The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline

by James L Sutter (ed) (epub)

  And I'd do it without a guide. Tentatively, I removed the ioun stone from its niche in the floor, and instead of socketing it into its usual setting, thrust both stone and wayfinder into my pocket. All this time, the symbol of my calling has been leading me (and others? had it hinted that I was only the first?) to this mummified city, a sleeping giant prepared to emerge and reclaim its throne once humanity had advanced far enough to come looking for them, proving with our tenacity that we were competent to serve. From here on out, the thing wasn't going to be of much use, but I wasn't about to leave the key resting in the lock of a slumbering serpent army for the next explorer to come along.

  The next explorer.

  The certainty came on like a spear to the chest. Counter to all my Pathfinder duties—to report, to cooperate, to explore—I knew no news of this place could be allowed to reach the treasure-hunters of the surface.

  The Decemvirate had sealed certain secrets before. The site of the treasures of Ammelon VI, the contents of the recalled Fifth Pathfinder Chronicle: both of these the Decemvirate had deemed better kept secret. Surely, if the way to this dark city were made known, the cost to all the peoples of Golarion would be vastly too great. I would return to Absalom immediately (it meant only a jog across orc battlefields and a few chartered boats—child's play, considering what I'd been through) and I would make my case to Shevala, then to the Decemvirate itself if need be. The city must remain hidden.

  I turned to leave the chamber—

  —and stepped straight into a familiar figure.

  Belzig. Alive. My rival shoved me hard and I fell to the floor, still weak. There was blood caked onto his ear, but otherwise he looked the same as when I'd seen him just days before. He stood with his feet apart, ready to leap at me, but smirked like a schoolboy. He held a starknife lightly in one hand, ready to stab or throw.

  "Belzig," I gasped. "You're alive."

  "Very astute, Kline."

  I started to rise, but his foot lashed out and caught me in the chin, sending a spray of blood across the stone floor. The starknife flashed through the air and caught my arm as I fell. I screamed. He was kneeling on my chest.

  My mind raced. How had he escaped?

  "You're—a better Pathfinder—than I—thought, Belzig." I could scarcely breathe with his weight on my ribs and the blood and broken teeth filling my mouth.

  "And you, Kline, are a disappointment."

  "We have to get out of this city."

  He smiled. "But you worked so hard to get us here."

  "Didn't you see the carvings? The snakemen are waiting for someone to open their tomb!"

  "Just one?"

  "Just—one." He pulled out his starknife, and I stifled a cry. My arm was bleeding into my tunic.

  "You think I'm afraid of wormfolk?"

  "These aren't wormfolk."

  He scratched my chin with his blade. "That dead one looks like wormfolk enough to me."

  "They're telepaths. They control others."

  "And you're weak-minded."

  He stretched out one leg and kicked the corpse with his boot.

  "Belzig, we can't touch anything in here."

  "Of all the sentences I thought I'd never hear a Pathfinder say."

  "Anything."

  "Except the jewels in that open sepulcher, I suppose."

  I glared. "Anything else."

  He smiled sweetly. "You left me pinned and bleeding in that trap to die."

  "You're a stooge."

  He cut a gash into my cheek with a swift gesture, and I cried out in pain. "No," he said, leaning over me, "I'm about to be famous. You're a Pathfinder who walks away from knowledge."

  He set down his starknife, reached behind him into his pack, and pulled out a length of climbing rope.

  "You're a Pathfinder who serves an orc," I spat.

  "I think we can safely say that phase of my career has come to a close. Once the Grand Lodge publishes my findings, I think I'll spend a few decades enjoying my fame in Absalom. Maybe get asked to join the Decemvirate. You never know. "

  "Belzig, listen to me. Looters and Pathfinders are exactly what the snakemen want."

  "Well, that's something they and I have in common." He tied my hands behind me.

  "Listen. It was only by sheer luck that I survived. A human who opens another sepulcher, any other sepulcher here, will unleash a horror no one can contain."

