by Tim Pratt
"This is bad," Hrym said. "Do you think we can escape?"
Rodrick laughed, because at this point, laughter was as much use as a scream. "I wouldn't count on it. He would capture us, then force you to complete the ritual by threatening my life."
"Hmm. Should I let you die? Take the pressure off myself?"
"I'd rather you didn't, but it's not as if Obed would actually let me live either way. If my death is an inevitability, I'd prefer it wasn't given in the service of setting this overgrown millipede loose on the world."
"There is another option," Hrym said. "We may not be able to kill Obed—"
And suddenly Rodrick understood. "Aroden and Seralia couldn't kill Kholerus, either. But that didn't stop them. They just did something else. A prison's as good as a grave, for our purposes."
"So," Hrym said. "Shall we follow their example?"
"Let's lock the bastard in a block of ice." Rodrick extended the sword, and a lance of ice darted through the water, jagged like solidified lightning, arrowing toward the demon priest. The icy tendril struck Obed—who merely laughed as the water all around him boiled, the magical ice flashing away into bubbling steam.
"That was disappointing," Rodrick said.
"I ...do see another way," Hrym said. "Shooting lances of ice is fine for most purposes, but he can see it coming in time to counter our magic with his own. Under the right circumstance, though, I suspect I can create ice more quickly than he can dispel it. I can drop the temperature of my immediate environment faster and more sharply than you'd be likely to believe, creating an expanding sphere of ice that could lock the two of us in an iceberg the size of a palace in a few seconds."
"I'm not sure how being stuck in an iceberg would help us—"
"When I say ‘the two of us,' I don't mean you and me, Rodrick. I mean myself and Obed. Drive me right into his body and let me pour out ice in every direction, letting the soul of the white dragon inside me really roar. I'd like to see him fight back against that. You've never really seen me let myself go. Don't you want to?"
Rodrick just floated for a moment, as the red light wreathing Obed grew deeper and his mad laughter boomed on. "Hrym ...surely you don't ..."
"Do you have another idea?"
"Even Aroden didn't lock himself in with a demon lord, Hrym."
"I bet he would have, though," Hrym said. "If he'd had no other choice."
"That's heroes for you. We aren't heroes."
"Not yet, anyway. So we're not as noble as Aroden. Don't do it for the sake of nobility. Do it because this way, Obed loses. And, also, you might not die."
"There is that," Rodrick said. "Consider me convinced. Well, Hrym. It's been a pleasure. I wish we'd been together longer."
"Don't go soft on me now, Rodrick. Just throw me at the stupid fish-man."
Rodrick cocked his arm back and hurled Hrym toward the gillman as if throwing a spear.
Hrym flew true, and his point struck Obed in the chest. The priest just laughed, took Hrym in his hand, and tugged the weapon free from his ribcage. "Fools! You try to skewer me, when you watched the half-elf try the same attack and fail? I knew you were stupid, Rodrick, but—"
Obed frowned as his hand was suddenly encased in a cocoon of ice. He tried to shake Hrym out of his grasp, bubbles roaring up furiously from his arm as the ice melted, but he couldn't keep up with Hrym's icy output. The ice wrapped up his forearm, elbow joint, biceps, and shoulder.
"What—" the priest began, but then the ice crawled up his chest, closing his mouth. The priest's aura crackled, and the ice began to break and splinter, but they were in Hrym's element, and Obed couldn't shatter the ice as quickly as Hrym could generate it, pouring out impossible cold in every direction at once. The lake itself was freezing around Obed, his environment becoming his prison. Tendrils of ice shot downward from the central mass of ice, freezing fast to stones, the edge of the crater, and even the glassy surface of the prison itself, thickening from the size of vines to human limbs to mighty tree trunks, each strand joining together into a single whole.
Kholerus bellowed, and the ever-growing mass of ice shuddered, but didn't crack.
Rodrick wrapped his arms around the wounded Cilian and began to swim away.
