Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes (26 page)

Radovan gave me a concerned look rather than remark on the added weight that threw off my balance. A jape would have been preferable to his pity.

Despite my companions’ concerted effort to restrict my diet, I managed to pilfer a snack now and then, just to fill in the cracks. It was the only way I could check my ill temper. Between the constant chill and hunger pangs, it was a miracle I had not yet reduced someone to ash with a bolt of lightning.

From the drivers’ seat, Janneke pointed toward a distant mountain. Having seen it sketched in Eando Kline’s own report to the Pathfinder Society, I recognized the famed Sleeper.

From a distance it appeared much like any of the other great wedges of granite jutting up from the Mindspin Mountains to scrape the clouds, yet this one was no natural formation. Three times around the conical mountain wound a stone dragon clutching its tail in its rear claw. Despite the erosion of millennia, the monument resembled a sinuous eastern wyrm. What I had first taken as a low cloud appeared to be smoke rather than vapor. It streamed from the dragon’s open jaws to drift over the foothills.

On either side of the carriage, Eando Kline and Lady Illyria leaned out of the windows. Illyria gazed ahead, but Kline turned his neck to search the skies.

“What are you looking for?” said Radovan.

“Chimeras.”

“The lion-goat-dragon things? Aw, they were made up by one of those—what do you call them? The guy that stuffs the dead animals.”

“Taxidermists,” called Illyria

“That’s it. A taxidermist sewed up a goat, a lion, and a snake and sold it for a fortune. The things aren’t real.”

“No doubt there are hoaxes, but I promise you chimeras are real,” said Kline. “I ran into some the last time I passed through this way. Right over there.” He pointed toward the Sleeper.

Radovan whistled appreciatively. “Tell me that’s not a real dragon.”

“That is not a real dragon,” said Kazyah. “It is a mountain.”

“I was just kidding! I know the difference between a mountain and—” Radovan stopped talking as he saw Janneke nudge the shaman sitting beside her on the driver’s perch. Kazyah made an admirable but ultimately imperfect attempt to suppress her smile.

“Do you know the Shoanti don’t have a word for ‘gullible’?” Kline asked him.

“Nice try, but you can’t fool me twice,” said Radovan. “Not twice in a row, anyway.” He grinned down at Kline. In their faces I saw the thrill of exploration and camaraderie that once propelled me through decades of expeditions for the Pathfinder Society. I longed to share their enthusiasm, but I felt only dread weighting my empty stomach. Hunger, both physical and intellectual. I craved the knowledge concealed in the third and final portion of the
Gluttonous Tome
, yet I harbored an ineffable premonition that finding it would destroy me.

We reached the foot of the mountain a few hours later. Janneke drove until we found a box canyon sheltering a pine wood. There we hid the carriage and our supply wagon out of sight from the caravan trail. The horses would enjoy the shade and fresh water from the stream. Kaid dispatched scouts and set guards while I consulted my expedition.

While he had never accompanied me on a proper dig, Radovan had considerable experience exploring lost crypts and subterranean complexes as my bodyguard. Kline was as seasoned an explorer as I could have desired. While Kazyah’s role was that of guardian to her ancestors, she had already demonstrated astonishing powers of geomancy and divination. And, while her expertise was in capturing fugitives, Janneke had proven herself a skilled fighter and an obedient hireling.

My doubts rested on Lady Illyria. There was no denying her arcane talents, and her necromantic expertise would prove useful if the Sleeper were indeed an entrance to the subterranean city of Xin-Gastash. But there were too many coincidental connections to the
Gluttonous Tome
: I had met her when she was a child, her great uncle was the Acadamae headmaster, she studied with Benigno Ygresta, and she shared the same Azlanti heritage that the oracle had claimed traced our bloodlines back to the runelords. Too many coincidences.

And there are, I reminded myself, no coincidences—neither in life nor in death. From the
Codex
and the
Grimoire
, I had come to see life and death energy as an unbreakable continuum. The sins of the past became the sins of the present. Bloodlines were just another form of fate, a disease of predestination. Just as Kazyah called upon the spirits of her elders to guide her, so did my sorcerous bloodline connect me to …

That line of thought dizzied me. Or perhaps I grew faint from hunger. I went to the boot of the carriage, only to see that Illyria had already supervised the removal of our remaining foodstuffs.