  "Which will explain your disappearance."

  "The next treasure seeker who disturbs a tomb in this city won't be able to stop these things from awakening! I'm sure of it!"

  "That falls under the category of not—my—problem." He tugged hard on the ropes. My arms were bound behind me; I kicked up hard but he grabbed my ankle, threw his weight down, and tied one length of rope around my calves. He shoved my pack across the floor of the tomb. He didn't even seem to break a sweat.

  "Besides, Kline." He smirked. "You're losing your nerve." He counted off on his fingers with a grin: "Pathfinders report, explore, and cooperate. We share information."

  He caught my head between his hands, tore a strip of fabric off my tunic, and gagged me with it. Then he stood up.

  "Which one of us is keeping the faith," he said, "and which one of us is keeping secrets?"

  He walked over to the open sarcophagus, dug through it, and drew out a jade-carved snake, a sapphire, and a diamond the size of a robin's egg.

  "I'm afraid I'll miss you, Kline. Kline the not-so-curious." He picked me up and dragged me, and I flopped like a caught fish, scrabbling and dragging my feet over the floor. It was no contest: he tossed me into the sepulcher on top of the snakeman's jewels. "Kline the faint-hearted." He held up his diamond. "Certainly not Kline the Pathfinder. I'll tell them to leave that off your epitaph."

  He turned and sauntered up the ramp and out of the chamber. I panted for breath to plead, call out, curse. No breath came—nothing but the taste of the gag cinched between my lips. He turned around from the antechamber to yell, "This really is a magnificent tomb, Kline!" Then he was gone.

  Call me crazy, but I don't think we want these things waking up.

  Here's another choice bit of Pathfinder wisdom: when someone's got you in a tight spot, just keep them talking.

  The whole time he was hauling me across the floor and telling me I wasn't keeping the faith, Belzig hadn't bothered to watch where he was walking. Why should he? He'd arrived after I'd dropped my knife, and the light was poor. As he left, maybe he had surveyed the floor of the tomb once more and, not seeing anything of his, had walked away.

  But he had let me drag my feet as he carried me. And after I fought, he'd let me land in the sepulcher with my legs under me.

  A little divine intervention had saved me before. A little of my own good sense would save me now.

  I squirmed onto my back, and felt the blade of the knife clenched between my worn-out boot heels. A little flexing of the muscles and the blade began to dig into my rope wrappings. There was a pop, and my legs were free. I arched my back, picked the blade up between the free tips of my fingers, and went to work. Another rope cut—then another—and another. I stretched my legs and my arms and stood. I grabbed another good-sized ruby for luck.

  I had a new mission: word of this city must never be allowed out.

  I would have to track Belzig more slyly than he had tracked me. I'd have to be quicker and smarter than he was. I'd probably have to put him out of commission more definitively than he had with me. And I didn't have a moment to spare.

  But when had I lost to a coward before?

  When, cast aside, had I ever stayed down?

  And when do I ever have a moment to spare?

  I snatched up my pack and bolted out the temple door.

  A Thousand Miles to Absalom

 
By Amber Scott

  01 Kuthona, 4707 ar

  The rain pounded like the throb of my heartbeat in my ears. Lightning seared across the sky, and thunder echoed my relentless, silent vow.

  I will catch him.

  I'd already been chasing Belzig for a week, ever since I clawed my way out of the Darklands just northeast of Gallowspire. His trail hadn't been easy to find, and it took me two precious hours to make certain I was following his true tracks and not a false trail. For days I tracked him south and east, around the edge of the Hungry Mountains, sleeping as little as I dared and pressing myself as hard as I could without risking exhaustion. The last thing I needed was to cripple myself just as I came within striking distance.

  Now this blasted thunderstorm threatened to hamper my progress further. Up ahead, on the side of the road, sat a lonely hostel. Stone walls to blot out the thunder, heavy shutters to mask the lightning, and a stout wooden door to close out the rain. A sign rattling in the gusting wind proclaimed it the Sturdy Bedpost. It was as much as I could hope for in this dismal stretch of Razmiran.

