Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine
Page 34
"You don't know me," he said at last. "I'm not from your city. But I know what's going on in the Bottoms. And I'm here to stop it."
They all already knew that much or they wouldn't be here, yet the words still drew a mutter. Salim gave it a moment, then continued.
"You're here because you represent the most powerful factions in Kaer Maga. Between you, you keep the city's peace. By now you're no doubt well aware of the schism in the Freemen, and the fact that the bloatmage Caramine is killing your citizens." He paused. "Not just killing them, either. Using a magical device to steal their souls."
The murmuring increased. Salim knew from Gav that rumors about her motivations were already on the street—certainly Caramine hadn't been shy about announcing that she was "saving" souls. But it was one thing to hear it whispered, another stated with authority.
A voice shouted from the back, near the bar. "So what's it to you?"
Salim nodded in the voice's direction as if he'd been waiting for the question. "My name is Salim, and I serve the Lady of Graves. As you can imagine, the death goddess does not look kindly on those who steal from her. I suspect that most of you have already verified my identity with the church, or else you wouldn't have come. I can solve your problem. But to do so, I need your aid."
"And why, exactly, do we need you?" This time it was no random voice, but a gray-bearded man sitting near the front. He wore the chisel which Gav had said marked the Ardoc Brothers, a gang of golemcrafters and construct-makers that ruled the district of Bis with an iron fist. A tiny mechanical dragon clung to his left shoulder. Even seated, he had the bearing of a man used to being obeyed. "No offense, lad, but we've handled more than a bloatmage and a few escaped slaves in our time. We don't need an outsider to manage our city."
"I'm sure you don't," Salim said lightly. This was it: the beginning of the real pitch. He turned back to face the crowd. "So why haven't you? Why is Caramine still blockaded in the Bottoms? Why are your spies and the unlucky residents snatched away in her raids still getting sacrificed to her machine?"
He looked back at the bearded man, who was watching the rhetoric dispassionately.
"You rule the city by making sure nobody rules it," Salim said. "Balance of power. Nobody wants to be the first to send in their people and have them get cut down. Not only would you lose strength, you'd lose strength in relation to the other gangs. Whoever moves first loses double. Am I wrong?"
The old man's beard twitched slightly, either in amusement or irritation. "No."
"In the time it'll take you all to decide how to turn this current development to your advantage, hundreds of your fellow Kaer Magans will die. You need an outsider—somebody with no ties to anyone—that you can all support equally, knowing that nobody is benefiting more than any other."
He looked back up at the group. He kept his face hard, tone level. "That's your political reason. But your politics don't concern me. Your city's not my problem, nor even those people Caramine's murdering. I'm here because creatures from beyond the Material Plane—things Caramine calls angels, but which Heaven itself is hunting—are stealing this city's souls. And they're not going to stop unless we make them."
"He speaks truth."
Heads turned. Slowly, the green bulk of a troll rose to its feet at the back of the room, massive tusks protruding from either side of its warthog's muzzle. Its white toga was clasped at the shoulder with a golden brooch, and several bloody slashes marred the cloth over its stomach.
"Our divinations have confirmed all of this," it rumbled. "The bloatmage must be stopped. If we join together and follow the foreign crow, we will succeed. Those who don't..." It let the words hang and sat once more.
Inwardly, Salim praised Gav. He had no idea whether the boy had bought the Augurs off, or simply paid the prophets to weigh the issue and come to their own conclusions, but it didn't matter. People were already looking at him with new consideration.
Of course, there was always the chance that the Augurs really had seen success in their visions. But having spent a century working for the goddess of fate, Salim knew how fickle such assurances could be.
There was shuffling among the Freemen, and then Vera stood. Her section of the room, at least, looked relatively pleased with developments. The priestess of the Drunken God crossed meaty arms and eyed him appraisingly. "So what's your plan?"