Instead of snacking, I retrieved the essential gear and stored it in my satchel, replacing the incomplete
Gluttonous Tome
near the top. Having it near to hand felt more comforting. Radovan shrugged on a light backpack, which I knew included our rations. Perhaps I could contrive to adjust it for him.

Once I saw that everyone was appropriately outfitted, Zora presented herself. “Let me come along,” she said. “You might need a good lockpick.”

“I’m a good lockpick,” said Radovan, but he shrugged and turned to me. “Another set of hands can’t hurt. It’s not like she’s running off into Orcland without us.”

“I don’t want a knife in the back,” said Janneke.

“I’m a thief, not a cutthroat,” Zora said. “Besides, the Master made me his slave. Even after I stole everything he demanded, he still killed—” She swallowed. “If I can hurt him by helping you, that’s as much revenge as I can hope for.”

I could not resolve my memories of Benigno Ygresta with the cruel behavior of this shadowy “Master.” What had brought him to employ such wicked methods?

“I don’t like it,” said Janneke. “What if she dies in there? She’s worth a lot less to me dead.”

“I say give her a chance,” said Radovan.

“As do I,” said Lady Illyria.

“You do, do you?” I said.

“I know how it feels to be distrusted. All the girl wants is a chance to prove herself.” On Illyria’s shoulder, the little drake rustled her wings. “See? Amaranthine agrees with me.”

“I vote we bring her,” said Kline.

“There are no votes,” I said. “This is my expedition. The rest of you are—” I sought a diplomatic term that would still support my position.

“The rest of us are helping you,” said Illyria.

Exasperated, I turned to Kazyah. “What do you think?”

“We should start climbing before we lose any more daylight.”

Seeing no profit in further discussion, I agreed.

Radovan fetched Zora’s flag from the carriage roof. Janneke shook her head as she saw him return the thief’s unorthodox weapon, but she said nothing else as Zora shouldered her own pack. I noted that the bounty hunter left her helm behind, as Radovan had continually advised. Considering her preference for the crossbow, it seemed wise counsel.

We left Kaid’s Band to defend our camp and began our ascent.

We passed two half-hidden cavern mouths as we traversed the dragon’s spine. I marked their locations on a hasty map in my journal, but we continued toward the obvious entrance. After Kazyah confirmed that the fumes emanating from the dragon’s mouth were not toxic, we covered our faces with damp kerchiefs and entered the smoky maw.

The chamber within resembled the interior of a dragon’s mouth. Toward the back, two passages lead deeper into the mountain: one rose in a ramp while the other terminated in a descending spiral stairwell. Smoke blackened the ceiling and much of the walls, but occasional traffic had worn gray trails along the bone-strewn floor. Most of the remains appeared to be those of birds, perhaps devoured by previous inhabitants.

The smoke emanated from a pair of stone braziers on either side of a marble altar. Fist-sized chunks of a coal-like material produced heat and smoke, but precious little light. A cool draft rising from the stairway carried the smoke through a pair of circular apertures forming the dragon’s nostrils.

Whatever icon had once rested on the altar had long since been cut away. Only a bronze ring, blue-green with verdigris, remained embedded in the marble. Runes surrounding the altar’s lintel had long since worn to unintelligible shapes. I sketched them anyway, along with the altar, crafting the beginnings of a new map.

While I worked, the others examined the room. Radovan found a rusted buckle of indeterminate origin. Arnisant whined at a hole which, judging from the droppings, provided entrance for a family of giant rats.

Since there was little left of the mountain above us, I decided we should clear that portion before going below. We found two chambers above the dragon’s mouth entrance.

Along the circular walls of the first, some ancient artisans had carved a panorama of the surrounding mountains. While sketching it into my journal, I noted a discrepancy in the carving. A quick return to the dragon’s mouth confirmed my guess: the carving exactly duplicated the view from the mountaintop, except that one mountain in the carving was absent from the real landscape. I noted the anomaly for later investigation but doubted it had any bearing on our mission.

