Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road

by Michael A. Stackpole

  As she stood there, smoke from a fire swirled toward the settlement's heart and congealed as a gray fog. Phantoms moved through the fog, resolving themselves into men limping, children running, mothers turned to delay pursuit in hopes their children might escape. The fog conveyed no sound, but somehow that made things worse. A scream would end eventually, but to see a face contorted in a scream, then watch it vanish as a club pulverized flesh and bone shards pierced skin, suggested the torment went on forever.

  What manner of magic is this? Tyressa fought to suppress a shudder. Fey magic, obviously, but magic which pulled images from her mind. She'd imagined those same images as she read of Mosswater and other tragedies within Echo Wood. She invades my mind. Does she see? Do they all see? Will my son see?

  The fog placed her in Mosswater, as if a ghost. Large, misshapen, lumpen things charged through twisted streets. A pair of them might grab a man and rip him in half. A tableau that choked Tyressa with horror made the ogres laugh uproariously. As they overran the city, mercilessly slaying anything within arm's reach, the ogres would scoop up guts and mud and handfuls of squishy tissue to throw at compatriots or to smear on themselves. Others slumped against walls, well-gnawed limbs devoid of meat, resting across bulging stomachs, their digestive stupor rendering them all but senseless.

  Is this the future of Silverlake? Will I fail and others perish because of it?

  Tyressa lifted her chin. "I notice that among your number, Ellesaara, there are no ogres."

  The elf appeared within the mist, as much a spirit as Tyressa. "They barely live in fellowship with other ogres. They are not our friends. Your settlement will draw them here. You've learned nothing from Mosswater's tragedy."

  "I've learned much from it." Tyressa steeled her gaze. "Do you think I would have brought my children here if I hadn't planned for the possibility of ogres attacking?"

  "Your precautions shall prove inadequate." The elf snorted. "The victory over you will embolden the ogres. They'll come for us next."

  "Silverlake will be strong enough for more than humans." Tyressa extended a hand toward Ellesaara. "You and yours would be welcome there. In times of strife, or plenty. To trade, to live, to join us in maintaining the balance."

  The elf threw her head back and laughed. "Do you think us that simple? You're not the first human to offer friendship."

  As Ellesaara spoke, the scene in the fog changed. Thornkeep appeared, in older times and better times. The baron's keep appeared to be in much better repair, and the old Druscor family crest flew from flags and had been carved from stone. All the humans appeared short and thick and brutish. They hooted and laughed as they threw stones and rotten fruit at any fey creatures even approaching the town.

  They treat the fey as the ogres treated humans. That realization told her that Ellesaara now controlled the vision in the fog. This is how she sees us.

  Ellesaara's vision shifted. The humans remained unkempt and uncouth, but the scene shifted to the camps of Broken Men along the road. The humans treated the mangy curs that limped along with them better than the fey at the furthest glimmer of firelight. As humans had no use for the fey, so Ellesaara and her people had no use for humans.

  Tyressa stared at the fey's vision of humans. Her guts twisted, not out of revulsion at how her people appeared, but because she had no doubt they had earned those images. At her worst, in her darkest hours, she'd seen her brother as being that warped and cruel. What he'd done to the Vishov family made the fey's treatment seem trivial.

  The fey's vision of the Broken Men tore at her heart. Ellesaara might have warped their physical presence, but the desperation and pain that came through their eyes spoke of pure humanity. Broken Men shuffled along war-weary, eyes unfocused, mouths hanging open. They ate and drank only when urged by their compatriots. The lame aided the halt. Soldiers with only one eye remaining saw for blind comrades, and those who could barely walk carried stretchers bearing those who could not.

  Yet before Tyressa could ball her fists and screw her eyes tight shut against bitter tears, she caught a glimpse of a tall man with golden hair. Somehow Ellesaara could not twist him, for it was his stern glances that stopped humans from beleaguering the fey. He walked as a god among children, and then he turned and smiled at her.