"A simple one," Salim replied. "We gather as many warriors and casters as we can and assault Caramine's position in the Bottoms. She's well fortified, and has more than a handful of zealots with her at this point, but with a little luck we can reach the machine and destroy it—and her—before they're able to mount a proper defense." He gestured to the Iridian Fold men behind him. "My comrades Bors and Roshad will lead the assault and guide your soldiers to where they can best use their individual talents."
Vera's eyebrows shot up. "So you're not leading us?"
Us. Salim gave a mental sigh of relief. "Yes and no. I'll be in constant magical communication with both of them, but I'll be leading the battle's other front—confronting Caramine's angels directly, on Pharasma's Spire."
That got everyone's attention. Some scoffed, others looked impressed, but nobody bothered arguing the point. He had them now. They'd do their best to send as few of their own as possible, but most would contribute. To do otherwise would be to lose face in front of the other gangs—and then there was the troll's warning, whether real or fabricated.
"What about spies?" That was one of the Duskwardens, a woman who looked to be the squad's captain. "If we all knew about this meeting, Caramine must as well. And if not, someone here will sell us out."
"Of course they will." Salim looked around the room, meeting eyes. For a moment, he almost felt like he was back in the Pure Legion, addressing his soldiers. Some reflexes never went away.
"That's why we're not going to give them time to react," he said. "Gather your people. We attack at dawn."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Spire's Edge
It would be easier to just destroy it."
Salim stood with Bors and Roshad at a table in a commandeered house in the Bottoms, looking over the battle plans a final time. With the help of several Freemen, he and the Iridian Fold men had been able to sketch out both Caramine's manor and the likely defensive points within the blockade the bloatmage's gang had formed. The other gangs had made good on their commitments, and fully half a dozen squads of men and women were already in place at various points around the occupied neighborhood, watching the sky lighten and waiting for Roshad's signal to move. Roshad, for his part, stood glaring down at the map, and specifically at the icon representing Caramine's magical device.
"You're right," Salim agreed. "And if there's no other way, do what you have to. But if you can find a way to take control of the machine..." The instructions Maedora had passed on from their superiors had been quite clear: their goal was not just to neutralize Caramine, but to see if the engine could be used to reverse the damage they'd done.
"Right, I got that part." Roshad's forehead furrowed. "But I'm no bloatmage, Salim."
"You're a sorcerer. You've got magic in your blood, too. If anybody has a chance of taking control, it's you."
"And if not," Bors broke in, hefting a bandoleer of alchemical explosives volunteered by a group called the Arcanists' Circle, "we blow it up."
That seemed to cheer the smaller man, as Bors no doubt knew it would. Salim had seen how much Roshad enjoyed throwing fire around.
"We'll take it if we can," Roshad said, more confident now. "See if we can't unmake some of those cut-rate angels and take the pressure off of you and the web-woman."
"Thanks," Salim said, then glanced out the window. "Speaking of which...is there anything that still needs to be done here?"
"Not by you." Reaching up to his neck, Roshad unhooked the chain from its place on his collar, then kissed the last link and handed it to Bors. The l
arger man kissed it as well, then coiled it at his belt. Salim had grown so used to the men's custom of constantly chaining themselves together that seeing them untether was like watching them undress.
Roshad caught his look and nodded. "It's not easy, but even szerik must unchain sometimes, if the fighting is hot enough." He smiled up at his partner. "The Boar must be free to charge."
"And the Rabbit must be free to run." Bors leaned down and kissed the top of Roshad's head.
A lump of emotion rose in Salim's throat. His mouth opened and he found himself speaking. "Your debt is paid."
The two men stared at him blankly.
"The debt—your machorei. I helped save Bors's life, and now you're both risking yours for me. That's payment enough. In truth, you've already paid several times over, but I still need your help. So I thank you, but after this, the machoreiis ended. Deal?" He put out a hand.
Roshad and Bors shared a glance, then burst into laughter. As one, they turned and grabbed Salim's forearms.
