The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline

by James L Sutter (ed) (epub)

  I was hours into my journey when I saw my first splash of color, a puddle of blood in the road ahead turning the mud a sickening, clotted pink. As I drew closer I could make out the body from which it stemmed, its face turned away. His build was a shade too small but I convinced myself it could be Belzig. The cloak was the same, the boots mud-stained enough. I told myself that he met an untimely and grisly end on this gray path, and thus saved me the trouble of tripping on his footsteps all the way to Absalom. The words had the force of a prayer.

  I approached the corpse slowly, not knowing what surprises it might hide. I knelt next to the form, one hand on my blade, and turned the body over.

  It wasn't Belzig. And, as it turned out, it wasn't dangerous.

  That quality belonged solely to the armed men who suddenly rose up from the muck all around me.

  I attempted to backpedal and make a run for it, but the nearest one knocked me sprawling over the corpse. I tried to roll with it, but the slick gray mud thwarted me and I skidded over to another assailant, who kicked me in the head.

  There were six of them, all shouting, their voices muddled and foreign. I caught the occasional word: "sympathizer," "traitor," "crimes." I dragged my sword out of its sheath and lashed at the nearest attacker. He fell back, crying out and clutching his stomach. I forced myself up on my knees and flailed to keep the mob back, but the mud sabotaged me again. As a group of three pressed forward, one beat my blade hard with his staff, and the slick hilt flew from my hand.

  I tried to use the distraction to get to my feet and run—find higher ground, find a weapon, find out what the hell was going on.

  Only one attacker directly blocked my path, but he had a cudgel and knew how to use it. I had barely started toward him when he brought the beam crashing down on my sore head.

  I fell. Eyes open, I stared at the expanse of mud pressed against my cheek until black stole in to replace the gray and take away the pain.

  I didn't really expect to wake up, and when I did it seemed that I might have slipped into another dream. How else to explain the coarse rope binding my hands behind my back, the howls of a crowd hammering in my ears, the warped boards mottled with old bloodstains bumping beneath my feet?

  I blinked several times and my eyes watered freely, washing away the crust of mud on my eyelashes. Strong hands held my arm and half-carried, half-dragged me up the flight of steps. The ropes cut into my wrists and forearms so tightly I couldn't even bend my arms. A cold drizzle misted my face. I raised my head a little and saw the platform to which I was headed.

  Two men stood upon it. One shouted at the crowd, a litany of my crimes. Apparently I was an enemy sympathizer, sent to infiltrate and betray their town.

  The other man wore simple robes and a hood of gray silk for a mask. He stood next to the guillotine.

  I'd heard of the "final blades" of Galt before, tools of execution that drained and imprisoned their victims' souls, but like all the other stories of paranoia, violence, and pogroms to come out of Galt, I'd assumed a certain degree of exaggeration. I was wrong.

  The stock was made of solid oak, heavy and impassive. The track ran eight feet straight up, held steady by an oaken crossbar. The blade sat at the top of the track, its edge glinting in the gray light.

  It hung there, waiting.

  "What's going on?" I asked, my voice thick. My captor stood me upright on the platform while the speaker whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Heavyset and ugly, he carried my rucksack over one meaty shoulder.

  "You've a date with Razor Mary." The grip on my arm tightened. "You stopped to help a wounded Chelaxian, 'stead of passing by or running him through for good measure. Maybe he was even a friend of yours, yeah?"

  "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I didn't even know he was Chelish."

  "Yeah, well, we heard about your plans here. You won't be seeing 'em through."

  He shifted his grip on my elbow and I glanced down. A jeweled ring, strangely ostentatious in this drab land, sat sparkling on his fat, heavy finger.

  Belzig.

  All hope of talking my way out of the situation evaporated. Given the state of the crowd, it's possible Belzig's word alone would have turned the town against me. But if he'd cemented the deal with gold…

  The speaker appeared to be building to a climax. Razor Mary drew my gaze—she seemed to strain against the slim bit of wood that held her blade aloft. My mind spun.

