Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Explorer was the result of study and planning. She had made the choice after due consideration. Perhaps Oreena is right. Perhaps the wood is where I'll learn who I truly am.

  She looked up. "How did you come to be here, Mother Oreena?"

  The old woman patted her hand, then sat back and laughed. "That's a story which is too long, too old, and of so little consequence that one cannot justify the breath to share it. At least, not at this moment."

  "Perhaps after I've earned it?"

  "There, to be told when you have made a home here." Oreena nodded solemnly. "One thing concerning your son..."

  "Yes?"

  "Tunk Murdoon is Nelsa's father. He's head of the Murdoon clan. He's gruff and distant. And that's on his good days. But the sun rises and sets on his youngest, Nelsa. You'll be wanting to thank him for her help."

  "It will be done, thank you."

  "You'll need friends and allies."

  "Is that just general wisdom, or did you read something specific in the tea leaves?"

  "The leaves are never specific, my dear." The older woman shook her head solemnly. "But in your case, they suggest you have one fewer friend than you imagine."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The only thing about the Blue Basilisks which Maraschal Sunnock liked was that their red-headed leader, Ariane Redderfin, evidenced the same wide-eyed appreciation for his gold as had the last whore he'd had before the company had abandoned civilization on the River's far bank. This didn't surprise him—mercenaries and whores were really one and the same, save for dress and methodology.

  Tyressa is the worst sort of whore. Her willingness to lead a dangerous expedition had impressed Sunnock—at least until his master had sent him from Ardis to join her. Even knowing that he would be the conduit for any supplies Silverlake was going to get from Ustalav, Tyressa had offered Sunnock neither civility, or familiarity. She thought herself his better, and was utterly ungrateful to him; which made her an uppity whore in his mind.

  Which is why her downfall will be so delicious. He sighed happily. And I'll rejoice in my role in making it swift and painful.

  By way of contrast, Ariane embraced her whorishness openly. She overcharged him for the tasks he required of her, but she was quick in their accomplishment. Sunnock had only just finished his second flagon of sour ale in the back room before two of the mercenaries dragged a struggling goblin in and tossed him at Sunnock's feet.

  The goblin sought to rise, but Sunnock got to his feet faster and pressed a boot heel to the creature's throat. Sunnock wasn't certain if it was his heel or the presence of the mercenaries that restrained the little beast, but he didn't care.

  "You may wait outside. I'll call out if I need you."

  The mercenaries shrugged and departed, all but completely closing the door behind them.

  Sunnock looked down. "It's your choice. I can summon them back to free you, or to slide your corpse out to the street." The Ustalavic noble fished in his purse, then pulled out a silver coin and tossed it in the direction of the door. "That can be yours. And more."

  The goblin closed his eyes and nodded, letting his hands fall slack at his side.

  "Good." Sunnock returned to his chair. "You may kneel."

  The goblin rolled over, got onto his knees, then prostrated himself. "Didn't mean harm."

  "To the boy?" Sunnock laughed. "I certainly hope you did. Pity he lived. The sooner he dies, the sooner I get to leave this pesthole."

  The goblin twisted his head and looked up with one eye. "The boy dead is good?"

  "It would have been wonderful, but likely not enough." Sunnock frowned. "You have a name?"

  "Welinn."

  "It would appear, Welinn, I am in need of an agent. I need someone who can keep me informed. I also may need someone who can gather muscle as needed." Sunnock half-smiled. "Would that be you, or shall I send condolences to your widow?"

  The goblin glanced back at the coin. "Welinn is yours. I know everything, or know those who know."

  "Good. Very good." Sunnock pressed his hands together. "We can start by you giving me the lay of the land—or the wood, in this case. I need to know who is without scruples, who can keep his mouth shut, and exactly what his price is."

  paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas , Aug 10, 2014

  Chapter Four

  No Place Like Home

  It didn't take Jerrad long to realize that as arduous as the journey from Ustalav had been, it was nothing in comparison to the hardship of founding a town. Before their arrival at Silvershade Lake, the town had been an abstraction. He'd helped compile lists of things to do, from clearing the land to gathering the building materials needed to make basic housing and workshops. He knew dimensions for same and had worked out the needs for grading the land and using gravel to help drainage. He had even taught himself how to estimate the board feet he could get out of a tree, just by knowing its diameter and measuring for length.