In the lookout above the round chamber, we found the skeletal remains of an orc. Judging from its shattered femur and a long-dried bloodstain on the floor, the brute dragged himself into the shelter to die.

Radovan and Eando searched the room. Zora found an air vent choked with the debris of a long-abandoned bird’s nest. She cleared it, and the air sweetened enough that we lowered our damp kerchiefs.

“See how helpful I am?” Zora tried not to look at Janneke, but it was clear whose favor she meant to curry. She and Radovan exchanged a glance. I suspected collusion and hoped they would not be too disappointed when the gambit failed. Janneke did not strike me as the lenient sort.

We dispensed with the upper chambers and descended into the belly of the dragon.

In labyrinthine passages we found all manner of scavengers and predators. Most were little more than beasts, easily dispatched with a spell or a display of force. The provisional nature of their lairs left no doubt that the territory frequently changed owners. Whatever artifacts may once have lain in those chambers had been looted long ago. We went deeper, searching for some passage that others had not yet escaped.

Our first serious ordeal came after Radovan returned from scouting. “Orcs,” he said.

I offered him a kerchief and nodded at the spur on his right elbow. “How many?”

“I counted fifteen, not including the two I introduced myself to.” He wiped the blood from his spur and pocketed the handkerchief, knowing I would not want it back. “I bet they have a couple sentries down the other two passages.”

“Nineteen. Hardly an insurmountable force.”

“Their boss has a devil’s head mounted on his shoulder. He was talking to it, and it talked back.”

“Lovely,” said Illyria. “Did the head appear living or undead?”

“It was a head with no body,” said Radovan. “I don’t know. Living, I guess.”

“Pity,” said Illyria. In response to my raised eyebrow, “I didn’t meant to suggest I wanted a trophy, just that I’ll have fewer ways to control it.”

I felt it best not to point out that I had meant to claim it as a trophy myself. A passage on reanimating outsiders from the
Grimoire
inspired me to consider an experiment.

We followed Radovan to the point where he had dispatched the orc sentries. They seemed only asleep until the light from my ring revealed the blood pooling beneath them. With hand signs, Radovan signaled we were near. Quiet incantations rendered us invisible, at which point we concealed our lights and followed Radovan hand to shoulder. Arnisant was accustomed to the procedure, which we had practiced during our time in the Worldwound crusade. To my relief, the drake remained silent on Illyria’s shoulder.

On entering the orc lair, I appreciated why the orcs had chosen the site. One wing of the cross-shaped chamber had collapsed, a stream trickling down a multicolored wall into a pool of likely potable water. A breeze indicated an air passage that drew out the smoke from a bonfire at the center of their camp.

Half a dozen orcs sat near the fire, sucking the marrow out of small bones, scraping the hair from swatches of hide, sharpening blades, and performing other tasks. More slept on nests of skins and detritus scavenged from the ruins. Several sleepers snored so loudly that I felt assured we approached unheard.

Before a painted hide tent sat three more orcs, two in positions deferential to their leader, whom I recognized from Radovan’s description. A yellow-skinned devil’s head strapped to his shoulder stood out from the orc’s unusually red skin painted in the sigils of Hell.

The diabolic signs gave me hope. One can treat with a devil. Had the orc served a demonic master, we would have had no choice but to fight.

Drawing the Shadowless Sword, I confirmed the only illusions within the room were the spells concealing our party.

I patted Radovan’s shoulder, signaling our prearranged entrance. He went off to deal with the sentries while I made a silent count and took a riffle scroll in hand. At the appointed time, I touched Illyria’s hand, knowing she would signal Kline, and so on down the line. We took our positions between the fire and the diabolist’s tent and awaited Radovan’s return. Silently he reappeared in one of the other two passages, offering a slow wave to indicate he had dealt with the other sentries before sinking back into the shadows, where even the magic of my sword could not reveal him.

I cast off my invisibility and waited a moment for the orcs to notice me. When they did not, I spoke in an archaic and formal dialect of their guttural tongue: “Your sentries are dead, but the rest of you may buy your lives with submission.”

Behind me, I heard the sound of an orc lunging for his weapon, followed an instant later by a heavy impact and a sickening crunch. I kept my eyes on the spellcaster and his counselors, trusting that Kazyah had revealed herself.