Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road

by Michael A. Stackpole

  "The offer is appreciated, and rejected." Tyressa's eyes tightened. "It would be inappropriate for a young woman to be in your company alone."

  "It might affect her price in cows and pelts."

  "Droll, but your offer is unacceptable."

  "Your son could come as well."

  She considered that for a moment. In the past two weeks brother and sister had grown closer—or at least, if they were fighting, they were doing it where she couldn't see or hear them. Jerrad she could trust in Thornkeep, but she couldn't believe he would be able to keep his sister out of trouble. Especially if it involves goblins or mud.

  "I have two problems with allowing Serrana to go to Thornkeep. The first is that this would be a privilege for her—one she has not earned. As you acknowledged yourself, you're seen as being less than useful here. But I'm not your mistress. My daughter, however, is my responsibility. To reward her for doing the minimum asked of her would destroy morale."

  Lord Sunnock nodded. "Very astute observation, my lady. Your other objection?"

  "A simple trip to Thornkeep would delight my daughter, and destroy her when she had to return here. We would give her hope, then crush it. I fear that the only thing she will settle for, the only thing she will joyously embrace, is a return to Ustalav. Since that won't be happening, to indulge her would be cruel sport."

  "What if it could happen?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Sunnock stroked his chin with a hand. "The prince has great affection for you. By extension, for your children. At Baron Creelisk's orders I took a chance—a chance more slender than that last paring of moon in the sky above. I've generated a number of reports which paint progress here in less than glowing terms. I've not lied per se, but have left the impression that you are, well, manfully embracing your duty. Silverlake, however, is slow to thrive, and your daughter... well, it doesn't look good for such a flower in this place."

  Tyressa folded her arms over her chest. You cannot be thinking...

  "Baron Creelisk is going to petition the prince to allow him to give your daughter—and your son, of course—sanctuary in his estate. He will...."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "Never."

  "I've not finished."

  "Yes, you have." Tyressa thrust a finger off toward Thornkeep. "How can you imagine I would agree to that when Lady Ivis lives not ten miles from here? I won't have Creelisk do to my daughter what he did to her."

  "I have no idea to what you refer."

  "No?" She snorted. "Her father and brother went off to war. Her mother sickened—black boils—and died. Ivis grew ill as well. Your master took her in, saw to it she survived the illness."

  "Hardly the hallmark of someone not willing to aid those given to his care."

  "Then he seduced her. She was barely older than my daughter." Tyressa shivered. The affair had been something of an open secret among girls at court, simply because Lady Ivis had taken on airs. When Creelisk tired of her, he informed her family of what she'd been up to. For that reason her father was more than receptive to an invitation to marry her off to a bandit lordling far from home. "He'll never get his hands on my daughter."

  "It was my impression, my lady, that he was hoping she would find his son Ranall favorable."

  "I'm certain he may even believe that himself, but once he saw her, realized how innocent she is, I doubt he could avoid temptation." Or be unable to convince his son that inheriting his father's mistress was anything but the boy's good fortune. "No, that will not be happening."

  Sunnock turned fully to face her. "Are you certain you're not speaking for yourself, and not your daughter?"

  "I don't follow."

  "You struck this deal with the prince. You made the commitment to be here. All of those who accompanied you did so as volunteers. Even the locals who've come to help have made a choice. But neither of your children could make that choice, could they? Do you hate the idea that they might be able to regain the life your rash decision denies them? Do you believe that anyone back home holds them to blame for what your brother did?"

  "They blame me."

  "You were his advisor, after all."

  Tyressa balled her fists, but hid them at the small of her back. "Just as you are not privy to your master's every thought and whim, so it was with my brother. Perhaps I should have seen what he was doing. Mayhap I could have seen. The fact remains that I never did.

  "As for your suggestion that my children would be seen as being free of guilt, you underestimate the depths to which people have already descended. Ailson Kindler was persuaded to write her book at the behest of a patron, I know it. Who I cannot say, but someone paid her to disgrace my family. Someone that unscrupulous wouldn't hesitate to hurt my children."

