Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine
Page 10
"The Tower of Night," Kian said. Her hand touched Salim's elbow. "Come."
Their bridge continued to curve, bringing them ever closer to the black pillar. Where it met the stone, near the top of the stalagmite and the beginning of the tower proper, it split in two and became staircases once more, climbing sharply to either side and switching back until they met again in front of a huge archway in the brickwork, its sides carved with vines and leering gargoyles.
Salim stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up. As impressive as his brief glimpse of the rest of the city had been, it was clear that this structure was anything but normal. "What is this place?"
"The home of the vampires," Kian said. "Now there are many, but this was the first, and so remains the center. Come." She tugged at his arm again, more forcefully this time, and they ascended the steep stair to the gate. Salim had just enough time to notice that the archway had no doors or portcullis, and then they were through.
It was dark inside, and warm. The low red light he'd seen from a distance was everywhere, turning everything the color of fire through closed eyelids. Salim had the sensation of being inside something alive, and the back of his neck prickled.
Kian stopped them just past the doorway. Her skin and hair were blood red, her body a shadow. She looked up and whistled, a rising half-step.
The ceiling was high—very high—and as lost in darkness as everything else in this subterranean oubliette, but Salim's straining eyes caught the flicker of motion. Above them, something huge detached from the stone and dropped, spreading leathery wings like the sails of a skiff.
Salim gripped hard at his sword, and only Kian's unconcerned posture kept him from drawing.
The massive bat, larger than a human, arrested its dive. Warm air tugged at Salim's hair and robes as membranous wings scooped it in lazy beats, each flap the dull crack of someone beating out a carpet. The creature hovered above them, waiting.
"Get the Eyeless," Kian said. "Tell them they have a visitor. From Above."
The bat gave a high-pitched scream that cut at Salim's ears, then banked and slid effortlessly out the door, disappearing into the twilight.
Salim forced himself to let go of his sword. "Now what?"
"Now we wait." Kian pulled him forward through another doorway. "The Caulborn have their own quarters, and keep to their own schedules."
Salim would have asked why they didn't go straight there, but by then they were emerging into a great hall, one whose ceiling was supported by freestanding stone pillars in the shapes of men and women. The giants held the vault across their shoulders, heads bowed and arms stretched to either side like water-carriers—or people who'd been crucified. Their blank eyes stared down at the floor sixty feet below. Beneath them, doorways and balconied hallway landings riddled the walls, leading into the rest of the tower.
There were people here. They wore the same dark finery as Kian, though no two outfits were precisely alike. They stood in quiet clusters or lounged on stairs and banisters, conversing or reading from leather-bound tomes. The room, which had already been quiet, fell silent as the newcomers entered.
That prickling feeling intensified, like spiders crawling across the back of Salim's neck. He'd seen hives before—clusters of vampires and their spawn—but never anything on this scale. Even a few of the undead were enough to drink half a city dry.
And there were more than a few here. In twos and threes, they began to drift toward Salim and Kian, spreading out and circling in an unconscious mimicry of their hunting patterns.
At least, Salim hoped it was unconscious.
"And who have you brought us, Kian?" The speaker was an older-looking man, tall and straight, with a coat whose long tails brushed the floor. Kian looked at Salim expectantly.
"My name is Salim Ghadafar," he said, and was relieved to hear his voice emerge flat and calm. "I come as an emissary to your masters, from the City Above." He took another look around at the reflective eyes, the pale skin seeming to float in the wine-dark light, and decided to gamble. "I represent the Boneyard and the Spire, upon the order of Pharasma herself."
There was a general murmur at that, and the swirling crowd retreated a few steps.
"The Lady of Graves," the elder vampire said. "Interesting..."
"It's true!" A lanky teenage boy—or something that looked like one—split the crowd and moved close, peering up at Salim through an incongruous pair of spectacles. His hair was an untidy brown mop, and except for the fangs, he looked like an apprentice scribe. He turned toward the crowd.
"I saw him! In the window, coming out of Canary House! He really is from the City Above!" The youth beamed, then seemed to realize exactly how close he was to the stranger. He pulled back into the crowd.
"The Palace will want to speak with him," Kian said. "Until it does, no one is to interfere."
There was further muttering, but the crowd drew farther away, many of the vampires breaking off to return to whatever they had been doing. Yet eyes remained on Salim and Kian.
"You're a fairy tale," Kian observed.
"Someone from the outside world?"
The vampire shook her head. "A Pharasmin. Everyone knows about the outsiders—we have the windows. But the Lady of Graves is a bogeyman, the one who comes with stakes and fire."
Salim nodded. "But surely the church doesn't know about this place."
She looked at him levelly. "It does now."
Salim was processing the ramifications of that when a commotion erupted behind him. He turned to see half a dozen figures striding purposefully through the main doorway of the tower. The leader pointed an accusatory finger at Salim.
"That's him!" Lorilen shouted. "The slave that attacked me!"