  Purchased allies often remain stubbornly loyal—it's better for business—so I knew I only had seconds. I whispered quickly.

  "Look here—I know Belzig gave you a token of good faith to show you his word was true." I felt my captor stiffen. "The truth is, I have just as much wealth as he does. And I can be even more generous if you listen to what I have to say."

  The crowd wasn't going to wait much longer for my justice. My head throbbed, my arms ached, and sweat collected around my neck where Razor Mary longed to strike. My captor whispered back, his voice harsh and suspicious. "I ain't setting you free, no matter how much you pay me."

  "I wouldn't expect you to. I just want you to loosen these ropes." I heard him start to protest and I talked over him. "Just a bit, you don't have to let me free. I only want to go to my death with honor, not bound and bent like a dog. And in return, I'll tell you where my share of the treasure lies."

  The crowd screamed a final demand for my blood. The speaker gestured, and my captor shoved me ahead. I could all but feel his resolve struggling with his greed.

  I affected a limp, making myself seem as weak and helpless as I could.

  "Don't let me die with such dishonor," I urged. I stumbled over a warped board and the crowd strained against the platform.

  No monster is as dangerous as a righteous man.

  My captor pushed against my back. I felt my bonds loosen a little, just enough for me to flex my wrists and straighten my arms. "There. Die as you like. Now tell me where my reward lies."

  He didn't have time to act before I splayed my fingers in relief and whispered an incantation. The crowd howled something unintelligible and my captor jerked on my arm, sensing a trick, but it was too late. Flicking my hand as much as the bonds allowed, I cast a blob of dark liquid across the platform and directly into the silk mask of the executioner. Screaming, he clawed at the sizzling, popping ooze burning through the cloth, staggering backward and catching himself on Razor Mary's sturdy frame.

  My captor cuffed me on the side of the head, managing to find the exact center of my existing bruise, but I gritted my teeth and remained conscious. The speaker screamed for help, the executioner struggled to get his footing, and I concentrated just hard enough to trigger the tiniest and simplest of my tricks—the same spell I'd used to thread a rope through the counterweight-trap weeks ago. The conjured force tapped aside the block that held Razor Mary's thirsty blade aloft.

  The executioner had time for a single scream before the blade cut him in half. The crowd surged back from the spray of blood, panicked, and the shouting began as those in the back fell under the crush of bodies from the front. My captor cuffed me again and I heaved with all my might, swinging him around just enough to hit the puddle of greasy viscera. I tore free as he fell in the mix of blood and offal, stripping my pack from him in the process.

  The speaker charged, and I kicked him square in the chest, knocking him back off the gallows and into the crowd. Then I turned, leaped from the back of the platform, and ran full-speed into the drizzling mist beyond, my gear flopping awkwardly behind me. The panicked shrieks of the crowd followed me for some time. Even when I had put the town long behind me and stopped to wriggle fully from my bonds, I couldn't stop shivering. In my hasty flight, I'd brushed right up against Razor Mary. She was warm.

  Purring.

  16 Kuthona, 4707 ar

  Once again Belzig sought to lead me into a trap, and o
nce again I'd barely escaped with my life, fleeing into the wilderness.

  Once again, it'd done me not a bit of good.

  I tracked Belzig west, back toward the net of rivers that would take us straight down to the Inner Sea and Absalom. At a fishing village I traded a gem from the serpent city for a new sword and a brace of daggers. When I reached the slippery, twisting stream of the Sellen River, though, I found Belzig's tracks continued on the other side, traveling up the banks of Kyonin.

  I spent precious time ensuring that the tracks were genuine. Once again, Belzig passed up the direct route in order to—what? Leading me into a trap seemed the most likely action. But on the chance that he knew some shortcut, I followed the trail across the water and into the green glades of the elves.