"Does a brother stop being a brother when you're even?" Roshad shook his head. "You will always be our machorei, Salim. But you're right—the debt is paid. When this is over, we will move on. Perhaps you'll even come with us?"
"Perhaps," Salim said. "For now, though..." He gently tugged his arms free and stepped back, signaling to the black-robed figure standing quietly against the wall. The Pharasmin priest produced a scroll similar to the one Maedora had used and touched Salim's shoulder.
On a whim, Salim drew his sword and brought it up in a Rahadoumi military salute, facing the Iridian Fold men. In unison, Bors and Roshad put their fists over their hearts and inclined their heads. Then Bors reached up and attached his steel mask.
The world faded, then sharpened again.
This time, the ground wasn't covered with the rolling fog of Heaven's outlands. Instead, Salim and the priest stood on a long, rocky field, bare of anything but rough stones and rich brown dirt. To their right, perhaps an arrow's flight distant, the ground fell away into empty space, forming a ragged cliff. Beyond it, there was only the silver sky of the Astral Plane and, impossibly far below, the vague outlines of a gilded city. The craggy rock of the mesa didn't cut off in a clean line, but rather ran in jagged spurs and prominences before falling away again, giving Salim a clear view of the ledges and caves that spotted the Spire's sides, narrow paths carved by creatures long forgotten.
To their left lay an endless sea of gravestones and funerary markers. Obelisks and statues, plaques and mausoleums, wrought-iron fences and headstones worn blank by age—all stood or leaned against each other in a crowded jumble.
Directly in front of Salim and the priest, between the Spire's edge and the graveyard, stood the battle lines.
The forces were surprisingly small, just as Maedora had said they would be. Perhaps a hundred of Nemeniah and Malchion's angels stood tall, backs to the cliff. They made several impressive lines along the Spire's edge, all burning swords and upswept wings, their armor gleaming silver and gold.
They looked like—well, like angels were supposed to look, Salim thought. Majestic. Pristine. Terrifying. Even as he watched, their numbers grew, several new angels blazing into existence at random points along the line. Reinforcements from Heaven? Or was Caramine's machine sending each new Heavenly warrior straight to the front lines?
Facing the angels across the rocky plain, spaced out along the edge of the Boneyard, was a much stranger force. Salim nodded to the priest, who shook a little as he produced another scroll and transported himself back to the world of the living. Then Salim turned and walked toward his army.
Where the angels were radiant, many of them literally emitting nimbuses of golden light, Pharasma's psychopomps were the opposite. Oily black feathers cast shadows across naked bone. Most of the silent warriors were skeletons, humanoid things whose spines extended into long tails, black-plumed wings rising from their shoulders. Instead of skulls, their necks ended in ceramic masks like the faces of vultures, and they carried long scythes in their claws—symbols of their status as reapers of the fallen. Between them, crows and whippoorwills perched on gravestones, their own avian faces covered with long-beaked leather masks like plague doctors. They watched Salim approach without expression, empty eye sockets tracking him.
He found Maedora easily enough, near the center of the lines. The morrigna had shed her human disguise and was once more a web-wrapped giant, her eyes hidden behind the thick mask of gauze—if indeed she even had eyes. Standing among the lesser psychopomps, holding a staff that dangled charms and little wicker doll fetishes, she looked like a death goddess in her own right.
She caught sight of him and nodded. "It's time. The angels are starting to grow restless. The fact that we haven't crushed them or brought enough psychopomps to roll over them like a tide confuses them, but they know that every moment they wait they lose even more of the element of surprise."
Salim recalled what she'd said about building up their confidence so they didn't merely hop away with magic and spend the rest of eternity hiding out among the planes. "So are we supposed to take them alive?"
Maedora gave him a blank look. "What difference would that make?"