  What became instantly apparent to him was that while he could think of all the jobs that needed doing, he was suited to doing none of them. Everything required more of a strong back than sharp mind, and his inexperience with Echo Wood meant his mind wasn't as sharp as it could have been. His first attempt at splitting wood resulted in the axe almost taking his right leg off at the knee. About the most dangerous thing folks would let him do after that was hauling water in buckets—and they cautioned him not to fill them too full.

  He quickly resolved to find other ways to make himself useful. His goal was to become more useful than Serrana or Lord Sunnock. Granted, that wasn't aiming very high in either case. Serrana occupied herself by imagining what Silverlake would look like when completed. Jerrad heard her efforts summarily dismissed by an old farmer, who noted, "No field ever got plowed by turning it over in the mind."

  Lord Sunnock wasn't much better. He'd remained in Thornkeep for several days until the weather turn drier, then arrived and wondered why the settlement wasn't already finished. It was true that his servants worked a bit harder when he was on site, but he demanded most of their efforts be directed toward him, so their contribution to the settlement remained minuscule. He clearly thought himself the most important person in Silverlake, but most people wouldn't have given a bucket of warm spit for him.

  Jerrad, with his mother's blessings and an admonishment not to go too far, set about gathering deadwood for fires. While doing that, he proceeded to map out the area surrounding the settlement. He took great pains to pace off distances between landmarks. Between delivering armloads of wood to the cooks, or mixing mud to caulk cabin walls, he recorded his discoveries in his journal. Every night he read things over and planned out what he'd be doing the next day—hoping he'd figure out something critically important to Silverlake's success.

  Within the first week, his efforts bore fruit. He discovered that things in Echo Wood moved. It wasn't the way frost heaves in the winter might cause boulders to shift, or the way a storm might drop trees. It seemed as if something brushed over the landscape, like a hand over a wrinkled blanket, smoothing it here and ruffling it there. And whatever this force was, it didn't do these things in huge ways, but more subtly. A mud bog wouldn't vanish, it would just slither sideways. A boulder wouldn't shift from where it stood, but might turn a degree or three this way or that.

  He even went so far as to construct an experiment. He took two dozen stakes and sank half of them into a circle in a clearing. The others he used to make a cross in the middle. He sighted them at noon and noted their relationship to the lake and nearby hills. He wanted to see if the magic would slowly twist the structure in a manner that could be predicted.

  He checked for three days running and found the circle remained constant, but the cross slowly twisted around to the right. He measured and made notes, even did calculations. He was certain that he'd found a rate of twisting that matched seasonal change.

  And then on the fourth day he found the cross back in its original position in the circle.
>
  But in another meadow a hundred yards north. A meadow which had not existed previously.

  His heart sank. He thought he'd found something special, something that would allow him to contribute to the settlement in a way no one else could. Echo Wood had teased him and thwarted him. For a heartbeat, he thought it would do the same for everyone in the Silverlake expedition, and he lost heart.

  Pathetic, Mouse. Really pathetic. Tears began to well, but he refused to cry. I can hide my hurt from everyone, including the wood.

  He lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. "No. I'm not going to let you beat me. I'll figure you out. I'll win, I swear it."

  A cloud blanketed the sun and the air went cold. The meadow's bright green grasses dulled and stiffened, each becoming a little blade tugging at his trousers. Crooked tree branches pointed accusingly at him. Berries withered in bushes, and the thorns guarding them grew longer.

  Jerrad swallowed hard and tried in vain not to shiver. A thicket surrounded the meadow and appeared to be tightening like a noose. He spun, pointing himself back in the direction of the lake, but it had vanished. Instead, giant piles of stones he'd never seen before formed a phalanx, cutting him off from the settlement. At least in the direction where I think it is.