"The keys," Cilian murmured in his ear, and Rodrick groaned, then let go of the huntsman and swam downward. He paused by Zaqen's floating body, tore the devilfish cloak from her shoulders, and wrapped it around himself.
It was a measure of the day he'd just experienced that transforming into a tentacled sea-devil was not the strangest thing he'd done. With new speed and strength, and extra arms, he snatched up the skull, the jewel, the pitcher, and the key before Hrym's expanding web of ice could enclose them too. He grabbed the druid's trident as well, thinking the half-elf might want it as a souvenir. Then Rodrick returned to Cilian, snagged him in another of his curling tentacles, and swam on.
Rodrick looked behind him as he swam away—looking back was easy enough, given the orientation of devilfish eyes—and saw only a rapidly growing ball of ice, which soon fused sufficiently to the lake floor that it was more a mountain of ice, with an unmoving demon priest visible only as a dark shape blurred at its heart.
A demon priest trapped at the center of thousands of pounds of magical ice.
Trapped, with Rodrick's best friend clutched in his webbed hand.
∗ ∗ ∗
Cilian and Rodrick spent the night in Neiros's cavern. They laboriously shoved the bunyip's corpse into one of the pools, but Neiros himself left no body, having dissolved into seaweed and foam.
They sat together around a sad little fire, eating dried fish jerky. Rodrick had never been in a fouler mood. He firmly resolved to never care about any person or object ever again. He resolved especially to never care about a person who was also an object ever again.
"We have saved the world from a terrible fate today," Cilian said. "And I have found my destiny after all. The Brightness has led me here. I will take up the mantle of Neiros, and guard the prison of Kholerus until I have no more breath in me."
"It must be nice to have a purpose," Rodrick said. "I just want to get out of this lake, go somewhere dry, and get brutally drunk."
"You could take the keys," Cilian said. "The relics. Carry them far from here and sell them to men in faraway lands. Perhaps their magic will bring them back to Brevoy in time, but it is safer than leaving them this close to the prison."
"I could be a wealthy man," Rodrick said dully. "The Inferno's Eye alone would see to that. I suppose I could. I could cover my bed with gold coins and sleep on the cold metal."
"I am sorry for your loss," Cilian said.
"Hrym is awake in there," Rodrick said, suddenly ferocious, throwing his stone cup to the cavern floor. "In the ice, frozen beside Obed, who I hope is in the process of unpleasantly dying of cold and hunger right now. But Hrym won't die. In time he might sleep. But he's trapped."
"He made a great sacrifice," Cilian said. "He is a hero."
Rodrick spat. "That's the last thing he wanted to be. The last thing either of us wanted to be. You'll never understand us, Cilian. Don't even try." He lay down rolled over, turning his back to the ranger. "I'm going to sleep."
After a time, Cilian wrapped himself in a cloak and slept himself. Rodrick, who was awake the entire time, stealthily rose, gathered the devilfish cloak and the relics, and paused at the edge of the pool, preparing to depart.
But before he left, he stole the dead druid's trident, just because he felt like it. Feeling anything at all, even a larcenous whim, was precious, since his heart had somehow been replaced by a numb ball of ice.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rime Isle
He had a reputation, he suspected, as a lunatic. Occasionally a fishing boat would hail him, pausing by the rocky island where Rodrick now made his home, and ask if he was stranded, if he'd shipwrecked, if he needed help. Surely he couldn't intend to winter there, on the island.
But Rodrick always waved
them on. His beard was halfway down his chest, now—like a priest of Gozreh, ha. His clothes were rags, and no one knew he had four priceless relics buried in the frozen dirt beneath the island's lone tree. He drank from the lake, or ate snow, and lived in the cave at the island's heart, burrowing himself in like an animal. The medallion he still wore at his throat seemed to protect him from the cold above the water as well as below.
Though he also spent a lot of time below. That autumn, when his tree dropped its few leaves. And that entire winter, even as chunks of ice floated in the lake, some as big as the foundation stones of castles. And on into the spring, when the lake rose with meltwater, turning his rocky island into little more than an outcropping thirty paces across. And through summer, which was just a slightly warmer, slightly less rainy spring, and through to the fall again, when the air began to grow cold, and the tree gave up its leaves again.