  Her heart caught in her throat. Garath. My Garath.

  Tyressa reached a hand through the vision, fingers trembling.

  He came to her, his large hand swallowing her slender one. Warmth flowed from his calloused palm into hers. His fingers closed gently but firmly, and he drew her toward him. Just as he had when they first met at the prince's ball.

  The vision shifted. The squalid human camp melted into a palace hall full of crystal and candles and mirrors amplifying the light. Musicians played in the corner. Tyressa heard faint strains of the music—not because it was truly faint, but because the drumming of her heart all but shut it out.

  Garath's smile grew. He was not the man he had been at the dance, but an older version—the age he would be if he returned today. Gray had grown into his blond locks, but his hair had not thinned nor lost its luster. More lines tugged at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and a scar she'd not seen before curled up lazily from throat to beneath his left ear.

  That cannot be true. That cut would have killed him.

  They closed, and his right arm encircled her, pressed firmly between her shoulder blades. He drew her close, not crushing her in a hug, but holding her as he had when they danced. She luxuriated in his touch, feeling pressure here or there, moving with it, the two of them perfectly matched. As he led the dance, she followed—knowing he would lead her through steps that would make her smile and laugh.

  Tyressa didn't know if it was her imagination, or even if she was moving, but Garath felt real, and she wanted him to be real. His arms encircling her became fortress walls which kept fears at bay. She drew warmth from him and relished the press of his body against hers once more.

  She laid her cheek against his shoulder for a second, then pulled back, looking into his eyes as they spun round and round. He returned her smile. She knew the expression well. Bemusement mixed with disbelief at his fortune. He'd worn it the night they met, the day they wed, and both times he was introduced to his children. What they were sharing was impossible, and yet neither of them wished to deny it.

  He lowered his mouth to hers. She felt his breath on her cheeks and the soft, moist touch of their lips. She kissed him urgently, wanting to share the love she still had for him. The love kept alive by seeing him in his children every day.

  Then she completed a circle and he was gone. His warmth lingered, but the palace and finery evaporated into wisps of smoke swirling away from her. Once again she stood in the middle of the fey camp, and came around to face Ellesaara.

  She saw. They all saw.

  The elf eyed her closely. "You have no idea, do you?"

  Oreena stepped between them. "It's not what she's done, Ellesaara, but what she and her family represent to the wood."

  The elf thrust a finger toward Jerrad. "The wood meant to have him slain."

  "But it allowed another to balance that outcome." Oreena's eyes half-closed. "The wood sees the Vishovs as balance for other outcomes."

  "I think, Oreena, you credit the wood with more wisdom than is prudent, and more prescience than it could ever possess."

  "I merely credit it with compassion and caution." The old woman shrugged. "Still, were the Vishovs the threat you believe them to be, would not the wood have already swallowed them whole?"

  The elf shifted her gaze to Tyressa. "The man in the vision was your husband?"

  "Is. Yes."

  "Do you understand what the vision means?"

  Oreena shook her head. "What it may mean."

  "The wood showed him to you because you have love for him. You agreed to abide with him. The wood wishes this same commitment from you. As you became one with your husband, so you will become one with Echo Wood. You and your family."
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  Tyressa glanced down at her hands. They still felt warm from Garath's touch. "My husband told me that the only reason he dared go off to war was because he had no fear for our children. He told me he trusted me to keep them safe and to give him a reason to return, and a place to return to. I will keep our children. I will make Silverlake that place. If Echo Wood demands that commitment from me, and will keep my children and my people safe, then we have a bargain."

  She held a hand out toward Ellesaara. "The wood cherishes you. If I'm to succeed, it will only be through the wisdom you share with me. Can we reach accord on that point?"

  The elf made no move to take her hand, but turned toward Jerrad's cage. "Free the boy."

  Tyressa smiled as Jerrad emerged. As he did so, the feathers on the cap and cloak became a riot of color. A smile blossomed on a dirty face, and Tyressa's chest eased. The fey withdrew quickly from around the hut and spread apart along his path.

