and made do without much color variation. A creature traveling along this tunnel using the natural darkvision of the nether realms would have noticed no difference in the coloration of the tunnel floor and walked unheeding to its doom.

  I spent some time examining the trap until I had sussed out the basics of its workings. The floor beyond the snake's lower jaw was hinged and designed to drop open when anyone stepped on the tongue. As the floor dropped away, the teeth of the lower jaw r
ose from the floor and the upper jaw lowered from the ceiling, clamping together to mutilate the victim before dropping him into whatever charnel pit lay beneath. However, for the trap to function, a counterweight set into the roof of the snake's mouth had to rise into a ceiling cavity, allowing the upper jaw to drop. I could make out the shape of the counterweight disguised as part of the image's carved palette and finally decided upon a way to counteract the trap, as the trapped section of tongue was obviously too wide to jump across.

  Removing a rope from my pack, I worked a short cantrip that allowed me to grasp the end of the rope with an invisible force and carry it up to the counterweight. Concentrating carefully, I threaded the rope through a small hole drilled in the stone counterweight near its end, probably placed there so the stone could be more easily removed and replaced if repairs became necessary. The rope threaded, I summoned the end back to myself, tied a knot in it, then pulled gently to tighten it up against the counterweight.

  The trick now was to pull on the rope as I walked across the snake's tongue and apply just as much downward force on the counterweight as my weight was placing on the floor beneath. This I did, carefully, an action made all the more difficult because I had to shorten the length of the rope as I neared the center and then lengthen it again as I slowly stepped over to the opposite side. Other than a few groans and slight shifts in the stone, along with some white knuckles of my own, I made it safely across. My spell was spent, and I had no way to retrieve my rope, so I left it dangling there, thinking perhaps I would need it for a sudden departure.

  I started off down the passage, then on a hunch, stopped short of the first sinuous turn and crouched down, extinguishing my torch. For several long minutes I sat in the cloying darkness, silent, convinced that at last the tunnels were getting to me, making me paranoid. Then, just as I was about to move on and denounce my foolishness, I heard it: the telltale sounds of someone examining the trap. As quietly as possible, I moved

  back toward the sounds. Ahead, in the dim light of a covered lantern, I could just make out a humanoid form. Hand on sword hilt, I stepped from the shadows just as the man finished using my rope to pull himself across the trap.

  Belzig paused in shock at my sudden appearance, and then an oily smile split his face.

  "Why, there you are, Kline," the sycophant simpered. "I was hoping I'd catch up to you. Nice work with these traps, by the way. This one would have gotten me for sure."

  "Too bad," I replied.

  "Is that any way to greet a comrade in arms?" Belzig's false smile was still plastered across his face. "We're Pathfinders. We've got to stick together."

  I snorted. "One of us is, at least."

  Belzig's smile slipped a bit, and I could tell the barb had struck home. He must have been nearly as tired as I was. He continued regardless.

  "After you left, I grew worried that you might need assistance in these dangerous caverns, and Lord Uldeth graciously granted me leave to come help you."

  "I'm sure he did," I replied. "Just as you followed me out of the goodness of your heart." I paused, suddenly weary… how long had it been since I'd last spoken to another human? Weeks? "Go back to your orc master, Belzig," I sighed. "There's nothing for you here."

  Belzig dropped the phony smile altogether. "Now see here, Kline. I know you're onto something. You came to Urgir to find your way down here, and I helped you make it past Lord Uldeth. A part of whatever treasure you're after is mine by right, and you're going to cut me in."

  He took a step forward, and was met by my outthrust hand, shoving him backward.

  "Even if there was a treasure, you'd get none of it," I said. "You think I would bring you along just so you can stick a knife in my back the first chance you get? I don't think so, lapdog. Go on back to playing secretary in your orc city."

  "You're making a big mistake, Kline," he hissed between his teeth.

  "Not as big as yours, apparently," I responded. "Or is there something about living with orcs that appeals to you? The women, perhaps? Presuming Lord Uldeth doesn't retain all your services, of course."

  Belzig lunged, swinging his fist. I was waiting for it, and dropped to the ground. He moved in quick, trying to bring his boot heel down on my neck, but I rolled aside and scissored my legs, catching him behind the knees and pulling him down hard on the stone. We both came up at the same time, and I smashed a hard right into his ear, splitting it open, then stepped inside his swing to make two quick punches to the gut. The wind exploded out of him, and he sat down hard on the floor. I backed up to let him think about it a little bit.