  He dropped to a knee and gathered up the firewood he'd collected. Thorns and splinters raked his flesh through his tunic, but he refused to surrender his prize. He stood slowly, forcing himself to be calm. Despite having lost sight of the lake, he knew where it had to be, so he started steadily marching in that direction.

  The grasses snagged and pulled against his clothing, slowing him. A cool breeze rustled them. The snakelike hissing rose to a crescendo, but couldn't mask the snap of a branch crushed underfoot. It came from the right, between two hulking oaks. He'd not noticed them being so close until he heard that sound. Wind-buffeted branches clutched at him.

  Then another sound, this from the left, from across the meadow. A low growl—challenging, yes, menacing, yes, but still quiet. Jerrad imagined he'd heard it by accident. It wasn't meant for him, but meant to warn others off. Possessive, that was it. The creature wanted others to know that Jerrad belonged to it.

  He crouched and forced himself to be still, very still. His heart raced, but he fought to slow his breathing. He did his best to be utterly motionless and quiet, though his drumming heart had to be audible all the way back in Silverlake.

  Dead ahead, eyes burned gold and red in the gloom. He caught one pair first, then another. He looked toward the growl. A gray blur, low and fast, slithered through shadows. Then more eyes appeared past it. They flanked him on the right, too. He didn't look back. He didn't need to see the rest of them there.

  He dropped the firewood in one clattering bundle, then snatched up the thickest piece. It would have been a twig compared to the cudgel Nelsa had used on the goblins. He shifted it to his left hand, and drew his dagger with his right.

  What would my father have done?

  In an instant he knew, and just as quickly knew he could never do the same thing. His father would have run toward the nearest boulder and leaped to the top. Garath Sharpax could have done that easily. Then he'd brandish the cudgel and challenge the creatures. He'd insult their lineage. He'd laugh at their growls. He'd meet snarl with snarl and fang with crushing blows. Bloodied and broken bodies would spin away to twitch in the grasses. His laughter would drown out Jerrad's pitiful whimpering, and then he'd challenge the gods to send him more worthy enemies.

  I'm not my father. Jerrad measured the distance to the boulder. No matter how fast the mouse, that's a race he can't win.

  The gray blur burst from the thicket at his left. Red tongue lolling, the wolf drove straight at him. It came fast, but almost playfully, fangs visible only because its mouth was open, not because of a snarl. It came quickly, but not as fast as it could.

  Jerrad tightened his grip on the club. Then he shifted his gaze from the wolf back to the stone. Too far. No time.

  The youth twisted toward his attacker. He swept the club around, aiming for the beast's slavering jaws. He missed. He'd been close enough to see dripping saliva stain the wood as the club swung past; and the dagger, coming up in something halfway between a stab and a slash, would accomplish neither.

  Mice don't kill, they just die. The wolf's breath heated his flesh. Its stink filled his head. Acid burned in his throat as Jerrad stared into its black maw. He waited for the crunch of his face being crushed between those teeth.

  Then the wolf spun away. It was as if an invisible giant had grabbed its tail and yanked. It rolled through the air, spittle glistening in long lines and darker fluid spraying. The beast crashed down in the grasses, hidden save for the sound of its thrashing.

  "They have your scent. To me, boy!"

  Jerrad looked to the left, back along the way he'd run. A tall man stood there—no, more than a man. He fitted a black-fletched arrow to a compact horse bow, drew, and let fly again. He moved as fluidly as did his long white locks on the breeze. The arrow took another wolf through the chest, whipping it around as if it meant to chase its own tail.

  Jerrad needed no other urging. He darted toward his savior, slashing at grasses with club and knife. Not to be denied, the wolves focused on Jerrad. Arrows flew, transfixing throats and piercing bowels. Jerrad ducked as the archer aimed straight at him. An arrow hissed past, then thunked solidly into something at his heels.

  A dozen paces and a handful more arrows later, Jerrad fell at the archer's feet. The youth's chest heaved. Jerrad wanted to vomit, but he refused. He tried to climb to his feet, but his knees gave out. He caught himself on his hands and found his whole body trembling.