  Away from home, anything that looks too good to be true probably is—and even at home, such things are likely to cut your throat and steal your purse. But I digress.

  I pounded on the door between rolls of thunder. It opened suddenly, and despite myself I took a step backward. The man in front of me was tall and well built, with white hair spilling over the contoured iron mask which covered his face with that of his god, the holy Razmir. Through holes in the metal visage, bright eyes peered out at me. Throwing the door wide, he ushered me inside.

  "A terrible night to be out."

  "I thank you for your hospitality."

  The priest's hair spoke of his age, but he moved with easy grace. A second priest, similarly masked, stepped forward and took my cloak. Together they escorted me into the dining room.

  "We will prepare a meal for you and provide you with a bed for the night. Any donation you can make in return is humbly appreciated."

  "Again, I thank you," I said. "Your hostel is a godsend for those out in such weather."

  The priest's blank metallic expression was impossible to read, and despite his hospitality I understood immediately why so many avoid Razmir's chosen.

  "A godsend indeed," he said. "We will speak more of that at dinner, when our other guest can join us."

  "Other?" I echoed. The word slipped out as I stepped through an archway into a gloomy dining hall. A table, bowed with the weight of past feasts, held a few small platters. A fire glowed dully in the hearth. Silhouetted against the flames, a figure turned to face me.

  "Indeed, it is a night for travelers," the priest said.

  Of course.

  Belzig.

  I saw my first instinct reflected in Belzig's stare. The desire to fly across the room and slam my dagger, fists, anything into his soft flesh again and again. A third priest, smaller and apparently younger than the other two, set wine out on the table.

  Too many witnesses. Too many innocents. My blade stayed where it was, and I affected a smile. "A warm greeting on this cold night."

  "To you as well," Belzig replied.

  "You know each other?" the priest who had admitted

  me asked.

  "But a little," Belzig said. "You came through Ustalav, did you not?"

  "I did," I said. "That is a perilous land. Fortunately, I possess friends in the area. As I traveled through Varno, one ally approached me and told me the town ahead was poised to ambush me, having heard that I brought ill fortune in my shadow."

  I took a seat at the table. Belzig sat opposite me, his dark gaze never leaving my face. The priests sat as well and dished out the cold slices of meat and slabs of bread.

  "The superstitions of Ustalav are well known in these parts," Belzig said mildly. "Frustrating and pitiful. Were you forced to detour very far?"

  "Oh no," I said. "I know the superstitiousness of Ustalav as well. With a borrowed dress and shawl and a change of tone, I entered town as a crone, a Varisian fortuneteller. I ‘foretold' that the people there had been misled, and that I saw a cursed future for all children in the village unless the one who set the town against me was repaid in kind."

  The first priest, who I now took to be in charge, gave a chuckle that echoed through his mask. "Astounding. Such guile is admirable."

  Belzig's smile wavered, and he rubbed his shoulder. I had hoped the people of Ustalav would turn on him and slow his progress enough for me to catch up. Apparently they did.

  Belzig and I ate in silence for a time while the priests talked. The white-haired one droned on in praise of Razmir, who had obviously guided us here, and about what a great blessing it was that we found this place. Through the haze of hatred surrounding me, his words began to penetrate. I don't trust a lot of gods, but from everything I'd heard Razmir was crazier than most. The only thing more fickle than a god or a king is the two of them combined.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I might be in great danger. Fortunately, that meant that Belzig was in danger, too.

  "Indeed," I said, breaking in on the priest's diatribe, "tales of Razmir's greatness have drifted along the river currents all the way to Absalom, where I first heard them. My friend here"—I tilted my knife toward Belzig—"has often listened to my tales of Razmir's glory. Though he follows a different path, he was forced to admit that they were interesting stories."

  "Stories!" The priest turned his fixed expression on Belzig.

  The Pathfinder all but gnashed his teeth. "My respect for the tales was great."