Every day through all those seasons, Rodrick donned the devilfish cloak, and after hunting and eating a breakfast of fish in the lake, he swam the few miles over and down to the demon lord's prison, topped by its mountain of magical ice.
Sometimes he saw Cilian in the distance. The half-elf would wave at him, but he never interfered or asked questions, or even swam very close. Perhaps he thought Rodrick had gone mad, too. Whatever the reason, Rodrick was grateful for the privacy. He'd always been adept at talking to people—he'd made his unscrupulous living largely by his tongue—but there was only one person he wanted to talk to now.
Every day when Rodrick swam down, he spoke to Hrym, though he had no reason to think the sword could hear him through such a wall of ice. Every day he clutched the stolen trident in one of his tentacles—which made it all the more remarkable that Cilian never spoke to him. But then again, the half-elf didn't believe anyone could own things. Rodrick knew that was nonsense. He'd owned Hrym, after all. And Hrym had owned Rodrick in turn.
Every day, Rodrick used the trident to chip away at the magical ice, and to fire bursts of lightning as he did. At first, the act seemed so futile. He dislodged only tiny fragments, even using a magical weapon that flared with electricity. Magical ice was strong. Perhaps if Magnos the Ash Lord had been real, that weapon would have worked better, but Rodrick could only use what he had.
So he chipped. Eventually, he hacked out a shallow depression. And he chipped. After some time, it was a pit deep enough to fit his upper body. And he chipped. Until he had the beginnings of a true tunnel.
Over the months, the tunnel expanded. He had to correct his course several times, since it was hard to see through the shimmering ice, and difficult to gauge distances and angles. The going was slow, because he had to make a tunnel large enough for himself to enter, and turn around in, and wield the trident.
But finally, just before the second winter, he reached the center of the mountain of ice.
Obed was still alive, somehow, which should have surprised Rodrick, but didn't. The demon-priest's face was locked behind a mask of ice, but his eyes were mobile and furious. No doubt the demon lord's presence sustained him. Perhaps Obed was being kept alive as a punishment.
Rodrick started taking off the cloak when he worked. The devilfish was bigger than he was, and he wanted a smaller tunnel now—it wouldn't do to risk weakening the ice enough for Obed to escape.
In the following days, Rodrick carefully cleared away a section of ice over the gillman's heart, and when the flesh was exposed, he shoved a dagger in. The flesh tried to heal around it, but Rodrick didn't pull the dagger out. Perhaps Obed would go on living, but he would do so with a length of Rodrick's steel lodged in his heart. That seemed only fair.
The next day, he could hear Hrym talking, his voice muffled, the words incomprehensible. Rodrick chipped, and chipped, and after a week, he exposed the blade.
"It's about time," Hrym said. "Nice beard."
"You could have helped me," Rodrick said. "Can't you melt ice, too?"
"I didn't realize you were doing this until a few days ago. And then I didn't want to diminish your accomplishment by making things too easy for you. More importantly, I didn't want to loosen my grip on our friend the priest. I thought you'd be in the south by now, spending all my gold."
"There's no gold to spend. The spells protecting the chests in the cart still hold. The cart itself was stolen long ago, but the chests remain in the snow. They're surrounded by about fifteen different pirate clans, all trying to untangle the magic so they can steal whatever treasure waits in the chest. I think that's lost to us, my friend. But we've got a few relics to sell."
Hrym must have done something to weaken the ice immediately surrounding him—or else Rodrick was energized by the near completion of his task—because the ice shattered easily under the next few blows, and even when Rodrick switched to hammering with the hilt of his dagger for the fine work, the ice broke easily.
Obed's fingers were frozen tight around the sword's hilt, and the gillman's face was locked in snarl, eyes still staring at his old employee and foe.
Rodrick cut off the priest's fingers, sawing at them slowly, taking his time about it, until the fingers floated in the water and the hilt of his old friend was free.
