Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes (15 page)

She pointed at me. “You’ve lost a button on your waistcoat.”

As I felt for the missing button, I realized just how tight my clothes felt. I
had
already eaten as much as my custom. It was just that the salami and pear relish tasted so good together. Nevertheless, the evidence was undeniable: I was growing plump. “Perhaps I have overcompensated for the weight I lost traveling to Korvosa.”

“Don’t you worry it’s more than that? This book you seek must be called the
Gluttonous Tome
for a reason.”

“Gluttony is the sin of necromancy.” While we had raised the issue before, neither of us knew a satisfactory reason why each of the seven sins was associated with a school of magic. I had long assumed it was simply a personal reflection of the runelords, each of whom had mastered one type of magic. Perhaps the runelord of necromancy was a notorious glutton. “Could it be because the desire to extend one’s life through the dark arts is a sort of gluttony? A desire for more life than we deserve?”

“That’s as good a reason as I’ve read,” said Illyria. “Speaking of which, I have been casting an epiphany spell each morning, hoping to catch some fragment from a library you haven’t visited.”

Despite the imprecision of her spell and my personal disdain for divination, I envied Illyria’s ability to cast her thoughts by magic across the pages of distant books. The very idea made my memory library feel small. “And?”

“What do you know about Zutha’s fight with Tar-Baphon?”

“Runelord Zutha fought the Whispering Tyrant?” She could not have surprised me more if she had struck me in the face. Everyone knew Tar-Baphon as the most dreadful necromancer in history. As a Pathfinder, of course, I knew a great deal more. Yet I knew nothing of any connection between him and Zutha.

In life, the wizard-king Tar-Baphon ruled central Avistan nearly four centuries earlier. Only the now-dead god Aroden was able to end his reign—the first time. Two millennia later, Tar-Baphon returned as a lich—a powerful undead spellcaster—and proceeded to rule the country of Ustalav for centuries more. Only the supreme sacrifice of General Arnisant allowed the Shining Crusade to imprison the corpse-king beneath his fortress of Gallowspire.

The idea that Tar-Baphon had fought a runelord would forever alter history’s perception of Avistan’s greatest villains. It also strained credulity. “Please pardon me for saying so, my lady, but that’s a rather bold theory. The runelords died or disappeared millennia before Tar-Baphon was ever born. Where did you encounter records of such a clash?”

“As part of my necromantic history research. Because of my uncle’s position, I had privileged access to rare books from the Hall of Whispers.”

“What was the title of the book?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t remember much about it. I was looking for something else entirely.”

“Please,” I said. “Tell me as much as you remember.”

“Until the spell jogged my memory, I remembered practically nothing. Like the other runelords, Zutha prepared himself to survive Earthfall. His method was to preserve his secrets in a tome, which he divided into three parts, as we’ve learned. He entrusted the tome to his most loyal minions, to return it to his tomb after the devastation. Some of these minions or their descendants fell to agents of Tar-Baphon, who tortured them into revealing the location of Zutha’s crypt. The Tyrant went there, woke Zutha, and stole a portion of his power.”

“Stole his power? There must be some mistake. A clash between two of the mightiest liches in history would surely appear in every major text.”

“Not if they didn’t wish it to. Perhaps the link was intentionally obscured.”

That news was almost enough to make me regret renouncing necromancy. “Do all necromancers know this secret?”

“No,” said Illyria. “As I said, the only mention I found was in the masters’ most secret collection. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t even have remembered it without the divination. It was a brief reference in a rather broad history of liches.”

We relocated our discussion to the carriage while Janneke and Radovan resumed our journey. Throughout the afternoon, we consulted our books and compared our memories to consolidate what we knew and suspected about this
Gluttonous Tome
. We suspected more than we knew, unfortunately, and uncertainty breeds fear. Illyria was the first to give voice to my growing dread.

“You’re cursed.”

I could only nod agreement. “Ygresta must have suffered the same curse from reading the book. That may be what killed him.”

“If Professor Ygresta knew he had been cursed, could he have hired the thief himself?”

“To find a cure?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps to find the other two books.”