  Everyone in Avistan has heard stories of how keenly they elves of Kyonin guard their secrets, and the penalties they exact from trespassers. Perhaps this was his plan—to risk capture outright in the hopes that I'd be less fortunate. Yet by this point I had practically forgotten our mutual goal in my desire to come to grips with him, to repay him blow for blow for Galt and Razmiran. I followed the trail on into the cool trees, misted with glimmering dew.

  Peace radiated from those trees. Forest creatures rustled in the undergrowth; once or twice a sleek, fat rabbit hopped across my trail. They looked at me with round, fearless eyes, perhaps never having seen a human before. Birds whispered and sang overhead. It would have been a lovely place to lie down and dream away my worries. Instead I forged ahead as quickly as I dared while maintaining caution. I knew Belzig was leading me this way for a reason, and I wasn't going to be caught off-guard again.

  I found the trap not far into the forest. "Getting close, aren't I?" I muttered as I bent to inspect the snare. "Could you be getting nervous, Belzig?"

  It was a simple net trap, but masterfully made and concealed. Had I not been quite so alert I would have blundered straight into it. The tiny string of bells caught my attention most of all. If the trap was alarmed, that meant Belzig was waiting for the signal.

  Somewhere close.

  I set up a blind of my own, working quickly to shade my chosen location with branches and undergrowth. Then I had only to wait until the next calm, trusting rabbit hopped by. I grabbed it around its middle and directed it into the net.

  Kicking and whimpering, the rabbit shot up in the air. The string of bells jingled in the quiet forest. I ducked behind my blind, dagger out, waiting.

  Belzig crashed through the undergrowth and fired at the net, the bolt flying past the rabbit and burying itself in a tree trunk. He cursed as he saw what struggled in the net. Then he yelled in pain and surprise as I rose up and loosed my dagger.

  Galt's justice is as swift as it is questionable.

  His reflexes were good. He turned at the last second, and the knife scored his shoulder, not his heart. I drew my sword as he charged. The world slowed, his thudding boots muffled by the mossy forest floor, and I brought my blade into line. My blood was on fire. Neither of us spoke—that time was behind us.

  Suddenly a flight of arrows soared out of the trees and thudded into the ground before Belzig. He halted awkwardly, spinning around and scanning the trees for this new foe. I did the same, boiling with frustrated rage.

  "That was a warning, poachers," a sibilant voice whispered from the trees. "There will not be another. Kill each other elsewhere, or we'll save you the trouble."

  Belzig swore, turned on his heel, and ran. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind: explaining my side of the story, protesting my innocence, soliciting aid in my quest.

  From the brush came the tiny, rasping slither of an arrow being nocked.

  I ran. Stumbling, crashing through the trees, hearing the soft whiff of arrows behind me to spur me on my way. When I broke from the trees and stumbled into the river, I scanned the bank desperately up and down.

  There was no sign of Belzig.

  Cursing roundly, I floundered through the waters and struck out to the southeast. Belzig had played me well—I could have been miles ahead by now, had I not let my emotions get the better of me. From here on out, I would play it smart, rather than trying to finish Belzig personally. No more detours. No more traps. Nothing but this final race to the Inner Sea, and from there, to Absalom.

  I prayed I would make it in time.

  For all our sakes.

  22 Kuthona, 4707 ar

  The trip down the Sellen was anticlimactic after my desperate race across Avistan. Save for the trouble I had securing transportation—most of the traffic on the river was headed the other direction, sailors ferrying generous soldiers north to the Worldwound—my journey was swift and uneventful. I finally hit upon a small sailing ship traveling back down to the Inner Sea for another load of crusaders and paid for passage. Properly paranoid, I worried that Belzig might have hired assassins among the few passengers, wild-eyed and broken warriors fresh from the fray, but their personal demons consumed them. I don't think gold would have roused them from whatever dark memories cycled round in their minds.