He hefted the blade. "It feels good to have you back."
"You're so sentimental," Hrym said. "I always knew you were. I've only been down here, what, a year? Two? And you missed me already. Still, I'm glad you came. I didn't relish the idea of spending a century or three down here. I tried to sleep, about a month ago, but I had the most horrible dreams. Being so close to a demon lord is not good for one's rest."
Obed made some sort of sound, a cross between a moan and a strangled scream, incapable of forming words because of the ice lodged in his mouth.
Rodrick looked into Obed's eyes, really looked back at him, for the first time. "Now you're just like your god," he said. "Trapped at the bottom of a lake. Enjoy the rest of eternity."
Rodrick swam upward, Hrym in his hand. When he reached the tunnel's mouth, Hrym stopped him. "Point me at that hole you dug, would you?"
Rodrick pointed the sword at the tunnel, and it gradually filled in again with magical ice, locking in Obed as tightly as before. "That should do," Hrym said, satisfied. "Let's go become rich and enjoy ourselves someplace warm, shall we?"
Rodrick donned the devilfish cloak, holding Hrym tightly in one tentacle. He detoured near one of Neiros's old tunnels and jammed the trident points-down into the lake floor. What did he need that weapon for anymore? He had a better one. Then he continued on to the surface, transforming back into human form when he reached the island.
"I love this place," Hrym said, taking in the scene. "Very rustic. I—grngh. Aang. Mrg."
"Are you all right?" Rodrick said. "Those noises you made weren't words, by the way. Just sounds, and not very nice ones. Did you forget how to speak while you were down there?"
"Ah. I'm just ...feeling a bit strange. It's been a long time since I had anyone to talk to, though Kholerus tried to talk to me, oh, did he ever—" The icy blade flickered in Rodrick's hand, and for a moment, the deep blue was streaked with swirls of red and black.
The thief swallowed. Hrym kept chattering, and in less than a second he was back to pure ice again, but Rodrick was sure of what he'd seen. Was there still some vestige of Spellstealer left in Hrym? Had his proximity to the overwhelming power of the demon lord had an effect on him—infused him with some trace of Kholerus's demonic power?
"What are you thinking about?" Hrym said. "I've been back for barely five minutes, and already you aren't listening to me."
Who cares? Rodrick thought. So what if Hrym had a touch of the demon in him now? He was mostly composed of ill-tempered white dragon, with a smattering of the souls of various cutthroats and conquerors, and what did that matter? He was still Hrym.
And Rodrick was, after all, hardly a saint himself. "I was just thinking of how much I'm going to miss all the peace and quiet I've had here over the past months," he said.
"Ha," Hrym said. "
As if you'd ever stop talking, even if there was nobody to talk to but yourself. I bet you've told this tree about the time you bedded three maids in a night, and I'm sure all the fish in the vicinity are sick of hearing about that card game in Westcrown ..."
And so, squabbling as always, reunited at last, the reluctant heroes and unrepentant thieves began their preparations to depart for warmer and wealthier climes.
About the Author
Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novel City of the Fallen Sky and the Pathfinder Tales short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder," the latter featuring Rodrick and Hrym's humble beginnings. His creator-owned stories have appeared in The Best American Short Stories, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and other nice places, and he is the author of three story collections, most recently Antiquities and Tangibles, as well as a poetry collection. He has also written several novels, including contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; the gonzo historical steampunk novel The Constantine Affliction (under the name T. Aaron Payton); and, as T. A. Pratt, seven books in the urban fantasy series about ass-kicking sorcerer Marla Mason: Blood Engines, Poison Sleep, Dead Reign, Spell Games, Broken Mirrors, Grim Tides, and the prequel Bone Shop. He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and coedited the forthcoming Rags & Bones anthology with Melissa Marr.
He has won a Hugo Award for best short story, a Rhysling Award for best speculative poetry, and an Emperor Norton Award for best San Francisco Bay Area-related novel. His books and stories have been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards, among others, and have been translated into numerous languages.