Either possibility seemed plausible. Surely the scrupulously ethical and moral Ygresta would have wanted to escape the effects of the
Codex
. Another possibility occurred to me. “The curse could be a device to compel its bearer to complete the
Gluttonous Tome
in an attempt to escape its effects.”

“To what end?”

“To restore Zutha’s power?” Even as I said it, I shuddered with a premonition.

“Is that even possible if Tar-Baphon destroyed him?”

“Did you read that Zutha was destroyed?” I said. “You said only that they fought, and that Tar-Baphon stole his power.”

“True.” Illyria’s brow furrowed. “I can cast the spell again tomorrow. Perhaps it will help me remember more detail. But I’m afraid there might not be much more.”

“Many sages reside in Kaer Maga. We may find one who can tell us the whole story.”

We read a while in silence. I became increasingly conscious of my tight waistcoat. Vencarlo had heard that Ygresta grew so obese that the necromancers animated ogres to bear his coffin. How long before I suffered a similar indignity?

“You’ll find a way to lift the curse,” said Illyria. Her concerned expression told me she had read my face, not my thoughts. “Professor Ygresta must have read the book months or even a couple of years ago. That’s plenty of time for Count Varian Jeggare to solve the problem.”

I offered her a smile of thanks, but I did not share her optimism. Our conversation ebbed as we returned to reading with a renewed urgency.

We stopped to make camp shortly before dusk. Amaranthine hissed when I hovered near the cook pot. I wondered how much the drake understood of my conversations with Illyria. The creatures were notoriously intelligent, even those who did not communicate with people. Was it possible she had already bonded to Illyria? I suspected nothing would please the lady more than to adopt a familiar whose purple scales matched her dress.

It took every ounce of willpower to resist gorging myself at supper. She said nothing to the others, but Illyria fixed her gaze on me the moment I finished my plate. She watched until Radovan and Janneke finished the remainder. I accepted defeat, consoled in the knowledge that it would prove temporary.

When Illyria went to conjure her private shelter, I walked around the carriage and opened the boot. I cut myself a generous portion of the pepper sausage and put it in my pocket for a snack later.

Janneke picketed the horses while Radovan lay down a bedroll beside the fire. In their exchange of glances I imagined some secret communication. If they planned some late-night assignation, I did not mind, so long as it was during my turn at watch and did not frighten the horses.

As had become her habit, Lady Illyria stood beside the door to her cottage as Radovan delivered her firewood. As had become my habit, I waited for Radovan to emerge before bidding her goodnight.

“You know you don’t have to sleep in the carriage,” said Illyria.

My surprise at her suggestion must have been obvious. She barely constrained herself from laughing.

“I meant I would be happy to show you the spell so you can summon your own cottage.”

“I understood that.” That sounded weak even to me, so I added, “One of the drawbacks of sorcery is that I must focus my energies on fewer spells. So many that I learned as a wizard are beyond my ability to cast by will alone.”

“That must be frustrating.”

“You have no idea.”

My transition from the intellectual science to the emotional art was far from complete. Without the original copy of the
Lexicon of Paradox
, which added its chaotic powers to my will, I could no longer wield the more powerful magic I had mastered as a wizard. As I grew stronger in sorcery, I remained able to cast lesser spells as a wizard. Doing so still made me ill, so I confined that activity to an hour each morning to replenish riffle scrolls for Radovan and myself.

“Well, Your Excellency,” said Illyria. “Good night.” She made no move to withdraw, but neither did she move toward me.

She had chosen necromancy, but she was unlike any necromancer I had known. I could not trust her as a wizard, but as a woman I could hardly resist her. I took her hand. “Illyria, I—”

Above us, the Amaranthine shrieked a warning. She dove to land at our feet, hopping and beating her wings against our ankles.

Illyria withdrew her hand. “Our chaperon objects.”

“No.” Turning, I drew the Shadowless Sword.

Radovan had already leaped onto the carriage ladder and rolled onto the roof. Shielding his eyes from the light of the campfire, he turned to scan all directions. Janneke joined him a moment later. I drew Illyria to the carriage and opened the door. She pulled away.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She drew a wand from the holster built into her high boots. “If there’s trouble, you’ll need me out here.”

