Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine
Page 1
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine
Number XX of Pathfinder Tales
James L. Sutter
Paizo Publishing, LLC (2014)
* * *
Rating: ★★★★★
* * *
When murdered sinners fail to show up in Hell, it's up to Salim Ghadafar, an atheist warrior forced to solve problems for the goddess of death, to track down the missing souls. In order to do so, Salim will need to descend into the anarchic city of Kaer Maga, following a trail that ranges from Hell's iron cities to the gates of Heaven itself. Along the way, he'll be aided by a host of otherworldly creatures, a streetwise teenager, and two warriors of the mysterious Iridian Fold. But when the missing souls are the scum of the earth, and the victims devils themselves, can anyone really be trusted? From acclaimed author James L. Sutter comes the sequel to Death's Heretic, the novel ranked #3 on Barnes & Noble's Best Fantasy Releases of 2011!
**
At last the leader shrugged. He turned to Salim.
"Sorry, gov." There seemed to be a note of real apology in his voice. "But Aurochs don't talk much, so we like to accommodate him as best we can when he does. Off with the sword."
Salim said nothing. Instead, he drew, letting the blade hang point-down in the air between him and the thugs, giving them a better look. Beneath the metallic glob of the melted basket, channels perfectly molded to his fingers gripped his hand. He squeezed, and the brass echoed his own pulse back at him, beating in time with his heart.
Three knives came up. All apology and deference vanished as the thugs spread out, the half-elf and the shaven-headed strongman circling professionally around Salim to either side.
"Now now, Father," said the leader, waving his dagger in admonishment. "Don't go making this more than it needs to be."
"Sorry," Salim said, "but I'm afraid we're a bit beyond that now."
The attack came in a blur of movement, the leader feinting to attract Salim's attention while the bruiser and the addict came together like crashing waves...
The Pathfinder Tales Library
Novels
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
Death's Heretic by James L. Sutter
Song of the Serpent by Hugh Mattews
City of the Fallen Sky by Tim Pratt
Nightglass by Liane Merciel
Blood of the City by Robin D. Laws
Queen of Thorns by Dave Gross
Called to Darkness by Richard Lee Byers
Liar's Blade by Tim Pratt
King of Chaos by Dave Gross
Stalking the Beast by Howard Andrew Jones
The Dagger of Trust by Chris Willrich
Skinwalkers by Wendy N. Wagner
The Redemption Engine by James L. Sutter
The Crusader Road by Michael A. Stackpole
Journals
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter
Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross
Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham
Prodigal Sons edited by James L. Sutter
Plague of Light by Robin D. Laws
Guilty Blood by F. Wesley Schneider
Husks by Dave Gross
The Treasure of Far Thallai by Robin D. Laws
Light of a Distant Star by Bill Ward
Short Stories
"The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross
"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
"The Swamp Warden" by Amber E. Scott
"Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford
"Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay
"The Secret of the Rose and Glove by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers
"Guns of Alkenstar" by Ed Greenwod
"The Ghosts of Broken Blades" by Monte Cook
"The Walkers from the Crypt" by Howard Andrew Jones
"A Lesson in Taxonomy" by Dave Gross
"The Illusionist" by Elaine Cunningham
"Two Pieces of Tarnished Silver by Erik Mona
"The Ironroot Deception" by Robin D. Laws
"Plow and Sword" by Robert E. Vardeman
"A Passage to Absalom" by Dave Gross
"The Seventh Execution" by Amber E. Scott
"The Box" by Bill Ward
"Blood and Money by Steven Savile
"Faithful Servants" by James L. Sutter
"Fingers of Death—No, Doom!" by Lucien Soulban
"The Perfumer's Apprentice" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Krunzle the Quick" by Hugh Matthews
"Mother Bears" by Wendy N. Wagner
"Hell or High Water" by Ari Marmell
"A Tomb of Winter's Plunder" by Tim Pratt
"Misery's Mirror" by Liane Merciel
"The Twelve-Hour Statue" by Michael Kortes
"In the Event of My Untimely Demise" by Robin D. Laws
"Shattered Steel" by F. Wesley Schneider
"Proper Villains" by Erik Scott de Bie
"Killing Time" by Dave Gross
"Thieves Vinegar" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"In Red Rune Canyon" by Richard Lee Byers
"The Fate of Falling Stars" by Andrew Penn Romine
"Bastard, Sword" by Tim Pratt
"The Irregulars" by Neal F. Litherland
The Redemption Engine © 2014 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, Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, Pathfinder, the Pathfinder logo, and Pathfinder Society are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Accessories, Pathfinder Adventure Card Game, Pathfinder Adventure Path, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, Pathfinder Cards, Pathfinder Flip-Mat, Pathfinder Map Pack, Pathfinder Module, Pathfinder Pawns, Pathfinder Player Companion, Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Tales, and Rise of the Runelords are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.
Cover art by Craig J Spearing.
Cover design by Emily Crowell.