  "And yet, wouldn't they be safer far from this place?"

  An icy serpent slithered through her guts. "Far from this place, I can't keep them safe."

  "But can you keep them safe here?"

  "There are some who might interpret that as a veiled threat."

  "Thankfully you're too intelligent to do so." The man's silhouette opened its arms. "I say to you truthfully, I bear neither you nor your family any ill will. Perhaps my master's motives are tinged with ambition. If your daughter and his son were to fall in love, then the estates he holds in stewardship for the Vishovs might join the Creelisk holdings. At the very least, it would be Vishov blood overseeing them. It would be a way to guarantee the outcome for which you labor here."

  Tyressa's hand rose to her throat. Is life here too hard for my children? Serra would jump at the chance he offers. And Jerrad... "Your suggestion is not an easy one to dismiss."

  "Nor to accept." The man shrugged. "Perhaps I am too abrupt in bringing this to your attention, or in asking for a decision. My offer stands, whenever you deem it advisable to move your children to safer environs. I do understand your reasons. I merely hope you understand my reasoning in return."

  "Yes, thank you, Lord Sunnock." Tyressa exhaled heavily. "I'll think on this, and perhaps give you an answer in the morning."

  "If it pleases you, my lady." The man bowed and slowly descended the ladder.

  Tyressa turned and leaned against the palisade, staring out at the dark wood. Have I trapped my children here? She knew, of course, that she had. But the cruelty of that act came only with the meanest reading of circumstance. The children couldn't stay in Ustalav. The prince had been forced to show disfavor, which meant all of the Vishovs' friends and allies would have to follow suit. To do anything less would leave them open to charges of treason, and to be implicated in helping her brother through a campaign of whispers.

  When she'd come up with the plan, people had thought her brave and even noble—at least to her face. Most considered what she was doing a futile act fueled by guilt and desperation. They'd be happy if she succeeded, and would welcome her back with affirmations that they knew she'd been innocent. In reality, they probably all devoured copies of Sunnock's reports, tingling delightedly at every suggestion of disaster.

  "Plenty of fodder for their dreams: floods, fey, barbarians, and an old enemy in the nearest town. Just the kind of things Kindler would weave into another story." She turned around and looked out at the town. "But those haven't defeated us. Gods willing, nothing else will."

  Then a man's blood-curdling scream split the night and ended in a gurgle.

  The gods' will, it seems, is to test me yet one more time.

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

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Dream Uprooted

  Jerrad couldn't tell from which direction the scream had come. He'd been huddled beneath a blanket reading the wizardry text. Something about the words didn't require light for him to read—which made sense. Many of the spells were centered around illusions and projecting images into a subject's mind. The whole book, he decided, was primarily a practical text on illusion, and he devoured each lesson as the book choose t
o reveal it to him.

  Don't move. He closed the book and trembled. Someone just had an accident. It can't be anything bad. Just stay here.

  Someone else screamed.

  Serra!

  He threw off the blanket. Silhouettes ran through the night—some normal people and some small, like children, but with enormous heads and ridiculously large ears. He resisted the urge to duck beneath the blankets again, and instead cupped his hands around his mouth. "Goblins!"

  Jerrad grabbed his belt and fumbled with the buckle for a heartbeat or two before realizing he didn't need to wear the belt. His hand drifted down to the dagger, and he drew it just in time for one of the goblins to bound into his tent, peg teeth flashing.

  Time died. The goblin had daubed its face with reddish mud and some yellow paste probably made from flowers. It had tied feathers to its biceps and just below the knees. A mangy skin made up its loincloth and the short cloak it wore. It had a rusty knife tucked into a slender belt, but never made to draw it.

  The goblin hissed and leaped for him. Clawed hands reached for Jerrad's throat. The young man thrust the dagger forward—less as an attack than an attempt to fend the goblin off. His dagger plunged into the goblin's throat right above a necklace of bones. Hot blood shot up Jerrad's sleeve, and the goblin's dying spin tore the slicked knife from his hand. The creature stumbled and fell against Jerrad's cot.