  He stood up unsteadily, blood pouring from his ruptured ear onto his pricey shirt. His face was flushed and sweaty. For a moment, I think Belzig almost considered backing down. But I should have known that he wasn't the kind to finish a fight fair if he didn't have to.

  The only warning I had was the sudden gleam in his eyes, then his ornate rapier was in his hand as if it had jumped there of its own accord. He caught me off-guard—as he lunged, all I could do was raise my left hand to block the thrust. The thin blade sliced cleanly, almost painlessly, across my palm, but I managed to knock the force upward so that the thrust passed harmlessly over my shoulder.

  Stumbling backward, I drew my own shorter, heavier blade, the blood flowing freely from the stinging cut on my left hand. "I should have known you couldn't take a hit," I spat.

  "You'll have to show me how it's done," he rejoined as he lunged toward me in classical fencing form.

  My blade narrowly deflected his attack, and he followed with a quick slash that I wasn't able to block, leaving a short cut across my forearm. He was faster than me with that blade and, it quickly became apparent, better than me at swordplay in general. But was he smarter? My journey had taught me a lot of lessons—many of them none too enjoyable.

  We danced around for a few minutes, neither gaining an advantage, but neither giving ground either. My strokes were shorter than his with my heavier blade, and many of them he was able to avoid without even bringing his blade to bear. He was tiring me and, we both knew, beating me.

  "We both know how this ends, Kline," he said. "Just tell me what you're after and give me the wayfinder you follow, and I'll let you live. There'll be other secrets to chase."

  "No thanks."

  His face took on a strange expression. "Very well," he said woodenly. "Your kind never makes the big discoveries anyway, you know. You just keep trying until someone better comes along and plucks it from your grasp. I suppose I was going to kill you all along anyway."

  We circled a moment, and he waited until I inevitably made a misstep, tired as I was. Then he lunged in hard. I couldn't get my sword over to block it or get out of the way in time. I twisted and took the blade through my left shoulder instead of through the breast as he had intended. He paused with a look of triumph—and then faltered as he realized I had him.

  My sword swing, too slow to block his lunge, was already en route to its destination. Before he could withdraw his own blade, mine came down hard on the thin blade above the pommel guard. The pain it sent ringing up through my shoulder was excruciating, but the fragile rapier blade snapped, and the force of it sent him stumbling backward, out of the reach of my reverse swing.

  Belzig realized where he was when the floor started to tip. Dropping his useless blade, he grabbed the still-dangling rope and hauled hard on it to pull the counterweight down and arrest the tilting of the floor. The trap's jaws, protruding from floor and ceiling about a foot, stopped. Their thick, pulverizing stone teeth had only just begun to close around where Belzig stood.

  Belzig, too, was quivering with exhaustion after the fight. Without being tied in, as I had been, he was supporting his entire weight with wearied hands, and he'd grabbed it too late—the floor had already receded enough for the rope to lift him off his feet, dangling helplessly. He'd never make it off the t
rap alive without help.

  His eyes showed that he knew it. Desperate, he forced his voice to remain calm.

  "Kline, don't do this," he urged. "It's one thing to kill a man clean in a fight, but this—this isn't your way. If you let me die, you'll regret it forever. Get me out of this, and I swear I'll return to Urgir and leave you to your search. My oath as a Pathfinder."

  What is it with giant bugs and spitting?

  For the first time in days, I thought of Joskan. Belzig was right—I didn't like leaving people to die.

  But damned if I wasn't getting good at it.

  His first indication of my decision was the hurtling dagger that sliced cleanly through the rope, one of the better throws I've made. Freed of its burden, the counterweight rose swiftly through its gap in the ceiling. Belzig only had time for a quick scream as the stony jaws drew together, stone teeth occluding my view and revealing only a quick glimpse of the floor tilting suddenly beneath him. Then the stones slammed together with a muffled thud, and all sound from within ceased.

  After a moment, the jaws retracted and the ceiling rose back into place. Where Belzig had stood was only a bloody smear across the trap door, where his shattered corpse had presumably slid into whatever ancient ossuary awaited below. A fitting grave for any Pathfinder, I suppose. And perhaps my own, before this whole thing was over.