Map by Robert Lazzaretti.
Paizo Publishing, LLC
7120 185th Ave NE, Ste 120
Redmond, WA 98052
paizo.com
ISBN 978-1-60125-618-8 (mass market paperback)
ISBN 978-1-60125-619-5 (ebook)
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Sutter, James L.
The redemption engine / James L. Sutter
p. : ill., map ; cm. -- (Pathfinder tales)
Set in the world of the role-playing game, Pathfinder.
Issued also as an ebook.
ISBN: 978-1-60125-618-8
1. Monsters--Fiction. 2. Magic--Fiction. 3. Hell--Fiction. 4. Good and evil--Fiction. 5. Pathfinder (Game)--Fiction. 6. Fantasy fiction. 7. Adventure stories. I. Title. II. Series: Pathfinder tales library.
PS3619.U884 R44 2014
813/.6
First printing April 2014.
Printed in the United States of America.
For Margo,
for all the reasons.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter One
Not That Kind of Priest
Give us the purse, gov."
The leader of the little band of cutthroats was tall and lanky, with greasy black hair slicked back from an even greasier face. To his right, a shorter man bore pointed ears indicating elven blood, the bloodshot whites around his human irises turned egg-yolk yellow by one addiction or another. The final man, broader across the shoulders than the other two combined, had a face and arm ravaged by pox, with purple pustules trailing all the way down to his blade hand. All three carried their knives flat against their forearms, making them less visible to passersby while still displaying them prominently for Salim's benefit.
Not that anyone was looking. Around them, the river of bodies continued its flow in and out of the city, parting around the little island of hostility as naturally as water around a stone. This particular robbery didn't concern them, and they were happy to let it stay that way.
Keeping has hands well away from his sword, Salim reached up to the leather cord around his neck and slowly drew the amulet out from within the folds of his black robes, letting it fall against his chest.
The three would-be footpads studied the little black stone with interest, their eyes following the iridescent spiral engraved on its surface. Yet rather than backing away, the leader smiled with genuine humor.
"A priest, eh?" His free hand came up, first two fingers extended, and drew a similar spiral in the air between them. "All due respect to the Gray Lady, gov, but even the death goddess knows that thieves as us gots to eat, same as anybody." He gave the dagger in his other hand a spin, sending it somersaulting flashily over the backs of his knuckles before slapping back into his palm.
The other men were smiling now, too. The half-elf bowed his head in mock respect. "If'n the Lady wants us not to rob you, she'll let us know—but don't go thinking about calling down no miracles of your own, now." He waved his blade toward Salim's chest. "That's cheating, that is."
The other two nodded. With the casual air of a friend collecting on a bet, the leader stepped forward and held out an open hand. "Enough talk. The purse."
Salim glanced around. To either side of the street's narrow channel, shacks and shanties rose up in a vertical avalanche, a trash-walled slum eight stories high, teetering over the street on wooden scaffolding. Children ran riot across unsecured planks, and drunks leaned on rickety railings, their sour vomit dropping dozens of feet into the swirling, swearing crowd. Yet nowhere was there anything close to a uniform, or even anyone willing to look in the direction of Salim's private misfortune.
Fewer than a hundred paces into the city, and he was already being robbed. A poor omen indeed.
Six eyes watched hungrily as Salim reached into his robe once more, deeper this time, and drew out a leather purse, its drawstring pulled tight. Salim weighed it in his hand, feeling the few coins still clicking together inside. Most of the money he'd carried had already gone to the Duskwardens for passage up the cliff, and he'd need to requisition more from the local temple anyway. The handful of copper still left wasn't worth spilling blood over, even blood as cheap as that of these three. He considered flinging the purse over the men's heads and continuing on his way while they scrabbled for it, but settled for lobbing it to the greasy one.
The thief caught it easily, and made an appreciative little half-bow. "A thousand gratitudes, Your Grace. We hope you find your stay in our city as rewarding as we have." He gave a cheery whistle, and both he and the half-elf turned.
"Wait."
It was the first time the poxy one had spoken. The other two stopped and turned back, surprised. Forehead furrowed in concentration, the bruiser raised a hand like a rotting ham hock and pointed. "His sword."
Salim's hand went reflexively to the blade's hilt. The sword was long and narrow, the scabbard a soldier's simple leather, weathered and nicked by years in the elements. Only the hilt was remarkable, and not in a particularly attractive way—the brass basket hilt appeared to have been melted in some great fire, its shape warped and distorted like a lump of baker's dough.
"Don't look like much," the half-elf opined, scratching at an elbow studded with pinprick scars and fresh bruises.
"We could melt it down." The big man continued to squint, as if even this simple thought was a tremendous strain.
The other two looked at each other, and at last the leader shrugged. He turned to Salim.
"Sorry, gov." There seemed to be a note of real apology in his voice. "But Aurochs don't talk much, so we like to accommodate him as best we can when he does. Off with the sword."