  The goblin's claws rent the pillow asunder, then the creature slumped amid a blizzard of feathers. It sighed as if settling down for a welcome nap.

  Jerrad stared at his gore-drenched hand. A feather landed on it, drinking in the goblin's blood. What have I done?

  Then he heard another scream. Serra! I have to find Serra! He dropped to a knee and yanked the dagger from the goblin's throat. Trailing feathers in his wake, he ran into the night, and heard her scream a third time.

  There!

  Serrana ran pell-mell through the camp in a panic. She headed mostly west, angling toward the furthest of the root cellars. He raced after her, slashing goblins and pushing them out of the way. He didn't hurt many, but caught a couple solidly. They'd either not seen him coming or didn't care as long as there was loot to carry off. Odd, capering victory dances took precedence over fighting, adding absurdity to the night's horrific chaos.

  Ahead, his sister tripped and fell against a pile of wood scraps. Three goblins moved at her. Two had knives.

  "Hey!" Jerrad thrust his left hand high in the air as the goblins stared at him. This better work!

  He cast the spell he'd been trying to perfect beneath the blanket. A brilliant light flared from his hand, rendering the goblins in silver and his sister in icy blue. One goblin screamed, dropping his knife, and clawed at his own eyes.

  As darkness returned and a wave of fatigue washed over him, Jerrad let his run carry him into the nearest goblin. He bowled the creature over. His foe sank teeth into Jerrad's left shoulder, but the boy barely noticed. Hand tight on the dagger's sticky hilt, Jerrad stabbed again and again. His thrusts ruined the goblin's belly, but he didn't stop stabbing until the jaws slackened.

  He pitched the body off and rose, blood coursing down his arm and dripping from the blade. He gave Serra a smile. "It's okay."

  Her eyes grew wide and her voice rose with fear. "Jerrad, look out!"

  He spun right into an avalanche of goblins. His knife sank into something solid and warm, but it didn't matter. A skull clipped his jaw, cracking teeth together. With horror contorting Serra's face, Jerrad sank beneath a wave of rending claws, biting teeth, and goblin flesh.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Tyressa leaped from the battlements and landed in a crouch. She gathered her skirts and pulled the rear hem up between her legs, tucked it into her belt at the belly. Cool air chilled bare feet. Another two steps and she picked up a stout stick. Two more and she levered a hatchet free of the chopping block where they killed chickens. With one stroke she slashed the stick into a sharpened stake, then stalked into the night.

  More screams drew her onward. She heard someone yell "Goblins!" and thought it might be Jerrad. At least he's alive. She killed the urge to run to him. Panic would slay her, and then she'd be no help to anyone.

  The first goblin flew at her out of the darkness, screeching as it came. Tyressa twisted, thrusting with her left hand. The stake caught the goblin in the chest, but a skin vest prevented it from penetrating. The creature giggled at its good fortune, then grew quiet as an overhand blow with the hatchet split its skull.

  Off to the right, one of the woodsmen cleaved a goblin in half.

  "To me!"

  The man looked up as she wrenched the hatchet from the skull, then ran to her, nodding as he came. "Goblins."

  "I see. I'd prefer highwaymen."

  "My lady?"

  "Bigger targets, and they don't bite." She raised her voice. "To me, Silverlake!"

  Tyressa had meant the call to draw the settlers to her. A few came, one with an arm hanging limp and blood pouring from his shoulder. More quickly, however, came the goblins, chittering and gibbering, snarling and giggling insanely.

  Off to the north one section of the wall ignited in a wash of flames. Goblin silhouettes writhed across the landscape. They piled up against the longhouse, standing on each other to get in the windows. Knives cut some, broomsticks thrust others away. Yet more ran around carrying off even the most inconsequential of trinkets. One had even slapped a boot on its head, lacing the floppy helmet on beneath the chin.

