The Worldwound Gambit

by Robin D. Laws

  I've felt him. The Gate and the Tower. All across Mendev, we who are destined for Abyssal majesty feel him. He has come. None knew his name before, but all will reverberate to it ere long. The wardstones are nothing to him. Those under his mantle pass through them like water through a grate. Mendev falls, you fool. Mendev falls. If I come back as a thousand demons, all one thousand of us shall rend your soul!"

  Gad signals to the villagers. They unwrap the prisoner's ropes and tie his hands behind his back. They pull him onto a cart, beside his allies.

  Gad and Tiberio walk away.

  "You want me for a job?" says Tiberio.

  "I wouldn't ask," says Gad, "except it's about this."

  "Hmm," says Tiberio.

  "So you're in, yes?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Nerosyan. To find Calliard."

  "I'll go with you that far. It's not safe for you to travel alone."

  "I'll need you for longer than that."

  "You remember why I stopped, Gad."

  Behind them, Dobreliel shrieks incoherently. His voice is suddenly muffled. Tiberio glances back to see that a rag has been stuffed into his neighbor's mouth.

  "You told him you were going to fool him into talking, and then he talked."

  "That's how it works," says Gad.

  "I don't understand. Why did he talk?"

  "Because he wanted to. Because it's all he had left."

  Behind them, the fletchers of Dubrov pull the cart away from the tree. The three cultists thrash in the air and then are still.

  The Pathfinder Tales Library

  Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross

  Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham

  Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones

  The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws

  Master of Devils by Dave Gross

  The Worldwound Gambit © 2011 by Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

  Cover art by Daren Bader.

  Cover design by Sarah Robinson.

  Map by Robert Lazzaretti.

  Paizo Publishing, LLC

  7120 185th Ave NE, Ste 120

  Redmond, WA 98052

  paizo.com

  ISBN 978-1-60125-327-9

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  (Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

  Laws, Robin D.

  Pathfinder tales. The Worldwound Gambit / Robin D. Laws

  p. ; cm.

  Set in the world of the role-playing game, Pathfinder.

  ISBN: 978-1-60125-327-9

  1. Imaginary places--Fiction. 2. Imaginary wars and battles--Fiction. 3. Fantasy fiction. 4. Adventure stories. I. Title. II. Title: Worldwound Gambit III. Title: Pathfinder adventure path

  PS3612.A87 P38 2011

  813/.6

  First printing May 2011.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  To the Thursday nighters, past and present.

  Chapter One

  The Rip

  I'll tell you the whole truth," Gad lies.

  He chooses to ignore the distant sound of drums and fire. Distractions must be pushed to the periphery. His mark is too close to taking the hook. Soon Gad will have the tapestry.

  He edges back calmly in the velvet-cushioned chair. A perfect ease settles upon him. When he was young, he practiced this attitude before a mirror, for hours uncountable. Now he assumes this confident repose without thought or effort. It is his natural state.

  His hands rest comfortably on the table's polished oaken surface. The palms angle upward, signaling openness, inviting trust. Gad's head cocks slightly. The gesture builds imperceptible excitement. It allows Dalemir to share his anticipation. The two of them are not adversaries in a negotiation, but partners, each prospering from engagement with the other.

  Gad is the sort of man who is always described by the same phrase, whether the speaker is an associate, a rival, or a sworn enemy. That phrase: damnably handsome.

  Dark eyes shine beneath firm, expressive brows. His dark hair, severely cropped, is these days peppered with gray. A dusting of stubble, on the precipice of becoming a beard, softens his jawline's intimidating precision. The face is a marvel of geometry: grave in profile, welcoming when seen head-on. Simply by changing its position, he can make nearly anyone stop in mid-sentence, forgetting what they were about to say.

  He always knows when to use this trick, and when it would cut against him.

  Now, for example. His negotiating partner, Dalemir, teeters on the brink of persuasion. He wants to believe, but is afraid to. Gad must draw him toward his greed, and away from his fear.

  Gad chose their meeting place to serve this purpose. Fresh varnish gleams from dark-stained walls. Thick ornamental pillars section the room, proclaiming its solidity. In the corner sits a delicate writing desk, its locks and pulls filigreed with golden wire. A cast-iron furnace, stacked with burning pinewood, heats the chill air. Its feet are clawed and scaled in imitation of a cockatrice. Beneath the woodsmoke lurks a whiff of sweet perfume.

  A richly decorated room leads a man to think of money, and the benefits of its acquisition.

  The luxurious objects of this room, like the tapestry the two men dicker over, all originate in some other place. Its wood panels, depicting brave, banner-waving knights in pitched battle against demons, were carved to order by woodworkers of Druma. Ceramic plates, bearing the bird and rose of the love goddess, Shelyn, show the unmistakable curvatures of Taldan potters. The velvet curtains, Gad reckons, were shipped in from Cheliax. A gossamer statue of stained glass held together by adamantine coils seems dug from the ruins of an ancient city, perhaps in the wild Mwangi lands.

  This is not a country where fine things are made. Artisans thrive in safer places.