Firelight appeared all around us, less than fifty yards away. The smell of oil and smoke followed, and then screeching voices rose in a chant:

Chop the horse and gut the hound,

Smash the longshanks to the ground!

“Is that goblin-tongue?” said Illyria.

“Yes.” I declined to translate the words for fear they would cause the others to underestimate the threat. I had seen veteran warriors chuckle at the childlike lyrics of a goblin war band, only to die under their dogslicers.

I helped Illyria climb and followed her onto the carriage roof.

Break the wagon, burn the hut,

Goblins kill, and goblins cut!

Visualizing the effect I desired, I sketched the cryptic sigils and spoke the esoteric words. My heart swelled with the thrill of release as I pointed at the largest mass of torches and shot a bead of fire at the darkness-hidden goblins. The bead grew larger as it flew, exploding in a huge sphere. The sound of its eruption smothered the goblin screams and cast their spindly bodies into silhouette.

A dozen goblins died in the explosion, but the orange light revealed dozens more approaching on either side of the blast. Most rode atop enormous, hairless rodents. All wore dog-hide armor, the heads forming hoods on the goblins’ own melon-shaped craniums. Most clutched spears or the misshapen blades known as dogslicers. Others shook flaming torches above their heads, while their warchanters cracked whips in time with their horrid doggerel.

Tear the innards all apart,

Break the bones and eat the heart!

Teams of the biggest goblins ran forward carrying long poles. Oil-drenched captives—also goblins, presumably of another tribe—wriggled on the crosspieces, howling for their lives. Cackling, the attackers ignited their prisoners. Raising the living brands, they rushed Illyria’s cottage and the Red Carriage.

Janneke swiveled the scorpion and shot a bolt with perfect aim. The missile impaled three goblins, pinning the third to the ground while the first two fell with fist-sized holes in their chests. Their immolated captive fell to the ground, writhing for a few agonizing moments before withering in the flames.

Janneke reached for another bolt, but I caught her shoulder.

“Go with Arnisant. Guard the horses.”

“But—” She balked only for an instant. “I’m on it.” She hopped off the carriage roof and hit the ground running toward the horses.

“Arnisant, go!” The hound chased after Janneke.

Radovan lingered on the carriage. Usually he plunged into the fray without awaiting orders. Instead, he braced his feet and raised his arms toward a descending flame. He caught the immolated goblin bare-handed and shoved it aside, hurling the burning captive away from the carriage. He slapped out the flames flickering across his hands and winced. Resistant as he was, naked flame often proved too hot even for him.

Illyria scattered a handful of teeth onto the ground while intoning a spell. I followed her example, visualizing the gleaming scales of a silver dragon as I made the sign and drew in a sibilant breath. I blew it out in a cone of brilliant ice crystals, extinguishing the flames on another sacrificial goblin and freezing another nine attackers to the ground.

Burn the flesh as black as toast,

That’s what goblins like the most.

Where Illyria had sown her teeth sprouted an awful crop. Hairless bodies rose from the ground, gray with corruption. Long black tongues wiggled like eels from distended mouths. The creatures hissed, crouching as they looked around for a meal.

“The goblins,” Illyria shouted down to them. “Devour them all, and nothing else.”

The leader coughed out some unintelligible command, and the ghouls lurched into the fray. I reeled from their stench. Even more, my mind reeled that this elegant lady would conjure such abominable minions.

Below us, the goblins made another rush toward the carriage. I felled several with arcane missiles. Illyria did the same with black bolts from her wand. The flames from my spell and the goblins’ torches had spread to surround us.

Against the bright wall of flame, Arnisant ran back and forth before the frightened horses. A big goblin charged toward the hound on the back of his ugly steed. Arnisant rushed forward to meet them. I heard the impact over the screams of the goblin warchanters. The goblin’s mount ran on, riderless, while Arnisant savaged the throat of its fallen rider. The “goblin dog” turned, running back to attack Arnisant from behind. Janneke’s crossbow snapped twice, and the grotesque creature fell.