The vampires with him fanned out to either side, creating yet another wide circle around Salim and Kian. Salim supposed that such predictability was inevitable in a closed environment.
Kian spoke first. "You're wrong twice, Lorilen. He's not a slave, and he didn't attack you." She looked at the other vampires with him. "Are you eager to make it three times?"
Lorilen growled, an inhuman rasping sound. "Do you mean to put yourself between us, Kian?"
Kian looked at Lorilen, then at Salim, then back at Lorilen. At last she moved casually aside, breaking through the closing circle and standing against the far wall, watching.
"Thanks a lot," Salim said.
Kian shrugged.
Lorilen refused to be ignored. "You know what the penalty is for striking your betters, slave."
"Actually, I don't," Salim said. "But I can guess."
Then they were on him like a pack of wild dogs, feinting and snapping.
Salim's sword left its scabbard with a smooth hiss, carving a bright arc through black cloth and gray-white flesh. Vampires howled and leapt back as they learned that, unlike most swords, the Melted Blade could actually hurt them—a fact Lorilen had clearly neglected to mention.
Yet they recovered their courage quickly, and there were too many of them. The wild dogs analogy was accurate—there was no series of single combats here. They lunged in twos and threes, from opposing sides, lashing out and then darting away with bloodied claws, seeking to wear him down.
Salim moved fluidly, a perfect economy of motion. Blade met talons, shearing fingers and cutting at eyes, unable to spend time angling for death blows. He hooked legs and drug them out from under their owners, his free hand turning aside grasping claws even as his blade followed them back to their sources. He whirled like a dervish, dark robes spinning out to break up his outline.
It wasn't enough. Even a single vampire could outlast a man in a contest of stamina. Stalling was only delaying the inevitable.
One clawed hand came in high, and Salim ducked under it, driving hard into its owner and stabbing repeatedly in an attempt to break the circle. The vampire screamed like a slaughtered pig as the Melted Blade savaged organs long since atrophied by death. The victim clutched at the blade as he fell, twisting the blood-s
lick hilt out of Salim's grasp.
The pack converged. Only the rush of all of them charging at once kept Salim from being immediately disemboweled. In the confusion, they settled for slashing and kicking, unsure precisely which black-clad shape in the fracas was the target—or perhaps simply enjoying the pleasure of an old-fashioned beating.
Head tucked, forced down to his knees, Salim struggled to keep moving, pushing with his legs while using his arms to protect the back of his neck. His sword was gone, and with it his last hope of getting out of this particular goddess-given mess.
Or maybe not his last one.
If there was a spell that might have helped, Salim didn't know it. Through the haze of pain and confusion, he doubted he could have cast it anyway. Instead, he reached down, into the recesses of his soul, and found the careful dam he'd built against the goddess's presence, the bulwark that held back the polluted sea of her power.
And he pulled it down.
The flood coursed through him, consuming him, carving his veins into channels. His mouth opened in a scream of rage as the icy current roiled in his flesh, filling him with her essence.
His was not the only scream. Even as he made himself a conduit, a lightning rod, the power spilled out of Salim, pouring forth in an invisible torrent. The tidal wave caught the vampires and threw them backward, searing undead flesh that was an affront to everything Pharasma stood for.
Undeath might be a mockery of life, but it was also a mockery of death. And the Lady of Graves did not appreciate being mocked.
Forcing himself down into the rushing current that poured through him, Salim found the break in his barrier and pressed his will against it. Slowly—too slowly—the flow ebbed, then ceased. He panted with exhaustion and triumph. His body felt scoured out from the inside, then coated with a thick layer of rancid oil.
Around him, the vampires sprawled, moaning and steaming from the rush of energy—the power of a universe that abhorred them.
Yet they weren't finished. As he watched, Lorilen and two others staggered to hands and knees, then looked at him. Gone was the childish malice of their previous violence, replaced by something far more dangerous: a rage born of fear.
They rose and moved forward.
The word rang inside Salim's skull, at once quiet and all-consuming, a chorus of overlapping echoes that made it impossible to tell precisely where the word started or stopped. He looked up.
A creature stood in the doorway. It was humanoid, and deep crimson robes covered a cadaverously thin frame. Yet its face was all wrong. A hood of blank, featureless skin covered the top of its head, creating a flat expanse where its eyes should be. It had no ears or nose, and beneath a disturbingly normal mouth, its chin split into a huge pair of toothed mandibles that opened sideways as well as down.
The Caulborn.
Lorilen rounded on the newcomer. Furious, he took a step toward it. "But—"
This time the word was not gentle waves lapping against Salim's skull, but a tsunami, pushing out all other thoughts. He struggled to keep control of himself, to not be swept away in that sea.
Lorilen staggered.
The word was soft once more, but there was no mistaking its command. The standing vampires fell to their knees facing the Caulborn. As one, they bowed until their heads touched the stone.
Perhaps I'll get my meeting after all, Salim thought.