  Finally, this morning, the Sellen spilled into the Inner Sea. The dark blue waters surged and frothed around our ship. My heart leaped as I saw once again the port settlement of Cassomir, its cosmopolitan cityscape just a sliver of what waits for me on the Isle of Kortos. Within this city, I'll be able to board a ship bound for Absalom, the City at the Center of the World. I'll walk through the markets, the beggars, the hawkers and aristocrats, and come at last to the Grand Lodge. The end of my journey. And there I'll do everything in my power to hide my discovery.

  Outside the windows of my inn, the gulls are calling, the salt spume frosting the air. I am suddenly very weary. It seems like decades since I stepped onto these docks, so much younger, so inexperienced and trusting. I came here as a boy, eager for knowledge. And again as a man, a Pathfinder, fresh from Absalom and ready to ply my craft. And now, at last, I am here again... but as what?

  I'm not sure I know anymore.

  End of the Road

  By James L. Sutter

  01 Abadius, 4708 ar

  My hands clutched at salt-crusted wood, the railing rough and pitted from the ocean's continual spray, as below me the boat rocked in place with the rise and fall of each rolling swell. Above, gulls wheeled and clashed over herring and bits of trash, their massed numbers darkening the sky but still nothing compared to the harbor below them.

  Absalom. City at the Center of the World. Even from just outside the great jaws of its port, the waterfront was numbing in its immensity. Docks stretched for miles, all of them bustling with ships of a thousand makes—traders and frigates, warships and junks, fishermen's skiffs and oceanic craft from lands whose names I might never learn. Though still too far away to see movement, I knew that every one of them seethed with life, longshoremen loading cargo and sailors jumping ship for a drink or a throw at the nearest bawdy house. They would find too many to count, ranging from ramshackle flophouses to the finest inns and brothels money could buy, lining the boardwalks and piers a dozen deep. Rich or poor, there's always someone in Absalom willing to take your money.

  The docks, however, were only the beginning. Rising up from the waterfront, sometimes at such a radical pitch that the streets bore handrails of thick hemp ship's line, Absalom spread out like an anthill, roofs packed so close as to be a solid mass, a pointillist painting broken only by the thin lines of grand thoroughfares and the occasional green splash of parkland. Even with its overwhelming bulk, the sense of weight that struck newcomers speechless, I knew that the city proper was still hidden behind the horizon, its patchwork quilt stretching for miles in any direction. To think that man is capable of such a vast construction is alternately inspiring or terrifying, depending on your disposition.

  Behind me, the captain of the Crescent finished haggling with the harbor pilot and paid over a handful of coins. The pilot, a
sailor of middling years whose pressed uniform bore Absalom's seal, yelled something over the side before taking the wheel, and off to port I saw the small dory containing several similarly garbed men cast off and pull quickly away, sails catching the wind expertly and sending them skipping across the waves toward the next waiting vessel. As soon as they were free, the captain shouted orders, and the great ship began to move forward with the harbor pilot at its helm.

  The greatest city in the Inner Sea, Absalom is a prize that many have sought to claim. To control its ports would be to control trade for the western world, and to tax each resident a copper would make a man wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Since the dead god Aroden first raised the Isle of Kortos from the seafloor, streaming kelp and brine, the conquerors have come with blooded blades and silvered tongues, and all have been rebuffed. Their siege castles line the Cairnlands outside Absalom's walls, and the graves of countless soldiers produce vengeful ghosts and fertile farmland in turn.

  Indeed, as they have fallen, these would-be tyrants have only strengthened Absalom's defenses. Beneath the pilot's steady hand, the Crescent tacked and glided past the steel-capped masts of sunken ships, their spars ready to gut enemy vessels and add them to the collection. To be a harbor pilot of Absalom requires years of diligent study, memorizing the location of each hulking wreck without the aid of charts, and is one of the most lucrative careers to which a sailor can aspire.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the roar of the city build, the familiar hum of people working, loving, and dying, humanity breathing as a single living beast. Welcoming me.

  To be a Pathfinder is to never truly feel at home. Yet this is where my path began, and where my current chapter ends.

  Absalom. The city stretched forth its arms and gathered me in.