  All this Tyressa took in with emotionless clarity. She didn't even allow herself anger, because letting in one emotion would open the way for others. She thrust and cut within her guard, remaining safe as her husband had taught her to do, yet missed no opportunity to kill. The hatchet's dull end pulverized what the blade wouldn't slice. A slap with the flat shattered bone. Goblins reeled away trying to press their faces back into shape.

  The wounded man went down, and the goblins dragged him away. Tyressa closed ranks with the others. More goblins came in a wave that broke against the ferocity of the settlers' defense. Blood splashed. Sweat stung the countless scratches on her legs and forearms. Bones snapped. They weren't hers, but one solid hatchet stroke sent a shock wave up into her shoulder, and the dying goblin carried the hatchet away with it.

  "They're running, my lady."

  The woodsman was right. But that's not right. Tyressa frowned, wiping her brow and smearing blood across it. The goblins had thinned, scattering in all directions, but more were upright than dead or dying. Why would they break off the attack?

  Then she felt it, through her feet. Tremors in the ground, matching heavy footfalls. Something crashed through the darkness, coming up from the lake. She couldn't tell what it was, other than big. Whatever it was, the goblins knew better than to be anywhere near it. And she'd have followed their example, except that she wasn't going to let anything drive her from her home.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Welinn huddled just inside the southernmost portion of the wall, cloaked darkness. He could see plenty well through it, as could all the goblins. The problem was, he couldn't see anything but goblins. Attacking, looting, setting fires, dying, all he saw were goblins by the legion.

  That wasn't the way it was supposed to have worked. He, being of the Brambleclaw Tribe, had gotten the blessing of his chief, then gathered a company of goblins. He'd told them all the things the manlord wanted, especially about the scaring and the girl. The scaring would be what earned him extra money, so he had stressed it to his fellows.

  He'd had a special thought in that regard. The manlord had wanted the attack to come on the moonless night, but that made no real sense if scaring was the object. If men couldn't see the goblins, how could they be scared? They couldn't, so the plan had to be modified so there was enough light to allow the scaring.

  The Brambleclaws had taken the news about scaring to heart. More than one approached him asking if they could invite a cousin, since more would be scarier than less. Welinn had ac
cepted the first few offers, then started refusing, but no one had listened to him. Cousins had invited other cousins, and it looked as if every goblin between Thornkeep and Silvershade Lake had joined in.

  Then he saw it. One of the goblins had gone to far with scaring. He invited Grakka.

  The creature looked like an ogre, but Welinn had heard it was of mixed blood—human or elf, though looking at it the goblin couldn't have told which. The ogrekin lived alone in the wood, having been driven from or escaped from Mosswater. It came dragging the lower half of a sapling—complete with root ball, as it stalked up the slope from the lake. The footfalls sounded as thunder and the ground shook.

  Too much scaring. The goblin made himself as small as possible. He waited for Grakka to pass, then Welinn snuck around the corner and darted into the night. It didn't matter how much gold money the manlord would give him, it wouldn't be enough to lurk within the ogrekin's bloody domain.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Jerrad rolled and tried to heave a goblin off him. He might have succeeded, he didn't know. His push included his knife, but he didn't hear a grunt or scream. Then again, being at the heart of a ball of yowling, gouging, gnawing goblins meant he couldn't make sense of much at all.

  I have to get free. He fought panic and bit. He drove his knees into things. He smashed his head backward into something which crunched. His left elbow slammed against hardness, and his left hand closed on something squishy. He yanked. That got a howl, then teeth closed on his right wrist and his knife went flying.

  He lashed out with everything he had, but the goblins weighed him down. Any time he sent one flying, two more would pile on. He couldn't get a decent breath. And something had a hand on the side of his head, trying to work his head up to expose his throat. He fought it. Claws sank into his scalp. Blood ran. The grip slipped for a second, then moved down and hooked beneath his jaw.

  Then it was gone. Something hit with a solid thunk, and that goblin vanished. Then another thump, and another. Weight left his legs, so he kicked. He arched his back, then twisted, trying to get his hands under him.