Exhausted, he lowered his own cheek to the blood-warm tiles.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Nine
The Quivering Palace
The Caulborn let them stay like that for several long moments, then spoke again.
The vampire raised his head, sputtering. "The slave attacked me!"
What blood might have remained in the vampire's cheeks drained away. "My—my apologies, lord. I thought he was a slave, and that—"
The vampire's jaw snapped shut.
The Caulborn stepped forward and raised a hand, and Salim saw that the first two fingers on it were hideously elongated, with several joints too many. It extended these toward the vampire.
Still kneeling, Lorilen leaned back reflexively, then caught himself. Slowly, shaking, he leaned forward until his forehead touched the outstretched digits.
Where the fingers touched ashen flesh, Salim thought he saw something swirl, a stirring in the air that clung to the fingertips. Lorilen's body tensed, his left arm twitching.
The Caulborn brought its fingers to its lower mouth, the split jaws spreading wide like arms, welcoming something barely visible. On the floor, Lorilen slumped, breathing hard.
Lorilen did. Though his legs shook, he appeared otherwise unharmed. As he turned to leave, his eyes passed over Salim. He lifted one eyebrow in mild curiosity, then promptly disregarded him. He moved off into one of the various corridors, his cronies quickly following suit, dispersing into the gathered crowd.
The word had a new flavor, a sense of immediacy and focus, and there was no question in Salim's mind that the command was meant for him. He pushed himself up from the ground and was relieved to see that, despite their enthusiasm, the vampires had done little true damage, mostly lacerating his robes and skin. He wiped his sword on the hem of one sleeve and sheathed it.
The Caulborn had already moved out of the hall. As Salim followed, Kian gave him a small, lopsided smile.
Out on the staircase, the twilight cavern seemed cheerful after the ruddy shadows of the Tower of Night. Up close, the Caulborn's strange skin wasn't smooth, as it had appeared before, but rather congealed into cracked, plate-like growths—an armor of flat calluses. It faced out toward the city, not turning its eyeless gaze toward Salim as he came to stand at its side.
It was still the rush of slightly overlapping words, rippling like the surface of a pond, but they seemed more...solid. Directed. Words spoken to a person, not shouted at a crowd.
"Yes. I've come—"
Salim stopped short. His mind stuttered momentarily, then went to the psychopomp, Maedora. "You've already been contacted."
Something in Salim's head fluttered like loose ribbon. Amusement.
Oh. Right. Ceyanan had been explicit about that part—the Caulborn's ability to sense his surface thoughts. Salim attempted to think about something else, to submerge anything related to his mission, and was suddenly reminded of the impossibility of trying to not think about something as his brain began ticking off points he might want to conceal from the Caulborn. Another amusement-wave rewarded him.
"Fine," he said, struggling to keep irritation out of his voice—and thoughts. "In that case, you already know why I'm here, and who sent me. Can you provide the information I seek?"
The Caulborn began descending the staircase, its marionette-thin body bizarrely graceful in its sweeping red robes. Salim followed, and they moved out across the bridge, turning onto a span that proceeded farther into the city.
To keep from thinking anything potentially counterproductive, Salim focused his attention on the city and the Caulborn next to him, filling his thoughts with questions. For instance, did the creature next to him have a name?
The reply came as quickly as the question arose, and Salim fought back a mental shiver. Sharing his thoughts was going to take some getting used to. But still, he'd intended to ask whether this particular Caulborn had—
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This wasn't going to work. Even as he struggled to maintain his composure, Salim could feel the Caulborn lurking just inside his skull, sifting through his thoughts. Tasting them.
Furious with himself for having not prepared for precisely this situation, Salim called on Pharasma once again, this time letting the invisible energy flow across his skin. As it closed over his head, he felt the presence inside his mind vanish.
The Caulborn stumbled, catching itself. It stopped and turned toward Salim, blank face cocked to the side. It leaned in, and Salim stood his ground, meeting the eyeless gaze.
"That's right." Salim let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Amazing how simply retaining the privacy of his own head made him feel in control of the situation once more. "And it's going to stay that way. The Lady doesn't take kindly to mind-readers." Actually, Salim doubted that was true—Pharasma judged all beings according to their natures. But it made him feel better to say it.
The Caulborn considered this for a moment, then straightened and resumed walking.
Salim decided to press his advantage. "Where are you taking me?"
Not the most inviting name. But a palace implied leadership, and an audience with those in charge seemed like a good sign. "Is the palace where your leader lives?"
The simultaneous affirmation and negation rang like a dissonant chord. Rather than ambiguity or uncertainty, it seemed to imply something else altogether.
They passed an intersection with another bridge, and two more Caulborn swept gracefully off it, falling wordlessly into line behind Salim and his escort. Save for different-colored robes—one gray, one midnight blue—the newcomers were indistinguishable from the first. Neither made any move toward him, only followed a few feet behind them.
"Who are they?" Salim asked his guide.