  Jerrad came running down the hill. Tyressa half expected him to throw his arms around her in a hug, but he drew himself up still several steps off and turned toward Ellesaara.

  "Thank you for the lend of the cap and cloak." His fingers plucked at the knot at his throat. "I don't think I lost any feathers."

  The elf raised a hand. "They're yours. An offering." She nodded toward Oreena. "An apology. And, perhaps, the basis for future discussion."

  Jerrad bowed deeply toward her, then looked back up the hill as if seeking someone else. As he turned back around Tyressa read concern on his face, but it vanished with a shrug. "I'm sorry for any trouble, Mother."

  "I only care that you're safe." Tyressa draped an arm over his shoulders and steered him back in the direction from whence he had come. "Nothing else matters."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Later that evening, as the expedition's camp settled for the night, Tyressa took herself to the edge of the hill. She stared out at Silvershade Lake and the silvery ribbon moonlight splashed across it. Though weariness made her bones ache, she forced herself to smile at the lake's beauty. It, the beauty of her children, and the kindnesses and hard work of her people made hardship easy to forget.

  She hugged her arms around herself, seeking the last bit of Garath's warmth. Melancholy lurked at the back of her mind, but she forced herself to remember him and smile. You kept your promise. You came back to me.

  She studied the lake a bit longer, then sensed a presence. She spoke to the night. "Are you the one to whom I owe my son's life?"

  "From what I saw, you saved your son's life." The deep voice matched the gentle undulation of the water and seemed woven into the fabric of the night. It came welcome to her ears, carrying with it a weariness she could fully understand.

  "He told me how you killed the wolves, then returned to the fey camp to rescue him." Tyressa turned toward the half-elf sliding from darkness. "He called you Kiiryth."

  "At your service.»

  Tyressa took him in with a measured glance, reading him as father had taught her to do. The half-elf had a bow and arrows slung across his back, and a long knife at his left hip. She had no doubt another knife rode at the small of his back, and the hilt of another protruded from the top of his left boot. He wore leather, which would suit him well in the wood, with enough patching to attest to his skill at leatherwork, and to hint at a legion of well-hidden scars beneath.

  She cocked her head. "What's your family name?"

  Kiiryth shook his head, then smiled. "If I had a family, I'd have a use for a family name."

  "I see. Well then, Kiiryth, I offer you my thanks." She waved a hand back toward her camp. "And I invite you to join our family here. You've done me a great service, and allowing you to enjoy our hospitality, though meager, is the best reward I can offer."

  "I'm not ungrateful, but I must refuse."

  "Please, reconsider. We need people like you." She frowned. "What am I missing?"

  "Your offer, though generous, is not mine to accept. I am not my own master."

  Is he a spy? "Who is he? I would speak to your master."

  Kiiryth held up both hands. "My master bears you no ill will, my lady. He would not inconvenience you with a parlay."

  "But you will convey my best wishes to him?"

  "It would be a pleasure." The archer watched her closely. "Did you truly mean what you said amid the fey? You are creating a home here. You will not be persuaded to do otherwise?"

  "This is our home. My family's future is Silverlake. There is no otherwise."

  "So I thought." Kiiryth gave her a tiny bow. "Let us both hope that neither the wood nor other forces suffer from a differing opinion."

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

  Chapter Seven

  Familiar Territory

  The two days following his rescue from the fey dawned gray, and got darker and a whole lot wetter. It seemed to most of the folks in the Silverlake camp that the clouds were just some sort of big waterwheel, taking water from the lake and dumping it on them in buckets. Fires struggled to stay lit, the campground became a swamp, wagons got mired to their axles, and tents collapsed into soggy messes.