  "They've broken. You can get up now."

  "Are you certain?" Jerrad narrowed his eyes, staring into the darkness surrounding the meadow. "There could be more out there."

  "I hope you're wrong, Jerrad, because my quiver is empty."

  The boy whirled and stared up. "How do you know my name?"

  Bow still in his left hand, the archer jerked his right thumb back to the west. "News of the Vishov mission here is not in short supply. Unreliable, most of it, but the tale of a youth being drubbed by goblins is a staple."

  Jerrad glanced down, his cheeks burning. "And you assumed I was just prone to finding trouble?"

  "The dagger got mentioned in the story. And finding trouble isn't a vice, it's an art."

  Enough kindness rolled through the archer's words that Jerrad looked up again. The archer stood taller than most men, and had pointed ears like an elf. Still, he was broader of shoulder than most elves, suggesting he was of mixed blood. Though he'd never before seen a half-elf, Jerrad figured that what the archer was.

  That created another problem, though, because the elves and even their brethren of mixed blood were supposed to look ageless. The archer didn't look ancient, but he did look older. The weariness around the eyes. And the scars. One started on the archer's right cheek, just below his temple, and disappeared raggedly back into his hair.

  The youth slid the dagger back into its sheath and offered the archer his hand. "I am Jerrad Vishov. Thank you for saving me."

  "My pleasure. I'm known as Kiiryth." The half-elf smiled politely, but did not shake his hand. "You must learn to take more care in the wood, Master Vishov."

  "I..." Jerrad turned to point past the stacks of stone, but they'd vanished. A distant vision of the lake shimmering silver in emerging sunlight had replaced them. "I didn't think I'd come that far from the lake. I mean, I've been out here before."

  Kiiryth nodded toward the stakes. "They stink of you, you know."

  Jerrad closed his eyes for a moment, then hung his head. "The wolves. They waited for me."

  "You made it very easy to find you." Kiiryth patted him on the shoulder. "That, in and of itself, is not a simple task here in Echo Wood."

  "You found me."

  "But I wasn't really looking." Kiiryth squatted stiffly, catching himself on a hand. His empty quiver slapp
ed against his right hip. "You're unhurt?"

  "Scratches, nothing big."

  "Good."

  Jerrad smiled. "If you're going to skin those wolves, I can carry the skins back to Silverlake."

  "That's a kind offer." Kiiryth stood again. "I'm afraid, however, there isn't going to be enough time."

  Jerrad glanced up at the sky. "It's barely past noon. It shouldn't take that long, should it?"

  "That particular task, no." The archer slowly shook his head. "I should have been more clear."

  "Yes?"

  "You don't have enough time." Kiiryth stepped back. "There's nothing I can do right now. I'm sorry."

  In the gloaming surrounding the meadow, a rainbow of lights sparked. Some burned brightly. Others flared and some sputtered, but none of them gave off warmth. Figures moved in the shadows around them, advancing. Some lights hovered, resolving themselves into tiny winged creatures. Others, humanoid and more lithe even than Kiiryth, came forward with the lights on the ends of wands. And then those who bore no light emerged, laden with lethal weaponry.

  A tall figure stepped forward and doffed a black leather helmet. It freed her hair to tumbling in a cascade over her shoulders and a dark doublet. She studied Jerrad with eyes of gold, then glanced at Kiiryth. She spoke to him in an alien tongue.

  "Yes, barely a morsel for the wolves. It doesn't mean they wanted him any less than you do."

  Jerrad's throat clenched. "I don't understand, Kiiryth."

  The fey band's leader looked him up and down, then laughed. The rest of the motley assembly joined her. Their mirth scourged him. He almost drew his knife, but could imagine what he'd look like if he did. Bared steel wouldn't hide his fear, and would only make them laugh all the harder.

  He stared at Kiiryth. "You should have let me die."

  "That was never an option." Kiiryth slung the bow over his shoulder. "As much as the wolves wanted you, Echo Wood wanted you more. They were content to let the wood have you."