  Gad rests his gaze on the precious objects, each in their turn. On cue, Dalemir does the same. Gad sees him mentally calculate the asking price and resale value of each. The important number is the spread between the two. Dalemir is already planning what he might do with the price of the tapestry. The merchant's bony fingers work an imaginary abacus.

  Dalemir's skeletal frame contradicts his jowled, beefy head. He wears dark garb, cut in the bulky local style. Voluminous folds of cloak and tunic lend his shoulders an artificial breadth. The fur rim of his hard leather hat soaks up the sweat of his brow. Dyed patches in his carefully sculpted beard stand out in the room's waffling lantern light.

  Gad's voice is clear and soft. "Fine pieces, aren't they?"

  "You can see where the money flows in Krega," Dalemir jokes.

  His insecurities must now be plucked, like the strings of a harp. Gad denies him the chuckle he seeks.

  The merchant turns to his bodyguard. The massive figure stands at the doorway, a discreet distance from the negotiating men. His expression remains impassive, until he realizes that he is meant to smile. He obliges his master. His teeth are yellow and sharp.

  Like the art objects, the bodyguard has been imported to Mendev from somewhere else. A turqu
oise turban encircles his square, bald head. Enormous muscles bulge beneath a loose silk tunic. At his hips swing twin scimitars, encased in scabbards of embroidered red leather. Tattooed on the back of his hand are nearly a dozen tiny skulls, each standing for a man slain single-handed.

  Gad rises, moving to a dressing table. "This jade bowl, for example." He picks up a delicate piece of green stone. Held up to the light, it is nearly transparent. "Authentic Xa Hoi, would you say?"

  Dalemir scuttles over to examine it. "I am far from expert in the works of the far lands. If forced to guess, I'd say Guo dynasty?"

  Gad smashes the bowl against the wall. It flies to pieces. Plaster shards thunk across the carpeted floor. He stoops, picks up a fragment, and hands it to the merchant. "Not even jade. Cheap beglamered junk."

  Dalemir turns the fragment over in his gnarled hand. "It looked like jade. It felt like jade."

  "But it didn't ring like jade when struck. It's low magic, likely woven by a Sczarni charlatan or traveling gnome. It fools the eye and the hand, but not the ear."

  The merchant lets the fragment drop suddenly to the table. "Fraud or not, surely the mistress of the house will not take kindly to your destroying her property."

  A groan of passion echoes from elsewhere in the house. The town of Krega is a rude and shambolic place. This, its most splendid room, serves as office to a brothel-keeper. To rent it for the afternoon, Gad paid her, the operator of Krega's finest such establishment, three gold pieces and a mass of saffron as large as a thumb.

  Gad smiles, tightly. "She's scarcely in a position to complain. She tried to sell it to me as authentic. Of course, she had no idea she'd been deceived."

  "She should protest to the seller."

  "He was a mercenary passing through on the way to the demon wars. He offered it up for services rendered. She doesn't expect to see him again."

  Dalemir nods; the detail rings true. Krega acts as a way station for warriors on their way to battle. The Fourth Crusade grinds on. It brings men and women of fortune from all around the Inner Sea to demon-plagued Mendev. Those who arrive from the east stop at Chesed, in Numeria; or in the lawless port city of Egede. On their way to the front, they tramp west, through or around the Estrovian Forest. When they emerge from the forest, they find Krega waiting for them. It sells blades and shields and arrows. It feeds them, shelters them, and in places like this, pleasures them.

  "A pity," says Dalemir, "that neither the mercenary nor the bawd thought to consult an expert in such goods, such as you or I. Though I admit to being momentarily fooled, I would not have been for long."

  "Doubtlessly so, Dalemir."

  "And obviously, if she had gone to you, Ellano, you'd certainly have caught it, as you did today."

  Gad takes a deep breath. "Which leads us to an awkward subject."

  "I do not like the sound of this. I slogged all the way from Nerosyan, and as my bodyguard here can attest, it is a journey that grows more perilous by the day. Why, last week alone, two convoys were set upon by demons. Creatures that were part horse, part scorpion. Bat-winged monstrosities descending from the sky. Things of shadow. Skeletal warriors cloaked in red and burning flesh."

  "Let us dwell on more pleasant—"

  "Those who fought and those who ran were slaughtered in equal measure. Never have the demon hordes penetrated so far past the wardstones, which are supposed to keep them in the Worldwound! Your letter assured me that you were ready to purchase. I would not have risked such a valuable item if I thought you a vacillator! To hear now of awkwardness, Ellano ..."

  "Rest assured, I am as willing to pay as ever," Gad says. "But I need not tell you that this latest crusade has summoned more than paladins, heroes, and holy men."

  Dalemir removes his furred hat and wipes sweat from his brow. "Too true. Nerosyan is awash in seekers after blood and loot. Mercenaries, mountebanks, and main-chancers. To gain admittance to the fortress, they need do no more than swear they're here to fight demons. An honest merchant is as likely to be accosted by mortal malefactors as by the spawn of the Abyss."