  "They are not mere tales." The priest turned to me once more. "Do you follow the word of Razmir, then?"

  My ability to spin a good story almost always serves me well. I launched into a rousing description of how Razmir's deeds have long inspired me. Belzig stammered and stuttered, allowing me to talk smoothly overtop of him. I looked great.

  The fire was almost out and the food was stone cold. The old priest stood and said, "Truly you display uncommon knowledge and reverence for Razmir. And your stories mark you as a man of skill and poise."

  "Thank you," I replied.

  "Tonight you sleep in our finest suite. Tomorrow you must accompany us to the Exalted Wood, where we shall teach you more about the glory of Razmir. Your friend, unfortunately, has neither the instinct nor drive for such training."

  Behind him, Belzig smirked at me.

  "Still," the priest continued, "he may find his calling in time, and the priests that instruct there are always in need of additional servants. He will come as well."

  We both protested, all enmity momentarily set aside in the face of greater peril, but the priests insisted, in the process introducing us to several of their hulking brethren who helped tend the inn. In the Exalted Wood, I'd learn so much. I'd find my place in Razmir's plan. On the morrow, I'd understand everything.

  I've heard plenty of tales of the Exalted Wood. No one who goes there comes back the same.

  I did say my ability to spin a good story almost always serves me well.

  I stayed awake until the moon had crossed the peak of the sky and the storm had begun to lessen. The priests were so committed to my training they'd stationed a guard outside my room, to ensure my rest was undisturbed. A few arcane syllables sent him tumbling to the ground in a deep sleep. I picked the lock, dragged his body inside my room, and began my painstakingly slow creep through the hallways to the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs, I sensed movement down a corridor and whirled, drawing my sword. Frozen mid-creep, Belzig stared back at me.

  I took a step forward, but Belzig stopped me with a raised hand. "Start something now, Kline, and you'll bring every zealot in this place down on our heads."

  "Maybe it's worth it."

  "Really? Well then—be my guest." He spread his a
rms wide and waited.

  He was right, of course. I put my weapon away. Belzig's death would be satisfying, but it wasn't worth my own. Still, the look of satisfaction on his face almost made me change my mind. Shoulder-to-shoulder, we skulked down the stairs and into the shadowed dining hall.

  Another guard waited there, ready to raise an alarm. As he drew breath, Belzig leaped forward and grabbed for his throat. The guard flinched back, and I spun around behind him, pinning him between me and Belzig. I brought my fist down on his head, and he went down with a squeaking sigh.

  We were halfway through the foyer when Belzig dropped a pellet I didn't even know he had hidden in his hand. It exploded with a flash and a bang, accompanied by a cloud of smoke that choked and burned. A door banged open, and shouts went up throughout the building. Tears poured from my eyes as I staggered forward, sword drawn. Two shapes rushed at me through the smoke, and I fought them just long enough to wedge myself out the front door. Shutters opened on the upper level and I heard chanting through the hiss of rain. With Belzig nowhere to be seen, and no time to look for him, I put my head down and pumped hard for the relative safety of the forest. So much for a warm bed.

  13 Kuthona, 4707 ar

  I‘ve found beauty in the murderous peaks of Belkzen, the fire-baked Storval Plateau, and even in the chill depths of the Darklands. But Galt is never-ending gray to me.

  The dank, warm rain pounds the colorless ground into sticky mud. Leafless trees hang their gray branches before me, as if set to bar my passage. The rain-swollen clouds hang so thick and heavy they blot out the sun.

  I struck out southeast from the hostile hostel in Razmir, hoping to come across Belzig's tracks on my journey. I lost him several times in the River Kingdoms, but fortunately I appeared to have as many friends in this area as he did. I dropped in on a companion from years ago, now a bandit queen, who ferried me speedily across her small realm and relayed rumors of a traveler fitting Belzig's description. Within a day I'd picked up his trail, curving south into the near reaches of Galt. By noon the next day I was slogging through the steaming rain and boot-sucking mud.