  The only thing that stopped it from being completely intolerable was that the weather didn't turn cold. The rain remained warm—not near a bath, but warm enough that Jerrad could be out in it a while before shivering set in. Most men in the camp did what he did, which was to strip down to trousers and not worry about mud that would wash off in the next cloudburst. The difference was that they looked like men, whereas he looked like a skinny, soaked, half-drowned mouse slipping and sliding through every boggy bit of ground there was.

  Because of the deluge, everyone kept largely to camp. Jerrad's mother used the weather as an excuse to keep him close, and he didn't mind too much. The fact that she let him run around half-naked like the other men meant he could pretend he was more grown-up than he really felt inside.

  He'd fought being afraid while a captive, and tolerated a lot of good-natured ribbing upon his return. There were even times when he forgot all about his ordeal. Those moments came when he was laughing about someone else slipping in the mud, or was eyeballs deep in it himself and being laughed at.

  At night, though, in the dark and trying to fall asleep, the fear slithered in, silent and shiny. People might laugh at him when he fell in the mud, but that was because he'd been careless. The fey had dressed him up and commanded him to act foolishly. Had he refused, they would have forced him to act foolishly. They'd granted him no illusion of freedom, no real dignity, and there'd not been a single thing he could do about it.

  He'd never had that experience before. Throughout his life, he'd been a Vishov. In Ustalav he had people looking out for him. Even if there weren't retainers around—as with his long rambles through the estates—all the shepherds and crofters knew who he was. His being a Vishov protected him.

  But here, that's what made me a target.

  Jerrad wasn't so naive that he imagined his Vishov blood might not have made him a target in Ustalav. Though he'd not read as many of the Kindler adventuring novels as Serrana, in several of the ones he had read, at some point some young noble gets kidnapped and held for ransom, just because he's from a noble family. And because it gives an adventurer someone to rescue to get noticed at court. Somewhere in his head, he knew that portions of the world might act against him—he'd just never seen evidence of it.

  He'd also never felt it in his heart. Being held captive and helpless mocked who he thought he was. Sure, he'd never be the hero his father was, but at least he could become a man his father might have liked. The fey proved he wasn't anywhere near grown.

  I'm really just a mouse. It didn't matter that he was smart. All the intelligence in the world hadn't helped him elude them or escape. Echo Wood wasn't a civilized place where Jerrad could do well. He'd gotten lucky so far, and was pretty sure the wood wouldn't be as forgiving the next time.

  After the rain let up, Jerrad forced himself to go back ou
t exploring. He set aside his grand plans for figuring out how the wood's magic worked and confined himself to more useful tasks. He started out to catalogue as many of the flowers, herbs, and berries as he could find, but made a few other discoveries of note.

  The biggest was that the heavy rains had succeeded in widening and deepening a stream. They washed away rocks and dirt right down to bedrock, creating a ten-foot drop into a broad pool. The stream, which before had meandered down a hillside, now provided a perfect place to build a small mill.

  The flooding had also washed a considerable amount of wood down to the lake, and retreating tides had left plenty of it stacked up on the shore for the taking. That made collecting firewood a job that didn't require much travel.

  Jerrad, who did a fair bit of firewood harvesting, also noted that the piles didn't shrink as fast as they should have. The settlers made no concerted effort to clear one specific area of the beach, but piles that had shrunk before dark recovered fairly well by dawn. Though he looked for signs of who or what had done that, he found no tracks in the sand.

  He decided that nixies were responsible and took that as a hopeful sign. Still, he had no solid evidence that this was true. He did ask around for what people knew of nixies, seeking a way he could reward them, but no one knew much at all about the aquatic fey folk.

  As much as they might be helpful, the sprites were not. They bedeviled him on his scouting expeditions. If he bent down to look at a mushroom or a flower, a pine cone would bounce off his skull—and that with the nearest pine a hundred yards away. Jerrad became convinced the sprites taught squirrels to drop acorns on him. Every time he tripped, little laughs echoed. Branches would spring around to smack him in the face and nettles managed to get lodged in all sorts of interesting places.