"Good point." Of course the goddess of death wouldn't care. He'd been thinking more of Heaven—leaders trying to seem virtuous were always instructing their troops to "take them alive," not realizing how many more of their own people such orders inevitably cost. In battle, you killed or you died, and getting fancy always played to the enemy's advantage. "How are you going to draw them out?"
"I thought you might be well suited to the task," she said. "Given your personal connection, and the fact that you specialize in aggravating those more powerful than you."
"Another good point." Salim looked across the stony field to where the angels stood massed like a flock of doves. Doves with flaming swords.
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as your people are in position," Maedora said. "Are you in contact now?"
"Not yet," Salim said. "Just a second." He closed his eyes and reached out—not to the pool of darkness that was the Lady's magic, but to something else.
Anamnesis—are you there?
Yes. Salim thought, tensing. Do it.
And then he was falling—not just down, but sideways as well. Vertigo twisted his insides as pieces of his consciousness peeled off in unfamiliar directions, like a river splitting around a rock. He was here on the Spire, but he was also
—Roshad stood next to him, directing the impatient construct wizards back into position. To the men, he probably looked serious, but Bors could sense the grin beneath his—
—that's right, little crafters! You have your toys, but Bors and Roshad have crossed half the world, and seen things you've not yet dreamt, which is why—
Salim?
The dual-voice was like a shout in his head, and Salim reflexively pulled back, somehow lowering the volume of both their voices and the stream of images. They were still there, but now it was as if their thoughts and images were like a play performed on a stage at the corner of his vision—he could turn and look if he wanted to, but also look away to his own situation and thoughts.
I'm here, he thought at them. It was amazing how even their minds felt similar—like two different houses decorated by the same person. Are you ready?
Yes.
Salim opened his eyes. "They're in position."
"Good." Maedora took a quick glance at her swarm of skeletal carrion birds, then gestured at him with her staff. "Begin."
Taking a deep breath, Salim stepped out into the no-man's land between the forces. The weight of eyes from both sides was palpable, a pricking of his skin.
Yet he wasn't alone. Maedora moved alongside him, slowing her giant's pace to match his. He kept the surprise off his face, still staring straight ahead. "I thought you wanted me to be the bait."
/> "This investigation belongs to both of us," Maedora said. "It's only fitting that we finish it together."
Strangely heartened, Salim stopped perhaps a third of the way across the gap to the angels. "Nemeniah and Malchion!" he called. "Show yourselves!"
There was a moment of stillness from the angels, and then a rustling of feathers. The twin angels stepped out of the ranks, not coming as far forward as Salim and Maedora, yet far enough to be seen clearly.
"So you escaped," Malchion said. "Even without your magic. Impressive."
"A Rahadoumi doesn't need any priest's tricks to survive in the desert," Salim called back. He really had no idea what he was supposed to say—they simply needed to engage the angels enough to keep things personal, give them a reason to stay and fight. So he improvised.
"Nemeniah," he called, meeting the female angel's eyes. "Malchion. What are you doing here?"
"You know what we're doing here," Nemeniah said.
"But you've already lost." Salim swept an arm toward the assembled angels. "You know you don't have the forces to take Hell's embassy on the Spire."
"There will always be more soldiers willing to die for justice," Nemeniah said.
"Especially when your machine doesn't give them a choice," Salim shot back. "But that doesn't matter—even if Caramine can churn you out a thousand new angels, the Spire won't be caught off guard again. There will be defenses you can't even imagine, waiting to destroy you."
"We're not afraid of death!" Malchion shouted.
"Of course not," Salim replied. "But what about losing? Because that's what's happening here. If you make us fight you, both Heaven and the Spire lose. Two of the greatest powers for law and order in the multiverse, massacring each other. And you know who wins? The same devils you're supposed to be fighting. They're sitting back and laughing at us. I know. I've talked to them."
"And associating with devils is supposed to make us listen to you?" Nemeniah asked.
"It works for your Censors," Salim said. "But that's not the point, and you know it. The point is that there is no point—if we fight, everyone loses."