Salim said nothing. Instead, he drew, letting the blade hang point-down in the air between him and the thugs, giving them a better look. Beneath the metallic glob of the melted basket, channels perfectly molded to his fingers gripped his hand. He squeezed, and the brass echoed his own pulse back at him, beating in time with his heart.
Three knives came up. All apology and deference vanished as the thugs spread out, the half-elf and the shaven-headed strongman circling professionally around Salim to either side.
"Now now, Father," said the leader, waving his dagger in admonishment. "Don't go making this more than it needs to be."
"Sorry," Salim said, "but I'm afraid we're a bit beyond that now."
The attack came in a blur of movement, the leader feinting to attract Salim's attention while the bruiser and the addict came together like crashing waves.
The addict was faster, and Salim stepped in close to meet him. Clearly used to prey that ran rather than fought, the half-elf barely had time to get his knife up to guard his face. Salim put a boot to the side of the thug's forward knee, kicking out hard. There was a soft pop, and the half-elf's face went white. Both hands dropped reflexively toward the joint that no longer supported his weight, and Salim took the opportunity to wrap his free hand in the man's dirty, corn-blond hair. He pulled, tugging the other man off balance. The half-elf stumbled, and as his face came down, Salim's knee came up. The two met with a crunch of cartilage and bone, and the addict slumped to the street without a sound.
The exchange took only heartbeats, but it was almost too long. Salim spun, and the bruiser's knife slashed through the air where his shoulder had been. The big man recovered quickly for his size, holding the foot-long blade as lightly as a needle. He grinned, showing gums stained black by rot. He beckoned with the knife, motioning for Salim to come to him.
The leader. Where was the leader? On a hunch, Salim launched a foot backward, kicking like a mule. He connected with something soft, and heard the whoosh of air as it left the greasy knifeman's lungs.
Ignoring the man behind him, Salim ran straight at the pox-ridden enforcer. As expected, the big man's knife came up and down in a simple arc, stabbing with the force of a falling pickaxe. Had Salim continued his trajectory, the thick blade might have punched straight through him, cutting through ribs like wicker.
At the last moment, Salim darted sideways, coming in on the knife side, staying safely away from the big man's open hand. Grabbing the knife arm to keep it outstretched, Salim brought his sword up in a cross-body punch. Metal hilt slammed into pustulant cheek. Blood flew and teeth snapped.
With surprising speed, the big man twisted, his elbow coming up under Salim's chin in a sharp burst of light and pain. Salim staggered back, waving his sword wildly in front of him. When his vision cleared, both the leader and the bruiser were grinning once more, the latter through a mask of blood.
Salim became aware of a sound, like the roar of the surf. Though the circle of empty space around the men had grown as pedestrians fled for the shelter of the surrounding buildings, the upper stories were not so discreet. From the precarious balconies and railless planks swanning out over the thoroughfare, children and old men shouted encouragement. Salim couldn't make out the words, but he didn't need to. The locals might favor their own, but the cheering wasn't for one side or the other. It was for blood, and blood alone.
The stick-up men didn't seem to mind. Having moved beyond the usual business of robbery, they
were clearly enjoying a little break in the monotony of separating travelers from their purses. Arms extended like triumphant gladiators, they welcomed the howl of the crowd. Then they turned back to Salim.
Salim rubbed his jaw, feeling the swelling bruise.
Enough. These men had their chance, and he had places to be.
They came on in a rush. This time Salim didn't dance to the side or kick out for knees and insteps. Instead, he planted his feet, one slightly in front of the other, and let everything but the two men drain away.
The leader never saw it coming. One moment he was running, knife held blade-down for a punching slash, and the next his fingers were limp, nerveless, the tendons in his wrist sliced cleanly through. Salim's sword continued its trajectory, sailing into position against the bruiser's chest.
The man's reach was long, but Salim's was longer—he never even had to thrust, just let the man's momentum carry him forward, from this life into the next. The blade seemed to sigh as it slid into the attacker's chest, and by the time the man's knife was close enough to matter, there was already a foot of steel protruding from his back. The brute had a moment of genuine puzzlement—a dog confused by the sudden disappearance of a bone—and then his eyes rolled back in his head.
Before the big man could collapse and take the sword with him, Salim shoved hard, sending the body backward and freeing his sword at the same time. He turned the motion into an arcing, backhand slice. Blood fountained, and the leader, who'd been gaping at the sudden death of his lackey, now gaped twice—once from the mouth, and once from the throat. Bodies hit the dirt.
For a moment, the street was silent, the whole city seeming to hesitate. Watching him.
Then there was a cough, and the creak of a wagon axle. As if nothing had happened, the city flowed back into life, giving the bodies just enough space to keep from getting blood on hems or boots. Several street children lingered, no doubt ready to rush in and empty the thieves' purses as soon as Salim moved on. It was the way of things.
"Father."
The sound wasn't so much a word as a burbling. Salim looked down and saw the group's leader reaching a weak hand toward him, not even bothering to cover the whistling waterfall of his throat.