  A metallic clamor arises from somewhere to the west of the brothel. It is early in the day for a drunken street fight, but Gad decides that this is what he must be hearing.

  He has allowed a pause to linger. Gad covers the lapse with a brooding nod, as if moved to deep contemplation by the merchant's wisdom. "A lamentable state of affairs. And with them, these scoundrels have brought a wave of fake antiquities. I can't tell you how many of these plaster jades I've seen in the last year. And if I had a silver for every supposed Azlanti brooch I've been offered ..."

  "Lice-ridden adventure-seekers think every corroded coil of copper they find in a goblin warren must be the legacy of lost Azlant."

  "I'm glad you understand, then," says Gad.

  "Understand what?"

  "My client's need for assurances of authenticity."

  "Assurances? My name is my assurance!"

  "Yet we all slip." Gad crunches a piece of the fake jade beneath his heel. "You thought this bowl was Guo dynasty. Last month I mistook a replica for a forty-first-century Ulfen helmet."

  "Let me know the name of your client and I'll personally ..."

  "We mustn't insult each other, Dalemir."

  "This is most outrageous!"

  "Yes, and I'm prepared to pay an inconvenience fee. I must preserve my client's trust in me."

  "How significant a fee?"

  "Three percent."

  "Six."

  "Four."

  "Five."

  "Four."

  "I must know the nature of the inconvenience before we fix a price on it."

  "The sage Hieron has returned to Egede."

  "That pedant?"

  "A pedant indeed, and the closest we come to an expert in Kibwean tapestries."

  "I heard he was dead."

  Shouts chorus from perhaps half a mile off. Puzzlement registers on the merchant's face. The bodyguard grows still.

  Gad plunges on: "I am reliably informed to the contrary. We take the tapestry to him, I pay his expenses, and the price of your journey—"

  "My journey? I think not. With demons running amok, I'm going back to the fortress and staying put."

  "Then I'll take on the risk and go myself."

  "With my tapestry? Not without payment in full!"

  "A ten percent deposit."

  "Not without payment in full!"

  Gad shakes his head. "This is awkward. I suppose you have another buyer."

  "You know I've been sitting on this for six years, ever since I was foolish enough to ...How can I be assured of its safety?"

  A shrug. "I'll hire guards."

  "Guards? Who these days is reduced to guard work in Mendev? Anyone the fortresses won't take! The ones you can afford are either infirm or congenitally criminal. I won't have it."

  "You mean you don't trust me."

  "To be frank, Ellano, no."

  "You wound me, Dalemir."

  "We haven't done business before. You talk convincingly—perhaps too much so. How can I know you're not one of the mountebanks you decry?"

  "I bleed, Dalemir. Wait, this bodyguard of yours..."

  "Abotur?"

  The turbaned man brings himself to attention.

  "Do you trust him?"

  Dalemir regards his hireling with uncertainty, as if reluctant to offend him. "He's worked for me for a year. Saved me from fire demons, and from some buzzing insect things. Of course I trust him."

  "Then send him to guard me as I take the tapestry to the sage in Egede. This fellow of yours looks like he'll chop my head off if I so much as look at the merchandise wrong."

  Abotur curls his lip. The prospect seems appealing to him.

  "I am loa
th to return to Nerosyan without him."

  "Then wait here in Krega."

  Girlish laughter titters through brothel walls.

  "The mistress owes me, Dalemir," Gad continues. "Your stay could be ...revivifying."

  "I do owe myself a rest," Dalemir muses.

  "Then our awkwardness is at an end." Gad removes a pair of goblets from a shelf and takes the stopper from a brandy decanter. "Soon we'll all heft full purses."

  "Wait, the inconvenience fee—five percent."

  "The word on you is correct, Dalemir. You bargain tenaciously." Gad places a goblet in Dalemir's hand.

  "As do you, Ellano." Dalemir toasts him. "To mutual enrichment."

  The room shakes. Its wooden walls bow inward. They vibrate.

  Something has hit the side of the building.

  Sandy dust sifts down from the rafters. Ceramic plates fall from the walls and shatter. A buzzing whine pierces the room's inhabitants. It feels like it's coming from inside their heads.

  Dalemir wobbles backward. He trips over a chair and bumps his head on a pillar. The sound makes him bleed. Red rivulets seep from his ears and both sides of his mouth. A second thump rocks the building, this time from the roof.

  Gad drops to his knees. He crawls toward a closed window. The room heats up.

  The bodyguard has pressed himself against the wall, next to the doorway. He grips his scimitar.

  Dalemir drops to the quaking floorboards. "Help me!" he cries.

  The bodyguard stays where he is.

  Gad reaches the window, throws open its shutters. He edges his head up, just past the sill.

  Demons attack the town. They fly on wings of shadow, of batlike skin and muscle, of veiny film. They swoop and grab and gnaw. There are dozens of them. Gad has seen demons before, but never so many, or so many types at once.

  A red-fleshed demon hovers over the stables. Its horned dragon wings buffet down fleeing townsfolk. Its whip of flame tongues down at them, burning through clothing, searing muscle, severing bone.